script or unknown?

Did Jesus, as a man, know everything that was to happen to him? Or was it following God’s leading as he walked that path? I just read in Matthew about his betrayal. Did he know who would do that to him before judas had decided? Or did he just know that one of them would? He knew death was on the agenda, but did he know the rest? The scourging, the carrying his cross, the spitting? Did he know before and therefore just acting out the drama, or did he feel the fear of the unknown? I have always assumed the whole thing was scripted in heaven and Jesus just walked out the script. What if that isn’t the case? What if he had to ask for every bit of strength and wisdom from his Father? 

monkey island

In this resort there are several tours. We chose the monkey island one and appeared at the desk at the appointed time. They took one look at us and said we would have a private tour. Yay. So we, a guide and a pilot got into a small tour boat and headed out. We rode past giant ships in the canal, first the Amsterdam cruise ship, then a car cargo ship. Our turn to cross the boat lane came and we picked up speed till we flew over the wakes and waves. I kept glancing at Shannon to make sure going this fast was ok with her, only to find her beaming at the boatride.

We turned off the canal to enter one of the many waterways winding between jungle islands. Our guide would point out howler monkeys and birds among the dense foliage. She also offered us ponchos for the beginning drizzle. Re refused – we are Seattleites. Off in the distance we could hear howler monkeys in the distance. Then we went to monkey island – so named for the white faced monkeys which are its only constant inhabitants. Our guide called them in their sounds and instantly several monkeys came to wonder at their visitors.

Shannon wanted me to take hundreds of pictures of the monkeys staring down at us, and I took dozens, but was distracted with putting ponchos over us in a futile defense against the coming rainstorm. I had seen the torrential rainstorm the day before and understood the power of the torrents. Do you have any idea how hard it is to put a thin plastic poncho on over wet clothes? It started pouring. After a few more animals, we headed back, skipping over the waves. Our ponchos snapped in the wind and we had to hold the hoods around our faces. The water ran off my poncho directly into my shoes. Large droplets stung our faces and ran down into our mouths. I doubt they had any real affect besides keeping my camera dry. None of the marina workers could believe we enjoyed this. But it is tropical rain; warm, soaking, completely satisfying.

gamboa rant

Our last leg of the journey places up in the resort in the national park of Gamboa. It is an enormous building not melding into the rainforest at all. someone, somewhere else, drew up plans fitting for 1^st world luxury and placed it in the tropical rainforest. Other than the native trees, no concessions were made for the different climate. I don’t want to think about the effort expended to drag the huge metal chandeliers up here. Or the metal railings on everything. Or the faux carved wood doors. Then again, maybe they simply retrieved it from the ships on the canal scarcely 1 mile away. Oddly, few of the staff speaks English and there are no paper napkins to be found. But they left oreos and Doritos in the room for us. Im in panama, I don’t want oreos, I want fresh pineapple. I prefer 30 cent fantas and cold showers to the air conditioning and $3 sprites. I don’t want to pay for laundry by the article of clothing. We have been out on 2 tours from this place so far, and both times returned completely soaked after an enjoyable tropical rainstorm caught us. So our room looks more like a clothesline than a hotel room. And stuff is taking forever to dry. I may start using the hairdryer. But this place does have free internet in the lobbys.

the canal

Whoever chose panama chose well. Whether by choice or accident, panama has several natural characteristics which suit it to having a canal thru it. I had always been told they chose panama because it is narrow. That is true, but a rather limited explanation. The canal is a series of locks on both sides with the middle section being a large lake expanded by a dam. The locks bring ships up to the level of the lake, then back down to sea level. The locks expel 52 million tons of water per ship; 26 million on each side. To constantly replace the water loss, panama has designated large tracts of land to remain rainforest to attract the rain. This plan seems to succeed since the average rainfall around here is 200” a year. The Changres river feeds the lake and supplies most of the water. Dredgers run constantly to keep the canal lanes deep enough for the ships.

