Writing in Long Form

Tags

conference, Faith & Culture, Phil Long, poet, poetry slam, questions, Writing

I’ve discovered a poet I really like. That’s somewhat rare for me, particularly with postmodern poets.

I met him at the Faith and Culture writing conference two weeks ago, where he was so unassuming that he actually approached me.

After asking what kind of writing I do, he wanted to know specifics of a larger piece on which I’m working. Seeking clarification on specific points, he showed genuine interest in my work.

By the time we finished talking, he had asked for my business card, pointed out that its color scheme matched my outfit, and given me a free copy of his book.

His name is Phil Long and he’s the director of the Sacrificial Poet Project and creator of the Jesus Poetry Slam. Sounds cheesy. But his poetry is as genuine as his interest in others. It is among the best I’ve read or heard.

The meaningful poignancy of lines he spoke during the conference struck me at the core of where I hold questions and tensions inside.

This is insanity – dirt holding thoughts of eternity.

***

A fairy tale God writing dust into eternity – and just because we read it wrong doesn’t mean it’s bad poetry.

***

What if ancient wisdom had it right all along and modern science is only catching up? What if everything is poetry?

***

I highly recommend reading more of Phil Long’s words. And if a collection of the new works I got to hear at the conference come out soon, I would even recommend buying it.

Participation of a Lifetime

Tags

conference, Faith & Culture, God, healing, identity, justice, participation, performance, questions, The Shack, Tony Kriz, Tyler Braun, William P. Young, worth

God doesn’t need another book.

That was the liberating message proclaimed by William P. Young, author of The Shack, at last weekend’s Faith and Culture writing conference.

He perfectly set the tone for the weekend.

Trusting that God can carry His own weight is incredibly freeing. I’ve known in theory for a long time that of course God can carry His weight, in addition to mine and everyone else’s. But it’s still sinking in on an everyday life sort of level.

Young’s words echoed those of a friend who told me earlier in the week that God doesn’t need me to bring about justice. He will bring justice, though He invites me to participate in the process.

If God doesn’t need me to write a book, or bring justice, or even give a meal to someone in need, then why do I bother with such things? And why does He tell those who neglect to give food to the hungry, drink to the thirsty, and clothes to the naked to depart from Him into everlasting punishment (Mt 25:41-46)?

Why does He say that in everything you do, work at it with all your heart, as for the Lord and not for men (Col 3:23)? Why pursue excellence if everything will be perfectly accomplished without my participation?

I’m still working through these questions, but what became clearer at the writing conference was that not only am I unable to carry the weight of the world, but that defining myself by what I do will leave me empty, insecure, and always hungry for more.

In Young’s words, no matter how much I want to make ideas into commodities I can sell or exchange for identity, worth, purpose, and security, the trade will fall through. Writing a book will not add to any of these aspects of life.

Much of what I do is for these very purposes. If it’s not writing that I try to exchange for such goods, then it’s striving for perfection, catalyzing change, making a difference in others’ lives – sometimes even loving my husband takes on this purpose.

I need my orientation to shift from performance to participation.

Performance means the outcome relies on me, accomplishment is the goal, and I am the focus. In contrast, participation means hardly any of the outcome relies on me, transformation is the goal, and the larger-than-any-single-life outcome is the focus.

The invitation to participate frees me to be myself. Without the pressure to earn or prove anything, new doors to creativity and relationship open wide. Writing becomes less about words on the page and more about processing, healing, relating to God and others.

The second day of the writing conference, Tony Kriz confessed that he spent a decade trying to get God to notice him. He worked in remote locations where others declined to go and felt compelled to accomplish something meaningful by the age of 30 for life to be worthwhile.

What he ended up with was burnout and a broken heart until unlikely neighbors offered wisdom and healing.

Even newer to the literary scene, Tyler Braun said writers get off track when we forget the “why” of writing in light of the “how” that we hope will lead to success.

“We have big dreams of being well known for our writing and influencing the masses to the point that we don’t care about the few people right in front of us,” he said. “What God has placed right in front of us is enough.”

Young wrote The Shack for the few in front of him – his wife and six children, along with close friends whom he thought might benefit from the story. The manuscript unexpectedly passed from one set of hands to another and, without any marketing push, has now sold millions of copies and been translated into dozens of languages, bringing healing and opening windows to God.

