Two living spaces have opened up at Plow Creek. It is possible, though not certain, that we may be able to use one of them to begin small retreats.
We've decided to return to Plow Creek in two weeks, to be part of the conversation about how the spaces are to be used. If the community agrees to our renting one and using for retreats, we'll be able to spend the winter in preparation work for the ministry. I will be very glad for this moving ahead.
God has provided some money for us to begin renting. Just before our wedding my parents dropped a bombshell: my grandparents, retired missionaries, wanted to pass on to us part of a large legacy they had once received. We'll be able to pay our rent for awhile--even before God provides broader-based financial support. He is providing for us in the way He has promised he will; whether sleeping on a mat under a picnic-shelter in the rain, or furnishing a home to be a place of hospitality and healing, we have lacked, and I trust we will lack, nothing.
Not even time. We did the math yesterday and decided the best time to go back would be in two weeks; two weeks is just enough time so I can be quite certain of finishing my first novel before we go.
Woo hoo!
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Saturday, November 3, 2007
the ending God gave us
We had a long discussion, Paul and I, about whether to continue on for a week or even two (in which case we would still be on the road now!) I was for continuing. A very big focus for me on this trip (though I've not often written about it) has been my novel, which I'm on the absolute verge of finishing now. I've been on the revision process all along this walk, carrying the manuscript along on my flashdrive and taking every minute of library computer time I could get to work on it. (Incidentally, that's why I haven't been so great with the blog. It coulda been better, I know.) And it's worked wonderfully; the walking life was the perfect writing life, as long as I got enough time. I wanted just a little more of it, to finish the book.
But Paul was exhausted; and when I stopped being driven and admitted it to myself, I was too.
Although I did wonder what kind of ending we'd have to our walk. Two more days, and not a church service in them; we'd probably meet no-one. I wished it would end with meeting some wonderful people who felt inspired by us, but I knew it probably wouldn't.
We took our last night in a town of many churches; we wandered from church to church, looking for a good place to spend our last night outside. There was a revival sign outside the Civic Center; it was at 7:30, and it was now 7:27 on the dot. A woman called to us and invited us inside. We deliberated, and came. "Oh my goodness they came!" she said.
I had voted for coming in, because it seemed the right thing, a little too coincidental to be properly refused; yet I hadn't been looking forward to it. The Gospel, in its somewhat over-bullet-pointy Southern Baptist form, would be rehashed for us, and many phrases like "If there's anyone here who has never accepted Jesus as their Lord and Savior" would be used, with all eyes on us because we'd be the only people there who weren't from First Baptist, and slightly dirty to boot.
Well, did I get a surprise.
It was an interracial revival with all the preaching done by two African-American women. Let me tell you; I probably couldn't have told you this before that night, but when the sisters do a revival, they do a revival. And they do not use bullet-points.
There was singing, there was preaching, there was shouting. (Well, some of the preaching was shouting, is what I mean.) It was done with passion and it was done with sincerity, and one of the preachers had some things to say I liked very much. "You look to the left," she said, "and you look to the right, and that is your brother or your sister who's been tested in the fire same as you have." I looked.
They invited people up for prayer and anointing afterwards. They invited us up specifically (if they hadn't, Paul wouldn't have gone!) We stood at the front of the church and were anointed with oil on the forehead and hands and were asked no questions, except by a concerned-looking lady who seemed kind of separate from the proceedings; "What do you know about the Lord?" she wanted to know. Well, what a question; did she want to know all of it? "I know Him," wa what I came up with. I think she was worried about vague spirituality: "Have you read the Bible?" she returned. I reassured her briefly on that point and turned back to the black women who had laid their hands on me, and were calling out to God to give me whatever I might need.
I haven't been in a lot of groups that pray as loudly and passionately as these people did. But whenever I am, a strange double reaction happens in me: I feel a little odd, a little uncomfortable, because I'm not able to muster up the level of energy they have got--and I feel totally freed to show whatever passion happens to truly there. One of the preachers grasped my hands and told me nothing was too much, she'd seen miracles happen, and I began to pray, as I have prayed all along this trip, for a friend's healing, a healing that would have to be miraculous. Then I prayed for healing itself, for the gift of healing I suppose; for God to use me as a healer, to use me in His healing of those who come to us on retreat, who will come bearing so many wounds. I prayed as hard as I have ever prayed, but I don't know if they heard me. I was whispering, maybe only mouthing; but they might have heard me. The preacher gripped my hands harder. "There's power in these hands," she said. "Don't waste it."
I'm still not sure what she meant, or what the whole thing meant. They knew nothing about us, to them we were... I don't know what. Young hippies, weary, grubby travelers, a couple down on their luck? But God knew; and God gave us something much better, for a close to the walk, than another bullet-point Gospel sermon.
There's a coda, too. The folks at the revival, when they heard our story afterwards, said their church a block down the street was a good place to sleep. We followed their directions, and came to a spot much better than any we'd seen; a big covered deck, out of sight, that kept us dry all night in the pouring rain. (OK, except when the rain bounced off the large A/C unit onto me, but I moved right quick.) We didn't know till the next morning that we'd come to the wrong church.
A woman came by with a little boy. Impulsively, I waved at her, and she said hi; after going into various parts of the building on mysterious errands she came over and asked if we needed anything. We were just finishing our celebratory last-day breakfast (croissants and honey ham) so we told her no, we were just sitting here eating our breakfast and hoped it was OK... she got nearer and said, "Hey! I saw you in Spectre!" (All right, all right, it wasn't Spectre, it was whatever that town was really called, I can't for the life of me...) We grinned, and confirmed. She rushed off to deliver her boy to his day-care and said she'd be back to let us into her office to use the bathrooms.
We waited, and waited, and were about to leave when she came back. With a friend. And let us into her office, gave us an umbrella, and they both stood there asking questions about what we were doing and listening with great fascination to everything we had to say about the walk, about the retreat ministry, about what we had learned. The church's youth pastor came in too, and joined the discussion group; three enthusiastic young people, asking every question under the sun. Acting excited, inspired. Making us feel, here at the end, like even now we weren't doing this for nothing.
And that was the ending God gave us for our walk.
But Paul was exhausted; and when I stopped being driven and admitted it to myself, I was too.
Although I did wonder what kind of ending we'd have to our walk. Two more days, and not a church service in them; we'd probably meet no-one. I wished it would end with meeting some wonderful people who felt inspired by us, but I knew it probably wouldn't.
We took our last night in a town of many churches; we wandered from church to church, looking for a good place to spend our last night outside. There was a revival sign outside the Civic Center; it was at 7:30, and it was now 7:27 on the dot. A woman called to us and invited us inside. We deliberated, and came. "Oh my goodness they came!" she said.
I had voted for coming in, because it seemed the right thing, a little too coincidental to be properly refused; yet I hadn't been looking forward to it. The Gospel, in its somewhat over-bullet-pointy Southern Baptist form, would be rehashed for us, and many phrases like "If there's anyone here who has never accepted Jesus as their Lord and Savior" would be used, with all eyes on us because we'd be the only people there who weren't from First Baptist, and slightly dirty to boot.
Well, did I get a surprise.
It was an interracial revival with all the preaching done by two African-American women. Let me tell you; I probably couldn't have told you this before that night, but when the sisters do a revival, they do a revival. And they do not use bullet-points.
There was singing, there was preaching, there was shouting. (Well, some of the preaching was shouting, is what I mean.) It was done with passion and it was done with sincerity, and one of the preachers had some things to say I liked very much. "You look to the left," she said, "and you look to the right, and that is your brother or your sister who's been tested in the fire same as you have." I looked.
They invited people up for prayer and anointing afterwards. They invited us up specifically (if they hadn't, Paul wouldn't have gone!) We stood at the front of the church and were anointed with oil on the forehead and hands and were asked no questions, except by a concerned-looking lady who seemed kind of separate from the proceedings; "What do you know about the Lord?" she wanted to know. Well, what a question; did she want to know all of it? "I know Him," wa what I came up with. I think she was worried about vague spirituality: "Have you read the Bible?" she returned. I reassured her briefly on that point and turned back to the black women who had laid their hands on me, and were calling out to God to give me whatever I might need.
I haven't been in a lot of groups that pray as loudly and passionately as these people did. But whenever I am, a strange double reaction happens in me: I feel a little odd, a little uncomfortable, because I'm not able to muster up the level of energy they have got--and I feel totally freed to show whatever passion happens to truly there. One of the preachers grasped my hands and told me nothing was too much, she'd seen miracles happen, and I began to pray, as I have prayed all along this trip, for a friend's healing, a healing that would have to be miraculous. Then I prayed for healing itself, for the gift of healing I suppose; for God to use me as a healer, to use me in His healing of those who come to us on retreat, who will come bearing so many wounds. I prayed as hard as I have ever prayed, but I don't know if they heard me. I was whispering, maybe only mouthing; but they might have heard me. The preacher gripped my hands harder. "There's power in these hands," she said. "Don't waste it."
I'm still not sure what she meant, or what the whole thing meant. They knew nothing about us, to them we were... I don't know what. Young hippies, weary, grubby travelers, a couple down on their luck? But God knew; and God gave us something much better, for a close to the walk, than another bullet-point Gospel sermon.
There's a coda, too. The folks at the revival, when they heard our story afterwards, said their church a block down the street was a good place to sleep. We followed their directions, and came to a spot much better than any we'd seen; a big covered deck, out of sight, that kept us dry all night in the pouring rain. (OK, except when the rain bounced off the large A/C unit onto me, but I moved right quick.) We didn't know till the next morning that we'd come to the wrong church.
A woman came by with a little boy. Impulsively, I waved at her, and she said hi; after going into various parts of the building on mysterious errands she came over and asked if we needed anything. We were just finishing our celebratory last-day breakfast (croissants and honey ham) so we told her no, we were just sitting here eating our breakfast and hoped it was OK... she got nearer and said, "Hey! I saw you in Spectre!" (All right, all right, it wasn't Spectre, it was whatever that town was really called, I can't for the life of me...) We grinned, and confirmed. She rushed off to deliver her boy to his day-care and said she'd be back to let us into her office to use the bathrooms.
We waited, and waited, and were about to leave when she came back. With a friend. And let us into her office, gave us an umbrella, and they both stood there asking questions about what we were doing and listening with great fascination to everything we had to say about the walk, about the retreat ministry, about what we had learned. The church's youth pastor came in too, and joined the discussion group; three enthusiastic young people, asking every question under the sun. Acting excited, inspired. Making us feel, here at the end, like even now we weren't doing this for nothing.
And that was the ending God gave us for our walk.
spectre
I don't know how many of y'all have seen Big Fish, but there's a scene in which one of the characters, in a sort of half-dream world, walks through a cypress swamp and arrives in a town called Spectre, an unreal fifties utopia of lush green manicured lawns and little girls in party dresses, where everyone turns out to be, guess what, ghosts.
Four days before we ended the walk, we walked into a little town in South Georgia (I've forgotten its name by now!) Okay, let's call it Thingy. Paul had been telling me we would get to Thingy Saturday afternoon and probably go to church there, but we'd had this debate about shopping because he hadn't found any listing online for a grocery store there. Well, that gave me a pretty good idea of Thingy, Georgia. The picture in my head was an alternate version of Ty Ty, Georgia--two churches, a few clapboard houses, and a peanut processing plant.
Instead, when we passed the Thingy town line, broad sweeps of manicured lawn, old-fashioned lampposts, little girls in dresses playing in their front yards. The whole place was perfect, and so different from what we'd been seeing up till then that in my head I immediately dubbed it Spectre.
In Spectre we searched quite awhile for a good place to sleep, and finally settled on our plan B: a little play-house in a tiny gravelly playground behind a large Baptist church. We'd been planning to try the Methodists on Sunday morning, mostly because we felt turned off by the Baptists' used-car-lot-style flashing and scrolling sign out front. ("Jesus Saves," said Paul. "Hot Dogs $1.") But it's discourteous to sleep behind somebody's church and not pay them a visit, and besides, as we sat on a bench outside the church in the cold morning trying to warm up in the sun, the pastor pulled up and invited us to the service and the catered lunch afterwards.
The service was much like any Baptist service in the South, really, except that there was no sermon; it was a celebration of their new sanctuary and there were songs and brief "sharings" on their several themes for the year. In Sunday school we met people who asked us our story, and we told it, and as sometimes happens we soon heard strangers telling strangers "They walked here from Boston!" A few people were interested enough to listen to the whole tale of our retreat ministry. One man asked me if there was anything we needed. I hesitated, pondering whether to be fully frank with him, but he looked like he'd meant it. "We need to wash our clothes," I said.
He looked a little worried at that. I quickly amended it: "I mean we can do that at a Laundromat, but I don't know where there is one..." He gave me directions to the nearest one, his face clearing of worry; but mine (I think) was not. We didn't have very much money left--enough for a little while certainly, but I wasn't sure how much longer we'd be on the road, and it didn't seem like a good time to spend money on a wash. I think he must have seen that. That's my best explanation for what happened next.
We parted; but later as we stood in line for our catered lunch (smoky barbecued chicken--very good), the same man came up to us and said he'd taken a collection among our Sunday school class and pressed bills into my hand. I thanked him very much and he asked us to say a prayer for him when we left--looking like he really meant that as well. I put the bills in my pocket. A little later I looked at them and, well, it was definitely more than we needed for laundry!
I prayed for him as we walked out of Spectre that afternoon. And I never used his money at a Laundromat. It was the very next day that Paul and I suddenly began to discuss how soon to let his parents pick us up, and eventually decided to ask them to come in only two days. There was no more need for laundry.
Four days before we ended the walk, we walked into a little town in South Georgia (I've forgotten its name by now!) Okay, let's call it Thingy. Paul had been telling me we would get to Thingy Saturday afternoon and probably go to church there, but we'd had this debate about shopping because he hadn't found any listing online for a grocery store there. Well, that gave me a pretty good idea of Thingy, Georgia. The picture in my head was an alternate version of Ty Ty, Georgia--two churches, a few clapboard houses, and a peanut processing plant.
Instead, when we passed the Thingy town line, broad sweeps of manicured lawn, old-fashioned lampposts, little girls in dresses playing in their front yards. The whole place was perfect, and so different from what we'd been seeing up till then that in my head I immediately dubbed it Spectre.
In Spectre we searched quite awhile for a good place to sleep, and finally settled on our plan B: a little play-house in a tiny gravelly playground behind a large Baptist church. We'd been planning to try the Methodists on Sunday morning, mostly because we felt turned off by the Baptists' used-car-lot-style flashing and scrolling sign out front. ("Jesus Saves," said Paul. "Hot Dogs $1.") But it's discourteous to sleep behind somebody's church and not pay them a visit, and besides, as we sat on a bench outside the church in the cold morning trying to warm up in the sun, the pastor pulled up and invited us to the service and the catered lunch afterwards.
The service was much like any Baptist service in the South, really, except that there was no sermon; it was a celebration of their new sanctuary and there were songs and brief "sharings" on their several themes for the year. In Sunday school we met people who asked us our story, and we told it, and as sometimes happens we soon heard strangers telling strangers "They walked here from Boston!" A few people were interested enough to listen to the whole tale of our retreat ministry. One man asked me if there was anything we needed. I hesitated, pondering whether to be fully frank with him, but he looked like he'd meant it. "We need to wash our clothes," I said.
He looked a little worried at that. I quickly amended it: "I mean we can do that at a Laundromat, but I don't know where there is one..." He gave me directions to the nearest one, his face clearing of worry; but mine (I think) was not. We didn't have very much money left--enough for a little while certainly, but I wasn't sure how much longer we'd be on the road, and it didn't seem like a good time to spend money on a wash. I think he must have seen that. That's my best explanation for what happened next.
We parted; but later as we stood in line for our catered lunch (smoky barbecued chicken--very good), the same man came up to us and said he'd taken a collection among our Sunday school class and pressed bills into my hand. I thanked him very much and he asked us to say a prayer for him when we left--looking like he really meant that as well. I put the bills in my pocket. A little later I looked at them and, well, it was definitely more than we needed for laundry!
I prayed for him as we walked out of Spectre that afternoon. And I never used his money at a Laundromat. It was the very next day that Paul and I suddenly began to discuss how soon to let his parents pick us up, and eventually decided to ask them to come in only two days. There was no more need for laundry.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
finish line
Well...
We're crossing the Florida state line tomorrow. And Paul's parents have offered to pick us up there. And...
We said yes.
(More on everything later! Love y'all!)
We're crossing the Florida state line tomorrow. And Paul's parents have offered to pick us up there. And...
We said yes.
(More on everything later! Love y'all!)
