An Unconventional Praise

For the most part, I would say that I've got my priorities straight. I love my family, my husband, God, my country-- you know, all the important things. I'm not money or power-driven, and I don't feel like I am overly materialistic. However, there is one area of my life (well, at least one area of my life), one silly little frivolous area that adds nothing to the greater good of the world, and yet brings me infinite joy. And that, my friends, is food.

Now, I'm not talking about any kind of food, or food in bulk, or even one specific type of food. I just mean, beautiful, quality, delicious food. I hate fast food & mass-produced food, and feel that donuts are a waste-- but put me in front of a perfect tomato, or a bite of expensive dark chocolate, and I am in heaven. It's quite a thing to behold.

I had a spiritual moment today at the Farmer's Market.

There was a vendor with rows and rows of green, yellow, red, and even blue-black bell peppers, and lined up together, they looked like artwork. I thought to myself that God could have made eating similar to breathing-- simply a way to bring nutrients in & out of our bodies, but without much sensation to the experience. I thought of cattle, deer, or elephants that eat grass their entire lives, without ever knowing the difference. But, no-- for us, He made it an experience, and utter delight, a thing of beauty.

It occurred to me that God created food not only to taste delicious (in an infinite possibility of combinations), but also to look beautiful, as those bell peppers did. And as I stood in the heat of an unusually warm San Francisco morning, feeling the sun on my face and the sweat on my back, I looked around at the throngs of people at the Ferry Building, sampling fruit, picking out flowers, sipping juice, I felt joy-- praise, even.

I know, I'm insane. Well, actually, it doesn't take much to have a spiritual experience at the Ferry Building-- it's practically the Mecca of all good food. But as someone who studied art, I know that good art should be a spiritual experience-- and, when you think about it, food is the best kind of art because you can experience it with each of your senses, literally internalize it, and even re-create it.

I know that there is pain, suffering, war & injustice in the world-- I have seen a lot of it first hand. And I know that I sound a little crazy (No I'm not drunk, and No, I haven't seen Julie & Julia yet), but I really do believe that the beauty, variety, and goodness of food points to a creative, good, and generous God.

And if you had tried the heirloom tomato with rosemary sea salt that I sampled this morning, you would be full of praise, and sounding a little bit insane, too.

A Little Help for Gavin

I don't dress up my dog. I don't carry him around in little designer bags (even if I wanted to, my shoulder die-- he weighs 60lbs). I don't have pictures of him in my wallet. I don't even feed him leftovers from dinner. But I do love the little booger, and it's hard to imagine not having a dog in our daily routine.

Right now, there is a terrified, shivering pit bull in a cage at the pet hospital. He hurt his leg almost 2 weeks ago, and we thought it was nothing... but then he kept re-injuring it, and we finally decided to bite the bullet and pay for a trip to the vet.

To make a long story short, something is wrong with his knee-- it could be a bad sprain, but the vet seemed to be leaning towards a torn ligament (much like a human tearing their ACL). He's going to be sedated & have x-rays taken this afternoon, and then we get the news: whether or not he needs surgery.

The X-rays alone will cost about $400. The surgery could be anywhere from $1500 to $3000. Needless to say, that's a pretty huge financial investment for us. If he ends up needing the surgery & doesn't get it, he will eventually go lame.

As "missionaries", our salary comes from the donations of families, individuals and churches. I don't know how I would feel about spending $3,000 of people's tithes on a dog's surgery. But then, do we just let our little pup suffer & go lame? It's a tough question to face.

So, as silly as this sounds, would you pray for our mutt, Gavin? Would you pray that he doesn't need the surgery, and that we don't have to make a difficult decision like that? I'm convinced that God cares for all his creation, including a socially awkward, dumb-as-a-rock, sweet little rescue pup.

I know this isn't my normal blog style-- sorry about that. Just wanted to ask for a little help ;)

Update: The vet called back to say that she couldn't find a tear in his ligament, and that (for now) she didn't think he needed surgery. Hooray!

Strangely enough, when compared with a $3,000 vet bill, the $500 everything ended up costing didn't hurt quite as much. I guess poor Gavin won't be able to eat for the rest of the year, though. Actually, he is restricted to short, 10 minute walks, with no playing, wrestling, swimming or running for the next 2 weeks. As great of news as not having surgery was, I know this is going to be a long 2 weeks for all of us. Still, we are SO very grateful.

New Year's Resolutions

I have talents. I do. Everyone does, really-- some are brilliant at math, some are musical or athletic or artistic.

