Whitchester House

This is where I lived, once upon a time.

It really felt like "once upon a time".  I was an imaginative seventeen-year-old, steeped in historical novels by Scottish authors like Sir Walter Scott and George McDonald, and suddenly all my imaginings became visible in this, my home for a year.

Once upon a time, it was a Bible college. Here I met other students from various different countries and forged many life-long friendships of the sort that last.  The "I haven't seen you for ten years but let's start where we left off" kind.

Nowadays, it's a rehabilitation centre run by an organisation called Teen Challenge.  We had a quick tour of the house, though regretfully were unable to see the corner room I once shared with two roommates.  Our tour guide was a Glaswegian, an ex-heroin addict, who overflowed with happiness over the changes in his life and his discovery of Jesus.  

The perfect gardens and well-manicured lawns I remembered were looking a bit shabby, rather worse for the wear, and though still nice, just not lived in.  When we were here, it was a homely house, full of people, fun, games, chores, and noise.  

Now, it's a much quieter place, a healing house.  Good... just different.

The flawless landscape around the house, the sloping hills [the Lammermuirs] still etch their beauty onto the enormous sky. Much of it looked the same as I remembered, apart from the tell-tale hint of time passing: wind turbines along the skyline, creaking and circling. I saw few sheep, unlike the hordes I remembered.  I'm not sure if they were away for shearing, or just not around anymore.  It did change the feel of the place, adding to the sense of silence.

We left, and I really felt as if I was leaving. It was my third visit to this house since 1998, and this time, I said goodbye.  I won't be back.  It is not the same anymore; it truly has passed on to a new stage in its history; maybe, judging from the tiredness of its appearance, the last.

Much more cheerfully, the final part of this afternoon included a visit with fellow students Pete and Sal.  I haven't seen them for nearly twelve years but sometimes people change less than places and it felt like old times again for a few hours.  

Esther

As I leaf through old journals I see in them more stories, tributes to long-ago friends that need to be told.  Here is one.  It's not a cheerful story but rather my first real confrontation with death as a happy-go-lucky eighteen-year-old.

The summer before I went to Bible college in Scotland I worked at a bakery deep in Southern Indiana's Amish country.  My place was in the "cake room", where a team of us [mostly Amish apart from me and a few others] turned out 800-900 angel food cakes daily. I washed endless cake pans, turned out cooled cakes, and mopped floors.  My favourite job was mixing up the cake batter, folding in the egg whites by hand, up to my elbows in sweet-smelling batter.  Esther was one of my co-workers, a tall, fair Amish girl just a year older than me, soft-spoken and quiet.

I returned from Scotland to hear that Esther was dying.  She had told me before about the pain she suffered from.  While I was away, she found out that it was cancer.

Another friend, Mary Teresa, and I went to visit Esther. It was a pitch black night at an electricity-free Amish farm, stumbling out of the car in that dark up to a shadowy porch and into the clean echoing house.  

Inside, kerosene lamps cast a strange brightness within their circle of light, making the unlit areas seem even darker.  The oily smell of the kerosene filled my senses and my stomach dropped.  I felt as if half of my breathing power had left me.  I can smell that kerosene again as strongly as I did then, right now.  I can hear the hiss of the lamps and the creaking of Esther's mother's rocking chair as she sat beside her daughter; also the sound of springs on an iron bed upon which several small nieces and nephews sat silently, tiny bare feet dangling from beneath their nightdresses. Other relatives reposed on various benches and chairs around the room, faces composed into a calm acceptance in the presence of the dying.  All around, set out on tables, were hundreds of "get well" cards inscribed with flowery, upbeat messages, creating a sense that this illness was only temporary and that we would wake up tomorrow to see Esther back at the bakery working away, pain-free.

Esther's dad sat on the bed with the little ones. His eyes were red and often a stream of tears would make its way down his lined face.  Esther's mother cried too, silently, sometimes.  Delilah, the fifteen-year-old sister, came in with a pink hand-crocheted afghan.  "I made this for the benefit supper," she said in a muted voice, showing it round the room.  We exclaimed over it as if a benefit supper was all it would take for Esther to be well again.  

