Broken

I sit in church, jotting a grocery list and doing little to conceal the fact that my mind is anywhere but on the sermon.  These days I am quite the church cynic.  I have been in church my whole life, and there are times when the pageantry of Sunday school and announcements and ladies’ Bible studies feels unbearably shallow.  I don’t think church has changed all that much.  It’s me that has changed.  I am in one of those seasons in life where everything seems to shift beneath me, and suddenly I find myself groping uncertainly towards the next chapter, searching for a firm place for my soul to stand.  Yet despite my general doubt and angst, every Sunday there is one part of the service that collects all the rough edges of my faith and anchors them in a deep and quiet peace.

            "The Lord Jesus, the same night in which He was betrayed, took bread; and when He had given thanks, He broke it and said, 'Take, eat; this is My body which is broken for you'."

I watch the rows of people in front of me file to the front of the church.  Their hands stretch out for the bread and wine, and I hear the ancient words recited over and over again: “This is the body of Christ, broken for you.  This is the blood of Christ shed for you”.

Old and young come.  Rich and poor come.  Mothers and babies.  Tiny children, who tug at the pastor’s legs and ask for their turn.  Gangly middle school boys, self-conscious and awkward.  People in wheelchairs.  Lifelong churchgoers.  People who started church today.  Cynical middle-aged women like myself.  Everyone.  Like every other Sunday, the tears start to choke in the back of my throat.  Why?  What is it about this scene that gets to me every time?

            “This is the body of Christ, broken for you.”
           

            Broken bodies.  I know about bodies and suffering and blood.  I have earned a living tending human bodies for most of my life…

***

            “Joe’s on suicide watch because he shot himself in the head”, the nurse told me bluntly outside the door of the patient’s room. “We just need you to sit in the room and keep an eye on him.  You don’t have to do anything else.”

            I nodded.  I was already drooping with weariness after working my regular shift as a nurse’s aide, but suicide watch was easy money that would keep me afloat in nursing school.  All I had to do was stay awake—easy to do with plenty of coffee, homework, and the thought of eight hours of overtime pay.

            I was a bit nervous about what “shot himself in the head” might look like, but I was a year into nursing school and naively thought I had seen just about everything by then—wounds, ostomy bags, scary doctors, the morgue.  I was ready for anything.  However, I don’t think I was quite prepared to spend eight hours in the dark next to a man that had his forehead stapled shut and who babbled, groped the nurses, painted poop on the rails of his bed, and asked me inappropriate questions.  So much for easy money.  I felt sorry for Joe, but, honestly, after a few hours he was driving me crazy.

Joe quieted, though, as the night wore on.   I kept glancing at him, hoping he was sleeping, and worried that he was dying.  He just laid there, staring blankly at the ceiling and occasionally muttering to himself.  Struggling to stay awake, I picked up a textbook and started to read in the glow from the bathroom light. 

“The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.”

I nearly jumped out of my skin.   Who said that?  Joe?  Yes.

“He makes me lie down in green pastures.  He leads me beside the still waters.”

The ancient words rolled through the dark—startlingly cool, soothing, comforting. 

“He restores my soul.  He leads me in paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.”

The words came on, like a healing stream, clear and confident.

 “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me…”

And now I was whispering the words with him, tears running down my cheeks. 

I saw Joe’s soul in that moment.  His body lay broken before me in the bed, his mind damaged beyond repair.  Yet his soul rose up, clear, tangible, beautiful, unmarred.

“My cup runs over.  Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

The curtain dropped.  The muttering and agitation returned.  The moment passed.

But it stayed with me forever.  It was something I couldn’t explain.  The curtain of a broken body had lifted and I had seen a soul.

***

Many years later, I was working in labor and delivery on night shift.  Around midnight a hysterical teenage girl walked off the elevator, and stumbled to the nurses’ station.  The other nurses and I got her to a bed and managed to decipher that she had walked several miles to get to the hospital.  She was sobbing and moaning through labor pains, curled into a tight ball in the middle of the labor bed.

I managed to unwind her enough to see that her pregnant belly was too small, and she gasped out that she was “only six months along”.  Another nurse started an IV, and I gave an injection to stop the contractions.  Slowly the girl’s body relaxed and her sobs quieted.

“Can I help you into this gown?” I asked.  “I need to check to see if you’re bleeding or if your cervix is opening.”

She nodded.  As I began to help her undress, I discovered the reason for her hysterics.  Dark bruises covered her arms, abdomen, and back.  I swallowed back tears as I helped her change. 

I had, cared for women in domestic violence situations before, but this time there was a moment that I will never forget.  

All was quiet.  The girl’s fear was still palpable in the room.  The air still trembled with her moans and sobs.  She slowly sat up in bed, her body naked and bruised—and suddenly I saw a fire come into her eyes.  She was no victim.  She was anger and pure grit and love.  The veil of suffering lifted, and I saw the soul of a phoenix rising before my eyes.

I don’t remember all the details of her story, but I will never forget how she came in a broken child, and left a fierce mother.  I saw her once more after that, and she was still fiery, strong, and free.  I don’t think she remembered me, but it didn’t matter.  I saw her soul rise.

***

“This is the body of Christ, broken for you.”

His was a broken, abused body, wracked in pain, covered in sweat and blood.  And here we all stand before His altar now—broken, suffering, despairing in our own ways, joining our sufferings to His.  We come to see His soul rise from the darkest hell, beautiful, unmarred, giving us hope and redemption.  We come to see the veil torn away, and be led into the place where only love dwells.

“The love of God is greater far than tongue or pen can ever tell.  It goes beyond the highest star and reaches to the lowest hell…”   --Frederick Lehman

Big Girl

Big Girl

“There is absolutely nothing feminine about me!”

