"But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you." (Matthew 6:33 KJV).
I have a confession. I haven't been seeking first the kingdom of God lately. I've been seeking "all these things." That verse from Matthew 6:33 can roll off my tongue in no time, but I can't seem to get the message to penetrate my heart.
Lately, "all these things" have wrapped their burdensome weight around my mind and have bid stress to course through my veins like a toxic wash. It's not that "all these things" are bad in and of themselves. Instead, it's that I find myself needlessly focused on them, causing unwelcome foes to seep into my bones... worries, fears, questions, doubts. I feel frustrated by their intrusion. And then, I remember.
"Seek ye first." I hear those words whispered in my ear, cutting through the panic that sets in when "all these things" turn traitorous and cause my mind such unrest. "Seek ye first."
I hear myself say, "Yes, Lord. For then 'all these things' will fall into place...if I seek Your kingdom first." That remembrance floods my heart with peace. All I have to do is keep my eyes on Christ. All He asks is that I follow Him and listen for His voice. When I do, like a dissipating storm, "all these things" will shrivel from the gluttonous power I was granting them before and will no longer dominate my very being.
I find that the truths of Scripture seem to instruct me little nuggets at a time. Right now, "Seek Ye First" as well as "All These Things" are two three-word phrases that have continually rung in my heart, reminding me that there really is a godly way to prioritize living.
Lord, teach me to get this right. Teach me to seek You and Your kingdom first. Then, as "all these things" fall into their proper place, may I be quick to give You praise.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Monday, September 5, 2011
The Teacher Learns
As I prepared for my time with children in Ukraine, the story of Jesus feeding the 5,000 kept coming to mind. It was one of those times in life when I truly felt God leading me. The more I thought about it, the better it seemed. There were multiple truths to pull from the story, many of which would probably strike a chord with the children I would be seeing. The event takes place near a lake. Ukrainians live near the Black Sea. The event involves fish and bread. Ukrainians love fish and bread. The story involves a little boy. I would be working with children. Most importantly, the story beautifully portrays the compassion and power of Christ, making it the perfect segue into sharing the good news of Christ's sacrifice for mankind. It seemed to be the perfect fit.
As it turns out, it was the perfect fit for my own heart while I was in Ukraine. I pray that some of the precious kids who came to our programs were impacted by what they heard. I may never see that harvest, but I do know that Christ used that story to teach me new and deeper truths. Allow me to explain.
The story of Jesus feeding the 5,000 (which can be found in John 6 in addition to the other gospels) showcases a little boy. When a huge crowd of followers flocked to Jesus at the end of a long day, they were a hungry and exhausted group. Jesus' disciples, coming off as either annoyed or alarmed, pleaded with Jesus to send them away so they could find food and get some rest. However, Jesus had compassion on the crowd and saw that they were not only physically hungry, but spiritually and emotionally hungry as well. He told his disciples to feed them, knowing full-well that the disciples would find that suggestion outrageous and impossible.
Then entered some sweet little boy who happened to have five loaves of bread and two fish. Though that would hardly make a dent in the crowd's hunger, the boy offered the food anyway, showing a level of faith and trust that the disciples themselves lacked. It would have been easy for the little boy to think, "Why bother?" Yet, for whatever reason, he put forth the minuscule portion he had, not worrying about what real difference his puny offering would make.
As it turned out, Jesus used that small offering to feed the whole crowd, miraculously turning an insignificant offering into an abundant feast. Amazing. Jesus Christ, God incarnate, used what might have seemed useless to bless a desperate crowd.
As I taught this story five days in a row, the truth of this ministered to me. Going into the trip, I wondered if there were any way God would use me in Ukraine. After all, I didn't know the language, and thus it seemed silly for me to prepare and teach a Bible story when there were believers who knew the language who could do it more easily and perhaps more effectively. Yet, as the story of Jesus feeding the 5,000 indicates, God doesn't always work in ways that are obvious. Sometimes, he chooses to use weak and strange means of shedding his grace.