Even with the locks, many large ships cannot fit and must still make the treacherous journey around South America. Panama has started building bigger locks so that one day it can transport massive ships. And this time they are using construction equipment. A small ship can carry 4,500 containers. The ships that cannot pass thru these locks are 5 times that size. I can’t even fathom the sheer size. Even with a high passage fee ($150,000 – $400,000), ships still save 10 times that by not traveling around South America.

kuna village

In the san blas, our tour guides took us on an expedition to the kuna village. This is the whole reason Shannon chose panama, so I knew this would be a long one, no matter what anyone said. So we packed up and headed to the boats, with the kuna pushing Shannon in her walker-thing. Alas, that would be the last time she used the thing on this trip. We slowly followed out guide thru the city, dutifully learning about daily life of the kuna. Which houses they made of natural materials and the later discarded for cement houses and what kind of schooling they received. We had been warned to ask before pictures and that the going rate was $1 per person per picture. I refuse such prices. So I employed a method I used in Africa to photograph kids without them mobbing the camera; underhanded clicking. Kinda like shooting from the hip, but more agreeable all around. This is why most of my pictures have part of my white shirt in them. Oh well.

We came to a street of the village lined with shops with molas (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mola_(art_form)) spread out around them. I knew Shannon had just entered her version of heaven and the tour had ended. One of the kuna fell behind the group to translate for us and eventually figured out that we weren’t going to catch up with the group. Shannon searched the hundreds of molas for her favorites. I stopped to buy an anklet and they insisted on putting it on me the right way (basically sewing it on). Our guide would stop by to give me an update of who to pay how much so I could gather shannon’s purchases. I raced to gather everything then started running to catch up with Shannon, only to almost pass her sitting on her walker and singing jingle bells to the kids. It’s hard to do a double take while running. She was waiting for someone to get her one last thing and decided to entertain the kids constantly following her around. The kids tried to take her walker for rides while the older kunas would ask how old she was. im thinking of calling Shannon my grandmother instead of having to explain everytime that she is my friend, not my mother or grandmother.

We returned to our island as darkness set it. Shannon had this beatific smile plastered on her face the whole way back. We had taken twice as long as planned. Sad, since I still had to get my swimsuit out of the water where it had fallen in earlier that day. Darkness meant I had to get it in first light before we left for the plane. Quite the wakeup sensation.

snorkeling

The second day we went snorkeling. At least, I did. Shannon sat in the shade, reading a book on the kunas and answering questions by our fellow travelers. I had never snorkeled before. someone told me the basics and hey presto, it worked. I am sure it was not the best of reefs, but to me it was gorgeous. It became a game of hide and seek, looking for new wonders. Stingrays, 2’ sea cucumbers, and various fish I recognized from tropical fish tanks. I found several kinds of coral, but can only name the brain coral. I decided at one point to dive a bit deeper, but quickly decided against it. I am not used to clear water and had misgauged the depth of my ambition. Water is heavy. Eventually I summoned the courage necessary to glide about 1 foot above the coral. If you looked parallel with the water surface, silver fish swam only at that level – about 10 inches long, looking a bit like kitchen knives swimming backwards, but with tubular noses. Odd looking creatures. Actually, they all looked odd to my eyes. Fish should be varying shades of blue and gray and well, “fish” shaped. I think I saw giant sea urchins. Whatever those spiky rounds balls are – sea porcupines. Anyways, I saw the long sharp tines poking out of holes in the coral. Looking around, I wonder if dr. sues ever travelled to the tropics. His books and parts of Lewis’ paralandra are the main things which have helped me give reference to the nature around me.

After the snorkeling, I took a walk around the island – a dif one than the resort island. Palm trees, palm trees, waves, flowers, garbage. Mounds of garbage piled by the waves on the other side of the island. That is where I found the fridge. White Styrofoam and browned plastic dominate the eastern beaches. Sad. As we returned to the boat, Shannon started picking up the few bits of garbage on the way to the boat. I didn’t have the heart to tell her about the other side of the island. There are few docks and none on that island, so Shannon actually allowed one of the young men to pick her up and place her in the boat. She does not weigh much at all.