What God placed in front of Young was enough for him – 15 people. And if his book had landed in only those 15 hands, it still would have been worthwhile.

Sometimes the Parts Add Up to More Than the Whole

Tags

begging, elderly, enablement, homelessness, innocence, John Chrysostom, neighbors, poor, tension, vulnerable

The sight wasn’t all that uncommon – an unkempt person standing on the corner holding a cardboard sign.

But the number 80 written in bold black print caught my attention.

I peered at the face of the woman, partially obscured beneath the brown and cranberry tartan blanket draped over her head and shoulders. Wrinkles and sun spots testified to the words on her water logged billboard: 80+ year old woman.

Photo courtesy of UW Digital Collections.

At the same moment I considered pulling over, the traffic light turned green. So I instead led a trail of cars past her onto the busy highway lanes of life.

I frantically searched for solutions that would justify turning around.

I could drive the woman somewhere safe, at least momentarily shelter her from the rain. Take her to a place where family in search of an elderly woman who’d wandered off could find her.

Perhaps family had tired of caring though or turned out the woman who’d abused them from youth. Maybe stretched to breaking, with no reward in sight and surrounded by messages that those who cannot produce are expendable, they’d washed their hands of this woman.

Perhaps she’d fled a nursing home that reeked of neglect and maltreatment, or fallen prey to conspiracy theories sometimes suspected by those feeble and afraid.

Photo courtesy of Ali Gold.

Endless scenarios ran through my mind, accompanied by a single solution that appeared frailer than the bones I sought to secure: a beat up brown blanket retrieved from the trunk and wrapped around the woman’s body to warm her, absorbing any soiling while I drove her somewhere – anywhere safe and warm.

Echoes of my mother’s warnings rang in the air – conspiracies of my own creation abounded involving a wrinkle-faced mask, a bully luring me in.

Excuses abounded. The fuel gauge read empty and I wouldn’t do an old woman much good if the car puttered to a stop. I needed to get to dinner with new neighbors I had a far better chance of building relationship with than with an itinerant, senile old woman.

Photo courtesy of Homini.

The sky suddenly opened to a deluge of rain.

The tartan blanket surely streamed water by now.

My heart ached as the most familiar elderly woman’s face I knew took the place of this stranger’s. Bedraggled hair dripping with pain and fear framed the portrait.

Other faces flashed through my memory from an assisted living home where I once volunteered.

The leathery skin of a towering man bedecked in turquoise jewelry who sought the heart of a small, quiet woman with blonde-dyed, bobbed hair. They’d flirted like teenagers while I turned the Bingo wheel and served ice cream.

Other days I played chess with a man who taught me champion moves, his hands shaking with Parkinson’s between each play. I never won a game against him.

It wasn’t right that any one of them should stand in the rain begging money for who-knows-what. Though the elderly are not nearly as innocent as children, they are still largely defenseless and vulnerable.

“She may have made choices that led her there,” a friend reasoned over the phone as I sought options.

I knew offering her a ride wasn’t a wise solution – for her or for me. But I couldn’t listen to the many voices that told me to keep driving on, to not get involved in other people’s lives and misfortune.

I was already involved. I walk the same earth, created by the same God.

I recalled lines I’d recently read from the fourth century preacher John Chrysostom:

The poor man has but one plea, his want and his standing in need; do not require anything else from him…do not judge him, do not seek an account of his life, but free him from his misfortune….Need alone is this poor man’s worthiness.¹

There was a time when I reached out to and maybe even cherished the homeless. I knew money could be used for ill, so I celebrated Valentine’s Day by driving from one corner to another offering hot chocolate, oranges, and a red carnation.

My heart toward the homeless had changed as I came to understand the extent of problems and the likelihood of enabling dysfunction and dependence. Individuals entered deeper into the shadow of systemic solutions until I could no longer see the person before me.

Photo courtesy of SamPac.

The parts had become less valuable than the whole.

If I was going to recognize the value of the parts again, it would be with an 80-year-old woman standing in the pouring rain.

Ill equipped and uncertain, I finally decided to dial the non-emergency police.

“There are so many of them,” the woman on the other end of the line said after I explained.

“I know. But she’s so old it seemed different,” I replied. “Maybe she wandered off from somewhere and doesn’t know where she is.”

“Did she seem to be having trouble standing?”

I couldn’t answer accurately – I’d only seen the woman for a fleeting moment. “Yes. She had a walker by her.”

