Category: etc.

Just a quick note before I’m off to bed.

I’d been anxiously waiting to hear back from my Thai sister in Christ, whom I’ll call E. She was our translator on our mission trip to Thailand back in July. Well, happily, just now, I’ve received this email:

“I am so happy to hear from you. I am doing alright at this point because I am up north, but YWAM Thailand are planning about going down south to help.

God is working so hard. Even many people blame Him, but I know He is with us and in control. I see more people open their heart to the Lord and God is so faithful. I wish I am down there and hope to be part of what God will do for Thailand.

I will let you know more update.

God bless you and be with you.”

E.

In the wake of this disaster, we have such an incredible opportunity to pray that the Lord would open more hearts to Him, all over the region.

The bottom of E’s email had this slogan. I love that the English is not perfect:

“Have you fight the good fight for Jesus?”

Believe me when I tell you that Thai Christians do just that.

I know I haven’t posted in a few days. I have a draft I keep fiddling with. I’m wondering, though, if I even want to bring it up. It’s something I’m struggling with, but I don’t want to sound like a whiny baby. People generally don’t like whiny babies.

On the other hand, I pay $8.95 a month for this blog, so perhaps I can reserve the right to whine. That amount would buy me about 5 minutes’ worth of therapy, so that’s a 5-minute-$8.95 whiny post.

Hmm.

Although, on the other hand, I can whine “free”ly and privately in the journals I keep, all of which are of such tremendously edifying value, they will be taken by a designated friend and burned upon my demise.

Hmm.

(So, is that two “hands” or three? Well, either way, I’ve used them all up. Must stew a bit more.)

Hmm.

One of my favorites, Jerry Orbach, died yesterday. Many know him as the voice of Lumiere in Disney’s wonderful “Beauty and the Beast.” Many others know him from the TV show “Law and Order.” But I prefer to remember him as the definitive “El Gallo” in the original Off-Broadway production of the musical “The Fantasticks.” A great personal favorite. Many years ago in Seattle, I had the happy chance of performing in that beloved show. It was my first “big break,” as such, into Seattle theatre and I was utterly dumbfounded as to how I got there. I still am. Anyway, I quickly developed a clumsy, hopeless crush on the actor playing “El Gallo.” Really, I think THAT was just an extension of my “true” crush on the voice of Jerry Orbach from the soundtrack I played — incessantly. (Secretly, I think I’ve always wanted to play “El Gallo,” a sort of mysterious rogue, narrator character; however, I am not a man. And, frankly, any version of “The Fantasticks” with “El Gallo” as a woman would be a theatrical abomination that should close that same night with the theatre subsequently burnt to the ground. Not that I have an opinion on the matter.)

But “El Gallo” is a man and that man, if I could have my way, would always be Jerry Orbach. A quiet, yet immense, talent.

I’m listening to my original cast album this afternoon just so I can swoon and sigh to his rich, rumbly baritone singing “Try to Remember.” (I’m such a sucker for a man who can sing.)

Listen to some of these lovely, yearning lyrics. And sing along if you like:

“Try to remember when life was so tender that no one wept except the willow

“Try to remember when life was so tender that dreams were kept beside your pillow

“Try to remember when life was so tender that love was an ember about to billow

“Try to remember, and if you remember, then follow.”

I guess, for me, Jerry Orbach is forever tied to a time in my life just like that.

Here’s my last indulgence, I promise — a beautiful line that “El Gallo” speaks near the end of “The Fantasticks”:

“There is a curious paradox

that no one can explain.

Who understands the secret

of the reaping of the grain?

Who understands why Spring is born

out of Winter’s labouring pain?

Or why we all must die a bit

before we grow again.”

And if you’ve read this far, thanks for indulging me. Really. And mostly, thank you, Mr. Orbach, for the memories.

