Monday, July 8, 2013

true


We are cordial as we speak to one another this morning, but there are icicles sticking to our words.  After 25 years of marriage, our fights have become polite.  

I know I’m crazy in love with my husband and I know he is my rock as much as a human man can be a human woman’s rock.  Even so, I am mad at him.  He made me mad yesterday and when he did I felt bad about myself.  The mood in our house drastically changed.  I didn't  just shut my mouth – I made him angry, too.  We were both tired and hungry and spent….  Last night when our busy day was all over, we shared our double sized bed together without touching one another.  

This morning I made my own coffee. 

Today we will reconcile.  I’m mad at him now but I can guarantee you that I will not be able to stay away from him.  He rejoices with me in my small victories, like being able to rent a garbage bin for the lowest price.  He will help me see things from a balanced perspective and convince me that organic salmon is worth the price.  He will kiss me some time during today and chills will radiate from the back of my neck to the base of my spine. 

The reason I know this is because I have endured many fights with him.  They have threatened my happiness temporarily; but never have stolen from the concept of true love – the dream I am living with this man.

True love is not wimpy.  It is not selfish or self-centered.  It doesn’t wear make-up to make itself look good.  It exists between two people ready and willing and able to sacrifice for and with each other.  True love sees disappointment regularly and survives.  It is filled with passion, but equally filled with awareness that it is responsible to the world around it.  It becomes a large, stable boulder in a sea of change that people know will never move.

My love is not perfect; but it is strong.  It is rooted in grace and mercy and forgiveness.  It is a marathon runner, fueled by respect, truth and kindness.   It has fallen many times on a rocky road that never ends and it has stood up and limped back into the race, ready to go on.  My love kicks ass. 

That’s why this morning I can write this.  I am no baby – I am no spoiled princess.  I am a woman of substance and strength and I know who I am.  I will apologize for my part and I will forgive him for his. 

Eventually. 

True love (*sigh*) is not what people say it is.  

Wednesday, July 3, 2013

fourth

Photo Credit: www. american.com
Check out their website today!!


I’ve landed in the USA and have been here three months.  In doing  this, I am surrounded by different sights, sounds, traditions and fragrances that remind me that I am in my home country.   My home country celebrates the Fourth of July like a summer party that everyone is invited to.  We, as a great big family will gather in parks and front yards to bar-b-que and drink lemonade (or other stuff) to celebrate the hottest holiday in American culture.

The Fourth, itself, is called Independence Day.  It is really not the day that the Americans declared their Independence from the Mother Britain – this is a fact (as many others I love) that proves our nation is flawed in what we say is truth.  Here are my “favorite” myths about the 4th of July:

  • ·         The Fourth Of July is  Independence Day – the day the US seceded from Great Britain.

A representative from the State of Virginia named Richard Henry Lee was the first to propose legislation to make it official: the colonies would notify England that this land was no longer theirs.  Lee drafted a Resolution on the 7th of June 1776  and read it to the Second Continental Congress, which began:

Resolved: That these United Colonies are, and of right ought to be, free and independent States, that they are absolved from all allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain is, and ought to be, totally dissolved.

John Adams convinced the congress to allow Thomas Jefferson to compose an official document called “a Declaration.”  Lee was in Virginia by the time Congress voted on and adopted the Declaration of Independence – on July 2, 1776.  The Declaration of Independence was signed two days later by those founding fathers who were still there. 

John Hancock was said to have signed it first – in a grand and dark signature that to this day is the American benchmark of all signatures.

  • ·         The Founding Fathers believed that all men were created equal.


The declaration of Independence has a beautiful preamble:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

The colonists were tired of being the second-class citizens that they were seen as  in the eyes of England.  They had no rights, other than the protection of the British Army and Navy.  They wanted to govern themselves and knew they could do it without a sovereign. 

What the land-owning Founding Fathers had was a voice that England would be forced to listen to.   We are no different than you are – we are gentlemen ourselves.