more pics

https://picasaweb.google.com/103959679677428217376/Panama1

kuna cemetery

Shannon opted out of the tours the first day, being exhausted from the trials of flying. I went on the tour of their cemetery. The concerned looks on the kuna’s faces told me Shannon should not try this, even if she wanted to. by the end, I understood the looks. The boat which brought us to the island returned us to the airstrip. We walked along it until, reaching the trail, our guide stopped to give a long speech about nature. The implications came thru even without the helpful translation: try not to destroy the plantlife. Got it. And so we dutifully followed our guide down the half submerged trail. Did I mention it rained most of that day? and the day before? We needed to stop often to allow the straggling, laughing group to reconnect before continuing. At one of these stops, I stepped off the trail to take a picture of the most beautiful flower. Seeing the kuna guide watching me warily, I slowed and carefully did not step on any plants as I made my way to the flower and back. We stopped by several cement tombs, and the guide explained that many kunas lived elsewhere and returned home to be buried, but that they melded other customs with that of the kuna. Hence the cement tombs and crosses on top. He denied that the cross actually meant anything, saying it was simply the Spanish custom. I choose to think otherwise.

After several more bridges over swollen rivers and more muddy trail, and a line of army ants, we reached the hill. A real hill, entirely red clay. Our trail switched to stairs cut into this red clay, climbing 50 up what looked like a previous mudslide area. Did I mention it had rained? The “steps” became slippery mud areas. If you paused at each one, the clay acted as a suction cup, holding your foot as you found the next foothold. I believe we left several of our less adventurous travelers at the bottom of this hill. Sad, considering the view from the top. The cemetery village overlooked part of the archipelago and the sea beyond. Picture time.

When our guide finally acquired our attention again, he led us to one of the open huts and began explaining the burial traditions of the kuna. The kuna revere mother nature and so believe they return to her womb when they die. They bring their dead, wrapped in their hammock, up to these huts (each family has a hut). There they dig a 9 foot deep hole and hang the hammock/body in the hole, then cover with palm branches, then lots of clay. They make a mound on top like a pregnant belly and set a bowl of cocoa seeds on top to ward off evil spirits. Their shaman sings the spirit on its way. In the hut, the family places various belongings and many skulls if the man was an excellent hunter or a basket of tools if an excellent farmer. I brought pictures back to Shannon of all I had seen and reproduced our guide’s speeches.

I am grateful to finally see native Indians and see their culture since I have studied them over the years. however, I am also grateful it waited till this time of my life. I am secure enough in my faith to face another culture/religion as wholly other. It is not mine and has very little bearing on my beliefs.

San Blas, finally

We finally made it to the San Blas islands on Monday. It is an archipelago of 350+ islands and islets set aside for the kuna Indians as it is their native land. The islands are coral covered with grass, palm tree and tropical plants. The grass is a spongy mossy substance covering everything around it. Like a dr. sues grass. The kuna’s culture centers around water, and rightly so since it surrounds them and defines their land. The rocks are coral, the wood palm. Until recently, they used coconuts as money; money literally grew on the trees. The kuna are a short race, around shannon’s size(4’11”).

The resort we stayed at consisted of several bamboo and eucalyptus huts thatched with palm and set our over the water on cement pilings. The island was the resort. The Indians did not speak much English. Again, other travelers translated for me. I did speak my first Spanish sentence; I ordered coffee. I know, I am such a Seattleite. Come to think of it, I don’t think I used a verb. Whatever. Everyone wanted to help Shannon and I. some took pictures of us to bring back to older family. The Chileans translated for us, the Spaniards constantly helped, exuding empathy. And the family from los Angeles welcomed me whenever Shannon slept. They taught me beginning yoga. Hilarious. Because shivastne(the end) is the letting go of self, I cannot participate. Instead of relaxing, I suddenly guard. I think they started to understand why when they looked at my tattoos later that day.

It rained much of the first day. We sat on the deck of our hut in a hammock and rocker, watching the rain on the water and simply relaxing. Mealtimes and to announce tours, the kuna would blow a conch shell. Excellent sound. Perfecto. Beside the food-room-thing was a natural refrigerator for the seafood, also known as an aquarium. The rocks kept crabs, sea-turtles(not for eating), lobsters, and conch where the cook could easily access them for our dinner. The crabs fought at night, extending their claws wide and circled each other, looking for an opening to pinch. Their claws-pan reached 2’. All over the islands we found snake holes, but they told us that these are crab holes.

airport story

First of all, it is inhuman to need to leave the house at 4:30 am, especially on vacation. I realized late the night before that we had to pack up and do the dishes before we left at that ungodly hour. I didn’t sleep much. Finally decided to sleep for an hour or so, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the flight in the morning. Finally started packing up at 3am. Left at 430, during a tropical rainstorm. I thought of asking our driver if he thought this rain would delay the plane. But I didnt. When in doubt, listen to the small quiet voice.

