California Roll

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.

Monday night we hosted a Japanese family for dinner. When we planned the meal, the wife offered to bring some homemade-green-tea ice cream. She arrived with it and several othe foods she'd prepared: home-prepared pickled carrots and celery plus a platter of fruits, All was delicious, but especially the fruits.

As Collin, Sheri and I took segments of grapefruit from which the bitter membrane had been removed, "Junko" said, "American people love grapefruit with the peel gone." And we did indeed, taking one piece after another, plus slices of sweet, fresh peaches.

Before this, I'd always cut my grapefruit in half, then used a knife, or a sharp grepefruit spoon, to loosen the flesh from the membrane. Each piece I scooped out iwth a spoon was small.

Eating it as Junko prepared it was a wholly different experience. The pink flesh shimmered and glistened on the black platter, inviting us to eat it. We could plop a big, juicy piece in our mouth all at once. What a joy!

I appreciated the labor Junko had put into this fruit presented us. Perhaps it even took an hour to wash fruit, remove the peach skin and slice, plus prepare the grapefruit. She wanted to bring delight to us, and she did.

Prior to their arrival, I had put into a bowl some tangerines from our tree, whole, with peels on. I didn't bother to bring them out.

What Junko did reminds me of what my allergy/asthma doctor said about her holidays. "I prepared Indian food for my kids, It's about all I can do for them now."

My thinking about food preparation oscillates. How much should a woman should give time to that or expect her family or guests to do it themselves? Feminism, Asian culture and just plain old experience with my own family affects me.

Some thirty years ago, I was astonished to see a guy remove from his brown paper lunch bag an orange that had already been peeled. His wife had done it. I was vexed that she would waste her time doing something he could have done himself.

This morning I removed the peel from two oranges: one for Collin, one for Sheri. I was glad to do that today; I can't say I'll do it tomorrow. Priorities shift from day to day as I try to listen to my heart and submit to the Spirit of God.

Moving Beyond Anxiety into Community

Yesterday our pastor, John Ortberg, preached a great sermon, "Life Beyond Anxiety." You can hear it on-line if you go to the link below. (Eventually, a written version will appear there.) Life beyond anxiety: http://data.mppc.org/sermon/mp3/090208_jortberg.mp3

Other sermons here:
http://www.mppcfamily.org/app/w_page.php?id=49&type=section

Grace and faith do not come easily to me; anxiety does, and I've often felt ashamed about being so anxious. So I much appreciated the pastor anticipating this kind of reaction in I and others.

Since John has a PhD in psychology, he often brings pertinent information from that realm. He told us that 15-20% babies have hearts that beat faster in new situations. In other words, they are born with a pre-disposition to anxiety and unhealthy levels of guilt and self-reproach.

That's me. And it's a relief to find out that it's not my fault!

He told us not to waste time feeling guilty about our worry, but to take worry as a cue--not for guilt, but to invite the Spirit to give us power, love and self-control. (II Timothy 1:7)

Last weekend at the women's retreat I wrestled with anxiety and guilt in regards to my roommate. I'd signed up to be with an unknown woman the San Mateo campus which I attend. I wanted to be with someone who I could later see at rather than friends who attend to the Menlo Park campus of my church.

When this young woman heard my age during our first conversation, she said, "You're as old as my mother."

Yikes! And it didn't help that she had nothing good to say about her mother.

When she didn't find me and sit with me at breakfast as I had offered, my thoughts went on a worry tour - revisiting all our conversation from the night before and possible "mistake" and "putting off" things I'd said.

Confessing my anxiety at a small prayer meeting and hearing their prayers and concern helped. They received my feelings - rather than telling me how to fix the problem or not to worry -- and that helps me get unstuck.

During the conference I received lots of smiles and hugs and conversations that gave me the gift of feeling cared for and connected. Yes, there were times when I felt again social stings: a woman not looking at me or talking to me but focusing on just her friend be my side. or my roommate standing me up for dinner.

But I spoke up about it, rather than just be quiet and withdraw and the feelings of rejection dissipated. I told my roommate that I was disappointed that she didn't come sit with me at dinner and that I had been thinking about her remark that I was as old as her mother and wondered if that was why she didn't want to hang around me. Her explanation was convincing: nauseated; had skipped dinner and gone to town to buy crackers.

With having spoken about some of my perceived slights, I came away feeling happy that I'd gone, even euphoric with the joy of deeply connecting to other women.