Every time those doubts invaded, I would remember to forget my questions and to offer my measly bread-and-fish service to the people of Ukraine. After all, it doesn't matter who I am. It matters Whom I serve. My Lord is Jesus Christ and He holds more power than I can imagine. He can use whatever I offer him in pure and simple faith. So, though I often felt underqualified and a bit out of my comfort zone while in Ukraine, I know that I learned a valuable lesson there from the lesson I taught the children: I serve an all-powerful Savior and He works in wondrous ways.
As it turns out, it was the perfect fit for my own heart while I was in Ukraine. I pray that some of the precious kids who came to our programs were impacted by what they heard. I may never see that harvest, but I do know that Christ used that story to teach me new and deeper truths. Allow me to explain.
The story of Jesus feeding the 5,000 (which can be found in John 6 in addition to the other gospels) showcases a little boy. When a huge crowd of followers flocked to Jesus at the end of a long day, they were a hungry and exhausted group. Jesus' disciples, coming off as either annoyed or alarmed, pleaded with Jesus to send them away so they could find food and get some rest. However, Jesus had compassion on the crowd and saw that they were not only physically hungry, but spiritually and emotionally hungry as well. He told his disciples to feed them, knowing full-well that the disciples would find that suggestion outrageous and impossible.
Then entered some sweet little boy who happened to have five loaves of bread and two fish. Though that would hardly make a dent in the crowd's hunger, the boy offered the food anyway, showing a level of faith and trust that the disciples themselves lacked. It would have been easy for the little boy to think, "Why bother?" Yet, for whatever reason, he put forth the minuscule portion he had, not worrying about what real difference his puny offering would make.
As it turned out, Jesus used that small offering to feed the whole crowd, miraculously turning an insignificant offering into an abundant feast. Amazing. Jesus Christ, God incarnate, used what might have seemed useless to bless a desperate crowd.
As I taught this story five days in a row, the truth of this ministered to me. Going into the trip, I wondered if there were any way God would use me in Ukraine. After all, I didn't know the language, and thus it seemed silly for me to prepare and teach a Bible story when there were believers who knew the language who could do it more easily and perhaps more effectively. Yet, as the story of Jesus feeding the 5,000 indicates, God doesn't always work in ways that are obvious. Sometimes, he chooses to use weak and strange means of shedding his grace.
Every time those doubts invaded, I would remember to forget my questions and to offer my measly bread-and-fish service to the people of Ukraine. After all, it doesn't matter who I am. It matters Whom I serve. My Lord is Jesus Christ and He holds more power than I can imagine. He can use whatever I offer him in pure and simple faith. So, though I often felt underqualified and a bit out of my comfort zone while in Ukraine, I know that I learned a valuable lesson there from the lesson I taught the children: I serve an all-powerful Savior and He works in wondrous ways.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
How do you say "Yum" in Russian?
Ukraine is often considered the bread basket of Europe. Rich soil readily grows all kinds of produce. I wasn't in the country long before I knew this first-hand. Farmer's markets were everywhere. Fresh produce was abundant. I tasted some of the best tomatoes, watermelons, cucumbers, potatoes, apricots, corn, plums, and melons while there.
Luba, one of the translators, immediately went about collecting in-tact fruit from the ground. Such an activity seemed automatic for these people. It was not the first time I had seen one of our translators reach for fruit from a random village tree. A few days earlier, my translator, Anna, plucked a petite pair from a tree and handed it to me to enjoy. It should be the most natural thing in the world to eat fruit right from any ol' tree, but for some reason, I felt hesitant. It was just a bit foreign to me.
A couple of the Ukrainian woman with us gathered a huge pail of fruit from the tree and paid the man who owned it. I was so intrigued! How fun to be on a little day trip, and, on a whim, harvest enough apricots to make a gallon of apricot jam! These Ukrainians know how to live!
Not suprisingly, we had no shortage of amazing food to eat while in Ukraine. In addition to a wide variety of fresh produce, Ukraine is known for its love affair with borscht, a soup that has many varieties but usually contains beets and other vegetables. On the three village days that we were fed by local Ukrainian women, we were fed borscht. I loved it!
One day, our hostess served us huge bowls of the steaming soup. After putting a dollop of homemade sour cream on top and grabbing a slice of homemade bread, I devoured the goodness. It tasted even better as we sat outside under the shade of a huge tree and listened to the testimony of the village pastor. Thinking that was all we would be served, I chowed down on the soup and helped myself to more homemade bread.
