I'll be missing you

When I first came here, I was scared, unsure, nervous, shy.
You took me under your wings, taught me how to do my job, gave me the best advice for navigating Jerusalem, invited me along, shared sunsets with me, opened your arms and hearts to me.  You blessed me in ways you cannot even begin to imagine.

Now it has become my turn to bless you.

Kneeling before you, one hand on each of you; praying praying praying with our brothers and sisters that the beauty of what you've learned and who you've become will continue to be a part of your futures, no matter where you go.

Hearing and agreeing with all the beautiful things people have to say about you as they bid you goodbye.

Sitting with you, just talking and laughing.

Walking our favorite routes, one last time.

Kneeling beside you, one hand on your knee, one hand on your back; your hands held by a dear brother and sister, the others crowding as close as they can, hands on your shoulders, back, knees, hovering over your hair; fighting back my own tearful nausea; trying my hardest to absorb some of the grief I can feel coming from you with each wave of sobbing tears, to pour into you the love I have for you.

Watching a dear brother give you one last beautiful gift of service, as he's been doing for the past month-- carrying your suitcase to the waiting sheirut and engaging the driver in conversation to buy you a few last moments to say goodbye.

Giving one last hug and kiss as you are rushed into the sheirut.

Running running running, and waving after your vehicle as it takes you away from me.

Standing in your mostly-empty room, wishing you were here with me . . .

I hope you know, dear ones, how much I love you.
And I hope you realize how very much you will be missed . . .

I know we'll meet again
'Cause that's how the Story ends
It's so hard to say
Goodbye

the only evidence against us

"There is no holiness without love," said A., the Revive Israel teacher.  "Holiness is to choose to love . . . even when everything is against you . . . suffering doesn't make it holiness; the love makes it holiness.  We're not focusing on suffering; we're focusing on loving Yeshua.  Sometimes there is suffering; sometimes there are good times.  But our focus is loving Yeshua."
There is no fear in love.

Fear is loud and selfish and noisy and arrogant and rude and insane.  It yells and screams and bullies and strikes out at others, because it knows itself to be powerless.  Love, on the other hand, is patient, kind, unenvious, humble, courteous, concerned for others, difficult to anger, forgiving, truth-loving, protective, trusting, hopeful, tenacious.  Love can afford to be gentle and quiet and slow, because it knows itself to be not only in the right, but to be the right.

Jon Acuff touches this subject brilliantly in his amazing profound hilarious book.  And because I love the way he words things, I'm going to quote him here.
" . . . love can feel like it's taking too long.  Love is messy and slow.  It unravels at God's speed, not ours.  Shame is faster.  Fear is faster."

It's true.  I want to be holy right this instant.  I want to be godly and pure and worthy right now.  Scaring myself with rules and consequences and legalism is easier than learning to follow Jesus because, well, I love Him.
And love is hard.  Love is all grey and fuzzy, and I want black and white clarity.

The question I've been asking myself lately, in so many areas, is where is the line?  The conclusion I've been coming to is maybe there isn't actually a line.  Or, rather, maybe the "line" is love.

I think that living by fear is like walking in a deep river, water swirling around my neck, my hands clutching a guide rope.  I'm unable to let go, unable to unclench my hands from the rope, unable to go anywhere but where the rope leads.
Living by love . . . is learning to swim.  Having the river-- and all other bodies of water-- be suddenly and completely opened to me.  Because, living by love, I will know . . .
I am safe.

the "peace" of Jerusalem

Maybe you've heard about the recent missile strikes in Israel and Jordan.  More than likely, if you are an American, you haven't.  This sort of thing-- a terror attack that ended in one death of someone not even targeted-- maybe doesn't make the news, especially as everyone in the West is mad at Israel right now.

But now you know.

There have been planes humming through the night sky for the past few evenings, and with good reason.  Last night, I was in the biblical garden, reading my Bible, journaling, and praying.  Suddenly, something lit up the sky to the south.  It appeared to be a flare, falling in a set of flashes.  A second later, and a little more to the southeast, another fell.  They appeared as brilliant, soundless miniature fireworks.  My heart leapt into a pounding gallop, and I sat still, hands clenched at my sides, waiting.  But as I watched these twin flares, or missiles, or whatever they were, fall toward the ground, I knew one thing with certainty.

I am not afraid.