Airports have begun to take on a comical air in my view. The one guy manning the ticket counters didn’t speak English. He started asking things far beyond my meager grasp of Spanish. Impasse. So he called over one of the local passengers to translate. Thru her we reached and understanding about passengers and bags. As we sat waiting for security to open, we watched several native Indians in full traditional dress go thru the lines. Security at this small airport has one security person. I figured it would be a small plane. I didn’t think it would be along the lines of what we find in museums of air and space. The stairs for it opened out of the side as a door instead of having a ramp to it. Shannon made it up the stairs. Amazing for her. Inside, double seats sat across the aisle from single seats. And these are small seats. American seats would have only fit 2 across total. And the cockpit…had little dials and levers. We took off, watched a beautiful sunrise. Flew over the coast, the jungle, another coast; always skirting the thunderheads. Finally we dove into a raincloud. Rain, turbulence, even a few small flashes of lightning somewhere in the cloud. After a rather forceful bit of turbulence, the female co-pilot looked back to how many of us looked worried. And then more flying along the coast. We landed on a tiny airstrip on an inland. The strip stretched from water to water on the island. We stopped with 50 feet of pavement to go. The woman next to us and I were laughing hysterically at this tiny plane landing on this tiny airstrip on a tiny island. The situation was almost comical. The captain turned around and jabbered something in Spanish. Much confusion ensued, which is weird cuz most of the flight understood Spanish. After a few minutes of the pilot and copilot watching our faces, the copilot translated into English. The gist being something about bad weather and unable to see the runway on our destination island, so for the good of all those aboard, they decided not to risk it. We all heartily agreed with this wisdom, but were still confused as to the “what now?”. Return to panama. …ok. What then? No answer. So we headed back over the isthmus of panama, back over the jungles, and rivers, and mists. Arrive at the larger airport. Unload, show passports to enter the building again. Two groups form to hear instruction in 2 languages. The gist? Wait, and try again in 2 hours. Oi. I don’t want to wait and try again. I want to sleep. No sleep. But coffee. Yay coffee. And food. And bottles of water. And so we wait. And I type a story for my friends back home.

Oh, we made a new friend from south Africa. Jenny(Gene) was intrigued by Shannon’s strong and obviously adventuresome spirit, and the one who was laughing with me. So now we have banded together in camaraderie in the hopes of all getting to the islands. Hopefully the second time is the charm. I don’t think Shannon is up for a third time.

Second time didn’t happen. We went back thru security (so easy in this country) and waited in the waiting room trying to guess which small plane was designated for us. We kept seeing airport workers counting us to see what size plane they needed. Finally, after another hour, they said the weather over the islands had gotten worse, not better. The flight was cancelled but we were welcome to try again in the morning. Post haste everyone wanted to make arrangements for the night. But we had to get our luggage. Wait, wait, we have to wait here? Our luggage is coming here? Yes, yes, stay here. Actually, all our luggage was at the other end of the airport waiting for us. Oi.

The upshot is that we had to return to old town and hang out till tomorrow. So tomorrow we wake at the same ungodly hour and try again to go to the san blas. So yeah, very tired.

pictures

https://picasaweb.google.com/103959679677428217376/Panama1

here is my album of pictures so far. my stupid blog wont let me do a slideshow on the blog for some reason. but you should be able to see them from there. enjoy.

old town

We are staying in old town panama. Evan drew a line on the map as to where it is safe to go and where it is not. We went to the café this morning for breakfast. Espresso and everything. Then we had a taxi take us around the city. He and Shannon taught each other English and Spanish. I am continually amazed at how easy it is to understand the gist by body language and a few words. He took us the first panama city, destroyed by the pirate sir Henry Morgan in 1671. Parts of the church and convent still stand, with a little help. Shannon and I created a system for seeing things out of her physical reach. I walk over, take pictures, memorize info on the sign, and repeat it to her when I return to the car. An excellent system.