Like most wealthy men of their time, the Founders were gentlemen in theory.  Many of them owned slaves; many believed in the death penalty.  It is important to remember that the founders were influenced  by the culture and the time.   Washington and Jefferson privately expressed distaste for slavery (Jefferson once called it an "execrable commerce"), but they also understood that it was part of the political and economic bedrock of the country they helped to create. 

The life, liberty and pursuit of happiness they spoke of was for land-owning men.  White men.  Not women; not slaves; not foreigners. 

 It is a myth that the signers of the Declaration practiced what they were preaching to England. 


  • ·         The Fireworks on the Fourth are supposed to remind us of the bombs that lit up the sky in the Revolutionary War we eventually fought against England.


I love me some fireworks. 

They are as American as apple pie on the Fourth of July.  Still, the common myth that the fireworks are supposed to mimic bombs is probably one promoted by our national anthem, the Star Spangled Banner. 

Francis Scott Key wrote the poem “Defence of Fort McHenry" while on board a ship following the Burning of Washington and the Raid on Alexandria.  He and another man were on an errand  to secure the exchange of prisoners, one of whom was Dr. William Beanes, an elderly and popular town doctor.
 Because Key had supposedly overheard details of British plans to attack Baltimore, he was held prisoner as well.   During the rainy night, Key had witnessed the battle for Fort McHenry complete with “bombs bursting in the air” – all the while observing  the fort's smaller "storm flag" flying.  Once the  barrage had stopped, Key didn’t  know how the battle had turned out until the next day. By dawn, the storm flag had been lowered and the larger flag had been raised.


Key was inspired by the American victory and the sight of the large American flag flying triumphantly above the fort and wrote the immortal poem which has four stanzas (very few know more than the first) and later set to music and adopted as our national anthem. 

In reality, Congress encouraged fireworks on the Fourth of July by authorizing a display on July 4, 1777, in Philadelphia, a year after the signing of the Declaration of Independence.  “At night there was a grand exhibition of fireworks, which began and concluded with thirteen rockets on the commons,” reads a journal from that year.   

Another colorful display took place in Philadelphia on July 4, 1779: “In the evening a sett of brilliant fireworks were exhibited, particularly excellent rockets, which, after ascending to an amazing height in the air, burst, and displayed thirteen stars.”


  • ·         Fourth of July is a Day to have fun with family and friends.

Okay, that’s not a myth.  That one is true!!  Mario and I just bought this house in the Arden Arcade area, very close to Cal Expo, where the City of Sacramento sets off the largest fireworks display in Northern California.

 I have a feeling that we’ll break out our camping chairs (they still have Sudanese dust on them) and sit on our front lawn and watch the incredible display together – anyone want to join us??

It is a day that all of us flawed Americans (my international friends, you can HAVE the Fact that we are all flawed!) celebrate high treason, eat too much and encourage our children to blow things up. 


I love it.

Monday, July 1, 2013

bafana

Our "boys" - Aubrey, Bobo (our nickname), Chris, Teboho
(kneeling) Lele, Laurens, Mabuti
The scene is burned into my mind like a silver and black image that will become a photograph if developed in a dark room.  It is the image of our African sons dancing at our going away party.  We left nearly four months ago and the image will not go away. 

It makes me smile when I am alone, it makes me ache with sadness when I lay in bed at night.  It is impossible to divorce myself from the familial relationships we built in South Africa. 

The other night, while doing a drive-by on facebook I saw a post from one of them.  He was upset, hurting…and lonely.  Normally, I would have called and invited him to dinner.  Now dinner would be nine hours earlier and on a different continent.  It would involve an eighteen-hundred dollar plane ticket.  All of this solidifies the distance between us – the physical one.

I am happy to be home- there’s nothing quite like it.  I love being nearer to family and it is where I know God wants us to be.  I have no doubt we were supposed to make the move and I don’t look back with any kind of regret or doubt, but I do miss our boys.