When I had finished my bowl, the sweet hostess pulled it from in front of me and returned with a steaming bowl of potatoes and chicken. The bowl was filled to the top and it was a papa-bear-sized dish. I felt a bit overwhelmed. I was nearly full, but I didn't want to disappoint my hostess or give her the wrong impression, so I ate as much as I could. The food was so fresh and so delicious that I wished for a second stomach. After eating half the portion, I knew I had to stop the feasting. Turning to my translator, I asked her to apologize profusely for my inability to finish the portion, but to tell the hostess how much I loved the food.
I'm pretty sure I gained a few pounds over the week in Ukraine. The food was so plentiful and mouth-watering and both our Ukrainian and American hosts and hostesses lavished it on us at each meal. I can give personal testimony to the fact that this land really is the bread basket of Europe. Yum!
Thursday, August 11, 2011
A Day in Ukraine
Let me tell you what a typical day was like for me while I was in Ukraine.
Waking to a small alarm provided by my wonderful hostess, Holly Friesen, I would pull myself out of bed to the smell of delicious coffee. Holly, a full-time missionary who is a trained nurse practitioner, made me feel so at home. Our mutual love of coffee was an instant bond, I think. Knowing a fresh cup of joe was available for me upon awaking fueled my morning routine.
As I readied for the day, I would stop at a window to behold the breathtaking views of Odessa afforded by a tenth-floor apartment spot. Relishing the foreign cityscape and unique sounds of the hubbub far below, I would eventually move to the kitchen where Holly would have a yummy breakfast prepared. Fresh fruit purchased from nearby farmers' markets was a highlight as were scrumptious squares of homemade baked oatmeal.
We would linger at the table, sipping coffee and enjoying rich conversation. Then, as the time for departing to a nearby village drew near, I would pull on my backpack full of craft supplies and grab the poster I had depicting Jesus feeding the five thousand. Slinging my green purse over my shoulder on the way out, Holly and I would ride the elevator down the shaft, stroll past one of the old guard ladies at the apartment entrance, and sit down on a bench outside to wait for my ride.
Shortly thereafter, a vehicle would pull up, usually driven by one of two Ukrainian men who were believers and who helped out with the ministry. My dad, who was staying with another missionary couple (Bruce and Carol Bagley) would already be in the car as would Carol Bagley. Carol, a seasoned missionary to Ukraine, came along to help me run Bible programs for the village children each afternoon.
I would load my things into the car and say goodbye to Holly, whose nearly full-time task right now is to study the Russian language. Then, we would take off, meandering through the streets of Odessa. Driving within inches of other cars and bold pedestrians who dared to cross the buzzing streets, the van would pull off here and there to pick up our remaining team: two translators and two pharmacy/lab assistants. These women, all Ukrainians and all believers, were wonderful and helped to make the week incredibly fun.
After stopping at a church to pick up the materials for the traveling pharmacy, we would be off to the village destination of the day. Some villages were about 40 minutes away from Odessa. Some took over two hours to reach. Some roads were nice and provided for a smooth ride. Some were incredibly bumpy or were simple dirt tire tracks cut through a field.
Always eager for new experiences, I would feel excitement bubble within me as we pulled into a village at the beginning of the day. Enchanting, colorful houses, livestock tethered by the side of the road, and man-made piles of hay dotted the sides of the street. When we reached the church or meeting center where the clinics would be held, we would unload from the van and be greeted by the sereneness of a country day.
Sometimes, when we arrived, the patients would already be lined up, ready to see Dad, the doctor for the day. At a few of the locations, a little service would be held with these gathered patients where a pastor would give a testimony about the Lord and then pray. At a couple of the clinics, my dad got to share some of his testimony (with his fun translator, Luba, by his side).
After the ceremony, the pharmacy would be assembled and my dad and his translator would set up shop in whatever room was provided as the examining room. Some rooms were better equipped for this task than others, but they all accomplished the said task: to minister to and share the love of Christ with the people of the village via medical care.