“We can’t do anything unless she’s putting herself or someone else in danger.” The dispatcher paused briefly. “We can only do a wellness check.”

“That’s great. Would you do a wellness check?” I asked.

“I’ll send someone out. You said the intersection of Glisan and 205?”

“Yes ma’am, that’s right.”

I hung up the phone and drove away from the gas station without further thought – I had done what I could and wanted to leave the problem behind. It didn’t feel like enough, but it was all I knew to do.

Do you have any ideas for the next time I find myself in such a situation?

¹ The translation used here is different than that of the linked source. St. John Chrysostom: On Wealth and Poverty, trans. Catharine P. Roth (Crestwood, N.Y.: St. Vladimir’s Press, 1984), pp. 49-55.

Related Reading:

Can Human Rights Survive Secularization? Part II, by Nicholas Wolterstorff

The Justice Conference

Tags

Africa, biblical, God, injustice, justice, Justice Conference, propaganda, questions, relationships, simplistic, tension, truth

The Justice Conference took place in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania one month ago today. Those hosting the conference have a vision to “reach tens of thousands of people over the next decade through an annual gathering that educates, inspires and connects a generation to a shared concern for the vulnerable and oppressed.”

In its third year, the Justice Conference draws thousands of attendees and has expanded to Asia, where it will convene for the second time this year.

The vision is noble. Its claim to justice, however – like so many claims to justice these days – seems incomplete.

I’ve spent more than seven years taking a close look at injustice. Working for a relief and development agency, attending gatherings where injustices are paraded across stage, and decrying the wrongs done in the world has not brought clarity on what justice is though.

Photo courtesy of red hand records.

I struggle to think of the Justice Conference as other than more of the same – a display that moves people to rage and tears in hopes of inciting immediate action. I have difficulty imagining it as more than the latest trend in Christian fashion, another formula dismissing a world of questions and a life of thought.

I suspect I’d leave such a conference with more frustration than hope; with no greater clarity on God-defined Justice or where such an ideal hides; with dismay at the absence of justice and distortion of truth in the world.

When a former colleague offered me free entrance to the Justice Conference, therefore, I declined.

Instead, I sat across a table from an African friend who flew in to speak at the conference. I asked how he’s not eaten alive with anger and bitterness as he looks in the eyes of corrupt oppressors each day. I wanted to understand how he continues to hope and to maintain the belief that God will bring justice.

Together we wrestled with questions he was unlikely to discuss from a stage.

I’m thankful for such personal conversation and wonder if through globalization we’ve not all come closer to speaking face to face. Yet we continue to offer simplistic solutions to complex realities in places we hardly know.

The West categorizes “underdeveloped countries” and expects progress through methodically thrown money. Even with pure intentions, myopic vision ensues.  We seek to help others become more like us – more industrialized, more efficient, more individualized and independent. We want to help them attain more income, more choices, more in general.

Yet, we fail to ask the fundamental question on which all these motives rest. The question of what is good and just in the first place.

Photo courtesy of ALDEADLE.

The American Christian community is especially guilty of such lack of thought. We tend to assume God has given us answers without having to listen to those on whose behalf we claim to speak, and we fail to recognize how deeply ingrained the surrounding culture is in our thinking.

We allow celebrity figures, within and outside the Church, to define what is good. We accept without question that the good life is one of ease, filled with happiness and bursting at the seams.

Despite our claims otherwise, we often expect wealth to solve mankind’s problems. Or in the opposite extreme, we expect a five-step gospel to make the problems less pressing.

But what of the African woman who asks the American how she can stand the isolation that comes with running water in her home? With no opportunity to walk alongside neighbors collecting water each day, the American lacks depth of community. Yet, she pities the African woman who must walk so far for fresh water.

Few Christians I know pause to question if one woman’s life truly is better than the other, or which one, or why. Propaganda quickly convinces us of the answer.

However, when walking several miles to reach drinkable water leads to women being raped, the answer also is clear. We cannot turn our heads away with comfort at the thought that at least the women have community.

Nor can we expect men to have a sense of dignity when Westerners come to the rescue, digging wells and repairing them any time a problem arises.

Amidst these tensions, through questions and dialogue, we may discover truths that are closer to the Truth.

I suppose many Americans may remain unaware of the depths of injustices committed around the world. If the Justice Conference awakens people to these depths more than media exposure already has and propels them to thoughtfully respond, I applaud the effort. If it keeps the conversation going within society, I am immensely grateful.