Friday, October 19, 2007
Tropical Storm Wossname
Okay, it wasn't really a tropical storm... but it felt like one.
Here's what happened: yesterday we planned to spend the morning in the library and start walking in the early afternoon, since the town we were headed for had no library--and it was supposed to be a little rainy, so maybe we could sit out the rain in the morning. Well, Paul checked the weather and then we got out of the library pretty soon; showers in the morning, it said, and a rainstorm in the afternoon.
We walked and walked; we ate lunch by some train tracks and walked some more. We didn't worry too much about beating the rain, it didn't look too bad...
Then, as we passed a few houses by the side of the road, a tall country guy with grey hair and a beard called to us, "Y'all want a beer?"
We crossed over and explained that we drink beer but not really while we're walking because the alcohol can dehydrate you. He said he had some light beer; we shook our heads and he offered ice water. Paul took the opportunity to explain that we were hoping to make it to Lenox before the rain did, and our new friend said, "Oh, Lenox ain't but seven miles!" Well, yes, we said, and at our pace it would take us most of the day. "I'll give y'all a ride then," he said.
It started to sprinkle as he gave us a ride, chatting about Florida and Paul's parents' retirement village, where our friend had done some construction work. It had stopped when we got to Lenox and spotted a good picnic shelter back behind a church. We said goodbye and went to settle in.
Within fifteen minutes, it had started to rain. It didn't stop till almost twenty-four hours later.
Okay, I'm stretching that, but for all practical purposes it was true. When we woke up in the morning it had stopped, and we prepared to get going, and about one minute before we were going to step out on our day's walk it started again.
And I mean rain.
I'm happy for Georgia. It started out fine, drizzly, that you-don't-notice-till-you're-soaked rain; then it got a little more serious; then it poured. It was unpaved and sandy under the picnic shelter, and there were no tables, just a bench along one end and a sort of shelf along the other; when it poured, little runnels ran through it down the slope. Paul slept on the shelf; I slept part of the night on the one part of the sandy floor that was too high to have any runnels; but the wind blew spray in on me, and I switched to the shelf; then switched back again when the wind changed. I got plenty of sleep, honest.
And in the morning, there we were, our little world a picnic shelter surrounded by rain. I did all my mending: the button I'd lost on my shirt, the straggling threads on my jacket lining... We read, we had a long morning prayer time... I took a nap. We only had crackers and peanut butter--we'd planned to do our shopping in the next town... but Paul braved the first few moments of clearing-up to go to the dollar store for tuna, canned ham, chips and applesauce, and we had a pretty nice meal. And, finally, it was over. The sun began to show through.
We walked maybe two or three miles, and then got a ride to where we are now.
And that's how God got us through Tropical Storm Wossname without even getting wet. (Just very damp. Ick!)
Here's what happened: yesterday we planned to spend the morning in the library and start walking in the early afternoon, since the town we were headed for had no library--and it was supposed to be a little rainy, so maybe we could sit out the rain in the morning. Well, Paul checked the weather and then we got out of the library pretty soon; showers in the morning, it said, and a rainstorm in the afternoon.
We walked and walked; we ate lunch by some train tracks and walked some more. We didn't worry too much about beating the rain, it didn't look too bad...
Then, as we passed a few houses by the side of the road, a tall country guy with grey hair and a beard called to us, "Y'all want a beer?"
We crossed over and explained that we drink beer but not really while we're walking because the alcohol can dehydrate you. He said he had some light beer; we shook our heads and he offered ice water. Paul took the opportunity to explain that we were hoping to make it to Lenox before the rain did, and our new friend said, "Oh, Lenox ain't but seven miles!" Well, yes, we said, and at our pace it would take us most of the day. "I'll give y'all a ride then," he said.
It started to sprinkle as he gave us a ride, chatting about Florida and Paul's parents' retirement village, where our friend had done some construction work. It had stopped when we got to Lenox and spotted a good picnic shelter back behind a church. We said goodbye and went to settle in.
Within fifteen minutes, it had started to rain. It didn't stop till almost twenty-four hours later.
Okay, I'm stretching that, but for all practical purposes it was true. When we woke up in the morning it had stopped, and we prepared to get going, and about one minute before we were going to step out on our day's walk it started again.
And I mean rain.
I'm happy for Georgia. It started out fine, drizzly, that you-don't-notice-till-you're-soaked rain; then it got a little more serious; then it poured. It was unpaved and sandy under the picnic shelter, and there were no tables, just a bench along one end and a sort of shelf along the other; when it poured, little runnels ran through it down the slope. Paul slept on the shelf; I slept part of the night on the one part of the sandy floor that was too high to have any runnels; but the wind blew spray in on me, and I switched to the shelf; then switched back again when the wind changed. I got plenty of sleep, honest.
And in the morning, there we were, our little world a picnic shelter surrounded by rain. I did all my mending: the button I'd lost on my shirt, the straggling threads on my jacket lining... We read, we had a long morning prayer time... I took a nap. We only had crackers and peanut butter--we'd planned to do our shopping in the next town... but Paul braved the first few moments of clearing-up to go to the dollar store for tuna, canned ham, chips and applesauce, and we had a pretty nice meal. And, finally, it was over. The sun began to show through.
We walked maybe two or three miles, and then got a ride to where we are now.
And that's how God got us through Tropical Storm Wossname without even getting wet. (Just very damp. Ick!)
people who know what it's like
After we left the library where we'd met Van, we were offered a ride somewhere down the road. The guy drove an old Jeep and said he'd drive us a town further than where he was actually going, because he liked to drive. (I couldn't hear him real well from the back, but I thought he said "If we could spot him some gas"; seemed like a good idea anyway, but he ended up refusing when we offered.)
We rode along, chatting; we ended up telling him about the retreat ministry and he ended up telling us that he'd gotten off drugs about eight months ago.
"I support what you're doing," he said.
That night we slept outside a church near a peanut processing plant (did I mention the peanut & cotton fields around here?) and walked on into Tifton, Georgia, where we found a church called Traveler's Rest Missionary Baptist. Sounded pretty good to us! We went there earlier in the day to check out if it seemed a good place to sleep, before heading to the library for the afternoon. There were a lot of people outside on their porches, and one guy sitting on what appeared to be his air-conditioner sticking out of his front window.
When we returned after dark, the guy sitting on his air-conditioner was still there. "Y'all need a place to stay?" he called to us.
"Uh... sure," we said.
He invited us into his little efficiency apartment; after gauging the situation for a moment, we took him up on it. "My name's Gaye. I've been homeless," he said. "I know what it's like."
His two neighbors from the other apartments came over too; a guy named Bruce to offer us buns, baloney and cheese slices (in spite of our insistence that we'd eaten) and some comments about how he'd been there too; and a black lady named Popcorn to hang out and play cards. They taught us a game called Deuces. Paul, who professes not to like games, won.
He gave us crackers to pack in our packs, and as we left in the morning he tried to give us a couple cans of soup. "I know what it's like," he said.
We rode along, chatting; we ended up telling him about the retreat ministry and he ended up telling us that he'd gotten off drugs about eight months ago.
"I support what you're doing," he said.
That night we slept outside a church near a peanut processing plant (did I mention the peanut & cotton fields around here?) and walked on into Tifton, Georgia, where we found a church called Traveler's Rest Missionary Baptist. Sounded pretty good to us! We went there earlier in the day to check out if it seemed a good place to sleep, before heading to the library for the afternoon. There were a lot of people outside on their porches, and one guy sitting on what appeared to be his air-conditioner sticking out of his front window.
When we returned after dark, the guy sitting on his air-conditioner was still there. "Y'all need a place to stay?" he called to us.
"Uh... sure," we said.
He invited us into his little efficiency apartment; after gauging the situation for a moment, we took him up on it. "My name's Gaye. I've been homeless," he said. "I know what it's like."
His two neighbors from the other apartments came over too; a guy named Bruce to offer us buns, baloney and cheese slices (in spite of our insistence that we'd eaten) and some comments about how he'd been there too; and a black lady named Popcorn to hang out and play cards. They taught us a game called Deuces. Paul, who professes not to like games, won.
He gave us crackers to pack in our packs, and as we left in the morning he tried to give us a couple cans of soup. "I know what it's like," he said.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
a few thoughts
Miscellaneous thoughts...
We saw our first palm trees in Albany, in a park with a fountain and painted turtles. (Not the species... just statues of turtles, painted.) A lovely place where we ate our lunch. Gazing at the water, I commented to Paul that the best things in life are either free or horribly expensive: for the sound and sight of falling water, just wait till you happen to run across a park like this, or a waterfall, and it's free... or if you want to own it, build a fountain on the grounds of your mansion. As Mastercard says, priceless. The best things in life are free, until you try to control them.
We're only about a week from the Florida state line, now. I've also started to see Spanish moss, and today what may have been a cypress swamp. (Mostly dried up. It is not a good year down here...)
Oh, I forgot to tell y'all about Koinonia, didn't I? The summary is simple: the place is lovely, lots of pecan trees, we worked in the bakery packing chocolate and pecans, both to earn our keep and because we liked it, and we stayed for a week. I used the semi-public computer almost every night, working on my novel.
Another little tidbit: only three chapters left to revise, then tweak some passages here and there and write an epilogue and I'm done! Soon. Very soon.
And finally, a lovely line from a poem someone read for devotions at Koinonia... the poet describes hatred as a flaring fire, and love as the small, constant flame of a candle, and ends the poem with these lines:
Know this: though love is weak and hate is strong,
Yet hate is short, and love is very long.
We saw our first palm trees in Albany, in a park with a fountain and painted turtles. (Not the species... just statues of turtles, painted.) A lovely place where we ate our lunch. Gazing at the water, I commented to Paul that the best things in life are either free or horribly expensive: for the sound and sight of falling water, just wait till you happen to run across a park like this, or a waterfall, and it's free... or if you want to own it, build a fountain on the grounds of your mansion. As Mastercard says, priceless. The best things in life are free, until you try to control them.
We're only about a week from the Florida state line, now. I've also started to see Spanish moss, and today what may have been a cypress swamp. (Mostly dried up. It is not a good year down here...)
Oh, I forgot to tell y'all about Koinonia, didn't I? The summary is simple: the place is lovely, lots of pecan trees, we worked in the bakery packing chocolate and pecans, both to earn our keep and because we liked it, and we stayed for a week. I used the semi-public computer almost every night, working on my novel.
Another little tidbit: only three chapters left to revise, then tweak some passages here and there and write an epilogue and I'm done! Soon. Very soon.
And finally, a lovely line from a poem someone read for devotions at Koinonia... the poet describes hatred as a flaring fire, and love as the small, constant flame of a candle, and ends the poem with these lines:
Know this: though love is weak and hate is strong,
Yet hate is short, and love is very long.
van
We were eating our breakfast yesterday when Van approached us. Actually, it was more like this:
We're outside a library, under a picnic shelter eating our tortillas and peanut butter. The library opens in a few minutes, at 9:30, and we'll go in then. The picnic area's a bit run down and, this doesn't look like the safest of small south Georgia towns, it's kind of run-down, and I'm a bit nervous. You could chalk it up to being a minority; I have been for three days now, and I was used to it in Africa but not here; now I know how African-Americans feel. Ever since Albany white people are few and far between.
A black guy over at the next table calls out to us: "Hey y'all got a phone?" Sorry, I tell him, we don't; we don't own one. He apologizes for disturbing us and I tell him not to worry about it. "He didn't have a southern accent," I remark as he goes away.
A few minutes later he's back, walking toward us. "Do you mind if I ask you a question... is it okay, can I come?" Come up to the table, he means. Of course. He wants to know if we know anybody who can help him; he's stranded, someone robbed him, he has a disabled nine-year-old son at home. We don't know the area, although there was that church we slept at last night; the pastor came out in the morning as we left (we had no idea he'd spotted us) with a Bible and an offer of food from their food pantry, which we declined, & had a friendly chat about what we're doing. We could go back there, I say; but he says he's through with churches, and I know what he means. The brush-off can hurt bad.
It takes us awhile to get the story straight. His name is Van, he frames houses, he lives in Florida with his wife and son; he took the bus to North Carolina because someone up there offered him work for awhile, but "awhile" turned into only a week, and when he took the bus back down, he walked out of the bus station in Atlanta and was beat up and robbed by four guys "young enough to be my sons". Greyhound refused him another ticket, but a friendly trucker gave him a ride to Albany; that was the end of his luck. He had walked out of Albany just like we had, I think. He was surprised to hear what we were doing, and in agreement with us that we all need God's provision; we felt on the same level, in the same boat. I asked him if he was hungry, offered some of our breakfast; "No, y'all need that, I'm fine," he said.
We did have some money, though. I slipped a note to Paul under the picnic table, suggesting the purchase of a new bus ticket. He didn't speak up about it though, and I kept my counsel, knowing he usually has a good reason I haven't thought of. (I'm the impulsive one.) (He did have a good reason: the bus ticket was, I think, more expensive than Van thought.) Van had a phone number of someone who'd said they could help him, but it was long-distance. I said he could use my phone card; he started to refuse that too, saying we needed it as bad as he did, and I slapped the table. "Van," I said, "God may have brought us together so we could contribute what we can to helping you. So let us. God's been taking very good care of us, and it's only right if we can pass some of that on to you."
We went on talking, or mostly listening; we weren't sure what to do, and he seemed to need to talk. He kept apologizing for going on and on at us, he was feeling strange, he couldn't stop talking. "You're stressed," I said, "and you got a right to be." We sat, and listened, until finally we came to a sense of what to do: go into the library, ask to use the phone; call the number he had, then make further plans.
The library wouldn't let us use the phone, just the phonebook; they said there were payphones down the street. Somehow (I got confused) we let Van go off to look for the payphones without my phonecard, but with a promise to return and tell us what was going on. We waited; Paul looked up charitable groups in the phonebook, I looked up bus ticket prices online. We felt like we were back at the shelter in Champaign doing our emergency work. I was trying to figure out how he got quoted such a low price for the ticket when he came into the computer room, radiant. "I've found a guy who'll give me a ride to the station and buy my ticket!" "Wha'?" I said. "Wow." and he grabbed my hand and kissed me on the cheek and was out the door with a "God bless you! Take care of each other, OK?" "Yes sir," I said, and he was gone.
It wasn't enough for me though. Wha'? Where'd he find this? I found Paul and he had the whole story: Van had borrowed someone's cell phone, but only gotten an answering machine. Then the man had let Van call his wife, and after listening to this conversation held on his phone, must have decided that Van was legit. (Honestly, Van was the most obviously legit guy I ever met. I try to give the benefit of the doubt, but sometimes you're sure. No spin doctor makes up, "My wife is a hypochondriac, but I love her.") He offered to give him a ride to the station and buy his ticket.
And there it was. We hadn't helped him at all.
We hadn't, and yet he was grateful. I felt real love when he kissed my cheek. And I thought of something I've thought about--and wished for the chance to practice--recently: a passage by Simone Weil that Paul quoted on his blog. Weil says that those who are suffering need nothing more than to be given someone's full attention--but that this is often the hardest thing to give. If you read the passage, you'll see that Weil is talking about a purer, more absolute quality of attention than ours was; I mean please, we were just listening while we racked our brains for a sensible plan and I kicked Paul under the table to remind him I'd suggested a bus ticket! (You can see why I was wishing for some practice!) But I'm thankful for the opportunity to meet somebody who's been beat up, turned away, mistrusted, and stared at, and to use his name, look at him as a human being, listen to his feelings. Even if I could give no more help than that, I was glad of the chance.
We're outside a library, under a picnic shelter eating our tortillas and peanut butter. The library opens in a few minutes, at 9:30, and we'll go in then. The picnic area's a bit run down and, this doesn't look like the safest of small south Georgia towns, it's kind of run-down, and I'm a bit nervous. You could chalk it up to being a minority; I have been for three days now, and I was used to it in Africa but not here; now I know how African-Americans feel. Ever since Albany white people are few and far between.
A black guy over at the next table calls out to us: "Hey y'all got a phone?" Sorry, I tell him, we don't; we don't own one. He apologizes for disturbing us and I tell him not to worry about it. "He didn't have a southern accent," I remark as he goes away.
A few minutes later he's back, walking toward us. "Do you mind if I ask you a question... is it okay, can I come?" Come up to the table, he means. Of course. He wants to know if we know anybody who can help him; he's stranded, someone robbed him, he has a disabled nine-year-old son at home. We don't know the area, although there was that church we slept at last night; the pastor came out in the morning as we left (we had no idea he'd spotted us) with a Bible and an offer of food from their food pantry, which we declined, & had a friendly chat about what we're doing. We could go back there, I say; but he says he's through with churches, and I know what he means. The brush-off can hurt bad.