We recognized many business names; Citi, Samsung, mcdonalds, hard rock café, even a Do-it Center. Panamanians have become quite ingenious architecturally, building a half moon shaped building, and a double helix one with a leaning spike on top. Why? Because they can. No canal sightings yet.

Then I went out to explore and take pictures. This being old town, there are a lot of ancient buildings to photo. About half the buildings have been renovated and half remain in varying states of ruin. By law, these buildings may not be remodeled, only renovated. This makes for an interesting mixture of beautiful doorways and garbage in the streets. Several churches have been claimed for other things, such as a bank, while others have simply fallen into ruin.

One thing I have noticed all through the city is a strong celebration of Christmas. Nutcracker statues, Christmas trees, giant ornaments, a children’s’ choir singing jingle bells, and even a “navidad” village in the center park of the city. All along it they have set up larger-than-life nativity scenes. Why cant America celebrate Christmas with that sort of joint excitement?

We leave for the san blas islands tomorrow morning early. No idea what the wifi/telephone service might be there. Or even the power. We shall see.

first impressions

Panama feels a bit like Africa. Same muggy smell, same trees, same chaos getting off the plane. One day I will enter a country not VIP. Our last wheelchair helper took us thru all the custom craziness in the VIP line. Very nice of him. Everyone keeps asking if im English. I think I reverted to a Ugandan accent automatically since that is the only other experience I have with foreign countries.

But unlike Africa; the mugginess smell does not include the stench of burning garbage. Plus, the roads lack the jigsaw-like traffic of Uganda. Cars can travel at a normal speed. On the drive I recognized papaya trees as well as many other flora. Pelicans replace seagulls as we drive across the bridge into the city itself. Actually, driving into the city felt like driving into the future. But the soaring skyscrapers cannot hide the slums huddled at their feet. Slums sporting bright colors and multitudes of red tv dishes. That never fails to surprise me.

We get to the hotel place in old town. Lo and behold, our renter person is a young guy from Everett, wa. Commence singing “it’s a small world after all”.

I woke up after napping to find most of the little stores closed. I finally found one that reminded me strongly of an African grocery store. Same limited food choices. Local label-less potato chips, canned tuna, pasta, ice cream cups, and glass bottled soda. Even the same bread. Not exactly appetizing.

After waking Shannon up long enough to feed her, I broke down and went out for pizza. Ended up eating excellent pizza in a deserted restaurant, waited on by people who don’t speak English, and serenaded by Spanish rock bands on flat screen tvs. Its amazing how easy it is to communicate with no mutual language. Especially about food. When trying to communicate, I hope to simply not insult them too much as I enjoy the fruits of their culture.

Do you like to travel?

Well yes, yes I do. Do I like boats? Silly question. I love boats. Do I want to travel with you around the world for months at a time as your travel companion with you paying the bill? Absolutely. Medical issues you say? …Lets take a test trip to make sure this is a good idea. Where shall we go? Mississippi river? Everything is full. Panama? San Blas islands? Sure thing. Actually, my first reaction to her plan was, “you want to travel?”

That’s a short explanation of why I am heading to Panama. Why im sitting in Houston airport earlier than I like to wake up. Sitting here contemplating the differences between theory and reality of older people traveling. So far; security is hell. Ridiculous amounts of hell. Is the trip worth it? I hope so.

We have landed safely. More after nap.

Off to Panama

Yes, im almost done packing. I should be, since I leave here in 7 hours. Plane leaves at midnight. Off on another adventure. I have never had any desire to go to Panama, but now im going for 10 days. I will try and keep this blog updated with stories and pictures as I go. The country seems a bit more technologically advanced than Uganda so hopefully I can update more often than once a week. Enjoy.

the purpose of sin

I have been working on a theory off and on for a while. Trying to understand why some people seem to do more stupid stuff than others. Ever wondered how some kids grow up to be bad kids, no matter what their upbringing? Kids from rich families lie, cheat, and steal just as easily as those from poorer families. The siblings from one family, with the same upbringing, turn out different. Why is this?

The ancients found the idea of fate to answer these questions. But as a Christian, I find it inadequate. Fate does not allow for the kind of love in the bible. It does not allow for second chances, or for people changing. But change is integral to Christianity. That’s the beauty of it. The terror. The desperate need for trust.