Photo courtesy of Leonard John Matthews.

And if the conference asks questions of what Justice is and how to live in the tension of pursuing it; if it spurns propaganda to consider how we define what is good in the first place, then I may reconsider attending.

Otherwise, I’d much rather hear the thoughts of speakers – many whom I greatly respect, others whom I desire to know more – outside a conference where I’d feel I’d contributed to justice as a fad rather than the infinitely complex, timeless struggle it is.

RECOMMENDED READING: 

Wearing Social Justice on Our Sleeves

A Taste of Portlandia

Tags

Alberta, Australia, avalanche, breakfast, dry humor, french toast, Hawthorne, Jam on Hawthorne, pancakes, Portlandia, tattoo

A trip to Portland wouldn’t be complete without visiting one of our more eclectic neighborhoods. Typically, Alberta Street on the last Thursday of May through September would be the place to go.

On those days, 15 blocks of Alberta Street close to car traffic and fill with the sights and sounds expected of Portlandia. Grown men half clothed in tattoos careen in circles on kiddy bikes; barely clad women hula hoop as an art; people on stilts and double decker bikes tower above the crowd; and food carts with every imaginable cuisine from gourmet grilled cheese to maple bacon ice cream line the streets.

We did our best to offer our friends from Australia a full (though much tamer) Portland experience in mid-January. I had no idea just how much of the Portland experience we’d encounter by eating at Jam on Hawthorne.

Seated beneath large paper snowflake cutouts, we noticed neighboring diners and waiters alike cloaked in tattoos and piercings. “I can’t tell the waiters apart from the customers,” my husband commented.

We started discussing options for the weekend, including the snowshoeing trip we’d planned for the next day. In the middle of conversation about snow attire, our waiter ambled up to the table in jeans, a v-neck t-shirt, and thick, black-rimmed glasses. The tattoo murals lining his arms and a brillo-like beard accentuated his burly appearance.

I paused mid-sentence so he could take our order, but he told me not to stop on his behalf. So I went on sharing about the waterproof bib my friend could borrow and warning her she might feel a bit ridiculous in it.

“Oh yeah, those overall things?” our waiter asked. “They’re great.” He raised his eyebrows in mocking fashion.

“But they work, right?” I pushed back.

“Oh yeah, they work,” he said. Deadpan silence followed his response. “I hate snow.”

“Really? Even in Portland?” I asked. “How can you not like getting away to the bright white instead of the rainy grey all the time?”

“I hate snow. It’s cold.”

“It is cold.” I gave a slight nod to affirm his statement.

“You know what to do in an avalanche?” he asked.

“Kind of. But we’re not going somewhere where we need to worry about avalanches.”

“Well, if you did get caught in an avalanche, you can just keep moving your arms so you stay on top of the snow.”

“I’ve heard that,” my husband said. “It’s like you’re riding a wave, right?”

“He knows what he’s talking about,” the waiter replied.

“Or you could get an avalanche backpack,” my husband said.

“They make avalanche backpacks?” I asked.

“Oh yeah,” the waiter replied. “They’re really expensive. You don’t need one of those though. If you just keep moving your arms, it’ll make a pocket of air so you won’t suffocate.”

“I’ve heard you can spit to figure out which way is up,” my husband added. “’Cause gravity will always make spit fall.”

Our two Australian friends looked on in wonder.

“We’re not going anywhere that has avalanches though,” I assured them.

“How do you know all this about avalanches anyways?” I asked the waiter.

“From snowboarding.”

“You snowboard? I thought you said you hate snow.”

“I was joking.”

“So you don’t actually hate the cold.”

“No, I hate it. But if you have good gear and layers, it’s not cold.”

“Yeah, layers are key. So you’ll probably want those bib overalls,” I concluded, looking at my friend.

“I guess I should take your drink orders.” Our waiter shifted his substantial weight from one foot to the other in preparation. “Have you been here before?”

“I’ve been here once. But they haven’t.” My husband nodded toward our friends. “They’re visiting from out of town.”

“Where are you from?” our waiter asked.

“Australia,” my friend’s husband replied.

The waiter rolled his eyes and walked away. After a few paces in the opposite direction, he returned to our laughter.

“What do you want to drink?” He never cracked a smile.