It takes us awhile to get the story straight. His name is Van, he frames houses, he lives in Florida with his wife and son; he took the bus to North Carolina because someone up there offered him work for awhile, but "awhile" turned into only a week, and when he took the bus back down, he walked out of the bus station in Atlanta and was beat up and robbed by four guys "young enough to be my sons". Greyhound refused him another ticket, but a friendly trucker gave him a ride to Albany; that was the end of his luck. He had walked out of Albany just like we had, I think. He was surprised to hear what we were doing, and in agreement with us that we all need God's provision; we felt on the same level, in the same boat. I asked him if he was hungry, offered some of our breakfast; "No, y'all need that, I'm fine," he said.
We did have some money, though. I slipped a note to Paul under the picnic table, suggesting the purchase of a new bus ticket. He didn't speak up about it though, and I kept my counsel, knowing he usually has a good reason I haven't thought of. (I'm the impulsive one.) (He did have a good reason: the bus ticket was, I think, more expensive than Van thought.) Van had a phone number of someone who'd said they could help him, but it was long-distance. I said he could use my phone card; he started to refuse that too, saying we needed it as bad as he did, and I slapped the table. "Van," I said, "God may have brought us together so we could contribute what we can to helping you. So let us. God's been taking very good care of us, and it's only right if we can pass some of that on to you."
We went on talking, or mostly listening; we weren't sure what to do, and he seemed to need to talk. He kept apologizing for going on and on at us, he was feeling strange, he couldn't stop talking. "You're stressed," I said, "and you got a right to be." We sat, and listened, until finally we came to a sense of what to do: go into the library, ask to use the phone; call the number he had, then make further plans.
The library wouldn't let us use the phone, just the phonebook; they said there were payphones down the street. Somehow (I got confused) we let Van go off to look for the payphones without my phonecard, but with a promise to return and tell us what was going on. We waited; Paul looked up charitable groups in the phonebook, I looked up bus ticket prices online. We felt like we were back at the shelter in Champaign doing our emergency work. I was trying to figure out how he got quoted such a low price for the ticket when he came into the computer room, radiant. "I've found a guy who'll give me a ride to the station and buy my ticket!" "Wha'?" I said. "Wow." and he grabbed my hand and kissed me on the cheek and was out the door with a "God bless you! Take care of each other, OK?" "Yes sir," I said, and he was gone.
It wasn't enough for me though. Wha'? Where'd he find this? I found Paul and he had the whole story: Van had borrowed someone's cell phone, but only gotten an answering machine. Then the man had let Van call his wife, and after listening to this conversation held on his phone, must have decided that Van was legit. (Honestly, Van was the most obviously legit guy I ever met. I try to give the benefit of the doubt, but sometimes you're sure. No spin doctor makes up, "My wife is a hypochondriac, but I love her.") He offered to give him a ride to the station and buy his ticket.
And there it was. We hadn't helped him at all.
We hadn't, and yet he was grateful. I felt real love when he kissed my cheek. And I thought of something I've thought about--and wished for the chance to practice--recently: a passage by Simone Weil that Paul quoted on his blog. Weil says that those who are suffering need nothing more than to be given someone's full attention--but that this is often the hardest thing to give. If you read the passage, you'll see that Weil is talking about a purer, more absolute quality of attention than ours was; I mean please, we were just listening while we racked our brains for a sensible plan and I kicked Paul under the table to remind him I'd suggested a bus ticket! (You can see why I was wishing for some practice!) But I'm thankful for the opportunity to meet somebody who's been beat up, turned away, mistrusted, and stared at, and to use his name, look at him as a human being, listen to his feelings. Even if I could give no more help than that, I was glad of the chance.
darlene
Hey, wait a minute. I didn't tell y'all about Darlene.
Darlene comes before the previous post; before Koinonia, before the cop and all the rides. Darlene gave us the first ride after we left Aunt Alice. But more importantly--Darlene was the only person we have met on this walk who guessed the riddle on the first try.
Two people walking down the road, with backpacks and sticks, just walking. Who are they, what are they doing? Crazy kids, suspicious hippies, runaways? A broke young couple trying to make it to where they've been promised a job? Hikers who for some reason prefer the American road to the Appalachian Trail? Darlene pulled over and offered us a ride, one evening; we told her where we were going--to the next church that we ran across, so we could sleep outside it--and she invited us home. We had just gotten in the car, and barely started eating the corn dogs she'd bought at the fair, when she began to talk about how she'd been wondering lately what it was like for Jesus and his disciples to be walking all over the place, trusting God to take care of them, and what it would be like to try that today. She said she saw us with our packs and our sticks and that's what she thought of; and she saw something between us, a kind of glow, something like that.
She brought us home but her husband was sick, and so as not to bother him she brought us over to her mother's--and a good thing too! I'd have hated to miss a chance to meet this "country mama," as Jackie called herself. She fed us sandwiches in her cozy trailer with a deer's head on the wall & teased Darlene, who teased back, with wit that made me feel right at home. We talked a long while, talking about Jesus, and also hearing stories like how a man saved one of Jackie's babies with a home remedy: the child had had diarrhea for a week and nothing she'd done for it had helped, but this man poured a spoonful of whiskey, burned off the alcohol, and gave it to the baby; then repeated the treatment twice at intervals--and it worked! She tried it again, years later, and it worked again. So write that one down, folks; as Snoopy says, "Some of those old wives were pretty sharp."
(Actually don't write it down, OK, because I'm not sure I remember all the details right!)
We shared some of our Aldi chocolate with Darlene (Jackie couldn't partake; diabetes) and said goodnight for a sweet night's sleep in the double bed in Jackie's living room. It took me awhile to go to sleep; somehow it was a night to lie awake and think of really good sentences to go in the next chapter of my novel... maybe I was inspired. But I did sleep and slept well, and in the morning we rose early to get a ride with Darlene as she went to work. She dropped us off and we said goodbye, and who knows when we'll see each other again.
But we will. That's for sure.
Oh, and by the way, Darlene... we don't seem to have your email address. If you read this, would you mind letting us know?
Darlene comes before the previous post; before Koinonia, before the cop and all the rides. Darlene gave us the first ride after we left Aunt Alice. But more importantly--Darlene was the only person we have met on this walk who guessed the riddle on the first try.
Two people walking down the road, with backpacks and sticks, just walking. Who are they, what are they doing? Crazy kids, suspicious hippies, runaways? A broke young couple trying to make it to where they've been promised a job? Hikers who for some reason prefer the American road to the Appalachian Trail? Darlene pulled over and offered us a ride, one evening; we told her where we were going--to the next church that we ran across, so we could sleep outside it--and she invited us home. We had just gotten in the car, and barely started eating the corn dogs she'd bought at the fair, when she began to talk about how she'd been wondering lately what it was like for Jesus and his disciples to be walking all over the place, trusting God to take care of them, and what it would be like to try that today. She said she saw us with our packs and our sticks and that's what she thought of; and she saw something between us, a kind of glow, something like that.
She brought us home but her husband was sick, and so as not to bother him she brought us over to her mother's--and a good thing too! I'd have hated to miss a chance to meet this "country mama," as Jackie called herself. She fed us sandwiches in her cozy trailer with a deer's head on the wall & teased Darlene, who teased back, with wit that made me feel right at home. We talked a long while, talking about Jesus, and also hearing stories like how a man saved one of Jackie's babies with a home remedy: the child had had diarrhea for a week and nothing she'd done for it had helped, but this man poured a spoonful of whiskey, burned off the alcohol, and gave it to the baby; then repeated the treatment twice at intervals--and it worked! She tried it again, years later, and it worked again. So write that one down, folks; as Snoopy says, "Some of those old wives were pretty sharp."
(Actually don't write it down, OK, because I'm not sure I remember all the details right!)
We shared some of our Aldi chocolate with Darlene (Jackie couldn't partake; diabetes) and said goodnight for a sweet night's sleep in the double bed in Jackie's living room. It took me awhile to go to sleep; somehow it was a night to lie awake and think of really good sentences to go in the next chapter of my novel... maybe I was inspired. But I did sleep and slept well, and in the morning we rose early to get a ride with Darlene as she went to work. She dropped us off and we said goodbye, and who knows when we'll see each other again.
But we will. That's for sure.
Oh, and by the way, Darlene... we don't seem to have your email address. If you read this, would you mind letting us know?
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
carried
We're in Americus, GA now, and a LOT has happened since Atlanta... and to be honest, folks, it's real hard keeping up with this blog and trying to finish my novel on the same library computer time! So to catch you up on the news, Paul has let me copy his blog entry that relates our recent adventures...
Americus, GA
We arrived at Koinonia Farm yesterday evening, just as the sun was setting over the fields. Someone came out and welcomed us joyfully, though we were several days early. It was hard to believe we had started the day over 45 miles away.
We had traveled so quickly, it's hard to keep track of it all. After Darlene dropped us off, we'd only walked a few miles out of that town and found a quiet church with shelter for the night. But it turned out to be an eventful evening. An old truck pulled up with two big guys in it, asking us a bunch of suspicious questions, but our answers seemed to satisfy them and they left. Just as we were about to lay down, though, a police car pulled up. Someone had seen us and called him. When he heard our story he was sympathetic, but couldn't let us stay there because of the complaint, so he offered to drive us thirteen miles further down the road to another sheltered place there. So we got a ride in the back of a police car (where the door handles don't work). We talked with him more on the way, and when he dropped us off he gave us the last three dollars in his wallet, apologizing that he didn't have more.
That long ride allowed us to reach the next town by evening, after a nice walk through the rolling Georgia countryside, and we found grocery store and a church to sleep at. We attended there the next morning. And met the pastor, Eddie, who invited us home with him for Sunday dinner and a much needed clothes washing. Then back to the church while he prepared for the evening service, where we got to shower in the "bridal suite" (a nicely decorated room for use during weddings). After the service we went home with Eddie and Stacy again for subs and conversation and slept there too. We left the next morning very grateful—and with the further possibility that they might pick us up on their way to the next town later that evening. We were hopeful for that ride, since it was almost 25 miles to the next town, further than we could walk in a day.
As it turned out, we had managed about ten miles when a man on his way home from work offered us a ride in the back of his pick-up. We hesitated, then accepted, a little sorry not to see Eddie and Stacy again. But when we were dropped off and began to look for a church for the night, we had only walked a few blocks when I heard someone call my name. We turned and there was Stacy. She had just dropped Eddie at a meeting and was headed for Americus for dinner, did we want to come along?
So we shared another meal with her and found ourselves in the town we had been headed for. Having moved so far so quickly, however, I didn't know the area. So we wandered, looking for a church, and not finding much, when I thought of the Habitat for Humanity headquarters there in town (Habitat started from Koinonia Farm, and now operates out of Americus). Maybe someone there would point us in a good direction. It was closed when we arrived, but there were some people in the parking lot, so we introduced ourselves and explained our situation. Hearing we were headed for Koinonia, one of the women promptly offered to drive us. So our third ride of the day landed us at our destination.
Our most extreme experience yet of being carried. Over two twenty-five mile stretches which offered little shelter or water, through the hands of a half dozen people we hadn't met before (not to mention the hands that dialed the police to get rid of us). Almost as if someone arranged it. You know, it may not be so bad to be a nobody, as long as you have someone looking out for you...
Americus, GA
We arrived at Koinonia Farm yesterday evening, just as the sun was setting over the fields. Someone came out and welcomed us joyfully, though we were several days early. It was hard to believe we had started the day over 45 miles away.We had traveled so quickly, it's hard to keep track of it all. After Darlene dropped us off, we'd only walked a few miles out of that town and found a quiet church with shelter for the night. But it turned out to be an eventful evening. An old truck pulled up with two big guys in it, asking us a bunch of suspicious questions, but our answers seemed to satisfy them and they left. Just as we were about to lay down, though, a police car pulled up. Someone had seen us and called him. When he heard our story he was sympathetic, but couldn't let us stay there because of the complaint, so he offered to drive us thirteen miles further down the road to another sheltered place there. So we got a ride in the back of a police car (where the door handles don't work). We talked with him more on the way, and when he dropped us off he gave us the last three dollars in his wallet, apologizing that he didn't have more.
That long ride allowed us to reach the next town by evening, after a nice walk through the rolling Georgia countryside, and we found grocery store and a church to sleep at. We attended there the next morning. And met the pastor, Eddie, who invited us home with him for Sunday dinner and a much needed clothes washing. Then back to the church while he prepared for the evening service, where we got to shower in the "bridal suite" (a nicely decorated room for use during weddings). After the service we went home with Eddie and Stacy again for subs and conversation and slept there too. We left the next morning very grateful—and with the further possibility that they might pick us up on their way to the next town later that evening. We were hopeful for that ride, since it was almost 25 miles to the next town, further than we could walk in a day.
As it turned out, we had managed about ten miles when a man on his way home from work offered us a ride in the back of his pick-up. We hesitated, then accepted, a little sorry not to see Eddie and Stacy again. But when we were dropped off and began to look for a church for the night, we had only walked a few blocks when I heard someone call my name. We turned and there was Stacy. She had just dropped Eddie at a meeting and was headed for Americus for dinner, did we want to come along?
So we shared another meal with her and found ourselves in the town we had been headed for. Having moved so far so quickly, however, I didn't know the area. So we wandered, looking for a church, and not finding much, when I thought of the Habitat for Humanity headquarters there in town (Habitat started from Koinonia Farm, and now operates out of Americus). Maybe someone there would point us in a good direction. It was closed when we arrived, but there were some people in the parking lot, so we introduced ourselves and explained our situation. Hearing we were headed for Koinonia, one of the women promptly offered to drive us. So our third ride of the day landed us at our destination.
Our most extreme experience yet of being carried. Over two twenty-five mile stretches which offered little shelter or water, through the hands of a half dozen people we hadn't met before (not to mention the hands that dialed the police to get rid of us). Almost as if someone arranged it. You know, it may not be so bad to be a nobody, as long as you have someone looking out for you...
Monday, October 1, 2007
kindred conversations
And coming up on the present time....
We're now ending a visit with my aunt Alice, and it's been a lovely time. Alice is a missionary counselor, or more precisely "mental health resource person"; her job includes (but I'm sure this is not exhaustive!) psych evaluation of missionary candidates, seminars and one-on-one counseling at conferences of her mission (she just got back from one in Malaysia), debriefing with missionaries returning from the field, crisis interventions, and referring people for long-term counseling in the place where they are. I think it's a fascinating profession; last time I visited I was too young (or too shy?) for such conversation, but on this visit Paul and I really enjoyed talking with her about her work.
We also had a fruitful discussion about our work. The possibilities of retreats at Plow Creek are beginning to seem more concrete to me; we've heard recently that a couple of different living spaces are opening up at Plow Creek, so in any case when we come back it probably won't be to a guestroom! So we're talking about possibilities and plans... one important element is what the schedule of a weekend retreat will look like, and my aunt contributed a suggestion we like better and better the more we think about it. Karen Mains, an author and Christian leader I've read and respected a long time, is currently (in Illinois, too!) leading a new, very simple counseling practice she calls "listening groups." A small group of people meet, and each person is given a set amount of time; twenty or thirty minutes is the norm. During her time, each person is free to talk about whatever she wants to talk about; when she stops talking, the group will sit in prayerful silence till she makes it known she has nothing more to add. Then the group begins asking questions--but only questions of clarification are allowed. No judgments are given, and no advice; the group listens until the person's time is up.
Very, very simple. And yet, as many people know (and as science is beginning to prove--Alice cited medical experiments correlating the experience of being listened to with actual regeneration of brain cells), this can be very healing. We've discussed the idea of having one or even two listening-group sessions at each retreat. It's an important part of our philosophy to listen first to what God is already doing with a person before trying to "minister", so the listening group, besides its healing effect, will give us a chance to listen for the Spirit in each person's life.
We also visited my cousin Madelle and her husband Carlos, who's from Argentina; they lived there until a few years ago when the political crisis and economic depression there convinced them their only option was to move to the U.S. I'd never really spoken to Carlos before (he doesn't speak English and I don't speak Spanish) but Paul and I had a great conversation with them both, Madelle translating, and learned that Carlos worked for years with recovering drug addicts from the rehab center run by his church in Argentina--employing them in his construction business and accompanying them with friendship and Christian wisdom. (Not a thing to be underestimated, especially with addicts. It's the difficulty of walking a straight line with someone pulling in all directions: comforting them in sadness and confronting them when they steal your things, offering honest friendship and refusing unhealthy dependency. You have to be very grounded in your faith.) We learned all this while eating breakfast with them: apple pancake and fascinating stories. And I climbed a tree with their daughters!
