Meditation on Incineration. I mean...

Itinerating. Type it in...wait for it... "did you mean 'incinerating'?" Thank you, spell-check.

OK, this support-raising journey isn't that bad, but on its rough days the comparison does give me a little chuckle.

And in all seriousness, it brings to mind passages throughout the Bible that refer to God growing, maturing, refining us like silver or gold: through fire. Painful imagery, right?

And I thought of this idea again as I was walking through the woods today and saw many of these. 

Whimsically twisty trees like this one were my favorite when playing in these woods as a little kid. Vines had grown up them, squeeeeezing the poor little trees as they tried to grow. But in time the vines fall away leaving the trees as strong as ever and, in my humble opinion, much more interesting and beautiful, like little works of art.

I can't wait to be back in Japan, learning and growing, loving and serving. But for now? I take a deep breath, go for a stroll, and praise God for the beautiful quirkiness of trees that have persevered through the uncomfortable times. And look back and forward and all around with thankfulness for the many times of rest and encouragement, for friends old and new, and for getting to be a part of the body of Christ in both the US and in Japan, in all of our quirky beauty.

And those whimsically twisty trees? They're still my favorite.

A Meditation on Incarnation

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God…And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us…”

I was first introduced to this piece singing alto with a children’s choir at summer camp for a “Christmas in July” concert. On break from university I would curl up, gazing at the Christmas tree, and blast it through my headphones. In Tokyo I would turn the volume on my laptop as high as it would go, feeling the harmonies swirl around me as I looked out on the river and the lights of the city. Regardless of my location, circumstances, mood… the beauty, humility, and glory of this piece draws me out of myself and to the feet of God in worship. (And yes, that link is me attempting to play this majestic piece composed for a large 8-part choir... on the organ. Unfortunately not doing the lyrics, music, or our great mysterious God justice, I know! But hopefully it gives you a general idea)

It is a song about the incarnation. The great mystery of Christmas: God taking on flesh.

“O great mystery,

and wonderful sacrament,

that animals should see the new-born Lord,

lying in a manger!

Blessed is the Virgin whose womb

was worthy to bear

Christ the Lord.

Alleluia!”

And it is a song about us. I mean really, am I that much better than an animal in comparison with our Lord? And He comes not just to let us see Him, but to move in with us! And the most mysterious of all? After He takes on flesh, lives with us, dies for us, raises victorious… He doesn’t even stop there. I think the greatest mystery of all comes next, as He gives us the magnificent title and role:  “Now you are the body of Christ…”

O great mystery! That God not only lived with and for humanity, but He purifies and calls us worthy, like Mary, to bear Christ the Lord. You and me. In our brokenness and weakness and big-hot-messiness. To be bearers of His Light, to be His Word made flesh in this world.

Incarnation. The God of the universe as a baby, born to a virgin. And most mysterious of all…in us. Alleluia!

~John 1:1, 14

~1 Corinthians 12:27

~M. Lauridsen

Chickens, Cats, and Delight

 I have never been much of an animal person, but as part of my “re-culture shock” of being in rural USA again after a few years in great big Tokyo, I am much more aware of the natural world of plants and animals surrounding me. And from the beauty of humming birds, to the horror of a dead mouse, to my current house-sitting situation with 2 cats and a coop full of chickens, this city girl is finding “normal” things pretty entertaining.

As soon as I open the back door, I hear the excited clucking. 16 scrawny legs scuttle awkwardly in a jumbled effort to be the closest to the hen-house gate. “Some one is coming! Maybe they’ll open the gate! Maybe we’ll be FREEEE!”( – at least, I’m pretty sure that’s what these chickens are going on about.) But as 8 heads turn side-ways to get a good look at who is coming, 8 beady eyes fix on the big, juicy, rotten pear in my hand. I open the gate just enough to slip my wrist through, tossing the pear to the far corner of the coop. After a split second ruckus and flurry of feathers all 8 chickens are happily pecking away for a beak-full of rotten fruit. Meanwhile I open the gate wide, close it behind me, help myself to all their eggs, and let myself out again: completely ignored.

Then we have the cats. On one side of the yard we have a stereotypical anti-social sleeping-all-day ball of fur. On the other hand…we have an outdoor cat who absolutely adores me. As I come home he runs up to the car, nearly getting himself squished to driveway-cat-paste in his eagerness to greet me. He rubs himself on my legs and finds the greatest pleasure in a simple pet on the head. But I am cruel; my ears calloused to the desperate mews as I stand up and head for the front door. Thus the battle of wits always begins. Usually I succeed: slipping into my quiet refuge and locking the door in the face of the mewing cat (usually without squishing his neck in the door – oops. Sorry), but twice the cat has had the victory: dashing through the open door as I fumble with groceries or a stack of mail. “I made it! I win! I am inside and I will never-ever-ever leave you! Now that you have reciprocated my love by allowing me in, PLEEEEEEASE keep petting me” ( - at least, I’m pretty sure that’s what he’s going on about).