When it was time for my friend’s husband to order, he said, “I’d like a latté, but can I get that with only half the amount of milk?”

The waiter stared at him as though still waiting to hear his order.

“I just don’t like how much all the milk waters it down,” our friend explained.

The waiter continued to stare at him.

“I’ll be back,” he finally said. “And you’d better be ready for me.” He walked away without ever having answered the question.

The four of us started laughing at his departure, uncertain of whether to be appalled by his manner or won over by his dry sense of humor.

When he returned with our drinks, he sat a demitasse-tea-cup-sized latté in front of my friend’s husband with satisfaction.

“Take that,” he said. “What do you want to eat?”

I spoke up first, sharing that I was torn between the oatmeal chai blueberry pancakes and the lemon ricotta maddie cakes.

“I’ll surprise you,” he said.

Normally I’d love such a response. But in that particular moment, I had a preference and was looking to have it confirmed.

“Well, can you tell me about them?” I asked.

“I’ll surprise you.”

“Well…then, I’ll have the maddie cakes.”

“That’s what I was going to give you. You ruined the surprise.” He shrugged and moved on to the next order.

“I’ll have The Other One,” my husband said. “And an oatmeal chai blueberry pancake on the side.”

“You won’t need it,” the waiter informed him.

“Well, what if I want it?” he asked, matching the waiter’s snarky tone.

“Alright, but I’m not gonna talk to you anymore.” He turned his back to us and focused on our friends.

“I’ll have two poached eggs on toast, with a side of ham,” my friend’s husband said. “I wanted to make sure though, are the eggs laid by fairly treated, free range chickens?”

“They actually even grow their black beans themselves,” my husband commented. “On the roof of the restaurant.”

“Yeah, and every time someone uses the toilet, the bio-filtered water sprays the bean plants,” the waiter added. “It’s a great system.”

With that matter settled, my friend placed her order – a simple one for the Grand Marnier french toast we had all eyed at some point.

Once the orders were in, the waiter let the food do the talking.

The maddie cakes stole the show (as much as could be stolen from such a comical waiter), and not just because I was the one who’d ordered them.

They had the perfect amount of ricotta and lemon, neither dominating the overall taste. The ricotta lent extra moistness to the fluffy pancakes without retaining any lumpy texture, and the lemon perfectly tied in the blueberry compote. They were delicious even as leftovers the next morning.

The oatmeal chai blueberry pancakes were not a far off second. Hints of the creamy spiced tea were as uniquely complementary to the hearty batter as I’d hoped.

The Grand Marnier french toast far outdid the others in presentation. It arrived in thick, hearty slices topped with berries and drizzled in fruity compote. The flavors didn’t blend quite right for me though – a bit heavy on the orange cognac undertones.

After two attempts at Grand Marnier flavored food that weekend, I think I may simply not like the taste of the liqueur, so this could very well be an absolutely superb dish for those who enjoy Grand Marnier.

Both of the egg dishes were pretty standard, though delicious for what they were. And the side of honey ham our friend ordered was a thick, juicy, perfectly salted slice that had been browned to perfection. It was by far the best breakfast ham I’ve had.

We enjoyed our meals, but apart from the maddie cakes, they couldn’t rival the atmosphere created by our waiter.

Later that day, while having dinner with friends who live in the area, we recounted our Jam on Hawthorne experience.

My friend’s husband described the waiter who’d served us as “being the most insulting but friendly server” he’d ever had.

“I think we’ve had the same waiter!” our other friend said. “Did he have a beard and was kind of heavy set?”

“Yeah. And he had a lot of tattoos on his arms.”

“We had the same guy,” our friend confirmed. “You’re right – he’s rude but somehow friendly about it. It was so funny.”

It only took three words – Jam, insulting, and friendly – to place the waiter in everyone’s minds.

We had succeeded in offering a quintessential Portland experience.

Because fact and fiction seems to get blurred so often these days, I wanted to note that I made up some of the details of this story due to memory failure at the ripe age of 30.

Mt Hood Delights – Culinary & Otherwise

Tags

Australia, Cascade Dining Room, fondue, Grand Marnier truffle cake, Mount Hood, Portland Monthly, Ram's Head Bar, skillet cookie, sunset, Timberline Lodge, winter

I’m trying to come down slowly from the high of our Australian friends’ visit. I just returned from a jog as an attempt to ease into everyday life and start burning off two-and-a-half-days of decadence.

