Poetry as Reflection

I come in the little things
Saith the Lord:
Not borne on morning wings
Of majesty, but I have set my feet
Amidst the delicate and bladed wheat
That springs triumphant in the furrowed sod.
There so I dwell, in weakness and in power;...

-Evelyn Underhill

Poetry, beauty, nature.. those words showed up this weekend as I tried to write out my "core values." Poetry, really, is a form of reflecting and processing.

I relate with the seeming darkness of "the furrowed sod."

Plus, now that I am in this lovely location housesitting in Los Gatos, it leads to more quiet and more thought.

Enjoyed Marilyn Laszlo who was our speaker at church yesterday- spent her life translating the Bible (and completing it!) in Papau New Guinea. I told her what I liked about her was that she was in touch with reality- reading Donald Trump's new book, crazy about college football, etc. Didn't even really dress like a missionary, definitely not and EMMW (ex-missionary moo-moo wearer) type. I don't want to come back to the US after 30 years and just speak a completely different language and make myself unrelate-able. I can imagine that happening after just two short years away.

I am going to Urbana. I am signed up with the SIM team. Sweet!!!

To have dominion over sea and land;
To trace the stars and search the heavens for power;
To feel the passion of Eternity

This is what Edwin Markham thought we had been created by God for, at least part of what we were created for, but so many are "bowed with the weight of the centuries." (from "The Man with the Hoe.)

This world is messed up with a lot of pain, it seems. All kinds of stories, from those of close friends to just acquaintances, of pain and grief, of injury and attempts to slowly heal. I suppose that is the same the world over. I'm about ready for some counseling myself on trying to make life work in the Bay Area again, and I don't have huge grief, maybe just some small grief.

When I first got to Ethiopia, driving around Addis was overwhelming. The beggars are at every stoplight, all looking hungry and cute, with women carrying babies around motioning that they need food for their children, and disabled people using their hands (in flip flops) to drag themselves around- and wearing big warms smiles.

Martina McBride ran through my head so many times and somehow provided me with some solace... "Love is the only house big enough for all the pain in the world," and "I'll come down and get my hands dirty and together we'll make a stand."

That's the house I want to build.

I just caught up on email the other day and wrote the Steve and Trina in Addis, Denise in Dilla, and Bev in Addis. I got such nice notes from them, it was weird to think I hadn't written any of them, I don't think, since I left.

Hearing from them makes me feel Ethiopia. Denise's news from Dilla, the ho-hum normal life news from Addis that I enjoyed so much reminds me that this wasn't a "trip" or a "visit," that I really lived there and alot of wild things became normal. Working the last few nights makes me feel San Jose, Good Sam, life before Ethiopia. And I realized the two haven't really fused, so far I have just turned off Ethiopia to deal with life here. Today I realized once that fusion happens, I will be much more grown up than before all of this happened.

I'm checking out a chance to housesit, I have to think through my questions. Living at home is hard, but so is the fact that I do not have a community here. Where do I find that?

A shadow of God versus the real thing

My class is so interesting. This evening a man spoke who grew up a Roman Catholic, converted to Islam for about 12 years, then converted to evangelical Christianity. He obviously understood very well the way Muslims think, and was disturbed at the way Christians approach Islam- with so many misconceptions and weird ideas. In regards to his conversion to Christianity, he quoted someone as saying something to the effect of, "Why would I settle for a shadow of God when I could have the real thing?" The Shari'a for him was just a shadow of experiencing God: as close as he could get.

Walked up St. Joseph's hill with Sally, that trail is full of memory for me, good memory. I made her talk up all the hills! I need to get out and run if Vicky and I think we can do this race in a few weeks.

Got up at 2pm today after working and sleeping. Hope I can sleep tonight.

Misha and I went to hear George Verwer yesterday at a Chinese speaking church in Mountain View. He is the president of OM, Operation Mobilization, and always wears a jacket with a drawing of the globe on it. He referred to the jacket but said, it sort of hangs on me wrong, it looks better on fat people... I don't think the Cantonese translator quite caught the nuance of his idea!! Felt good, again, to be in the minority, not so good to be standing up introducing ourselves in the microphone!!

I was telling Katie at work last night that I am ok, I suppose, but I have about a 48 hour cycle, and I hit a low about that often. Wondering what I am doing living at home, how long with life go on without too much direction, and where are the people I will fit in with? I am glad for God's Spirit of truth that can divide truth and error in my own heart and make me aware of it. I get worked up and upset about things, especially in regards to living at home, that can be a skewed perception of how things really are.

The butterfly

My hands are warm to the butterfly
I am trying to set free.
Delicate, frail creature of beauty,
what can it know of me?
I am outside its comprehension.
It knows of sunshine and showers,
darkness and the feel of flowers.
We do not ask it do to the impossible
and know Man.

So we, with God,
who looks with tenderness upon our frailty,
trying to guide us.
Trust him!
He knows the way, and, if we let him,
will open windows,
and, cradling us gently in hands we cannot comprehend.
will lift us up and set us free.

-Margaret Orford

Poetry is a balm for me, I have found it bridging the gap I feel between me and God so many times when I am feeling particularly numb to all that is good. I found this poem yesterday, which was pretty much a bad day with me groping to figure out what, really, is my problem, or if I have any problem at all- maybe I am right where the Lord wants me and it has to be hard- ? Or am I making it worse for myself?

