Gratitude

This morning I realized again how grateful I am for who I've become and how I've grown and what I've learned. I am no longer mired in desperate dysfunction, trying so hard to look on the bright side- I am happy with no striving. I believe people when they self-disclose and don't expend the juice of my life trying to second-guess them or figure out what they should do- I trust people to live their own lives under the benevolent hand of God.

I trace these changes back to my illness, more specifically to the unrelenting faithfulness of my illness. Had it not been for the discipline of pain, fear, and dissatisfaction, I could have spent my entire life miserable and called it happiness, never knowing.

I have wondered over the years quietly and vocally, why me? Why do I have to suffer? Why did all the consequences fall on me? Why did all this happen to me? I received an answer years ago- "It has been granted to you." I got that some at the time but I receive it even more now. It has been granted to me to be free. It has been granted to me to be happy. It has been granted to me to be at peace. And it has been granted to me by the very means which might have destroyed me- the consequences of evil in my life- relentlessly held by God's severe mercy.

When I think about this severe mercy, I see my illness is an angel. She is large and beautiful and she is weeping over me, holding me together, weeping me from death into life. Her four decades of labor have not been in vain. Nothing less than this most desperate kindness would have been able to wield this suffering, this weapon of destruction, in my service.

I never expected to live to see my illness and I part ways. I never expected pleasure. And yet here I am. As we part, I wish to commend her to you. She has been faithful and true beyond all hoping.

After everything and everything, I am not disappointed.

Truth and Lies

Truth and Lies by Jillian Edelstein is a powerful book about the victims and perpetrators of South Africa's Truth and Reconciliation Committee. It's a photo book of pictures Edelstein took during her time there and also contains excerpts of testimony and interviews. Very, very powerful. The photo that stood out to me was on page 188 of a superspy, double agent, and assassin who looked like a butler, down to his cup of tea.
Wow, this gives food for thought about evil and how ordinary people are transformed by it. Read the introduction- especially the part about impermissible lies. Here's a brief quote:

Any society that allows its torturers to retire with medals and pensions inevitably pays the price. The price of lies is immobilized nostalgia for tyranny. So it is true...that you cannot create a culture of freedom unless you eliminate a specific range of impermissible lies....There are a few lies that do such harm that they can poison a society just as there are a few lies in private life that can destroy a life.

Wow. Lived that.

Here's another quote from the intro about Joyce whose son was disappeared and killed.

You would think, if you were listening to the story of your own son's death, that you wouldn't want every last detail. Joyce made me realize you do want every last detail. And you do not want to be trifled with. You don't want any flannel, any embroidery, any cute little inventions. You want every last detail, as it was. As it really was.
And what does this kind of truth do for a person like Joyce Mtimkulu? It provides official, public acknowledgment, at the highest level, before her own community, with amnesty judges sitting on the dais to confirm its official status. What she wanted was official acknowledgment, validation. She wanted one moment in her life when Nieuwoudt was made to look life a pathetic liar.
Nothing quite like this actually occurred.

Yep. Lived that, too.
I remember asking God once, while I was sitting hearing yet another sermon on sin, "What's the big deal about sin anyway?"
Simply can't imagine asking that question now at the end of this last decade. I've got that answer in my guts now.

17 years

Yesterday was our 17th anniversary.

I remember the first year in which we fought to a standstill every weekend about money or chores, practically on a schedule, and then made up passionately. Actually resolving conflict with like, you know, real conflict resolution skills- well, that took us years and years.

I remember trying to cook that first week we were married and I tried to do it like my mom- a pound of ground beef and a can of cream of mushroom soup, no recipe. Absolutely inedible! Threw the whole thing away.

I remember setting things on fire. Went to bake my first baking as a married woman, turned the oven on, and smelled burning. Someone had come and decorated our apartment with the bouquets and tulle and stuff and had hidden a bouquet in the oven! And at a party we hosted, I remember making microwave popcorn for the first time, pushing the popcorn button and walking away only to set off fire alarms and have huge billows of black smoke pouring out of the microwave! Carried the smoking bag to the dumpster and the place still smelt burnt for a month. And of course, all in front of company I was trying to impress.

And couches- we had like 3 couches- a plaid love seat, a furry white number, and a plaid hide-a-bed, plus we had a couple chairs in odd colors and interesting textures. Tim's roommates had bought Salvation Army couches for their townhouse which they gave us as a wedding present and my grandparents gave us several of their old pieces, too. So we had living room seating for like 12 in clashing plaids and fur. Of course the worst was that our first place was on the third floor and the furry one was super long and the hide-a-bed was all metal and weighed a ton! After that first move, I think we gave away several keeping the white furry one which was the most comfortable and which ultimately met an interesting fate. I got bad allergies and had to get rid of the fuzzy couch because of dust mites. Couldn't find anyone to take it and put it in a fellow teacher's back yard burning pile where it, too, met a smoky demise.

And no recitation of our first year could be complete without recalling the milk crates. Tim and I led our first year of Playtimers Day Camp together that summer. In fact, we were married in the middle of camp that first summer- rehearsed after work on Thursday, married on Friday, and then went back to work together on Monday morning. The daycamp served school lunches to all the kids every day and these lunches included milk- 2% and chocolate. So every day after lunch, there would be several milk crates sitting around the kitchen. Handy! We started taking them home, stacking them, and filling them with books and turning them upside down as a side table or turning them into module storage in the closet or.... You get the picture. So handy these crates. So versatile. Soon we had going on 30 of them. And then- I read the warning on every crate.

Busted! We stopped taking them but couldn't part with the ones we had. And still have, although in diminished numbers, in our basement. I just used two this week as a stand for my succulents, in fact.

17 years. And I'm happier now than when we started. Love you, Tim!

