There are fences everywhere, I said, staring out the car window. She leaned forward, glanced at the streets she already knew. They don't really have yards, I said, and she nodded. Probably want to keep dogs out, she told me. But they don't even have grass in most of them, I protested, and she shrugged.
What were they really trying to do? I wondered to myself. Were they trying to keep something out? Or were they trying to keep something in?
Maybe, I realized, it was both. Maybe they felt afraid, and needed to keep things away. Maybe they felt afraid, and needed to keep themselves in. Maybe they didn't know how to give themselves freely to their neighbors, and receive the gift of another person. Maybe they'd been burned too many times to tear down the barriers. Maybe no one ever taught them to live without fences.
And suddenly I was so aching-proud of her, this golden country girl who loved open land, living in this cramped-up city so full with fenced-off yards, bringing her fenceless heart and giving it without shame . . .
Maybe somehow, I pray, she will teach those around her to do the same.
Showing posts with label bios. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bios. Show all posts
Friday, March 30, 2012
Sunday, March 04, 2012
the patience of a good man
The pain, the discomfort,
in my own chest and throat
doesn't come close to matching yours.
Yet you,
so pale in your light blue paperish gown,
dull-skinned under the greenish lights,
frail-looking against the flimsy sheets,
have complained far less in ten days
than I did in the past four hours.
God give me grace to grow into the shadow you have cast.
in my own chest and throat
doesn't come close to matching yours.
Yet you,
so pale in your light blue paperish gown,
dull-skinned under the greenish lights,
frail-looking against the flimsy sheets,
have complained far less in ten days
than I did in the past four hours.
God give me grace to grow into the shadow you have cast.
Friday, December 02, 2011
son of the cloud
I don't even understand how he stays in one piece. When he passes me in the hallway and our sleeves brush, it's a violent force I didn't think possible from such minimal contact. He's always moving, always making some sort of verbal noise, whether shouting that he's got the hot pans out of the oven, bellowing pleasantries and startling customers, or (a few days ago) rapping about the jobs he's doing. He makes my head ache, and I know I'm not the only one who sighs with relief when he retreats to the bakery.
All day long, there is chatter about him, whether over the headsets or face to face. What does he think he's doing? What kind of bake list has he made up? Why is he shouting? Is he . . . rapping . . . again? He's a presence that cannot be ignored, that is certain.
And most of the chatter isn't positive. He's annoying, he refuses to listen, he's learning too slowly, he doesn't really fit . . . so they say. Somehow, I find this comforting. It's nice to know that I'm no longer the most incompetent employee, a relief to be sure that they're not talking about me on the headsets I'm banned from during mornings, delightful to be siding with my coworkers and not feeling like an outsider.
He dances his way down the hallway and I hear the whispers begin. Under my breath, I snicker; they're exactly right in what they're saying, and it's pretty funny. But just as I open my mouth to say the same sorts of things, something hits in my chest, right in the center of the breastbone.
He is just like you.
I freeze, clench my fingers at my task. No. That can't be true.
It is true. He is like you--impossible to understand, and harder to love. But that didn't stop Me from choosing you.
I reflect. I was loved before I was anything, before I even acknowledged my God. I am loved when I raise my hand against Him, when I scream that I will do anything but that!
It's times like these, when it's hardest, that I know I must heed that instruction of all instructions, or fly in the face of all I say I believe.
Love, without demands, without mockery, without feelings of superiority. Love the unlovely; love the obnoxious. Love the dirty and the rotten and the wicked. Love without fear of the pain you know will come.
Love as I loved you.
It is not really just a suggestion.
All day long, there is chatter about him, whether over the headsets or face to face. What does he think he's doing? What kind of bake list has he made up? Why is he shouting? Is he . . . rapping . . . again? He's a presence that cannot be ignored, that is certain.
And most of the chatter isn't positive. He's annoying, he refuses to listen, he's learning too slowly, he doesn't really fit . . . so they say. Somehow, I find this comforting. It's nice to know that I'm no longer the most incompetent employee, a relief to be sure that they're not talking about me on the headsets I'm banned from during mornings, delightful to be siding with my coworkers and not feeling like an outsider.
He dances his way down the hallway and I hear the whispers begin. Under my breath, I snicker; they're exactly right in what they're saying, and it's pretty funny. But just as I open my mouth to say the same sorts of things, something hits in my chest, right in the center of the breastbone.
He is just like you.
I freeze, clench my fingers at my task. No. That can't be true.
It is true. He is like you--impossible to understand, and harder to love. But that didn't stop Me from choosing you.
I reflect. I was loved before I was anything, before I even acknowledged my God. I am loved when I raise my hand against Him, when I scream that I will do anything but that!
It's times like these, when it's hardest, that I know I must heed that instruction of all instructions, or fly in the face of all I say I believe.
Love, without demands, without mockery, without feelings of superiority. Love the unlovely; love the obnoxious. Love the dirty and the rotten and the wicked. Love without fear of the pain you know will come.
Love as I loved you.
It is not really just a suggestion.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
you siwwy
We were in the kitchen, just us two,
a strange moment when the other three were off making shenanigans elsewhere,
or maybe they were actually playing quietly.
He was telling me a story,
and for a moment, it was just like old times,
like I'd never left,
like we could just go back to the way things were.
Everything was just the same,
his snapping blue eyes,
his laugh,
the baby teeth between his smeary lips.
I was just smiling to myself,
reassuring my soul that things will never really change,
when it happened.
He opened his mouth,
and an L slipped out cleanly,
over his tongue and between his lips,
before either of us knew it.
He kept talking,
totally unaware that he had just smashed open my heart.
In a moment,
in that L,
I knew things were always going to change.
I knew he would grow up,
stop going to bed at dark time,
stop calling me siwwy Katie! when I made a mistake,
stop chuckling over Mrs. Gwidden's stories,
stop singing the Five Wittle Fishies song whenever I told him it was my favorite,
stop calling his pretend best friend Jame.
Instead, I knew with certainty,
he would become a big man,
taller than his daddy,
but just as good;
fairer than his mama,
but just as hilarious;
smart as a whip,
but still kind and generous.
I knew he would be a daddy, someday,
that I would coo over photos of babies just as blue-eyed,
and just as beautiful,
as he was.
But I knew, also,
that the baby I loved so much
the toddler I snuggled and tickled,
the little boy I read books with,
were gone . . .
and in their place,
stood a little man
who said his L's perfectly.
a strange moment when the other three were off making shenanigans elsewhere,
or maybe they were actually playing quietly.
He was telling me a story,
and for a moment, it was just like old times,
like I'd never left,
like we could just go back to the way things were.
Everything was just the same,
his snapping blue eyes,
his laugh,
the baby teeth between his smeary lips.
I was just smiling to myself,
reassuring my soul that things will never really change,
when it happened.
He opened his mouth,
and an L slipped out cleanly,
over his tongue and between his lips,
before either of us knew it.
He kept talking,
totally unaware that he had just smashed open my heart.
In a moment,
in that L,
I knew things were always going to change.
I knew he would grow up,
stop going to bed at dark time,
stop calling me siwwy Katie! when I made a mistake,
stop chuckling over Mrs. Gwidden's stories,
stop singing the Five Wittle Fishies song whenever I told him it was my favorite,
stop calling his pretend best friend Jame.
Instead, I knew with certainty,
he would become a big man,
taller than his daddy,
but just as good;
fairer than his mama,
but just as hilarious;
smart as a whip,
but still kind and generous.
I knew he would be a daddy, someday,
that I would coo over photos of babies just as blue-eyed,
and just as beautiful,
as he was.
But I knew, also,
that the baby I loved so much
the toddler I snuggled and tickled,
the little boy I read books with,
were gone . . .
and in their place,
stood a little man
who said his L's perfectly.
Friday, October 07, 2011
the sweatshirt corner
It used to be so easy, reaching out for you. A simple phone call, a few steps down the sidewalk, and there you were, right in front of me. How many times did I sneak in where I knew I wasn't really supposed to be, blatantly interrupt work or homework or reading, abruptly spill my guts out on the floor? Too many to count, I think. And what about the crazy moments we had, when you followed me outside with the camera to document my harassment of our neighbors, or we danced in the muddy January rain, or we went to the grocery store in our horrible pajamas, or you shut me in a practice room and made me tell you about my troubles, or we had conversations in our sleep, or we took turns being the "boy" and giving dreadfully pragmatic advice? Mostly, when I think of you, I am overcome by the beautiful. The evening I crawled onto your lap and wept without any explanation. The afternoon you called me, voice trembling, and I rushed home as soon as I could. The nights of tears and homework and hopelessness. The breakfast dates. The last-minute morning rushes to the shuttle. ("We're going to be laaaaate!") The angst about losing our freedom. The discussions over things that made us angry. The hugs, given at just the right moment. The tenderness of living together, in community, in covenant. The way I learned your postures, your eyes, your smiles, your laughs. The lessons you taught me about choosing to love, no matter what.
It's not so easy anymore. You're not right there, not like it used to be. Now I clutch the phone, like I wish I could clutch your hand. I cradle my tea, like I wish I could cradle your heart. I curl into my sweatshirt, like I wish I could curl into your arms. I feel the emptiness when I try to study, alone; or need a walking partner; or wish for a late-night tea friend.
Oh, girls of my heart--whoever knew that eight months could wreak such havoc on my ideas of myself as a strong and independent woman. You are gifts, plain and simple, and I am overcome with my unworthiness to receive you.