Well, I could go on, because the third highlight of my visit is an utterly fascinating book called Spirit of the Rainforest, about the Yanomamo (aka Yanomami) people group of the Amazon; a group my grandparents worked with a branch of, as missionaries. There's been a lot of anthropological study of this people, and missionaries have been widely criticized for changing their culture... and the author of this book apparently went in and gathered and transcribed testimony from the Yanomamo themselves, in an attempt to get the real story. What emerged is--well, like I said, utterly fascinating.
And far too long to recount here! I will therefore return to my attempts to finish the book before leaving tomorrow...
We're now ending a visit with my aunt Alice, and it's been a lovely time. Alice is a missionary counselor, or more precisely "mental health resource person"; her job includes (but I'm sure this is not exhaustive!) psych evaluation of missionary candidates, seminars and one-on-one counseling at conferences of her mission (she just got back from one in Malaysia), debriefing with missionaries returning from the field, crisis interventions, and referring people for long-term counseling in the place where they are. I think it's a fascinating profession; last time I visited I was too young (or too shy?) for such conversation, but on this visit Paul and I really enjoyed talking with her about her work.
We also had a fruitful discussion about our work. The possibilities of retreats at Plow Creek are beginning to seem more concrete to me; we've heard recently that a couple of different living spaces are opening up at Plow Creek, so in any case when we come back it probably won't be to a guestroom! So we're talking about possibilities and plans... one important element is what the schedule of a weekend retreat will look like, and my aunt contributed a suggestion we like better and better the more we think about it. Karen Mains, an author and Christian leader I've read and respected a long time, is currently (in Illinois, too!) leading a new, very simple counseling practice she calls "listening groups." A small group of people meet, and each person is given a set amount of time; twenty or thirty minutes is the norm. During her time, each person is free to talk about whatever she wants to talk about; when she stops talking, the group will sit in prayerful silence till she makes it known she has nothing more to add. Then the group begins asking questions--but only questions of clarification are allowed. No judgments are given, and no advice; the group listens until the person's time is up.
Very, very simple. And yet, as many people know (and as science is beginning to prove--Alice cited medical experiments correlating the experience of being listened to with actual regeneration of brain cells), this can be very healing. We've discussed the idea of having one or even two listening-group sessions at each retreat. It's an important part of our philosophy to listen first to what God is already doing with a person before trying to "minister", so the listening group, besides its healing effect, will give us a chance to listen for the Spirit in each person's life.
We also visited my cousin Madelle and her husband Carlos, who's from Argentina; they lived there until a few years ago when the political crisis and economic depression there convinced them their only option was to move to the U.S. I'd never really spoken to Carlos before (he doesn't speak English and I don't speak Spanish) but Paul and I had a great conversation with them both, Madelle translating, and learned that Carlos worked for years with recovering drug addicts from the rehab center run by his church in Argentina--employing them in his construction business and accompanying them with friendship and Christian wisdom. (Not a thing to be underestimated, especially with addicts. It's the difficulty of walking a straight line with someone pulling in all directions: comforting them in sadness and confronting them when they steal your things, offering honest friendship and refusing unhealthy dependency. You have to be very grounded in your faith.) We learned all this while eating breakfast with them: apple pancake and fascinating stories. And I climbed a tree with their daughters!
Well, I could go on, because the third highlight of my visit is an utterly fascinating book called Spirit of the Rainforest, about the Yanomamo (aka Yanomami) people group of the Amazon; a group my grandparents worked with a branch of, as missionaries. There's been a lot of anthropological study of this people, and missionaries have been widely criticized for changing their culture... and the author of this book apparently went in and gathered and transcribed testimony from the Yanomamo themselves, in an attempt to get the real story. What emerged is--well, like I said, utterly fascinating.
And far too long to recount here! I will therefore return to my attempts to finish the book before leaving tomorrow...
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Pastor Lobe
And now for the story of our last ride... well latest, hopefully not last!
We came to the library in Piedmont, Georgia, a little storefront place. We left our sticks in a bush outside, and walked in where it was cool; I signed up for a computer and sat down at it, beside an older African-American man who looked curiously at my pack. Well, at least I thought he was African-American.
He asked me--I kid you not--if I was walking to Florida! "How did you know?" said I.
"Well, I saw you two out there with your walking sticks, and I just had a feeling you were walking to Florida."
He asked us why, and I explained. He loved it, said he was a Christian too, he loved that we were doing this. By this time it was really obvious that his accent wasn't American; this was a genuine African. "Where in Africa are you from?" I asked.
"Cameroon."
"Oh," I said easily (it was the first thing that came to mind, of course, "my great-grandparents were missionaries there."
No way, says he, astonished and (though I couldn't tell) skeptical. He brings out a little map of Africa (on a "Pray for Africa" conference brochure) and asks me to point to Cameroon. Well I knew it was right to the east of Nigeria, but I almost pointed to Chad! I took a closer look, though, and got it right. Good thing, because he told me later that was a test to see if my great-grandparents were *really* missionaries there.
Well he wanted to help us then; to feed us, to drive us to our next destination. Your great-grandparents were missionaries to my country, he kept saying, "and now it's pay-back time." He told us all about himself on the way to his house; his name is Pastor Lobe and he's a missionary to America and hoped to start a small Bible-school in the storefront next to the library. He served us stuff I learned to eat in Nigeria: a stiff porridge of cassava flour that you take in little balls in your fingers and dip in the "soup", a sauce made of greens and boiled okra and seasoning and, if there is any, meat. (There was a lot more chicken in his soup than I ever saw in Nigeria!) He started out with a spoon, to be polite to our American sensibilities, but I without thinking took the stuff in my hands as I'd been taught, and he was delighted. Brought back memories...
He decided to drive us all the way to Jubilee Partners, our next destination. Jubilee is a Christian community that welcomes refugees and eases their transition into the U.S by giving them a safe and free place to live for the first few months, teaching them English and other basic skills (handling of money, dealing with bureaucracy, whatever part of the American experience they didn't have back home!), and working with them on any medical or legal problems. (Jubilee works with refugee-placement agencies, which themselves take care of placement of the refugees when they leave Jubilee.) Refugees come from all over; there are four families from Burundi right now, one from Chad, and two from Burma. (Yes they might feel funny around each other, but they'll have to become culture-flexible to survive in a foreign country, especially this one, so it's a start I guess.) More about Jubilee in the next post.
When we told Pastor Lobe about Jubilee he loved the idea; he wished the church would be more like that in general, both in terms of sharing their goods and living communally and in terms of helping others; he wanted to see this place. So he drove us seventy-five miles southwest, and we got there in time for supper, when they were expecting us; they welcomed us gladly and invited us all to come down to the Welcome Center--the little cluster of houses where the refugees live--to welcome two new families and give Pastor Lobe a chance to see with his own eyes and speak French with the Chadians.
We went down; we went from house to house with the lady in charge of medical issues, collecting the new people's medical forms; then suddenly, at one house, we were invited in. A large table, and around it almost all Africans; the families from Burundi, from Chad, Pastor Lobe, and then me and Paul and two Jubilee folks. A young man got us chairs, gave us Cokes and Fantas; a young girl started a song, and someone began to clap. They clapped faster, they sang louder, two men got up and danced. Ah, memories! They sang--we all sang, when the words were simple, though they were in Kirundi--we clapped, we swayed, though there was no more dancing. I was so glad for Paul to get a taste of Africa, though I couldn't take him to Nigeria with me. Then Pastor Lobe stood up and began to preach!
He preached in French; one of the Burundi men translated into Kirundi and I into English. The words were simple and the message short and basic--praise God, trust God; and then he prayed. The people around the table seemed to love it. As we stood and got ready to leave, he was holding a conference with the Kirundi about how they could organize their own African worship service sometime. One of the Jubilee folks gave him the phone number to call for permission, since Jubilee needs to screen visitors to the refugees; though someone like Pastor Lobe is obviously OK, the dangers of not screening are obvious. So... we'll see what happens, but God does wild things sometimes. Maybe part of what he has out here for is to connect people. I'm not sure how else Pastor Lobe could have found Jubilee!
We came to the library in Piedmont, Georgia, a little storefront place. We left our sticks in a bush outside, and walked in where it was cool; I signed up for a computer and sat down at it, beside an older African-American man who looked curiously at my pack. Well, at least I thought he was African-American.
He asked me--I kid you not--if I was walking to Florida! "How did you know?" said I.
"Well, I saw you two out there with your walking sticks, and I just had a feeling you were walking to Florida."
He asked us why, and I explained. He loved it, said he was a Christian too, he loved that we were doing this. By this time it was really obvious that his accent wasn't American; this was a genuine African. "Where in Africa are you from?" I asked.
"Cameroon."
"Oh," I said easily (it was the first thing that came to mind, of course, "my great-grandparents were missionaries there."
No way, says he, astonished and (though I couldn't tell) skeptical. He brings out a little map of Africa (on a "Pray for Africa" conference brochure) and asks me to point to Cameroon. Well I knew it was right to the east of Nigeria, but I almost pointed to Chad! I took a closer look, though, and got it right. Good thing, because he told me later that was a test to see if my great-grandparents were *really* missionaries there.
Well he wanted to help us then; to feed us, to drive us to our next destination. Your great-grandparents were missionaries to my country, he kept saying, "and now it's pay-back time." He told us all about himself on the way to his house; his name is Pastor Lobe and he's a missionary to America and hoped to start a small Bible-school in the storefront next to the library. He served us stuff I learned to eat in Nigeria: a stiff porridge of cassava flour that you take in little balls in your fingers and dip in the "soup", a sauce made of greens and boiled okra and seasoning and, if there is any, meat. (There was a lot more chicken in his soup than I ever saw in Nigeria!) He started out with a spoon, to be polite to our American sensibilities, but I without thinking took the stuff in my hands as I'd been taught, and he was delighted. Brought back memories...
He decided to drive us all the way to Jubilee Partners, our next destination. Jubilee is a Christian community that welcomes refugees and eases their transition into the U.S by giving them a safe and free place to live for the first few months, teaching them English and other basic skills (handling of money, dealing with bureaucracy, whatever part of the American experience they didn't have back home!), and working with them on any medical or legal problems. (Jubilee works with refugee-placement agencies, which themselves take care of placement of the refugees when they leave Jubilee.) Refugees come from all over; there are four families from Burundi right now, one from Chad, and two from Burma. (Yes they might feel funny around each other, but they'll have to become culture-flexible to survive in a foreign country, especially this one, so it's a start I guess.) More about Jubilee in the next post.
When we told Pastor Lobe about Jubilee he loved the idea; he wished the church would be more like that in general, both in terms of sharing their goods and living communally and in terms of helping others; he wanted to see this place. So he drove us seventy-five miles southwest, and we got there in time for supper, when they were expecting us; they welcomed us gladly and invited us all to come down to the Welcome Center--the little cluster of houses where the refugees live--to welcome two new families and give Pastor Lobe a chance to see with his own eyes and speak French with the Chadians.
We went down; we went from house to house with the lady in charge of medical issues, collecting the new people's medical forms; then suddenly, at one house, we were invited in. A large table, and around it almost all Africans; the families from Burundi, from Chad, Pastor Lobe, and then me and Paul and two Jubilee folks. A young man got us chairs, gave us Cokes and Fantas; a young girl started a song, and someone began to clap. They clapped faster, they sang louder, two men got up and danced. Ah, memories! They sang--we all sang, when the words were simple, though they were in Kirundi--we clapped, we swayed, though there was no more dancing. I was so glad for Paul to get a taste of Africa, though I couldn't take him to Nigeria with me. Then Pastor Lobe stood up and began to preach!
He preached in French; one of the Burundi men translated into Kirundi and I into English. The words were simple and the message short and basic--praise God, trust God; and then he prayed. The people around the table seemed to love it. As we stood and got ready to leave, he was holding a conference with the Kirundi about how they could organize their own African worship service sometime. One of the Jubilee folks gave him the phone number to call for permission, since Jubilee needs to screen visitors to the refugees; though someone like Pastor Lobe is obviously OK, the dangers of not screening are obvious. So... we'll see what happens, but God does wild things sometimes. Maybe part of what he has out here for is to connect people. I'm not sure how else Pastor Lobe could have found Jubilee!
Thursday, September 27, 2007
a place of homeness
We visited with our friends Luke and Sarah for several days... We hadn't actually met them face to face before, but Paul and Sarah had interacted on a web forum where people discuss Christianity & politics (politics usually comes out on the losing end!) and had arranged a visit since they were practically on our path. They live in a nice little place, back a ways from the road, surround by the South Carolina woods, and have two little daughters and a baby son.
I was fascinated to hear about their intellectual and faith journey; they had come from believing in Christian Reconstructionism (a school of thought that essentially thinks Christians ought to be in charge of the government enforcing Old Testament laws on everyone) to a position where they believe that, as Sara put it, "Jesus and the State occupy the same space, and you have to choose where your allegiance lies." I have to say; I know all y'all (as they say down here!) won't necessarily be in agreement, but I am not willing to salute the flag anymore nor sing the national anthem. Sara has a point: these rituals, however disguised by what passes for common-sense, are rituals of worship. That they are truly worship is borne out by the fact that the State we're thus pledging to is the only entity in our lives that can order us to kill without incurring the moral condemnation of everybody we know. (I hope that sentence made sense! And again, not trying to be inflammatory, it just seemed relevant when talking about Sara and Luke to mention where I agree with them.)
We passed some happy days there, playing with the children (in the photo their oldest daughter Virginia is helping Paul hang up clothes), drinking tea and talking, helping with their chickens & organic garden, etc... Sara and I prepared a new bed that will be planted in the spring, using the organic "no-dig method". (I love it! How could you not love something called the "no-dig" method? Only thing better would be the "no-work-at-all" method!) We covered the alloted space first with fertilizing materials--compost & chicken manure/bedding (you have to use the bedding, b/c the most fertile stuff is actually the urine!)--then overlaid them with two or three layers of cardboard. This had to be food packaging, because that's the only way of guaranteeing the absence of toxic chemicals. Then enough leaf-mold (slightly decayed leaves) to make it look like a big leaf-pile! Then stack a few falled branches log-cabin style around the bed to make a raised edge, and voila! Wait till spring. The earthworms (or, in SC, fire-ants--can you believe they can be beneficial?) will be attracted to your compost & fertilizer, surface into it, eat it (in whatever stage of decomposition they prefer), and go back underground, fertilizing and aerating the soil as they go. After several months of this, your fertilizer will be nicely mixed into your soil in a far better way than you could have done--a way that aerates the soil rather than compacting it and killing your beneficial fungi and bacteria, as digging does--and all the plants that used to be there will be dead and decayed thanks to your cardboard cutting off their light. (The cardboard also rots, you don't need to remove it.) Continue placing fertilizer (compost, manure) and mulch (straw, leaf-mold) on the surface every year, and the process continues; your soil gets healthier every year.
Yeah, I know; that was a bit long if you're not into gardening! I guess I'm just so excited about what I learn about this stuff; and as Paul points out, when I learn something I immediately want to teach it.
And, well... we just had a lovely time putting our feet under the same table and talking endlessly, and having family communion with them, and eating Sara's cookies, and... the last night about summed it up. For Luke's birthday we'd had a cookout and then a campfire, and after the neighbors they'd invited had left we stayed around the fire together and began to sing folk-songs. Sara sang one they'd written together for their children:
Refrain:
Sing O merry day
Brother Sun, lend your ray
Smile upon this happy morn
For to us a babe is born
And you, child, shall be called
Beloved of the Most High God
To join the ever-youthful throng
A singer of hosanna's song
Refrain
Take up your palm and shepherd's staff
Beckon the lion, bear and calf
Lead them to that holy hill
Where none shall ever hurt or kill
Refrain
The Prince of Peace has ridden by
And thrown down mountains lifted high
And raised the lowly, poor and least
To sit beside him at his feast.
Refrain
The battle's won, so run and play
Teach us to put our swords away
And lift our hands to take instead
A kingdom in this broken bread.
This is posted with Sara's permission and if you really like it and want to know the tune, call me and I'll sing it to you! (Or maybe I'll figure out a way to record it and post it up here.)
So we sat there together, in the glow of the fire, listening to each other's songs, and I felt a sense of... homeness. We live far from each other, and will only see each other now and then; but still we remind each other of what our true Home is like; and we will live there together someday.