It sounds naive, foolish, silly, but the thought of a war does not frighten me as much as I imagined it would.  My heart is so tied to this land, after only a month and a half of living here.  Indeed, there is something even stranger that I'm feeling.

If war comes . . .
if this is "the end" (of time, of the world, however you read "the day of the LORD") . . .
there is no other place I would rather be.

In fact, I'm fairly certain being forced to leave Israel in the midst of war would break my heart directly in two . . .

Kinneret

I wake on the ground, a thin sheet all that's separating my skin from the gravel.  I push my tangly hair back from my face, wiping the sleep sand out of my eyes, and sit up, crossing my legs and pulling on my sweatshirt.
It is not a quiet nor peaceful morning, and R. is awake, too, sitting cross-legged on his sheet a few feet behind me, his face turned toward the east as well.  The other girls-- D. and A. and M.-- are comatose still, and I decide not to wake them.  The sky is cloudy, after all, and doesn't promise much in the way of sunrise.  The birds are going crazy, like this will be the BEST! SUNRISE! EVER!, but I suspect that is what they always do.
To my left, the Arab boys (whose singing and drums and laughter didn't fade till nearly three-thirty in the morning) are dragging themselves one by one out of their tents, to sit in exhausted silence huddled at picnic tables, or to amble across their patch of dust and gravel.  One has a camera; he faces east, too.
Behind me is the main road closest to the Sea.  It's been filled with commercial trucks and commuters' cars for at least half an hour, providing engine and brake noise that at times drowns out the ecstatic pigeons and other birds.
To my right is a large set of empty "campsites" (if the tiny lots of littered ground and lopsided picnic benches can be called that), but at the far end of this section is a tight family group of tents.  I spot a white-haired shirtless Arab man emerge from one of these tents.  A few minutes later, and my ears tell me that he is "cleaning up" by raking away all the trash from last night.  He leaves it all in a large pile beside the picnic table, though, and stops, seeming satisfied.
There are already children in the sea in front of and a little to the left of us.  Their splashes and boy-child cries of, "Come!" (the one word I recognize) and other Hebrew phrases are carried through the morning air to me.  I can't see them, though; the reeds and sea grass are just high enough.
The sky is a light delicate pink just above the blue and grey clouds, and as I watch, a dark rim of passionate pink marks where the sun is fighting for its right to rise.  The dark pink streak fades after a moment, and I am convinced that was all there will be to the sunrise today.  I keep still, though, and watch the sea.  It is calm this morning, but out of the corner of my eye I glimpse something-- a bird? a fish?-- dive and leave a rippling mark on the calm surface.
I wonder what this place was like, two thousand years ago, when You were here.  Was it noisy even then?  More beautiful?  More cruel and rugged?
I sit still, busy with my thoughts and the flies and ants that have been fascinated by my body since I showed signs of life.  I consider getting up, wrapping up my sheet, going to the bathroom to wash up.
And then it happens.
In an act of supreme defiance and victory, the sun bursts over the clouds.  Like a burning sphere of liquid gold, it rests for one glorious moment in a tiny cloud valley, looking for all the world like a flaming gem set in a dull-metal ring.  I have to look away, or risk losing my sight.  I watch the sun's reflection on the water, instead, and think about what brought me here.  A botched car rental, nearly five hours of riding and waiting for buses, a last-minute scramble and final success with renting a different car, miles of walking with our myriad luggage, the docks of the Sea at sunset, eating mainly bread and fruit for most of the day, the full pale moon and scattered stars over the Sea, the quiet conversation over "dinner" late at night.  The golden sun reminds me of what I've always known, but tend to make light of--
You are here.
And, just like the sun, You cannot be hidden forever.  Your glory will be shown.
In a few seconds, though, the sun is once again swallowed in the clouds, and I smile to myself over the poverty of my metaphors to describe You.
Beside me, A. turns over, asks what time it is.  I want to tell her, "just after the most real and beautiful sunrise I've ever seen," but instead--
"Six-fifteen," I say.
And just like that, the moment is gone.

But I have it still, captured in the recesses of my heart.  And I know that You will not let me forget.

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.

divisions

We're not supposed to speak to the Arab waiters in the restaurant anymore.  I don't know if something happened or if there was just aggressive flirting going on.  I don't necessarily understand, but I do trust N. when he gave us these instructions.  We're not supposed to speak to them-- but today one of them blocked my way to the door and asked my name, and I had to tell him.  This brief encounter has left me slightly flummoxed.  We're not supposed to speak to them, but this waiter has a nice face and gentle eyes-- not like some of the others, whose eyes get predatory when they smile at me-- and yesterday while I was walking with M. she greeted him in the parking lot.  We're not supposed to speak to them, but I almost wonder if this waiter is Jewish, and not Arab.