How I miss you . . .
It's not so easy anymore. You're not right there, not like it used to be. Now I clutch the phone, like I wish I could clutch your hand. I cradle my tea, like I wish I could cradle your heart. I curl into my sweatshirt, like I wish I could curl into your arms. I feel the emptiness when I try to study, alone; or need a walking partner; or wish for a late-night tea friend.
Oh, girls of my heart--whoever knew that eight months could wreak such havoc on my ideas of myself as a strong and independent woman. You are gifts, plain and simple, and I am overcome with my unworthiness to receive you.
How I miss you . . .
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
guild
We are four, two boys, two girls. We sit at a round table, peek around the umbrella in the middle to see full instead of fragmented faces. We grip tea mugs and fiddle with straws and balance tableknives on their edges. And we talk—oh, how we talk.
We are four, an already-published author, two enthusiastic book-writers, and a haphazard short-story scrawler. We write lovely-woven fantasy, and intensely-descriptive historical fiction, and mythology, and balderdash. And we bleed words—oh, how we bleed.
We are four, sarcastic and intense and hilarious and deep. We breathe deeply in the evening air, contemplate the slow way the city lights up, shamelessly eavesdrop. We love God, and quality literature, and good movies, and family. And we live—oh, how we live.
We are four, an already-published author, two enthusiastic book-writers, and a haphazard short-story scrawler. We write lovely-woven fantasy, and intensely-descriptive historical fiction, and mythology, and balderdash. And we bleed words—oh, how we bleed.
We are four, sarcastic and intense and hilarious and deep. We breathe deeply in the evening air, contemplate the slow way the city lights up, shamelessly eavesdrop. We love God, and quality literature, and good movies, and family. And we live—oh, how we live.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
nobody, not even the rain
They are good hands, strong hands.
Hands that are made calloused from working on used cars, old houses, cedar canoes; hands that pound in tent pegs and light gas grills and coax boat motors to life; hands that spend most of their time scratching at paperwork, even though that isn't the first love; hands that are ever ready to help someone in need, that help strangers broken-down on the side of the highway, that pass out Communion bread and cups; hands that hunt-and-peck in sweet stilted rhythm for important e-mails or messages of encouragement; hands that tremble with joy when they cradle newborns' heads, that stroke hair and pat shoulders.
They are good hands, strong hands.
Hands that smooth little girls' hair and fears when Mama and Daddy are gone; hands that are quick and sure when playing dominoes with lonely teenagers; hands that stroke cats' backs and ruffle dogs' ears; hands that turn and knead bread dough in memorized rhythm; hands that can and jam and preserve for the winter; hands that plant gardens and pull weeds; hands that pick apples and blueberries and strawberries and raspberries at frightening speeds; hands that distribute tissues; hands that pat shoulders and are firm in the middle of the back whilst hugging; hands that hold frightened old ladies' hands with patience.
They are good hands, strong hands.
Hands that balance checkbooks; hands that pick up sticks and dead limbs and drag them to the compost pile; hands that fly through e-mails and letters and bills; hands that prep and paint greasy kitchen cupboards; hands that compile and edit recipes with dizzying deftness; hands that clean up after ill pets and children without complaint, that stroke feverish foreheads without fear; hands that rub backs and pat hands; hands that set tables and clean kitchen floors and dust the house over and over and over; hands that split under the nails from winter-dryness and over-much dishwashing; hands that tease and tickle, but always in affection; hands that are worn soft by work and age; hands that scratch out math equations and point out steps; hands that change sheets and clean bathrooms and never complain.
They are good hands, strong hands.
Hands that are as quick on a keyboard as they are with houseframes; hands that love book pages, and grip pens with joy; hands that wrap around tea, and coffee, and hard concepts; hands with dirt under the nails, that don't shrink from labor and struggle; hands that tap on the tabletop with unplanned excitement; hands that pet puppies, and tease little sisters; hands that are steady, and bracing, and safe; hands that do whatever task is set to them; hands that fairly quiver with energy and vitality and life.
They are good hands, strong hands.
Hands that stroke orphans' faces, and support widows; hands that stab accusation at the smug and self-righteous; hands that gesture to the world to make word pictures, to get the point across; hands that reach down to curl into the earth, to haul fishnets, to work in wood; hands that smooth away fevers, and frightful contagious diseases, and paralysis, and demons; hands that wield whips and crash tables to the floor while purifying the house of God; hands that plead with the beloved City to repent, to turn, to be healed; hands that don't rise in their own defense against false allegations; hands that stretch out in agony and allow themselves to be pierced; hands that are strong enough to die.
Hands that are made calloused from working on used cars, old houses, cedar canoes; hands that pound in tent pegs and light gas grills and coax boat motors to life; hands that spend most of their time scratching at paperwork, even though that isn't the first love; hands that are ever ready to help someone in need, that help strangers broken-down on the side of the highway, that pass out Communion bread and cups; hands that hunt-and-peck in sweet stilted rhythm for important e-mails or messages of encouragement; hands that tremble with joy when they cradle newborns' heads, that stroke hair and pat shoulders.
They are hands of love.
They are good hands, strong hands.
Hands that smooth little girls' hair and fears when Mama and Daddy are gone; hands that are quick and sure when playing dominoes with lonely teenagers; hands that stroke cats' backs and ruffle dogs' ears; hands that turn and knead bread dough in memorized rhythm; hands that can and jam and preserve for the winter; hands that plant gardens and pull weeds; hands that pick apples and blueberries and strawberries and raspberries at frightening speeds; hands that distribute tissues; hands that pat shoulders and are firm in the middle of the back whilst hugging; hands that hold frightened old ladies' hands with patience.
They are hands of mercy.
They are good hands, strong hands.
Hands that balance checkbooks; hands that pick up sticks and dead limbs and drag them to the compost pile; hands that fly through e-mails and letters and bills; hands that prep and paint greasy kitchen cupboards; hands that compile and edit recipes with dizzying deftness; hands that clean up after ill pets and children without complaint, that stroke feverish foreheads without fear; hands that rub backs and pat hands; hands that set tables and clean kitchen floors and dust the house over and over and over; hands that split under the nails from winter-dryness and over-much dishwashing; hands that tease and tickle, but always in affection; hands that are worn soft by work and age; hands that scratch out math equations and point out steps; hands that change sheets and clean bathrooms and never complain.
They are hands of faith.
They are good hands, strong hands.
Hands that are as quick on a keyboard as they are with houseframes; hands that love book pages, and grip pens with joy; hands that wrap around tea, and coffee, and hard concepts; hands with dirt under the nails, that don't shrink from labor and struggle; hands that tap on the tabletop with unplanned excitement; hands that pet puppies, and tease little sisters; hands that are steady, and bracing, and safe; hands that do whatever task is set to them; hands that fairly quiver with energy and vitality and life.
They are hands of hope.
They are good hands, strong hands.
Hands that stroke orphans' faces, and support widows; hands that stab accusation at the smug and self-righteous; hands that gesture to the world to make word pictures, to get the point across; hands that reach down to curl into the earth, to haul fishnets, to work in wood; hands that smooth away fevers, and frightful contagious diseases, and paralysis, and demons; hands that wield whips and crash tables to the floor while purifying the house of God; hands that plead with the beloved City to repent, to turn, to be healed; hands that don't rise in their own defense against false allegations; hands that stretch out in agony and allow themselves to be pierced; hands that are strong enough to die.
They are the hands of God.
And somehow, they are reflected in all the others . . .
Friday, June 24, 2011
fresh off the chopping block
I don't really remember when we met. I was really more friends with your across-the-hall neighbor, and to be honest, rather foolish and flirtatious with said neighbor. The first time I really remember you was one day when you were scolding him for missing me in chapel. "C'mon, man," you said, blue eyes wide. "I always notice my friends!" Thinking about it now, you were angry with the other guy for being oblivious (only one of the masculine traits you would attack in the coming years). At the moment, though, I was just grateful for your verbalizing what I was grumpily thinking. After that, there were a few more incidents (properly described) that cemented our friendship. One rainy night, a friend and I banged on the boys' dorm door and you popped out, barefoot, and played in the monsoon with us and our pathetic, broken umbrella. You watched me cry my way through every huge paper that first year, all without freaking out or fleeing the scene. When I was having a major self-esteem freak-out about my upcoming gym class, you drove me to the store to buy pants that made me feel hot. ("These better be the best darn pants in the whole world!" you snapped at me in the car.) You knew both sides of the circumstances of my first serious broken heart, and you didn't throw it in my face when it predictably blew up.
Most people either feared or disliked you on sight. I did neither. Somehow I understood and accepted your sarcastic bitterness, your pessimism, your apparent chauvinism, and your brusqueness. It was like I already knew you before we began, and it was easy to just continue on. You sort of just rolled into my life . . . and stayed.
On my twentieth birthday, you rescued me from awkward advances from an awkward boy, then went ahead and talked me down from the emotional cliff. That was the first time you gave me any type of good advice, and I think, perhaps, that was when I began to really love you. Instead of reciprocating, you found someone else. That became the motif of our relationship. When you were free and unattached, I was very interested in someone else--someone "better," I told myself. When I yearned for your affection, you were in love with the pattern girl--someone skinnier, shorter, funnier, smarter, classier, more intriguing, more ambitious, and much more obnoxious than I was. Somehow, we stayed friends through it all. I called you whenever I needed help with picking up guests or checking car engines or taking care of my plants over break. You answered your phone all those times, and, unasked, you held me as I wept from stress and hurt and fear. Without fail, we had screaming, knock-down drag-out fights every time we spent too much time apart. You always "won," but I really won because I avoided doing the one thing you aimed for. ("You know you want to hit me. Right here," you'd say, patting the side of your face.)
