How To Spot a True Canadian
Okay, nothing really to do with Ghana, but so quintessentially ‘Canadian’ I can’t help but share it.
Somewhere in the midst of Hours 35-43 a group of 4 young women came into the canteen where I was nodding in and out of sleep. I didn’t pay much attention until I heard the word ‘timbits’ enter the conversation. Pastor Abraham noticed my sudden attention to their conversation—yes, eavesdropping, if you really want to put it that way—and asked me if it was strange to come all the way to Ghana, only to hear English being spoken. I answered that it was stranger to come all the way to Ghana only to be seated next to a group of Canadians! Bewildered, as he should have been, Pastor Abraham asked me how I knew they were Canadian.
My answer: ‘timbits!’
Perfectly clear to a Canadian, perfectly baffling to most non-Canadians: The ‘timbit’ is both the mascot and edible bit of sugary heaven that represents the ‘Tim Horton’s’ restaurant chain. It’s so ‘Canadian’ that there’s even a commercial that pretty much re-enacts my afternoon: a young Canadian man goes off to see the world with a Tim Horton’s take-away mug clipped to his backpack. Everywhere he goes he is greeted by Canadians who spot the Tim Horton’s mug and they share great adventures. As he steps off the plane at the end of his adventures he is met by his loving parents who are holding a cup of Tim Horton’s coffee.
And it may sound ridiculous, but it’s true.
So… how did I respond to the ‘timbits’ reference? As we were leaving the canteen I stopped by the table and said, “Sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear, and with a ‘timbits’ reference, I have to ask, ‘where in Canada are you from?’” “You have to follow up a ‘timbits’ reference when you hear one! We’re from British Columbia,” came their answer.
You gotta love it!
Go ‘timbits’!
Thursday, March 5, 2009
40:
One of the two numbers that I learned, very early on, were the answers to questions of ‘time’ in Sunday School. Most likely in response to an annoyingly persistent line of questioning (I like to think of it as assertive), I remember a Sunday School teacher finally answering that ’40 just means a LONG time, okay?’ And from that day on I flippantly answered ‘40’ to biblical questions without giving it much thought. How many days did the rains pour down around Noah and his family: 40. For how many years did the Israelites wander in the wilderness: 40. How many days was Jesus in the wilderness, tempted by Satan: 40. How many days did Jonah spend in the belly of the whale: ? Okay, 40 isn’t always the answer (eh, Annie?). Sometimes the answer is ‘3’.
But after the last 40 hours the number ‘40’ has truly come to remind me of ‘a long time’:
Hour 1 (and 2…whoops!), 3am-4:20am, 3 March 2009: After less than 3 hours of sleep I wake up to my alarm. No part of me wants to get out of bed, but I do anyways—I’m flying to Ghana in less than 4 hours! As I never quite plan for things to take as long as they do, I’m rushing around my apartment, throwing out my trash, packing the battery charger I almost forgot, and forgetting the hand-sanitizer.
Hour 3, 5am, 3 March 2009: Well, I was late enough that I had to catch my first cab ever in Oslo, which I found out, has a minimum of 135 NOK ($20 USD on a good day), but caught the first train at 4:39am and arrived at Gardermoen airport to check in for my flight. And I meet my first surprise: Susan and her family—including the tiny baby that was baptized into our community on Sunday—are on my flight to Frankfurt! So lovely! After security we meet up and wake up over a cup of coffee.
Hours 6-9, 8-10:50am, 3 March 2009: I realize, once again, just how poor my spoken German has become as I wander and wait in the Frankfurt airport for the 4th or 5th time in the past year. I resist the electronics, and, instead, pull out “Theology is for Proclamation” and hunker down to enjoy this time of enforced stillness.
Hours 10-21, 11am GMT+1 -9pm GMT, 3 March 2009: After 3 short delays, I embark on the second leg of my journey, seated in row 33K. I read for a while, sleep a bit, and watch both ‘Australia’ and ‘The Secret Life of Bees’. Thanks I’m pretty sure to Aaron Hryciw, I find myself singing ‘Ed-ward El-gar…’ at the end of Australia, and it takes me a minute to realize that it ends on one of the movements of Elgar’s ‘Enigma Variations’—anyone happen to know which movement? I forget. Somewhere in the midst of all this I realize for the first time that, when I step off this plane, I’m going to be in Africa!!! We arrive in Accra, Ghana: 2 hours late.
Hour 22, 10pm, 3 March 2009: I cue up with the rest of the plane’s disembarking visitors and wait to show my passport, complete with Ghana visa already pasted in! I pick up my luggage, but can’t find a trolley, and remember how not-strong I am as I carry my two 40-pound bags through customs and out the doors—funny, for me, apparently 40 also stands for ‘heavy’. I spot the second most-friendly face of the day holding a up a sign that reads ‘ALC Intern’ and thankfully relinquish my bags as Eugene’s friends offer chivalrously to carry them to the waiting car.
Hours 23-26, 11pm-2:59:59, 3 March 2009: We arrive at Jim & Mabel’s house (members of my congregation in Norway) and I crash.
Hour 27, 3am, 4 March 2009: I hate my alarm even more-so this morning than I did the previous morning. But, there is a shower! As I wander out onto the porch I forget for a moment that I’m in Ghana and imagine that I’m in Guyana—the hot, humid air, palm trees, barking dogs, and crowing roosters… Then I’m back, and it’s Africa, not South America, and the taxi driver is knocking on the gate and it’s time to go.