Laurens, Chris, Lele
That’s what we called them: our boys.  It all started with Lele, Laurens and Chris – the standout kids we met at Junction.  We took a trip with them to build Hlanganani (our church’s program for aiding the needs of widows and orphans in the township).  To do this we travelled to a township in the lowveld – about three hours from Johannesburg, on the border of Krueger National Park. 

It was there, on that trip that we bonded and played and joked and visited.  We met their families, heard their dreams and prayed deeply for the future of Diepsloot, Junction and South Africa.  The boys had a better view than we did of all three.  It was interesting to be invited into their world – as invited as white foreigners could be.  Like our own kids, they were on their best behavior around us.  Like our own kids, they had secrets from us.  Years of this…

They called us “Dad and Mom” – and their numbers grew.  Next came Aubrey, the sharp dresser with a winning smile. 

Then came Mabuti, the little pastor.  He had a deep heart and shared it freely.  Then Teboho, the singer with the heart of gold. 

They all became friends with our own kids – even our niece. 

We built a church with our boys.  We had them over for soccer days, dinners and parties.  We knew their families and visited with them where they lived.  We met the girls – disapproved of their choices – and didn’t have the heart to say “I told you so” when they found out we were right.

We feasted with them; laughed until I couldn’t breathe… We loved them like sons.  They needed fathering – a lot – and Mario cherished the job more than any other he held in eldership.  We held them close to us and before we knew it, they carried our hope.  I think of them all every day.

That is why this image of them dancing will not go away.   They said goodbye to us in the coolest, most celebratory way they knew how.  Even though they were sad for us to leave, they danced for us with all their hearts.  The one they chose – the procession - is a dance typically done at a wedding: homage for the new couple done to usher in joy of a new life. 

It was sacrificial.  I watched them, shouting and screaming and proud – like a mama.  Mario cried through the whole thing.

The word bafana in Zulu translates to “boys” – or “young men” – at least that is the literal translation.  In reality, bafana means “our hope” or “the next generation” – the ones who will carry us all into the future.  Without them, we lack vision and sight to see where we are going.  They need wisdom and shepherding, yes, but they also need to be empowered to move forward. 


The Zulu understand this – most cultures do.  I pray we do not forget it.  



Wednesday, June 26, 2013

race





Far and away
I run to you.
I've never caught up-
But what else can I do?
I've tried to break in
And you've somehow shut off...
To the figure I say
Once was mine.

I see you inside
The tango of peace
versus insanity;
I pray its release
In the dark watches
Of night
Find relief in His Word,
In His blood,
In His Promises.

Tell me how
to catch up;
Catch up to your heart.
I'll break in,
Hold your hand,
and I'll try not to talk.
It's the words
more than anything
that betray me.



Wednesday, June 19, 2013

Mario


Mario 2008 - On our Sudan Trip


Today is Mario’s Birthday. 

By some incredible grace that God had for me (still unexplained and incredibly undeserved) Mario married me on December 29, 1987.  He was way out of my league.  He stood six foot-two, solid muscle and had a tanned, boyish face that was unusually handsome, like a movie star.  Since he had grown up skinny and funny-looking, he didn't have a big ego attached to his outward appearance and it made him even more attractive.   

For some reason, he adored me.  I would catch him looking at me while I was telling a story and his eyes would be starry and transfixed.  No other guy ever looked at me like that. 

I met him at the Inaugural Ball of the Lieutenant Governor of California in 1982.  My friend, Lisa Beutler and I were working the reception area, welcoming guests to the grand affair held at the California Railroad Museum.  The built in “security detail” were State Park Rangers, an elite group to which Lisa belonged.  I was convinced that she had arranged it all.

Afterwards, we all went out to dinner and I sat out most of the conversation while they all discussed Law Enforcement and Union business.  I was convinced I had no life because I was nineteen and I worked with old people.  My new social network was cops who were old and boring.  Lisa was 30– Mario, 27.