Trust doesn’t affect fate. Fate doesn’t invite trust. Fate simply controls your life, your destiny; no matter how you feel about it.

But for being a Christian, trust is essential. It affects how you live. It provides freedom.

And now I have digressed from explaining my theory. My theory for why some people just have to do those stupid things. I say “have to” because they are internally driven to it. Sin, or stupid stuff, shows us the depths of our desires. The desires each of us have. They may be in the same category, but the differences make us unique. Our sin shows us who we are. And if we look honestly at it, we see how much we need.

We are a certain way. Each of us. Everyone of us. And our life shows us who we are. Our sin draws us closer to the answer. Our sin shapes our lives, but it also brings our deep desires to where they should be. It changes everything.

What I am trying to say is that the actions of sin are the outward manifestation of the dark desires within us. We were created with a certain character/personality which is corrupted by sin long before we ever get to form an action. The sin we do manifests the corruption inside. It is through honest consideration of our sin that we see how corrupted we are and therefore how much we need a savior.

I have come to define sin as not trusting God instead of just disobedience since that has so many connotations from our childhood. Also, it denotes an obvious list of do’s and don’ts that no one can find in the bible. The Book says to trust in Him. Refusing to trust in Him is the basis for every stupid thing we do. Not trusting Him to bring the right girlfriend or boyfriend when we need it. Not trusting him to know what we need and provide for those needs. Not trusting Him to love those we hurt for more than we do. Not trusting that He has a reason for wanting us to talk to that stranger. This is all sin.

We were created in the beginning to love and trust God for our all. And it was His purpose and joy to care for us and give us every joy. Adam and Eve failed to trust Him and His word. And in turn corrupted us all. To return to that perfect relationship, we must learn to trust God completely again. But we are corrupted. So we sin.

But that sin shows us each part of us that is corrupted. We can allow the savior to come in and heal that part. It’s a lifelong process. Giving each horrible little part of our untrustingness be changed and healed.

However, we can stop in the middle and allow the corruption to grow and slowly take over again. Simply not allow the savior to heal that part. Leave it horrible and it will soon infest the other parts of you.

Now, to apply this to real life answers some but not all of the questions earlier. I believe we were each created unique, with different strengths and desires. Which are corrupted. Each part manifests in a different form of not trusting God; aka, a sin. I am not saying some people are worse than others in their amount of sin. We are all equally sinful. Doesn’t mean we all have the same cookie-cutter sins. Some people manifest their untrustiness in socially quiet ways, while others do so in more obvious ways. We are equal but different. Thank God.

If you are a black sheep. Don’t worry, you have no worse of a sin problem than the white sheep. Its just that you have more fun in working it out of your system. You are more intense in your rebellion, not worse. And white sheep, cut the disapproving looks. Your sin is simply more socially acceptable.

the beginning

My sister suggested the name of this blog. i chose it because of what happened around the time i wrote this poem.

The clouds part, sunlight streaming down
The display touches my spirit.
I yearn to embrace the power;
Sing with all the force of my breathe;
Give of my being to the scene
To sing of creation, life, light.

The desire might come from above
As hints of a music descend
Unearthly like the Creator
As He works his art in power
And grace. The result invites us
To match our music with the sight.

this is the first poem i wrote while not depressed. its very different from the depressed ones. it looks up, not back.

i used to think life's journey consisted of getting from the darkness to the light. but thats more the starting point than anything else. then you find grace. it doesnt find you cuz its always been right there. but your eyes become accustomed to the light enough to see whats right beside you. it hands you back the life God saved from the darkness and from you. it hands you the life you tried to destroy. and you get to just live. get up and live the moments which are still there despite all your efforts. accepting grace is living the life without guilt, just gratitude.

kneel, allow the cloak of life to be set upon your shoulders. stand, feel the strength seep thru you. use it, the power of it. shirk your meaning no longer. i dare you.

martha 2

she died on a tuesday. they took her out of the ICU to some room more comfortable for the end. and so she passed with her close family around her. the extended family had tried to go back to normal life and just do something since we couldnt do anything else at the hospital. late monday my uncle decided to end it. i could see on his face he took responsibility for what he was about to do. no one should have to unplug the life of a loved one. it doesnt even sound right. unplug. kill. thats what he thought he was about to do to her. i stopped him and said it wasnt killing, it was letting her go. he didnt believe me.

