A few of the 1000 graces

The title of this blog, “Mil gracias,” plays with its two senses. The first is the common Spanish meaning, “Thank you, a lot!” (at least a thousand times over). But literally, the phrase says, “A thousand graces,” and reflects Saint Paul’s exuberant teachings on “the riches of God’s glorious grace that he lavished on us” and continues to freely give.

I’ve identified my poetic vocation as that of “seeing and saying the grace of God hidden in the ordinariness of life.” I’m a God-spy. And right now I’m sensing the tug to do my job.

Piercing through the celebrations of this Christmas season, the Shady Hook shootings remind us of the surrounding darkness. Yet the light of the Christ child shines brighter. It seems important this Christmas to see and name the grace of God all around me. So here’s a simple list of grace-sightings this last week.

--The first snow fall of the year here in Newberg, although modest in comparison to other places, was beautiful. This day, whenever it comes, should be considered a holiday in the best sense of that word. A holy day.

--We went to the holiday Christmas concert with “Wendy Goodwin and friends.” Not just the excellence of the musicians, but the passion and creativity they poured into it made it more than a performance. It was worship.

--We had a friend over for dinner; then we went to see “The Hobbit.” I love Tolkien, but the best part of the evening was being with Lynn, sharing our struggles and joys, affirming how the light is slowly overcoming the darkness in our current experience.

--Our home was in chaos for most of the week as we are finally taking out those ugly old base-board heating units, then repairing the wall and floor. It’s not done yet, but I see order emerging from the chaos. I see grace especially in Hal’s diligence and gentleness. Several times he reassured me, “You’re going to be really glad we’ve done this, Nancy.” I already am.

--I negotiated the tickets for our trip next year to Rwanda to be with our kids and grandkids. We’ve saved our frequent-flier-miles for four years to make this possible. Normally I do tickets online but this one was complicated, with several stops along the way, so I needed the help of an agent. My heart sank when I heard her voice over the phone, asking “Whatta ya want?”  She was obviously not having a good day. And for the next hour the crabby agent and I worked together to find out, first of all, if this trip was even possible. “It can’t be done,” she informed me. I had done enough research ahead of time to know that it was possible, so I gently suggested a way, and she actually tried it on her computer and found I was right. But it took a lot of searching and experimenting to finally find a path to the final ticket. The grace note in this encounter was that the Spirit helped my spirit to keep gentle, kind and patient the whole time, with our trip to see the grandkids at stake. At the end of the hour, the agent was no longer crabby. We were actually laughing together and wishing each other a merry Christmas. I sensed that her spirit was lighter, maybe ever merrier, for the encounter. That was all grace.

--I finally followed through on my inner urge to volunteer at the local library. I don’t have a lot of free time, but I’ve wanted to do something for and in the community, and I love the library. I’m going to give one afternoon a week, and Wednesday, my first day, I learned how to plasticize new paperbacks. The best part was sitting at the table in the workroom with two other volunteers and our overseer, getting acquainted with them while working with my hands. I learned that the library receives about 400 hours of volunteer labor a month, and that this is part of what enables it to offer its services free to the community. Sometimes God’s grace flows through local government services. I’m glad to make my minuscule contribution. (And I pray now for grace to manifest through the national government. Miracles do happen. Christmas teaches us this.)

--Grace comes through Scripture, and a few days ago my friend Judy sent a Christmas email letter with a message from the Psalms that spoke to my condition (as we Quakers say): “With you is the fountain of life, and in your light we see light” (Ps. 36:9). Those words have been swimming through my spirit ever since, and I sense new hope for several situations. This is a good word for a God-spy.

--Last week began with the North Valley Friends annual children’s Christmas program. Without much time to rehearse, the drama was delightfully klutzy, with lots of laughter. What I noticed is how people are cherishing the children in their lives. It’s one of the lights that contrasts to the darkness around us.

Today after lunch we travel to Springfield to be with our daughter and her family, including three rascally urchins we will be delighted to cherish. Christmas has a different feel this year. The lights and laughter stand out against the darkness in sharper contrast. How good to affirm that in the coming of the Christ-child, “the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot put it out” (Jn. 1:5).

Grace, all grace.

On being distinguished

Earlier this week I received an email from a student addressed to “Distinguida y apreciada Dra. Nancy.” I appreciate knowing that Roberto appreciates me, but finding myself addressed as “distinguished” gives me pause. I picture a rather staid elderly man with a mustache, smoking a pipe, standing in a library. Quite distinguished.

My mind immediately went into overdrive, exploring possible roots and meanings. Assuming that “dis” was a negative prefix, I asked what “tinguised” might mean and if it was related to “extinguished.” Even at this preliminary stage of research, I decided I would rather be distinguished than extinguished.

With my friends Merriam-Webster and the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) to the rescue, I began to dig. (Please understand that this sort of “research” is to me the serious business of play. I relish it.) I discovered that the prefix of “distinguished” is not the negative “dis” but “di,” a Greek/French prefix meaning “twice.”  The original meaning of “stinguere” (Greek/Latin/French) is “to stick or prick.” The root sense of “distinguish,” then, is “to separate in two by pricking.” The image that comes to mind is cutting an apple in two with a sharp knife. Thus I distinguish the apple before sharing it with you.