I hurl it like an accusation at my mother who sits across from me placidly folding laundry.

“I’m a big girl,” I say, in despair.  “I’m so tall, and I’ve got bigger hands and feet than any other girl I know.”

My mother looks at me like she doesn’t quite know what to say.  Unusual for her, especially since I am her third teenage daughter and nothing much rattles her at this point.  She nods.  She knows what I mean.  We live in Korea, and next to the Korean girls my age, I do indeed look gigantic. 

My mother puts down the laundry, takes my hand, and examines it thoughtfully.

“They look like strong, capable hands to me, Phebe,” she says. 

I roll my eyes.  Small comfort at sixteen.

*****

My patient is only sixteen.  She looks small and scared in the big delivery bed.  I try my best to appear calm and confident, but the truth is that I am a very new labor nurse and not much older than she is. 

“It’s going to be okay,” I tell her, but inside I am praying dear God, please help us both come out of this alive.

When she is in so much pain that neither of us knows what to do anymore, she decides to get an epidural.  I hold her steady while the anesthesiologist inserts the long needle, and she leans on me and sobs and sweats into my scrub top.  I brace my legs and hold her with all my strength.  I stroke her head and talk softly to her, like she’s my baby sister.  And she makes it through.  We both do.  I am as surprised and excited as she is when a beautiful baby girl is born screaming and very much alive.  We are all alive, and life is good.

Later the young mama brings me some flowers at the nurse’s station. 

“These are for you.  Thank you for getting me through the pain.”

The card on the flowers says “congratulations on your baby girl”.  She gave me what she had.

I give her a hug and it hurts because my arms still ache from holding her.  It’s then that I decide I love being a labor nurse.

*****

“How can you do that?” my patient asks, tears streaming down her face.   

I look down at the preterm baby cradled in the palm of my big hand. The baby is perfect, but too tiny to live.  Her skin is translucent, and she lies motionless except for the occasional gasp.

This is not the first time I’ve met death on the labor ward.  I’ve been a labor nurse for a few years now.  People often tell me that I have a happy job.  They forget that sometimes babies die and mamas have their hearts wrenched out right before my eyes.

And what can I possibly do about it?

Be there.  That is all.  Be there with my hands and my heart and my physical presence.  Be with the mama through her pain.

I dress the baby carefully, and the grieving mama holds her, and I hold them both.  The mama clings to my hand, and I don’t mind that she sees the tears on my cheeks.  I lost a baby too once, and I know a little of her pain.

*****

A baby’s heart rate drops suddenly.  An emergency cesarean section is called and we are all running.  Somehow before I know it, I am about to assist the doctor because there is no one else to do the job.  I scrub quickly in the sink outside the operating room and walk in with my sterile hands held carefully in front of me. 

“What size gloves, Phebe?” the circulating nurse asks me.

“Eight.”

“Dang, girl!  Even the doc’s hands aren’t that big!”

I blush, but don’t have time to think about it.  Before I know it, those size eight hands are holding retractors, pulling apart muscle, sopping up blood…and bulb suctioning a nine pound screaming baby boy.

*****

Another labor, another mama.  She’s progressing slowly.  I examine her and find a head wedged forward, with too much room behind.  A slight concave under her navel and severe back pain mean that the baby is probably turned face up instead of face down.  Together we work through positions to turn the baby—hands and knees, modified lunges.  She is getting tired.  She settles on a birth ball, leaning forward into the bed, while I press my fist into her lower back to relieve the pain.  My arms ache as I lean over her and push her hip bones together again and again as she moans through contractions. 

And now she’s crouching in the bed, the top of a curly black head bulging through her stretching vagina as she bears down.  Suddenly she arches back and screams.

“I can’t!  I can’t!”

I cup my hands around her face.

“You can.  You will.  You are.”

She’s at that moment.  We all get there at some point.

I put my hands on her shoulders and speak calm and low.

“Mama, look at me.  Look at my eyes.  Breathe with me.  You are a strong, beautiful mama.  You can do it.  Push.”

And somehow she summons the strength, and the baby is born in a gush of amniotic fluid and blood.  She sinks back, crying, sweating, shaking, and I place the screaming infant on her naked chest. 

She looks up at me, triumph in her eyes.  The warrior returned from battle, victorious.

“I did it,” she says.

*****

Later the new mama calls me to come help her get up to the bathroom.

“If you start to fall, fall on me,” I say, gently helping her to her feet.  “I’m a big girl.  I’ll catch you.”

She smiles.  A trail of blood runs down her leg and she looks at me, concerned. 

“No worries.  We’ll get you cleaned up as soon as we make it to the bathroom.”

I walk behind her, one leg placed strategically to catch her if she falls.  I help her settle onto the toilet, and begin explaining about how to take care of herself and prevent infection after birth.  She looks at me, her face sweaty and exhausted, and I realize she needs a minute.  Satisfied that she isn’t going to faint, I start the shower and get some towels.  While she showers, I clean up the room—mop blood off the floor, change soaked linens.  It’s a messy business, having a baby.  A few minutes later, I help the new mama back into a fresh bed, give her some Motrin, instruct her to drink up the juice I give her, and leave her breastfeeding her pink newborn. 

I rinse the delivery instruments and start the first disinfectant soak.  Then I pour another cup of coffee and sink into my chair at the nurse’s station.

Aching arms.

Size eight hands.

Hundreds of mamas.  Hundreds of times.

“I’m a big girl.  I’ll catch you."

Unimportant Details--A Poem

Unimportant Details

There are some who say that life is...

A synonym for prose and practically.

And it is.

But nonsense puts color into existence and the poetry into prose.

A blooming cherry tree is not just prunus avium; 
It is the winter queen arrayed in her snowy summer costume.

The sun is not a ball of burning gases;
It is a warm friend who streams through my window every morning to dance a jig upon the floor.