Today, at least this afternoon, was like the crisp clear air catching sunshine after the downpoar.

Flea Market

The Berryessa flea market. Just a little drive, not far, but walking around I felt like I was in the minority. Good feeling. It is good for me to realize there is more to this area- more to my own city- than my neighborhood and what I see every day.

I am looking for something along the lines of an Indian salwar chemise, which is a whole suit, and I am only looking for the long top to wear over jeans. Being in the stores last week had me frustrated that there is hardly a way to look any different than anyone else- I don't want to look like "Target." This look is sort of different- I want a shirt that is too long to look like something I picked up on my side of town.

I found a few little fabric shops with Indian women looking around- the fabric is gorgeous, I really should just buy and have made or something. They had some suits, but the lady quoted one as "$100" and they all looked too fancy. Also thinking they all look a little too big/billowy with funny necklines... I'll have to keep doing my research.

My class on Islam requires that I interview a Muslim person, so I want to find a Muslim woman to talk to. I was looking around today, and there were plenty of people from all kinds of backgrounds, it seems to me.

I am going a little bit crazy living at home, but I suppose I can trust God day by day to lay out my path before me. I won't last forever.

catching up...

I am not writing, or processing, or thinking too much. Seems like I am just sleeping and working and feeling sluggish.

New York City... haven't ever been that direction before, but headed out that way and saw Boston, too, a few weeks ago. Jennifer is a fun traveling buddy, we're trying to do some major cities together... where are we so far, Addis Ababa, Nairobi, Mombasa, Boston, New York City? Weird assortment.

Yazid. One of my favorite people in Ethiopia. When Jennifer said there was a team going over to work on the HIV project in Addis, I couldn't help picking some stuff up at Marshalls and sending it over. And I sent a pink fuzzy sleeper for Yazid's baby.

Ramonda said she just noticed that besides knowing Amharic, he was just a good worker. He started out as her gardener, but eventually started working in her house, and because her main worker. He did laundry, cleaned house, and learned to make bread, pita bread, cinnamon rolls, tortillas, and pizza dough for her. She said she spent lots of time talking to him, and even trying to help him read Oromo.

But Ramonda had left a while before I arrived, and I didn't even know who he was for the first long while I was there. I remember Ramonda coming down and saying she was having lunch with him, and I felt weird for not knowing someone she was so close to. He wasn't really around our compound at that point.

Somehow I met him, I think about last summer, and realized he could cook all this stuff for us. He cooked cinnamon rolls and bread for me one day, I think it was when Vicky was around, and I really enjoyed his company. I paid him 12 EB ($1.50) for the day.

When Esther Lee came with her family, she hired him. Maybe she had talked to Ramonda in Addis about it so much that she felt pressured, I don't know. It was never really that smooth of a working relationship- Esther and Yazid. She almost "let him go" at the beginning because he wasn't working right, but she didn't want it to hurt her husband's evangelistic ministry. She kept him on, and things kept working relatively smoothly, though I didn't feel that much "love" there. I was enjoying interactions I had with him, but I wasn't his employer, so there wasn't any real potential for tension.

His wife had a baby, and I had such a great visit with them. The new mom, her mother-in-law (Yazid's mom), and some other lady, we just sat around and talked, no pretense, no move to try and make coffee for me, just talked. I loved it- they asked me, what is better, your country or ours? I love that question. Super relaxed, and they loved the little baby clothes I br0ught.

Yazid wasn't around when I dropped by, but we talked about it later. Easier to talk to him because he knew Amharic, not just Oromo like the women, but also had been around white people enough to understand us. I told him what a nice time I had and he said, yes, it was nice, but only one thing was wrong- we didn't serve you coffee. He was very concerned that I be offered coffee. So I came back another time with Kristine (she wanted to visit too) and we had coffee.

We were bonded. But Esther told me she suspected Yazid had been stealing from them- they were missing Ki-Yung's nice pen, and the dictionary, and a few other things. I tried to be understanding- Yazid is not working in my house and I am not missing my things- but I was so sad, and didn't want Yazid accused of stuff like that. I knew, though, that she was debating whether or not to fire him.

Apparently, sometime in there, they had some sort of issue over paydate- whether or not he was paid in the middle of the month or the end. Esther, who spoke good Amharic, came to me and asked if I would translate so they could work out their problem, and said Yazid had asked her if I would come and help them communicate. So I showed up one day, perched myself on her kitchen counter, and the three of us talked. It wasn't a language issue at all- Esther's Amharic is better than mine- but I think Yazid needed someone he knew would hear his side. In Amharic, a "shemagalee" is usually what you call an old man, but the word sort of means "mediator"- someone to listen to both sides of a dispute.

So I listened to both sides, and they came to an agreement even though it was a petty issue. As we left, Yazid said, "thank you for being the shemagalee."

And right after I left for the US, I heard that Esther had fired him. I was sad, even though I knew it was coming. I wanted time to go sit with him, just have him over to the patio for coffee, or go sit with him in his house with his wife and new baby and talk. Who else will do that? At least Kristine gave him the pictures I printed for him in Addis.

So, no wonder I sent a pink fuzzy blanket sleeper to him with the group from Boston going from Ethiopia. That is the only love language I have, and I love and miss that family- Yazid, Kamaru, and Hada Ambasa.