Hours 28-31, 4am-7:15am, 4 March 2009: Thank you Eugene! I hadn’t been able to purchase my second-leg plane ticket from Norway, and Eugene had very kindly bought it for me. It’s a small propeller-driven plane, but still big enough for 4 seats across. I’m seated in 7D and sleep until the flight attendant wakes me with the offer of mango juice, mmm… I wake to find myself seated next to an American woman who is a pharmacist at the Baptist Medical Center in Northern Ghana. Having lived in Ghana for 17 years, she’s a wealth of knowledge.
Hour 31 continued, Hour 32, & Hour 33, 7:15am-8 something am, 4 March 2009: We land in Tamale and I’m almost there!!!!! I’m so excited as I load my bags on the trolley I am so pleased to have found and confidently stroll out to meet the first face I have actually met before: Pastor Abraham! I blithely turn down the taxi drivers eager to drive me the 20km into Tamale, then realized Pastor Abraham’s not quite there yet. That’s what a good book’s for—it’s day 2 and I’ve already done more reading on this trip than I have in the last 3 months altogether. After about half an hour of waiting the still-waiting taxi drivers suggest that I move to a bench in the shade, as I’m beginning to turn a hint of ‘cooked-lobster’. I call Eugene just to make sure he’s been able to talk to Pastor Abraham about my arrival and within two minutes I receive an only slightly frantic text message all the way from Norway: YOU’RE STILL AT THE AIRPORT? ARE YOU OKAY? I’m not worried about being picked up, I know Pastor Abraham is on his way, I’m just hoping that I recognize him, but figure the blond hair will give me away.
Hour 34!!!, 9am, 4 March 2009: Yay!!!!! Pastor Abraham arrives along with Ester—a ‘sister’ of the Redemption Children’s Home—and they tell the tale of their morning of car troubles. We head into Tamale to await the imminent fixing of said-car.
Hours 35-43, 10am-6 something pm, 4 March 2009: Oh my goodness, are you serious? I didn’t think it had been quite that long… We sit at a local canteen and chat, waiting for the call that the car is coming. Over the course of the day Esther, “Z” (American pronounciation), and Joanne all stop by to visit—so much fun! But by this point in time I’m exhausted. I try my best to stay awake, but end up succumbing to the exhaustion and laying my head down on the table to sleep. I’m still not sure how many times I woke from and fell back to sleep, but I do know that Pastor Abraham went out to visit a friend, came back, went out to do an errand, came back, went out to go to the bank, came back… The answer on the phone was always ‘just 30 more minutes’, but there was serious talk of us finding a place to stay the night. I spend a lot of time transfixed by the lizards running about the place and the tree above my head that is filled with sleeping bats. Oh, and it’s hot.
Hours 44-46, 7pm-9 something pm? 4 March 2009: Pastor Abraham’s brother Matt drives up in the truck and I am so thankful! We’re finally on the road to Damongo—about a 3-hour drive away, just 20km from Mole National Park (you might get better results googling that). The further we drive, the more packed the truck becomes. There were easily 10 people, along with many bags, in the bed of the truck before the end. I try to watch where we are going, but the combination of our speed, the darkness, and the goats in the middle of the road soon put a stop to that. Instead, I sleep a lovely, if bumpy, sleep.
Hour 47, 10pm, 4 March 2009: Damongo!!!!!! I can’t quite believe that we have finally arrived, but we have! Dusty and tired, I tuck in my mosquito netting and crawl into bed. I don’t care if it was only 40 hours and not 40 days or 40 years—40 is a long number.
Safe and Sound, but not Shoeless,
The Shoeless Seminarian
But after the last 40 hours the number ‘40’ has truly come to remind me of ‘a long time’:
Hour 1 (and 2…whoops!), 3am-4:20am, 3 March 2009: After less than 3 hours of sleep I wake up to my alarm. No part of me wants to get out of bed, but I do anyways—I’m flying to Ghana in less than 4 hours! As I never quite plan for things to take as long as they do, I’m rushing around my apartment, throwing out my trash, packing the battery charger I almost forgot, and forgetting the hand-sanitizer.
Hour 3, 5am, 3 March 2009: Well, I was late enough that I had to catch my first cab ever in Oslo, which I found out, has a minimum of 135 NOK ($20 USD on a good day), but caught the first train at 4:39am and arrived at Gardermoen airport to check in for my flight. And I meet my first surprise: Susan and her family—including the tiny baby that was baptized into our community on Sunday—are on my flight to Frankfurt! So lovely! After security we meet up and wake up over a cup of coffee.
Hours 6-9, 8-10:50am, 3 March 2009: I realize, once again, just how poor my spoken German has become as I wander and wait in the Frankfurt airport for the 4th or 5th time in the past year. I resist the electronics, and, instead, pull out “Theology is for Proclamation” and hunker down to enjoy this time of enforced stillness.
Hours 10-21, 11am GMT+1 -9pm GMT, 3 March 2009: After 3 short delays, I embark on the second leg of my journey, seated in row 33K. I read for a while, sleep a bit, and watch both ‘Australia’ and ‘The Secret Life of Bees’. Thanks I’m pretty sure to Aaron Hryciw, I find myself singing ‘Ed-ward El-gar…’ at the end of Australia, and it takes me a minute to realize that it ends on one of the movements of Elgar’s ‘Enigma Variations’—anyone happen to know which movement? I forget. Somewhere in the midst of all this I realize for the first time that, when I step off this plane, I’m going to be in Africa!!! We arrive in Accra, Ghana: 2 hours late.
