Knitting for B-A-B-Y!

Tomorrow our niece is being honored at a baby shower honoring her first child, a baby girl who is anticipated to arrive in mid-July.  I went together with my girls to purchase several fun gifts to give jointly (as one branch of Mulie contingency), but then at the last minute I was inspired to also knit a pair of funky, cool-baby Designer Bootees to match the wrapping paper!  Get a load of these cutie-boots-for baby….a little saucy, I thought, compared to the Plain Jane delicate-baby-pink bootees of my child-bearing era, but absolutely perfect for this occasion.

As I was knitting, almost-three-year-old Josie showed great interest in the project and asked plenty of questions including, “How do you use TWO needles?”   She managed to sit quietly for some time and twist her own yarn around a single needle to design her own creations  - notably a tangled mass that became a “necklace.” However, despite her various questions she never asked about my binder with its page of typed instructions, although it lay open the entire time I was knitting and  I obviously referred to it regularly. Several hours later, long after the knitting had been put away, Josie got busy with a small notebook and pen, and studiously wrote a page full of scribbles.  “What is that?” her mom asked.  “Can you tell us?”

“This is Nana’s knitting ‘struk-shuns,” she said. 

HANDOUT

Call me a lazy blog-writer (ok….I confess it’s true at the moment), but here’s another FaithWriters entry that just returned from the judges this morning.  The topic was “handout,” and I enjoyed crafting a fictional story with reference to both literally and figuratively extended hands. The entry is entitled “In Greater Measure” and was inspired by Luke 6:37-39. 

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In Greater Measure

As a volunteer ministering to incarcerated women, I requested permission to mentor a tiny five-foot-tall inmate named Ruth. Jagged scars pleated Ruth’s right cheek where the skin seemed to have been stapled at odd angles, sculpting her face into a permanent snarl. Untamed black hair hung in tangled mats, framing her disfigurement.

At our first meeting, Ruth perched like a mountain lion on a folding chair with one leg wound beneath her, seemingly spring-loaded for action. The other leg rhythmically swung like a clock pendulum stuck in fast-forward.

Tough looking and tightly wound - ready to pounce like a cat, I thought.

“Hi Ruth,” I offered from the doorway. “I know you’re expecting me - may I join you?”

Ruth’s probing eyes scrutinized every inch of my five-foot-ten-frame. Her leg stopped swinging. “Do I have a choice?” Ruth smirked a crooked smile while jerkily twirling her steel-wool hair with one finger.

“No, I guess you don’t,” I grinned in return. “Here - I brought a book I thought you might like.”

She plucked the small volume from my hands. “Thanks. And … what’s your name?” Her head cocked with the candid inquisitiveness typical of a young child.

“Oh - sorry! My name is Sally. I assumed the supervisor already told you.”

How rude of me, to skip common courtesy.

“Sally. Nice name.” Ruth nodded her head in recognition. “Had a dog named Sally. Real loyal dog. Gentle with kids but could whip a garter snake to death with one shake. Fought coons, too. They’d get her by the throat but she’d kill ‘em every time.”

Ah! You can always count on culture shock here in the jai!

“I’m actually named for my grandmother,” I chuckled, “an artist who battled rheumatoid arthritis.” I paused, wondering how much to disclose, but then displayed my own crippled hands. “I must have inherited it from her.”

Ruth had already opened my book on a table near her chair and was thumbing through its open pages. However, at the sight of my gnarled fingers she pushed it aside. “Let me see.” She focused her full attention on my hands.

Should I trust her? If she tries something I can’t grab the pager …

“Sit down. Here.” Ruth spoke matter-of-factly, uncrossed her legs, and gestured toward the empty chair on the other side of the table.

I approached the chair but remained standing.

“C’mon.” She spoke softly.

Is this a trap?

A pair of delicate hands opened in invitation across the tabletop.

Should I reciprocate?

I delayed a second too long. She saw through me.

“Are you afraid?” Ruth whispered with that same childlike quality. “Don’t be. It’s okay. Really. It is.”

I hesitated.

She persisted. “Your hands must hurt – real bad.”

She seems sincere.

“Yes, they do,” I acknowledged. “It’s challenging to manage such searing pain.”

Her eyes squinted in remembrance. “Yeah. Been there. Done that.”

Pain is a common denominator for us all. Give her a chance.