I watched you grow up while we were at school, but so much of you remained enigmatic to me. There were so many things I hated about you--the way you stole my food right off my plate, how you ignored me when someone "better" arrived in the conversation, your chuckle right after making a jerk-ish comment, the stubborn belief that you were always always right. There were times when I silently cheered for people who called you "arrogant" or "rude" or worse. But mostly, I was on your side. I never understood why you went through random phases when life was good, and everything was looking up. It made me vaguely uneasy when you were so optimistic; I didn't quite know how to handle that version of you. And I couldn't fathom why you endured my ignoring you for weeks, then suddenly responded to my frantic phone calls with such tenderness. I didn't understand . . . but I was grateful. Was that the real you, trying to get out?
I think that was really you--the one you should be. You wanted to be the understanding, enthusiastic, tender version of yourself . . . but you didn't know how. No one ever showed you, maybe, or you felt strange and unnatural when you were like that. I wish I could tell you how much I believe in the real you. I wish I could tell you that I know you can be the man I started to see in you--the one who's tender, and thoughtful, and strong in all the right ways. I wish you would believe me . . . but I'm pretty sure you'd laugh and roll your eyes.
And then I just might hit you.
Most people either feared or disliked you on sight. I did neither. Somehow I understood and accepted your sarcastic bitterness, your pessimism, your apparent chauvinism, and your brusqueness. It was like I already knew you before we began, and it was easy to just continue on. You sort of just rolled into my life . . . and stayed.
On my twentieth birthday, you rescued me from awkward advances from an awkward boy, then went ahead and talked me down from the emotional cliff. That was the first time you gave me any type of good advice, and I think, perhaps, that was when I began to really love you. Instead of reciprocating, you found someone else. That became the motif of our relationship. When you were free and unattached, I was very interested in someone else--someone "better," I told myself. When I yearned for your affection, you were in love with the pattern girl--someone skinnier, shorter, funnier, smarter, classier, more intriguing, more ambitious, and much more obnoxious than I was. Somehow, we stayed friends through it all. I called you whenever I needed help with picking up guests or checking car engines or taking care of my plants over break. You answered your phone all those times, and, unasked, you held me as I wept from stress and hurt and fear. Without fail, we had screaming, knock-down drag-out fights every time we spent too much time apart. You always "won," but I really won because I avoided doing the one thing you aimed for. ("You know you want to hit me. Right here," you'd say, patting the side of your face.)
I watched you grow up while we were at school, but so much of you remained enigmatic to me. There were so many things I hated about you--the way you stole my food right off my plate, how you ignored me when someone "better" arrived in the conversation, your chuckle right after making a jerk-ish comment, the stubborn belief that you were always always right. There were times when I silently cheered for people who called you "arrogant" or "rude" or worse. But mostly, I was on your side. I never understood why you went through random phases when life was good, and everything was looking up. It made me vaguely uneasy when you were so optimistic; I didn't quite know how to handle that version of you. And I couldn't fathom why you endured my ignoring you for weeks, then suddenly responded to my frantic phone calls with such tenderness. I didn't understand . . . but I was grateful. Was that the real you, trying to get out?
I think that was really you--the one you should be. You wanted to be the understanding, enthusiastic, tender version of yourself . . . but you didn't know how. No one ever showed you, maybe, or you felt strange and unnatural when you were like that. I wish I could tell you how much I believe in the real you. I wish I could tell you that I know you can be the man I started to see in you--the one who's tender, and thoughtful, and strong in all the right ways. I wish you would believe me . . . but I'm pretty sure you'd laugh and roll your eyes.
And then I just might hit you.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
best. boss. ever.
The first time I met him, I wrote in my journal,
He is indeed a great boss, like B. said he would be. But I am insanely curious about his background. He speaks perfect American-accented English, perfect (as far as I can tell) Hebrew, walks and dresses and acts like an American man, has a small tattoo between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand (revealing he has a past, haha), has sort of Jewish-looking dark eyes and hair and skin, is married to Liat (who sounds . . . Jewish? I'm so bad at discerning accents), and has boys with rather Jewish-sounding names that I can't pronounce.
Funny how much I got right in that first impression.
I was terrified of Natan for the first few weeks I worked for him. He had a temper, and tended to be contentious, which intimidated me. I also was certain he didn't like me, as he never ever smiled or praised or actually really looked me in the eyes. Then, one day, he randomly picked me to be the first double-checker, to be sure the rooms were really clean. In the face of more-experienced volunteers' protests ("But . . . she's new!") he said, infuriatingly calmly, "I know. But I rely on Katie. She has perfectionist tendencies."
It was a little bit of an oh moment for me; I think I walked a little straighter afterward.
In the few months I was in Israel, there were many people who surprised me, beat through my reserved-ness, and attached themselves to my heart, but I think that none was so surprising to me as Natan. I don't even know how to explain it to someone who hasn't met him.
He was this strange strange mix of American cockiness and Jewish stubbornness (and that without any Jewish lineage--the dark eyes were Armenian, from his mother). He was raised, right outside Jerusalem, by two resident aliens, Americans who emigrated to Israel "before it was in style"; he grew up speaking Hebrew and English and spending summers and especially the Fourths of July in Kentucky. ("Fireworks are the only good thing about summers in the States.") He ran in some ridiculously-named street gang in junior and senior high school. ("Were you ever in any gang fights?" I asked him one day. "Yes, Katie," he smirked, "we had our 'rumbles' in the parks."). He served in the Israeli and U.S. armies ("The American army was harder, actually, because they expected everything to be so clean, but their breakfasts were great.") He was a rebel, a hippie, a drunk, a runaway, a shame. And then, suddenly, he came back to the faith of his parents, got things together, and met his wife. ("When she was single, she used to tell people, 'My husband is in a bar somewhere, drunk,' and she was right.") He went from being a disappointment to being a husband who loves his wife, and a father who wants to raise his boys in the best way he knows how. ("Well . . . I don't want to make them celebrate Christmas, because that's really counter-cultural here and I don't want them growing up confused and feeling like outsiders.") Mostly, he hated being put in a box, any box. ("I am not a third-culture child! Do you even know what that is?!?" "Yes, I do," I told him, "and you most definitely are one." "No," he insisted, "I'm distinctly my own culture.")
And even though, maybe, he didn't realize it, he sort of became a father to "his" volunteers. On one of my days off, I had a fight with one of the other girls, and when it was over I slipped off to Natan's office. "Can I stay here for awhile?" I asked him, barely holding back the shaking in my voice, and he just nodded. I sat on my stool, far away from him, and breathed. He stayed at his desk, making up the schedule and ignoring me, but I knew, somehow, that he was sliding his eyes over to survey me when I wasn't looking. I grew to understand the veiled affection, just nod and ignore his doomsday words about all things dear to him--like the housekeeping cat, which he secretly smuggled food every day. ("Do you know that cats usually die of kidney failure because they refuse to drink?" he grumbled one day as he put a huge bowl of water outside.) Housekeeping wasn't an easy job, but Natan stood as an advocate, a protector between us volunteers and the rest of the moshav. When he'd leave following a tense or angry or stressful conversation, I learned to expect and even be relieved by the faint scent of nicotine that clung to him when he returned. If Natan disappeared and came back smelling of cigarette smoke, I knew things would pan out okay.
As my close volunteer friends left, as my time in Israel drew to an end, as my heart became more and more afraid of leaving all I loved there, I found myself drawn again and again to the housekeeping "office" and Natan's presence. On my days off, or my night-shift days, I'd come in and help him fold laundry and ask him dozens of questions about his life. There was strange comfort in his stories of recklessness and bad decisions, even in his sarcasm and cynicism. He answered my questions, understanding both my culture and the Israeli culture as his own. He debated my theology, my practices, my politics. ("I'll get you an article about that subject," he told me. "Natan . . . your father wrote this! I can't argue against it!" "Well--I just wanted to get you the best information out there.") He infuriated and frustrated and challenged me . . . and I loved him for it.
In my last days in Israel, I was more drawn to the quiet reasonably-predictable moments and places and people than to new experiences or places. So it was that, nine days before I left Israel, I lingered in supply room with Natan, after all the other volunteers went back to their rooms to take showers and rest or go out or whatnot. I was sitting crazily yet firmly balanced on a narrow strip of desk, one foot on Natan's desk, the other on the arm of a broken plastic chair. As was usual after the volunteers' workday, Natan crouched near the doorway, scrubbing out the cups and mugs before putting them in the dishwasher. It was an unseasonably hot day, and we'd worked hard, so I was tired and smelled so bad I could nearly see my scent rising from under my arms. I don't remember exactly what I said to him, but suddenly he looked up from his work.
"What was Jesus' message, in one word--if you had to sum up?"
"Natan . . . I feel like you already have an answer."
"Oh, I do." (He probably smirked, and I probably rolled my eyes.)
"Well, just tell me then."
"Okay. Jesus' main message to people was--'Relax.' And most people don't. I didn't."
And then he looked straight into my eyes with his dark Armenian gaze.
"Most of the questions you have now, you won't have in ten years. The things that matter to you now . . . won't. The questions will mostly answer themselves."