I was fascinated to hear about their intellectual and faith journey; they had come from believing in Christian Reconstructionism (a school of thought that essentially thinks Christians ought to be in charge of the government enforcing Old Testament laws on everyone) to a position where they believe that, as Sara put it, "Jesus and the State occupy the same space, and you have to choose where your allegiance lies." I have to say; I know all y'all (as they say down here!) won't necessarily be in agreement, but I am not willing to salute the flag anymore nor sing the national anthem. Sara has a point: these rituals, however disguised by what passes for common-sense, are rituals of worship. That they are truly worship is borne out by the fact that the State we're thus pledging to is the only entity in our lives that can order us to kill without incurring the moral condemnation of everybody we know. (I hope that sentence made sense! And again, not trying to be inflammatory, it just seemed relevant when talking about Sara and Luke to mention where I agree with them.)
We passed some happy days there, playing with the children (in the photo their oldest daughter Virginia is helping Paul hang up clothes), drinking tea and talking, helping with their chickens & organic garden, etc... Sara and I prepared a new bed that will be planted in the spring, using the organic "no-dig method". (I love it! How could you not love something called the "no-dig" method? Only thing better would be the "no-work-at-all" method!) We covered the alloted space first with fertilizing materials--compost & chicken manure/bedding (you have to use the bedding, b/c the most fertile stuff is actually the urine!)--then overlaid them with two or three layers of cardboard. This had to be food packaging, because that's the only way of guaranteeing the absence of toxic chemicals. Then enough leaf-mold (slightly decayed leaves) to make it look like a big leaf-pile! Then stack a few falled branches log-cabin style around the bed to make a raised edge, and voila! Wait till spring. The earthworms (or, in SC, fire-ants--can you believe they can be beneficial?) will be attracted to your compost & fertilizer, surface into it, eat it (in whatever stage of decomposition they prefer), and go back underground, fertilizing and aerating the soil as they go. After several months of this, your fertilizer will be nicely mixed into your soil in a far better way than you could have done--a way that aerates the soil rather than compacting it and killing your beneficial fungi and bacteria, as digging does--and all the plants that used to be there will be dead and decayed thanks to your cardboard cutting off their light. (The cardboard also rots, you don't need to remove it.) Continue placing fertilizer (compost, manure) and mulch (straw, leaf-mold) on the surface every year, and the process continues; your soil gets healthier every year.Yeah, I know; that was a bit long if you're not into gardening! I guess I'm just so excited about what I learn about this stuff; and as Paul points out, when I learn something I immediately want to teach it.
And, well... we just had a lovely time putting our feet under the same table and talking endlessly, and having family communion with them, and eating Sara's cookies, and... the last night about summed it up. For Luke's birthday we'd had a cookout and then a campfire, and after the neighbors they'd invited had left we stayed around the fire together and began to sing folk-songs. Sara sang one they'd written together for their children:
Refrain:
Sing O merry day
Brother Sun, lend your ray
Smile upon this happy morn
For to us a babe is born
And you, child, shall be called
Beloved of the Most High God
To join the ever-youthful throng
A singer of hosanna's song
Refrain
Take up your palm and shepherd's staff
Beckon the lion, bear and calf
Lead them to that holy hill
Where none shall ever hurt or kill
Refrain
The Prince of Peace has ridden by
And thrown down mountains lifted high
And raised the lowly, poor and least
To sit beside him at his feast.
Refrain
The battle's won, so run and play
Teach us to put our swords away
And lift our hands to take instead
A kingdom in this broken bread.
This is posted with Sara's permission and if you really like it and want to know the tune, call me and I'll sing it to you! (Or maybe I'll figure out a way to record it and post it up here.)
So we sat there together, in the glow of the fire, listening to each other's songs, and I felt a sense of... homeness. We live far from each other, and will only see each other now and then; but still we remind each other of what our true Home is like; and we will live there together someday.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
the time of rides
The next stretch of our journey (yes, I'm still playing catch-up) could be characterized by on word: rides. It started in Uwharrie Forest, actually; we (perhaps ill-advisedly) decided to try, for the first time, deliberately walking at night. An hour past sundown would, according to Paul's map search of the day, take us to another church, and we dearly did want to go farther that night because the next day promised to be a scorcher and we'd have to walk thirteen miles before we hit a library. (Numbers of miles have become as eloquent for us as numbered hours of sleep for college students: thirteen means you'll have to walk past noon, until maybe two o'clock. We aim for eight, which will get you there by eleven.) We started walking, and it grew full dark, cars passing by us in bright flashes. (Don't worry, Dad, we were on the far side of a wide shoulder & I was behind Paul who had his reflector-vest on!) We walked and we walked, and just as we were beginning to wonder, a red pick-up truck slowed down beside us. A country-lookin' guy was at the wheel, and kids in the back of the extended cab. He offered us a ride in the bed. We jumped in.
I asked Paul, who hair was flying in the wind, if he wanted a hair-tie. He thought I was just being nice. When we got to the next town (you know, the place thirteen miles away?) he spent half an hour combing his hair!
That was the first ride. The second was the next day, a guy who was "a little short on good deeds for the day" and going all the way to Charlotte. He knocked out at least three days' walk for us. That night, a Wednesday night, we went to a Baptist church service and a lady invited us home to use her basement guest-apartment for the night, and bought us Wendy's burgers on the way. A day or two later (it's all running together!) we stopped at another church for the night and met a bunch of mothers coming out of a baby-shower. They called the pastor and his wife said no, we couldn't sleep there (our first outright refusal; but of course she wasn't looking at us) and the women got to work on an alternate plan. This was one bunch of mothers who weren't interested in saying "no, go away, you're not our problem"! Also they claimed to find it interesting and exciting, when I'd been worried we were just another thing to deal with; I think they were telling the truth, because when they did find us a place the whole bunch followed us there to settle us in! They found us the pastor of a Pentecostal church one of the women attended, someone who was more interested in folks with needs. They drove us to his church, (where there was a recovery group going on just then,) and led out to the cabin out back in the woods, where we would sleep. (Later the pastor showed up, and at his proposal we opted for a church van instead, because of the mosquitoes.)
And from this pastor we got the last ride in this dizzying array. It was his day off tomorrow, he said, why not drive us all the way to Gaffney? He offered, and drove, with an ease that suggested that yet again we weren't just another thing to deal with. He told us about the two young sons he and his wife adopted a few years back, young enough to be their grandchildren; taken by DCFS from a niece or nephew, I believe, who is on drugs and unwilling to quit. We discussed adoption, and the new policy, which seems to be (we met others this has happened to on this trip) to try to place a child for fostering and adoption within that child's extended family. (I approve.) We discussed the difficulties involved with drug addicts, and agreed about the right thing to do: to offer relentlessly the kind of help (and in abundance) that they truly need, refusing them the help they think they need--the covering-up, the bailing-out, all the support that makes the drug lifestyle sustainable. It's not sustainable. They need to know that. We told him about our ministry, and he was glad.
Then he dropped us off at the library, and within two hours our friend Sarah, with whom we were planning a visit, had picked us up.
I asked Paul, who hair was flying in the wind, if he wanted a hair-tie. He thought I was just being nice. When we got to the next town (you know, the place thirteen miles away?) he spent half an hour combing his hair!
That was the first ride. The second was the next day, a guy who was "a little short on good deeds for the day" and going all the way to Charlotte. He knocked out at least three days' walk for us. That night, a Wednesday night, we went to a Baptist church service and a lady invited us home to use her basement guest-apartment for the night, and bought us Wendy's burgers on the way. A day or two later (it's all running together!) we stopped at another church for the night and met a bunch of mothers coming out of a baby-shower. They called the pastor and his wife said no, we couldn't sleep there (our first outright refusal; but of course she wasn't looking at us) and the women got to work on an alternate plan. This was one bunch of mothers who weren't interested in saying "no, go away, you're not our problem"! Also they claimed to find it interesting and exciting, when I'd been worried we were just another thing to deal with; I think they were telling the truth, because when they did find us a place the whole bunch followed us there to settle us in! They found us the pastor of a Pentecostal church one of the women attended, someone who was more interested in folks with needs. They drove us to his church, (where there was a recovery group going on just then,) and led out to the cabin out back in the woods, where we would sleep. (Later the pastor showed up, and at his proposal we opted for a church van instead, because of the mosquitoes.)
And from this pastor we got the last ride in this dizzying array. It was his day off tomorrow, he said, why not drive us all the way to Gaffney? He offered, and drove, with an ease that suggested that yet again we weren't just another thing to deal with. He told us about the two young sons he and his wife adopted a few years back, young enough to be their grandchildren; taken by DCFS from a niece or nephew, I believe, who is on drugs and unwilling to quit. We discussed adoption, and the new policy, which seems to be (we met others this has happened to on this trip) to try to place a child for fostering and adoption within that child's extended family. (I approve.) We discussed the difficulties involved with drug addicts, and agreed about the right thing to do: to offer relentlessly the kind of help (and in abundance) that they truly need, refusing them the help they think they need--the covering-up, the bailing-out, all the support that makes the drug lifestyle sustainable. It's not sustainable. They need to know that. We told him about our ministry, and he was glad.
Then he dropped us off at the library, and within two hours our friend Sarah, with whom we were planning a visit, had picked us up.
Friday, September 21, 2007
whap
We were walking down the road in Uwharrie State Forest, cars passing by us (coming toward us of course, since we were walking on the left side of the road as we should) when suddenly...
WHAP!
Something hit me on the shoulder; I flinched away from the force of it, thinking: beer bottle? rear-view mirror? THEY HIT ME! All this within the space of a second; then I had turned to look after the car, which sped away--it had never slowed down--offering no clue. The object had fallen in the road.
A half-full package of Gummi Life Savers.
We picked it up and walked on down the road, speculating: did someone throw this at us? Try to give it to us? Intentional whapping or charitable impulse? My shoulder was still stinging. A lot of people don't realize how fast they're going, or how that affects someone who's just walking. We've had quite a few people yell out their windows at us as they go by; we catch a loud syllable "O" or "Ah" or "Eyy," and the car's flashed past before we can turn our heads, and we continue walking, speculating on whether it was hostile or friendly. (Once, an exception, we caught the full word "hippies." Still weren't sure if it was hostile or friendly.)
We did exactly that. We walked on down the road, the package of gummies swinging from my hand, speculating: did they throw it at us? Try to hand it to us? Did some kid toss it out the window to spite her brother? If it was a charitable act, did they hear the WHAP and feel stupid? My shoulder had stopped stinging by now. "Oh well," I said. "These look good."
And they were.
WHAP!
Something hit me on the shoulder; I flinched away from the force of it, thinking: beer bottle? rear-view mirror? THEY HIT ME! All this within the space of a second; then I had turned to look after the car, which sped away--it had never slowed down--offering no clue. The object had fallen in the road.
A half-full package of Gummi Life Savers.
We picked it up and walked on down the road, speculating: did someone throw this at us? Try to give it to us? Intentional whapping or charitable impulse? My shoulder was still stinging. A lot of people don't realize how fast they're going, or how that affects someone who's just walking. We've had quite a few people yell out their windows at us as they go by; we catch a loud syllable "O" or "Ah" or "Eyy," and the car's flashed past before we can turn our heads, and we continue walking, speculating on whether it was hostile or friendly. (Once, an exception, we caught the full word "hippies." Still weren't sure if it was hostile or friendly.)
We did exactly that. We walked on down the road, the package of gummies swinging from my hand, speculating: did they throw it at us? Try to hand it to us? Did some kid toss it out the window to spite her brother? If it was a charitable act, did they hear the WHAP and feel stupid? My shoulder had stopped stinging by now. "Oh well," I said. "These look good."
And they were.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
witness
I had another privilege at Tom's: speaking about God to someone who is, I think, in some way searching.
She was a college student who's paid by some government agency to help with Tom's son, Slate, who has cerebral palsy; she spent an afternoon at Tom's place with us, taking Slate outside for a walk and playing Candy-Land with him, and then stayed for supper as well.
She asked me why we were doing this walk. I have an array of short answers for that question ("It's a pilgrimage" "It's a faith walk" "It's kind of a spiritual thing...") and tend to pick the one that I think will be accessible to the asker, and watch their eyes to see if they're interested and I should explain more fully. (Or if they looked interested in the first place, I give them my favorite: "Well, we just got real excited about how Jesus sent his disciples out with not much and told them God would take care of them, and he says seek first the kingdom of God and your needs will be provided for, so we wanted to try it.") I think I told her it was sort of a spiritual thing, and then launched into the longer answer above; she looked surprised and a little intrigued, and didn't say anything more at that point.
But later she initiated a conversation about church. She used to attend as a kid, and was thinking of attending again but didn't know where to go. She queried me about my denomination (a bit hard to answer, but the Plow Creek church is Mennonite so I say that if they really want a denomination) and about denominations I'd recommend. I'm not very good at that, so it was a bit inconclusive... but later, as I sat at Tom's computer working on my book, she started the conversation up again. It was strange and interesting to her, she said, to meet people who took God so seriously. Everyone she knew mostly went to church and then didn't think about it anymore. That got us going a little more!
I told her about my year and a half of doubting, and how the question of whether God existed seemed like most important question in the world. I tried to explain why it seemed so important, why I could hardly imagine not taking it seriously. Tom came in at some point and the three of us kept talking--about heaven and hell, about judgmental churches, about taking God seriously. About her choice of a church, which she was still interested in; about feeling the presence of God in a church meeting and how you know it's real. That's the moment that imprinted itself on my mind: Tom and I, both from our different experiences, telling this girl with calm certainty that yes, sometimes you do experience the real presence of God, so much so that everyone in the room knows it, and we've experienced that. She seemed like someone who didn't need to be told theology she already knew, but simply needed someone to bear witness: this is real, I've seen, this is the most important thing there is.
And that's what we're supposed to do, I think. Bear witness.
She was a college student who's paid by some government agency to help with Tom's son, Slate, who has cerebral palsy; she spent an afternoon at Tom's place with us, taking Slate outside for a walk and playing Candy-Land with him, and then stayed for supper as well.
She asked me why we were doing this walk. I have an array of short answers for that question ("It's a pilgrimage" "It's a faith walk" "It's kind of a spiritual thing...") and tend to pick the one that I think will be accessible to the asker, and watch their eyes to see if they're interested and I should explain more fully. (Or if they looked interested in the first place, I give them my favorite: "Well, we just got real excited about how Jesus sent his disciples out with not much and told them God would take care of them, and he says seek first the kingdom of God and your needs will be provided for, so we wanted to try it.") I think I told her it was sort of a spiritual thing, and then launched into the longer answer above; she looked surprised and a little intrigued, and didn't say anything more at that point.
But later she initiated a conversation about church. She used to attend as a kid, and was thinking of attending again but didn't know where to go. She queried me about my denomination (a bit hard to answer, but the Plow Creek church is Mennonite so I say that if they really want a denomination) and about denominations I'd recommend. I'm not very good at that, so it was a bit inconclusive... but later, as I sat at Tom's computer working on my book, she started the conversation up again. It was strange and interesting to her, she said, to meet people who took God so seriously. Everyone she knew mostly went to church and then didn't think about it anymore. That got us going a little more!
I told her about my year and a half of doubting, and how the question of whether God existed seemed like most important question in the world. I tried to explain why it seemed so important, why I could hardly imagine not taking it seriously. Tom came in at some point and the three of us kept talking--about heaven and hell, about judgmental churches, about taking God seriously. About her choice of a church, which she was still interested in; about feeling the presence of God in a church meeting and how you know it's real. That's the moment that imprinted itself on my mind: Tom and I, both from our different experiences, telling this girl with calm certainty that yes, sometimes you do experience the real presence of God, so much so that everyone in the room knows it, and we've experienced that. She seemed like someone who didn't need to be told theology she already knew, but simply needed someone to bear witness: this is real, I've seen, this is the most important thing there is.
And that's what we're supposed to do, I think. Bear witness.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
at the potter's house
Seagrove, North Carolina is a sort of mecca for potters--apparently it started because of the local clay (though most of the potters there now get their clay from places like New Jersey!) Paul has a friend there, Tom Gray, who's a potter; we visited him over a long weekend, and enjoyed ourselves enormously. Not only do I love pottery, but Tom is also a wonderful cook and interesting to talk to, and has a big thing about table fellowship--or "putting your feet under the same table" as he calls it.
He made us some excellent pizza, with all fresh ingredients from the garden, and we ate on lovely glazed pottery plates, all different. The next night he made pot roast--also excellent--and the night after that he inspired Paul to try a new thing: French bread! True French bread is an extremely simple recipe--flour, yeast, salt and water--but the texture, that hard crusty outside and light fluffy inside, is hard to get. French bakers (and French people never make their own bread, by the way, they leave it to the experts) have ovens that blow steam over the bread at intervals. The way to approximate this at home is with a simple spray bottle and some water; spray into the oven and it turns into steam. Paul did it, and I was astonished at the result. It was genuine!