Some relatives stood up, filed quietly out, and more entered the room to take their places.  All sitting, speaking little, waiting.

Esther was so thin.  Her complexion, once pink, was milk white.  Her cheeks were no longer red but now the same translucent colour as her skin.  Blue veins stood out against the paleness of her arms and hands.  Her eyes were glazed over with tears of pain.  She did not rest leaning back, full weight against her chair; instead she strained against it.  The pain was in her hips and lower back, a horrific pain that I cannot imagine, only that it was so strong the most potent painkillers could not relieve it.  Sometimes her dad or mom would lift her gently for a few moments to east the pressure put against her bones, ravaged by the disease.

I spent the forty-five minutes we were there working through my personal coming-to-terms with the situation.  I remembered Esther as she had been the year before at the bakery --gentle, conscientious, often troubled by the pain in her leg.  I remembered the strange, intense impression I had one day when Esther mentioned the pain.  I was scraping the crumbs from the wooden cake-cooling table listening to the sound of her voice die away when suddenly I thought, "In a year she will be dying."  Just as quickly I dismissed it as my natural tendency to dramatise, but that night, watching Esther, I knew it was that uncanny intuition that I have sometimes, that foresight that keeps me connected to a spiritual world, preparing me for her death.  

Mary Teresa stood to go and I followed her.  Our shoes sounded heavy on the wooden floors as we crossed the room.  I took Esther's hand and whispered that I would pray for her.  Her voice was light and she laboured for breath.  "Thank you.  Please come again."

As her hand, weightless as air, slipped from my grasp, I think we both knew I would not be back.  When I looked into her eyes, she was crying, whether from pain or remembrances, I don't know.  I was stoic as we left and did not feel emotional in the car on the way home.  I was too shocked into reality to feel anything. 

Back at home, I was questioned about my visit abstractedly by busy family members.  "She's dying," I said.  Oh, wasn't there anything that could be done?  "No, she's dying."  It did not seem real or possible to any of us that someone just a year older than me was dying of sudden cancer.  

It was two more months before Esther passed away.  She died one of the most painful, lingering deaths I can possibly imagine.  I saw the notice of her death in the newspaper, just a few days after Christmas.  When the telephone rang that night and someone shouted down the stairs that the phone was for me, I knew it was Mary Teresa.  I listened to her tell me what I already knew and thanked her for phoning.

In the fifteen years since, I've experienced other deaths that have been much closer to home than Esther's.  However, I was reminded of her story again a few weeks ago when friends and I finished studying Psalmist's Cry: Scripts for Embracing Lament.  This book was a brilliant exposition of our need to walk through pain and suffering with others, maintaining that if we try to isolate and inoculate ourselves from grief, we miss out on the blessing found in lamenting together.  Looking back on Esther's story, how appropriate it was that her family and friends were right there with her, mourning as a community while she passed from this world into the next. 

"We who have run for our very lives to God have every reason to grab the promised hope with both hands and never let go. It’s an unbreakable spiritual lifeline, reaching past all appearances right to the very presence of God where Jesus, running on ahead of us, has taken up his permanent post as high priest for us..." 

--Hebrews 6.18-20

A Christmas Eve Story

I was standing in the aisle of a large store with my mother when I looked up and saw the doll.  A row of identical dolls, actually, standing in their cardboard boxes on the shelf. I looked way up, as I was only five and not a very big kid.

It was a rag doll with golden braids just like Mary Ingalls' from the Little House books, a favourite series I'd just been reading with my mom. Mary's sister Laura had brown hair, like mine; and like Laura, I had often wished my hair was blonde, too. The doll's dress was perfectly prairie, and everything about her was just right.  I loved her almost immediately.

I had a baby doll at home, aptly named "Baby", that I'd taken everywhere since I was small. Other than Baby, I didn't really play with or feel very attached to dolls.