but God took that responsibility from him. someone came back out 20 mins after they unplugged her and said she was still breathing. oh good, but now she can go, right? nope. so they moved to another room to wait for her stubborn body to wear out. it took a while, more than a full day. and then she left. i didnt feel it. mom did. we got the news, standing around the dining room late at night, and that was it. numb. we had all just been thru emotional torture. panic, hope, sadness, grief, hope, resignation, grief. the news of actual death didnt pack the punch we expected. it was over. but not over.

next the funeral. who does what? scramble, figure it out, schedules. the last things anyone wants to think about right after a death. but it has to be done. it took a while and alot of phone calls. the public funeral. so many people, some you know, some you meet under sad circumstances, but when else are you going to meet those people? lots of crying. i cant cry in front of people. it feels very out of place to not cry for your aunt when pretty much everyone else is crying. just another service. more talking. yes, many touching words, memories, thoughts. and i dont cry. i dont even want to cry except to fit in, which is a stupid reason, so i dont. i study the architecture trying to be pseudo-greek. nothing should ever try to be pseudo-anything. and the pictures with hidden angels in them. study the people, try not to fidget too much.

the family burial. i got to be a pallbearer at that one. dad wrote the main speech, mom read it. more hugs, more tears. and a hawk soaring behind my uncle as he spoke his grief.

then on to food for the family. having the first family food gathering without martha to cut the grief for the next time. children are a saving grace at those things. just watch their antics instead of thinking about what is wrong. no matter what just happened, they can still find something to grin about and laugh. children are necessary. they are the life that continues thru it all.

growing up.

i have often wondered what makes someone an adult instead of a child. its more than age, i realized that when very young. more than legality also. but what is it? i think there are various things, and you find them as you mature. which in itself is a process, not a destination. i should know, people have called me mature since i was a teen. i can tell you for certain that from here it doesnt look that way at all. i was so young and stupid. still am in alot of ways i will find several more years down the road.

but i have found something which is necessary for growing up. one of the many pieces. its the taking of total responsibility for ones actions, right down to not paying attention to having permission or not. which is not an excuse anyways. but having the mindset that this is what you yourself have arrived at, sans everyone else and their ideas concerning it.

this does not exclude God. i am not saying you get to blame Him for what you do or dont do, but i hope that what your decisions take into account what God wants. however, you still get the blame and the responsibility. not sure how all that works. but i think it does.

when someone asks about my faith, i have often said that God made me this way. but that sheds all of my responsibility for what i am and all claim i have towards what i do. its the "God initiates, we respond thing". yes, God brought me into the Kingdom kicking and screaming, but i had finally turned to Him for help. and there came a time when i knew i needed to claim the title fully. i am God's as much as He is mine. He could save me all He wanted. but i had to give myself fully and freely to Him. i had to claim the name christian and revel in all it means. for some reason, shedding the responsibility of what you are brings shame. claiming it erases that. being a Christian isnt a last resort, its who i am.

martha

I was going to start writing again. I heard that my aunt Martha and others wanted to hear the rest of my adventures. But I didn’t get around to it. Now I get to write about a death instead. Sad times.

I went on this amazing women’s retreat up into the mountains with the women of my community group. Someone even helped pay my way which was an answer to prayer to say the least. When I heard about the retreat, I had no way of paying for it. By the time the deadline came around, I could pay half because of my painting. So off to the mountains I went. And into a cabin with 12 women, lots of food, and 15 bottles of wine. Yes, these are Christian women at a Christian retreat. Its amazing how few spats we had with lots of wine. We didn’t even finish all of it. Nor did we get drunk. Just happy and free to share our lives. A time of testimony, building up spiritual strength, snow, gorgeous vistas, and no cell phone coverage for most. Perfect.

So im driving home in the car with 4 other females and I start getting all the missed calls and notifications on my phone from the weekend. My aunt Nell called. Odd, she never calls me. And the usual suspects; dad, aka, etc. I wait till I’m alone to call anyone back. Call dad, and get the news that Martha had a stroke and everyone is at the hospital. She ok? No. right, I will be there in 15 minutes. And I was.