Hour 22, 10pm, 3 March 2009: I cue up with the rest of the plane’s disembarking visitors and wait to show my passport, complete with Ghana visa already pasted in! I pick up my luggage, but can’t find a trolley, and remember how not-strong I am as I carry my two 40-pound bags through customs and out the doors—funny, for me, apparently 40 also stands for ‘heavy’. I spot the second most-friendly face of the day holding a up a sign that reads ‘ALC Intern’ and thankfully relinquish my bags as Eugene’s friends offer chivalrously to carry them to the waiting car.
Hours 23-26, 11pm-2:59:59, 3 March 2009: We arrive at Jim & Mabel’s house (members of my congregation in Norway) and I crash.
Hour 27, 3am, 4 March 2009: I hate my alarm even more-so this morning than I did the previous morning. But, there is a shower! As I wander out onto the porch I forget for a moment that I’m in Ghana and imagine that I’m in Guyana—the hot, humid air, palm trees, barking dogs, and crowing roosters… Then I’m back, and it’s Africa, not South America, and the taxi driver is knocking on the gate and it’s time to go.
Hours 28-31, 4am-7:15am, 4 March 2009: Thank you Eugene! I hadn’t been able to purchase my second-leg plane ticket from Norway, and Eugene had very kindly bought it for me. It’s a small propeller-driven plane, but still big enough for 4 seats across. I’m seated in 7D and sleep until the flight attendant wakes me with the offer of mango juice, mmm… I wake to find myself seated next to an American woman who is a pharmacist at the Baptist Medical Center in Northern Ghana. Having lived in Ghana for 17 years, she’s a wealth of knowledge.
Hour 31 continued, Hour 32, & Hour 33, 7:15am-8 something am, 4 March 2009: We land in Tamale and I’m almost there!!!!! I’m so excited as I load my bags on the trolley I am so pleased to have found and confidently stroll out to meet the first face I have actually met before: Pastor Abraham! I blithely turn down the taxi drivers eager to drive me the 20km into Tamale, then realized Pastor Abraham’s not quite there yet. That’s what a good book’s for—it’s day 2 and I’ve already done more reading on this trip than I have in the last 3 months altogether. After about half an hour of waiting the still-waiting taxi drivers suggest that I move to a bench in the shade, as I’m beginning to turn a hint of ‘cooked-lobster’. I call Eugene just to make sure he’s been able to talk to Pastor Abraham about my arrival and within two minutes I receive an only slightly frantic text message all the way from Norway: YOU’RE STILL AT THE AIRPORT? ARE YOU OKAY? I’m not worried about being picked up, I know Pastor Abraham is on his way, I’m just hoping that I recognize him, but figure the blond hair will give me away.
Hour 34!!!, 9am, 4 March 2009: Yay!!!!! Pastor Abraham arrives along with Ester—a ‘sister’ of the Redemption Children’s Home—and they tell the tale of their morning of car troubles. We head into Tamale to await the imminent fixing of said-car.
Hours 35-43, 10am-6 something pm, 4 March 2009: Oh my goodness, are you serious? I didn’t think it had been quite that long… We sit at a local canteen and chat, waiting for the call that the car is coming. Over the course of the day Esther, “Z” (American pronounciation), and Joanne all stop by to visit—so much fun! But by this point in time I’m exhausted. I try my best to stay awake, but end up succumbing to the exhaustion and laying my head down on the table to sleep. I’m still not sure how many times I woke from and fell back to sleep, but I do know that Pastor Abraham went out to visit a friend, came back, went out to do an errand, came back, went out to go to the bank, came back… The answer on the phone was always ‘just 30 more minutes’, but there was serious talk of us finding a place to stay the night. I spend a lot of time transfixed by the lizards running about the place and the tree above my head that is filled with sleeping bats. Oh, and it’s hot.
Hours 44-46, 7pm-9 something pm? 4 March 2009: Pastor Abraham’s brother Matt drives up in the truck and I am so thankful! We’re finally on the road to Damongo—about a 3-hour drive away, just 20km from Mole National Park (you might get better results googling that). The further we drive, the more packed the truck becomes. There were easily 10 people, along with many bags, in the bed of the truck before the end. I try to watch where we are going, but the combination of our speed, the darkness, and the goats in the middle of the road soon put a stop to that. Instead, I sleep a lovely, if bumpy, sleep.
Hour 47, 10pm, 4 March 2009: Damongo!!!!!! I can’t quite believe that we have finally arrived, but we have! Dusty and tired, I tuck in my mosquito netting and crawl into bed. I don’t care if it was only 40 hours and not 40 days or 40 years—40 is a long number.
Safe and Sound, but not Shoeless,
The Shoeless Seminarian
Sunday, February 22, 2009
... we all fall down!
Hey!
Look at this, two posts in a week! Maybe I'm getting the hang of this. But, since last post was about Egypt, I figured you needed an update on the snowy, snowy north--aka Norway.
I hear that there have been record-breaking snows in the Midwest this year, I don't know about Alberta, but Oslo is having one of its snowiest winters of the last fifteen years. Wherever I go people talk about this winter like the winters of yore and I believe them!
There was no snow on Christmas, but about the middle of January the big snowfalls began. 45cm (18") here, 30cm (12") there with a couple of rare sunny days in between to offer a bit of hope and made the sidewalks even more treacherous.
Why?