I have always felt like my giftings were less tangible than most peoples'-- things like being a good listener or asking great questions (not the kind of things that get you college scholarships). I have always been a dismal failure at sports-- in fact, I am fairly certain that I have never, in my life, run an entire mile (and probably won't, unless chased by some hyper-determined killer). My math skills are down right humiliating, and even the thought of spending money in another country, calculating an exchange rate in my head (all that multiplying & dividing and subtracting! Kill me now.) puts me into a cold sweat. I persevered years of orchestra classes only to be hidden at the back of the viola section, and although I appreciate art, I've never really been able to create it on my own.

Now, I am content with the fact that I will never be a winning track athlete, or a rock star (or even a karaoke participant), but there is one area of weakness-- something that has plagued me my entire life-- that I have high hopes of changing. If you are related to me in any way, you should sit down before reading on... My goal, my bright & shining star out on the horizon, is Time Management.

Tardiness is a chronic illness in my life. That feeling of anxiety, guilt, shame & frustration while rushing off to some appointment 15 minutes late is an old friend of mine. My poor husband is well versed in the routine of pulling the car out of the garage and patiently waiting in the driveway while I frantically throw together everything I need for the day. He's even been known to make my lunch for me, on a particularly bad morning. And, I confess that I don't know how our church service begins, because in our 4+ years of living in San Francisco, I'm pretty sure we've never made it on time. Whew, it feels good to get that off my chest.

One reason I believe that Change is possible is that, because of some strange alignment of the stars, I spent an entire summer arriving early. Gasp. I honestly don't know what happened, but during our 4 weeks of training in Colorado this summer, Chris & I woke up every morning, hopped on our bikes (okay, some mornings I made us drive), rode to campus, and arrived a full 10-15 minutes early for class-- saving a table for our friends, preparing tea/coffee, and getting out our notes. There was no incentive-- no roll being called, or public humiliation for tardiness, but for some reason, it happened once and so I know it can happen again.

The key, I believe, to recreating that miracle (permanently) is to set up a morning routine. I know, it sounds simple, but it's so much more complicated that it seems. If I could, I would wake up early every morning, take the dog for a walk, work out, make & eat breakfast, read & pray, shower, make my lunch, and be ready to go by 9am. I think I would have to wake up at 4 to make that happen. The other problem is that Chris & I share the tiniest of space in our apartment, and it always seems like I want to do kick boxing at the exact same time (and place) that he wants to pray & quietly reflect. On top of that, the parks near our house are literally locked before 8am, meaning that my dog-walking time is limited.

Since coming back from my miraculously time-efficient summer, I've tried a few methods of starting my mornings, all to no avail. But I am determined. I have never been big on New Year's Resolutions-- they always seemed so arbitrary. But I have tasted the sweetness of a life well-organized (granted, I had no dog, apartment, responsibilities, or the clutter of everyday life to bog me down, but that's beside the point), and I am convinced of its reality. As we start off a new school year (our lives revolve around the Semester schedule), I have high hopes for a fresh start.

Tonight, Chris & I sat down and made a little refrigerator chart of our weekly activities & goals. We have post-it notes with priorities like Date Nights, Having Dinner with Friends, Praying Together, etc. written on each post-it, and we plug in our priorities according to our weekly schedule. We even came up with incentives, giving ourselves little perks as we achieve our goals.

Our hope is as we organize our evenings, prioritize rest, order and connection over vegging in front of the TV or leaving the dirty dishes until morning, other things (like morning routines) can fall into place a little easier. Of course, we actually have to stick to our little plan to make all of this the smashing success that I am anticipating.

But maybe a smashing success is too much to ask for. I would settle for getting out the door on time, with clothes that fit, a non-neurotic dog, a soul that's centered, and cell phone in hand. Wish me luck-- I'll need it.; because even though timeliness may not be one of my talents, it's something I can at least practice. Hopefully it won't be as painful as practicing the viola.

No Place Like...

After 11 weeks, 7 States, 5 beds, and approximately 60hrs of road tripping, I am Home Sweet Home. Chris & I estimated that we spend about 4 months out of every year traveling. Sometimes it feels like weeks before I've caught up to myself in all the travels-- like I don't quite know who I am anymore.

Not that I'm complaining (okay, sometimes I complain). I enjoy the fact that my job takes me to Africa, London, the Rockies, Florida, and of course, back to my family in Southern California (I try not to think about the fact that I have to pay for all those travels). It even works out pretty nicely that during the cold, foggy summer months of San Francisco, we can rent out our apartment to a friend and bask in the sun all summer (well, this summer, I was mostly in an air conditioned class room with no windows, but it was sunny & warm on our bike rides to the classroom).

One benefit of traveling so much is that it transforms my tiny, cramped, loud apartment into a palace-- a haven. Coming home to this Rubik's Cube of a home, where everything fits just so, is the most wonderful, comforting feeling in the world. Sleeping in my own bed is a slice of heaven, putting groceries into our refrigerator is bliss, even cleaning feels good (for the first few days). The feeling of padding around the house in your PJ's, with only the dog & hubby to see you (and the homeless guy looking through the window)-- the feeling of having your own space-- is a luxury beyond compare.