I sat down gingerly and laid my twisted hands on the table, palms-down, just inches from hers facing palms-up.

“Tell me about your pain,” I coaxed.

Ruth sighed and her shoulders shuddered. “Once I hurt so bad. I just wanted to die. A nurse in the hospital told me the only way to stand the pain was to let someone share it. So she stayed with me a long time and touched me real soft, right here – and here.” Ruth gestured briefly toward various parts of her face.

“Did it help?”

Ruth’s dark eyes glimmered with pooled tears and her head nodded affirmatively. “I asked her to come and do it again the next day, and the next, and the next.” She paused. “That kind of thing doesn’t happen here, though. People keep their distance.”

“I see.”

“But …” She hesitated. “If you visit me again … can I touch your fingers … like that nurse touched my face?” She opened her hands again to invite my response.

She’s compassionate.

I placed my cool hands in her warm ones.

“OH!” She seemed genuinely shocked by my trust, and ever-so-gently locked her fingers in mine. “Life isn’t worth living unless …” Ruth’s words trailed off.

“Unless what?” I barely squeezed her hands as a gesture of encouragement, and felt the familiar sting of sacrifice.

“ … unless you’re needed. Will you let me help you?”

I blushed, the recipient of uninvited, unexpected grace – a good measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over.*

*Luke 6:37-39 

Breaking Out

Recently “outbreak” was the weekly contest topic at FaithWriters.com.  I occasionally post my entries here on the blog, and today decided this one entitled “As the Spirit Moves” might be good to share.  It was patterned after an emerging relationship I have with a young girl living in India (the name and a few details have been changed). Perhaps such radical breaking-out-of-the-norm is a topic that deserves more thought... 

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As the Spirit Moves

Ahahita’s deep, oceanic gaze revolutionizes me as she peers from a sponsorship picture displayed on my refrigerator door. Although her pursed mouth seems serious and even drawn, and her delicate cocoa-brown hands press stiffly against her thighs as if in self-protection, a subtle quality defines her visual gaze: childlike hopefulness that refuses to own defeat.

Spirit-eruptions are reshaping Ahahita’s heart and soul.

My young friend Ahahita belongs to the lowest Hindu caste in India, the Dahlits or Untouchables. According to those in higher castes, her life has no value. The socially elite consider Ahahita sub-human scum destined for starvation and desperation amidst squalor and poverty.

As a very small child, Ahahita’s diet consisted of scavenged rotten garbage. Currently long-distance supporters encourage indigenous teachers and caregivers to provide food, education, medical treatment and clothes for Ahahita and other Dalit children. Ahahita is learning to deny caste lies and embrace hope in Jesus Christ.

When I first displayed Ahahita’s picture on my refrigerator, I was unaware of the intensity with which she would watch me every day. From that surveillance post her fixed stare influences me to confess that the American Dream is warped with its own sophisticated version of despair. She inspires me to put aside Westernized self-absorption with its self-gratification, self-occupation, and self-sufficiency and embrace humility and sacrifice.

Ahahita and I have both been duped by infectious cultural epidemics that trapped us into believing false identities: hopeless depravity in her case, and indulgent pride and arrogance in mine. We live in a time of rampant, toxic cultural extremes. I grew up guzzling opportunism until my whole being overflowed with it; she grew up shamefully pecking at scraps of smelly refuse gleaned from upper caste garbage heaps until she believed she was trash. Malignant pride consumes many in my culture, while deception and abasement splinter those in hers.

We both understand our respective imprisonment and are grateful for the promise of hope. The Lord has called us to flee false attitudes and embrace rash humility and radical dependence. As we do so, Ahahita’s presence in my life challenges me to turn from pride and extravagance to compassion and mercy. At the same time, I support her ongoing jailbreak from the confines of judgment, condemnation, false guilt, and overt despair in order to embrace lasting hope in a divine promise that will never fade.

Our eyes meet each time I open my refrigerator full of cheese and eggs, apples and carrots, orange juice and milk. Her visual challenge gushes from the printed photograph like an unrestrained river at flood point, sweeping me to an inner place of turbulent reevaluation. “Where is God in the midst of America’s opulence, consumerism, and gluttony?” her eyes seem to say. Their glint speaks of redeemed suffering that mirrors the Light of the World.