And the fact that his ethnicity matters so much to me makes me angry.  Drawing such strict distinctions feels racist and prejudiced and wrong.  But, I remind myself, perhaps it's less a racist thing than a cultural allowance.  The moshav residents understand that we foreign female volunteers are not promiscuous, no matter what our films and television shows might portray.  In the Arab culture, perhaps there has been less exposure to foreign women, so maybe it leaves much more of an impact when we wear short sleeves, or smile, or say hello, or look men in the eyes . . .

I don't know the cultural mandates exactly.  I just know how much it all grieves me.  We were never meant to live like this, separated from and wary of those we live with.  We were meant to be unified and live at peace with one another.


Come, Lord Jesus . . .

Thy Kingdom come . . .

Today I visited ha'Kotel for the very first time.

It was much more intense than I could have imagined it being.

Even though I prepared myself for strong emotions there, at the place now called the Wailing Wall, I wasn't quite ready for the wave of grief that swept over me.  All around me were women-- Orthodox, modern, little girls in jeans skirts, women my age in jeans, babushkas, mothers with little babies-- praying.  Though I always knew why this was such an important place to the Jewish people, I had never really felt the greatness of the tragedy which overcame them.  To have a covenant with God, to be gifted as the only nation with that, and then lose it?  There are no words to describe the horror, the pain, the brokenness.

No words-- but all those emotions were captured and manifested in the prayers of the women at the Wailing Wall.  Whether they were rocking and praying through their books, praying quietly, praying in broken whispers, sobbing out prayers, they all were crying out the heartbreak of hundreds of generations of their people.

And I cried, too, because the remedy to their pain dwells within me, but many-- most-- of them . . . don't want Him.

when I look at the stars

Entering Israel yesterday was fairly horrible in some ways.  By the time I got to the Tel Aviv airport, I was ready to emotionally collapse and cry out of exhaustion and tension and anxiety.  But there was one little thing that kept me from that.

On the flight from Warsaw to Tel Aviv, I woke as the pilot announced we were approximately twenty-five minutes from landing.  I peered out the window, hoping for a first glimpse of the land.  There were no lights below-- we were still over water-- but. . .
Above and around me were scattered stars, more stars than I have seen in months, and certainly far more than I have ever seen from an airplane.  They were only clear for a few moments, but I somehow couldn't catch my breath the whole time I looked at them.
I thought about it later, while I was sitting in a hot little sheirut waiting for our driver to find one more passenger so we could begin our journey toward Jerusalem.  It was a perfectly fitting little vignette in this story.

When I was frightened nearly out of my mind, God confronted me with this skyfull of stars.
"Just as I was faithful to Abraham under these same stars," He was whispering.  "So I will be faithful to you now."

give me wings

on the plane from Boston to Chicago

I never realized until today how much I love take-off.  Maybe it's because it's always the same.  No matter what language the flight attendants speak, the planes all speak a common tongue.

I speak it, too.
I may not be knowledgeable about the inner workings of the engine, or understand the science behind flight.  But I know the racing-pulse of the engines, remember the thrill of lift-off, anticipate the glee of peering down on the Earth from far above.  It's a marvel, yes, but a familiar one.  I've been doing this since I was born.  Perhaps it's in my blood, to some extent.  Born to an aviation mechanic, raised under an international and military flight path, growing up as a frequent stand-by passenger-- I am a comfortable and usually-happy fly-er.  Oh sure, there's a bit of nerves before flight, sometimes during the flights (especially at landing)-- but I think that's true of any relationship.

And we are friends-- flight and I . . .

talking to strangers

I was at the cash register, looking down and counting out the right amount, when the pharmacy cashier asked his question.
"Oh . .. are you . . ."  I glanced up, saw his eyes fastened on the Star of David necklace I was wearing, and smiled.
"No.  I'm not Jewish."

I'm used to the question from months of wearing the Star in an attempt to engage strangers in conversation about faith.  It's worked pretty well; no one asks about a cross, but a Star of David-- that's different, odd, provocative.  Most people won't ask past the preliminary ethnic/religious-background question.  If they do, I explain that I believe that Jesus Christ is the fulfillment of the promises of a Jewish Messiah, and therefore the Star is a very fitting symbol for me to wear.