It's always an interesting to notice the things that I miss about home. Last summer, I missed my bed terribly (as I was sleeping in a hammock). This summer, it was food, diversity & culture that I was hungry for-- and (oddly enough) dogs. I bordered on scary stalker lady every time I saw a dog. Very strange.

Most evenings throughout the year, Chris & I come home tired & hungry, and all we want to do is shovel food into our faces and plop on the couch... but this little 60lb mutt always foils our plans. He needs to go out, and almost every evening I groan & try to think of some way to get out of our daily walk to the park.

Strangely enough, though, it was those walks that I missed the most this summer, while Gavin spent his time guarding the in-law's house, and we were away in Colorado. I realized just how much those walks nourished me-- helped me to unwind after a tiring day, gave space in our marriage to talk & reflect, created opportunities to be outside, and to gain the comic relief and plain old fun of watching dogs happily wrestling each other.

After about a week of breaking our evening routine (for lack of a dog), I noticed how cranky & unsettled I was. I felt antsy and tired all at the same time-- restless & sluggish. I can't remember what prompted me to go for a walk, but I do remember the revelation it was to just be outside, releasing my mind to wander wherever it pleased. Sometimes Chris came, and sometimes I was alone. Sometimes we even traded our walk for an evening bike ride, watching the sun set over the mountains, and coming back after dark. I was always covered in mosquito bites, but somehow felt a little more alive, better connected to myself.

We've been home for 3 nights now, and have taken Gavin to the dog park each evening. Ironically, after having happily patrolled the suburban backyard all summer with his playmate, Champ, he's terrified of the variety of the dog park. He always takes a while to readjust to city life, and seems to jump & start at everything. For myself, though, it feels so good to be home-- connected to myself through the familiarity of my own home, my own things, and that dreaded (but therapeutic) daily walk to the park.

Rodeo

One of the drawbacks of living in the best city in the nation (no, I'm not biased) is that the entire country comes to your doorstep to vacation. This spring, as I walked home from the store, a tour bus shaped like a boat drove down our street honking duck callers, as the numbed tourists stared at me like I was in a fish bowl.

As hard as it can be to watch people turn their brains off and go into vacation mode (especially when they're driving in the bike lane), I admit that it is entertaining to play "Guess the Home-State". Occasionally, Chris & I enjoy going to a tourist trap like Fisherman's Warf and people watch, imagining where each family has come from. The tourists stand out like soar thumbs.

Lest I sound judgmental, I'll humble myself to share that I had the privilege of being on the flip side of that experience when a group of Californians left our conference for the day, and took a quick day trip up to Wyoming to attend the Cheyenne Rodeo.

Now, to my recollection, I had never been to a rodeo before (although my mom claims she took me as a kid), and I really wasn't sure of what to expect.

As about 20 of us filed up the bleacher seats, we were met with strange stares, and a stage whisper of "They ain't fru-um Wyoming" (yes, "From" was two syllables ). Most of the girls in our group were wearing sun dresses & flip-flops (although one wisely paired her cowgirl boots with her dress), and the guys wore surf T-shirts and baggy shorts. The rest of the entire audience had on tight jeans, long sleeved work shirts, cowboy hats and boots. We looked absolutely ridiculous.

Every time someone from our group got up, it seemed like the attention went from the rodeo to "the city folk". We passed messages back and forth, sounding absurd to the locals: "Okay, so I heard they're supposed to stay on the bull for 8 seconds", "Apparently, they tie a rope around the horse's privates to make him buck", "Does anyone know the point of this event?", and so on.

At one point in the rodeo, a horse went completely insane, diving over the stage with the announcer, landing (with rider in-tow) on it's head. Then, it got up and charged full speed into the rail, ramming it with it's head before passing out. Another horse sprang out of the gates, landed stiff as a board, then teetered over onto its rider like a tree, never moving again (it was hauled off in a horse ambulance, which we joked was sponsored by Purina). The spectacular finale was a rider that was pitched off his horse, but whose arm got stuck on the harness. He flailed around for an eternity, and literally had his chaps and jacket stripped off of him as he was tossed like a rag doll. I have never seen anything like it.

The rodeo reminded me of stories of the Coliseum under Caesar, and part of me expected lions and gladiators to come out after the bull riders. It felt a little morbid and wrong, watching people & animals get hurt like that... and yet it was thoroughly entertaining-- one of the best days I've had in a long time.

And I have to say, it was awesome being a tourist-- a completely ridiculous outsider who didn't get it and never would. Some of the highlights we heard at the rodeo:

(insert thick accent here)

• "That horse was chargin' like my wife at WalMart"
• "He was hotter than a two dollar gun"
• "He fell apart like a $19 suit"
• (my personal favorite) Tom Morrow... the name of one of the rodeo contestants (for real).