But this beautiful rag doll with her sunny hair caught my attention and held it.   

I don't remember being the type of child to ask for things when we went shopping.  Even at five, I was aware enough to understand that we had no extra money. My father had finished his Bible college studies and lost his right to student housing.  My parents, my brother, and I were squeezed into a tiny, mildewing rental home in the middle of an urban neighbourhood, and a third child was on the way, anytime.  My dad was working two part-time jobs to make ends meet.

"Mom, I like that doll."

Mom looked at the doll.  She examined the price tag.  "That's a nice doll," she said.  "But, Erin, we don't have money right now to buy new toys."

I knew that.  But I had to tell her anyway.  

I didn't feel as if I was missing out.  I was happy at home, playing with the toys we had and being creative. I was more interested in the fact that we were having another baby join our family, and looking forward to seeing my new brother or sister.

However, I could not forget that rag doll.  Whenever we visited that particular store, I remember seeing it again.  I'm not sure if my mom took me down that aisle specifically to look at it, or if it was coincidental.  But the image of it came into my mind often, and I prayed about it, feeling slightly selfish as I did so, because I attended Sunday School and church regularly and knew all about how much better it is to give than to receive.

Christmas Eve arrived, six days after the birth of my tiny little sister with skin the colour of honey.

My brother and I went to church with my dad, and there was an air in our house of celebration, even without tons of food and piles of presents. In the corner of our living room stood a small Christmas tree with sparkling lights, pure magic to a five-year-old, and I had a baby sister! 

There was a knock at the door, and I stood in the hallway, cold air rushing in from the dark outdoors, as two people --a man and a woman whom I did not know-- carried in brown paper grocery sacks.  Taking in this new turn of events without question, as you do when you're five, I began peeking inside the bags.  I could see vegetables, potatoes, fruit juice, a ham.  After the door was shut and the people were gone, we unpacked everything. All of the bags contained food, apart from one.

It was full of folded, used kids' clothes.  My mother began looking through the clothing, most of which appeared chosen for us as it seemed appropriate for our ages.  My younger brother exclaimed in excitement as he noticed the pair of little boys' "hard shoes" in the bag.  He had always worn tennis shoes --"soft shoes"-- and had been wanting a pair of real shoes.  Around the same time, I glimpsed something familiar.  

My heart fell into my feet and I felt as if my eyes were growing too large for my face.  

That doll --the beautiful golden-haired rag doll-- was there, in the brown paper bag!

"Erin, I think this is for you!" my mother said, lifting it out.  She smiled at me and I looked at her, wondering.  How did those people know I wanted that doll?

There was no packaging or tags with the doll.  It's quite likely that she was an unwanted toy, packed in with the used clothing, a nearly-new cast-off.  

But to me, she was a present straight from God.  I felt, for the first time in my five-year-old life, that Something bigger than me was at work. That Something was a Someone who knew everything.  Someone who knew that a skinny little girl with muddy brown hair really wanted a golden-haired cloth rag doll.

Without the clouding logic of adulthood, I knew, for the first time, that He was there.  He really was there, and He cared about me.

And He wasn't much of a grown-up, either.  He didn't show me that He loved me by giving me a children's religious book or something holy.

He spoke right into my life in a way that would open my eyes to His existence.

God loves us so much that He speaks to us right where we are.  For a five-year-old me, that happened with the simple gift of a doll.  

Living in Community

Seven years ago, while I was pregnant with Mr J, we read a book that would change our lives.  

Mustard Seed vs McWorld, by Tom Sine, is an honest and in-depth account of the economic changes coming to the West in the next fifty years, changes that our generation particularly will find themselves thrown into without a choice in the matter.  He talks about globalisation, the growth of corporations, and the economic difficulties many of us are finding ourselves in. Though he wrote this book in 1999, Sine correctly and accurately predicts many of the challenges of our current global economy, including significant recession and increasing economic struggles for the lower-middle and working classes, and the X and Y generations.  He provides very specific solutions for meeting these needs, one of which is communal housing.