The culinary delights reached a peak last night at Timberline Lodge after several hours of trouncing through the snow. Climbing the steepest hill possible into the woods and racing back down it worked up an appetite.

We made our way to the car with the dappled sunlight beginning to fade. Though we’d planned to sample artisanal beers at Full Sail brewery, the sweet skillet sensation I’d read about in Portland Monthly magazine drew us up the mountain to Timberline Lodge instead.

After fumbling with the snow chains on our tires for less time than usual, we began the slow ascent.

The timing was perfect.

A postcard view of pale pink hues softening the rugged peaks of Mount Hood greeted us at the top of the five-mile-long drive. We stood watching the clouds roll in until our fingers and toes began to protest the below-freezing temperatures.

Inside the lodge, massive timber beams enveloped us in the warmth emanating from a towering stone fireplace with multiple hearths. Expansive windows stood guard between us and the one-story-high snow drifts pressed against them.

We scanned the various restaurant menus and made a six o’clock dessert reservation at the lower level Cascade Dining Room.

With an hour to wait, Ram’s Head Bar beckoned us from behind a railing encircling the fireplace lounge below. We found a table overlooking the afterglow of sunset on the gentle slopes and settled in for dinner.

The meal began with hot buttered rum blended as perfectly as the now deep oranges and yellows of the sky.

The slightest hint of nutmeg and cinnamon under sweeter notes of brown sugar, vanilla, and buttery richness soothed and warmed our still recovering hands. A perfectly shaped cinnamon stick perched within the glass attested to fresh ingredients.

The alpine beer cheese fondue that followed boasted a rich, creamy base with faintly nutty undertones. Its ever-so-slightly grainy texture added substance to the medley of cheeses, and the addition of beer unobtrusively accentuated the naturally sharp flavors.

I likely could have eaten the entire bowl myself, but we split the large ramekin serving four ways. With sliced apple from nearby Hood River Valley, hearty artisan bread, and dark red grapes, we had more than enough sides for dipping – an unusual occurrence with dips of any kind for me.

I imagine the wild mushroom, Landjaeger sausage, or Bündnerfleisch sides would be equally delicious though unnecessary and requiring another serving of cheese. No objections there however.

The main course failed to compete, not for want of flavor, but because the earlier dishes far surpassed expectations. Two of us split pulled pork tacos piquant with adobo spices. The tender, slow-cooked meat rested inside three fairly flimsy tortillas along with a meager portion of avocado.

Other accoutrements included spicy black beans, salsa, and a cabbage slaw that helped temper the heat.

The grand finale awaited downstairs in the Cascade Dining Room where the hostess promptly seated us. The skillet baked chocolate chip cookie that attracted us to Timberline in the first place warranted two orders without question.

We also ordered a slice of chocolate Grand Marnier truffle cake and one of banana layer cake.

The waitress kindly informed us the skillet cookie would take 15 minutes to prepare but was well worth the wait.

She was right.

When the assortment arrived, our waitress apologized that the banana cake was not chocolate layers as she’d described.

After one bite of the banana layer cake and seeing the skillet cookie, my husband took her up on the offer to bring a replacement and ordered a third skillet cookie. We quickly realized two would have been more than enough.

Baked in a 6 ½ inch cast iron skillet, the golden crisp outer layer surrounded a warm, gooey center. The accompanying vanilla ice cream lightened the thick, oozing batter and would have perfected the dish if in greater quantity.

The ensemble rivaled the Tollhouse pie savored late one night last month at Kaminskys in Charleston, South Carolina.

The Grand Marnier truffle cake was a dense, flourless chocolate overpowered by liqueur. Those who love fudge and Grand Marnier may enjoy it, but I found the cake far too rich, though the pomegranate garnish enticed a second bite.

The vanilla latté and mocha that bridged the 15 minute cookie-baking gap were likewise underwhelming.

By the time the third cookie arrived, we had entered a post-eating stupor. Somehow my husband and I still managed to enjoy the final installment and drive an hour-and-a-half home with overstuffed stomachs.

The gourmet spread at Timberline Lodge indulged our appetites, but the time with these particular friends awakened our souls.

When we return to the mountain for the Alpenstube Loft’s Mt Hood Lava Flow – the dessert I later realized was the actual feature in Portland Monthly – we’ll be thinking of them. I imagine it will pale in comparison.