Of course we don’t use the word that way today. Among the shades of contemporary meaning, the one that comes the closest to Roberto’s salutation is “possessing distinction; marked by conspicuous excellence or eminence; remarkable, eminent; famous, renowned, celebrated; of high standing.” Can you see why I hesitate to claim this adjective for myself?

I realize that Roberto is acting appropriately according to his culture. This is how a Latin American of a certain generation addresses professors and other worthies. He is being polite and perhaps a little kind, to boot.

While I’m still in the dictionary, let me bring to your attention two related words, the first being “extinguished.” The prefix “ex” intensifies the root word, “stinguere,” but here the OED traces it back to a Latin root meaning “quench.” I’m not sure what happened to “stick or prick.” The first definition intrigues me: to extinguish is to put out anything that shines (like fire or light). It can also refer to silencing a voice or someone’s hopes and dreams. The final grim meaning reminds me of why I’d rather be distinguished: “to put to a total end, to do away with completely, to blot out of existence.” The image that comes to mind here, bringing back the “prick,” is stabbing someone to death.

The other related word is “instigate.” Here the OED goes back to the Greek root, “stig,” which is definitively “prick;” the prefix “in” gives it a forward motion. Today the word means “to spur or urge on; stir up, stimulate, incite, goad,” mostly referring to something evil. The image is one of a farmer with a stick, goading his cattle down the road, not an evil image unless the farmer is using too much force.

I sincerely hope that jealousy over my distinguished state doesn’t instigate someone to extinguish me.

On a serious note, I want to say something about Roberto who, to my mind, is a truly distinguished person. A Guatemalan, he has served his denomination, the Church of God, for many years as regional and international superintendent, overseeing some 3000 congregations in Central America and Mexico. While no longer in this position, he still teaches in several seminaries and pastors a local congregation.

Six years ago Roberto, with his wife and children, planted a new church in one of Guatemala City’s more violent barrios. The church today has some 110 members, a modest size, but people in the congregation have planted five other congregations. Roberto meets once a week with the leaders of all six churches to pray, plan and encourage one another. This year alone he has baptized over 80 new Christians.

All of this, however, isn’t what distinguishes Roberto. Roberto has become distinguished through suffering. And by the attitude he shows in the face of his suffering.

When Roberto first became a part of our doctoral program in 2008, he was in remission from cancer, but the illness has continued. There were times when he showed up to our bi-annual seminars fighting with the chemotherapy, but not wanting to miss the encounter with his colleagues. Then in 2010, he was involved in an auto accident that still affects him physically and economically.

But it isn’t all the suffering or even his impressive history of ministry that come to mind when I think of Roberto. It’s his joy. It’s his spirit of service and his words of encouragement to other students and even faculty. It’s the times I listened to him pray over other people for physical healing, even as he battled cancer in his own body. (Roberto is Pentecostal and exercises the gift of healing, reminding me of Henri Nouwen’s phrase, “the wounded healer.”)

He is doing his doctoral research on the topic of the influence of the local congregation toward social transformation in places of urban violence. But in his last letter he told me that he will be moving forward on this project somewhat slowly. The cancer is back and he is currently under treatment. He claims that having the research project helps him focus on something other than pain. He asked for prayer.

I am humbled before my brother, friend and student, humbled before one who is distinguished in ways that go beyond any dictionary definition. I pray God’s mercy on his life, even as I express my gratitude for one who has given me a new image of what it means to be distinguished.

A return to the disciplines

Back in August I blogged about “Custom-tailoring the disciplines” and promised follow-up blogs on the disciplines I find most helpful to me. I obviously have not kept that promise. Not yet anyway. And since one point that I made in the article was the importance of not being too hard on myself when I “fail” (nasty word), I need to follow my advice now and not wallow in guilt.

I wrote that the five disciplines that I attempt follow in some form everyday are engagement with Scripture, prayer, writing, memorization and gratitude. I still like this list.

But the funniest thing happened (I write without laughter). Since writing that blog, I have experienced a devotional black hole. Nothing works. Scripture is consummately boring to me. I get distracted at any attempt to pray, and too easily give up. I am not showing up to the page and I again question whether I can call myself a writer. I’ve forgotten about memorization, which is ironic. And gratitude? I sense myself whining even as I write this.

I do have some underlying reasons why this might be happening. The month long trip to Bolivia challenged my health and energy to the max. Since coming home, the physical problems have been hanging on, and I’m currently on the fifth round of medications to beat the urinary tract infection. Of course this affects every other area of my life.

The challenges in our ministry’s leadership structure continue. I still don’t know how to be part of a virtual team, and I grope to discover my role. The strong sensation that I should be doing more drains me of energy to put into what I know to do.

While prayer should be part of the answer to all of this, I simply don’t care to pray. My restless spirit would have me up and pacing instead.