Dan and I were inspired.  What did we need to change about our way of life to generate a 21st century, Jesus-centred community that would go against the flow and challenge the 20th-century family ideal: own home, two cars, career-focused lifestyle? We were already functioning with an open home mentality, something we'd felt strongly about since our marriage.

Our "what's mine is yours" philosophy began to be stretched and go further.  We'd already had many guests [both friends and family] visit our home and stay for a few days or several weeks.  My sister Emily lived with us for six months.  Dan's cousin Steve stayed with us one summer when he was in between homes. Our house is tiny by most Western standards: just over 1,000 square feet. However, one Christmas we managed to fit eleven people, including ourselves, into our home for the holiday celebrations! An American friend lived with us for eighteen months, until we set her up with a nice English guy. [Just kidding! Sort of...]

These times of living in community taught us many things.  One important factor that stood out to me was that living in community meant chores were out of the way faster! Sounds simple, but when you're dependent on keeping a house tidy because it's so small that any untidiness eats up precious space, help in keeping it in order is greatly noticed and appreciated. The speed at which chores were accomplished freed up precious time to spend with people. Also, discipleship and support was much easier and more real when those we were mentoring were living with us.

We experienced a rocky time of stress and life changes two years ago, after Dan's father and a close friend passed away within less than a week of each other.  Both were untimely deaths and traumatic in their own ways.  For over a year, Dan and I found ourselves just trying to survive the day-to-day challenges of life with our kids, never mind trying to mindfully include others in this.  We found that apart from a handful of long-time friends and a few new ones, it was very difficult to maintain the level of friendship we had previously had with people.  In crisis, most people aren't quite sure what to do, and in the absence of knowing what to do unknowingly back off. Trying to give people space can sometimes look like abandonment.  I myself have done the same thing in the past, so I'm not passing judgment here! We also realised that the majority of our relationships centred around us supporting them; rather than a friendship of mutual support and encouragement.  When were going through this time of being unable to provide such support, people dropped away.

However, as we've emerged in the last six months from this two-year period of trying to find our footing, we've discovered that our shape has changed.  Existing relationships that include mutual support have deepened and increased in value.  We are being more intentional about our long-distance relationships, drawing strength and wisdom from them. Blogging and social networking have opened up a huge community of similarly-minded people.

And we've begun talking about a communal house again.  Instead of trying to fit our community ideals into our little home, as we've done to the best of our ability for so long, we've accepted that the dreams and ideas that God began to unfold in our hearts seven years ago are big, and we are ready to move into the next phase of our journey.  For us, this phase has a new shape.  An expensive big house shape.

Is this how Jonah felt when he was on the road to Ninevah, after trying to evade his calling for so long?

I don't know that we've consciously chosen to evade ours.  I think it's just that now, the time is right.  The people who are walking closely with us are right.

It's time. And the location doesn't matter at this moment in time.  It will happen somewhere for us, in just the right place.

"Live in such a way that unless God shows up, what you're attempting to do is bound to fail.  This type of abandonment is the nature of the Gospel [of Jesus]." --Bill Johnson

Think we're crazy?  Well then; it's a good thing we're living our life and not yours!


This has been another "open book" post. Next week: what really happens in homeschooling at our house!

Looking Over the Edge

... and seeing this precipice, a gash in the earth below, always causes my stomach to drop slightly every time I look at the photo! 

These were taken while we were visiting an Indiana state park, during 2008.

When contemplating these photos, I feel the same way as I do about the future, with a deep and exhilarating appreciation of the tension between the beauty and uncertainty of life and the unknown, all of it.

Praying

It doesn't have to be

the blue iris, it could be

weeds in a vacant lot, or a few

small stones; just

pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don't try

to make them elaborate, this isn't

a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which

another voice may speak.

--Mary Oliver

Is My Life an Open Book?