I leaned back and tried to breathe without crying. Natan went back to his dishes, as if he hadn't just solved my entire life's problems in one sentence.
Saying goodbye to Natan was nearly harder than anything else I had to do when I left Israel. Different volunteers had come and gone, even roommates and best friends, but Natan--he'd been there to watch me from day one, and he knew and remembered all the ridiculous and horrible and lovely things I'd done. Surprisingly, he came to my goodbye evening at the volunteers' clubhouse (he hated that place) and even more surprisingly, insisted on doing a "confirmation circle" for me. When it was his turn, he looked at me, seriously, and said, "Katie, you were a cheerful worker . . . usually--" A tiny smirk quirked the corners of his mouth, but his eyes stayed roundly innocent. "--and a lot of fun to work with . . . most of the time." (I could immediately recall some days I'd not been fun.) He looked at me, eyes and mouth and voice all serious and gentle, and he said, simply, "You're a good girl."
When I said my final goodbye to Natan, hours before I left the moshav, he mocked my handwriting ("Why didn't you print my letter like you printed Liat's?!?") and hugged me (twice). As I turned to go, he said, "Don't worry--you'll be back. And in the meantime, I'll be showing your photo to qualified guys and finding you a husband."
I think I laughed at him.
Ohhhh, Natan. Of all the things you are, "matchmaker" would not be on the list, I'm sorry to say. But I am so grateful for your kindness, your trustworthiness, your honesty, and your strangely-expressed affection. Mostly, I am grateful for your respect, for I know it is not given easily. Though you hate expressing yourself, I understood what you meant when you said goodbye. It was all summed up in that one phrase that meant so much. You're a good girl.
And you, Natan, are a good man.
He is indeed a great boss, like B. said he would be. But I am insanely curious about his background. He speaks perfect American-accented English, perfect (as far as I can tell) Hebrew, walks and dresses and acts like an American man, has a small tattoo between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand (revealing he has a past, haha), has sort of Jewish-looking dark eyes and hair and skin, is married to Liat (who sounds . . . Jewish? I'm so bad at discerning accents), and has boys with rather Jewish-sounding names that I can't pronounce.
Funny how much I got right in that first impression.
I was terrified of Natan for the first few weeks I worked for him. He had a temper, and tended to be contentious, which intimidated me. I also was certain he didn't like me, as he never ever smiled or praised or actually really looked me in the eyes. Then, one day, he randomly picked me to be the first double-checker, to be sure the rooms were really clean. In the face of more-experienced volunteers' protests ("But . . . she's new!") he said, infuriatingly calmly, "I know. But I rely on Katie. She has perfectionist tendencies."
It was a little bit of an oh moment for me; I think I walked a little straighter afterward.
In the few months I was in Israel, there were many people who surprised me, beat through my reserved-ness, and attached themselves to my heart, but I think that none was so surprising to me as Natan. I don't even know how to explain it to someone who hasn't met him.
He was this strange strange mix of American cockiness and Jewish stubbornness (and that without any Jewish lineage--the dark eyes were Armenian, from his mother). He was raised, right outside Jerusalem, by two resident aliens, Americans who emigrated to Israel "before it was in style"; he grew up speaking Hebrew and English and spending summers and especially the Fourths of July in Kentucky. ("Fireworks are the only good thing about summers in the States.") He ran in some ridiculously-named street gang in junior and senior high school. ("Were you ever in any gang fights?" I asked him one day. "Yes, Katie," he smirked, "we had our 'rumbles' in the parks."). He served in the Israeli and U.S. armies ("The American army was harder, actually, because they expected everything to be so clean, but their breakfasts were great.") He was a rebel, a hippie, a drunk, a runaway, a shame. And then, suddenly, he came back to the faith of his parents, got things together, and met his wife. ("When she was single, she used to tell people, 'My husband is in a bar somewhere, drunk,' and she was right.") He went from being a disappointment to being a husband who loves his wife, and a father who wants to raise his boys in the best way he knows how. ("Well . . . I don't want to make them celebrate Christmas, because that's really counter-cultural here and I don't want them growing up confused and feeling like outsiders.") Mostly, he hated being put in a box, any box. ("I am not a third-culture child! Do you even know what that is?!?" "Yes, I do," I told him, "and you most definitely are one." "No," he insisted, "I'm distinctly my own culture.")
And even though, maybe, he didn't realize it, he sort of became a father to "his" volunteers. On one of my days off, I had a fight with one of the other girls, and when it was over I slipped off to Natan's office. "Can I stay here for awhile?" I asked him, barely holding back the shaking in my voice, and he just nodded. I sat on my stool, far away from him, and breathed. He stayed at his desk, making up the schedule and ignoring me, but I knew, somehow, that he was sliding his eyes over to survey me when I wasn't looking. I grew to understand the veiled affection, just nod and ignore his doomsday words about all things dear to him--like the housekeeping cat, which he secretly smuggled food every day. ("Do you know that cats usually die of kidney failure because they refuse to drink?" he grumbled one day as he put a huge bowl of water outside.) Housekeeping wasn't an easy job, but Natan stood as an advocate, a protector between us volunteers and the rest of the moshav. When he'd leave following a tense or angry or stressful conversation, I learned to expect and even be relieved by the faint scent of nicotine that clung to him when he returned. If Natan disappeared and came back smelling of cigarette smoke, I knew things would pan out okay.
As my close volunteer friends left, as my time in Israel drew to an end, as my heart became more and more afraid of leaving all I loved there, I found myself drawn again and again to the housekeeping "office" and Natan's presence. On my days off, or my night-shift days, I'd come in and help him fold laundry and ask him dozens of questions about his life. There was strange comfort in his stories of recklessness and bad decisions, even in his sarcasm and cynicism. He answered my questions, understanding both my culture and the Israeli culture as his own. He debated my theology, my practices, my politics. ("I'll get you an article about that subject," he told me. "Natan . . . your father wrote this! I can't argue against it!" "Well--I just wanted to get you the best information out there.") He infuriated and frustrated and challenged me . . . and I loved him for it.
In my last days in Israel, I was more drawn to the quiet reasonably-predictable moments and places and people than to new experiences or places. So it was that, nine days before I left Israel, I lingered in supply room with Natan, after all the other volunteers went back to their rooms to take showers and rest or go out or whatnot. I was sitting crazily yet firmly balanced on a narrow strip of desk, one foot on Natan's desk, the other on the arm of a broken plastic chair. As was usual after the volunteers' workday, Natan crouched near the doorway, scrubbing out the cups and mugs before putting them in the dishwasher. It was an unseasonably hot day, and we'd worked hard, so I was tired and smelled so bad I could nearly see my scent rising from under my arms. I don't remember exactly what I said to him, but suddenly he looked up from his work.
"What was Jesus' message, in one word--if you had to sum up?"
"Natan . . . I feel like you already have an answer."
"Oh, I do." (He probably smirked, and I probably rolled my eyes.)
"Well, just tell me then."
"Okay. Jesus' main message to people was--'Relax.' And most people don't. I didn't."
And then he looked straight into my eyes with his dark Armenian gaze.
"Most of the questions you have now, you won't have in ten years. The things that matter to you now . . . won't. The questions will mostly answer themselves."
I leaned back and tried to breathe without crying. Natan went back to his dishes, as if he hadn't just solved my entire life's problems in one sentence.
Saying goodbye to Natan was nearly harder than anything else I had to do when I left Israel. Different volunteers had come and gone, even roommates and best friends, but Natan--he'd been there to watch me from day one, and he knew and remembered all the ridiculous and horrible and lovely things I'd done. Surprisingly, he came to my goodbye evening at the volunteers' clubhouse (he hated that place) and even more surprisingly, insisted on doing a "confirmation circle" for me. When it was his turn, he looked at me, seriously, and said, "Katie, you were a cheerful worker . . . usually--" A tiny smirk quirked the corners of his mouth, but his eyes stayed roundly innocent. "--and a lot of fun to work with . . . most of the time." (I could immediately recall some days I'd not been fun.) He looked at me, eyes and mouth and voice all serious and gentle, and he said, simply, "You're a good girl."
When I said my final goodbye to Natan, hours before I left the moshav, he mocked my handwriting ("Why didn't you print my letter like you printed Liat's?!?") and hugged me (twice). As I turned to go, he said, "Don't worry--you'll be back. And in the meantime, I'll be showing your photo to qualified guys and finding you a husband."
I think I laughed at him.
Ohhhh, Natan. Of all the things you are, "matchmaker" would not be on the list, I'm sorry to say. But I am so grateful for your kindness, your trustworthiness, your honesty, and your strangely-expressed affection. Mostly, I am grateful for your respect, for I know it is not given easily. Though you hate expressing yourself, I understood what you meant when you said goodbye. It was all summed up in that one phrase that meant so much. You're a good girl.
Monday, December 06, 2010
Reu
I always wore my unpierced ears with pride, flaunting them whenever possible, almost as a medal of honor. I explained to people that the money wasn’t worth the trouble to me, described in detail to friends how repulsed I was at the idea of something permanent sticking through my skin.
And then I met a boy—well, a man, really—and I didn’t “meet” him in the sense that most people would assume.
It’s a long story.
I should start at the beginning.
After I graduated from university, I volunteered and lived on a messianic moshav (communal settlement) in Israel, from June through October 2010. I went with a headful of sightseeing plans and a heartful of secret romantic dreams. I told myself—and others—that this trip was a symbol of how I’d grown, a glorious culminating proof of how God had taught me to live a brave and fearless and content life.