Am I exaggerating? Perhaps. Even in the middle of this black hole I strongly sense God’s love. And having been through it before, I know that “this too shall pass.” Hope lets some light through.

As I write I’m reminded why I chose to name writing as a spiritual discipline. Through these words God is reminding me of my commitments, gently showing me the way back, actually smiling. I don’t sense any anger. Gratitude begins to bubble up. I feel myself saying again, “Yes, Lord.”

Maybe in a few weeks I can begin those follow-up blogs.

Quaker ninjas

Last week I watched my 10-year-old grandson play something called “Spin Jet-Su.” Seven evil-looking Lego action figures, armed with swords or spears, were mounted on small rounded cups and set spinning on a surface about two feet square. The purpose was to let them spin around, crash into each other, and see who knocks whom down. And, of course, to declare the victor, standing alone in a field of bodies. Reilly accompanied the whole repeated sequence with leaps and shouts of, “Go!” “Get ‘um!” “Kill ‘um!”

At one point he looked back at me, apparently noted a look of concern, and said, “Don’t worry, Grandma. These are Quaker ninjas. They kill each other for world peace.”

Needless to say, that was a big relief.

Then he notched the game up a level by adding his own Nerf gun skills to the pageant. He set the figures all spinning, then tried to knock them off one by one before they got to each other.

I asked him, “Are you also fighting for world peace?”

He answered quickly, simply and directly, “Yup.”

Our daughter and her husband don’t teach their children violent games. They try to promote peace (especially in the minefield between siblings). Reilly earned the Nerf gun himself by pulling weeds this spring, and he is not allowed to aim at people. I guess Quaker ninjas don’t count.

I certainly can’t judge. At one point last week as I fled to the bathroom for momentary relief from brother-sister hassles, I found myself mentally rehearsing what I really wanted to say to those little rascals, and it was not a peaceful homily. I ended up praying, “Lord, have mercy on us all. Have mercy on me, a sinner.”

In raising children to become followers of the Prince of Peace, I sometimes feel caught between two forces. On the one hand, our culture of violence and consumerism finds perfect expression in the toys, games and movies it markets for kids. And on the other hand, human nature plays a strong role. Kids raised in homes that don’t allow toy guns soon discover the utility of a fist and two fingers aimed at little sister’s forehead: “Pow! Pow! You’re dead!” Who needs a plastic rifle?

The devil may play a part in all this, too.

Peacemaking begins at home and takes all that the Spirit of God can supply. It’s the day-in-day-out consistency that has more to do with the fruit of the Spirit, with love, joy, and our own sense of peace as we care for our children and patiently coax out those attitudes and behaviors that lead to life. “Peacemakers who sow in peace raise a harvest of righteousness” (James 3:18). But it takes a lot of time.

And it takes a lot of praying, “Lord, have mercy.”

"B.C." by William Stafford

The seed that met water spoke a little name.

(Great sunflowers were lording the air that day;
this was before Jesus, before Rome; that other air
was readying our hundreds of years to say things
that rain has beat down on over broken stones
and heaped behind us in many slag lands.)

Quiet in the earth a drop of water came,
and the little seed spoke: "Sequoia is my name."

Seeds of violence

I was six years old, and our family was living in a low-cost housing development in central California—a group of duplexes arranged in a circle around a grassy area where the kids played.  I remember that our neighbors included a gang of older boys (they would have been between seven and ten years old).  They looked mean and scary.   I avoided them.

One afternoon I noticed this group of boys huddled in the common yard.  They were looking down at something, laughing and pushing.  I feared they might be tormenting some animal, so I cautiously approached.  One of the boys moved and I discovered that the object there in the middle was my little brother Tommy, who was lying on the ground and crying.  My fear instantly changed to fury, and I grabbed a board that just happened to be nearby and charged the group, yelling and swinging my weapon.

The boys reacted almost as quickly as I had and fled the scene.  I think I hit some of them before they got away, but the battle field cleared in a remarkably short time.  I helped Tommy to his feet and burst into tears myself.  Then we both ran for the safety of our house.  I don’t even remember my mother’s reaction.

I haven’t thought about this for years, but the memory is definitely vivid.  I learned a few things that day.  I learned that even though I was small, skinny and female, I had what it takes to confront obstacles larger and stronger and more numerous than me.  I also learned that violence works.

Obviously this requires deeper reflection.  Thanks to the grace of God, I did not develop the violent side of my nature as I grew up.  I am an active peacemaker today by choice.  But I still need to confront the seeds of violence that are part of my nature. (That’s probably why the memory is so vivid.) They spring up every once in a while, for example, in the presence of injustice.  Unfortunately, this is usually some violation of my own rights, rather than a reaction to the plight of the poor or oppressed.  I feel concern for the latter, but rarely fury.  I’ve learned to control the outward manifestations of my inner violence, but I have to admit its presence. 

I have lots of questions:  Did I do the right thing in rescuing Tommy in that way?  (Something in me likes this memory.)  Are there more sophisticated, “adult” ways that I still attack problems by swinging a big stick?  

Dear Lord, give understanding.  Have mercy. Show me the paths of peace.