So many of the women I know say they wouldn't/couldn't go to a women's conference. I wonder if it's because they are the 15-20% of the population born naturally timid, prone to anxiety and self-reproach.

Our speaker urged us to become valiant woman. Yes, that's our call.

So next year when I'm inviting people to this retreat I want to keep in mind that many struggle with the same feelings I have - but are to ashamed to admit them. I will pray and aim to speak so as to give courage to step past those fears towards community.

Leaving on a Jet Plane

Leaving on a Jet Plane

Do you know that song by Peter, Paul and Mary, "Leaving on a Jet Plane"? It dates me (popular in the 60's) and wings through my brain as I think about the departure of my eldest for college. In her month home we had talked about nearly everything we needed to talk about. It was time enough, but still hard to see her go.

I never imagined when my children were young that I would feel this way. They've become so much a part of me.

I wanted to send with her something of myself and our past together. So on Monday I made cinnamon bread. During her preschool and elementary school years we used to make two loaves of cinnamon bread twice a month.

Jenny would get out the milk and pour it in the Pyrex cup until it reached the red line I had pointed out to her. Then she'd pour it into the pot on the stove to heat up with the butter. When she was seven, I copied in big letters the list of ingredients so that she could independently read and measure out the right portions of sugar, flour and yeast.

In Japan we couldn't buy cinnamon bread, so we treasured our loaves made at home. Toasted, with butter melting on it, homemade cinnamon bread is the best comfort food around. It's better than homemade pie. Sweet, but wholesome. Filling, but light. And the smell when it cooks or toasts affords double delight. On Monday when I made cinnamon bread for Jenny, she reinforced by efforts by eating three thick slices.

In Japan we couldn't buy granola either, so we made our own. On two of my three by five stained recipe cards are scribbled two versions: a health and nut lover's granola with eight ingredients and on the second card a recipe for when I'm in a hurry. Just oats, honey, oil and raisins. We usually made the simple version in Japan because of the cost of ingredients uncommon in Japanese diet like nuts.

As a grade schooler Jenny loved making granola. She'd stand on a stool and stir the tan colored oat flakes with a big spoon until all were coated with honey and oil.

I sent Jenny back to New York with a quart-size bag full of an even more complicated recipe for granola, acquired from a trip I made with Jenny. At the B&B in Santa Fe at the time she checked out St. John's college, they had a white four poster bed and luscious breakfast with the best granola ever.

Jenny now abstains from meat that comes from animals treated inhumanely. Only free-range chickens or cows can serve as her food. In the last month I've shopped at many stores to find the right foods and tried out new recipes, like Turkish stuffed zucchini, with feta and swiss cheese.

When Jenny contemplated leaving California for college, I cheered her on. I didn't even think of the consequences to myself -- like not being able to drive up and see her when I missed her badly or she sounded distraught on the phone. I didn't anticipate that she wouldn't want to come home for her second Thanksgiving, but I understand well why she didn't.

Perhaps because I wish my desires for adventure had been blessed and supported by my parents I encouraged her to go to school far away. I attended a college only a two hour drive away.

Jenny's first year away was really tough for me at times. But I do believe Kahil Gibran's words: "If you love something set it free. If it returns to you, it's yours. If it doesn't, it never was."

Without the Lenses

I lost my glasses in the spa at Indian Springs Resort last Monday. Staff searched, but no one found them. After waiting thirty minutes in their lobby, I needed to head home for dinner. But by that time, 6:15 PM, darkness had fallen.

Our room didn't lie nearby, but a block away. And the route to there was not straight nor well-lit. I stepped out the lobby door and had no idea whether to turn right or left or walk straight ahead. All I saw were black and globs of light with fuzzy edges, like dandelions. Without glasses I couldn't even orient myself.

I couldn't ask Collin for escort service because our room had no phone nor did I have my cell with me (nor recall his number).

I returned to the spa desk and lamented to an employee. She stepped out with me, dispensed directions and then left me on my own. "A path goes off to the left. Follow it past the palm trees, then turn right."

I wasn't sure I could remember her words and get myself home. I prayed.

A phrase from a familiar song, and Bible verse, floated through my brain. "We walk by faith not by sight."

Familiar plants, fountains and buildings now appeared weird, even menacing. Would someone spring out at me in the dark? Remembering that unseen angels hover around comforted me, but how I longed for my glasses.

