Joy is a Chance to Die

(Skip to about half-way for the start of the song.)

I first heard this song this weekend. Wetfaced, my heart broke over my own sorrows sure, but even more so my sin. I was reminded of the truth that God's ways are not our ways and that sorrow and pain are not exclusive of each other. But in this I realized my own pride and how I had begun living according to a lie.

You see, the way of the world can be so alluring, so "reasonable". We are told to be assertive, confident, push for the best pay, the best situation, the best treatment. "You deserve it," is slyly whispered in the ear and I believed it. I traded the truth for a lie.

My thoughts had become consumed with what I wanted and what was best for ME. And I had become my own god. Death to my desires or wants was not even tickling the back part of my mind. And then suddenly opening before me like clouds parting to let the sun through... I remembered. I think it was her story of waiting for her father's faith and then the grief and pain and joy all rolling together that spoke to me of the truth I've known for years. God's way is not our way.

Our way is proud, happiness is based on circumstances, and we each should fight for our due, what we think we deserve for what we've put in. How drastically contrasted is that from the truth of the slave who works hard without thanks and says "I was only doing my duty." Far too many people live this lie and speak this lie to others.

There is more to this thought and how to apply this truth that I'm still working on. But I am reminded of one of my favorite books titled "A Chance To Die". This is what real life is, a chance to die to self. And it is in those moments that I find myself most happy because it is in those moments that I am most in tune with God's way rather than my own.

What If?

What if Christians really believed what they said they did? 

What if Christians regularly portrayed the truth that they had personally encountered the God of the Universe?

What if Christians treated other people as if they were made in the image of God, no matter what they said or did that we disagreed with?

What if Christian parents loved and raised their children to understand and engage in the world without sheltering them out of fear?

What if Christians prayed for their neighbors, expecting God to bring them in contact with each other, expecting God to bring up their needs and ways to serve?

What if Christians met Lisa, the chatty pack-a-day smoker with wrinkled hands and face and a missing tooth, and loved her in spite of themselves, and soon she, who hated all things churchy, came to church and came again and again?

What if Christians met Noni, their Iranian neighbor with a fluffy white dog, and talked to her even though they were going to have worse traffic because they'd be late. And they found out that Noni needed her lawn mowed because her mower guy was sick. And then were blessed by God to somehow to defy time and make it to work on time anyway?

What if Christians prayed in faith and then walked in faith, even when God called them to do uncomfortable things like talk to strangers about lawn mowers or Jesus? 

What if Christians really valued living and walking and talking with God more than any of the earthly good gifts God gives?

What if...

Questions of American Identity

As much as we'd rather not admit it, we judge people. Everyone does. You can tell the criteria of that judgement by comments and questions both. Here in the U.S. it is first one's profession. The question is, "What do you do?" And even if you don't think less of a person necessarily for their job, you do form your ideas about what that person likes, dislikes, and is good at from what you've learned from their answer.

Even when not asked this question, Americans answer it because it is the standard. Sit in a room of strangers and tell each one to tell a little about himself. You'll get several things most often, where he is from, what he does for work, his marital status (he'll mention it if he's married), and, of course, his name. (And if you live in the South, you'll get both first and last name.)

Perhaps in Iraq these things are similar, although if you asked them where they were from they'd all give the same answer. But for me, being a blond, white, American female, it was these most obvious characteristics that shaped what people asked me about and how they perceived me. My profession occasionally came up, my marital status was responded to with shock and confusion, and where I was from was guessed at wrongly about half the time. (Do I look German to you all?) But those questions always came later. First things first, after all.

First was always, "How do you like Kurdistan?" Or for the less linguistically capable, "Hello, Goodbye, I love you!" Then came surprise and laughter at my Kurdish speaking. Lots of laughter and smiles. I would smile too if it were a woman, nod, chuckle a little, and then they would tell my I was beautiful and so white. Then the women would ask me what color of hair dye I used (sorry, ladies) and where I got it. Then they would tell me I was fat, which was a compliment to them (it took a while to get used to that one).

Then eventually we'd get to all the normal questions, but they would be passed over quickly to get to topics like picnics, the weather, beautiful places around Kurdistan, Presidents Bush or Obama, whether or not I liked Yaprax, tea with lots of sugar, and lots and lots of rice. I never felt isolated or separated by Kurdish families for my differences, for being single, for not having a prestigious job. To them, I was a foreigner first, and that meant a chance to show off the wonders of their world and inquire into the oddities of mine. It was good.

Morning Poem

Rubies streak across the black asphalt,

The other side glitters with crystals, crushed.

Tires run smooth over the sparkle,

Eyes squint seeking between the orbs

But blind to each diamond drip dropping.

Sheer misty multitudes obscuring

The far lands and closing us in 

To this immediate and momentary world where we

Slowly go, careful and afraid, cautious

To guard our plans from sliding on the shining slick

Roadway, all wet with plashy puddles and rain.