This question has been on my mind for a few weeks now. It was sparked by the sad events surrounding the death of my blogging friend Lauren's baby; and I was reminded of it again yesterday during a conversation with a friend.

Lauren is the definition of "open book". She shares all the ups and downs of her life with her fellow online community through her blog, Sparkling Adventures. She writes eloquently of fun, hard times, crazy adventures, family, parenting, and marriage. After her seven-month-old baby, Elijah Rainbow, died in difficult circumstances, she has also written about the pain and loss she and her family are walking through. She has received criticism from people who feel she has revealed too much.  I think that in the end, her openness and honesty will be seen for what it is: her way of processing her life and providing an accurate record for her children of their childhood.  The outpouring of love and support that she is receiving right now from people all over the world is a direct benefit of her willingness to write about her life.

I've always considered myself to be a "what you see is what you get" type of person.  I don't pretend to be anything or anyone else other than what I am: a mother of four who spends a great deal of her time at home with her children and obsesses about healthy food: talking about it a lot [a bit too much!] and loves to read, create, and write.

But what else is there? I'm not a shallow person. I've written before about how I've felt when my grandmother and other grandparents have passed away.  I had to sit down and think long and hard before I wrote.  I don't quickly and easily analyse my feelings, and quite often, unconsciously just ignore them!

My thoughts began to draw themselves into a more complete circle this morning as I read a simple story aloud to Coo.  It was the story of Mary and Martha, told in the New Testament gospels.  When I was a child, I disliked this story.  I have always acutely perceived the tension of it: I am not a "sitting still and listening" Mary.  I like to be busy, and always see what needs to be done, like Martha.  I am full of ideas for new things, too, and these function as a constant distraction. I have a free ten minutes? I can knit another square or create another homemade card or mix up a batch of cookies!

And in that constant busyness, I cannot fail but miss opportunities to hear what the Spirit is prompting me to do.  I often hear, but do not heed because I am in the middle of something important like planning a week's menu of healthy meals.  Other times, I hear, but forget because the washing is there, needing to be hung out on the line in a brief interlude of sunshine.  Or I hear, but wait until later, and later is too late.  

Sometimes I hear and I really do listen.  My mind and hands are stilled.  I think. And it is in these times that the Spirit speaks to me about what I must do: what I must change in myself, what others are in need of from me [even more than healthy food, good coffee, and relationship], and what I need to guide my thoughts into. I remind myself in these thinking times that I need to process my life. For some people, particularly those who wear their hearts on their sleeves, processing the events in their lives comes naturally to them. For me, it is a discipline to be learned and discovered.  

Forgetting is simply what I do. I am so busy I do not even recall many of the challenges in my day by the time bedtime rolls around. They are lost in a jumble of history lessons, reading aloud to kids, food preparation, cleaning, laundry, phone calls and text messages, visitors, prayers for others, and planning.

My journey to a more defined "Mary" life is going to look like this: every Monday, I will blog a "Mary Moments" post, processing the challenges of my past week through writing about them. I will make notes during the week to help me do this! The purpose in blogging my "Mary Moments" will be to define and create a more "open book" life.

Would you like to join me next Monday in beginning this new discipline?

Maybe you already talk about yourself a lot, and in detail. Your last Facebook status or tweet was something like, "Grabbing lunch with the kids at KFC before going home to clean the house, cook dinner, wash the dog, read War and Peace, weed the garden, and drink a homemade espresso."

Dig a little deeper.  Forget the details; think about the "stuff".  The challenging stuff.  Then open your book for the rest of us by commenting here and linking to what you've written.  

Sunshine and Shadow

Growing up, I always looked forward to dark, dreary, cold days.  They were perfect for burying my head in a book, snuggled up cosily on a sofa underneath a blanket, drinking hot tea.

When we moved to Indiana, days like this were few and far between.  Even in winter, southern Indiana can pull a fast one.  One day, it will be snowing; the next, you'll be huddled in the basement anticipating tornadoes. In the space of twenty-four hours, it's possible to experience totally opposite extreme weather.