Years later (when I was 23) I applied for a job at a State Park where Mario was the supervising ranger.  I was hired while he was away as a lowly Park-Aid, smiling and welcoming visitors, taking fees and explaining the rules to all who entered.  Mario returned from his trip and informed me that I was hired illegally – I literally pleaded for my job.  Later that day, he secured it, taking pity on me as a single mother.  I found out later that he was recently divorced and was also a single father.  We began to share stories and experiences at work. 

Before long, we were connecting on many levels.  He was fun to work for, gave me clear direction and appreciated my work.   I trusted him as a friend  and a boss; valued his advice, and sought it regularly.  One night after work; after a long discussion about parenting, our deep dreams and the not-too- distant-future, we parted ways.  Mario asked if he could give me a hug goodbye.

I froze.

I was sure that a hug with Mario would not be a simple thing.  I was frightened of igniting something, but before I could say no, he was already walking toward me.  Our embrace was supernaturally beautiful.

As soon as I laid my head against his chest, I was home. His arms went around me and we fit perfectly together.  It was as if heaven opened and doves came down, bringing the songs of angels and blessings from God.  In the dead of night I felt warm and safe and all lit up inside. 

Our hug lasted for about three minutes. 

As soon as we released each other, I knew he was mine.  I knew I was his.  It was perfect. 
That hug was twenty-seven years ago. 

We spoke vows to each other the following December, where I promised to value him and love him all the days of my life.   Mario’s vows were written himself, passionate and bold and spoken with tears that made me look shyly down at the rings we just exchanged.  I read them over and over again later.  How could this man feel this way about me

Even greater than the vows that Mario wrote and spoke to me at that altar twenty six years ago are his daily decisions to be who he is.  He has decided everyday to be faithful to me; to love me and be thankful for me.  He has been a sensitive and protective father, a loyal friend and a genuine man of God.  He keeps his word, is kind to strangers and keeps cool under pressure.  Because he is a gentle giant, I call him my tender warrior.

Shortly after we started dating, my mother told him to beware of my laugh.  She warned him not to say anything too funny of he didn’t want to be embarrassed in public. 

“Embarrassed?” Mario asked her, incredulously.  “Janet’s laugh is LIFE!”  I watched him say this and realized he meant it.  He wasn’t trying to rack up points; he genuinely loved my laugh.  He genuinely loved me for me.

Today is his birthday.

I don’t know why God gave him to me.  I really don’t deserve to be this happy in marriage.   He is a stunning specimen of a man, a genuine and honest friend to me with the tenderest  heart toward God. 

I don’t know many people like Mario; the world needs more of them. 

Happy Birthday, honey.  I absolutely do not deserve you.





Saturday, June 15, 2013

fathers


1970's stock family photo
No one I know....  


King David, a man who God Himself said was after His heart, was known as a tolerant father of children who rebelled and did not respect him.  His own beautiful son, Absalom, staged a revolt to overthrow him so fiercely that King David cast off his crown and ran for the hills. Later, when the commander of David’s Army killed Absalom, David cried out: “Absalom! Absalom!  If only it were me instead of you!”

Constantine the Great, a powerful Roman Emporer that conquered and ruled Europe in the fourth century, put to death his own beloved son, Crispus, after learning that he had attempted to rape his new wife, Fausta.  Shortly after his son’s execution, it was revealed to the Constantine that Fausta had made up the charges to dethrone Crispus and secure a future for her own sons.  Constantine killed Fausta as well, leaving him alone with an ocean of regret.

Thomas Boleyn,  the father of Anne and Mary, had an apetite for power so insatiable that he pressured his daughter, Anne, to marry King Henry VIII, even though Henry was already married at the time. Henry was also given Boleyn's elder daughter Mary, as company for the young Anne. Three years after the controversial marriage ruined the lives of many, Anne fell out of favor with the king and was beheaded on charges of high treason. Her brother, George, suffered the same fate. all the while Thomas, did nothing to protect any of his children. 