That same day Tom had let me do something that was a help to him and a privilege for me--I made pottery. I, Heather, who've never touched a wheel, actually made pottery to sell! It sounds impossible, but there are two kinds of pottery: the turned work made on the wheel, and "slab work." (Try to imagine making a square platter on a wheel, and you'll see why there's two kinds of pottery!) With slab work, you use a roller to create a slab of clay, then lay it over a plaster mold to give it its shape, smooth it down onto the mold, and leave it to dry. When it's dry you pop it off the mold and voila! (As the French say.) Ready for the first firing. After which you put on a mix of chemicals that will react in the heat of the second firing to produce the colors and effects you want. (I didn't do that part. Of course.) With slab work the important thing is not skill but carefulness, which makes it tedious for experienced potters and easy for beginners. So Tom and I both got the good end of the deal.
Here, Paul is putting scrap clay through a machine that compresses it into a long cylinder like the one in front of me; I'm flattening the cylinder by whapping it on the table. (The cooks kneading the dough!) Behind me is a sort of wringer where you put the clay through between two rollers, flattening it uniformly into the thickness you want; farther behind me is a shelf covered with the white plaster molds made by Tom for this kind of work.
Here I'm smoothing the clay down on the mold with a wet sponge; then after I trim off the edges there I am with the "finished" product, a deep squarish plate. I made fifteen different pieces, mostly this same shape, while chatting with Tom and Paul, listening to Third Day, and drinking Pepsi. What could be more fun?
He made us some excellent pizza, with all fresh ingredients from the garden, and we ate on lovely glazed pottery plates, all different. The next night he made pot roast--also excellent--and the night after that he inspired Paul to try a new thing: French bread! True French bread is an extremely simple recipe--flour, yeast, salt and water--but the texture, that hard crusty outside and light fluffy inside, is hard to get. French bakers (and French people never make their own bread, by the way, they leave it to the experts) have ovens that blow steam over the bread at intervals. The way to approximate this at home is with a simple spray bottle and some water; spray into the oven and it turns into steam. Paul did it, and I was astonished at the result. It was genuine!
That same day Tom had let me do something that was a help to him and a privilege for me--I made pottery. I, Heather, who've never touched a wheel, actually made pottery to sell! It sounds impossible, but there are two kinds of pottery: the turned work made on the wheel, and "slab work." (Try to imagine making a square platter on a wheel, and you'll see why there's two kinds of pottery!) With slab work, you use a roller to create a slab of clay, then lay it over a plaster mold to give it its shape, smooth it down onto the mold, and leave it to dry. When it's dry you pop it off the mold and voila! (As the French say.) Ready for the first firing. After which you put on a mix of chemicals that will react in the heat of the second firing to produce the colors and effects you want. (I didn't do that part. Of course.) With slab work the important thing is not skill but carefulness, which makes it tedious for experienced potters and easy for beginners. So Tom and I both got the good end of the deal.
Here, Paul is putting scrap clay through a machine that compresses it into a long cylinder like the one in front of me; I'm flattening the cylinder by whapping it on the table. (The cooks kneading the dough!) Behind me is a sort of wringer where you put the clay through between two rollers, flattening it uniformly into the thickness you want; farther behind me is a shelf covered with the white plaster molds made by Tom for this kind of work.
Here I'm smoothing the clay down on the mold with a wet sponge; then after I trim off the edges there I am with the "finished" product, a deep squarish plate. I made fifteen different pieces, mostly this same shape, while chatting with Tom and Paul, listening to Third Day, and drinking Pepsi. What could be more fun?
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
the nameless church
Then we visited our friends Ryan & Ashley and Ian & Jamie, two young couples who live together in a big house and are part of an emerging-church group that, last time we saw them, didn't yet have a name--hence the "nameless church." We stayed with them over Labor Day weekend, eating more hamburgers than we've eaten on the trip yet! (Somehow it seemed like everybody organized a cookout on a different day, and we made it to most of them...) We hung out, rested, I worked some more on the book... We watched "Little Miss Sunshine," a truly hilarious movie about a family of disparate eccentrics who go on a long road-trip in an old Volkswagen van without a starter, in hopes of arriving on time for the Little Miss Sunshine contest that their little daughter has qualified for. Every time they start the van there's a scene of them all pushing it and then running to catch up to it, jumping in the side door one after the other...
The really funny thing is that Ryan and Ashley recently acquired and took a road trip in, you guessed it... an old Volkswagen van without a starter! Just for kicks on our last night there we decided to drive the van to Carle's, the most famous of Fredericksburg ice cream places, (where Dan and Hannah had also taken us our first night there!) for some ice cream. We had a great re-enactment of all those movie scenes right there in the street, jumping in the door breathless and laughing, the entertainment of the evening for everyone who saw us.
Ashley had a book about knitting lying around, and I got interested (my mom taught me when I was little but I'd long forgotten how) and Ashley gave me a refresher course--and some needles and yarn! So now I have something to do with myself if I'm stuck with no library and no book...
We left Fredericksburg by bus. We'd been planning this for awhile; we'd been noting that we weren't moving south fast enough, and even though in this weather it seems hard to believe, we weren't staying ahead of the winter as we needed to. So... with some money some generous people earlier in the trip had given us, we took the bus from Fredericksburg, VA to Greensboro, NC, and saved ourselves about a month of walking. I watched from the bus window as the first few scattered jack pines among the woods began to take over, and the dirt turned reddish; I saw my first redbud and my first magnolia. Back in the South. It's been a long time.
The really funny thing is that Ryan and Ashley recently acquired and took a road trip in, you guessed it... an old Volkswagen van without a starter! Just for kicks on our last night there we decided to drive the van to Carle's, the most famous of Fredericksburg ice cream places, (where Dan and Hannah had also taken us our first night there!) for some ice cream. We had a great re-enactment of all those movie scenes right there in the street, jumping in the door breathless and laughing, the entertainment of the evening for everyone who saw us.Ashley had a book about knitting lying around, and I got interested (my mom taught me when I was little but I'd long forgotten how) and Ashley gave me a refresher course--and some needles and yarn! So now I have something to do with myself if I'm stuck with no library and no book...
We left Fredericksburg by bus. We'd been planning this for awhile; we'd been noting that we weren't moving south fast enough, and even though in this weather it seems hard to believe, we weren't staying ahead of the winter as we needed to. So... with some money some generous people earlier in the trip had given us, we took the bus from Fredericksburg, VA to Greensboro, NC, and saved ourselves about a month of walking. I watched from the bus window as the first few scattered jack pines among the woods began to take over, and the dirt turned reddish; I saw my first redbud and my first magnolia. Back in the South. It's been a long time.
Monday, September 10, 2007
my inner geek
Then we took the commuter train down to Fredericksburg and had a visit with good friends from College, Dan and Hannah. Well, Hannah was more my friend and Dan was more my brother's friend, but since they were already dating at the time it all mixed together pretty well... We were all part of a club called Pooh Corner, aka the Wheaton College Children's Literature Oral Interpretation Society. We met every Tuesday might at 9:58 to read children's books out loud, doing the voices & everything. (My brother made an excellent Gurgi, from Lloyd Alexander's Prydain Chronicles. "Crunchings and munchings!") Ah, those were the days... And Hannah and I cross-stitched our way through D & D sessions, and she read Pilgrim's Progress (for our Modern Mythology class) to me out loud while I sewed a sword belt. Yeah. We were geeks, and proud of it.
I'd been looking forward to seeing them for awhile (though in typical Heather fashion I hadn't let them know we'd be coming through as early as I started looking forward to it!); somehow I kept remembering little things our friend-group was into, like the Dr. Demento CDs (funny songs; kind of wacked-out funny songs) and little humorous sketches my brother used to play us from MP3 files (like the side-splitting "Internet Help-desk" sketch.) Hannah says I was feeling nostalgic for my inner geek.
And it was a lovely visit; my inner geek was satisfied to the full. I turned off my inner novelist (who'd worked very hard on chapters 7 and 8 in D.C.), since there was less computer availability, and had some blessed free time reading the latest book by Lois McMaster Bujold, a favorite author of Hannah's and mine. (She used to write science fiction and has lately gotten into fantasy... imagine that!) I hadn't been expecting it to be out yet, let alone available to me (Bujold's popular, and I wasn't expecting to find the book in library after library); I finished it in two days. After Dan and Hannah's toddler, Titus, went to bed, we watched a couple episodes of Firefly (a truly good sci-fi show) and the next day during his afternoon nap we watched Unbreakable--about what superheroes would be like if they existed in the real world, fascinating.
And Paul got to listen to my favorite Dr. Demento CD...
I'd been looking forward to seeing them for awhile (though in typical Heather fashion I hadn't let them know we'd be coming through as early as I started looking forward to it!); somehow I kept remembering little things our friend-group was into, like the Dr. Demento CDs (funny songs; kind of wacked-out funny songs) and little humorous sketches my brother used to play us from MP3 files (like the side-splitting "Internet Help-desk" sketch.) Hannah says I was feeling nostalgic for my inner geek.
And it was a lovely visit; my inner geek was satisfied to the full. I turned off my inner novelist (who'd worked very hard on chapters 7 and 8 in D.C.), since there was less computer availability, and had some blessed free time reading the latest book by Lois McMaster Bujold, a favorite author of Hannah's and mine. (She used to write science fiction and has lately gotten into fantasy... imagine that!) I hadn't been expecting it to be out yet, let alone available to me (Bujold's popular, and I wasn't expecting to find the book in library after library); I finished it in two days. After Dan and Hannah's toddler, Titus, went to bed, we watched a couple episodes of Firefly (a truly good sci-fi show) and the next day during his afternoon nap we watched Unbreakable--about what superheroes would be like if they existed in the real world, fascinating.
And Paul got to listen to my favorite Dr. Demento CD...
Sunday, September 9, 2007
street church
In DC we visited another street church like the one in Boston, this one simply called "Street Church." It was a great experience--made me a little nervous when we were asked to hannd out fliers inviting people to the service, but I go t over it! None of the other street churches we've visited handed out fliers, but I rather liked this church's reason for doing so; they were trying to invite everybody who's usually in that park at that hour, homeless and far-from-homeless. The park was downtown, and people who work around it often take their lunch breaks their around the time they hold the service; a few of them have actually started attending--with the homeless! I like that very much; breaking down walls.
I also liked their way of doing communion. They had, I think, a good balance. Some people make the mistake of assuming homeless people are automatically not Christians, and that they need to be preached to primarily, and encouraged to make a profession of faith; for those people, serving communion at a street church wouldn't come to mind at all. Some go to the opposite extreme and offer communion to all, with an inadequate explanation of what it is, and sometimes a manner that assumes everyone will take it (leading people to take it even if they're not really sure what it means.) I think it's tremendously important to be open to the spiritual lives that the homeless already have; I also think communion is a tremendously important thing and people, for their own sake, should only take it if they understand and believe in what it is and means. So I liked the way they had--in the little half-sheet order of service they handed round--an explanation of what communion is and what it means. I also liked--since the explanation was given only in writing and wasn't spoken--the fact that people had to come up to the front if they wanted to receive it. I think the method I would like best (for us to use in retreats, for instance) would be to say a few gentle and serious words about what communion is and how taking it is a sign of accepting Jesus' presence in your life--and how if you are not ready for that, you really do not need to take it--and then hand the bread and wine around in a circle, skipping whoever wants to be skipped.
I also liked their way of doing communion. They had, I think, a good balance. Some people make the mistake of assuming homeless people are automatically not Christians, and that they need to be preached to primarily, and encouraged to make a profession of faith; for those people, serving communion at a street church wouldn't come to mind at all. Some go to the opposite extreme and offer communion to all, with an inadequate explanation of what it is, and sometimes a manner that assumes everyone will take it (leading people to take it even if they're not really sure what it means.) I think it's tremendously important to be open to the spiritual lives that the homeless already have; I also think communion is a tremendously important thing and people, for their own sake, should only take it if they understand and believe in what it is and means. So I liked the way they had--in the little half-sheet order of service they handed round--an explanation of what communion is and what it means. I also liked--since the explanation was given only in writing and wasn't spoken--the fact that people had to come up to the front if they wanted to receive it. I think the method I would like best (for us to use in retreats, for instance) would be to say a few gentle and serious words about what communion is and how taking it is a sign of accepting Jesus' presence in your life--and how if you are not ready for that, you really do not need to take it--and then hand the bread and wine around in a circle, skipping whoever wants to be skipped.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
break
Okay, for you who are checking this regularly, SORRY! It's been almost a week and a half since I last posted, right? Well, here I am again.
We've come to our mid-walk break. Actually we're over halfway through it! Last Saturday morning, a day that was predicted as 98 degrees, we walked into Washington, DC, and made it to Nate and Angela's house by 10:00. Just under the wire. Nate and Angela, friends of Paul's (he met Nate on an online discussion forum called Jesus Radicals), have just married and moved into a house where they've invited other Christians to live in community with them... and it seemed like all the other Christians they'd found had just moved in that week! I felt right at home. I've lived in a couple of communal households, and this one reminded me a lot of the last one--the Patch, the "young people's household" at Reba, where I have some good memories. I pray that the household thing works for the folks in D.C. It can be difficult living communally, and it can foster some real spiritual growth; it can also not be the best thing when you have, say, a new baby. (Actually I've never seen that done. But you can imagine.)
Anyway they gave us a wonderful welcome, and the next day I had a wonderful birthday, with a convivial blueberry-pancake supper provided by Paul, and my birthday wish: a viewing of the extended edition of The Two Towers. (We had some technical difficulties and couldn't get it started as early as we meant to, so it lasted till midnight!) And the next day Paul made his famous pizza for everybody, and I spent the day writing and watching favorite scenes from Return of the King on my borrowed laptop as breaks. Aaah.
More soon... I just realized it's a lot more important to post this NOW than fit my whole break into one post! Love you guys...
We've come to our mid-walk break. Actually we're over halfway through it! Last Saturday morning, a day that was predicted as 98 degrees, we walked into Washington, DC, and made it to Nate and Angela's house by 10:00. Just under the wire. Nate and Angela, friends of Paul's (he met Nate on an online discussion forum called Jesus Radicals), have just married and moved into a house where they've invited other Christians to live in community with them... and it seemed like all the other Christians they'd found had just moved in that week! I felt right at home. I've lived in a couple of communal households, and this one reminded me a lot of the last one--the Patch, the "young people's household" at Reba, where I have some good memories. I pray that the household thing works for the folks in D.C. It can be difficult living communally, and it can foster some real spiritual growth; it can also not be the best thing when you have, say, a new baby. (Actually I've never seen that done. But you can imagine.)
Anyway they gave us a wonderful welcome, and the next day I had a wonderful birthday, with a convivial blueberry-pancake supper provided by Paul, and my birthday wish: a viewing of the extended edition of The Two Towers. (We had some technical difficulties and couldn't get it started as early as we meant to, so it lasted till midnight!) And the next day Paul made his famous pizza for everybody, and I spent the day writing and watching favorite scenes from Return of the King on my borrowed laptop as breaks. Aaah.
More soon... I just realized it's a lot more important to post this NOW than fit my whole break into one post! Love you guys...
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
for a rainy day
On Monday night as we walked down Route 1, it began to rain--and then to pour. (Thankfully we put on our rain ponchos right before it got around to the pouring part!) After maybe two minutes of pouring there loomed up, beside the empty road, a large building of some kind with a porch. And port in a storm, really; I thought it might be someone's house but was happy to get under that porch. It turned out to be a vacant inn with a porch that wrapped around back, nice and broad; we praised God and slept there, while it continued to pour.
It poured again the next morning, at intervals, forcing us to take shelter at a disused gas station among other places; we got delayed so much we could only afford a couple hours for our daily "library break." And as we walked on toward Baltimore, all the churches we had planned for were so inadequate in the way of shelter we kept passing them by; rain was promised again for last night. Finally we found a lovely hidden but completely unsheltered spot by a Lutheran church, and used Paul's stick, some string, duct tape and my rain-poncho to set up a bivouac--on the strength of some creativity and my Dad's long-ago description of what a bivouac is. Neither of us had ever done it. Very cramped, but we woke up dry!
We're almost out of Baltimore now. Everything going smoothly. Must go!