Thanks to Brad McCoy for the photos and to whatever generous soul took this last photo for us.

2012 in review

Tags

annual report, anticipation, Australia, countdown, friends, New York City, visit

My favorite fact about this annual report is that I didn’t have to create it. Thank you WordPress stats helper monkeys!

My second favorite fact is that people from 55 countries have visited this blog. Thank you friends around the world!

Click here to see the complete report.

One of those friends from across the globe is about to step off the plane. She and her husband arrive from Australia via Texas and New York City in T minus 3 hours 50 minutes.

Yes, I’m counting. Starting the new year with a long-time friend from Australia is far more worth a countdown than some lit up ball dropping.

Forget New York City. Here I come Portland International Airport!

Running the Race, Part III

Tags

direction, Hood to Coast, Lululemon, race, running, Springwater Corridor

Continued from November 24th post.

A couple months ago, I was out for one of my regular jogs. I looked forward to running alongside the Willamette River and set out at a comfortable pace toward the Springwater Corridor.

Running along the familiar streets of my neighborhood, I was surprised to see a man standing on one of the corners wearing a bright orange vest. He looked out of place, as though he should be directing people along a race course. But I didn’t see anyone coming, so I figured he was involved in some kind of construction.

When I turned my attention from him though, I realized I’d joined a few other joggers. I tried to see if they were wearing numbers but couldn’t get the right angle because they were ahead of me. So I looked back at where the man stood in his bright orange vest, and then I saw more people coming around the corner.

I didn’t know it at the time, but I’d run straight into the 199-mile Hood to Coast relay. This was no small race.

View of Mt. Hood from the coastal range.

There weren’t any indications I couldn’t still run along the path, so I kept going.

A little ways ahead, another man in a bright orange vest flagged us toward him. He was cheering all of us on and I swear he made eye contact with me as he said, “Great work! Keep it up.”

I felt guilty, as though I should tell him I wasn’t in the race.

Another twenty yards and a guy picking up cups as fast as he could hand them out tried to get one into my hand. I felt like an impostor who couldn’t possibly take the water intended for others.

Meanwhile, I was fast approaching the woman in front of me.

Part of me felt like I should slow down so I didn’t make her think a competitor was passing. But I wanted to keep my pace, so the gap between us kept shortening.

We came to an intersection with a road and a group of young guys cheered for both of us. For the first time, someone acknowledged the discrepancy of my situation.

“You’re not wearing a number!” he yelled as I passed him. It was an accusatory statement, like I’d been found out.

I overheard one of the other guys say, “She’s wearing a collared shirt.” He made it sound like I was dressed for the office just because I wasn’t wearing some sleek Lululemon top. And I wasn’t even in the race!

Bikers started passing and saying, “You’re almost there!” Everybody was cheering me on for a race I wasn’t even running.

I finally passed the woman in front of me. I almost told her I’d only been running 10 minutes so she wouldn’t be discouraged.

At the 15 minute point, I turned around to go back home. I’d reached my halfway point and I was done.

As I ran in the opposite direction, I made eye contact with the woman I’d passed minutes before. We both smiled and kind of laughed – hers seeming to be a bit out of relief and mine like, “yeah, I’m not in the race.”

Bikers started doing double takes to make sense of my running in the opposite direction. One of them actually turned his head and yelled to me, “You’re going in the wrong direction!”

I wasn’t. I knew I wasn’t going in the wrong direction.

I wanted to yell, “I am not in the race, people! I am not going in the wrong direction!”

People keep telling me I’m going in the wrong direction. I feel like I’m going in the wrong direction as I watch everyone pass by.

But they’re on a course I’m not on right now. I really do know where I’m going and there’s a reason I’m not wearing a number, people.

Running the Race, part II

Tags

Balaam, Bible, donkey, endure, faith, God, Grotto, healing, race, rest, running, work, wounded

Continued from November 14th post.

I know – it sounds weird. A talking donkey?

But haven’t you ever wanted God to show up in some unmistakably God sort of way? Like He did for Balaam with a talking donkey in the Bible?

Thirteen years ago, I was fighting a deep depression and unsettling doubts. I desperately wanted to know God was real even as I pushed Him away. I lamented that He didn’t send me a talking donkey.

That day at the Grotto in May, unbeknownst to me, my husband sat reading the story about Balaam and his talking donkey.^[1]

Stubborn Balaam made him think of me – of six years ago when I knew God was telling me to rest after a difficult year in Thailand.