This cashier asked more.

"Not Jewish?  What about Israel?  They're like my favorite country in the world."
"Well, I'm living in Israel for three months," I began.  His eyes lit up.
"I went on a missions trip to Israel," he informed me.  "I led a group of kids-- kids about your age."

I've had conversations like this before, where the other person is at least sympathetic toward if not entirely pro-Israel.  They're my favorite type.

"What will you be doing there?" he asked.  I explained, and he nodded, his eyes eager and happy.  "You'll love it," he said.  "The food is great, and the people . . . you have to come back and tell me about it.  I'll probably still be working here."  His last words had a hint of a sigh in them, but the glow in his eyes still didn't fade.

This was the first time I'd told a complete stranger about my trip.  It was a strange feeling.  It made this impending adventure feel . . . real.

Levi

            The room was hushed as the messenger rose and strode to the front of the room.  Pausing for a moment to glance toward the door, he reached into his robe and pulled out a parchment scroll— dusty, travel-stained, yet precious.  He balanced it in his fingertips as he glanced around the room, a smile playing around his lips.  Opening the scroll, he cleared his throat and began reading in his deep, rolling voice.
            “The beginning of the gospel of Yeshua ha’Mashiach, the Son of God . . .”[1]

            Levi was miserable.
            And hot.  He was very, very hot.
            As the sun beat upon his back, Levi sat, head bowed over his table, and tried not to think about the state of his life.  Deep in his heart, he mourned over the many sins he had committed.  When the Baptizer was at the Jordan, many of his friends had gone down to the river to repent and be cleansed, and Levi had almost gone with them.  But somehow, much as he told himself that was what he wanted, he could never make himself join them.  He saw the way their lives had changed— how they no longer overcharged taxes to make a profit for themselves, how they lost their wealth and popularity, how their favor with the Romans plummeted.  Once they had lost their greedy edge, they were nearly useless as employees, and were often replaced.  Slowly, these repentant men lapsed into their old way of life— lying and cheating and stealing, just to get ahead— or lived their new lives and faded out of memory.
            Being forgotten— that was exactly what Levi feared.
            Though he wanted more than the life he had—a life defined by amounts and numbers and records— he saw no way out.  To turn his back on Rome meant losing all he’d accumulated, and any chance at any future employment.  He had nowhere else to turn; he had burnt all his bridges with his family, his people, even his synagogue.  His only friends were other tax collectors, and if he left their ranks, he would be viewed by them with high suspicion.
            There was nowhere to go.
            There was nothing else to be.
            Levi slumped in his seat, feeling the hopelessness wash over him.  A shadow fell over his table, and he glanced up, squinting and shading his eyes with his hand.
            It was a man standing there, gazing down at Levi.  He said nothing, at first.  Levi looked back at the man.  He was a holy man, wearing the tassels; a working man, with calloused large hands and strong arms; a kind man, marked by compassionate twinkling eyes—and as He looked at Levi, really looked, He opened His mouth and spoke to Levi as if to someone worth the breath—the first time in years that any good Jewish man had deigned to do so.
            What else could Levi do, but obey the words He said?

            “. . . and as He passed by, He saw Levi, the son of Alphaeus sitting at the tax booth, and He said to him, ‘Follow Me.’”[2]
            Out of the corner of his eye, Levi glimpsed a sudden movement.  He turned his head to find a small girl staring at him from where she sat, wedged between two of her brothers.  As Levi met her gaze, she blinked hard, then glanced at the reader.  Looking back at Levi, she furrowed her small brow, her mouth moving as she puzzled over this information.  Stifling a laugh, he smiled at her and nodded, pointing a finger at his own chest.  The girl’s eyes and mouth opened wide, then she grinned.  Turning her face toward the reader, she focused all her attention on his words.  Her small hands clenched in her lap, and Levi smiled again.  He could almost read the burning thought running through her mind.
            This is a true story.