Was this adventure God's crazy way of answering a prayer I'd prayed an hour earlier? When lying on a white-sheeted table in the spa, I had asked that God would give me an epiphany. I wanted to receive his revelation about myself or him.

While carefully placing my feet down on the dark path, I recalled something my counselor said in a session many months ago. "I'm getting the image of a large mind. . . I think it means you rely on figuring things out."

Hmm. Jesus talked a lot about how religious leaders were blind. They thought they saw the world accurately, but actually their pride and unbelief distorted their vision. Jesus labeling them blind made them unhappy. (John 9:39-41) Jesus insulted them further by telling these studied religious leaders that he himself was the light (what an audacious -- egomaniac thing for a mere man to say).

Jesus also told his followers that he did the things the Father showed him (John 5;30). Nothing he did was only his own initiative (Jhn 5:30). It all came from the Father. He didn't say a single word unless he heard it from his Father (John 8:38). His Father commanded him what to say (john 12:49.

All these things I have studied earlier came together for me as I wished for my glasses and peered through the dark.

This is my epiphany -- I need to turn from trusting in my own mind or understanding (Proverbs 3:5).

Yes, I can analyze things well and know much. I won't throw that all out, but I'm talking about not relying on those abilities Rather, to keep checking in with God because I know that alone, without recognizing my need for God and dependence on him, I'm near blind.

My physical vision is terrible. I can't recognize a face ten feet away without glasses. And last Monday going without glasses certainly made clear how much they change everything. Those two small lenses totally alter my view of the world.

I reached the light of the eaves of our lodge and breathed a sigh of relief. Knocked on Room #24 and Collin came. Getting dinner would be a challenge, but not scary with Collin holding my hand and gently showing me when to step up or down curbs.

Glasses make all the difference. The same things look so different according to whether those frames perch on my nose.

Ahh, to wear the lenses of faith always -- to view the world with certainty that God deeply loves and cherishes me and, despite the bad things that happen, is still in control. The glasses I wear change everything.

Getting Through the Holidays

My holidays went well this year--much fewer crying jags than the last two Decembers. The crying has been largely due to grief at losses in my extended family and sadness and frustration with dynamics of my own nuclear family.

My more jovial holiday spirit this year endured despite being sick on and off since before Thanksgiving.

I could write about personal spiritual reasons for more contentment, but here I focus on concrete things we can do to avoid giving into grief during the holiday season:

1) Give to others - I did the standard--canned food drive and a toy for a needy kid--and more and found joy and connection through these extras.

I ordered flowers for my sister two days drive from me. After we left three phone messages for each other, we eventually connected and had a good conversation.

I gave gifts to friends who weren't prepared or able to give me a gift. I had 26 people in my home for an international potluck on the day after Thanksgiving. I helped one of those who came, a young professional from Sri Lanka, organize an art museum trip for the weekend after New years. I asked to dinner in my home a young leader and her boyfriend and my husband and I enjoyed talking about the pitfalls and growth points in a young romantic relationship and marriage.

I started mentoring two younger women through a program our church has developed.

2) Invite someone else to enjoy the holidays with you.

On the day after Thanksgiving, 26 people came to my home for an international potluck. Tiring, but great fun. (I could entertain because we had our Thanksgiving dinner outside our home.)

We invited our 16 year old cousin Keith to spend eleven days with us, starting the day after Christmas. He and my two teenage daughters enjoy each other a lot. We did it for their sake, but it also brought great benefits to me!

Having Keith with us gave a reason to get out of the house and spend money (something we're oft too reluctant to do!) We introduced him to the snow, the new California Academy of Sciences and more. That was fun and seeing his delight was pure joy. His presence also forestalled some unhealthy family dynamics.

) Plus, planning a way to spend New Years that was fun for all in our immediate family.

We went to a Sierra Club Lodge over New Years. I've missed having New Years Parties to go to. Also in past years it's been difficult to find someone to join with us at home for the New Years Day Korean feast my husband creates.

The solution came as we tried to please our visiting nephew by taking him to the snow. Being with a group of friendly people in family-style lodge, joining in their Talent show on New Years Eve, and gazing out at gorgeous white snow on pine trees all infused me with cheer.

4) "When momma ain't happy, nobody ain't happy" -- I finally got it. So two days after Christmas when I was tired of watching my two teens and their cousin watch TV while I emptied the dishwasher and put on meals, I told them, "I'm tired. I need more help in the kitchen." They got up soon to help. When I cleared out of the kitchen and they did it together, they even enjoyed it!