And a baby is not a fetus;
It is a tiny miracle and a vast overture of life.

There are some who say that life is...

A scientific fact--the earth is round.

That is so.

But may my years sail on,
Not in dull circles, but in harrowing adventure until at last I plunge in ecstasy from Terra's rim
To the next world.

There are some who say that life is...

A mathematical equation--one plus one equals two.

It is true.

But to me, numbers create rhythm for beauty and were made to herald the beginning of a music staff. 

In my imagination, I see One waltzing to the strains of a solitary violin;
Then another One bows eloquently and they dance a duet as the viola begins it's harmony.

There are some who say...

"Poetry is very nice, but life is not that way."

What is life then?

A ceaseless, uphill trudge among thorns and stones? A soundless concert?

Look again, through a child's eyes,
And perhaps you will recollect that red is not a blot of paint, but the color of autumn leaves and apples.

Look again, in an hour of sadness,
And you will remember that tears are diamonds, sorrow is myrrh, and death is only a door.

Look again, and never cease to look for the silly unimportant particulars,
Because they are what matter most.
They change the thorns to roses, the stones to gold.

Never forget the important truths of life:

That there is a silver path across the water, leading to the moon.

That castles in the clouds are an everyday necessity.

That you can learn to fly.

That romance is a reality.

And it is.

That is so.

It is true.

10-21-95

The Incarnation--God With An Umbilical Cord

 

How many kings, stepped down from their thrones?
How many lords have abandoned their homes?
How many greats have become the least for me?
How many Gods have poured out their hearts
To romance a world that has torn all apart?
How many fathers gave up their sons for me?
Only one did that for me
--Lyrics from "How Many Kings" by Downhere

I've been hearing this song on the radio this week. It always brings tears to my eyes. It makes me see...Jesus, taking off His royal robes, allowing Himself to become an embryo, growing inside a young girl. Jesus, limiting Himself for us. Can we ever know what that was like? Not completely. But if we can, for a moment, forget the herald angels singing, forget warm visions of friendly animals in a spotless barn, forget the unusualness of Christ's birth...then perhaps we can really see. A little anyway. See how human Christ became--how He humbled Himself.

Luke says it so delicately: "While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son." (Luke 2:6-7)

We are tempted to think sterile thoughts--Christ wrapped in snow-white blankets and in a cozy manger. Our minds recoil from the truth--that the King of Glory was born in a gush of blood and amniotic fluid to an groaning, exhausted, terrified teenager. In a barn. Over straw and manure. We don't want to remember that He did that, went that far for us. Isn't that a bit too much, Lord?

But we must remember. We must not tidy up Jesus' birth. We must always remember His sacrifice--the shadow of the cross over the manger.

"Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus: Who, being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made Himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a man, He humbled Himself and became obedient to death--even death on a cross!" (Philippians 2:5-8)

Six Random Things About Me--For Carrie

So, Carrie tagged me to write six random things about me. Mmmm... Where to begin? I'm sort of random and absent-minded, so this shouldn't be too hard. It's just so much easier to lurk on other people's blogs and read their randomness than to write my own.


1. I share Carrie's love of Korean rice and Korean food in general. Maybe that's not so random since...uh, she's my sister. The random thing is that I CRAVE Korean food when I'm pregnant. Just go back to my roots, I guess. That, and I can't get enough shaved ice, spinach, and steak. Yeah, I know you're thinking ANEMIC! ...You're probably right.

Oh, and I make some awesome bulgogi! Just thought I'd throw that in there.


2. I LOVE Masterpiece Theatre! I've seen just about all of their productions--except the creepy ones, cuz I'm a wuss like that. Anything Jane Austenish is right up my alley. In fact, I'm getting old and set in my ways, so I hardly watch anything else anymore--maybe that also has something to do with the fact that I have three little kids, too... Mark is kind enough to suffer through romantic comedies with me, but when it comes to "19th century soap operas", as he says, then I'm on my own!


3. I'm afraid of heights--really high heights, that is. I hide my eyes when we go on some of those awful dirt roads in the mountains with sheer drop-offs and no guard rails. Mark gets a kick out of this, and teases me mercilessly about it.


4. I'm not so good at math, but I'm good with finances. I know, that's supposed to be an oxymoron. I cannot do more than 2-digit sums in my head (sometimes not even that!), but I understand about dividends and mutual funds and compounding interest. Well, I'm getting there, anyway. Please, if you are a financial genius, don't leave comments! Financial stuff is just very interesting to me. I'm afraid that makes me a nerd.


5. Lists, schedules, and pretty new notebooks make me happy! Now, I'm SURE that makes me a nerd. Writing up a new routine, or writing in a new notebook makes me feel like all is right in my world--very therapeutic. Strangely enough, I hardly ever stick to routines (not very precisely, anyway), and my house is not very organized--and that doesn't bother me until it gets to the I-don't-know-where-anything-is point.

6. I will never, ever remember your phone number, but I will remember your name, and the names of your children, and your entire life history.

I often wonder about the life stories of the people sitting in the car next to me at the stoplight.

If you talk to me while I'm driving, I will follow my "salmon trail" as Jess says--and we will most likely end up at church, home, Target, piano lessons, Ultimate Buffet, or Jill's house. Which means I would probably do better to not think so much about the people in the car next to me.

I'm not so good at thinking before I speak.

I think my husband is the hottest guy ever, even after 10 years of marriage.

I'm cheating (on this list, that is--not on my hot husband). That's WAY more than six things. Maybe this wasn't so hard after all...

Thanks for the tag, Carrie. That was fun!

**Edited to add: Sorry, that was supposed to be "Ten Little-Known Things About Me". Not so sure the above stuff is particularily "little-known"--especially the part about me not thinking before I speak! :) Anyway, remember how I said that I'm absent-minded? Well, there you have it, folks!