Ignoring the glory invisible to our dull eyes

Trapped in the bland gray clouded vision

Instead of being made free by the beauty

Of the silver-lined cloud itself.

A Pile of Hats

I don't like doing nothing with my hands... or my mind... audio books and TV shows streamed online are an escape mechanism for me. But the hands...what will the hands do? They crochet or cross stitch. It's been more crochet for the last few months. This has meant that the pile of hats I've made has grown. I thought at first I could give them away as gifts. But, I don't have that many hat wearing friends and its getting on into summer here, so it's just not ideal. So, what's a girl to do?

Back in January I decided to set up an Etsy shop. I looked and poked and signed up, but then I never did anything with it. Until today. I finally photographed my hats. It felt like it took forever but I got five put up online. I think I have another eight or nine, but I figured I'd start there. You can see them at http://www.etsy.com/shop/AshtiGrace. I have no idea if they are sale-able, but I figured if I even sold a couple that would both clear out space in my cupboard as well as buy a couple more skeins of yarn. Maybe I need a bigger project. Do people crochet blankets? I'll have to look into that.

Part of the kick in the pants was the fact that one of my dear friends also started up an Etsy shop. We've been telling her she should for ages! She is one of the most talented and creative young ladies I have ever known and her jewelry is stunning. I can't wait for her to post more things, but you should check out what she has at http://www.etsy.com/shop/Emberlys?ref=pr_shop_more.

Pot "Luck"

The potluck is one of those unique cultural events in the United States that has a whole host of usually unspoken rules and expectations associated with it. The word originated in the 1590's and generally just meant a meal where there was no planned menu and so there was some level of "luck" or chance as to what might be in the pot.

The no planned menu fits in with our modern American concept of the potluck, where participants generally bring dishes without planning some sort of cohesive whole one with another. While there may be some discussion about what sorts of dishes might be brought, there is no proscriptive list of requirements. As a side note, this is where Kurdish potlucks differ, meaning that everyone organizes what food will be brought to a picnic so that there is always the yaprax, bryani, rice, kifta, and cake. There is no luck left in that pot unless you include the fact that it has sat warm on a bus for hours before you eat it.

The American potluck has just as many rules but all carefully cloaked in the filmy garb of individualistic freedom that we are so fond of. First, women bring the food. Single men are congratulated if they bring a 2-liter of soda or a stack of paper plates. Second, one must bring ample amounts of food, not merely enough to serve your own family but usually enough for at least 30 people. Third, everyone else will definitely be judging you on what you brought by both how well they liked it and by how much is left over when the meal is finished. Since everyone eats a lot at potlucks (another unwritten rule) if there is very much of your food left over, it must be a dud.

There are many more unspoken rules but some are based primarily on more local culture. I have noticed that here in the South, vegetables, unless done as a veggie platter, must have butter, whereas, in the Northwest, they must not have butter. Also along those lines, fried food is far more popular in the South. I had never seen anyone bring restaurant fried chicken to a potluck before until I lived in Nashville. Along with that, a lot of my friends are also seriously into various types of health food and healthy eating. No community is completely homogeneous. I'm sure if I went further south or to the Northeast other variations would appear.

Knowing that there are these unspoken cultural rules, while often a blessing, can also be a curse. I always felt like I knew what to bring to a potluck in the Northwest (we almost always had breakfast ones), now I can easily be paralyzed by all the unknown possibilities. How does one play the rules of this particular game? In this city? With these people? How does one serve the vegan, gluten free, butter loving, organic, almond milk, fried chicken people? And you wonder why I find this intimidating! (And I haven't even gotten to the pressure I've heard other single women talk about where they feel like their potential wife skills are being judged by what they bring to the potluck.)

I'll be honest. I have no idea. But I'll be going to the potluck this Sunday. And I'll bring something. Any suggestions?

"Single" Minded Contentment

I don't remember where I first heard about it. I probably thought it was stupid or only for girls who were self-absorbed or something. Maybe they were a bit smarmy or sentimental. But, knowing myself, I had probably thought I'd never do that. But then years later, living in Iraq, when the budget allowed I started. It wasn't out of some claim to my self-worth, but rather out of the joy in it, I think. But over time is has come to mean more than that.

Some girls do the same thing in affirming their adulthood by buying a queen size bed, others go out to eat at a fancy restaurant, but I... I buy myself flowers.

Anyone who knows me for very long will know that I love flowers. In fact, even in high school I was told that I was "all about God and flowers". (Part of me was irked at being so easily defined, but alas, it's true.) So, I realized that buying something beautiful that I enjoy was not something relegated for the mystical world of marriage. God made beautiful flowers to be enjoyed and appreciated; God gave me money enough that I could spend on flowers; God gave me a love of flowers; God gave me flowers. It takes a step of confidence to decide that as a single woman you can still have nice things in your life.

I know that I've been graced with many friends who know my delight in flowers. The flowers pictured here were a gift, after all. But God has given us so much beauty in the world and I don't need a husband or a boyfriend to enjoy the good gifts that God gives.

