Coffee vs. Espresso (or cultural perspectives vs. post-modern deconstructionism)

When you travel outside your home culture (whether it's a few states over or across the globe), you  find many differences in interpretation.  When we first moved to Idaho, we were thoroughly amused that every type of vehicle (even our Dodge Neon) was referred to as a "rig."  Wait--isn't a rig an eighteen wheeler? Anyway...

We had been warned of the disparities between French coffee and American coffee, so we knew that ordering a cup of coffee wouldn't result in a large mug of drip coffee like we have each morning at home.  Our first meal in Europe was at a creperie in Geneva, and we decided to go for the fully authentic experience.  Here was our coffee:  a double shot of espresso, straight up.

We discuss this concept with our kids a lot--that is, the idea that people can have completely differing definitions for the same word.  Not just cross-culturally, but even just the variations of our mental processing produce all kinds of unique interpretations.  When Eika and Henry were about 5 and 3 years old, respectively, they had a prolonged argument about whether a vase of flowers was real.  For Henry, who was beginning to explore "real vs. make-believe" insisted that these flowers were indeed real because he could see them and touch them.  They existed!  Eika, on the other hand, stood her ground that they were not one bit real; she defined real as the Velveteen Rabbit would have.  These flowers were merely an imitation of the real thing because they were made of plastic and fabric. 

So how do we acknowledge this without spiraling into an amoral, deconstructionist, post-modern understanding of Truth?  While I do believe that there are endless applications of The Truth, and those applications have a whole slew of different forms and faces, I still believe in an Ultimate Truth. I could ramble on, but as I don't particularly have any answers at this moment, I will leave you to ruminate on the question as well.

Choosing Sweets

We are home.

We spent the last ten days traveling and meeting new people.  It was rich and full of sweetness.  It was hard to be gone from the kids.  It gave us new excitement on this road towards life in Africa, and at the same time it deepened our understanding of what might be some of our challenges.  It was a gift to be around a different kind of people.  These were families and individuals at language school in France, most of whom are on their way toward a life of service in Togo, Chad, Burundi, and a few other places.  These are people who have sat and sorted life into two piles--"to leave" and "to take"--prioritizing in a way that most of us never are required to struggle through.

Tonight as I was helping Eika get to bed, she was falling apart.  We talked about all the sweet times she had with her friends this past week, and I reminded her to think on those things instead of what she was upset about.

So I am going to make myself do the same thing as I go to bed: think about the sweet things instead of the enormous, pressing list of needs that is hovering over me.  What was sweet in your day?

Thankful for Mud

I wanted to find some statistics on clean water availability in Burundi, but I didn't really find anything concisely quantifiable.  Anyway, there is not enough clean water, and many people have to walk miles even to collect contaminated ground water. 

I like to think that we are not raising our kids with the typical American materialistic focus, because they would almost always rather go play outside in the mud than with any toy.  But the sheer fact that they have water to play in, not just to drink and bathe in, is a privilege.  It is not something every kid in the world has. 

A Day to Celebrate

Saturday was Eva's birthday.  Now she is four!  Henry and Daddy made waffles to start the day. 

 

 

Later in the day we had cupcakes at the playground with some friends.  You wouldn't believe how difficult it is to get a picture of a four-year-old smiling while blowing one of these things.

 

 

Snowing into Puddles

When it snows late in May, you take a picture.
When your daughter goes puddle jumping in her rain boots, you take a picture.
When your nine-year-old is holding her little brother's fireman umbrella, you take a picture.

And when you realize that added to all those things (which all happen to be occurring at that very moment), you have an almost-not-quite pre-teen who is wearing a pretty dress out in the mud, and that one day she isn't even going to fit in that dress anymore, you definitely grab your camera and shoot for dear life.

The Work of His Hands

When someone in our small county dies everyone feels the pain in some way or another.  Last week we suffered a sudden and unexpected loss of one I would call a friend, though we haven't been in close contact lately.  Terry was 44 when he went to be with the Lord.  A few years ago I worked with his wife at the health center.  He had done some remodel work on our first house.  He fixed the "Hank hole," but that's another story.  He lent me his post hole auger last year.  I have a fine walnut and maple cutting board that he made.

At the funeral yesterday there was a time of open sharing and I had been asked ahead of time to share some words.  I didn't have anything planned and didn't know what I might say; I had never spoken at a funeral before.  Yesterday morning I opened up my Bible and landed on Psalm 111:1-4.

Praise the Lord!
I will praise the Lord with my whole heart,
In the assembly of the upright and in the congregation.
The works of the Lord are great,
Studied by all who have pleasure in them.
His work is honorable and glorious,
And His righteousness endures forever.
He has made his wonderful works to be remembered;
The Lord is gracious and full of compassion.

There's so much in this little passage and I could have spoken for awhile on these verses, but this is what I hope I conveyed:

We are all God's craftsmanship, the work of His hands.  As part of His creation, whether believers or not, we bear His mark.  We can rejoice, in spite of the hurt and sorrow and loss, that Terry was part of God's family and is now enjoying the splendor of His presence.  If we are believers and part of His family we all the more fully bear His mark and point to Him.  He is remembered (more fully known and seen) by the world by the works of His hands--His people.  Apart from God we would agree with the author of Ecclesiastes when he writes, "Vanity of vanities, all is vanity!"  If our hope and our work is in and of ourselves there is no hope. None. It is meaningless and it will not be remembered.  But if we are a part of His family and are focused on Him then our lives and our work do mean something greater in that it points to Him.  Terry, as a child of God will be remembered because the work he did was unto the Lord.  His heart, his passion, his smile, his relationship with his family, his willingness to help all pointed to his relationship with his heavenly father.

Terry also happened to be a fine wood worker.  He made fine furniture and other small items like our cutting board.  When I look at our cutting board it is marred by knife strokes from several years of use.  Whenever it is needed that cutting board it is there, doing it's job.  Terry's life is like that cutting board.  His love and openness, his willingness to help whenever and where ever needed, his relationships, his character, his interactions with little kids, his care for his farm animals, are like marks on the cutting board.  They won't go away.  We can look back and see and remember his life and know that it was lived for the glory of God.  And each of those marks directs our eyes to God.