Levi froze at the man’s angry voice, unsure of what he should do.
            “Tax collector,” the scribe sneered, the phylactery on his forehead bobbing with each jerk of his head.  “Sinner!  That’s all you’ll ever be, and yet this rabbi sits and dines at your table?”  The man shook his head in disapproval, waggling his finger in the other’s face.  Levi flushed brilliant red and spat on the ground at the man’s feet.
            “Get yourself off my property,” he growled.  “Before I beat you within an inch of your life.”  Surprised, the scribe fell back a step, toward the others huddled behind him like a flock of vultures, but Levi followed, crowding into the man’s face.  “You have no business here,” he continued.  “Any of you!  I certainly did not invite you, you arrogant, self-righteous—”
            “But why?” the man hissed, his pride and irritation overcoming his uncertainty.  “Why is He eating and drinking with tax collectors and sinners?”[3]  Levi opened his mouth to speak when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
            “What is going on here?” a voice demanded.  Whirling, Levi felt the blood drain from his face, shame coursing through his body at what he had been about to do, about to say.
            Yeshua.
            There stood the carptenter-man, the rabbi, His stance relaxed, but His eyes stormy.  He gave Levi a tight smile, then turned the fury of His gaze upon the group of religious men crowding the doorway.
            “I heard your question,” Yeshua continued, stepping past Levi to confront the Pharisees’ scribes.  His hands fell to His sides.  “You asked why I choose to associate myself with ‘sinners.’”  A deep, rolling laugh sounded from behind the religious men, and a young Jewish man, dressed in Roman robes, pushed his way through the other men.
            “Associating with sinners?  A rabbi?”  The man laughed again, his wide grin nearly hiding the birthmark on his left cheek.  “You have come to the right place, then, Rabbi,” he said, giving an exaggerated bow.  “Because Levi is the worst of us all.”  Levi flushed again, but this time with guilt.  Yeshua glanced at Levi as the other man plunged on.  “Oh, yes, brother Levi— we can always count on him for a good time.  He knows just the right places to get wine, food, women—”
            “Stop!”  Shocked, Levi realized it was his own voice that had shouted.  He felt the eyes of everyone present staring at him, but he ignored them and flung himself to the ground.  “It’s true, Rabbi,” he cried, pounding his fists in the dusty earth, tears coursing down his face.  “What he says is true.  I— I— I’m not worthy to have You in my house.  I’m not worthy to follow You!  I’m not even worthy to speak the name of the LORD!”  Levi buried his face in his hands and wept.
            For a few moments, the courtyard was silent except for Levi’s sobs.  Then Yeshua flung Himself to His knees at Levi’s side, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder.
            “Levi,” He said.  “Levi!”
            “Yes, Rabbi?” Levi choked.
            “Listen to what I say, Levi.”  Yeshua raised His head and met the eyes of the scribes’ spokesman, His voice rising in a challenge.   “Here is My answer to your question!”

“. . . Yeshua said to them, ‘It is not those who are healthy who need a physician, but those who are sick.  I did not come to call the righteous, but sinners’”[4]
            The reader paused, his gaze roving the audience.  In his seat, Levi bowed his head and wiped tears from his eyes, thankfulness and awe overwhelming him once again.  As he lifted his face, he met the gaze of the reader.  In a moment, a wide grin split the reader’s face, nearly hiding the birthmark on his left cheek.  Levi returned the grin, knowing that his own thoughts were echoed in the other man’s mind.
 
            This is indeed a true story . . . and thank God we are part of it.