I think of my awkward relationship with these animals, and I know it is an odd comparison, but I think of my relationship with God. Am I not a bit like the chickens sometimes? I come to an hour of quiet, a day of rest, and though my Father is right there, the gate open wide, I’m happy to instead fix my eyes on a glowing screen, scrolling through social media and watching TV shows (which in all their fun and wonderfulness are pretty much a gooshy rotten pear compared to my Glorious Abba). And while I know the cat's motives aren't pure either...when was the last time I would have stopped everything and risked my neck just to be with Him? And how thankful I am that He never plays a battle of wits with me, nor shuts the door in my face, nor laughs as I delight in rotten fruit. Oh no. Praise the Lord, He is not a city-girl house-sitter or even a business-like farm manager, but our God is our Shepherd, our Father: patient, overflowing with faithfulness and love. He opens the door wide every time; welcoming us to be with Him, delighting in us delighting in His glory.

迷子。Lessons on a "lost" child.

Clenched fists. Tear-streamed face. Heart-wrenching sobbing. Her 3-year-old frame looked small and fragile as businessmen, students, couples, families, all walked right by, maybe a quick glance before they pretended not to see her. Half hurrying to catch a train, half strolling along to their shopping.

Which way had her parents gone? I glanced around the train station, hoping to spot a frazzled looking parent. I crouch down to her level a few steps away, but being approached by a stranger/foreigner is still enough to instantly transform her tearful fear to terrified silence. (Oops.)

"Are you OK?" (nods affirmative) I try to ease the terror with a small smile, "I bet your mom or dad are close by, right?" My mind is racing: 'should I tell her to come with me to the station office around the corner, or, wait, can I say that in 3-year-old Japanese? yes, but is that going to scare her more...', when her tiny hand points behind me, to a man waiting quietly maybe 30 yards away by the station entrance. "Your Dad?" (nods affirmative)

Lesson #1: looks can be deceiving.

Lesson #2: the best way to get a Japanese toddler having a melt-down in the middle of a station to run to her Dad as fast as her legs can go, is a short conversation with a strange foreigner.

Lesson #3: I continued on my way to church, partly feeling bad (for not spotting the Dad, and terrifying this little kid), partly feeling OK (after all, I did fix the problem! Even if she wasn't lost, and just having a tantrum...and what if she had been lost?), and partly wondering what everybody else in the station was thinking as they walked right by her. But the little girl quickly faded from my mind as a million other thoughts took over, from the music I was playing for the service, to did I remember to send that email, to the meeting happening after worship, to 'wait, what was that Japanese word?', to what to eat for dinner tonight, to housing for the summer interns arriving soon, to raising support in the US this fall and when can I visit ____church, and...well, you get the idea.

Tonight I think back to the girl in the station, and the attitude of my mind/heart recently. No, I'm not having a melt-down; I'm doing great! But what does it mean when the default setting of my mind/heart is planning details (ok, sometimes worrying over details) instead of worshiping?

Sure, I know my Heavenly Dad is near. But do I act like it? Maybe, like my little not-so-lost friend, it's time to spend less time thinking about how I'd like things to go, and more time running to my Heavenly Daddy.

Advent thoughts, Mt.Fuji style

It was August, but we could see our breath, and fingers shoved into cozy mittens still went numb from the cold. It was 3am. Pitch black. Walking in an endless row of people zigzagging up the steep mountainside; awkwardly plodding along, occasionally climbing up rough portions of the trail on all fours. This probably sounds like the beginning to some horrible nightmare, but it was actually fantastic: my younger brother and sister were visiting from the states, and we were going to make it to the top of Mt. Fuji in time to see the sunrise.

We brought flashlights, but they were weak and the small stream of light quickly faded. If we tried to make the hike in the dark we probably would have tripped and found ourselves tumbling down to the base, or at best been stuck in the freezing cold until sunrise. But in the pitch black, even that puny penlight of a flashlight would have been enough to kind of get by. Not ideal, maybe a bit unnerving, but enough. But because we were surrounded ahead and behind with people who came prepared with powerful flashlights and headlamps, we hardly needed our flashlights at all. Thanks to their light, I could see reasonably clearly. Navigating the path in front of me, deciding where to step, was no problem.

But if that had been it: climbing up a mountain in the dark, then carefully making our way all the way back down in the dark, just to say we did it…there is no way I would have gone, much less invited my siblings along. What made it worth it, was hiking on with confident hope of the sunrise. Because it happens every day! We knew that after all the hiking and waiting and freezing, that glorious orange disk was going to slice through the clouds, paint the sky with beautiful colors, and warm our chilled faces and fingers. Not only was the sun itself gorgeous, in its light everything else was beautiful too. We see the path clearly, and the black sky and black mountainside and black valley of the climb up were transformed into a beautiful landscape of reds and greens and blues.