All of these fathers did this for their children: they loved them, provided for their education, gave them whatever money could buy, and engaged in family banquets with them.  Isn’t that what fathers of today are told to do for their own children? 

None of these fathers were considered good.  Why?  They lacked a simple ingredient in all  Fathers that are the heavies in their homes: they lacked wisdom.

Dads that are popular are usually not the best ones.  Weak Dads aren’t always seen as weak: they are sometimes very popular, pandering to their own kids and their friends by bending all of the rules in the house to suit the child.  They usually play right alongside of their kids, teaching them their own bad habits, living through their own kids’ experiences and manipulating obedience with a lot of money thrown around as incentive.

All of the good Fathers that I have met have a mixture of authority and wisdom that seems boring and a little overbearing.  Some of them have senses of humor, some are affectionate.  Some are jerks.  They lay down the law, set curfews and  kick their kids’ butts when they don’t respect them.  They make unpopular decisions that their kids hate and then act like they don’t care, even if they do.

Good fathers are strong; even in the face of opposition.

Me and my Papa.
I remember my own father, Jack, an Irish Catholic no-nonsense man I respected and feared. He made so many mistakes, but he led me.  He led all five of us, which was no easy feat.   I had long periods of rebellion but he stayed the course.  I remember thinking of him as unbending and unyielding and he actually wasn’t.  He was just firm.

I think of Mario, my warm-hearted, Teddy Bear of a husband who could instantly become a Grizzly when it came to reining in our own kids, especially the boys.  Our daughter charmed him a little more than the boys did, but even then…he was strong; the rock we all needed.  Because of Mario's provision, we lived in a house, paid our bills and had enough money to take our kids on vacation somewhere nice every year. 

1993

didn't always agree with Mario's parenting decisions.  Many times, I thought he was being too tough on the kids.  I thought his decisions seemed so harsh and final, even when it seemed like they weren't working.  In the end, he was the Father.  He was, I have realized, the backbone of our family.

Today is Father’s Day.  It is the day that I remember my own Dad, Jack – and my husband Mario.  Two incredible Fathers, despite their humanity.  These men are golden columns in my life: pillars of wisdom and truth.

They were the ones that made all of the unpopular decisions that ended up being just as they said: for the best.


Thank You.

Wednesday, June 5, 2013

Portia




I haven’t blogged since the beginning of May.

It’s early evening, I haven’t had dinner and my bones ache from all of the work I have been doing on the house.  I just want to go to bed and sleep  - I am stretched thin and not as young as I once was.  

I came home from South Africa and jumped into my life here.  People have two reactions: “Glad to have you back!” and “Now that you’re back can you…”  Everyone seems glad we are home.  Few have asked for details of the work there.

Some days I wake up, thinking that I am still living in South Africa.  I came home with Mario and we made a  new start.  The trouble is, I have a sinking feeling that the South African part of my life is drifting away.  I have no remedy for my South African soul-hunger – I find no South African ex-pats here!  I honestly need help knowing that this particular portion of my life won’t just fade away. 

Right now in South Africa it’s winter.  The days are cold; the nights are colder.  June 6.

Today is Portia’s birthday - she is 33.

Portia is my amazingly special friend who filled my life with a special sense of wonder in God’s supernatural ability to make all things right.  If you want a specimen of a Spirit-filled South African woman, you can look at Portia.  She prays constantly and walks with freedom and joy.  She radiates peace and beauty and I miss her.

Terribly.

Today she will celebrate her birthday in simplicity.  She has a lot of friends at work and in school and they will most likely bring her a cake and she will blow out the candles.  It will be the first year in seven years that I will not make that cake, sing to her and watch her blow out the candles.

I just spoke to her on the phone…she is already at work (it’s 7 a.m.).  When I asked her what she is going to do today I could hear her smiling.

“I don’t know yet,” she said.  “Something special.” 


Of course.


Portia's 30th