Whether it's Africa, London, Tijuana or Wyoming, it is such a wonderful experience to be immersed in (and stand out in) another culture. It was the best $9 I've spent in a long time (plus the $7 lemonade I bought in a commemorative Cheyenne Rodeo cup).

Aplogies

Rumor has it that, in my attempt to be challenging & thought provoking (because I personally felt challenged & thoughtful), my last post came across to some as offensive. I apologize-- that was not my intent at all.

I was not taking a stance or stating my opinion on the movie Milk, on Harvey Milk as an individual, on Prop 8, on Christianity, or on Gay Rights. I was simply challenged to love people that are different from myself, and it seems that in my attempt, it made people feel un-loved.

I would love to dialogue with anyone about these thoughts, and value your opinions & feedback.

We're All Bastards

I watched the movie Milk last night and it set off a chain of thoughts and emotions running through me.

It reminded me of a story I read about a Baptist minister and civil rights activist in the 1960's named Will Campbell:

On one of the Freedom Rides, Campbell was challenged by newspaper editor P.D. East to sum up the Christian faith in 10 words or less.

Campbell replied, "We're all bastards, but God loves us anyway."

Not long after, a good friend and fellow activist, Thomas Coleman, was shot & killed by a police officer named Jonathan Daniel. After the shooting, Campbell was devastated, but P.D. East wouldn't leave him alone, challenging him on his definition of Christianity. He demanded Campbell to answer whether both Thomas Coleman and Jonathan Daniel-- the victim and the murderer-- were bastards. Campbell feebly replied that they were.

"Which of those two bastards did God love the best?" asked P.D. East

This question changed the course of Campbell's life, when he realized that God loved the bigoted, wrong-doing Ku Klux Klan members just as much as He loved the victims of the bigotry. He left the civil rights movement, and began ministering to white supremacists, sharing God's love & hope to the very people he had been fighting against.

As I lay in bed last night, with scenes from the Gay Rights Movement still flashing through my mind, the story of Will Campbell returned to my memory. After watching Milk, I felt saddened, offended, heart-broken, inspired and confused. What stood out more than anything to me was the hurtful, defensive words coming from Christian's mouths, as they crusaded for morality.

This past year was an echo of the culture clash that happened during the movement of the 1970's in San Francisco, and I had an interesting vantage point from where I stood.

I grew up in a Christian home, in conservative Orange County, and yet I live in one of the most liberal post-Christian cities in the nation. I work for a conservative Evangelical Christian organization, yet the people I work with are much more passionate about justice and human rights than moral purity. During the elections, I walked on campus at SFSU and saw endless amounts of posters and campaigns calling out for people to "Vote No on Prop 8"; when I returned home, my inbox was filled with emails from Christians telling me God's will for the elections. It was interesting, standing with one foot in each world, listening to each group talk about the other.

After watching Milk last night, images replayed themselves like home movies. I thought of Christians picketing the funerals of gay men who had died of AIDS; of half-naked men on Easter posing for the Hunky Jesus contest; of the angry emails demanding that Christians stand up with God against "the gays", and angry gay men pouring hot coffee on Christian students; of teary-eyed gay students crumbling as I apologized for the church rejecting them, and wide-eyed youth group kids learning about sexual purity. I thought of Jesus speaking with compassion on prostitutes, and side-stepping political issues to get at the heart of the matter.

And I think Will Campbell was right: the real heart of the matter is that we're all bastards, but God loves us anyway.

I closed my eyes and saw a group of people on either side of me. On my left were the drag queens, celebrating the Hunky Jesus contest on Easter. On my right were the Christian activists demanding morality, without love. Tears came to my eyes as I saw myself taking a hand from both sides, feeling their skin against mine. We're all bastards, but God loves us anyway.

I've never been one to be deeply involved in politics. I admit that a lot of it is simply over my head, and much too time-consuming to keep up with. But the anger & polarization are what really turn me off. The thought of reaching across both lines-- to the Christian world I am a part of, and to the gay community that I live in sounds dangerous, frightening... and beautiful.

After P.D. East heard Will Campbell's answer to his question, he responded, "You've got to be the biggest bastard of us all... because damned if you haven't made me a Christian, and I'm not sure I can stand it."

Campbell used to say, "I'm pro-Klansman because I'm pro-human being". He explained that being pro-Klansman is not the same as being pro-Klan, and being capable of making that distinction might be the only hope for civil discourse. So my goal is to be able to say that I am both pro-Gay, and pro-Fundamentalist. Taking sides is one thing, standing in the middle is another, but reaching across the line is something completely different.

Reconciliation-- both to God and to man-- was the purpose of Will Campbell's life & ministry, and I hope that someday, someone could say the same of me.