For those of you not familiar with my driving, know that it is very important to me. It is a joy, a tool, a buffer. I love driving. Something about going fast answers one of those unknown urges. Unknown till you find the missing piece. No, not just an adrenaline rush, much more than that. it’s a tool for getting places fast. Sometimes a lot depends on how fast you can get to someplace. I realize that it wont happen unless I make it happen. So I make it happen. Thankfully that hasn’t led to any crashes yet. and while I drive from A to B, I can think, plan, prepare. I can drive to the music and process amazing amounts of emotions as fast as I drive. Hence by the time I arrived at the hospital, I could squash most of my feelings and accept what was happening in such a way that I could be of help.

Help consisted of hugs. Touch is powerful, and a hug is the ultimate physical comfort one can give to another without the whole significant other thing. Many people say I give good hugs. So I give them to the best of my abilities. I know it works, because after giving out hundreds of hugs in a day, im drained. I think something actually goes from one to another when a hug occurs. not totally sure what, but something. And it seems to help.

Now I must describe 2 things that happened that day. one is the reason I switched to acceptance of Martha’s passing. I went in to see her and talk with her in the hospital. She didn’t move and I don’t know if she could hear me, but as I talked about the mountains and deer and hawks I had seen, I received a distinct picture. I am wary of calling it a vision, but it may have been. At any rate, I got the picture of Martha sitting on the doorway between life and death looking quite confuzzled. As if she was torn between going and staying for those who loved her. Not that I actually think she could have returned cuz of the severity of the stroke, but it doesn’t mean she wasn’t considering it. It was then I switched to telling her its ok to go, everyone here will manage without her. Maybe not well for a while, but we will follow soon enough. We are in the same good hands as we were when she was around and they aren’t hers.

The other strange thing that happened is related to the way I deal with crisis. I don’t till afterwards. And I don’t cry in front of others if I can at all help it. So Sunday night I’m exhausted from all the hug-giving and the overall stress of the situation. In the dark of the night I wake to hear a strange whimpering sound. Almost a keening, only broken. I strain my ears to find the origin of the sound, only to find it coming from my own throat. I lie in odd fascination, listening to this sound come from my own body. And fall asleep again after a while. Only to wake to day 3 of the hospital vigil, day 2 for me.

trust

This is to get me back into the swing of writing;

After I returned from my trip, I had to pay some unexpected bills. …and I ran out of money. thankfully I was already home. Families are awesome. So I start trying to get a job asap. But I don’t get one right away. I am one of those people who feel they need money to survive. I don’t mean huge amounts, but at least something. To not be working to support myself throws me into a funk. Blegh. useless. Perfect. That is, perfect for God. Obvious doors aren’t opening. But the one which has slowly inched into view sits quietly waiting for me to knock. Painting on my own. Could I? would I make it? Is it possible? so I hatch the plan to get a side job and also advertise to paint on my own.

Ironically, the job I get for financial security happens to be a security job. Sweet. So I start the rigmarole to actually get the job. In the meantime, I get several requests for painting. Even better. Maybe I can do this. Now I am feeling secure in my plan.

And God says my plan isn’t good enough. I don’t trust Him enough. Enter crazy story which has no other explanation; I head over to my first job, a very small job. Google shows me the house and I arrive a half hour early. I knock to make sure the guy I am meeting hasn’t gotten there ahead of me. But this woman comes to the door instead, very suspicious. “Is this 11 w smith?” ah, she opens the door and explains that this is 11 E smith and I want the house a block over. “We get food and contractors and packages for that house all the time. What are you?” “Well, I’m a painter.” “Really?! Do you have a minute, could you come in?” and so she commissions me for a week’s worth of work, possibly more.

Trust me, He says. See, you can trust me. I will provide for you. You don’t need your security. I am so much better at this whole planning thing.

And that is when I realized I have been quasi-arguing with God for the past few weeks. But I will take the step. Because it isn’t truly a chance. It’s taking a step, holding tightly to his hand. If it helps, take a big breath and close your eyes. But step. And step again. It is the difference between crawling and dancing.

He surrounds me with his wings when no one else is there to listen. He holds me when I can’t run any farther. He teaches me to dance when I choose to fight.