But I arrived in Israel, June 19, and was terrified. I had few close friends; I spent most free days alone. I was afraid of Jerusalem (a mere twenty minutes away), I was afraid to start conversations with fellow volunteers or moshav members, I was afraid of my roommates, I was afraid of ESLers, I was afraid of my boss. I feared what others thought of me, my ideas, and my thoughts; so I kept silent. I was especially frightened of the boys and men of the moshav. They were stronger in every way, more sure, than the males I was accustomed to, and I wasn’t quite certain how to deal with this strength. Being so petrified of, well, everything crippled my ability to form any relationships. I began to live my “dream trip” as I’d lived my freshman years in high school and university—put your head down, walk fast, don’t let your eyes betray your emotions, don’t open your mouth, and never ever ever fling open your heart.
I was miserable.
On July 8, a new male volunteer arrived at the moshav. I was on the way to Jerusalem with a friend, and as we were rushing through the reception lobby, we caught sight of him. He appeared as a tall broad-shouldered strong back, clothed in a striped sweatshirt and topped with thick dark hair. He turned and met my eyes, but I nearly didn't stop because I was in such a hurry. But I put on a smile and put out my hand and said, “welcome.” We learned his name (Reuben) and his home country (Colombia).
“It’s good to meet you,” I said, then I flew off to Jerusalem and didn’t consider him for the rest of the day.
I saw Reuben around the moshav in the next couple of days, but didn’t say much to him. He seemed solemn, serious, and I was timid in the face of the depth I sensed in him. I learned that he would be working in housekeeping—the sole male volunteer in that department—and I wondered how he’d be.
To my surprise, he held his own with all us girls. He made beds and mopped floors; he ran errands and used his Hebrew skills to mediate with angry Jewish guests; he carried heavy baskets and moved boxes. I wasn’t so afraid of him anymore, but I didn’t work to know him more deeply either. He was just Reuben—houseman and enigma.
Three other girls and I were planning a short trip near the end of July, and one day one of them mentioned that she’d invited Reuben to come with us. I was fine with that—a wee bit relieved, maybe, because then he could drive and use his Hebrew to read road signs and ask directions and such. Then, the day before we left, she dropped the news. Reuben as driver and I as credit-card holder were going to have to go into Jerusalem early in the morning to pick up the rental car and bring it back to the moshav to begin our trip.
I was irritated. No, more than that, I was upset. Not only did I have to get up early on a day off, I had to spend over an hour alone with Reuben—this tall serious quiet trilingual Latino who still intimidated me in many ways. But, if that was what I had to do to get that car, to go on that trip, I would.
So he and I arranged it all, met at breakfast, walked to the bus stop in plenty of time, caught the bus with no trouble. We got settled in our seats, then Reuben turned to me and said,
“Do you want to pray?”
And all of a sudden, all my irritation and upset and anxiety melted and I knew that here beside me was a very good man.
All the way to the car rental office, we talked and shared our faith stories (at his initiation). The more we spoke, the less I found myself hesitant and nervous, and the more I felt empathy and kinship with him.
They wouldn’t rent us the car; they said I needed to be twenty-four in order to rent it. Through a crazy series of events and bus rides and another car rental service, we (all five of us!) made it to our destination. The whole way Reuben kept reminding us that God had the perfect plans in mind for us, and for our journey.
Of course, he was right. And after that trip, those two days and one night, I learned that I had been far too quick to make up my mind about Reuben. He was serious and soft-spoken, but he had a hilarious sense of humor and a strong sense of leadership. Over the next weeks and months, I began to seriously adore Reu. I asked him hundreds of random questions, beginning conversations about family and culture and faith; I was curious about his opinions and thoughts and personal history. Through our talks, I grew to respect him more than any other man I’d met.
One day at work—a bad day, one where our boss was gone and Reu was in charge and there was too much work—I trudged to the housekeeping office with my feet bare, a laundry basket on my hip and a pile of sheets under my other arm. Reu came out and met me in the middle of the road, asking me what rooms were finished, if we needed anything else. As we spoke, he reached out and took the bulky sheets away from me. It wasn’t flashy or meant to impress, but gentle, almost unplanned, and given out of a servant’s heart. And in that moment, that tiny gesture, I realized that of all the men I’d known, Reuben best helped me practice my “wife skills”—how to love and respect a man, accepting his service with grace and thankfulness, stepping back and truly listening to his words.
Then there was another day, when just the two of us were cleaning a room. I was cleaning the bathroom, and leaned out the door to ask him a question about his feelings on a topic relating to marriage. It wasn’t the first time I’d asked such a question, so Reuben wasn’t surprised. His back was toward me as he dusted the room, but I saw him shake his head.
“Why do women think about this so much?” he asked. I laughed, then sketched the stereotypical reasons—the desires to be beautiful, loved, secure, safe. He turned a little bit toward me, glancing at me from the corners of his eyes. “And do you think you’ll find that with a man?” I shrugged, grinned a little, then verbalized what I’d long known.
“No. I don’t.” His dark eyes met mine full-on and he tilted his head, calculating.
“But you—” I knew he meant me, personally. “—you think about this a lot, don’t you?” His question was gentle, unaccusing, but it pierced my very soul. I saw in a sudden flash not only my deep foolishness, but above that, how my skewed focus amounted to idolatry. I managed to answer, honestly—“yes”—but the smallness of my voice kept him from pushing me farther on the matter. The truth was, I’d never been confronted on the practical idolatry of my heart. Reu’s question made me reevaluate my patterns and focus. The disappointment that I saw in those eyes I respected so much pushed me to change. I was shattered at both the realization about myself, and about his disappointment, but I was grateful, too, for his candor.
Even though I loved Reu so deeply, I found myself clashing with him again and again. One of our most frequent arguments was over “Christian” holidays. Since his heritage was Jewish, his family celebrated the biblical feasts—Sukkot (Tabernacles), Pesach (Passover), Yom Kippur (Day of Atonement), and so on. My family celebrated American/Christian “feasts”—Christmas and Easter and such.
“’Easter’?” he snorted at me once. “What is that?” I explained. “All right,” he continued. “But ‘Easter’? What does that word mean?”
I googled it later, with him peering over my shoulder. I skimmed the first page that came up—“the goddess Eostre,” “Anglo-Saxon paganism,” “pre-Christian beliefs.”
“Okay,” I announced, closing the browser. “This isn’t important.” Though I was laughing, he knew I was embarrassed.
“It’s pagan, isn’t it?” he inquired. My quick nod confirmed, and he shook his head at me.
Weeks later, the topic came up again, this time focused on Christmas. I argued with Reuben all the way from the room we were cleaning to the dining hall. Paganism, Judaic tradition, the Medieval church, God’s commands—back and forth and back and forth we went. I was frustrated, angry—furious, actually—and near the point of tears. Reu threw one last challenge at me.
“Well—do you celebrate Halloween?”
Define “celebrate,” I wanted to say, or Well, not really, or Yes, but . . ., or just plain no. I wanted to lie, to make excuses, but as I looked across the table at him, I knew I couldn’t. Those dark eyes demanded total honesty of me.
“Yes,” I said. “I do.” He nodded, as if not surprised. I was stung. The pain in my eyes must have been clear, for he raised his hands as if in a gesture of peace.
“I still respect you,” he told me, and my battered soul snatched at and clung to his words as if to a lifeline.
“No, you don’t,” my traitor tongue snapped. I wanted to reel back the words. He widened his eyes.
“Yes. I do.” I shrugged, as if it didn’t matter.
“You don’t have to,” I told him. “It doesn’t matter to me what you think about my decisions.” Even as I said the words, I knew they weren’t true.
Like the wise man he was, Reuben let the matter drop. He didn’t treat me any differently than he had before our “discussion.” The only way I knew he remembered was the way our glances would meet when anyone mentioned Christmas. And I knew he stood by his statement—I still respect you—by the way his lips would twitch into a tiny smile and he would hold his silence.
There were many other little moments—the times he gently mocked my accent, or tried to explain Hebrew pronunciation; the party where each of us only knew a few others and we clung to each other almost unconsciously; the way I could read what he needed from the office desk (pen? phone? paper? computer?) even before he told me; the afternoon I watched him share the Gospel with two little Orthodox Jewish boys, who threatened to stone him for even saying the name Yeshua; the times he encouraged me to learn Hebrew, reminding me that “if you learn, God will use it”; the amazing day-trip with another dear friend, my first time at Matsada and the Dead Sea, a day that healed much brokenness in my heart; the sound of his laughter when I’d announce, “All right—random question.”
The absolute truth was I loved and respected and trust him more each day. I knew him to be a honest and good and honorable man, someone who didn’t flirt or treat others carelessly, and that made me respect him even more.
A few weeks before I left Israel, I was once again cleaning a room with Reuben, asking him all sorts of questions. This time, my questions were focused around one topic. I’d decided to get my left ear’s cartilage pierced, but hadn’t found a shop that would do it for me. When he was younger, Reu had multiple piercings in each ear, and in his face. He’d done some of them himself, so I knew he had some knowledge on the subject. In the middle of the conversation, Reuben stopped, shook his head, and grinned sideways at me.
“Do you want me to just do it for you?”
I considered—I knew he had the experience and the necessary steadiness. And I realized, yes, that was exactly what I wanted.