Another Love Story

Confession time. I have a love affair with children's literature. Whew! Got that one off my chest! Seriously, though, I am a helpless fanatic. I can breeze right through the toy section at Walmart without a single heart-string twinge; but get me into Borders and my kids know I am a sucker! Come on, even as I walk in the door, I almost swoon over the smell of coffee and books. I love books. I love reading. I love teaching reading. I love to read aloud. I love to listen to my kids read. I love to stack up all the children's books from the book shelf around me and sigh with pleasure. Yes, I'm weird. Now, math? That's another story--we won't go there.

A few things I've learned over the years--and am still learning!--about reading literature to children (a broad category, I know):

* First be excited about the book yourself. I was blessed with a mother who was a reading fanatic and, as you can see, she passed that on to me. Pick books that you loved as a child, or books that sound interesting to you. Every once in a while, I select a book to read aloud that I later find to be a real drag either to myself or to my kids. I've learned that it's perfectly okay to lay a book aside without finishing it and pick out something else.

* Stick to classic children's literature. Let me clarify that I have nothing morally against popular "movie turned into story" books, Barbie series, or Babysitter-Club-type popular fiction (Christian or otherwise). We have quite of few of those, in fact. However, I've found that my children don't really enjoy them. They are the books that get read once and then forgotten; or read halfway through and then found to be boring. They don't have much substance. Classic literature is enduring for a reason--children love it! Look for Newberry Award Winners, or books that have just plain been around for a long time. If children love it so much that it's been printed and reprinted over and over, then it's probably a great book.

* Don't be afraid to read slightly above your child's reading level. When I first started reading chapter books aloud to my oldest daughter, I used to change words that I thought she would not understand, or stop to explain a lot of things. One day she said, "Mom, I don't want to hurt your feelings, but can you please stop doing that? It kind of messes up the story. I'll let you know if I don't understand something."
I've found that, as usual, my kids "get" far more than I give them credit for! Recently, I read Heidi by Joanna Spyri aloud. Even the three-year-old enjoyed it and understood the general storyline. Side note: It helps (my children anyway) to listen better if they play with blocks or draw or do something quiet while I read. Don't insist that they sit still unless you're reading a very short picture book.

*For the homeschool teacher: Don't kill a book by insisting on book reports or narration. I know, I know, we want so much to have something to "show" for what our children read, but did those activities ever make you want to read more? There are plenty of ways to get your child to write or comprehend besides doing book reports or awkward narration. Try asking your child to write a story about when she spent a day with Laura in Little House on the Prairie. Or how about writing a different ending for her favorite adventure story? Maybe she could make a diorama of a scene from The Cabin Faced West. How about just asking your child what she's been reading and showing genuine interest instead of asking for a tedious narration? Try to keep reading pleasurable as much as possible.

The payoff:

Tonight, Cassie told me she had just finished Treasures of the Snow, by Patricia St. John. "It's time to pick a new book!" she said, excitement in her voice.

We went downstairs to the living room bookshelves. She browsed the titles, asking me my opinions of different ones. She finally had a stack of ten or so to choose from. She looked at them and arranged them into different piles, and skimmed the first few paragraphs, and looked at the pictures. "Oh, Mom, how can I decide!" she said.

I told her she would have to decide soon because it was well past her bedtime. She finally selected A Cricket in Times Square, by George Selden, and hurried upstairs to read the first chapter before falling asleep. I marveled that she had already fallen in love with reading.

Now, anyone want to volunteer to teach her to fall in love with math?

The Rice Chronicles: Christmas in July

**The Rice Chronicles continues with another snapshot of my crazy childhood! Please follow me around the world to Freetown, Sierra Leone, West Africa, where I spent the summer of 1995. I was 16 years. I was in a war-torn country. The only other white person that I knew of had left a week after I arrived. There was no electricity most of the time and there were huge roaches (eewww!). I was far from everything familiar--except rice. It was the staple diet, of course! The Rice Chronicles, take two...

****************************************************************************************
Christmas in July

I climbed the steps of the mission guest house wearily that night. I set the kerosene lantern on the table and groped around for something to eat. After weighing the possibilities--leftover potato leaf plassass with palm oil congealing around the edges of the plate, or a gigantic mango--I settled down to cutting up the mango and watching termites fly suicidal missions into the flickering light of my lantern.

I heaved a heavy sigh. I was so tired...of everything really. The initial excitement of the lush tropical landscape and a new culture to conquer had slowly worn off in the face of stark realities. Just that day we had visited a home overflowing with refugees fleeing the rebel terrorists. One pregnant woman was very ill, and the little witnessing team I was with had stopped to pray for her.

" 'e de got de cholera," one of her relatives told me in Krio. Then, indicating a bright-eyed boy and girl curled up on a ragged blanket, "An' de pikin den. De de got 'em too."

What could I do? Nothing.

A few days ago... A woman writhing in the red mud next to her dilapidated shack--screaming as if her heart was being ripped apart. Her husband had just died.

What could I do? Nothing.

Children clogged the streets. Begging, crying, bloated stomachs, skinny legs. Homeless. No one called them their own.

What could I do? Nothing.

Amputees. Handless. You saw them everywhere--the butcher in the market, the lady on the bus, the child playing in the dust. Evidence of a senseless war. Cruelty beyond imagination.

What could I do? Nothing. Nothing. NOTHING!!

Lord, why am I here? I'm only sixteen. What in the world can I do? What difference am I really going to make? I'm lonely and overwhelmed and I want to go home.

I heard my house mate, Kadi, at the door. I hurried to wipe away my tears; I was not in a mood to bear my soul. Not to her, anyway. Kadi was a sweet Christian girl, but very quiet and usually kept to herself. Tonight, as usual, she greeted me politely and hurried upstairs to her room. I sighed and blew out the kerosene flame.

