"I Live Again"

Today I stood face-to-face with compassion.  Mercy interwoven with raw, tenacious courage.   Gentle but robust lion-heartedness.  Unimaginable sadness.  Heroic forgiveness.

I recognized all of it, right there in Bensen Ocen’s face.  In his intense eyes that projected deep anguish for his war-torn people, and melted into sparkly pools at the mention of his wife and three young children.

I heard it woven throughout Bensen’s detailed accounts of terroristic LRA mega-atrocities in his homeland of northern Uganda. And I felt it when he spoke of horrific murders (two of his brothers among them), and of his own captivity for fifteen long years.  

He broke with tears of unfathomable gratitude when crediting the United States for donating food during that time of confinement, enabling him to live and eventually support others’ recoveries from the barbaric savagery of Uganda’s war.  And then he shared riveting testimonies of seemingly impossible soul healing as a result of compassionate, courageous forgiveness.  

Reconciliation through forgiveness undergirds Bensen’s work with the traumatized, a sort of inner disinfectant for the poison of bitterness and hate that circulates within those bitten by the wicked snake of outlandish terror.  This is supported by deeply abiding faith in God, bold hope - and staunch courage to face trauma, forgive unfathomable offense, and heal.  

Bensen is on the front line, reaching people who have died inside, inspiring them to forgive and live.  This is a therapy of love without bounds, and it works.  My exposure to him, although brief, has inspired a different kind of profound awe for the power of God at work in human life.

Bensen Ocen is affiliated with “I Live Again Uganda”: http://www.ilauganda.org

Free Food!

Stinging nettles.  As a kid, I avoided these prickly plants at all cost – youch!

Well, we ATE young nettles for the first time a couple of years ago as last-minute dinner guests at a monastery.  The gracious nuns had no idea we were coming, but supplied an elegant meal anyway.  When I asked about the delicious "greens," I learned they were nettles from the woods - young plants that hadn't yet reached knee height. 

So guess what?  Nettles are growing profusely at the back of our new property across the street!  And we had some for dinner last night! I mean really, who can resist FREE FOOD – especially organic free food that is chock full of nutrition?

It goes without saying (but I’m saying it anyway just in case you’ve not encountered nettles personally) I wore rubber gloves when harvesting these scratchy leaves.  BUT! Within the first 30 seconds of boiling in a pot of hot water, the prickles disappeared.  After a few minutes, the wilted leaves looked and tasted similar to cooked spinach.

Here are some nettles growing in their natural habitat at the edge of the woods.

And here they are in my kitchen pre-and-post boiling.

To complete this little documentary, they finally they made it into a pie plate as the lead ingredient for a rich nettle soufflé (I made it up, sort of like something I used to do with spinach) which was served alongside button mushrooms sautéed in coconut oil:

 

In case you’re curious (or freaked out) as a result of this report, I’ll include an excerpt from a web site called Organic Facts: 

“Some of the most important health benefits of stinging nettle include its ability to detoxify the body, improve metabolic efficiency, boost immune health, increase circulation, improve energy levels, manage menstruation, minimize menopausal symptoms, heal skin conditions, protect kidney and gallbladder health, lower inflammation, increase muscle mass, regulate hormonal activity, prevent diabetes, lower blood pressure, soothe hemorrhoids, and improve respiratory conditions.”

You can check out more info here if you’re inspired:  http://www.organicfacts.net/health-benefits/herbs-and-spices/stinging-nettle.html  

Victory Bumpers

Sometimes the smallest, nit-pickiest problems seem to enlarge over time - especially lots of time. For years we've wrestled with a seemingly unsolvable issue: protecting the boat when it is parked at the end of the pier, especially when choppy water rocks it back-and-forth.  This isn't major compared to other more serious problems, and yet it has made me feel just a tad defeated.

To explain, let me say that our our sleeve-type pier post covers aren't so great (alright, they're practically a bomb), especially when the water level in the lake rises and falls and their vertical (ahem) *protection* varies as a result.  In fact, the insignia on the side of the hull has suffered fairly nasty gouges as proof of their failure, and scars remain as evidence.

The old-fashioned remedy, hanging used tires from pier posts as bumpers, hasn't worked well, either. Unsightly, resilient black stains smear the side of the boat (as if kids had been at work with permanent markers), requiring lots of elbow grease and a willingness to settle for a less-than-perfect cleaning job.

But no more!  Today we found the solution at a nearby specialty business, one dealing only in piers, boat lifts, and a vast array of pier accessories (like cool bumpers).  After a quick conversation to explain our situation, we were advised to purchase two new shock-absorbing poles to stand tall on either side of the end of the pier.  There they will nudge the boat's rub-rail, and keep the vessel safe when it is temporarily parked in that spot. And lo and behold, these also will serve double-duty by acting as supports for people entering or leaving the boat who would like a stationary assist.  This is a nice perk for kids and old people, and we seem to have plenty of both.

I am excited, beyond relieved, and extremely grateful.  A simple solution, but with such major impact!   It seems almost profound that this "small thing" is serving as a bold reminder to seek top-of-the-line resources, ask questions of people in-the-know, and refuse to assume defeat.

Moving Day

What happens when you peel back the plastic shrink-wrap that has protected the boat all winter, only to discover a robin nest perched on the ledge of a pontoon with four perfect, beautiful blue eggs inside? 

I’ll tell you.

You look absolutely everywhere for an alternative spot for the nest.  You search high and low, and brainstorm with your spouse, knowing that even the best option will probably not be good enough.  But you must try. 

Finally you decide to build a little L-shaped support on the storage shed located maybe 50 feet away, and get to the task quickly, very quickly, in case timing makes a difference.  Meanwhile the mother robin tries to return to her nest - not once but twice - but because of your presence she nervously flits off after just a quick visit.

When the new support is finished, you acknowledge the gravity of the task ahead.  Then you pick up the nest ever-so-carefully, like delicate fine china, and gently reposition it in the new location.

  

Then you wait.   And wait.  While the eggs grow cold and the mother has no idea where her nest might be.  You wait knowing you tried; you wait knowing this "moving day" changed everything for four incubating baby robins that will now most likely never hatch, let alone learn to fly.

And then it is time to hitch the boat to the truck.  You drive to the lake’s public landing, and launch the pontoon that held the perfectly-formed nest with the exquisite eggs.  And you think, if only that mother robin had chosen another spot, and if only I wasn’t so time-driven to get this boat in the water.   But she didn’t, and you were, and the nest and the lives within it are still waiting for her return.

Song of Hope

The whir of my portable sewing machine transports me back in time to the porch of our lake cottage. For many years I awoke there, dappled with morning sun as it danced through the tulip tree, listening to the hum of mother’s Sew Handy machine singing its steady drone.  I associated this pleasant mechanical voice with mossy, wet lake smells and tender expectations.  Simple wishes decorated my childlike innocence in those days, in the same way delicate white clover blossoms sprinkled our yard, confetti-like.  The machine's song of hope fit right in.

Recently I used that same machine to patch jean shorts belonging to my husband of 45 years.  Despite compromised hearing, I continue to relish its sweet, hopeful murmur all these years later - a sound that draws me inward to consider what is simple and true.  In that interior place I revisit the familiar memory of my porch mornings, except with certain additions: wrinkles, scars, bunions, gray hairs, a measure of knowledge and wisdom, and maturing faith that inspires endurance and the ambition to live fully and well.

This connection is a powerful thing.  Also the realization that hope has been growing yeast-like in hidden, core places all along, and continues to swell and encompass all of me.