During the morning hours, I would sit and chat with Carol and my translator Anna. These times were precious. I learned so much about the Ukrainian culture and the Russian language in these sessions while soaking up the scenes of the village. A few times, I took walks in the village to explore the area and capture a few photos.
After lunch, which in of itself is a blog topic, Carol, Anna, and I would prepare to hold our Bible program for the children in the village who chose to come. We would have anywhere from 10 to 30-some children come for these programs. Singing, a Bible story, the Gospel message, a snack, a craft, and games were all included. Interacting with these children was like a dream. They were precious and sweet and funny and ornery and intuitive and creative and basically everything kids are. In spite of the language difference, I was blessed by them each day.
Once the Bible program was over and my dad finished with all of the patients and home visits on his schedule, we would load back up, drive home, drop the pharmacy and folks off at their respective locations, and head for dinner at one of the missionary's homes. We usually didn't eat until between 7 and 8. By the time we finished dinner and found our way home, it was nearly time for bed.
Now you are aquainted with a typical day for us while we were in Ukraine. They were long days, but fun and rewarding days too. They are days I won't soon forget.
Waking to a small alarm provided by my wonderful hostess, Holly Friesen, I would pull myself out of bed to the smell of delicious coffee. Holly, a full-time missionary who is a trained nurse practitioner, made me feel so at home. Our mutual love of coffee was an instant bond, I think. Knowing a fresh cup of joe was available for me upon awaking fueled my morning routine.
As I readied for the day, I would stop at a window to behold the breathtaking views of Odessa afforded by a tenth-floor apartment spot. Relishing the foreign cityscape and unique sounds of the hubbub far below, I would eventually move to the kitchen where Holly would have a yummy breakfast prepared. Fresh fruit purchased from nearby farmers' markets was a highlight as were scrumptious squares of homemade baked oatmeal.
We would linger at the table, sipping coffee and enjoying rich conversation. Then, as the time for departing to a nearby village drew near, I would pull on my backpack full of craft supplies and grab the poster I had depicting Jesus feeding the five thousand. Slinging my green purse over my shoulder on the way out, Holly and I would ride the elevator down the shaft, stroll past one of the old guard ladies at the apartment entrance, and sit down on a bench outside to wait for my ride.
Shortly thereafter, a vehicle would pull up, usually driven by one of two Ukrainian men who were believers and who helped out with the ministry. My dad, who was staying with another missionary couple (Bruce and Carol Bagley) would already be in the car as would Carol Bagley. Carol, a seasoned missionary to Ukraine, came along to help me run Bible programs for the village children each afternoon.
I would load my things into the car and say goodbye to Holly, whose nearly full-time task right now is to study the Russian language. Then, we would take off, meandering through the streets of Odessa. Driving within inches of other cars and bold pedestrians who dared to cross the buzzing streets, the van would pull off here and there to pick up our remaining team: two translators and two pharmacy/lab assistants. These women, all Ukrainians and all believers, were wonderful and helped to make the week incredibly fun.
After stopping at a church to pick up the materials for the traveling pharmacy, we would be off to the village destination of the day. Some villages were about 40 minutes away from Odessa. Some took over two hours to reach. Some roads were nice and provided for a smooth ride. Some were incredibly bumpy or were simple dirt tire tracks cut through a field. Always eager for new experiences, I would feel excitement bubble within me as we pulled into a village at the beginning of the day. Enchanting, colorful houses, livestock tethered by the side of the road, and man-made piles of hay dotted the sides of the street. When we reached the church or meeting center where the clinics would be held, we would unload from the van and be greeted by the sereneness of a country day.
During the morning hours, I would sit and chat with Carol and my translator Anna. These times were precious. I learned so much about the Ukrainian culture and the Russian language in these sessions while soaking up the scenes of the village. A few times, I took walks in the village to explore the area and capture a few photos.
Once the Bible program was over and my dad finished with all of the patients and home visits on his schedule, we would load back up, drive home, drop the pharmacy and folks off at their respective locations, and head for dinner at one of the missionary's homes. We usually didn't eat until between 7 and 8. By the time we finished dinner and found our way home, it was nearly time for bed.
Now you are aquainted with a typical day for us while we were in Ukraine. They were long days, but fun and rewarding days too. They are days I won't soon forget.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
"Ootka, Ootka, Goose!"