Inky, velvet darkness enveloped me. I had never quite got used to the complete darkness of Africa at night with no electricity. No streetlights, no headlights, no glowing windows. Dotted here and there were flickers from native oil lamps, capturing brief silouettes of passers-by. In between the small circles of light they cast were vast frontiers of blackness--inpenetrable, invincible darkness...

"Phebe."

I jumped.

"Sorry to startle you," Kadi whispered from the stairs.

"No, not at all," I said, "Come sit down. Should I light the lantern?"

"No, no. I'm used to the dark."

She held up something that glittered every so slightly in the velvet blackness.

"Did I ever tell you I play the flute?"

"No, I don't think you ever did," I replied, only slightly interested.

"Well, I don't play much. Only Christmas songs, actually."

Her voice sounded a little bashful at this admission.

"Can you play one for me?" I asked, wanting to make her feel better.

The first few notes trilled out loudly in the stillness. She was playing "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen", and she played it very well. It made me think of caroling and of home, and when she was through, I asked her to play another.

And she did. That quiet, mousy girl must have known every Christmas song ever written--"Hark the Hearld Angels Sing", "Away in a Manger", "Silent Night", "O Come All Ye Faithful", "Good King Wencelas"... On and on she played, each soft note striking a blow against the palpable night.

I sat across from her on the cold tile floor, whispering the words to each well-known tune--verse after verse, song after song--tears slipping soundlessly down my cheeks.

"...O Little Town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie. Above thy deep and dreamless sleep, the silent stars go by..."

Dark, quiet streets like those outside the window. Mary gazing at the face of her new baby Son in the glow of a native lamp... Her Son born into a terrifying, sinful, dark world like this one.

"...Hail the heaven-born Prince of Peace! Hail the Son of righteousness! Light and life to all He brings, risen with healing in His wings. Mild He lays His glory by, born that man no more may die..."

Oh, Lord, how much we need your light and life and healing here. Oh, Jesus, come be born in Africa!

"...O come, O come Immanuel! And ransom captive Israel, that mourns in lonely exile here until the Son of God appear..."

I am here, Phebe. Shining out through you--a small circle of light in the acres of darkness. Shining out through every heart that is open to My light. I have many people in this city...

And I could see those lights--small but bright--dotted through the streets and mountainsides of Freetown. God's light and life and healing. Never going out. Pushing back the darkness. Hope for all of our wretched sinfulness. Hope for me.

My comforted heart overflowed with thankfulness to a God who cared enough about a homesick teenager to visit the dark backstreets of sad Freetown. With Christmas music. In July. A God who cared enough for all of us to come into our sad world as a crying, helpless newborn baby on Christmas. And bring light.

"...Yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting light. The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight..."


By Phebe Sistoso
June 7, 2009

Glimpses

Home schooling. There are days when I wonder why I ever did this. That mostly happens on rotten weather days when we all have cabin fever. But really, why WOULD you want to home school? If I'm honest, I'd have to say that, yes, the expert teachers probably teach better than me. The children would've had more chance to explore subjects like Spanish and computers if they were at school. Sometimes I have trouble staying on top of things like what library books I need to reserve for next week's unit study, what field trips I need to coordinate, and what supplies I've forgotten to buy for which crafts. I'm no expert.

But I have a conviction that this is the right thing to do. It grows with every week that passes. It's hard to explain. In fact, I don't understand it completely myself. I can't resent people that don't understand our decision to home school, because I don't understand it either. The best way I can describe what's in my heart is: "Delight yourself in the Lord and He will give you the desires of your heart".

This IS my desire. And I sure am delighting in it! Oh, not when Joy doesn't understand her math, or when Anne throws a fit when I'm trying to read aloud. It isn't even the educational games, the books we read, or the crafts we do that matter most. It's those brief glimpses of a beautiful childhood that reassure my heart that we're in the right place.

It's Belle walking across the backyard with the ducklings trailing behind. It's the children making snow angels in the front yard when everyone else is in school. It's Joy teaching her younger sister to play a song on the piano. It's the girls running and leaping in a windy meadow on a nature walk. It's Belle "fixing" the car with Dad on his day off. It's glimpses--beautiful, rare glimpses. Each one is a gift. It's not what they learn that matters most. It's who they are and who they are becoming. It's their childhood and it only happens once.

Glimpses... Beautiful, rare, treasured glimpses. I don't want to miss even one...

Blast From the Past

So, I'm getting nostalgic lately. You see, twelve years ago I was just falling in love head over heels. February 1997 was a confusing, exhilarating time. I was totally crazy over my best friend, Mark Sistoso, but scared to death for him to find out--until he told me he was crazy about me too! On February 2, 1997. Then, of course, we didn't know what to do with our new situation. Were we girlfriend and boyfriend? What would we do when I went away to college? Of course, as girls do in those circumstances, I was already practicing my signature with my new last name, naming our future children, and looking at wedding gowns with new interest. Shhh! Don't tell the boys! It would scare them if they knew what REALLY goes on in our heads. :)

Then came February 28, 1997--Mark told me he loved me! And, after some careful consideration, I told him I loved him too. He told me I was the sort of girl he would like to marry one day. This was serious stuff! This was more than gazing at wedding gowns. This was more than just a crush. This was real love...

I wrote this a couple of months later, just before Mark left for a month-long trip to visit his family in California. Note: Keep in mind, this is from the pen of a very lovestruck 18-year-old. :)
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THE REALITY OF LOVE

You hold my hand tighter tonight than usual. Is it because you are leaving tomorrow? I know it is. You will not be gone for long, of course. Still, I can sense that sweet touch that farewells always bring--a touch of melancholy, a touch of thoughtfulness. It brings to mind a vague question--"What is real love?"