Much better than losing my temper.

After Christmas, I called or e-mailed people to set up times with girlfriends. Two things are key about this: TIMING and GIRLFRIENDS.

If I'd contacted them before Xmas, they'd have been two busy with parties or or gift or meal preparation. I think I've contacted people too early before, got no response, and then gave up and nursed hurt feelings.

Women need girlfriends--oops, I mean women. Remember, I'm over 50 and so a girlfriend doesn't mean lesbian friend,

I don't have sisters I'm close to. We saw no extended family over Christmas except for this 16-year-old cousin. I need to take care of my own needs - not just wish and pray that someone would see what I need and volunteer to take care of it for me.

I find a common ailment among women these days: they are lonely and want a close friend, but wait for someone else to make that happen.

I've been there. And I used to call a gal friend to chat or ask her to dinner or a movie a time or two or three. We'd have a good time, but she'd never reciprocate. Then I'd think, "Well, I guess she doesn't like me after all. I guess I'm not important to her. We can't be close friends."

I've decided that ain't true. For several reasons rooted in the culture of this time and place, women who want friends - would even want my specific friendship - but don't call. So why punish myself by waiting for someone else to act when I can?

So today I spent four hours with a girlfriend as we drove to the hills and hiked, came home and worked, then went out to dinner with a different girlfriend.

It was good. Very good. I needed to pamper myself because I've been spending the last two weeks extending myself to others and pampering them.

I hope this helps somebody. And by writing this out I'll have something to help me remember how to make the holidays good next year.

Self-Inspection

A friend told me on New Years Eve that she had wanted to avoid looking back on her past year with a view to how it went and what she'd done. She wanted to not evaluate herself, but yet she did. She paid for it. A Migraine came.

Another friend sat with me for coffee recently and with puffy eyes and down-turned mouth told me of her eighth grader.

His attitude has changed towards me. The things he says . . . I wonder what kind of mother I've been. Being a reserved Asian she couldn't tell me what he'd said -- too much shame -- but I can well imagine since I've taken my share of tongue lashing from my own teenagers. I too have seen myself through my teens eyes and marked myself as a failure.

Our smart and perceptive (armed with psychological insights) teens do often accurately see and say what's wrong with us. But not all the time.

Their glasses are spotted too. People see from their own viewpoint - what is sometimes a need to see what's wrong with us.

Teens need to see their parents' faults so that they can become separate, that process of becoming their own persons and following their own desires rather than continuing a childish dependence and need to please those they've been attached to.

And we ourselves cannot see clearly who we are. Sometimes I criticize myself and scorn the course of my life: "What a loser!" "I never became a college prof or took a FT professional job for long--what a waste of my talent and ed."

Those attacks on myself come from wrong assumptions.

Who is to say that a college teacher actually has more impact than a stay-at-home mother, an ESL tutor, a writer and a volunteer in classrooms, an unpaid counselor, mentor, leader and Bible teacher as I have been. All these "little" things may add up to a lot. I cannot see the end outcome of how I've invited my time and talents. Other people cannot either and their opinions of my life do not ultimately matter.

I think the Apostle Paul understood all this when he wrote I Corinthians 4:2-5:

"Now it is required that those who have been given a trust must prove faithful. (He'd been entrusted with the good news of Jesus and told to carry it too many) I care very little if I am judged by you or by any human court; indeed, I do not even judge myself. My conscience is clear, but that does not make me innocent. It is the Lord who judges me.Therefore judge nothing before the appointed time; wait til the Lord comes. He will bring to light what is hidden in darkness and will expose the motives of men's heart."

Did you get that! We are commanded not here not to judge ourselves. Judge means here to scorn or put ourselves down. We are told in other places in the Bible to appraise ourselves and others accurately.

When the Lord comes he will make plain what really causes me - or others - to do what we do. Actions that look initially good on the outside can come from a rotten heart and can ultimately have bad effects.

What is the motive I desire to have for my life's choices and work?

To love God and to love people in all that I do. The work and words I've said from that motivation will have lasting value. Everything else will disappear.

A Cheap but Great Getaway

Though we spent only $55 per person per day for bed and three meals, we just enjoyed a terrific get-away near Lake Tahoe.

Clair Tappan, a lodge operated at Sierra Club, is a mere 3.5 hour drive from our home in the bay area. It's a gorgeous location among the snow-clad pines at Soda Springs, near Donner and Van Norden Lakes off of Highway 80.