Because Norwegians (yes, I'm making a broad generalization here and I know it) don't exactly tend to shovel their sidewalks clear. They may shovel a bit, or just wait for pedestrians to trample down the snow, which would be fine if the snow remained snow, but the temperature always seems to creep above freezing, and before you know it, what lies beneath that snow you're walking on is a patch of very slippery ice it!
Therefore, one regularly sees people walking about with cross-country ski poles by their sides or studs beneath their shoes. If not, one regularly sees people slipping, sliding, and falling down. I've only had one major spill so far--I landed smack on my back--but no major injuries.
The melting temperatures also make what lies above treacherous too, for you never know when the building you are walking beside might decide to drop a small avalanche of snow atop your head. There's even people whose jobs are to go up in a crane to knock down the potentially life-threatening icicles.
All I can say is, it keeps you on your toes!
But, we're almost to the point where I could strap on my cross-country skis outside my front door and ski the mile to church--this is a fabulous country!
More later (and hopefully soon!)
The not-so-shoeless one (due to the snow)
Look at this, two posts in a week! Maybe I'm getting the hang of this. But, since last post was about Egypt, I figured you needed an update on the snowy, snowy north--aka Norway.
I hear that there have been record-breaking snows in the Midwest this year, I don't know about Alberta, but Oslo is having one of its snowiest winters of the last fifteen years. Wherever I go people talk about this winter like the winters of yore and I believe them!
There was no snow on Christmas, but about the middle of January the big snowfalls began. 45cm (18") here, 30cm (12") there with a couple of rare sunny days in between to offer a bit of hope and made the sidewalks even more treacherous.
Why?
Because Norwegians (yes, I'm making a broad generalization here and I know it) don't exactly tend to shovel their sidewalks clear. They may shovel a bit, or just wait for pedestrians to trample down the snow, which would be fine if the snow remained snow, but the temperature always seems to creep above freezing, and before you know it, what lies beneath that snow you're walking on is a patch of very slippery ice it!
Therefore, one regularly sees people walking about with cross-country ski poles by their sides or studs beneath their shoes. If not, one regularly sees people slipping, sliding, and falling down. I've only had one major spill so far--I landed smack on my back--but no major injuries.
The melting temperatures also make what lies above treacherous too, for you never know when the building you are walking beside might decide to drop a small avalanche of snow atop your head. There's even people whose jobs are to go up in a crane to knock down the potentially life-threatening icicles.
All I can say is, it keeps you on your toes!
But, we're almost to the point where I could strap on my cross-country skis outside my front door and ski the mile to church--this is a fabulous country!
More later (and hopefully soon!)
The not-so-shoeless one (due to the snow)
Friday, February 20, 2009
Interfaith Dialogue
Once again, sorry you get a three-peat, but life is, eh? This is my newsletter article for both my congregation here and at home. A quick story from an absolutely AMAZING trip to Cairo, Egypt to visit dear friends, see some pyramids, and learn, learn, learn!!!!!
My recent trip to Cairo was filled with more sights and sounds (and smells) than I ever thought eight days could hold. A wonderful time of both rest and rejuvenation, to recount all of the stories would take too long, but there is at least one story I would like to take the time to share with you.
I had ventured out that morning with my friends, the Johnsons (ELCA Global Mission Regional Representatives to the Middle East), to visit and explore the mosques of Islamic Cairo (another story for another time). After a long visit with Sheik Mohammed at the Al-Azhar mosque I assumed that my interfaith dialogues were done for the day and turned my attention to wandering around the Khan El—Khalili market while Peter & Michele headed back to work. Enough of an adventure all by itself—a blond woman tends to stand out in Cairo—I had forgotten that staying at the Khan by myself also meant braving the metro by myself.
Now, the metro system of Cairo is excellent and inexpensive (less than $0.20 USD), but getting onto the trains at the busy downtown stations is something akin to running opposite a herd of stampeding buffalo.
I hoped that taking the women’s car would be easier to maneuver and so upon entered the platform I looked for the universal triangular-shaped woman figure, positioned myself under it, and readied myself to fight the exiting throng. So determined was I to catch the train that I almost missed the questioning voice from behind—the fact that it was in Arabic might have had something to do with it too. But when I turned to look, I found, behind me, a young Muslim woman veiled in black, motioning toward the empty seat beside her.
I hesitated just a bit. I wasn’t quite sure about sitting down to wait for the metro. It meant giving up my prime throng-fighting spot, and it’s not like the young woman and I could communicate; my Arabic was limited to 6 words and only useful for directing cab drivers back to the Johnson’s house. But how could I refuse her welcoming invitation? And so I found myself sitting down next to her, smiling as I said ‘Shukran’ (thank you). And although her face was veiled, I knew by her eyes she was smiling back.
For a few minutes we sat in friendly silence, exchanging smiles and nods until the rumbling began. Bracing ourselves, we prepared for the ambush. But then, at the height of anticipation, my new friend was called away by another woman to the other car entrance! I was alone as the doors opened, and before I knew it, I was five and then ten feet away from the doors. It was hopeless; I was never going to make the train! I was about ready to give up when, suddenly, a gloved hand gripped mine and a sheltering arm guided me through the now-closing doors. I smiled and laughed, only to hear another voice laughing quietly with mine, and as I turned to thank my kindly shepherd, I once again found myself face-to-face with the same young woman.
I hadn’t expected her to come back. There was no reason she should have come back. But there she was, her gloved hand still gripping mine. And though we could exchange no words, the conversation went deeper than language or culture and taught me more about interfaith dialogue than my hours spent in the mosque discussing theology. Because despite the fact that my blond hair shone out amidst the sea of veils those women accepted me, welcomed me, even came back for me.