"Ironic," I think, looking about at the unromantic scene--the busy street, the flashing lights...

At the convenience store on the corner I start to go on, but you stop. I see that look in your eye, that smile on your face and wonder... You pull me inside, and when we step out a few moments later, I'm the proud owner of a rose.

"It's beautiful!"

"But I meant to get you a bouquet!" you protest, "I really did, but I got hung up running errands and buying groceries this afternoon..."

You look at me a little sadly. Oh, but don't be! I like my single, convenience store rose much better than a hothouse bouquet. I hold it close as we walk along, hand in hand. Then that question reappears--"What is real love?" Is it so irrelevant?

Tonight we must say "good-bye". If you were Romeo and I Juliet, then our farewell would be said in love-struck words at a moonlit balcony--"Good-night, good-night. Parting is such sweet sorrow..."

But if that is the hothouse bouquet, then give me th single rose of reality. I would not trade that scene for this. True, we cannot see the moon for the towering, gray buildings. Yes, you could not get me flowers because you were busy looking for green onions. I know, you have to leave tomorrow and I have to work. I do not envy Shakespearean romances, though.

Ahead of us, I see a cherry tree in full bloom. It's spreading branches are covered with delicate, white flowers. I tug you towards it, and this time it is your turn to wonder... Reaching up, I pluck a sprig of cherry blossoms for you. You take it as if it were a treasure, a perfect gift.

"Now you can't say I've never given you flowers," I tease, squeezing your hand.

You laugh. We both laugh, and the night bursts with sunshine. Then I see it, the answer to my question. Yes, I see it, there in you hand and here in mine--real love--a single rose and a tiny sprig of cherry blossoms.

Romeo can keep his lovelorn speeches and Juliet her passionate looks. I have something better--reality. The callused hand that clasps mine is warm, the man beside me is my friend, and the joy in my heart is free of pretense.

You kiss my hand gently.

"I love you," you say, and I know it is true.

That is real love.


By Phebe Granderson (Sistoso)
April 17, 1997

**Note: Just in case you were wondering--yes, I still have the sprig of cherry blossoms and the rose.**

His Reward

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     Monday morning. Slick streets and snow to keep us home. The three-year-old has a wet bed. The one-year-old is getting into everything. Too many messes this morning. Too many kids in time-out.

     I begin to cast about in frustration. What am I doing wrong? If only I work harder, can I have a perfect house? Perfect children? Perfect marriage? Lord, what do You want from me?

     I see the world passing me by out the window. So many of my friends are moving on, getting jobs, going back to school, changing themselves… And here I am—snowbound at home with three children, frayed around the edges.  Oh Lord, what do I need to do to please You? To have an organized home? To make my children stop squabbling? To make my husband happy? ‘What must I do to be saved’?

     And then Jesus comes by. I hadn’t expected Him. But there He is, grinning at my door.

     “May I come in, Phebe?”

      Such a gentleman, I think, rushing to wipe the crumbs off the table and straighten my hair.

     “Oh Lord,” I apologize, letting Him in, “I’m sorry the house isn’t as clean as You’d like. I’m sorry I’m not as pulled-together as I should be. I’m sorry school is going slowly this morning.”

     He just smiles and I wonder if He’s heard a word I just said. He plops down on my couch and lets out a huge sigh.

     “I’m beat and frozen to the bone! Do you have anything hot to drink?”

     “Oh yes! Just a minute!”

     I hurry to boil water and pour the tea. In the other room I hear Jesus reading a story to the girls. They laugh aloud as His voice imitates a horse and then a duck. I reach for the communion cup for Jesus’ tea. But this morning is just…and my home is so not holy…and Jesus is lying on my couch for pete’s sake. I grab a Mickey Mouse mug and pour His tea.

     He sips it loudly and sighs.

     “Thanks, daughter! That hits the spot.”

     I sit down carefully beside Him and look around at the rumpled couch covers, the puddles of water on the floor where the seven-year-old and the three-year-old have been washing dishes. If only I’d known He’d be here! I could have made everything so much more God-worthy.

     “So, where were You going this morning? I mean, when You were cold and tired and stopped by my little place?”

     I think of all the places Jesus must have to be today—politically-decisive moments, crusade meetings, church outreaches, homes tidier and holier than mine…

     “Home.”

He says the word so quietly that I wonder whether I heard Him right or not. Home where? Heaven?

     “Where is home…Sir?” I ask awkwardly. After all, how do you address the King of Glory who has one foot propped up on your coffee table?

     “Here, of course.”

     “I…I thought Your home was in heaven?”

     “’Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat—or have tea—with her, and she with Me.’”

     It makes me laugh to hear Him quoting Himself. He laughs too.

     “But Lord,” I say, “But Lord…”

     And I look at myself—so imperfect, so many sins, falling so far short of His holiness.

Who am I, Lord?

     He reaches out for my hand—and His is so scarred. Grace…

     “But Lord, when You came by… Well, we were only washing dishes, and learning what starts with ‘A’ , and practicing the piano, and…and…”

     I burst into tears. How can I tell Him, ‘You’ve got the wrong house, God. You want the church down the road. But please stay. I need You here so much’?

     He reads my thoughts.

     “But I came here. And you didn’t rush off or ignore Me. You opened the door and let Me in where there’s warmth and love and peace and children—My children. I love coming here. It’s home.”

     And when His eyes look around, they don’t seem to see the fingerprints on the windows or the sins in my heart.

     “May I stay? Live here?”

     “Oh please do, Sir!” I say quickly, but fear springs up inside.

     “What is it, daughter?” His eyes are searching my heart.