It poured again the next morning, at intervals, forcing us to take shelter at a disused gas station among other places; we got delayed so much we could only afford a couple hours for our daily "library break." And as we walked on toward Baltimore, all the churches we had planned for were so inadequate in the way of shelter we kept passing them by; rain was promised again for last night. Finally we found a lovely hidden but completely unsheltered spot by a Lutheran church, and used Paul's stick, some string, duct tape and my rain-poncho to set up a bivouac--on the strength of some creativity and my Dad's long-ago description of what a bivouac is. Neither of us had ever done it. Very cramped, but we woke up dry!
We're almost out of Baltimore now. Everything going smoothly. Must go!
Monday, August 20, 2007
among friends
And then the next morning we went into the meetinghouse... my first ever Quaker meeting, or Friends as they call themselves. Paul's already told that story so well... (and I want to go back to my novel!!) I think I'll let you read what he wrote...
I could add that Mary had the Barbara Kingsolver book I was reading, and that and her lively conversation made it just about the perfect Sunday afternoon. And... and, well, the whole thing was just amazing. Amazing.
It was a Quaker meetinghouse, Deer Creek Meeting. I don't usually mention church denominations or names, but we had such a great experience there, I want to remember that community.
Sunday morning we met Mary, who had accidentally arrived early, and talked with her for an hour before the meeting. She then suggested to the small group that had gathered that Heather and I give a short talk about our walk before their silent prayer time (which makes up most of the worship). So we did talk to the Friends there and answered questions. When someone asked us to lead them in a prayer to close, I offered Charles DeFoucault's prayer, "Father, I abandon myself into your hands..." Then we prayed in silence together.
The rest of the day it rained, but we were incredibly well cared for. Many came up to us after the meeting, offering encouragement, praise, and gifts. Mary took us home for a lunch of fresh rainbow trout (and Heather's vinaigrette), and our first real shower in a week. Then Paul and Sarah, two other Friends, invited us all for dinner. A feast of rotisserie rosemary chicken and fresh sweet corn, wine, raspberry ice cream from a local dairy, and lots of lively conversation and encouragement. We were overwhelmed by the gift. After a very hard and lonely week-and-a-half, we were bathed in friendship and support. Mary even took us to the next library on this rainy morning. Now we're clean and refreshed, with money for food all week. We should be with friends in Washington, DC, before the week is out. Just in time for Heather's birthday.I'm so grateful. For the lessons of these past days, and for God's mercy in our weakness and generous care through our new friends.
I could add that Mary had the Barbara Kingsolver book I was reading, and that and her lively conversation made it just about the perfect Sunday afternoon. And... and, well, the whole thing was just amazing. Amazing.
I didn't expect the perfect day
I mean, I had high hopes for Sunday, but on Saturday we didn't have any particular chances of meeting anybody, and after almost two weeks of walk, library, walk, sleep outside, I didn't see how I could enjoy another day of the same. And yet...
Saturday morning we set out from our sleeping spot on a church porch in Nottingham, PA (perversely disappointed that the sheriff hadn't stopped by to question us--it would have been such a good story) and set out with only five miles to go to Rising Sun, Maryland. Five miles in cool early-morning weather is a breeze. We stopped to eat breakfast in a gazebo that was up for sale among a whole field of other lawn fixtures, right on the state line--which was also the Mason-Dixon line, as a sign pointed out. Then we went on our way into the South, and before we had a chance to get tired we were at the library in Rising Sun.
I left Paul waiting for the library to open and walked down to the nearby shopping center, hoping to get a payphone call through to my parents; I'd been itching to talk to my mom about our novel, which is in the revision stage. I was stuck. I'd made a change in chapter 6 that I thought was right, but I wasn't sure, and it was going to make all kinds of changes necessary in chapter 7... and we'd been walking, and walking, and sleeping outside and feeling frustrated and stinky and having people look at us funny and feeling like we had no place to lay our heads, and it's just not conducive to writing. I figured that if God didn't send us some new friends soon I'd just have to take a break from the book.
I got through to my parents but they couldn't call me back, the payphone wouldn't let them; I was so desperate for a chat about the book to get me going I went ahead and talked to my mom on my dime... yes, we decided, the change was worth it, I should go for it. I went back knowing what I needed to do; the library gave me two hours on the computer; everything fell into place! The change I made fit so well I just had to change a sentence here and there... it actually just provided more motivation for my character's actions as I'd already written them... amazing! (And then the computer kicked me off and I read Barbara Kingsolver for an hour and relaxed.)
It's hard to explain how a writer feels about this stuff, but as we walked on I kept chattering to Paul about how well it had gone, how it had fit; the problematic first six chapters of the book were practically solved... We walked, and the weather was cool and pleasant with just enough sun and just enough shade... We came upon Octoraro Creek, which we'd met a few days ago; it was bigger now on its way the the Susqehanna River and Chesapeake Bay, and lovely and clean; we scrambled down under the bridge and washed our hair, and ate our supper sitting on a rock. I got out my pennywhistle and played, "O Worship the King", and sang it for Paul who didn't know all the words. I think I was especially feeling the next-to-last verse:
God can work through people to give us His blessings... but He doesn't have to.
And then a fast red car pulled over and these two crazy enthusiastic young guys drove us across the Susqehanna where we wouldn't have been allowed to cross on foot, and insisted on giving us a historical tour of the area and taking us home to their mom's place, where we watched eels in the creek and had to skip through the flower-jungly garden quickly to escape their watch-duck and they showed us Indian artifacts they'd found... and then took us straight to the Quaker meeting-house where we planned to spend the night. And there, in the graveyard, a grove of boxwood trees formed a sort of hollow globe around a flat and leafy spot where we slept in privacy and peace.
Yeah.
Saturday morning we set out from our sleeping spot on a church porch in Nottingham, PA (perversely disappointed that the sheriff hadn't stopped by to question us--it would have been such a good story) and set out with only five miles to go to Rising Sun, Maryland. Five miles in cool early-morning weather is a breeze. We stopped to eat breakfast in a gazebo that was up for sale among a whole field of other lawn fixtures, right on the state line--which was also the Mason-Dixon line, as a sign pointed out. Then we went on our way into the South, and before we had a chance to get tired we were at the library in Rising Sun.
I left Paul waiting for the library to open and walked down to the nearby shopping center, hoping to get a payphone call through to my parents; I'd been itching to talk to my mom about our novel, which is in the revision stage. I was stuck. I'd made a change in chapter 6 that I thought was right, but I wasn't sure, and it was going to make all kinds of changes necessary in chapter 7... and we'd been walking, and walking, and sleeping outside and feeling frustrated and stinky and having people look at us funny and feeling like we had no place to lay our heads, and it's just not conducive to writing. I figured that if God didn't send us some new friends soon I'd just have to take a break from the book.
I got through to my parents but they couldn't call me back, the payphone wouldn't let them; I was so desperate for a chat about the book to get me going I went ahead and talked to my mom on my dime... yes, we decided, the change was worth it, I should go for it. I went back knowing what I needed to do; the library gave me two hours on the computer; everything fell into place! The change I made fit so well I just had to change a sentence here and there... it actually just provided more motivation for my character's actions as I'd already written them... amazing! (And then the computer kicked me off and I read Barbara Kingsolver for an hour and relaxed.)
It's hard to explain how a writer feels about this stuff, but as we walked on I kept chattering to Paul about how well it had gone, how it had fit; the problematic first six chapters of the book were practically solved... We walked, and the weather was cool and pleasant with just enough sun and just enough shade... We came upon Octoraro Creek, which we'd met a few days ago; it was bigger now on its way the the Susqehanna River and Chesapeake Bay, and lovely and clean; we scrambled down under the bridge and washed our hair, and ate our supper sitting on a rock. I got out my pennywhistle and played, "O Worship the King", and sang it for Paul who didn't know all the words. I think I was especially feeling the next-to-last verse:
His bountiful care, what tongue can recite?
It breathes in the air, it shines in the light;
It flows from the hills, it descends to the plain,
And sweetly distills in the dew and the rain.
God can work through people to give us His blessings... but He doesn't have to.
And then a fast red car pulled over and these two crazy enthusiastic young guys drove us across the Susqehanna where we wouldn't have been allowed to cross on foot, and insisted on giving us a historical tour of the area and taking us home to their mom's place, where we watched eels in the creek and had to skip through the flower-jungly garden quickly to escape their watch-duck and they showed us Indian artifacts they'd found... and then took us straight to the Quaker meeting-house where we planned to spend the night. And there, in the graveyard, a grove of boxwood trees formed a sort of hollow globe around a flat and leafy spot where we slept in privacy and peace.
Yeah.
Friday, August 17, 2007
invisible brethren
Yes, I know the title sounds like something spiritual and exciting, and hopefully sometime I'll have occasion to write about that meaning of the words. All it means today is that last night we stopped at a Church of the Brethren (a peace church, related to the Mennonites) and went to knock on the rectory door, feeling somewhat at home. Our church at Plow Creek is Mennonite, and I have a Church of the Brethren friend I met in Nigeria. But the "rectory" seemed a little odd somehow; though there were signs of life (fishing poles on the porch, a station wagon) no lights were lit, no-one answered, though a dog barked loudly from inside. A light was lit in the back of the church as well; we knocked; no answer. These things weren't that odd, I grant you, but the odd thing is that we went and sat under the picnic shelter (our chosen resting place; rain was predicted, though it didn't come) and waited for something to change, as it was bound to--and it didn't. Who goes away and leaves a dog in the house, the porch lights on, the car there and a light on in the church and doesn't come back for hours? I started to worry that someone had died inside, and no-one had found them.
Night fell, and we started to notice a faint light in the house. So faint that Paul thought it was the porch-light shining in through the window. No, it was a light; why was it so faint? Because the blind was all the way down. In fact, as we began to notice, all the blinds were all the way down. The light went out (at least they were alive in there!) and another, just as faint, flicked on. We speculated on whether the doorbell was broken or they somehow hadn't heard us; we shouldered our packs and went to the door again, knocked once and again and again, thought we heard a sound from inside... as we walked away from the door a second time, "Hey!" I pointed out. "Their car's got a Support Our Troops bumper sticker." A little odd for a peace church. We bedded down, finally, convinced we'd stumbled upon a Church of the Brethren that rented its rectory to a recluse with a dog who likes to fish and supports the troops.
And I guess we had. I guess we'll never know.
Night fell, and we started to notice a faint light in the house. So faint that Paul thought it was the porch-light shining in through the window. No, it was a light; why was it so faint? Because the blind was all the way down. In fact, as we began to notice, all the blinds were all the way down. The light went out (at least they were alive in there!) and another, just as faint, flicked on. We speculated on whether the doorbell was broken or they somehow hadn't heard us; we shouldered our packs and went to the door again, knocked once and again and again, thought we heard a sound from inside... as we walked away from the door a second time, "Hey!" I pointed out. "Their car's got a Support Our Troops bumper sticker." A little odd for a peace church. We bedded down, finally, convinced we'd stumbled upon a Church of the Brethren that rented its rectory to a recluse with a dog who likes to fish and supports the troops.
And I guess we had. I guess we'll never know.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
weary
A more practical update... we're in West Grove, PA, which (at least in this part of town) seems to have a semi-permanent smell of fertilizer. It's been a week or more since we've slept in a house, but yesterday we found a river and then last night a pastor let us use the bathroom of his church overnight, so we're clean. (For the interaction with the pastor, see Paul's blog.) It's also been that long since we had a truly fruitful interaction with anybody, whether encouraging them or being encouraged by them. We're a little weary. So if y'all want to pray, please pray that God will send someone... either someone we can show His love to, or who will show it to us--or best of all both.
the spirit
A few days ago, as we walked across a little culvert bridge over a creek, Paul stopped suddenly and made a little speech. We have to stop at every bridge, he said, to look at the water and meditate and re-connect with the spirit of the land that is always there under the rush and noise of the highway. I think he was half-kidding, the flowery way he spoke; and yet underneath he meant it, and I laughed and underneath I loved it. There has always been something deep for me in flowing water.
So we've stopped at the streams. Some of them can amaze me, deep pools so clear you can see the bottom as though through a lens, some without a single ripple, shot through with sunlight, fish hanging motionless in the clear water.
The other day we stopped at a stream and looked up along its length, out of the loud rubbish-strewn world of the road into the green shadows of the woods. "Deer!" I said. And there they were, almost beyond sight they were so far and small; blurred phantoms of deer, moving as though in a dream. The deer at Plow Creek eat the garden, and seem so fearless of mankind it makes you angry, you despise them, they're like stupid cows with antlers that eat your crops by night; but I could have sworn these were a different species entirely. The deer from old stories, the deer the Indians hunted and thanked for their meat, the deer that lived their own wild, unseen life in these woods for years before we came. A doe moved slowly out into the water, drinking, her fawn following; two half-grown bucks lowered their heads to each other and began to spar, slowly, meandering back and forth, their movements seeming gentle in the distance and the dimness. How can I explain it? They were beautiful. They were more beautiful than any deer I've seen up close; probably more beautiful than any deer could be, seen up close. I think they were beautiful because they didn't know we were there.
So we've stopped at the streams. Some of them can amaze me, deep pools so clear you can see the bottom as though through a lens, some without a single ripple, shot through with sunlight, fish hanging motionless in the clear water.
The other day we stopped at a stream and looked up along its length, out of the loud rubbish-strewn world of the road into the green shadows of the woods. "Deer!" I said. And there they were, almost beyond sight they were so far and small; blurred phantoms of deer, moving as though in a dream. The deer at Plow Creek eat the garden, and seem so fearless of mankind it makes you angry, you despise them, they're like stupid cows with antlers that eat your crops by night; but I could have sworn these were a different species entirely. The deer from old stories, the deer the Indians hunted and thanked for their meat, the deer that lived their own wild, unseen life in these woods for years before we came. A doe moved slowly out into the water, drinking, her fawn following; two half-grown bucks lowered their heads to each other and began to spar, slowly, meandering back and forth, their movements seeming gentle in the distance and the dimness. How can I explain it? They were beautiful. They were more beautiful than any deer I've seen up close; probably more beautiful than any deer could be, seen up close. I think they were beautiful because they didn't know we were there.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Ringoes
Just checking in from Ringoes, New Jersey... last night we slept on the couches in a church's youth room, for which I was thankful because the storm kept me awake a long time the night before! I slept great. The pastor who let us into the youth room took a long time arguing with himself out loud whether he could take the risk (and making comments like "I'm taking a big risk" and "I'm trusting you guys," which wouldn't have helped that much really if we'd been crooks!) But he finally did let us in, and told us to drink all the soda or whatever we liked from the fridge. I had Arizona lemonade with supper--good!
We ran into him again as we left the church, and he seemed happier then. (After all, we weren't carrying the VCR out with us!) When he got to his office I imagine he found what I left in his mail slot--a note saying thank you and a "hostess gift." The little key-chain version of the Evange-cube, a sort of, uh, witnessing tool, a cube where you flip back the sides to reveal a picture, then again to reveal a new picture, etc. It takes you through pictures of man cut off from heaven and Jesus on the cross all the way to someone walking across the cross to Heaven. My favorite is when you show the sealed tomb flanked by Roman soldiers and then flip it open to show Jesus standing in the doorway dressed in white! But we didn't think we would use it, and thought we'd give it to someone who would. It was a Bible church, so it seemed like the right place for it.
We ran into him again as we left the church, and he seemed happier then. (After all, we weren't carrying the VCR out with us!) When he got to his office I imagine he found what I left in his mail slot--a note saying thank you and a "hostess gift." The little key-chain version of the Evange-cube, a sort of, uh, witnessing tool, a cube where you flip back the sides to reveal a picture, then again to reveal a new picture, etc. It takes you through pictures of man cut off from heaven and Jesus on the cross all the way to someone walking across the cross to Heaven. My favorite is when you show the sealed tomb flanked by Roman soldiers and then flip it open to show Jesus standing in the doorway dressed in white! But we didn't think we would use it, and thought we'd give it to someone who would. It was a Bible church, so it seemed like the right place for it.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
ready for the storm
Blessings in disguise come in odd packages. Yesterday, after a great visit with Paul's friend Tom in New Jersey, we were walking around eveningtime through a town where Paul had map-spotted two churches and a park as potential sleeping places. It was almost dark already when we came to the first church; by the time we had walked around its "campus" looking for good overhang shelter, finding none, and debating whether to go on or trust the cloudless sky, it was dark. We rang the rectory doorbell. A light came on in the hall. A crack opened in the mini-blind showing a pair of frowning eyes: "Whaddya want?" No sign of the door opening. Paul and I looked at each other and back at the eyes, wondering if we were really expected to shout our story through the door. Another moment, and the door-muffled voice added (I think): "We don't have any!" and a hand waved good-bye. I waved good-bye back. The debate was settled.