Great line

Yesterday at the end of youth Farm, Tim rode his bike over to the pick up site to ride home with Anjali. Some boy said to Anjali, "Hey-is that your bike?" Fortunately Anjali didn't hear him and Tim did, understanding that the next comment was going to be something along the lines of a sarcastic, "Nice bike."

Tim replied, "Yes, that's my bike and I like it."

The boy asked, "Is that your daughter?"

"Yes, that's my daughter and I like her." Then Tim rode away.

This answer struck me on several levels. One, I was proud of Tim's quick, strong affirmations. Good parenting and being a loyal friend. Two, I reflected on how much all those kids and comments used to hurt my feelings and just really, really don't anymore. Thank heavens. Three, I am struck that I want more and more to have this attitude about myself- genuine fondness, pride in my life being mine, and a willingness to face negativity with panache. Not simply out of determined loyalty or forced optimism or fear of failure and abandonment, but because I really do embrace my whole self with greater self understanding than can be threatened by criticism and petty comments. If I can embrace myself at my worst moments of my worst days, what could possibly be left to say that will undermine me?

Yes, that's my life and I like it.
Yes, that's me and I like me.

Disappointment

Reflecting on several recent blogs, I realized that what I expected hasn't come.

I invited people to parade- friends, family, neighbors- and no one came.

I volunteered to work in the kitchen, wasn't compatible with the cook, and requested a new assignment. Got assigned to a garden. Helped Safiya get ready to be Guest Cook, took notes, drove her over, dropped her off, and then went and pulled weeds in July in the full sun.

I invited the neighbor kids over to jump on our trampoline so Anjali could have neighborhood friends. The trampoline got broken already and disassembled. And the neighborhood kids are too much with us and I am exhausted by their chaos.

My song today

Listened to this song last night and knew it was mine. Wanted to share it with you. Enjoy.

A life of its own

It all started small.
I picked up a registration form for several neighbor kids who promptly lost them.

I printed replacements, walked them over, and when I saw the look on Safiya's face, asked her if she would like help filling them out. She said yes and came over to my porch and worked on them the next day. As we were filling them out, there was a volunteer form so I asked if she wanted to work in the kitchen with me and offered a ride. She demurred saying she wasn't a good cook. I assured her it was only chopping vegetables and washing dishes. We agreed on Tuesdays.

Last Tuesday, I picked her up and drove her to the kitchen where we worked together. She got excited, offered to cook a Somali dish, and before she knew it, she was signed up to be Guest Cook. So she comes over yesterday and says, "Phil call the phone. Next week cook. My English not good. I question. I buy food or he buy food? What cook?" I say that I have his number, run in, search the recycling for the extra copy, and triumphantly bring it out. She replies, "No phone. No good phone. Talk Phil tomorrow." Ah, the light dawns. I reply, "Oh, would you like a ride in my car tomorrow to see Phil?" Safiya answers, "Is good you drive talk Phil."

Today, I drive her 8 blocks to the church and she asks me to wait. She searches for Phil and finds someone who called his cell because within minutes, I see him skateboarding down the block, red from the heat. Borrowed a board from a kid and hustled over to see her- what a guy. He answers her questions about who's buying, suggests she make a list of ingredients, pulls a tablet of paper and a pencil from his bag, and holds it out to her. Smoothly, I intercept the paper and offer to make the list, expecting him to skate board off. But no, good man, he stays, they talk, and I start writing notes. Soon we stall out on names of the vegetables she wants, so Phil heads to the kitchen fridge. I throw my purse on my arm, grab Mark in one hand and clutching the tablet in the other, I follow like a scribe of old. I catch up at the open fridge- it's peppers she wants and celery. And some spice we think might be coriander or curry and 20 meat. "20 pounds" I write and repeat back. "No pounds, dollars. Somali meat store, halal, no pounds, only dollars." Correction, 20 dollars of a kind of meat which sounds like "Suhkar." And 2.5 kilos of pasta. I give Phil the eyebrow raise and he's with her, even if I can't spell Somali. He corrects my spelling, "That's injera not injira." I follow them through the kitchen scribbling notes and double checking. Finally, she's satisfied. I rip off a note with the date, number of people, and what she's bringing (habits of literacy die hard) and hand the pad back to Phil. As she's chatting with the cook, Phil asks if I'll be coming and I promise to ask her what she'd like. I then suggest that a Somali-English speaker, perhaps one of the junior staff, could be in the kitchen with us.

On the way home, I ask if she would like a ride and my help in the kitchen. Yes, to both. I email Phil to let him know I'm coming and realize I have questions about a salad dressing recipe for 70 and if there are any instructions for Guest Cooks I should read to Safiya and what time we need to arrive.

I sit later in front of the fan telling Tim how this all has taken on a life of its own. "I'm like the Guest Cook who doesn't cook," I say. Tim replied, "You're the project manager. You'll interact with the kids, do the paperwork, talk with Phil, and make everything go. She and her cousin will stand at the stove and cook while you do the rest."

I can't tell you how pleased being Safiya's project manager makes me. Way happier than being the cook myself. This is the neighbor I had thought was housebound because I had only ever seen her outside once. This is the one who doesn't drive or read or write or speak English easily, the one who claimed she couldn't cook well, the one who was isolated. And now, she's Guest Cook, proudly feeding all her girls' fellow farmers with hopes to do it again on the last day of Youth Farm. Initiating, volunteering, planning, ordering, hoping- all in a foreign land and language. This woman has some serious guts. I'll stick with her this year and by next year- who knows?- she might be running the place.

All this has taken on a life of its own and I couldn't be more pleased or proud.

If you want to come for lunch next Tuesday, 7/6, we'll be at
Zion Lutheran Church
128 West 33rd Street Minneapolis, MN 55408

We serve lunch at noon.