“Yes,” I told him, and that settled it.
Reuben told me what I needed to get for the piercing, and finally, one night, everything was in line. I brought the jewelry, the needle; he brought the anesthetic, the gloves, the medicinal supplies. When he took the needle in his hand, his brow furrowed.
“I think it’s too small,” he announced, but I was so disappointed and the earring itself so small that he agreed to try. He checked and marked the spot for the earring, then we sat down on the couch and he iced my ear and gave me a small shot of anesthetic in my ear. He let me sit quietly, my legs crossed in front of me, my head leaning against the wall, my hands loose on my knees, as he cleaned my ear and the needle and the earring. Then he knelt on the couch in front of me, his leg pressed against mine, and pushed the needle into my ear.
I could still feel my ear. Despite the ice and the anesthetic, I could feel everything. I felt the needle go in; I felt it lay there as he picked up the earring to push it in behind the needle. The more time it took, the more I felt. My ear hurt like nothing I’d ever known. I wanted to clench up my hands, to pull away, to shriek. But I couldn’t—I wouldn’t—after I’d begged Reu for his help. Without my orders, my right hand crept up from my knee to his side, pressing itself there, molding my fingers to his ribcage. I pushed back a whimper I felt rising in my throat. Reuben must have felt it, too, for suddenly his voice was whispering.
“It’s okay, Katie, it’s okay, it’s okay . . .”
Finally, he withdrew the needle, declared it no good, gave up. I was crestfallen. But then, another girl produced a thicker needle. I showed it to Reuben, excited over the new possibility. To my surprise, he threw up more excuses. I didn’t understand until a Hebrew-speaking friend questioned him and explained to me.
“He doesn’t want to hurt you.”
Oh.
He’d heard my throaty whimpers, felt my trembling, seen my blood; and he’d hated it. He’d hated it so much that my begging could barely convince him to try again.
But try again he did, after re-cleaning and more ice. I leaned my head against his shoulder as he prepped, drawing steadiness from his warm solidity.
That second time, he was quicker. I was quieter, understanding that my pain hurt him. But when he knelt in front of me, as before, I could feel his knee trembling as it pressed into my leg.
The earring finally went in with a small pop.
And that was that.
But it wasn’t, really.
I left home a scared, shy white girl who didn’t dare trust. I returned with highlighted hair, a tan, and a tiny silver Magen David in my left ear.
I think back to that evening, and I know some things for certain. I know that I would have let no hands but Reu’s do that to me, inflict pain of that level, without shrieks or stormy weeping. Because I knew his character, his honor—his mettle, I suppose—I trusted him.
This piercing is far more than jewelry; it is a story-teller. It tells of a girl who let fear run her life, who never wanted to offend or disrupt, who was terrified of others’ opinions, who made snap judgments based on appearances, who obsessed over marriage, who was crying out within her heart for gentle unconditional love without demands. And it tells of a man who helped her, just a little bit, believe that she could be strong; who showed her what kind of life she could live; who pushed her to do and be more; who tolerated her when she was ridiculous; who taught her to accept his serving her with his strength; who showed her that not all strong men are arrogant and flashy; who answered her worried and silly and serious and personal questions; who prayed with and for her; who let her weep out her grief on his shoulder; and who helped her believe that maybe, indeed, God had more planned for her than she could ever fathom.
My piercing tells a love story . . . but not the typical romantic cheesy type. Instead, this piercing tells the story of a weak scared little girl who took a few more steps toward being a woman. It tells the story of a good strong man who saw her faults, yet remained gracious and gentle toward her. And it tells the story of a brother who loved his sister enough to help her push past her terror—even if it involved something so trivial and unpleasant . . .
as piercing an ear.
And then I met a boy—well, a man, really—and I didn’t “meet” him in the sense that most people would assume.
It’s a long story.
I should start at the beginning.
After I graduated from university, I volunteered and lived on a messianic moshav (communal settlement) in Israel, from June through October 2010. I went with a headful of sightseeing plans and a heartful of secret romantic dreams. I told myself—and others—that this trip was a symbol of how I’d grown, a glorious culminating proof of how God had taught me to live a brave and fearless and content life.
But I arrived in Israel, June 19, and was terrified. I had few close friends; I spent most free days alone. I was afraid of Jerusalem (a mere twenty minutes away), I was afraid to start conversations with fellow volunteers or moshav members, I was afraid of my roommates, I was afraid of ESLers, I was afraid of my boss. I feared what others thought of me, my ideas, and my thoughts; so I kept silent. I was especially frightened of the boys and men of the moshav. They were stronger in every way, more sure, than the males I was accustomed to, and I wasn’t quite certain how to deal with this strength. Being so petrified of, well, everything crippled my ability to form any relationships. I began to live my “dream trip” as I’d lived my freshman years in high school and university—put your head down, walk fast, don’t let your eyes betray your emotions, don’t open your mouth, and never ever ever fling open your heart.
I was miserable.
On July 8, a new male volunteer arrived at the moshav. I was on the way to Jerusalem with a friend, and as we were rushing through the reception lobby, we caught sight of him. He appeared as a tall broad-shouldered strong back, clothed in a striped sweatshirt and topped with thick dark hair. He turned and met my eyes, but I nearly didn't stop because I was in such a hurry. But I put on a smile and put out my hand and said, “welcome.” We learned his name (Reuben) and his home country (Colombia).
“It’s good to meet you,” I said, then I flew off to Jerusalem and didn’t consider him for the rest of the day.
I saw Reuben around the moshav in the next couple of days, but didn’t say much to him. He seemed solemn, serious, and I was timid in the face of the depth I sensed in him. I learned that he would be working in housekeeping—the sole male volunteer in that department—and I wondered how he’d be.
To my surprise, he held his own with all us girls. He made beds and mopped floors; he ran errands and used his Hebrew skills to mediate with angry Jewish guests; he carried heavy baskets and moved boxes. I wasn’t so afraid of him anymore, but I didn’t work to know him more deeply either. He was just Reuben—houseman and enigma.
Three other girls and I were planning a short trip near the end of July, and one day one of them mentioned that she’d invited Reuben to come with us. I was fine with that—a wee bit relieved, maybe, because then he could drive and use his Hebrew to read road signs and ask directions and such. Then, the day before we left, she dropped the news. Reuben as driver and I as credit-card holder were going to have to go into Jerusalem early in the morning to pick up the rental car and bring it back to the moshav to begin our trip.
I was irritated. No, more than that, I was upset. Not only did I have to get up early on a day off, I had to spend over an hour alone with Reuben—this tall serious quiet trilingual Latino who still intimidated me in many ways. But, if that was what I had to do to get that car, to go on that trip, I would.
So he and I arranged it all, met at breakfast, walked to the bus stop in plenty of time, caught the bus with no trouble. We got settled in our seats, then Reuben turned to me and said,
“Do you want to pray?”
And all of a sudden, all my irritation and upset and anxiety melted and I knew that here beside me was a very good man.
All the way to the car rental office, we talked and shared our faith stories (at his initiation). The more we spoke, the less I found myself hesitant and nervous, and the more I felt empathy and kinship with him.
They wouldn’t rent us the car; they said I needed to be twenty-four in order to rent it. Through a crazy series of events and bus rides and another car rental service, we (all five of us!) made it to our destination. The whole way Reuben kept reminding us that God had the perfect plans in mind for us, and for our journey.
Of course, he was right. And after that trip, those two days and one night, I learned that I had been far too quick to make up my mind about Reuben. He was serious and soft-spoken, but he had a hilarious sense of humor and a strong sense of leadership. Over the next weeks and months, I began to seriously adore Reu. I asked him hundreds of random questions, beginning conversations about family and culture and faith; I was curious about his opinions and thoughts and personal history. Through our talks, I grew to respect him more than any other man I’d met.
One day at work—a bad day, one where our boss was gone and Reu was in charge and there was too much work—I trudged to the housekeeping office with my feet bare, a laundry basket on my hip and a pile of sheets under my other arm. Reu came out and met me in the middle of the road, asking me what rooms were finished, if we needed anything else. As we spoke, he reached out and took the bulky sheets away from me. It wasn’t flashy or meant to impress, but gentle, almost unplanned, and given out of a servant’s heart. And in that moment, that tiny gesture, I realized that of all the men I’d known, Reuben best helped me practice my “wife skills”—how to love and respect a man, accepting his service with grace and thankfulness, stepping back and truly listening to his words.
Then there was another day, when just the two of us were cleaning a room. I was cleaning the bathroom, and leaned out the door to ask him a question about his feelings on a topic relating to marriage. It wasn’t the first time I’d asked such a question, so Reuben wasn’t surprised. His back was toward me as he dusted the room, but I saw him shake his head.
“Why do women think about this so much?” he asked. I laughed, then sketched the stereotypical reasons—the desires to be beautiful, loved, secure, safe. He turned a little bit toward me, glancing at me from the corners of his eyes. “And do you think you’ll find that with a man?” I shrugged, grinned a little, then verbalized what I’d long known.
“No. I don’t.” His dark eyes met mine full-on and he tilted his head, calculating.
“But you—” I knew he meant me, personally. “—you think about this a lot, don’t you?” His question was gentle, unaccusing, but it pierced my very soul. I saw in a sudden flash not only my deep foolishness, but above that, how my skewed focus amounted to idolatry. I managed to answer, honestly—“yes”—but the smallness of my voice kept him from pushing me farther on the matter. The truth was, I’d never been confronted on the practical idolatry of my heart. Reu’s question made me reevaluate my patterns and focus. The disappointment that I saw in those eyes I respected so much pushed me to change. I was shattered at both the realization about myself, and about his disappointment, but I was grateful, too, for his candor.