Those rare, cool rainy days became something I looked forward to.  Then I moved to the UK.

Nowadays, it's safe to say that when the sun shines, I shine.  When it's raining, I feel myself sinking into a lazy stupor that only lifts when I permanently attach my face to the coffee pot.  Okay, it's not that bad.  But, unlike my childhood, I find myself preferring our infrequent sunny days over the cloudy ones!

The day before yesterday was Easter Sunday.  Chilly, grey, wintery.  Just like almost every Easter since --well, since I've lived here.  Resolutely, I donned a brightly patterned summer dress and pulled a warm jumper over the dress.  Keep calm and carry on.

However, within the thought space of yesterday, it occurred to me that some of the most wonderfully memorable days of my life have been dismally overcast.  Our wedding in the States, over ten years ago, took place in between showers of rain.  A month later, our English wedding weather was typical November: cold, dull, no sign of sunshine.  Lefty and Righty arrived on a hazy, sun-less September morning.  

Contrastingly, I have countless memories of sad sunny days. There have been so many funerals on bright, sunshiny afternoons, warm light streaming over us as we face empty places in the circle of our community.  So many final goodbyes in sunshine: evening sun for Grandmother, late afternoon sun for Pappy and Grandma, morning sun for my uncle so many years ago.  

Sunshine and shadow... so opposite.  I'm thankful that Jesus is my true source of light.

Jesus spoke to the people once more and said, "I am the light of the world.  If you follow me, you won't have to walk in darkness, because you will have the light that leads to life." --John 8.12

Celebration

Easter.  Resurrection Sunday.  New life.  A jumble of traditions past and present.  

"Death, where is your victory?

Death, where is your sting?"

-1 Corinthians 15.55.

Remembering 2001

This September air is clear, fresh, and infused with a welcome autumnal chill after a hot and humid Indiana summer.  The sky is brilliant, deepest blue.  My 1972 VW Beetle purrs along, skimming over the curvy road through the countryside into town. Instinctively, I know it's time to stop at the gas station, even though I have no fuel indicator in this ancient but faithful little red car.

After filling up the tiny tank, I go inside to pay.

Normally, this early in the day, I have nothing to say to the girl at the till and she has nothing to say to me, beyond "hi".

So I'm startled out of my silent appreciation of the beauty of this morning when she breaks the stillness.

"Have you heard the news yet?" She replies to my nod in the negative with a simple statement.  "A plane flew into one of the World Trade Center towers in New York.  They think it's a terrorist attack."

Back in the car, I puzzle over her words, but don't take them extremely seriously.  Exaggeration characterises the passing on of news in this town.

I arrive at work, and the import of the truth of the girl's words slowly sinks in.  With my fellow employees, I begin the day's tasks in unusual quietness, as a constant stream of information from the radio punctuates our movements.  After a while, most of us cease our pretence of working and stand near the radio, as the events in New York, and then Washington DC and Pennsylvania play out in our hearing. Others get online. There are phone calls, and news from the outside trickles in from arriving patrons.  Rumours are voiced: of employees being sent home from the local naval surface warfare and munitions plant, of more missing planes.

In the midst of all of this we continue our awkward attempts at maintaining the usual, as if in the performance of our normal tasks, we will find some sort of solace from this awful day.

But there is no solace. None as we listen to the panicked voices on the radio as they agonise over the collapse of the towers.  None as we stand in stunned silence, comprehending the impact of the instant death of thousands.  None as we contemplate the future.  

And the postscript to that day?

War.  Of course.  

Somehow, we still have not learned how to follow Jesus so fully that we are capable of turning the other cheek to our enemies.

"You, my church, told me it was wrong to kill... except in war.

 You, my teachers, told me it was wrong to kill... except in war.

 You, my father and mother, told me it was wrong to kill... except in war.

 You, my friends, told me it was wrong to kill... except in war.

 You, my government, told me it was wrong to kill... except in war.