One of my seminary professors always tells us, “If you’re not willing to accept that you might be changed through interfaith dialogue, then you can’t call it dialogue”. Until that moment, I had never let my guard down enough to get it. Until that moment I had never been changed. Until that moment…
My recent trip to Cairo was filled with more sights and sounds (and smells) than I ever thought eight days could hold. A wonderful time of both rest and rejuvenation, to recount all of the stories would take too long, but there is at least one story I would like to take the time to share with you.
I had ventured out that morning with my friends, the Johnsons (ELCA Global Mission Regional Representatives to the Middle East), to visit and explore the mosques of Islamic Cairo (another story for another time). After a long visit with Sheik Mohammed at the Al-Azhar mosque I assumed that my interfaith dialogues were done for the day and turned my attention to wandering around the Khan El—Khalili market while Peter & Michele headed back to work. Enough of an adventure all by itself—a blond woman tends to stand out in Cairo—I had forgotten that staying at the Khan by myself also meant braving the metro by myself.
Now, the metro system of Cairo is excellent and inexpensive (less than $0.20 USD), but getting onto the trains at the busy downtown stations is something akin to running opposite a herd of stampeding buffalo.
I hoped that taking the women’s car would be easier to maneuver and so upon entered the platform I looked for the universal triangular-shaped woman figure, positioned myself under it, and readied myself to fight the exiting throng. So determined was I to catch the train that I almost missed the questioning voice from behind—the fact that it was in Arabic might have had something to do with it too. But when I turned to look, I found, behind me, a young Muslim woman veiled in black, motioning toward the empty seat beside her.
I hesitated just a bit. I wasn’t quite sure about sitting down to wait for the metro. It meant giving up my prime throng-fighting spot, and it’s not like the young woman and I could communicate; my Arabic was limited to 6 words and only useful for directing cab drivers back to the Johnson’s house. But how could I refuse her welcoming invitation? And so I found myself sitting down next to her, smiling as I said ‘Shukran’ (thank you). And although her face was veiled, I knew by her eyes she was smiling back.
For a few minutes we sat in friendly silence, exchanging smiles and nods until the rumbling began. Bracing ourselves, we prepared for the ambush. But then, at the height of anticipation, my new friend was called away by another woman to the other car entrance! I was alone as the doors opened, and before I knew it, I was five and then ten feet away from the doors. It was hopeless; I was never going to make the train! I was about ready to give up when, suddenly, a gloved hand gripped mine and a sheltering arm guided me through the now-closing doors. I smiled and laughed, only to hear another voice laughing quietly with mine, and as I turned to thank my kindly shepherd, I once again found myself face-to-face with the same young woman.
I hadn’t expected her to come back. There was no reason she should have come back. But there she was, her gloved hand still gripping mine. And though we could exchange no words, the conversation went deeper than language or culture and taught me more about interfaith dialogue than my hours spent in the mosque discussing theology. Because despite the fact that my blond hair shone out amidst the sea of veils those women accepted me, welcomed me, even came back for me.
One of my seminary professors always tells us, “If you’re not willing to accept that you might be changed through interfaith dialogue, then you can’t call it dialogue”. Until that moment, I had never let my guard down enough to get it. Until that moment I had never been changed. Until that moment…
Monday, December 8, 2008
Scrubbing the Kitchen Floor
This evening, at the end of a long and trying day, I found myself down on my knees…
(I can imagine what you might be thinking right now: “Ah, well, she IS a seminarian, shoeless though she be, down on her knees in prayer? I’m sure. Atta girl!”—Laughing yet?)
Down on my knees, yes. In prayer? Well, maybe not exactly…
For there was no Bible in my hands, there were no poetic praises flowing from my mouth, and my eyes were anything but uplifted. Rather, in my hands was a soapy rag, from my mouth flowed mumblings and grumblings, and my eyes were honed in on that oh-so-difficult ground-in dirt.
This evening, at the end of a long and trying day, I found myself down on my knees scrubbing the kitchen floor.
But you know, sometimes there is nothing better than the act of scrubbing a floor clean. For no matter how dirty the floor may seem or how futile the job may appear, to see the dirt stripped away and the light beginning to reflect off the surface as it is meant to... To see the floor once more washed, cleansed, refreshed and renewed…
Perhaps you think I exaggerate, but I tell you, it is an amazing thing to behold!
But in the end, the gleaming floor was not the most amazing result of scrubbing the kitchen floor on my knees this evening.
Not at all.
Because the floor was not the only thing that came away washed, cleansed, refreshed and renewed. The floor was not the only thing that once more began to reflect more clearly as the layers of grime were wiped away. For as the steady scrubbing of my hands wiped away the pesky ground-in dirt, my very being was scrubbed raw—scrubbed fresh.
And those mumblings and grumblings that once flowed forth?
In the beginning there were few words of praise and thanksgiving to God for my day, there was no trust in the gracious protection of God, and there was no plea for forgiveness—I guarantee you.
In the midst there was silence.
And at the end? At the end I found myself able to talk with God in a way I haven’t been able to do for weeks. At the end I found that posture of scrubbing truly to be a posture of prayer.
And so as I crawl into bed this evening with hands wrinkled and red as a newborn, I am reminded not only of the power of water to drown the dirt of my kitchen floor. I am reminded also of the power of water—coupled with God’s Word—to drown my sin and birth me anew.
This evening, at the end of a long and trying day, I found myself down on my knees praising and thanking...
confessing and commending...
talking...
listening...
praying.