Highlights: on New Years Eve our kids slid down a snowy slope right outside our lodge and participated in a talent show (Irish dance and juggling). We enjoyed delicious family style meals and getting to know some kind and interesting people. On New Years Day our daughters, a cousin and a friend did down-hill skiing at Donner Ranch, just five minutes away. Our seventeen-year-old nephew from Hawaii raved about his first time skiing and in the snow.

I didn't want to be outdoors much due to my sinus infection. But when I did venture out for just an hour late in the day Thursday, Clair Tappan staff let me borrow boots, skis and poles for X-country for only $6! Then I only needed to step out the back door and ski away!

Our room at the lodge was modest, but comfortable. The living room with a fire and many arm chairs and couches was a great place to read, play games or talk. The library provided a quiet refuge. I recommend Clair Tappan highly. It's not luxurious, but homey. You can reserve on-line at the Sierra Club website, member or not.

Finding Meaning for the New Year

Lately my pastor Nancy Ortberg made a provocative statement that I've quoted at least three times nows. "In these days a person needs two conversions: the first to community; the second to Jesus." (Not exact, since I didn't write it down at the time.)

Nancy was not talking about a, "Let's meet at the coffee shop every Saturday morning and moan about the loan news and gripe about politics" kind of community. Nor just about the "Mothers Club" of my home city where moms can meet other mothers of young children and find play dates and chat about tips for handling diapers, vomiting and biting toddlers.

Those things are important relief for our loneliness and confusion, but we need more. We need community that will help bring change at our core. Community where together we shine a little light into this dark world.

Yesterday I spent time with a dear friend, a teacher whom I got to know when we both lived in Kobe, Japan. She's still teaching English, but now in SF and we find time to reunite once or twice a year.

On awakening this morning I thought of a story she told: of a fifty year old American with Japanese wife who died recently in child birth. She left him withe great gift of two baby girls, but he now he must cope with the combined grief and joy of single parenting. He must race between the four English teaching jobs he taken to survive in Tokyo while living the huge cultural conflicts inherent in being with his mother-in-law who kindly cares for the babes, I'm sure as she grieves both the death of her husband and only daughter in the past year she is not an easy person to be with. And every time the father looks into the faces of his baby girls, does he regret their decision to seek fertility treatment? See death in the face of the living?

Joy at birth, sadness at death and loss - it permeates our world. The quest for meaning and connection that drives the energetic young can turn into a life of just trying to survive economically or find distraction from depression as people age.

I wish for that Japanese widow and American widower the community I've experienced that's sustained me. Through being involved with genuine Christ-imitators (not the raging, homophobia fake kind you see on TV), I've found comfort, strength, and even sometimes joy in my own crises or stage of life issues (fending off depression and self-hatred as my teenagers do their perfectly normal thing of launching off and kicking me as they do so).

What a difference to have people I regularly see once a week who smile with warmth, who are glad to hear my hurts, share my tears and pray for me, and with whom I can work to change our corner of the world - like together provide a homemade dinner for the homeless, together fill a huge truck twice with canned goods to restock the depleted shelves of Second Harvest Food bank, or together help a depressed woman with a baby and three and five-year-old boys who's separated from her husband and fighting the affects of having been physically abused.

I couldn't do these things alone. Alone, I'd end up just spending time with
friends, shopping or reading books/watching movies. Alone, I'd feel overwhelmed or afraid of the confusion and despair that can come when I get involved with needy or manipulative people. But, by walking hand in hand with others committed to being a force for practical good, I can light a lamp into desperate dark places my corner of the world.

With commitment to regularly spiritual community I find strength to fight off
my own inner demons (of which I still have many) as well as to give to others at a cost but with joy.

Humility and the American Way

I've heard a number of Americans who understand a little bit about Asian reserve speka of it as a negative thing in specific situations. They see it as something that gets in the way of what's important. I'll dispute that here.

Asian reserve and the American atittude of, "Think highly of yourself. Be confident!" often collide in my church.

The church staff and lay leaders expect members who wish to lead or contribute in some other way to approach them and volunteer. This is not the Asian way.

The typical person born in Japan and China (and maybe Korea) will not step forward and say, "I can do that. I want to do that." Maybe in an indirect fashion, the person might--ie. talk to the person in charge and say, "I've lead music before." Reserve in this application is closely linked to humility. "I'm too young or someone else better than me should do this."