Early this morning, the bright green numbers of my alarm clock mockingly declared me a jet-lag victim: 4:44. With an annoyed groan, I flipped over, pulled the covers tighter, and tried to shake the awakeness I felt. I had gone to bed only five hours ago. My body surely wasn't done resting.
As I snuggled deeper under my sheets, I recalled the deep nap I had taken the afternoon before. I had been reading when I suddenly felt an extreme exhaustion unusual for the late-afternoon hour. As soon as I had given in and stretched out on my couch, I was ushered into a sound sleep. Hmmm. No wonder sleep was eluding me now. After fifteen more minutes of feigned snoozing, I threw the covers off and marched into the living room, flipping lights on as I went. Five hours of sleep it is. I didn't want to waste any more time lying in my room.
Whatever jet lag I may be experiencing right now is a small price to pay for the rich opportunity I had to accompany my dad to Ukraine last week. I feel blessed beyond measure by the people I met there, the beautiful countryside I saw, and the paradigm-shaking culture I encountered. Enchanting, overwhelming, mystical, foreign, dark, profound, beautiful, convicting, eye-opening. These are a few of the words that describe my view of that far-away land.
Stories are plentiful. Musings are varied. Processing is needed. Encounters are imprinted in my mind like selective loops, short and repetitive. One such memory is an adorable village boy who attended one of our little day camps on the first day of the trip. Unaware that I really couldn't understand the Russian he was prattling, he kept peering at me, wringing his hands, and crying, "Ootka, ootka, goose!" Over and over. Enchanted by his foreign tongue and amused by his enthusiasm, I smiled at him and eventually glanced at my translator. "What's he saying?"
My translator chatted with him. Within his explanation, he would occasionally repeat his chant, "Ootka, ootka, goose!" Accompanying the chant was that wringing hand motion. Turns out, he was begging me to play a form of "Duck, duck, goose" that he had recently learned at a Christian camp. The wringing hand motion represented a wet rag that the player who was "it" would wring over the chosen "goose", dousing them in water under the warm Ukrainian sun.
I laughed from deep within, so enthralled by the boy's excitement and further intrigued that "ootka" meant "duck" while "goose" was basically the same as our English "goose". I wished so much I could burst from the few Russian phrases I knew to interact with the boy myself, but I could only hope that my laugh and smile communicated something of my heart to him.
That's just one snapshot of my time in Ukraine. Perhaps the most profound thing is how faith in Christ unites people of every culture. Meeting those who knew the Lord there created an almost instant bond, even if our communication was limited. That's amazing to me and speaks to the power of the Holy Spirit.
Jet lag will pass. The impressions and experiences Ukraine afforded me will remain. I pray that I will be faithful to learn the things God would have me to from my experience there.
As I snuggled deeper under my sheets, I recalled the deep nap I had taken the afternoon before. I had been reading when I suddenly felt an extreme exhaustion unusual for the late-afternoon hour. As soon as I had given in and stretched out on my couch, I was ushered into a sound sleep. Hmmm. No wonder sleep was eluding me now. After fifteen more minutes of feigned snoozing, I threw the covers off and marched into the living room, flipping lights on as I went. Five hours of sleep it is. I didn't want to waste any more time lying in my room.
Whatever jet lag I may be experiencing right now is a small price to pay for the rich opportunity I had to accompany my dad to Ukraine last week. I feel blessed beyond measure by the people I met there, the beautiful countryside I saw, and the paradigm-shaking culture I encountered. Enchanting, overwhelming, mystical, foreign, dark, profound, beautiful, convicting, eye-opening. These are a few of the words that describe my view of that far-away land.
Stories are plentiful. Musings are varied. Processing is needed. Encounters are imprinted in my mind like selective loops, short and repetitive. One such memory is an adorable village boy who attended one of our little day camps on the first day of the trip. Unaware that I really couldn't understand the Russian he was prattling, he kept peering at me, wringing his hands, and crying, "Ootka, ootka, goose!" Over and over. Enchanted by his foreign tongue and amused by his enthusiasm, I smiled at him and eventually glanced at my translator. "What's he saying?"My translator chatted with him. Within his explanation, he would occasionally repeat his chant, "Ootka, ootka, goose!" Accompanying the chant was that wringing hand motion. Turns out, he was begging me to play a form of "Duck, duck, goose" that he had recently learned at a Christian camp. The wringing hand motion represented a wet rag that the player who was "it" would wring over the chosen "goose", dousing them in water under the warm Ukrainian sun.