(The reality that my mum will arrive on Friday to a spotlessly clean kitchen floor? Well, that's merely an added bonus!)
(I can imagine what you might be thinking right now: “Ah, well, she IS a seminarian, shoeless though she be, down on her knees in prayer? I’m sure. Atta girl!”—Laughing yet?)
Down on my knees, yes. In prayer? Well, maybe not exactly…
For there was no Bible in my hands, there were no poetic praises flowing from my mouth, and my eyes were anything but uplifted. Rather, in my hands was a soapy rag, from my mouth flowed mumblings and grumblings, and my eyes were honed in on that oh-so-difficult ground-in dirt.
This evening, at the end of a long and trying day, I found myself down on my knees scrubbing the kitchen floor.
But you know, sometimes there is nothing better than the act of scrubbing a floor clean. For no matter how dirty the floor may seem or how futile the job may appear, to see the dirt stripped away and the light beginning to reflect off the surface as it is meant to... To see the floor once more washed, cleansed, refreshed and renewed…
Perhaps you think I exaggerate, but I tell you, it is an amazing thing to behold!
But in the end, the gleaming floor was not the most amazing result of scrubbing the kitchen floor on my knees this evening.
Not at all.
Because the floor was not the only thing that came away washed, cleansed, refreshed and renewed. The floor was not the only thing that once more began to reflect more clearly as the layers of grime were wiped away. For as the steady scrubbing of my hands wiped away the pesky ground-in dirt, my very being was scrubbed raw—scrubbed fresh.
And those mumblings and grumblings that once flowed forth?
In the beginning there were few words of praise and thanksgiving to God for my day, there was no trust in the gracious protection of God, and there was no plea for forgiveness—I guarantee you.
In the midst there was silence.
And at the end? At the end I found myself able to talk with God in a way I haven’t been able to do for weeks. At the end I found that posture of scrubbing truly to be a posture of prayer.
And so as I crawl into bed this evening with hands wrinkled and red as a newborn, I am reminded not only of the power of water to drown the dirt of my kitchen floor. I am reminded also of the power of water—coupled with God’s Word—to drown my sin and birth me anew.
This evening, at the end of a long and trying day, I found myself down on my knees praising and thanking...
confessing and commending...
talking...
listening...
praying.
(The reality that my mum will arrive on Friday to a spotlessly clean kitchen floor? Well, that's merely an added bonus!)
Thursday, December 4, 2008
At Least It's Something...
Hey Everyone!
Sorry! It's not that I'm not doing any writing this year, but more so that I find myself doing SO MUCH writing that when I come home, I'm just too exhausted to write anymore--hence the lack of blog posts. So, I've decided to post the newsletter article that I wrote for the ALC Messenger this month.
As part of my internship I am in charge of the Senior High Youth program at ALC, and I've been using David Anderson & Paul Hill's book, "Frogs Without Legs Can't Hear: Nurturing Disciples in Home and Congregation" (Thank you!!!). If you've never read it, it's a great resource for all entry points. It's easy to read, to the point, not that long, and has lots of short illustrations to help get the point across. In it it talks about the 'Four Keys of Faith Formation' as being: 'Caring Conversation, Devotions, Service, and Rituals & Traditions'. And so, after introducing the book and the idea of Faith Formation, I have been spending by Intern's Page Newsletter articles talking about the different 'church frog legs' that these four keys represent and encouraging the stretching and strengthening of those legs. Last month I talked about Caring Conversations, and this month--since it IS the month of Advent and Christmas--I couldn't help but write about Rituals and Traditions.
It's not my normal blog material, but it gives you a peek into my world!
Apologies and Thanks to my family for the fact that I've written about all of us...
Dear Friends: Happy New Year!!!
As of last Sunday we of the Christian world have entered into a new year—a new church year that is. And with that new church year we have begun a season of waiting, of preparation, a season of hope and renewal.
We have begun the season of Advent.
It is a season that much of the rest of the world forgets in its eagerness to get to Christmas. Often times we end up skipping the quiet preparation and jumping headlong into the celebration. Or, other times we find ourselves so caught up in the seemingly endless preparations to make THIS Christmas bigger and better than any before that by the time Christmas arrives we are too exhausted to enjoy it.
It is also a season full of ritual and tradition. Just take a look around at the lights, the decorations, the trees, the santas—and if you’re lucky, you may even see a baby Jesus here and there. All around us the stores remind us of the tradition of gift-giving, and I have been told that our sanctuary will be packed on Christmas Eve for the traditional candlelit service. And in my family there is one Advent ritual that will always stand head and shoulders above all others:
The Christmas Tree
This is my favorite night of the year—A night that far outstrips Christmas Eve for me. And while there may not be a traditional ‘day’ on which this occurs, this night is deeply steeped in tradition for me.
First and most important is ritual of my family gathering together. The Christmas Tree may only be decorated when all are present and accounted for. Because we all have our roles to play: Dad is in charge of making sure the tree stands straight and tall. My brother Josh and I struggle to detangle last year’s strings of lights. Mum brings out the eggnog and retells our family history as she unwraps funky ornaments from crinkled paper towel.
Our ornaments are neither beautiful nor fancy. There is neither color-theme nor coordination. But they are beloved. There are the ornaments from my parent’s first Christmas and the “Baby’s First Christmas” of both my brother and I. There are the crumbling play-dough ornaments made so long ago by little hands in Sunday School. There are the ornaments containing childhood photos—me in my pink-and-purple-checkered shirt, my brother with his ‘Friday Night Smile’. And there are lots of violin and music-note ornaments.