A Year

It's been a year since I left Suly.

It's hard to comprehend.

It feels like I was there yesterday. I can imagine it all so clearly, the smell of kerosene in winter and the warm settling of dust over everything in summer. The chatter in the bazaar, the kisses on both my cheeks of wrinkled smiling women, several sets of small arms wrapped tightly around my waist hugging love, and so so much more.

It feels like a lifetime ago and sometimes I wonder if it was really real or all just a dream, a really good dream  with a nightmare at the end that caused me to wake with a start.

The wounds are real even though there is no external presentation of them. I have nothing to show to people to explain the hurt, no jagged lines on my skin to represent what's inside. And that's ok.

More and more I've begun to realize that everyone has a story. Most adults carry themes of pain from their past. Just because I can't see the scars doesn't mean that they aren't there.

I'd really like to tell these stories some day. People need to know that life is hard and real for people other than themselves... but in such a way as also speaks the truth of God's presence in suffering.

The health and wealth gospel people would like to say that God will give you a good life if you follow Him. Others look to Scripture and see only the suffering. The thing is, both are true. It's just that a "good" life doesn't look like what we think it does; and suffering doesn't mean that the rejoicing is ended.

Waking to Tears

All of us born into this world have cried ourselves to sleep. Generally this gets less as we get into adulthood; but it ebbs and flows a bit even then (at least in my experience). But I had a new experience this past week as I woke up crying. This is rather unusual for me. It was connected to a rather long and complicated dream that involved wandering around in a dimly lit church and peering through windows into various rooms. I think I was looking for where I was supposed to be and I didn't really have a clue where that "room" was nor did I know what it would look like when I got there. I finally ended up in a room with two of my dear friends where we watched some sort of video on a laptop that seemed to have no bearing on the rest of the dream except that by the end of it I was sobbing and begging my friends to let me go home and just to send me home.

It was this longing and anguish of heart that I woke with. I was surprised to find my face wet and my pillow wetter. It was strange because the intensity of the feeling was so strong that it feels almost foreign to me and detached from myself. I can feel it even now remembering the dream, but nothing in my life currently corresponds with that level of emotion. Sure, I miss Iraq and the people there, it feels a bit like home, but God hasn't sent me back there and most of the time I'm ok with that. It isn't my hometown because that hasn't felt like home in years. Where else could it be? 

I may be a bit of a mystic, I guess, but I think taken in context I want to go Home as in, with God. I don't know my purpose or my future here on Earth, I am tired of sin and corruption and evil and never fitting in anywhere. It isn't that my life here is difficult because it isn't. It isn't that I'm not loved and cared for, because I am. It's just that I know it will be so much better to be with God. I feel like I know the taste of Paul's words that he would rather be at home with the Lord. And yet, I also know that, for now at least, he has not chosen for me to be there, but here. So I must be patient even though I wake with tears. 

"For we know that if the tent that is our earthly home is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. For in this tent we groan, longing to put on our heavenly dwelling, if indeed by putting it on we may not be found naked. For while we are still in this tent, we groan, being burdened—not that we would be unclothed, but that we would be further clothed, so that what is mortal may be swallowed up by life. He who has prepared us for this very thing is God, who has given us the Spirit as a guarantee.

So we are always of good courage. We know that while we are at home in the body we are away from the Lord, for we walk by faith, not by sight. Yes, we are of good courage, and we would rather be away from the body and at home with the Lord. So whether we are at home or away, we make it our aim to please him. For we must all appear before the judgment seat of Christ, so that each one may receive what is due for what he has done in the body, whether good or evil." ~from 2 Corinthians 5

Men in Suits

Someone was talking to me about singleness and finding a man the other day and I realized that I had suddenly become depressed. Now, this is a topic that hasn't made me sad in quite some time; enough other things have been going on that being single hasn't bothered me.

At first I couldn't figure out what it was about this conversation that affected it me. I went over each part... it was all fairly normal: having a career, not being in control, men attached to perpetual adolescence, trusting God. I've had this conversation before. Then it hit me. It all came down to a comment about how I should visit a certain church because the men there must be mature because they were the type who wear suits and ties to church. *Cough*

Really?

Now maybe it's true that they are mature... but they are also something else... the type that wear suits and ties to church! I'm no legalist, I realize that wearing a suit and tie to church certainly isn't a sign that they are stuffy, up-tight, overly concerned about... whatever. But is that the only way to find someone who's not a kid? And somehow in this Southern culture is that how you signal that you've grown up?

I mentioned this distressing conversation to some people who know me well and they laughed. It made me glad. They told me that it was ok because I wasn't a suit and tie kind of girl. That's not the only option left out there for me. And it's true, God knows me and knows what I will be attracted to and what I need, so there's no use getting glum about it all. Nothing is impossible for God so it's not impossible for God to have made a man who is both mature and doesn't wear a suit and tie to church.

Men's Tie by George Hodan