I laughed from deep within, so enthralled by the boy's excitement and further intrigued that "ootka" meant "duck" while "goose" was basically the same as our English "goose". I wished so much I could burst from the few Russian phrases I knew to interact with the boy myself, but I could only hope that my laugh and smile communicated something of my heart to him.
That's just one snapshot of my time in Ukraine. Perhaps the most profound thing is how faith in Christ unites people of every culture. Meeting those who knew the Lord there created an almost instant bond, even if our communication was limited. That's amazing to me and speaks to the power of the Holy Spirit.
Jet lag will pass. The impressions and experiences Ukraine afforded me will remain. I pray that I will be faithful to learn the things God would have me to from my experience there.
Monday, July 18, 2011
The Wonder of Paris
I can still feel his hand grip my elbow in a grateful squeeze. The sweet French man who waited on me for dinner. I think we bonded after I stumbled over the few French words I could muster, pointed awkwardly at the menu to indicate what I'd like, and giggled relentlessly at how foolish I felt in my ill attempts to translate English thoughts into beautiful French sounds. While perched on a petite sidewalk chair, I feasted on croque monsieur and reveled in storybook French atmosphere. When it was time to leave, my friend and I laid our tips on the table and slipped between tightly-packed tables to the sidewalk. The gentle waiter gripped my arm as we left and sang his French thanks, "Merci!"
I can still see the curly dark hair swirling round to crown his young and attentive French eyes. The alluring boy-man who pointed out his favorite chocolates and named rich delicacies with his heavily-accented English. Tucked away in a quaint, small Paris street, the sweets shop where he worked was impeccable and decorated in deep purple and black. When I stepped inside, I clasped my hands and lavished words of praise and exclamation over the dainty chocolates and cookies that rested under the glass counter. Each moment seemed enchanted as his life and mine intersected over the purchasing of Paris-landed chocolate.
I can still see the lines crisscrossing up the marble mass, etching out the muscle details that artist Auguste Rodin meticulously crafted a century ago. Sculpture after sculpture rested in frozen action, displaying a wide array of emotion. Lifeless forms posed amidst beautiful greenery on the grounds outside as well as in spacious old rooms within the museum building. How a slab of marble can move one's soul is a mystery. I can almost feel the artist's breath, aired warm and heavy onto the masterpiece before me. The breath that exhaled while the soul crafted intangible qualities into the tangible mass. It reminds me of Creator God, the ultimate Artist, sculpting uniqueness out of dust. It speaks to me.
I can still taste it. Wonder. The wonder I feel ooze through my being as I stroll the streets of a place so intoxicating, I can barely describe it to those who haven't been. Am I too dramatic? No. Not really. My mind reels to put into words what captures my heart when I am in the city of Paris, France. When there, I feel entranced. History seems to groan and stretch in that place. I can almost touch it, taste it, see it, hear it. I see stone that those hundreds of years before saw too. I strain to experience their lives. Human pain, fear, excitement, toil, joy, heartache, love, laughter, and every possible thought and feeling that we know today wrapped in the facade of a different era. I want to know what it was like then. I find times long ago tantalizingly close. The past mingled with now.
Is that why it is unspeakably rich to Wyoming-girl me? To a kid who grew up in an area with hardly any old history tangibly intact? I am really not sure. What I do know is that I want to go back. I can't seem to get enough. I pray that Paris and I can once again greet each other and that I can walk her magical streets once again.
I can still see the curly dark hair swirling round to crown his young and attentive French eyes. The alluring boy-man who pointed out his favorite chocolates and named rich delicacies with his heavily-accented English. Tucked away in a quaint, small Paris street, the sweets shop where he worked was impeccable and decorated in deep purple and black. When I stepped inside, I clasped my hands and lavished words of praise and exclamation over the dainty chocolates and cookies that rested under the glass counter. Each moment seemed enchanted as his life and mine intersected over the purchasing of Paris-landed chocolate.