Even though I loved Reu so deeply, I found myself clashing with him again and again. One of our most frequent arguments was over “Christian” holidays. Since his heritage was Jewish, his family celebrated the biblical feasts—Sukkot (Tabernacles), Pesach (Passover), Yom Kippur (Day of Atonement), and so on. My family celebrated American/Christian “feasts”—Christmas and Easter and such.
“’Easter’?” he snorted at me once. “What is that?” I explained. “All right,” he continued. “But ‘Easter’? What does that word mean?”
I googled it later, with him peering over my shoulder. I skimmed the first page that came up—“the goddess Eostre,” “Anglo-Saxon paganism,” “pre-Christian beliefs.”
“Okay,” I announced, closing the browser. “This isn’t important.” Though I was laughing, he knew I was embarrassed.
“It’s pagan, isn’t it?” he inquired. My quick nod confirmed, and he shook his head at me.
Weeks later, the topic came up again, this time focused on Christmas. I argued with Reuben all the way from the room we were cleaning to the dining hall. Paganism, Judaic tradition, the Medieval church, God’s commands—back and forth and back and forth we went. I was frustrated, angry—furious, actually—and near the point of tears. Reu threw one last challenge at me.
“Well—do you celebrate Halloween?”
Define “celebrate,” I wanted to say, or Well, not really, or Yes, but . . ., or just plain no. I wanted to lie, to make excuses, but as I looked across the table at him, I knew I couldn’t. Those dark eyes demanded total honesty of me.
“Yes,” I said. “I do.” He nodded, as if not surprised. I was stung. The pain in my eyes must have been clear, for he raised his hands as if in a gesture of peace.
“I still respect you,” he told me, and my battered soul snatched at and clung to his words as if to a lifeline.
“No, you don’t,” my traitor tongue snapped. I wanted to reel back the words. He widened his eyes.
“Yes. I do.” I shrugged, as if it didn’t matter.
“You don’t have to,” I told him. “It doesn’t matter to me what you think about my decisions.” Even as I said the words, I knew they weren’t true.
Like the wise man he was, Reuben let the matter drop. He didn’t treat me any differently than he had before our “discussion.” The only way I knew he remembered was the way our glances would meet when anyone mentioned Christmas. And I knew he stood by his statement—I still respect you—by the way his lips would twitch into a tiny smile and he would hold his silence.
There were many other little moments—the times he gently mocked my accent, or tried to explain Hebrew pronunciation; the party where each of us only knew a few others and we clung to each other almost unconsciously; the way I could read what he needed from the office desk (pen? phone? paper? computer?) even before he told me; the afternoon I watched him share the Gospel with two little Orthodox Jewish boys, who threatened to stone him for even saying the name Yeshua; the times he encouraged me to learn Hebrew, reminding me that “if you learn, God will use it”; the amazing day-trip with another dear friend, my first time at Matsada and the Dead Sea, a day that healed much brokenness in my heart; the sound of his laughter when I’d announce, “All right—random question.”
The absolute truth was I loved and respected and trust him more each day. I knew him to be a honest and good and honorable man, someone who didn’t flirt or treat others carelessly, and that made me respect him even more.
A few weeks before I left Israel, I was once again cleaning a room with Reuben, asking him all sorts of questions. This time, my questions were focused around one topic. I’d decided to get my left ear’s cartilage pierced, but hadn’t found a shop that would do it for me. When he was younger, Reu had multiple piercings in each ear, and in his face. He’d done some of them himself, so I knew he had some knowledge on the subject. In the middle of the conversation, Reuben stopped, shook his head, and grinned sideways at me.
“Do you want me to just do it for you?”
I considered—I knew he had the experience and the necessary steadiness. And I realized, yes, that was exactly what I wanted.
“Yes,” I told him, and that settled it.
Reuben told me what I needed to get for the piercing, and finally, one night, everything was in line. I brought the jewelry, the needle; he brought the anesthetic, the gloves, the medicinal supplies. When he took the needle in his hand, his brow furrowed.
“I think it’s too small,” he announced, but I was so disappointed and the earring itself so small that he agreed to try. He checked and marked the spot for the earring, then we sat down on the couch and he iced my ear and gave me a small shot of anesthetic in my ear. He let me sit quietly, my legs crossed in front of me, my head leaning against the wall, my hands loose on my knees, as he cleaned my ear and the needle and the earring. Then he knelt on the couch in front of me, his leg pressed against mine, and pushed the needle into my ear.
I could still feel my ear. Despite the ice and the anesthetic, I could feel everything. I felt the needle go in; I felt it lay there as he picked up the earring to push it in behind the needle. The more time it took, the more I felt. My ear hurt like nothing I’d ever known. I wanted to clench up my hands, to pull away, to shriek. But I couldn’t—I wouldn’t—after I’d begged Reu for his help. Without my orders, my right hand crept up from my knee to his side, pressing itself there, molding my fingers to his ribcage. I pushed back a whimper I felt rising in my throat. Reuben must have felt it, too, for suddenly his voice was whispering.
“It’s okay, Katie, it’s okay, it’s okay . . .”
Finally, he withdrew the needle, declared it no good, gave up. I was crestfallen. But then, another girl produced a thicker needle. I showed it to Reuben, excited over the new possibility. To my surprise, he threw up more excuses. I didn’t understand until a Hebrew-speaking friend questioned him and explained to me.
“He doesn’t want to hurt you.”
Oh.
He’d heard my throaty whimpers, felt my trembling, seen my blood; and he’d hated it. He’d hated it so much that my begging could barely convince him to try again.
But try again he did, after re-cleaning and more ice. I leaned my head against his shoulder as he prepped, drawing steadiness from his warm solidity.
That second time, he was quicker. I was quieter, understanding that my pain hurt him. But when he knelt in front of me, as before, I could feel his knee trembling as it pressed into my leg.
The earring finally went in with a small pop.
And that was that.
But it wasn’t, really.
I left home a scared, shy white girl who didn’t dare trust. I returned with highlighted hair, a tan, and a tiny silver Magen David in my left ear.
I think back to that evening, and I know some things for certain. I know that I would have let no hands but Reu’s do that to me, inflict pain of that level, without shrieks or stormy weeping. Because I knew his character, his honor—his mettle, I suppose—I trusted him.
This piercing is far more than jewelry; it is a story-teller. It tells of a girl who let fear run her life, who never wanted to offend or disrupt, who was terrified of others’ opinions, who made snap judgments based on appearances, who obsessed over marriage, who was crying out within her heart for gentle unconditional love without demands. And it tells of a man who helped her, just a little bit, believe that she could be strong; who showed her what kind of life she could live; who pushed her to do and be more; who tolerated her when she was ridiculous; who taught her to accept his serving her with his strength; who showed her that not all strong men are arrogant and flashy; who answered her worried and silly and serious and personal questions; who prayed with and for her; who let her weep out her grief on his shoulder; and who helped her believe that maybe, indeed, God had more planned for her than she could ever fathom.
My piercing tells a love story . . . but not the typical romantic cheesy type. Instead, this piercing tells the story of a weak scared little girl who took a few more steps toward being a woman. It tells the story of a good strong man who saw her faults, yet remained gracious and gentle toward her. And it tells the story of a brother who loved his sister enough to help her push past her terror—even if it involved something so trivial and unpleasant . . .
as piercing an ear.
Wednesday, October 06, 2010
mah-mah-mah-mah
There are some people who you meet and never imagine how much you will come to treasure them.
That is what this blog is about. Actually, one person in particular.
If you've known me for any length of time, you probably know that I love hanging out with boys, but that this isn't necessarily very natural or easy for me. Growing up, I always wished for an older brother, or lots of brothers (though I was and am extraordinarily thankful for the siblings God gave me). Alas, this was not to be. Even in university, though I did make some strong close friendships with guys, I never exactly found that brotherhood I wanted.
Coming to Yad HaShmona, I never imagined I would find these brothers I'd always sought. I thought that three months (now four) was far too short a time for me to find any level of comfort with new, strange males. There were three male volunteers, at the time, and only one American boy among them. Subconsciously, that first month or so, I think we avoided each other . . . not because of any dislike, but because we were both annoyed about our lack of bilingualism and were determined not to hang out only with English-as-first-language people. After I got over my stupid shyness, though, and actually began talking, we became semi-friends. And there I thought things would stay.
Then, at the end of August, four of us girls wanted to go to Bet'lehem, which is in Palestinian territory. We needed a guy to go with us. So we asked J. It was a really really good trip, full of J. being a good man and protecting us from annoying or flirtatious Arab men, and culminating with a screaming half-hour of playing on a merry-go-round at a ministry we visited. At the end of that half-hour, we were all feeling queasy. There was this tiny moment, as I was hanging over the edge of the merry-go-round, half laughing, half crying, as all the other girls declared they were finished with it, that J. looked at me, and said, "All right, Katie, now you and I."
And right then, oddly, I knew we were really and truly going to be friends.