---

[1] Mark 1:1

[2] Mark 2:14

[3] Mark 2:16

[4] Mark 2:17

"educational" television

            Over the last two summers, I worked as a nanny, caring for four children, ages one through six. On my first day, their mother gave me the house rules— dress the three year-old in pull-ups during naptime, dispense healthy snacks whenever the kids were hungry, discipline by time-outs or calling a parent, watch out or the baby will climb everything in view. The last thing she told me sticks very clearly in my memory— “And we try to limit their television-watching.” I was perfectly fine with that; in my house, we had the TV off more than on, and tried to stick to an hour or less of watching per day. I soon found that this family’s definition of “limit” and my own definition were extraordinarily different. “Limit” to them meant “only allowing the TV to be on for an hour or more after breakfast, while we make lunch, after naptime, while we’re making supper, and after everyone is ready for bed.” It meant that, each time the eldest daughter got too stressed out (she struggled with anxiety and behavioral disorders) she would beg for me to turn on the TV—and if I did not comply, she would find the remote and punch buttons until she hit the right one to turn on the TV. Most of the television programs the kids watched were “educational,” incorporating bright colors, easily readable words, age-appropriate science or math concepts, bilinguilism, and good morals. Because of this, I have had recent, first-hand experience with children’s programming, and am not basing my ideas on abstract concepts.
            I do not believe that “educational” TV shows are entirely beneficial to children. Instead of teaching children to persevere in seeking out the answers to their questions, “educational” TV leads them to believe that any questions should be solved in fifteen to thirty minutes or (God forbid) an hour at most. Instead of teaching them how to cope with real-world emotions and situations, “educational” TV teaches children to live in a world of fast-paced interactions, where the most difficult relationship one might encounter is trying to shout through Oscar’s trashcan lid when he slams it shut (and even that is easily solved). Instead of teaching them to move and emote and act and create and explore and play on their own, “educational” TV teaches children to live vicariously through others’ lives. Instead of teaching them to connect and integrate information, “educational” TV teaches children to learn through disjointed, fractured mini-bites of facts. Instead of showing them reality, “educational” TV presents children with a sanitized, attractive world which is solely focused on entertaining them.
            Despite all this, I am pragmatic about the issue of “educational” TV. I did watch these sorts of shows when I was younger, and many of them were delightful and probably introduced me to science, math, and English concepts that I still utilize. However, all of the information I received from these shows, I can say with certainty I could have learned from a documentary, or even a book. Possibly, I would have remembered these things better had I “discovered” them through my own work and study, rather than having it handed to me through a quick-firing half-hour episode.
            Should children watch “educational” programming? I think the answer to this is no, not as a main staple of their “educational diet.” The problem is, we have become a culture of Sesame-Street educated adults, used to bright colors and pretty shapes, accustomed to having information presented in a quick-fire unrelated fashion. In order for children to grow into adults who can function in our fast-paced information-logged technology-based culture, I think it is necessary for them to at least be exposed to “educational” TV.
            Will my children be allowed to watch “educational” shows? Probably, but in a limited amount and only with my full knowledge. Instead, I hope to be able to expose my children to life concepts through real-life exploration and personal involvement. There are things that, practically, I will not be able to show them in person (like the Australian outback, for instance), and I am comfortable using educational TV for those sorts of things. However, if at all possible, I want my children to gain their education through love-guided experience and exploration— not through bright flashing colors on an impersonal electronic screen.

gather up your jackets, move into the exits

Closing time
Open all the doors and
Let you out into the world

I was thinking about this song last night, while I was closing up the library.  It's such a sweet feeling at the end of the night-- switching off all the lights, closing and locking all the doors, making sure the computers are shut down or monitors are turned off, tidying what needs to be tidied, gently shooing out those whose dark-circled eyes testify that they should have been asleep hours earlier, listening to the quiet hum of the library-- its lights, patrons, computers-- subside into stillness.  It's a release, of types, to shut off the last light, make my way across the dark lobby, and lock the last door behind me.

Closing time
You don't have to go home
But you can't stay here

Closing the library is a comforting feeling, but now it's come time to close something else.  On May 15, along with a few hundred others, I'll climb a few stairs, walk across a platform, shake hands with the president of the university, receive a bound case, and descend another few stairs.  But in those few moments, I'll have done more than walk a few yards.  I'll have walked from one stage of my life into the next.

Closing time
Time for you to go out
To the places you will be from

I suspect closing the university stage of my life will not be as comforting, nor as sweet, as closing up the library.  Instead of having the peaceful knowledge that I can come back and things will be just the same, just as I left them, I will be leaving and knowing that in my absence, everything will change.  I won't be back next semester, or next year.  In fact, it's highly unlikely that (except for brief weekend visits), I'll ever return.  That scares me, yet (just like closing the last door of the library) it's a release.  Instead of a gentle release, though, this is an adrenaline-raising, head-spinning, heart-thumping, spine-tingling uncertain release-- like the breaking of a dam.  And I'm not sure how I feel about it entirely.

For now, I'll treasure my last few weeks of school.  It's the little moments-- a random meal conversation, an unexpected visit at the library desk, a spontaneous walk, an unplanned discussion after class, a surprise note in my mailbox-- that have made my life here so fulfilling and precious.  I don't want to miss any others that might come my way.  I feel time starved, like I'm greedily snatching and storing away each minute that comes my way, and to an extent, I suppose that's true.  In these last few weeks, I want to slow everything down and savor the whirl of life around here.

So I think, tonight, when I switch off the last light in the library, I won't hurry to the door.  Tonight, I think I'll take my time.