This advent season, it’s dawned on me that life is kind of like climbing Mt. Fuji. Sure it’s wonderful, great times, can be lots of fun and all, but it can also feel ridiculously hard. And sometimes what I am equipped with feels like a puny little flashlight. But it’s more than OK. Because the light is all around, behind and ahead, and we are far from being alone. And best of all? Well, like the sunrise, that’s yet to come. But I can hike, zigzag, awkwardly plod through life with joy, peace, love, and confident hope. Because it happens every day!  Christ is risen. He came. He’s coming again. He’ll never fail to show up. Emmanuel!

Creation

“In the afternoon, Ellie made cookies. Now the countertops were bare, the oven empty and cold, and the Spirit of God was hovering in the kitchen. And Ellie thought “first I need butter”. And she found some in the fridge and it looked good. She measured and softened it and called it ready – the first step… and Ellie tasted the cookies she had made, and they were very good.” 

OK, so that was ridiculously cheesy, maybe even inappropriate. But as I stood in the kitchen with flour on my shirt, washing the dishes stacked in the sink, the aroma of cookies wafting from the oven, a glass of milk and temporarily-empty plate waiting for me, thinking through who I could share the cookies with the next few days…I felt immensely pleased, satisfied. And when The Creation story popped into my head, I couldn’t help but find comparing it to my own feeble “creation” highly entertaining. Imagining God with smudges of dust on his hands, looking down at just-created Adam as he takes that first breath, feeling pleased, satisfied with His work, thinking “Mmhhmm. This is really good”.

When I’m feeling inferior (or superior) to another musician, or person of any vocation, I like to take a step back and remember: compared to God’s creating powers, my peanut butter chocolate chip cookies and Bach or da Vinci’s greatest works are not all that different. Nor are the works of the nurse, the banker, the administrator, the pastor, the parent, the little old man who sweeps up the trash and leaves from the park. We find beauty and declare it good and enjoy it, we bring order to chaos, we serve each other.

I am not saying we should all think of ourselves as artists, “creators”, or “creatives” (I don’t even consider myself one). Instead, I’m beginning to think it’s much grander and much simpler. I’m beginning to think that whether we realize it or not, we all just want to be more like Our Heavenly Dad. At least, I know I do.  How about you? What have you made/seen/been a part of today, that reminded you of Him?

"Sabishii!"

“Sabishii!" I can't count the times I have heard (and said) that word this month as short termers, Jacob, and the Lowthers all left for the US (not to mention all the families going on 1 - 3 month trips to the US next month, and a family returning "home" permanently). "Sabishii!" The dictionary says it means “lonely”, “desolate”, or "deserted". It is a one-word exclamation that we are going to deeply miss them. That our world will not be the same, will be lonely, without them in it.

I found myself this morning with a chance to be still, to face the fact that short-termers are gone, Lowthers and Jacob left yesterday, and I feel like I am all alone. They are my coworkers, my friends, my “Japan family”. With MTW Tokyo now officially its own team apart from Chiba, and CAT it's own...thing, I’m technically the only member of my team. There are churches and groups we work with who are still here, and I love all of them…but still I feel alone. Where do I belong? Who will be my "Japan family" now? Who will keep me accountable? Who can I go to to talk about what’s on my heart, in my head; who will assure me there is a reason I’m doing this, that God is working through arts, through us; who will help me with the practical details of having events; who will encourage me to take rest, who will answer all those random little questions, who will be my translators, my mentors, my visionaries? I was crushed by the feeling of loneliness; desolate; deserted.

Feeling sorry for myself, I looked up the kanji for “sabishii”, trying to use study to distract myself from the unpleasant emotions. But God had better plans…

The parts of the kanji commonly used for this word didn't seem particularly interesting. But as I checked the kanji details I saw the other meaning which uses this same kanji is “the death of a priest”. Interesting, right? I looked down at the other kanji option for "sabishii", and was surprised by the simple parts making up the character: the symbol for water, or liquid, beside a cross 汁　and on the right, a tree   木.  The truth in this simple kanji pierced my heart immediately. My Lord, my Great High Priest, died for me. He was hung on a tree, water and blood flowing down from that cross as they pierced His side, bearing the sins of all humanity as the God who is Love turned His back on this beloved Son…that is loneliness. Christ took all our sabishii and more on Himself, so we would never have to bear it. So we would never be truly alone.

I still miss these friends and coworkers, still share sympathetic "sabishii,ne!" with Japanese friends who miss them as much as I do, but my soul is not crushed with despair, my mind no longer racing with worries of how I'll manage this alone. Because I remember now: I'm not alone; my God will never leave me; He'll be the one to watch over me, to take all my cares on Himself.

Remembering that tonight, I can look forward to whatever new adventure will come my way next. And most of all, I can look forward to the day when, thanks to that same cross, all sabishii will be vanquished, forever!