I can still see the lines crisscrossing up the marble mass, etching out the muscle details that artist Auguste Rodin meticulously crafted a century ago. Sculpture after sculpture rested in frozen action, displaying a wide array of emotion. Lifeless forms posed amidst beautiful greenery on the grounds outside as well as in spacious old rooms within the museum building. How a slab of marble can move one's soul is a mystery. I can almost feel the artist's breath, aired warm and heavy onto the masterpiece before me. The breath that exhaled while the soul crafted intangible qualities into the tangible mass. It reminds me of Creator God, the ultimate Artist, sculpting uniqueness out of dust. It speaks to me.
I can still taste it. Wonder. The wonder I feel ooze through my being as I stroll the streets of a place so intoxicating, I can barely describe it to those who haven't been. Am I too dramatic? No. Not really. My mind reels to put into words what captures my heart when I am in the city of Paris, France. When there, I feel entranced. History seems to groan and stretch in that place. I can almost touch it, taste it, see it, hear it. I see stone that those hundreds of years before saw too. I strain to experience their lives. Human pain, fear, excitement, toil, joy, heartache, love, laughter, and every possible thought and feeling that we know today wrapped in the facade of a different era. I want to know what it was like then. I find times long ago tantalizingly close. The past mingled with now.
Is that why it is unspeakably rich to Wyoming-girl me? To a kid who grew up in an area with hardly any old history tangibly intact? I am really not sure. What I do know is that I want to go back. I can't seem to get enough. I pray that Paris and I can once again greet each other and that I can walk her magical streets once again.
Monday, June 27, 2011
For Love of Touch
Sometimes, I wish our United States culture were a bit more touchy...in a good way.
While in El Salvador, I looked forward to the 4:00 hour each afternoon. At that time, the Salvadorian students would be done with homework time and would appear on the grounds of the children's home, ripe and ready for fun. Playing and interacting with them was as enchanting as it is with any energetic kid. Yet, there was something uniquely rich about being with these Spanish-speaking sweethearts: they were unashamedly loving.
I was perhaps most touched (no pun intended...seriously) by their constant hugs. Without hesitation, arms would extend and wrap around me and in an instant, my heart would be warmed. I hugged them back, but somehow I feel they gave more than I could repay. Not as though love is quantifiable. It's not. But if it were, and if I were a betting woman, I would bet a Starbucks or ten that I lost in the effort of love-giving while in El Salvador. The sweet smiles and love and the pure interest they had in interacting with me enriched my life.
Love can be shown in so many ways, but I sometimes wish folks in the States were more affectionate with each other. There is something about touch that communicates love in a way words cannot. A hug, a pat on the back, a reassuring grip on the arm...these are all gestures that speak richer meaning than a well-spoken word.
I wonder if those children in El Salvador know how much it means for we Americans to receive love from them. To me, it meant more than I can say.
While in El Salvador, I looked forward to the 4:00 hour each afternoon. At that time, the Salvadorian students would be done with homework time and would appear on the grounds of the children's home, ripe and ready for fun. Playing and interacting with them was as enchanting as it is with any energetic kid. Yet, there was something uniquely rich about being with these Spanish-speaking sweethearts: they were unashamedly loving.
I was perhaps most touched (no pun intended...seriously) by their constant hugs. Without hesitation, arms would extend and wrap around me and in an instant, my heart would be warmed. I hugged them back, but somehow I feel they gave more than I could repay. Not as though love is quantifiable. It's not. But if it were, and if I were a betting woman, I would bet a Starbucks or ten that I lost in the effort of love-giving while in El Salvador. The sweet smiles and love and the pure interest they had in interacting with me enriched my life.
Love can be shown in so many ways, but I sometimes wish folks in the States were more affectionate with each other. There is something about touch that communicates love in a way words cannot. A hug, a pat on the back, a reassuring grip on the arm...these are all gestures that speak richer meaning than a well-spoken word.
I wonder if those children in El Salvador know how much it means for we Americans to receive love from them. To me, it meant more than I can say.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)