Every day Ahahita watches intently as I consume the sumptuous contents of my refrigerator in quantities that might easily sustain an entire family in her village. Although I complain about wanting to lose a few pounds, I continue stuffing myself with highly processed pizzas, crackers, cookies and ice cream that perpetuate my addictions. On the other hand, Ahahita explains in her letters that she gratefully enjoys one generous bowl of brown rice a day at her small Christian school. Is not simple, whole food in ample amounts sufficient for me as well?

I have told Ahahita, “Americans expect luxury: a constant flow of gratification. But God is leading His people from a preoccupation with possessions to passionately seek the Truth.”

And she has replied, “Dalits expect poverty: swarming and gluttonous flies, unbearable stench, and hunger. But God is leading His people from a counterfeit wallowing in despair to embrace hope.”

Ahahita and I pray for and encourage one another, and praise our God for the revolt being led by His Spirit in the midst of our unique circumstances. Our partnership is changing the course of history - one day, one prayer, one letter, and one transparent look at a time.

The Spirit is moving.

The Hunt

Here are the two beautiful egg gatherers who showed up yesterday to scour our yard.  Their only competition was an inquisitive chipmunk that investigated a few of the stuffed plastic snap-apart eggs because of their delicious aromas - popcorn!

Easter Evening Thoughts

I’ve sought a deeper walk with Jesus this Lenten season, and yet I must confess I’ve done so in my own strength and at times with my own agenda.  It’s crazy how easy it is to justify this kind of self-centered “worship” even while yearning  to grow smaller, ever smaller, in the presence of His majesty; to submit myself more openly and fully.

Then in the last hours of waiting for Pascha (Easter) I was given new reason to trust Him: a health crisis. I saw my SELF as symbolic of blockage...reminiscent of both as the veil in the temple only He could tear, and as the stone covering the tomb only He could roll away. 

In the hospital the small crucifix on the wall kept my attention in the dimmed light during the wee hours of Friday morning.   I tried to hide from it – hide in emotion like discouragement and self-pity – but it kept calling me out, calling me out.  (I learned later my older son was involved in an all-night vigil reading the Psalms, and was praying for me.)  This is not the first time for such a confrontation.  I had a similar experience with a hospital crucifix when my thyroid was surgically removed 15 years ago.  In both instances, He came to me – confronted me – showed me the necessity of His pure anointing and power and my submission to it.

This Easter evening I'm contemplating how life is so much more than a day-by-day waiting game.  I long to sacrificially yield my whole self to this God who gave Himself completely so that I might live in light rather than darkness – so that I might be immersed in His unfathomable, unstoppable, undeniable compassion.

An Empty Driver's Seat

Severe disorientation followed by memory loss led Fritz to drive me to the hospital emergency room yesterday afternoon.  Following one CT scan, one MRI, one EEG (of brain waves), a continuous-running EKG, numerous pricks with needles, and THE most obnoxious middle-of-the-night ballooning leg massagers EVER, I’m finally home again.

The diagnosis is most likely a seizure, based on abnormal brain waves noticed with the EEG.  However, the doctors are also not ruling out the possibility of a small TIA.  I have a follow-up appointment next week, and an appointment with a neurologist in a couple of weeks. 

And I can’t drive a car for 6 months!!!  It’s Michigan state law!

Right now I think it’s time to woozie-my-way to bed with these jello-legs and fuzzy head – right after I enjoy a cup of hot orange tea with stevia.  Ahhhh, I love being HOME. 

Writing

I find it more and more necessary to make time to write.  Usually this involves composing short 750-word essays in response to weekly contest topics – my ongoing therapy.

I’m often fascinated by the end results of my efforts, and have no idea such thoughts and stories (sometimes fictional) lurk somewhere within me, just waiting for a way out.  Often after identifying and defining a main character, he or she tells me the story – one seemingly beyond the scope of my own imagination. 

Sometimes my job is to be willing to dig way down in the cellar to find out what’s there, and then bring it up to the light.   Other times I reorganize and restate the obvious, but in a way that encourages the reader to consider a unique focus.   And occasionally the whole point is inspiration – being a conduit.  Those times are my favorites.

 “I must write it all out, at any cost.  Writing is thinking.  It is more than living, for it is being conscious of living.”  - Anne Morrow Lindbergh