Since then, this has been confirmed in SO many different ways. Like the evening I was working housekeeping and he came into the office with two other volunteers and sat down on my lap, wrapping his arm around my shoulder as he did. Or his fearlessness when it comes to discussing "girl stuff." Or the day he got his hair cut and let me squeal over him and touch his hair every time I saw him for the rest of the day. Or his off-the-wall sense of humor and the way he laughs, inviting all around him to join in. Or his gentleness, during a late-night conversation, with a subject that was extraordinarily emotional to me. Or the way he hugs me, his long arms wrapping around me nearly twice. Or how, two days ago, he glimpsed my apparently haggard face and offered to punch out the guy responsible. Or the way he lets me kiss him "hello" on the cheek. Or the simple loveliness of sitting on a wall with him today, waiting for lunch and talking about God and life and the future and our plans. Or the beautiful purity and respect exhibited in his friendships with girls. Or his finger-spelling to me during lunch today. Or his obvious desire to serve and please and obey the LORD.
Basically, though he is still young, J. is already the kind of man I am proud to claim as my brother.
So here's to him, and to all the men of God like him.
That is what this blog is about. Actually, one person in particular.
If you've known me for any length of time, you probably know that I love hanging out with boys, but that this isn't necessarily very natural or easy for me. Growing up, I always wished for an older brother, or lots of brothers (though I was and am extraordinarily thankful for the siblings God gave me). Alas, this was not to be. Even in university, though I did make some strong close friendships with guys, I never exactly found that brotherhood I wanted.
Coming to Yad HaShmona, I never imagined I would find these brothers I'd always sought. I thought that three months (now four) was far too short a time for me to find any level of comfort with new, strange males. There were three male volunteers, at the time, and only one American boy among them. Subconsciously, that first month or so, I think we avoided each other . . . not because of any dislike, but because we were both annoyed about our lack of bilingualism and were determined not to hang out only with English-as-first-language people. After I got over my stupid shyness, though, and actually began talking, we became semi-friends. And there I thought things would stay.
Then, at the end of August, four of us girls wanted to go to Bet'lehem, which is in Palestinian territory. We needed a guy to go with us. So we asked J. It was a really really good trip, full of J. being a good man and protecting us from annoying or flirtatious Arab men, and culminating with a screaming half-hour of playing on a merry-go-round at a ministry we visited. At the end of that half-hour, we were all feeling queasy. There was this tiny moment, as I was hanging over the edge of the merry-go-round, half laughing, half crying, as all the other girls declared they were finished with it, that J. looked at me, and said, "All right, Katie, now you and I."
And right then, oddly, I knew we were really and truly going to be friends.
Since then, this has been confirmed in SO many different ways. Like the evening I was working housekeeping and he came into the office with two other volunteers and sat down on my lap, wrapping his arm around my shoulder as he did. Or his fearlessness when it comes to discussing "girl stuff." Or the day he got his hair cut and let me squeal over him and touch his hair every time I saw him for the rest of the day. Or his off-the-wall sense of humor and the way he laughs, inviting all around him to join in. Or his gentleness, during a late-night conversation, with a subject that was extraordinarily emotional to me. Or the way he hugs me, his long arms wrapping around me nearly twice. Or how, two days ago, he glimpsed my apparently haggard face and offered to punch out the guy responsible. Or the way he lets me kiss him "hello" on the cheek. Or the simple loveliness of sitting on a wall with him today, waiting for lunch and talking about God and life and the future and our plans. Or the beautiful purity and respect exhibited in his friendships with girls. Or his finger-spelling to me during lunch today. Or his obvious desire to serve and please and obey the LORD.
Basically, though he is still young, J. is already the kind of man I am proud to claim as my brother.
So here's to him, and to all the men of God like him.
Monday, July 12, 2010
I've seen Your face
Today, during a slow time at work, we were talking about how we imagine Jesus looked.
"I kind of picture Jesus looking like B.," A. (from Canada) announced, referencing one of the brothers. We thought about this, me, G., B., and N.-- an English girl, two American girls, and our Israeli-raised boss. B. isn't overly tall; he isn't strikingly handsome; and he has an intense tan, almost a burn. He has dark hair and a stubbly beard-- like he doesn't have quite enough time to shave. His hands and arms are worn and strong from much work; his hair is a bit mussed; and he always, always, always looks like he's coming from or prepared for manual labor.
"I can see that," G. said, after the pause. "Especially sometimes, when he speaks."
"Yeah," B. (my roommate) chimed in. "And his eyes-- he's got his eyes going for him." I pictured his eyes-- green-brown, serious, observant, intense, yet kind and a little bit shy-- and mentally agreed with everything that was being said.
"Or maybe," N., my boss, suggested. "Jesus looked like Y. [B.'s brother]." A brief pause, as we considered this.
"Nah," G. blurted out. I considered the idea a little longer than she. Y. does have the stereotypical poet's face, how Jesus is often pictured. But I was forced to agree with G. Y.'s face and hands look not necessarily soft, but domestic, like they're used to indoor work. After all, he is a musician and music teacher, so it wouldn't make sense for his hands to be rough and calloused. But Jesus-- carpenter, hiker rabbi, friend of fishermen-- wouldn't have looked like that.
But B.-- yes, that image seems like a great possibility. He's not model-gorgeous, but neither was Jesus. In fact, Isaiah says that there was no outward reason we should have been attracted to Him. B. is a handyman, a manual laborer. He's someone who says, with sincerity, "I love talking about the Bible; it's the best," and doesn't make you think he's just trying to impress you. He doesn't draw attention at first glance, but he's the kind of man who smart girls look at and think, "That is what a good man looks like."
I thought about this as I grabbed a broom and headed out to sweep sidewalks and stairs. My only disagreement with this image, I thought. is that I think Jesus had a beard. And I so rarely see B. show intense emotion, like I imagine Jesus did..
Just then, as I turned a corner, B. himself came up the stairs and said hello and smiled at me and asked how I was and if I was working hard. As we talked-- just for a few minutes-- I forgot that I was sweaty and gross, that my clothes were all too big and very unflattering. I didn't worry about how I looked or sounded; I knew from B.'s first kind smile that my appearance didn't matter to him. For the few moments we spoke, he made me feel content and happy with life as it is . . . and he let me know that he knows it's not great, sweeping in this hot weather, but that he sympathizes and understands, and that besides-- it's not the end of the world.
I'm not trying to to convince anyone that I've met someone who looks like Jesus' twin ('cause that'd be weird, and besides, I don't know what Jesus looked like). In pondering it, though, I don't think it's necessarily B.'s physical characteristics that made us agree that maybe Jesus looked like him. It's the quiet, simple confidence and care that emanates out of even his smallest interactions with people. It is God, flowing through his life. It is, simply, the way he reflects the Face of Love.
"I kind of picture Jesus looking like B.," A. (from Canada) announced, referencing one of the brothers. We thought about this, me, G., B., and N.-- an English girl, two American girls, and our Israeli-raised boss. B. isn't overly tall; he isn't strikingly handsome; and he has an intense tan, almost a burn. He has dark hair and a stubbly beard-- like he doesn't have quite enough time to shave. His hands and arms are worn and strong from much work; his hair is a bit mussed; and he always, always, always looks like he's coming from or prepared for manual labor.
"I can see that," G. said, after the pause. "Especially sometimes, when he speaks."
"Yeah," B. (my roommate) chimed in. "And his eyes-- he's got his eyes going for him." I pictured his eyes-- green-brown, serious, observant, intense, yet kind and a little bit shy-- and mentally agreed with everything that was being said.
"Or maybe," N., my boss, suggested. "Jesus looked like Y. [B.'s brother]." A brief pause, as we considered this.
"Nah," G. blurted out. I considered the idea a little longer than she. Y. does have the stereotypical poet's face, how Jesus is often pictured. But I was forced to agree with G. Y.'s face and hands look not necessarily soft, but domestic, like they're used to indoor work. After all, he is a musician and music teacher, so it wouldn't make sense for his hands to be rough and calloused. But Jesus-- carpenter, hiker rabbi, friend of fishermen-- wouldn't have looked like that.
But B.-- yes, that image seems like a great possibility. He's not model-gorgeous, but neither was Jesus. In fact, Isaiah says that there was no outward reason we should have been attracted to Him. B. is a handyman, a manual laborer. He's someone who says, with sincerity, "I love talking about the Bible; it's the best," and doesn't make you think he's just trying to impress you. He doesn't draw attention at first glance, but he's the kind of man who smart girls look at and think, "That is what a good man looks like."
I thought about this as I grabbed a broom and headed out to sweep sidewalks and stairs. My only disagreement with this image, I thought. is that I think Jesus had a beard. And I so rarely see B. show intense emotion, like I imagine Jesus did..
Just then, as I turned a corner, B. himself came up the stairs and said hello and smiled at me and asked how I was and if I was working hard. As we talked-- just for a few minutes-- I forgot that I was sweaty and gross, that my clothes were all too big and very unflattering. I didn't worry about how I looked or sounded; I knew from B.'s first kind smile that my appearance didn't matter to him. For the few moments we spoke, he made me feel content and happy with life as it is . . . and he let me know that he knows it's not great, sweeping in this hot weather, but that he sympathizes and understands, and that besides-- it's not the end of the world.
I'm not trying to to convince anyone that I've met someone who looks like Jesus' twin ('cause that'd be weird, and besides, I don't know what Jesus looked like). In pondering it, though, I don't think it's necessarily B.'s physical characteristics that made us agree that maybe Jesus looked like him. It's the quiet, simple confidence and care that emanates out of even his smallest interactions with people. It is God, flowing through his life. It is, simply, the way he reflects the Face of Love.
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