     “But, Lord, what about tomorrow when I oversleep and don’t have devotions? What about when I eat too much for dinner, or forget to pray? What if I yell at the kids and You’re here? You don’t really want to be here for all the dirty diapers and math problems and runny noses, do You? Don’t You have more important things to do?”

     “No, I don’t.”

     A smile slowly spreads across His face at my look of bewilderment.

     “I died so that I could be in relationship with you, with your husband, with your children—excuse Me—My children.”

     His eyes grow serious again. I look down. There are those scars again.

     “I would consider it an honor to wipe runny noses and change dirty diapers with you, to teach My children, to disciple you and forgive you a million times a day. It’s what I long to do. Let Me in. Let Me stay. Please give me the reward of My suffering.”

     And then…no words…only grace… Incredible, amazing grace!

     I kiss those scarred hands and I beg Him to stay forever and ever.

     And now I know that tomorrow I’ll be horrible, but Jesus will forgive me. He will be there to slowly soften my heart, and I’ll grow and bloom in the warmth of His love.

     He’ll be here every day with me, caring for immortal souls of children and cleaning up messes like He cleans up hearts—one day and one amazing moment at a time. Yes, Jesus will be here—knee-deep in our need and helplessness and heart-yearning for Him. And He’ll be grinning because the longing of His heart is being satisfied—we are the reward of His suffering!

By, Phebe Sistoso

January 12, 2009

In Which I Am Terribly Unorganized

I'm usually an organized person, but lately I've been having that uncomfortable too-much-junk-in-the-closet feeling that I need to reorganize my house. Maybe my life...
Then came the Christmas season and pushed everything over the edge. Now on top of the clutter is glitter and craft supplies, loose ornaments and pine needles (from our tree), snowy boots, loose mittens, wet coats, piled up laundry (semi-broken dryer), backed up projects (caulking, painting)...
And my husband just decided to go back to school. So add college applications and essays to proofread.
And we just decided to homeschool. Add scheduling unit studies and setting up school room and supplies.
And we have my family visiting in a 2 weeks. Add extra menu planning.
And it's the holidays. Add sending out cards, gifts, etc.

I'm not complaining. On the contrary, I think I have an awesome life right now! I just think my life needs a file cabinet and color-coded cubbies. I don't know where to start--pick up the wet boots or measure the wall for our KONOS timeline?
So I'm starting by blogging. Yes, it's partially a way to procrastinate for just a few more minutes, but also a way to make a plan and DO the plan without having to--heaven help me!--keep up with one more list. So I apologize in advance if there's anyone out there who actually READS this blog--you are now reading Phebe's to-do list! If you are interested in reading the annuals of the launch of our homeschool and how I survived the holiday crunch--welcome! Please leave any suggestions! If not...oh well! :)

So, without further ado:

1. Wash and replace sheets
2. Wipe down and mop kitchen
3. Quick-clean bathrooms
4. Try to finish laundry
5. Dusting and vacuuming
6. Get Christmas stuff up and fall stuff put away for heaven's sake!!
7. Dinner: BBQ chicken, rice (of course!!), salad.

As you can see, today is "save my sanity" day. Gotta get the house decent and the laundry caught up. I already spent some time skimming over KONOS unit studies and making notes. I'll post those thoughts and plans another day.

Making Your Home a Haven Mondy: The Two-Hour Clean-up That Wasn't

So, to update from yesterday, I did NOT get all of those things done. Sure, I did clean the kitchen and mop the floors, clean up the clutter and do several loads of laundry and even clean the downstairs bathroom...BUT, I think I made my home a haven by tossing out the to-do list around 11 a.m. or so and enjoying the park with my family. We had a great time as you can see! We spent the evening having dinner with out-of-town friends and had a great time catching up. Atogether, it was a wonderful family day! Now, back to that laundry pile...

Conversations With a Two-Year-Old

Setting: Driving kids home from their Mama's (Grandmother's) house. Mark and I had just finished switching their bedrooms around.

Me: "Belle, when we get home, you'll have a new room and a new bed."

Belle: "I go have a new bed in my room, Mom?"

Me: "No, you'll have a new room too. You and Anne (the one year-old) are going to sleep together now."

Belle: "Anne go sleep in MY bed?! No Mom! She no fit!"

Me: "No, Belle. Anne will sleep in her crib. You'll sleep in your new big girl bed because you're almost three years old now. You're a big girl!"

Belle: "THREE sleep in my bed, Mom?!! No, Mom! (Nearly in tears now) I want MY bed!! Belle sleep in my bed! No Joy, no Anne--BELLE!!" (Everything has an exclamation point after it when Belle talks)

Me: "Oh, Belle, it's okay. You'll like it, honey, don't worry. Just wait till we get home.... (sigh)..."

Later, at home:

Belle: "Mom, I LOVE it!! I LOVE it!! I have my BIG BED!!"

And she did love it. She fell right to sleep--no problem--in her new room and new bed. And all by herself--no Joy and no Anne--just Belle...

Real love

Last Thursday was our anniversary. We had planned a romantic getaway but, as is often the case, life happened and we counted ourselves lucky to be able to steal a couple of hours off by ourselves. We went to our favorite restaurant--a hole-in-the-wall Vietnamese place--and ordered our favorites by number since we can't pronounce the names of things on the menu.

After dinner we hurried to the dollar store to buy as many oh-please-dear-God-let-this-work toys to reward the two-year-old's potty training "efforts". We then hurried home and worked with said two-year-old for awhile, then one of us put kids to bed while the other did laundry. Then we settled down for a chat, a surprise bouquet of flowers (my husband knows what makes me happy), and a little kissing... ;)

And it made me think... This IS really what it's all about, isn't it? Not the romantic getaways (though those ARE nice every once in awhile), not the perfect evenings of strawberries and chocolate, not the cruises. What really bonds us to one another, what really makes us one is this--real life. It's the messy everyday stuff--the poop in the bathtub (been there, moms?), the never-ending remodel project, the tight finances, the kids, the laughs along the way--that fuse us together.