And in the background always plays the same CD—a Christmas recording by the Boston Pops Orchestra. I still remember the first Christmas when my brother’s wife, Megan, joined us in the tradition of the decorating of the Christmas Tree. Megan, a professional singer, laughed that we were the only family she knew who listened to a wholly orchestral CD of Christmas songs. But tradition IS tradition.
And after the squinting and the unwrapping and the hanging and the story-telling the most magical things happens. We all curl up on the couch—eggnog in hand—and sit in silence before the peaceful glow of the tree. And for that one moment, all stress departs, all fights are forgiven, all distances are bridged, and we are simply a family.
In that moment we are whole.
And though I will not be home to decorate the Christmas Tree this year, whenever I catch a whiff of evergreen, or taste eggnog, whenever I hear a piece from that CD, or see a tinfoil and pipe-cleaner bell, I am transported to that moment and that feeling of peace and hope and joy…
We all have our own rituals and traditions of the season—we all have our ‘Christmas Tree Night’. Maybe we don’t always think of them in these terms, but they are there. And so this Advent Season I invite you to uncover—maybe even dust off—the rituals and traditions that truly make up the season for you and to share them with one another. What makes them special? What memories do they hold? What feelings do they evoke? How is God present in them? How does the Christ child enter into your Christmas traditions?
And you never know. You may find that Advent and Christmas lie less in the expensive gifts and hectic preparations. You may find that Advent and Christmas dwell within presence of loved ones and the silence of a moment…
May the peace of Christ dwell within you and shine forth from you this Advent Season.
Intern Elly
Sorry! It's not that I'm not doing any writing this year, but more so that I find myself doing SO MUCH writing that when I come home, I'm just too exhausted to write anymore--hence the lack of blog posts. So, I've decided to post the newsletter article that I wrote for the ALC Messenger this month.
As part of my internship I am in charge of the Senior High Youth program at ALC, and I've been using David Anderson & Paul Hill's book, "Frogs Without Legs Can't Hear: Nurturing Disciples in Home and Congregation" (Thank you!!!). If you've never read it, it's a great resource for all entry points. It's easy to read, to the point, not that long, and has lots of short illustrations to help get the point across. In it it talks about the 'Four Keys of Faith Formation' as being: 'Caring Conversation, Devotions, Service, and Rituals & Traditions'. And so, after introducing the book and the idea of Faith Formation, I have been spending by Intern's Page Newsletter articles talking about the different 'church frog legs' that these four keys represent and encouraging the stretching and strengthening of those legs. Last month I talked about Caring Conversations, and this month--since it IS the month of Advent and Christmas--I couldn't help but write about Rituals and Traditions.
It's not my normal blog material, but it gives you a peek into my world!
Apologies and Thanks to my family for the fact that I've written about all of us...
Dear Friends: Happy New Year!!!
As of last Sunday we of the Christian world have entered into a new year—a new church year that is. And with that new church year we have begun a season of waiting, of preparation, a season of hope and renewal.
We have begun the season of Advent.
It is a season that much of the rest of the world forgets in its eagerness to get to Christmas. Often times we end up skipping the quiet preparation and jumping headlong into the celebration. Or, other times we find ourselves so caught up in the seemingly endless preparations to make THIS Christmas bigger and better than any before that by the time Christmas arrives we are too exhausted to enjoy it.
It is also a season full of ritual and tradition. Just take a look around at the lights, the decorations, the trees, the santas—and if you’re lucky, you may even see a baby Jesus here and there. All around us the stores remind us of the tradition of gift-giving, and I have been told that our sanctuary will be packed on Christmas Eve for the traditional candlelit service. And in my family there is one Advent ritual that will always stand head and shoulders above all others:
The Christmas Tree
This is my favorite night of the year—A night that far outstrips Christmas Eve for me. And while there may not be a traditional ‘day’ on which this occurs, this night is deeply steeped in tradition for me.
First and most important is ritual of my family gathering together. The Christmas Tree may only be decorated when all are present and accounted for. Because we all have our roles to play: Dad is in charge of making sure the tree stands straight and tall. My brother Josh and I struggle to detangle last year’s strings of lights. Mum brings out the eggnog and retells our family history as she unwraps funky ornaments from crinkled paper towel.
Our ornaments are neither beautiful nor fancy. There is neither color-theme nor coordination. But they are beloved. There are the ornaments from my parent’s first Christmas and the “Baby’s First Christmas” of both my brother and I. There are the crumbling play-dough ornaments made so long ago by little hands in Sunday School. There are the ornaments containing childhood photos—me in my pink-and-purple-checkered shirt, my brother with his ‘Friday Night Smile’. And there are lots of violin and music-note ornaments.
And in the background always plays the same CD—a Christmas recording by the Boston Pops Orchestra. I still remember the first Christmas when my brother’s wife, Megan, joined us in the tradition of the decorating of the Christmas Tree. Megan, a professional singer, laughed that we were the only family she knew who listened to a wholly orchestral CD of Christmas songs. But tradition IS tradition.
And after the squinting and the unwrapping and the hanging and the story-telling the most magical things happens. We all curl up on the couch—eggnog in hand—and sit in silence before the peaceful glow of the tree. And for that one moment, all stress departs, all fights are forgiven, all distances are bridged, and we are simply a family.
In that moment we are whole.