I rested for a bit, but within months I was working for an organization that left me even more wounded.

Like Balaam with his donkey, I pushed onward. I ran toward the finish line with an ever worsening limp.

I could be trampled over, mislabeled, betrayed, dismissed, mugged in my own backyard, and my hands tied behind my back until I was laid off, but I was not going to quit that race.

Balaam kept beating his donkey to get her back on course. Finally, she laid down and refused to move. An Angel of the Lord stood in her way.

“Why have you beaten your poor donkey these three times?” the Angel asked. “I was here blocking your way the whole time because you’re getting way ahead of yourself.”^[2]

Could God have been blocking my way all along, keeping me from doing the very thing He’d put in my heart? Could He possibly have been telling me these past two years to step out of the race?

I thought of Scriptures that say to run the race with all we’ve got^[3] and couldn’t imagine they’d be consistent with what I was now hearing.

When I read them again in context though, I saw they’re not about the Puritan work ethic of America at all.

They’re about pressing on to keep the faith. And they don’t even say to run fast, but to endure. Just make it to the end with your faith still intact. Sacrifice whatever it takes to lay hold of God’s promises.

To run with that kind of endurance, I’d have to step out of this other race for a time. I’d have to own that it really was a bus that caused these injuries, and they really do need time to heal.

It hasn’t been easy giving up the search for work. It’s been really difficult listening to people I love tell me all the reasons they think what I’m doing is wrong. I’ve questioned how sensible this is, whether I’m actually healing, if we heard God clearly.

But the man who once pushed me to write at least 40 hours a week now keeps encouraging me to cease all activity. To see my healing as my work. To press on until I find myself living out of surplus instead of deficit…

To be continued with the event that instigated this telling in the first place. The first two-thirds of the story set the context for the crazy experience that later took place.

---

^[1] Numbers 22

^[2] Slightly modified version of Num 22:32 in The Message translation.

^[3] Heb 12:1-2, Phil 3:12-16, 1 Tim 6:11-12, 2 Tim 4:7

Running the Race

Tags

Grotto, healing, job, race, rejection, rest, running, work

Last month, a friend encouraged me to perform a monologue of a story I’d shared that night. I told him if he found me a stage, I’d do a monologue. Here’s the start of the story I’ll now be sharing at Open Space Cafe next Monday at 7:00 PM. I’d call it more a reading than a monologue…

I’m used to running fast and hard.

So when it became clear in May that I needed to stop running altogether, I didn’t know what to do with myself.

It’s one thing to realize you need to slow your pace a bit. It’s quite another to realize you need to walk the rest of the race when you’re used to keeping at the front of the crowd.

But to step out of the race altogether? Unacceptable.

It’s quitting.

And I don’t quit.

Maybe it’s different if you get a major injury while running a race. I’ve heard stories about people limping their way to the finish line. But if someone’s run over by a bus, she’s probably not gonna finish that race.

When my husband told me in May that I faced the emotional equivalent of being run over by a bus, I had difficulty accepting his words. I knew I had nothing left to give, but stepping out of the race simply wasn’t an option.

“I think you need to stop looking for a job,” he said. “And stop collecting unemployment. Stop couponing. Stop running errands all over the place to save money. Stop everything that’s not rest and healing.”

His words came days after rejection from a job I thought I was created to do and would never discover. I’d had my eye on this organization for nearly two years, more than two hundred job applications and a dozen interviews ago.

When the paid mentorship position opened, it felt like a dream come true. Perhaps I’d been turned down all those other hundreds of times because this was the job for me.

After four interviews, we started moving forward in faith that I’d be offered the position. We made health insurance decisions accordingly. We dreamed of what we’d do with the income. I thought about life alongside eight high-risk kids.

Then I got the phone call.

One of three final candidates for two positions and I didn’t make the cut.

I had a 66% chance of getting that job. Ten years of experience mentoring, running kids programs, and pouring into the lives of at-risk youth. Six years of eagerly waiting for this kind of work.

And I didn’t make the cut.

I suddenly had no sense of what it meant for me to put one foot in front of the other. I wasn’t sure what race I was even running anymore.

My husband and I retreated to the Catholic Grotto later that week to pray and process.

It was there that God finally sent me a talking donkey…

To be continued after Monday’s reading…