In my mailbox just now was perhaps the best Christmas present I’ve received. A mangled, smeared envelope from Thailand containing a Christmas card, a photo, and a letter. It was from Im Jai House, the Christian orphanage I visited last summer as part of a missions team to Thailand. I’ve not yet written about this trip, an experience of soul-stirring resonance, because I know I lack the eloquence to do it justice. Yet in the aftermath of the horror in Southeast Asia, my heart can’t help but be drawn to the friends I met over there. The photo was a group shot of all 50 kids and staff. I saw the faces of the children I’d clowned with, danced with, eaten with, played cards with. The children I’d watched swim, half-dressed and happy, in what My Beloved and I dubbed “The Mocha River.” The children had nothing but love to give and it’s the thing they wanted most from us. Even as I write this, I’m thousands of miles away.

Here’s a quote from the letter:

“We are really thankful to God that the children donated money to help build a house for a widow. They had been saving this money for a long time to help the poor. We were praying that the Lord would show us where to give the money. The children also donated food and items to help another orphanage.

“Even though we are poor, we teach the children to help the people who are more in need than us.”

I don’t believe the timing of this letter is an accident.

“Help the people who are more in need than us.”

We got back last night from our trek up north. (More on that later.) Arriving at our front door, cranky and droopy, we found a cheery card gracing our welcome mat. It was a Christmas card from Mike and Lee. Enclosed in it were two guest passes to the Midway Aircraft Carrier Museum, where Mike is a volunteer. Now I happen to know that he isn’t just given these. He works for them. As a matter of fact, he works 20 hours for each ticket. Since he is a once-a-week volunteer, I imagine it took him well over a month to earn these two tickets. And he chose to give them to us, saying in the card, “We’re glad you guys are our neighbors.”

For them, I made up a basket of my maple oatmeal scones. (They’re Mike’s favorite.) They’re good, but, well, they’re not THAT good. Knowing that Mike is on total disability, knowing that he often feels unwell, knowing the work hours he put in, we’re humbled by this gracious gift.

I truly believe we’re more blessed in knowing them than they are in knowing us.

Every year at this time, I give birth. Which is miraculous because what you don’t yet know about me is that, for many years now, My Beloved and I have been unable to have children. It has been, simply, the most wrenching, most lingering sorrow of our lives. Even as I share this, I’m astounded that I’m doing so. If you knew how closely I’ve guarded this in my heart, if you knew how long it took me ever to tell anyone, if you knew how much the shame from this has weighed me down, you might be astounded, too.

But nevertheless, every year at this time, I give birth.

“For unto us a Child is born, unto us a Son is given ….”

Unto you and, even, graciously, unto me.

So come let us adore Him.

The One who came to fill, overflowing, the bereft and empty places of our hearts.

Your Child.

And my Child.

And our Child.

Last night, in our ongoing search for dazzling, inspiring Christmas “shing,” we found this touching, seasonal display at one nearby house:

The scene featured Mary and Joseph gazing adoringly at Baby Jesus in the manger, the stately wise men bearing their gifts, shepherds lingering nearby, and then, of course, good ol’ SANTA, elves in tow, mouth open and ho-ho-ho-ing, presenting the Baby Jesus with a crummy, duddy CANDY CANE. But methinks this seculo-spiritual, holiday stew is missing something. I mean, why stop there? Let’s just round up a few of the people we worship MOST — some almost as real as Santa — and have us a genuwine, holiday hoodang. Just for starters: Where’s Britney Spears? Couldn’t she stop by and squeak (or, at least, lipsync) a chorus of “Santa, baby,” simultaneously honoring Santa and Baby? Or perhaps she’s preoccupied with nuptials — again? But, hey, couldn’t Julia Roberts drop by with her new twins, “Hazel” and “Phinnaeus,” presenting proof of the blessed birth the world has REALLY been waiting for this holiday season — and certainly outstripping poor Santa’s lousy gift? Or where’s Donald Trump in this? Shouldn’t he be there, robbing the wise man of his gold and shouting “You’re fired!” at Santa for underperforming his task by offering Jesus one measley, cruddy candy cane?

Now that would be a scene to warm and soften the coldest, hardest, Grinchiest, Scroogiest heart, wouldn’t it?

What’s that? All that worship and your deepest longings are STILL unfulfilled, you say?

Hmmm …. don’t know why.