I've heard that humility/reserve called "false humility." Sometimes it may be, but, Americans, don't paint with such broad brush strokes.

My friend born in an Asian country recently responded to an announcement that the Cafe service (an informal venue with band for worship and teaching) needed worship leaders. She's had experience of leading worship and singing to congregations in a band with others associated with her home country. She sings great and I'd love to see her upfront.

My understanding from what she's told me is that when she talked to the staff person seeking worship leaders, she downplayed her abilities. "I can't read music well..." etc. Was this false humility? No, she really wasn't sure she was good enough.

In conversations together, I told her she was. I also explained that by first presenting her deficiencies to the staff person, he might think she really wasn't qualified because Americans of this age and the SF Bay Area's culture don't do that.

A typical American would say initially what his/her strong points were and what experience she brought to the situation. Probably only in actual tryouts or interview would s/he mention that sight reading was difficult for him/her. And note the phrasing:not "I can't sightread" as my friend had said; not the Am. phrase of "I can..." that downplays any deficiencies.

Was my friend pretending to be humble? Absolutely not! I know from repeated conversations with her that she really was afraid that she wasn't good enough.

Americans reading this may think, "TShe should have e better self-image. Be confident."

Beware that is not Jesus' message. He tells a story of a guest coming to a dinner party. Apparently in that culture, when you took a seat closer to the host, it meant you were a high status person. Jesus recommended that a guest take a lower seat and then the host might invite that person to move higher up.

Paul, another writer in the New Testament, does tell us that we should think of ourselves realistically -- not too highly and not too lowly. But doing that is difficult when your home culture has instilled in you the idea that you must be perfect or that it is a proud thing to do so.

Is pretending confidence or being apt to have confidence, even if unfounded, a good quality of typical Americans? I don't think so.

And, dear typical American, please don't tell Asians to change--that is too hard to do about this basic concept of reserve and humility. Just try to understand them and interpret their words in a different fashion than you'd interpret a person born in the Bay area who has had different concepts bored into them through home and school.

All new, who knew?

Deep connections are vital to me. Writing does that for me. When I can't tell people what I'm experiencing (because they're at work or shopping or seeing relatives), I can do ti this way.

Besides, even when I'm with people, I'm not sure they want to hear - or can understand and respond gently - to my intense feelings. These feelings swell and erupt often in this holiday season.

to a new city where no one knows or cares
for you, but Writing this poem on Sunday helped me understand what I felt and why. As I identified with the feelings I'm supposing Mary had on her travels, I no longer felt alone and came to a place of trust and contentment.

Poetry is my attempt to connect with you. I would love hearing a comment back - brief as it may be - after you read this.

All new, who knew?

Mary, soft and tender,
did you ache like me
to tell your stories?
After the angel spoke

of life within your womb,
and curious stares became cold glares,
as your secret further and further protruded,
did you ache to tell your story?

Mary so young (thirteen?) and vulnerable,
sent far from your mother's embrace,
to cousin Liza's place, how did that foreign
cot feel? eating others' meals? Did your faith vanquish

disgrace? Did you cry for your mother's gaze?
Mary, soft and full, when hormones made you
frail, who—what did you tell? Jehovah gave you
cousin Liza—a prophetess, she believed who swelled

your belly wide; she also bore one headed for
early demise. Mary tender and wise, you ride
with Joe beside you, to Bethlehem where no
one knows your name, but when time comes,

angels sing and shepherds bring
their sleepy sheep. Did the stable
owner hear or care? With babe in arms,
still you tell little to neighbor or baker—

you know the other Joseph
of old, who told his brothers his God-sent
dreams of glory. When envy and hate grew,
his beautiful coat didn’t save him.

You come with husband and Jesus to the temple
for the sacrifice Moses told to do—surprise: Simon
greets you as Mother of the Messiah. He tells,
“A sword will cut your heart.” You grapple

with your babe’s end from the start. Your fears you tell
to no one but Joe. For months he searches day
to day for ways to garner wages—you pray. Desperate,
did you know wise men would come with gifts

you need? Warned by an angel, you must flee from Herod
the king. So you tender gifts for the two-week long Egypt
road. In secret you leave, losing bed, neighbors, and
friends again, and go to Egypt, become a stranger

with few who know your God, your tongue.
You keep within who you know your son
will grow to be, your questions and your hope
in the promise of the angels’ song,

Mary, you make me wonder.