Our anniversary was perfect, actually. It was a perfect slice of the nine years of marriage that we are celebrating...nine years of life and real love...

Vacation Fun!

Here's a few pictures from our recent trip to Oklahoma and Arkansas to see family:

Here we all are paddling around the pond at my parents' place. This picture is entitled "How Many People Can We Fit Into One Small Row Boat?"

Anne playing in the dirt at the park in Siloam Springs--rather, Anne EATING the dirt. At almost 13 mos, I am amazed at how she STILL loves to eat sand, dirt, playdoh--and acts as if it's delicious, too!
Belle chasing the banty hens at my parents' house.
Me (holding Anne) sliding down "Pine-Needle Hill" with Joy.



Hope you all are having a great summer!

The Rice Chronicles: One Grain at a Time

"Girls! Get down here this minute!" my dad screamed. That was so uncharacteristic of him that my sister Anna and I stopped dressing and stared at each other for a minute. My oldest sister Carrie jumped out of bed.

"It's finally happened!" she said breathlessly with eyes wide. We all gasped and went tearing downstairs in our shirts and underwear.

"What Daddy, what?! Where are we moving to?" we all shouted as we rounded the bottom step and roared into the kitchen.

"Moving? What are you talking about? I'm just tired of calling fifty times for someone to get a loaf of bread from the cellar! I have seven kids; surely one of you can do THAT!"

A LOAF OF BREAD??!! Carrie headed down the cellar stairs while Anna and I trooped dejectedly back upstairs to finish getting ready for school--visions of riding airplanes, living in grass huts, and converting natives leaking away...


I was six years old when that happened. I cannot remember when we all started talking about being missionaries and living overseas. My little brothers and I used to look up exotic pictures of far away landscapes in an encyclopedia. Then, perching on a step of the dark basement stairs and focusing a flashlight on the book below us, we would pretend we were riding in an airplane and watching the country roll away beneath us.

One day when I was eight years old, it finally DID "happen". We were all sitting on the back porch, eating a watermelon and squirting seeds at each other. My mother was inside, chatting with a friend (which is why I suppose she sent all seven of us outside with a watermelon), when the phone rang. A few minutes later my mom appeared at the back door, beaming with tears in her eyes.

"Kids, we're moving to Korea! Daddy got a job working for the Army", she said. We immediately started cheering and hugging and tossing rinds in the air.

"When? Will we ride on an airplane? How long will we live there? Will we have to live in a hut?"


The next few weeks were a whirl of checking out books on Korea, packing, and holding a garage sale. I don't remember having any anxiety about leaving my country and friends. It was all one huge adventure!

With one exception.

My parents took us to a "Travelogue" on Korea. It was basically a talk given by someone who had traveled around in Korea, accompanied by a slide show (or filmstrip?). It was held in a dusty old theater on a curtained stage, and my brothers and I giggled while we tried to keep the theater seats from folding us up. I don't think I paid much attention until the man started talking about Korean food. He showed a picture of chopsticks and rice.

"Do you know how to use chopsticks?" he asked.

Yes, I definitely didn't want to miss this!

"Well," he said dramatically, "You have to eat rice one grain at a time."

Laughter rippled through the theater, but I sat there wondering how I would possibly stay alive in a country where you have to eat rice one grain at a time. Should I carry my own spoon? How DID Korean people keep from wasting away?


And so began the adventure that turned my world upside down and one day brought me to where I am today...a white girl with an Asian heart. Cornbread in the oven and rice scattered over the floor. A foot in both worlds...

To be continued...

Serving Jesus

"The blind and the lame came to Him at the temple, and He healed them." Matthew 21:14

I read that verse this morning, picturing Jesus sitting on the temple steps overlooking Jerusalem, healing all who came to Him. Off to the side were the teachers of the law, grumbling in jealousy and anger. That very morning Jesus had driven the money changers from the temple courts, full of righteous zeal for God's house. But Jesus wasn't focused on them. He was touching the crippled man in front of Him, making him whole...

...Then I looked around me. I was sitting in my living room on a rumpled blue couch cover, yawning and drinking coffee--Joy's backpack lying on the floor ("Oh yeah, I need to sign that permission slip"), Belle's puzzle spread out on the coffee table, Anne's baby shoes sitting on a chair, water boiling for oatmeal...the scene seemed so far removed from the one above. I sighed and turned back to the verses in front of me. Then this caught my eye:

"...And He left them and went out of the city to Bethany, where He spent the night..." (vs. 17)

Then I could picture Jesus--so very tired--walking the road to Bethany in the cool of the evening. He must have been glad it wasn't far. He was going to Mary, Martha, and Lazarus' house. When He arrived, I'm sure Mary opened the door for Him, washed His feet, fed Him a good dinner. I wonder if He even had His own room and bed at their house. Probably. It was a place where He was at home--where He was fed, loved, cared for.

Now that scene wasn't so far removed from my own! Feeding, washing, caring, loving--isn't that what I do every day?

"But Lord, it must have been so different for Mary and Martha. It must have been "ministry"--holier somehow--when they were serving You."

But it wasn't. Mary and Martha were homemakers just like me. They had to plan dinner and mop floors and wash dishes. There was nothing "holy" about warming water to wash Jesus' feet, or reheating His cold dinner.

Or maybe there was. Maybe there is something holy about these seemingly small tasks that I do everyday too--the scratched knees I kiss, the diapers I change, the dinners I cook.

"...whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wants to be first must be your slave--just as the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give His life as a ransom for many." Matthew 20:26-28

God in the small things. A holy God incarnate. God with us. Immanuel.