 But now I know, you were wrong, and now I will tell you, 

 my church, my teachers, my father and mother, my friends, my government, 

 it is not wrong to kill except in war...

 It is wrong to kill."

-US army veteran George Mizo 

"Nevertheless, to you who are listening, what I say is this: 'Love your enemies! Do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you.'" 

-Jesus [from Luke 6.27-28]

Perception of a Five-Year-Old

We travelled down south to a conference at the beginning of this week.  

For a while we wandered around inside a large white tent with lots of information booths and vendors.  Mr J found a small bouncy ball and began a happy, solitary football game while his older brothers sat at a computer loudly labouring over a general knowledge quiz about Africa.

Mr J kicked his ball and ran to retrieve it near my foot, where it had landed.

"Mum, are we in Ecuador?"

"No, Mr J, we're not.  Why do you ask?"  

He laughed.  "Because, if we were, we might see [insert name of famous Ecuadorian footballer here]!"  An instant later, he was gone, chasing after his miniature football.

No, it didn't make sense to me either.  I considered how my life consists mostly of things that make sense.  Then I thought of something Jesus said.

"I tell you the truth, anyone who doesn't receive the Kingdom of God like a child will never enter it."

 -Luke 18.17

What Would Jesus Do Today?

I remember hearing accounts of certain people celebrating in streets in our town after the events of September 11, 2001.

Happy to see the empire brought low.  A win in the holy war against the infidels.

Not too different from today, except the celebration was on the other side of the camp.

Somehow I can't imagine Jesus jumping around in the streets waving flags and celebrating the death of any of his enemies - and he had many.  Whenever I think about Him, I think about forgiveness.  

There is so much more I could say, but on reflection, everyone else seems to be saying plenty.  I don't feel the need to argue with conspiracy theorists or play the Pharisee.  I'll just finish with something Jesus said:

"But I say, love your enemies!  Pray for those who persecute you!  In that way, you will be acting as true children of your Father in heaven.  For He gives his sunlight to both the evil and the good, and he sends rain on the just and the unjust alike." -Matthew 5.44-45 

Resurrection

"I know that I have to move from speaking about Jesus to letting Him speak within me, from thinking about Jesus to letting Him think within me, from acting for and with Jesus to letting Him act through me.  I know the only way for me to see the world is to see it through His eyes."

-Henri J M Nouwen

When they came to the place called The Skull, there they crucified Him and the criminals, one on the right and the other on the left.  But Jesus was saying, "Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing." And they cast lots, dividing up his garments among themselves.  [Luke 23.33-34]

Jesus saw us through forgiving eyes.  Remembering what He did for us challenges me -no, pushes me towards- forgiveness as an attitude and a way of life.

Following the Real Jesus

Where can I begin?  Well...

In the beginning there was coffee.  And Jesus.  What a combination.

I started drinking coffee when I was eight.  Surreptitiously...  A snatched mug of steaming hot coffee poured on the sly from Dad's coffeemaker and drunk behind the garden shed.  I had always loved the smell, and wanted to see if the taste matched that toasty richness.  It did.  Mmmm...

As I grew older, I was sidetracked into the world of instant coffee, believing for a while that it almost tasted the same.  It doesn't.  Soon I gave in and accepted that I was a fresh coffee sort of person.

In the last decade, my commitment to coffee has grown in depth and perception and by now, my ideal cup of coffee really needs to start with freshly ground beans.   I can both smell and taste the staleness of old beans in the pre-ground vacuum packed bags of coffee; every mouthful reeks with the flavour of rancid coffee oils.

Real coffee just tastes... well, real!

You might see where I'm going with this now.  Or you might not.  Anyway...

A slow understanding of Jesus began to seep into my subconscious around the same age at which I first tried coffee.  

Church I knew and understood; Jesus was something different.  I began to see how people behaved when they really loved Jesus.  Whether it was my dad giving the town drunk a ride in the car when he was in need of it, overhearing my parents counselling people day and night, or listening to missionaries staying in our home tell stories; I could see that Jesus was the reason for all of this.  