Closing time
Every new beginning
Comes from some other beginning's end

Here's to the beginning of whatever God brings next.

weary one

            Leah— she must have been a strong woman, a stubborn woman, a determined woman.  Maybe more than Rachel, she was Jacob’s match— clever, devious, quick.  She deceived the deceiver.  Perhaps that is why he didn’t love her; he saw, in her, a mirror of himself . . . and he was repulsed.
            And yet she, more than Rachel, was the mother of the nation of Israel.  She bore, from her own body, six sons and at least one daughter.  Rachel gave Jacob two sons— considering the sons of her maid, four— but Leah’s maid as well bore two sons, which means that Leah still gave Jacob far more children than Rachel did.
            It was Leah’s son who stepped up to replace her disgraced eldest son.  It was Leah’s son who became a man, going against the grain of his family and his culture.  It was Leah’s son who convinced Jacob to allow them to return to Egypt to buy grain to save the family.  It was Leah’s son who stood up to the most powerful man in Egypt in order to save a brother who had made his life miserable— doing this for the sake of his father, not himself.  It was Leah’s son who became the king-tribe.  It was Leah’s son whose line was promised to bring Messiah— the ultimate anointed one.
            Leah began badly.  Maybe she finished her life badly, too.  But no matter what she as a person did . . . she was the mother of Judah . . . the mother of David . . . the mother of Messiah . . . and she was used and chosen by God Himself.
            Maybe that is the beauty of Leah’s story, that God does not always choose the righteous ones, the ones who have everything right.  Maybe, through Leah’s story, God shows us that He chooses dysfunctional, unlovely, hated people; that He moves in strange ways; and that, He redeems our brokenness and mistakes . . . grave though they may be . . .

twue wuv

Valentine's Day.  Singles Awareness Day.  Forced Affection Day.

I've heard the legends. I've laughed at the angry rhetoric hurled at Hallmark.  I've observed the anxiety of young couples.  I've witnessed the sweet simple affection shown by devoted, experienced couples.  I've watched singles enter a spiral of despair, depression, self-pity and "righteous anger" at a day that doesn't fit them.

People, we have holidays to celebrate mothers, fathers, children, grandparents, presidents, veterans, and administrative assistants.  I don't see people freaking out when they don't fit into one of those groups.  But I do sympathize.  It's hard feeling alone when it seems that everyone else has someone special to love.  (And I do know-- try living four years totally single at Bible college.) 

But Valentine's Day was not originally a celebration of love and romance.  Does anyone even know what St. Valentine did?

(And if you said he performed marriages against the emperor's will, you're only possibly half right.)

Firstly, no one is exactly sure which Valentine the day is named for.  There were three of them who were martyred before the Pope announced February 14 as "St. Valentine's Day."  Just like Christmas, Valentine's Day was originally a replacement of a pagan celebration-- the Feast of Lupercalia, which was a day when boys and girls were, for once in the year, allowed to spend time together.  (But that's another story-- follow the link and read up on it if you want.)  In any event, even the Pope seemed unsure of what exactly the Saints Valentine had done to deserve their own day.  He simply wrote that it was to be a day to celebrate those "... whose names are justly reverenced among men, but whose acts are known only to God."  However, there was a rather legendary account about what the death of one of the Valentines.  The medieval book Legenda Aurea recounts Valentine's story something like this.

. . . St Valentine was persecuted as a Christian and interrogated by Roman Emperor Claudius II in person. Claudius was impressed by Valentine and had a discussion with him, attempting to get him to convert to Roman paganism in order to save his life. Valentine refused and tried to convert Claudius to Christianity instead. Because of this, he was executed. Before his execution, he is reported to have performed a miracle by healing the blind daughter of his jailer. (See this link for more information.)
It wasn't until much later that the legend about the secret marriage ceremonies arose.

Faith.  Courage in the face of death.  Love.  Concern for others' eternal destinies.  Forgiveness.  Sacrifice.
That was the legacy of the first Valentine.  Will it be ours?

Today, instead of being miserable because I'm single, I will celebrate Valentine's Day by sharing my faith with my governors.  (I'd encourage you to do so as well.  It's fairly simple to find e-mail addresses for our president, vice president, representatives, etc.)  I will celebrate by sacrificing my time and energy to show the love of God to the people around me.  I will forgive those I'm angry with.  I will show love.

And if, after all that, you still find yourself wanting nothing to do with Valentine's Day, celebrate the Chinese New Year instead.  It begins today-- The Year of the Yang Metal White Tiger.