And though I will not be home to decorate the Christmas Tree this year, whenever I catch a whiff of evergreen, or taste eggnog, whenever I hear a piece from that CD, or see a tinfoil and pipe-cleaner bell, I am transported to that moment and that feeling of peace and hope and joy…
We all have our own rituals and traditions of the season—we all have our ‘Christmas Tree Night’. Maybe we don’t always think of them in these terms, but they are there. And so this Advent Season I invite you to uncover—maybe even dust off—the rituals and traditions that truly make up the season for you and to share them with one another. What makes them special? What memories do they hold? What feelings do they evoke? How is God present in them? How does the Christ child enter into your Christmas traditions?
And you never know. You may find that Advent and Christmas lie less in the expensive gifts and hectic preparations. You may find that Advent and Christmas dwell within presence of loved ones and the silence of a moment…
May the peace of Christ dwell within you and shine forth from you this Advent Season.
Intern Elly
Saturday, November 1, 2008
33 cans of tomato paste in the cupboard...
Okay, so I know, it’s been forever since I have posted, and I do apologize! I have begun many a posts, but somehow I never seem to finish them, and they become doomed to sit in Microsoft Word files until one day I meander through my hard drive and delete them.
But, I am sitting here at my kitchen table, about to use two more cans of tomato paste in a very large pot of chili, and since I have been meaning to write to you about my cans of tomato paste since I first opened my kitchen cupboards in August, I figured this was about as good a time as any!
When I first arrived in Norway I was so excited to finally have a kitchen once again. I love cooking and baking (often at midnight, as Kim, my roommate from my undergrad can attest to), but for the last three years I’ve been living in dorms or sharing a house, and I haven’t cooked nearly as much. One of the very first things I did when left alone in my new abode was to check out the kitchen! Large, spacious, lots of cupboard space, and cupboards already stocked with canned goods from both the previous intern and my new congregation.
And at the back of one of the cupboards stood, neatly stacked, two rows, double-high, of cans of tomato paste—33 in total.
Now, I don’t know how often you find yourself using cans of tomato paste, but I doubt I’ve ever eaten 33 cans of tomato paste in one year in my life and my jaw proceeded to drop at the seemingly endless supply of tomato paste spread out before me.
So, I decided to make utilizing all 33 cans of tomato paste one of my goals for my internship year. Now, this goal that I am about to share with you didn’t quite make it into my official ‘Learning Service Agreement’ which is sent to my seminary, but it did made it on my own ‘fun’ list of internship goals. And so, since my official Learning Service Agreement was due into my seminary this last week, and since it’s nearing time for my three-month evaluation, I put forth for you tonight this, my ‘fun’ Internship Goal, and an ongoing evaluation:
Goal: To utilize 33 cans of tomato paste in new and creative ways throughout the coming year, stretching and honing my cooking presence.
Resources & Strategies: 33 cans of tomato paste and some imagination.
End Date & Plan for Evaluation: August 2009. A cupboard empty of tomato paste cans.
2 and one-half month evaluation: After 1 tomato-based curry, 2 batches of homemade pizza sauce, and 1 very large pot of chili
…took 5 down, passed them around, 28 cans of tomato paste in the cupboard!
Not bad, I’m about on track, but I may need to kick it up a notch to meet my goal. If you have any creative ideas about cooking with tomato paste, I’d love your comments or emails!
All in all, doing very well!
Peace,
Shoeless in the Kitchen
But, I am sitting here at my kitchen table, about to use two more cans of tomato paste in a very large pot of chili, and since I have been meaning to write to you about my cans of tomato paste since I first opened my kitchen cupboards in August, I figured this was about as good a time as any!
When I first arrived in Norway I was so excited to finally have a kitchen once again. I love cooking and baking (often at midnight, as Kim, my roommate from my undergrad can attest to), but for the last three years I’ve been living in dorms or sharing a house, and I haven’t cooked nearly as much. One of the very first things I did when left alone in my new abode was to check out the kitchen! Large, spacious, lots of cupboard space, and cupboards already stocked with canned goods from both the previous intern and my new congregation.
And at the back of one of the cupboards stood, neatly stacked, two rows, double-high, of cans of tomato paste—33 in total.
Now, I don’t know how often you find yourself using cans of tomato paste, but I doubt I’ve ever eaten 33 cans of tomato paste in one year in my life and my jaw proceeded to drop at the seemingly endless supply of tomato paste spread out before me.
So, I decided to make utilizing all 33 cans of tomato paste one of my goals for my internship year. Now, this goal that I am about to share with you didn’t quite make it into my official ‘Learning Service Agreement’ which is sent to my seminary, but it did made it on my own ‘fun’ list of internship goals. And so, since my official Learning Service Agreement was due into my seminary this last week, and since it’s nearing time for my three-month evaluation, I put forth for you tonight this, my ‘fun’ Internship Goal, and an ongoing evaluation:
Goal: To utilize 33 cans of tomato paste in new and creative ways throughout the coming year, stretching and honing my cooking presence.
Resources & Strategies: 33 cans of tomato paste and some imagination.
End Date & Plan for Evaluation: August 2009. A cupboard empty of tomato paste cans.
2 and one-half month evaluation: After 1 tomato-based curry, 2 batches of homemade pizza sauce, and 1 very large pot of chili
…took 5 down, passed them around, 28 cans of tomato paste in the cupboard!
Not bad, I’m about on track, but I may need to kick it up a notch to meet my goal. If you have any creative ideas about cooking with tomato paste, I’d love your comments or emails!
All in all, doing very well!
Peace,
Shoeless in the Kitchen
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