The trouble is …. well, start a “Christian” blog and there’s pressure (possibly self-inflicted, I know) to be encouraging, to be inspirational, or to be “good.” Although, statistically, I AM off the charts in these characteristics; unfortunately, it’s the wrong end of the chart. I’d like to be encouraging, but I can’t guarantee it. I’d like to be inspirational, but I’m not Oprah. (Although, I guess I COULD give away my car. Unlike Oprah’s giveaway cars, the taxes were paid on mine lo-ha-hong ago. And it just got painted. So that IS inspirational. Take that, Oprah.) And I’d really like to be “good,” but, well …. please. (Even I’m choked with laughter as I write that.)

I went back and read my shocking first post from September where I spoke about what “worship naked” means: “Being stripped bare. Emotionally. Spiritually. Stripped of personal mythologies, pretenses, facades …. etc.” What? What kind of lamebrained notion was that? Who wants to do that? I don’t want to do that. And I don’t think many others do, either. (Although, I did run across a blog yesterday where the author said, “I’m not sure I want to be a Christian anymore.” I kinda had to respect his honesty.)

However …. if I’m going to be true to my stated purpose for this blog, then I should do that which I’m terrified to do. Share honestly. Transparently. But, possibly, I’ll be judged, disliked, rejected. Someone might relate to my struggles, but someone else might think, “Well, that’s just dumb.” You never know. I remember the helpful comment I once received from a woman I’d sought out for prayer. After I’d cried into a pillow and used too much tissue sharing some painful things, she said, “Oh, is that it? I’ve heard A LOT worse.” Hmmm. Gee, thanks. Share time over!

But maybe I’ll take the chance and share here anyway. Or maybe I won’t. Maybe the thick facades we’re wrapped in keep us from growing and stretching as Christians. Or, maybe …. maybe they keep us cozy and protected in a cold, cruel world. And I do love being cozy. Maybe we don’t have to worship naked. Maybe we can just be partially nude.

How ’bout that?

(And, seriously, hats off to me for the most aimless, ambivalent post yet. Well done, me.)

At a stoplight today, I was behind a gleaming, red BMW convertible. Its contents, besides the usual seats and steering wheel and such, were an attractive, seemingly grown-up man, maybe 45ish — AND his GIANT, BLACK, FUZZY DICE hanging ridiculously from the rearview mirror. Now I admit I WAS staring at him. And I know he saw me staring at him. But I was NOT staring at him for the reason I think he thought I was staring at him! He smiled at me in his rearview and I just sat there, unmoving, because I didn’t want to send the wrong message AND because I was sure that moving my mouth at all would likely produce uncontrollable laughter.

Can someone please explain this to me? Seriously. Is it some kind of secret signal? I know I’m appallingly naive about certain things. Is there something it’s meant to broadcast other than “Heeeey, check me out, ladies. I’m a complete and utter TWIT”?! Is there some kind of genuine need for these, like maybe the poor fellow lacks fine motor skills and can’t use the normal-sized dice that normal people use? Or maybe his hands are puffy, digitally challenged Pillsbury dough boy hands? Or …. maybe he’s just a complete and utter TWIT!? Because an attractive, seemingly grown-up man with giant, black, fuzzy dice is an offense against nature. The Lord himself would agree with me, I know. I asked Him.

As the light turned green, he smiled at me again and waved. He WAVED to me.

Ohhhh, yeah. You romantic schemer, you, with those manly, irresistible fuzzy dice. Women everywhere will fall at your feet, limp.

With LAUGHTER.

He sped away and I gave in.

Do yourselves a favor and click on my link at right to The Anchoress’s blog. Through several heartwrenching, transcendent posts, she invites us to visit the lingering, awesome, and “awe-full” deathbed of her beloved brother-in-law. As you soak up these posts, you’ll feel a deep hush still your spirit. Start with her December 1 post, “At Journey’s End.” The story continues with “The Kindness of Strangers,” “A Moment of Grace,” “In the Spirit of Christmas…,” and “Slouching Towards Bethlehem.”

I wish I could set up direct links on the posts I’ve mentioned, but my computer won’t let me. (Another possibility — I haven’t figured out how to do it yet. But let’s pretend that’s not true, shall we?) Search through her archives. Truly, you will be richly rewarded.

Just go there, with haste.

A Child is born in the manger.

A loved one lays dying.

And our spirits say, “Shhhh …. shhh ….”