We walked on, down nice safe sidewalk under streetlights, not a bad way to walk at night. Paul didn't even need to put on his reflector vest and walk on the outside. Within twenty minutes we were at another church, with a lovely covered side porch; the "rectory" was unlit and apparently uninhabited, so we just settled in.
A car pulls up. "Looks like we'll talk to some people after all," says Paul, and wanders over to the back door where the car is parking. I follow. "Are either of you the pastor?" The couple laughs. "No, we're the cleaning crew!" We explain, ask if we can sleep there. They don't see why it should be a problem; they offer bathroom facilities, water, a rug they were about to throw out for an impromptu mattress pad--then a recommendation on a nice place for breakfast and ten dollars. Wow.
And then, as I tried to sleep, the wildest thunderstorm I have ever seen blew in.
Lightning, over beyond the trees; not five times, not ten times, not twenty or thirty. Constant, an every-other-second flicker I could have read by if I'd wanted to. Huge cracks of thunder that, two or three times--even though I was flat on the ground and felt perfectly safe--made that duck-for-cover spasm run through my body. And then, after an hour of this (and I honestly think that's a very conservative estimate)--the rain. It poured hard, so hard that tiny spatters reached us, and the river we crossed this morning was risen high, deep brown, carrying broken branches and a tall dead tree down its roiling current.
So thank God for the eyes behind the mini-blind.
We walked on, down nice safe sidewalk under streetlights, not a bad way to walk at night. Paul didn't even need to put on his reflector vest and walk on the outside. Within twenty minutes we were at another church, with a lovely covered side porch; the "rectory" was unlit and apparently uninhabited, so we just settled in.
A car pulls up. "Looks like we'll talk to some people after all," says Paul, and wanders over to the back door where the car is parking. I follow. "Are either of you the pastor?" The couple laughs. "No, we're the cleaning crew!" We explain, ask if we can sleep there. They don't see why it should be a problem; they offer bathroom facilities, water, a rug they were about to throw out for an impromptu mattress pad--then a recommendation on a nice place for breakfast and ten dollars. Wow.
And then, as I tried to sleep, the wildest thunderstorm I have ever seen blew in.
Lightning, over beyond the trees; not five times, not ten times, not twenty or thirty. Constant, an every-other-second flicker I could have read by if I'd wanted to. Huge cracks of thunder that, two or three times--even though I was flat on the ground and felt perfectly safe--made that duck-for-cover spasm run through my body. And then, after an hour of this (and I honestly think that's a very conservative estimate)--the rain. It poured hard, so hard that tiny spatters reached us, and the river we crossed this morning was risen high, deep brown, carrying broken branches and a tall dead tree down its roiling current.
So thank God for the eyes behind the mini-blind.
Friday, August 3, 2007
Let me sum up
And so here I am... me with a real live blog.
The tales of my adventures so far... well I really should have started posting earlier! "Let me esplain... no, ees too long. Let me sum up."
Paul says that that first night, when we slept under playground equipment, was actually a harder than average night by his standards, and indeed we've gotten into a pretty easy routine with the sleeping out... Nobody's bothered us once. Mostly at churches, somewhere back behind or in a corner of the grounds under a tree, or in the entrance under an overhang if it's threatening to rain. Once, early on, we were sitting on the side porch of this big Catholic church with our packs, relaxing after the day's long walk--I was actually combing my hair--and a police car pulled through the parking lot. And I waved. And they waved back and kept going! We slept behind the church that night, because the porch was so brightly lit I couldn't have gone to sleep, and in the middle of the night it started raining and we ran for the porch... where the lights had gone out around maybe midnight or so. We're learning a lot of little things many people don't know: that lights on public buildings almost never stay on all night, how many half-full bottles of various drinks people throw out of car windows, how weird it sounds when someone tries to shout something at you from the window of a car going sixty. Also how many pennies there are by the side of the road (very few quarters though!) I'm collecting them, much to Paul's headshaking; when we have enough I'll buy us a soft drink, and then what will he say?
Not that we couldn't buy a soft drink anyway, but luxuries seem out of place on this trip unless you've been given them (or picked them up by the side of the road!) We have been amazingly well provided for. And met so many people... maybe I should go back to the "let me sum up" bit.
The first Sunday we went to a big Assemblies of God church where we had to fill out a card with our address and inform a helpful woman that we were already saved, and afterwards everyone kept asking us how we enjoyed the service (How's My Preaching?) Then we went to one of the two little Sunday school classes they had and heard about how the Tribulation is going to start in maybe two years. I know it sounds crazy and I was settling down to work on my book a little (which would look just like taking notes) but the guy was talking about Pakistan and kept throwing in facts about Shia Islam that I knew to be true, and then said he thought America would be part of the ten kingdoms represented by the horns of the Beast, and that we'd have to choose our true allegiance then, and I sat up and listened at that point because in a church like that normally they won't hear a word against America. So I had to take the guy seriously as a person anyway, and I guess I'll know in a couple years whether he was right! Then he took us out to lunch and we had an interesting afternoon talking about God and suffering and how it's not true that God always heals if you have enough faith (he disagrees with his church on this.) Really a good talk.
But by evening we were a bit discouraged; our money was running out. We'd hoped that God would move someone at the church we went to to give us something; not only that, but my right Achilles tendon had been hurting for several days, and still was even though we'd rested it for a day, and we had to get to the other side of Hartford by nightfall. (Never get stuck in a city.) Paul laid hands on my tendon and prayed for it very seriously, and then we went into a store and spent our last five dollars on a half gallon of milk and a loaf of pumpernickel bread, which we ate for breakfast. We had our lunch packed, but supper would have to be the rest of the pumpernickel... We walked and rested and walked and rested, because it was a day for that awful on-and-off rain--a blessing from God, actually, because I think that was the best thing we could have done for my tendon. The tendon felt much better than I expected. I thought about what God might do, what God has done for me in other circumstances--and for Paul in the very same circumstances--in the past. Also about fasting (which God's certainly not against!) and how I'd done it before for a day. We ate our lunch on a pallet under some kind of canvas shelter by a store, then went on walking, the tendon still feeling a little better and a little better, and by evening we came to this UCC church, in a suburb, slightly more urban-looking than we would have liked but seemingly safe. There were two men talking outside the church; we walked up and Paul introduced us; one of them was the pastor. We asked if we could sleep outside the church. He stalled for time (as he later told us) by asking us if we had any references since he didn't know us; we gave him the phone number of an elder in our church and he actually called, and seemed pleased. Then invited us home.
Chicken and rice and three bean salad, and then blueberry pie... Amazing. Much better than fasting. And then a room to ourselves.
And the pastor and his wife, who had sat and talked with us while we ate and heard our story and about my tendon--but not the money, we don't tell people we've run out of money, so as not to put pressure on them but leave room for God to inspire them--well, in the morning they gave us fifty dollars. For shoes, for my tendon, because I was wearing only sandals. I hesitated to accept at first, not sure what I should do; but then she said, "Or do whatever you want with it." (We did buy inserts for my sandals a bit later, actually, as the pain continued to diminish steadily; a website told us that elevating the heels is good for the tendons.)
Saved. At exactly the right moment. It's a little hard to explain how that feels.
And then... well, then a sort of whirlwind. Still hard to believe it. But that'll be the next installment I think.
The tales of my adventures so far... well I really should have started posting earlier! "Let me esplain... no, ees too long. Let me sum up."
Paul says that that first night, when we slept under playground equipment, was actually a harder than average night by his standards, and indeed we've gotten into a pretty easy routine with the sleeping out... Nobody's bothered us once. Mostly at churches, somewhere back behind or in a corner of the grounds under a tree, or in the entrance under an overhang if it's threatening to rain. Once, early on, we were sitting on the side porch of this big Catholic church with our packs, relaxing after the day's long walk--I was actually combing my hair--and a police car pulled through the parking lot. And I waved. And they waved back and kept going! We slept behind the church that night, because the porch was so brightly lit I couldn't have gone to sleep, and in the middle of the night it started raining and we ran for the porch... where the lights had gone out around maybe midnight or so. We're learning a lot of little things many people don't know: that lights on public buildings almost never stay on all night, how many half-full bottles of various drinks people throw out of car windows, how weird it sounds when someone tries to shout something at you from the window of a car going sixty. Also how many pennies there are by the side of the road (very few quarters though!) I'm collecting them, much to Paul's headshaking; when we have enough I'll buy us a soft drink, and then what will he say?
Not that we couldn't buy a soft drink anyway, but luxuries seem out of place on this trip unless you've been given them (or picked them up by the side of the road!) We have been amazingly well provided for. And met so many people... maybe I should go back to the "let me sum up" bit.
The first Sunday we went to a big Assemblies of God church where we had to fill out a card with our address and inform a helpful woman that we were already saved, and afterwards everyone kept asking us how we enjoyed the service (How's My Preaching?) Then we went to one of the two little Sunday school classes they had and heard about how the Tribulation is going to start in maybe two years. I know it sounds crazy and I was settling down to work on my book a little (which would look just like taking notes) but the guy was talking about Pakistan and kept throwing in facts about Shia Islam that I knew to be true, and then said he thought America would be part of the ten kingdoms represented by the horns of the Beast, and that we'd have to choose our true allegiance then, and I sat up and listened at that point because in a church like that normally they won't hear a word against America. So I had to take the guy seriously as a person anyway, and I guess I'll know in a couple years whether he was right! Then he took us out to lunch and we had an interesting afternoon talking about God and suffering and how it's not true that God always heals if you have enough faith (he disagrees with his church on this.) Really a good talk.
But by evening we were a bit discouraged; our money was running out. We'd hoped that God would move someone at the church we went to to give us something; not only that, but my right Achilles tendon had been hurting for several days, and still was even though we'd rested it for a day, and we had to get to the other side of Hartford by nightfall. (Never get stuck in a city.) Paul laid hands on my tendon and prayed for it very seriously, and then we went into a store and spent our last five dollars on a half gallon of milk and a loaf of pumpernickel bread, which we ate for breakfast. We had our lunch packed, but supper would have to be the rest of the pumpernickel... We walked and rested and walked and rested, because it was a day for that awful on-and-off rain--a blessing from God, actually, because I think that was the best thing we could have done for my tendon. The tendon felt much better than I expected. I thought about what God might do, what God has done for me in other circumstances--and for Paul in the very same circumstances--in the past. Also about fasting (which God's certainly not against!) and how I'd done it before for a day. We ate our lunch on a pallet under some kind of canvas shelter by a store, then went on walking, the tendon still feeling a little better and a little better, and by evening we came to this UCC church, in a suburb, slightly more urban-looking than we would have liked but seemingly safe. There were two men talking outside the church; we walked up and Paul introduced us; one of them was the pastor. We asked if we could sleep outside the church. He stalled for time (as he later told us) by asking us if we had any references since he didn't know us; we gave him the phone number of an elder in our church and he actually called, and seemed pleased. Then invited us home.
Chicken and rice and three bean salad, and then blueberry pie... Amazing. Much better than fasting. And then a room to ourselves.
And the pastor and his wife, who had sat and talked with us while we ate and heard our story and about my tendon--but not the money, we don't tell people we've run out of money, so as not to put pressure on them but leave room for God to inspire them--well, in the morning they gave us fifty dollars. For shoes, for my tendon, because I was wearing only sandals. I hesitated to accept at first, not sure what I should do; but then she said, "Or do whatever you want with it." (We did buy inserts for my sandals a bit later, actually, as the pain continued to diminish steadily; a website told us that elevating the heels is good for the tendons.)
Saved. At exactly the right moment. It's a little hard to explain how that feels.
And then... well, then a sort of whirlwind. Still hard to believe it. But that'll be the next installment I think.
Friday, July 13, 2007
On the Road
Hello dear friends... Here I am, on the road.
Now I don't remember if I told all y'all (as they say down South) about this. Let me run through it for those who don't know (and those who've heard it a million times please bear with me!)
Paul has in the past done a long walk that he calls a pilgrimage--though it's not to any kind of "holy site" unless in the broad sense that the earth is the Lord's and everything in it... He has walked out with some gear in a backpack, a walking stick, and a little money, and basically depending on God for food and shelter--and God has come through. The idea is... I guess there are many ideas. To learn to depend on God; to be a witness to others that God does come through when you depend on Him. To go out into the world and meet whoever God chooses to put in your path; to speak to them out of your own faith and God willing bring them closer to Him. To learn, to deepen your walk with God, to do something that is totally contrary to "the ways of the world".
So he has done this before, and now we're doing it together. We have a couple of additional reasons why it's a good thing for us to do, right now, while we wait on God's timing for a retreat space to open up at Plow Creek (or to see the way forward in some other way.) Deepening our faith is part of it, preparing us for ministry; also experiencing what we can (though it's still quite different) of what the homeless feel. And we have several visits planned with ministries that, although they're not doing spiritual retreats, are engaging the poor spiritually in creative and respectful ways--so we thought we could learn some things from them. And finally, we hope that God may give us some people along the way who are interested when we tell them about the ministry we hope to do--maybe even interested enough to consider supporting us.
So those are the reasons, and therefore here we are, two days and twenty miles out from Boston where we started (after a long visit with Ecclesia ministries who do an outdoor church for the homeless there), and headed south.We know our route for the next few days--over the weekend, in fact, because we may not have internet access until Monday or Tuesday. Paul looks up maps online, searches out libraries (which is where we get online in the first place!), grocery stores, and churches. If there's no other option for where to sleep, we go to a church and ask permission to sleep on the property--or, if there's no one there, go ahead and sleep on it, in some unobtrusive spot. Last night was under a tree in a broad parklike place behind a Unitarian church--there wasn't anyone to ask, their website says they don't even meet in the summer! (I always did think that if you don't believe in God, why bother to get up before ten on Sundays at all?)
So there it is. I will probably be emailing you intermittently with stories, but there aren't any yet; we haven't really met anyone yet. Except for a guy in a suit who gave us twenty bucks after we told him we were headed to Florida and asked where the nearest park was (I think he realized we were looking for a place to sleep and felt guilty that he wasn't about to invite us home!) And a guy with whom we waited for a library to open, today, and chatted about conservation and wildlife photography. Not earth-shattering. But I expect there will be more interesing stories later on...
I'll keep you posted!
Now I don't remember if I told all y'all (as they say down South) about this. Let me run through it for those who don't know (and those who've heard it a million times please bear with me!)
Paul has in the past done a long walk that he calls a pilgrimage--though it's not to any kind of "holy site" unless in the broad sense that the earth is the Lord's and everything in it... He has walked out with some gear in a backpack, a walking stick, and a little money, and basically depending on God for food and shelter--and God has come through. The idea is... I guess there are many ideas. To learn to depend on God; to be a witness to others that God does come through when you depend on Him. To go out into the world and meet whoever God chooses to put in your path; to speak to them out of your own faith and God willing bring them closer to Him. To learn, to deepen your walk with God, to do something that is totally contrary to "the ways of the world".
So he has done this before, and now we're doing it together. We have a couple of additional reasons why it's a good thing for us to do, right now, while we wait on God's timing for a retreat space to open up at Plow Creek (or to see the way forward in some other way.) Deepening our faith is part of it, preparing us for ministry; also experiencing what we can (though it's still quite different) of what the homeless feel. And we have several visits planned with ministries that, although they're not doing spiritual retreats, are engaging the poor spiritually in creative and respectful ways--so we thought we could learn some things from them. And finally, we hope that God may give us some people along the way who are interested when we tell them about the ministry we hope to do--maybe even interested enough to consider supporting us.
So those are the reasons, and therefore here we are, two days and twenty miles out from Boston where we started (after a long visit with Ecclesia ministries who do an outdoor church for the homeless there), and headed south.We know our route for the next few days--over the weekend, in fact, because we may not have internet access until Monday or Tuesday. Paul looks up maps online, searches out libraries (which is where we get online in the first place!), grocery stores, and churches. If there's no other option for where to sleep, we go to a church and ask permission to sleep on the property--or, if there's no one there, go ahead and sleep on it, in some unobtrusive spot. Last night was under a tree in a broad parklike place behind a Unitarian church--there wasn't anyone to ask, their website says they don't even meet in the summer! (I always did think that if you don't believe in God, why bother to get up before ten on Sundays at all?)
So there it is. I will probably be emailing you intermittently with stories, but there aren't any yet; we haven't really met anyone yet. Except for a guy in a suit who gave us twenty bucks after we told him we were headed to Florida and asked where the nearest park was (I think he realized we were looking for a place to sleep and felt guilty that he wasn't about to invite us home!) And a guy with whom we waited for a library to open, today, and chatted about conservation and wildlife photography. Not earth-shattering. But I expect there will be more interesing stories later on...
I'll keep you posted!
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