As years passed, to some degree I was sidetracked into believing that church was where it was at.  Listening to only Christian music, reading my Bible and praying, attending Christian groups and having Christian friends, never missing out on a church service, it all added up to the appearance of a great Christian person - me!  Instant Christian.  Freeze-dried, but tastes [almost] like real coffee!  I was stale personified.

Time spent away from home studying the Bible began to unlock the myth of religion that I had bought into; and in the decade or so since,  I've seen layers of religiousness peel away in my life.  The real Jesus is there, and and I do know Him!  He was there all that time, just hidden underneath my self-righteous protective layers.  

So what does this real Jesus look like for me now that I'm following him, and not just attending church?  

No more religious, self-absorbed Christian bubble, no more working hard on that Christian appearance and making sure that I'm following all those rules.

I still talk to God, listen to Him, and read His word; and just for the record, I do meet with other Jesus-followers regularly.  It's called community.  Around the outer edges of our community are many people who aren't following Jesus.

Once a month, we're at the Big Feed, an afternoon of eating and talking with the homeless and hostel-dwellers in our town.  We have crazy conversations with these people about faith and God, and there was a considerable amount of surprise for all of them when they realised we were spending time with them because we wanted to, not because we were being paid for doing so.  We listen to their stories and pray with the people who ask for it.  

I'll finish this off with a quote from the real Jesus.  This is what following Him is all about:

"You must love the LORD your God with all your heart, all your soul, and all your mind.  This is the first and greatest commandment.  A second is equally important: 'Love your neighbour as yourself.'"

-Matthew 22.37-39

No matter who we are or where we live, a life of following Jesus looks the same: loving God, loving people.

Some people call it "ministry"; I prefer to refer to it as following Jesus, because that's just what it is.  And all of us who believe in Him are called to follow!

And where does coffee come into it?

Well, if you love people, you give them real coffee!

The Violin Man

He sits in front of a shop, scratching out notes, an open violin case with royal blue lining at his feet to catch the pennies.  He's a very old man, maybe eighty but possibly older; his shoulders are bowed and his face is lined.

Anyone who frequents the centre of town is aware of his daily presence.  I've referred to him in conversation before... "you know, the old man who plays the violin... but really badly!"  In my thoughts, he's become "The Violin Man" - you can't mistake him for the noise.

Because his music is a cacaphony of clashing notes, screeching amongst the low roar and hubbub of the busy street.  For years, I have listened to it as I walked through the town centre, never once really stopping except to hurriedly drop coins into his violin case.  I was giving him money out of charity, because I felt sorry for him; his music was so poor and his case usually so empty.

After tossing in a coin today, I hastened away as usual, but Coo was in the sling and her pointed finger and "Was at?" stopped me.  I realised she was curious about the violin and wanted to see.

We walked back and stopped about six feet away.  She fixed her eyes on the violin and stared steadily.

I stared too.  The Violin Man's fingers are thick and swollen, his hands encased in fingerless gloves.  But they moved across the strings with practised ease, not at all like a beginner.  And as I looked, suddenly the scraping notes began to acquire a tune.  Completely off key, but a tune.  Almost recognisable, like a passage from an orchestral arrangement, but because of the lack of key, not quite.  In my head, I counted... and the timing was impeccable!  

He played this same tune again and again, like a stuck record.  His bow rose and fell expertly, not clumsily like I had always seen before.

He looked over at us at one point, not stopping his repetition.  His head inclined slowly to one side in a polite nod, and he smiled a nearly toothless smile.  Because we were listening.  Not just throwing money at him and running away, but giving him our time.  It sounded to me as if the music grew slightly louder, but maybe it was just because I was really hearing him for the first time.  

And I am repenting of all that thoughtless giving of those extra coins in my purse.  It's what I do to make myself feel better when I have pity for someone.  I'm not happy with that motive anymore.  I want to change that pity to love... loving the Violin Man as if he were Jesus, and giving him my time instead of my money.