above the clouds

Last night I sat in a dark space with hundreds of candles flickering around the edges of it.

In the middle a wreath enclosed four purple wax sticks―unlit. Symbolizing the arrival of royalty and peace, the entire design focused on a majestic white candle―to be lit on Christmas Eve.

“…our life of hope is not a guarantee of safety, but an invitation to risk. To live in hope is not to have reached our goal, but to be on a risk-laden journey…” Ken Collins

I listened to a story of a revolutionary Christian named Stephen, who threatened the legalistic traditions of a snobbish club of religious intellectuals in the first century. Many of these stiff-necked old men probably started out with sincere ambitions but got caught up in their own desires to control others and lost their vision in the process. In the end they conspired to kill him rather admit that they were wrong.

Looking at a photograph of the sun shining above a solid cloud bank, I thought about how many flights I’ve taken in my life―taking off on a windy or rainy run-way with lightning flashing across the tormented horizon. Clasping on to my seat (definitely in the up-right position) and watching eating trays drop loose from their clips as turbulence compete with the pilots’ resolve to get this huge bird into the sky regardless of the discomfort. Generally passengers respond in two ways under these circumstances, either cussing in violent tantrums or deadly quiet, trying out prayer for the first time as they consider the twenty odd hours ahead.

Usually the air-pockets and thunder storms occur so low that we get out of them quickly. A few months ago when Hurricane Rita caused havoc in and around my neighborhood, my dad’s flight from Chicago got rerouted via Memphis to Dallas―flying directly across Rita’s path. Needless to say, I seriously doubted the local air-traffic controllers’ intelligence and deliberated with God how this could happen.

My dad told me later how they flew right over the hurricane and the sun was shining brightly, no turbulence or drama at all.

Praying in the ochre candle light, I thought about hope and Christmas and the price of my risk-laden journey to America. Two or three particular names and faces of close friends in my life―also scattered across the globe―pounded in my chest. My heart breaking for them who were injured and humiliated by arrogant, unteachable religious leaders in the past.

Wishing I could apologize for their awful experiences on behalf of my blameless and radiant King.

giving thanks the day after

The most precious memories of my life relate to food and lively conversations around a big table. Yesterday’s home-made mashed potatoes, apple pie and a never-emptying glass of unsweetened ice-tea (without ice) will trigger my unforgettable encounter with a loving family in DeSoto, Texas. Unable to clean off my gold-trimmed plate, I thought will never get hungry every again.

I joined two wrinkled lovebirds, having recently celebrated sixty years in marriage as the three privileged guests not genetically connected to the McRae-family. Surviving the Second World War as a sergeant in the air force, he sent word from Italy to his fiancée on a farm in Oklahoma to get their wedding bells ready. But their long awaited union was delayed by a sudden onslaught of Polio which left him paralyzed and unable to write to her for three months. Two years later they were finally married in the hospital and began their life together in Dallas where he had a blackberry bush and a feisty German neighbor.

This was my second Thanksgiving in the States and as most American traditions go, it turned out as a very educational experience for me. Last year I was introduced to the New York parade―finally understanding what Ferris Bueller’ was on about―and the bizarre bargain shopping on the following Friday morning. This year did not disappoint. I learned to play a game called Train and that a full-blooded German oma can lose her dominoes and her marbles over American football. The nugget for the day was that a woman who tells you her age will tell you everything.

Riding in the back of the car toward the night time skyline of downtown my face ached from laughing too much all day. I said goodbye to all the beautiful people I had around me for an entire day...what a priceless gift!

My addiction to tea with milk drove me out to the store this afternoon. I dragged my lazy bum across the empty campus lawn toward the enclosed parking lot next to the men’s dorm. While living in the city with the highest crime rate in the US, I am still more safe walking to my car here alone than most single women living in Africa.

Avoiding the unbelievable hazards en-route to Wal-Mart, I thanked God for this faithful old car with the parallel cracks across her windshield, her clutch slipping now and then, her non-existent air-conditioning―my proud chariot. She was given to me two months ago as a gift by a generous couple who lives by grace themselves.

Inside the store I thanked the lady who rang up my groceries and asked her if she was able to spend yesterday with her family. Stopping at the light between Ross and Washington, I watched an old Mexican man cross the street in front of me. On foot from somewhere to nowhere, carrying two plastic bags, staring straight ahead. His gray moustache surprisingly groomed gave his face a thoughtful look. I felt grateful for a fixed street address and the brief telephone conversation this morning with my parents across the Atlantic.

My hungry stomach mocked my short-term memory now for leaving the two carefully packed containers with my left-overs on the kitchen counter next to the African Violets last night. A great excuse to treat myself with a cheese burger at Jack-in-the-Box―remembering it soon enough this time before I drove past it...like last time.

Mercia takes my order while a rowdy customer demands the key to the restroom.

“There’s somebody in there.” An elderly man explains on her behalf, sitting by himself at a table facing the coveted door. Our eyes meet and he returns my nod with a smile.

The service is quick and I barely have time to greet all the hairnetted Hispanic girls working in the kitchen. Probably single moms wishing they could be at home with their kids―I leave with a warm brown bag and a cold milkshake. Not quite what I had yesterday but a treasure compared to what many mouths have to eat today.

I pull out into the street again thinking―Keep to the right woman...remember to stay on the right side of the road!

after watching the Sea Inside - 2004 best foreign language film - about euthanasia

She reaches up from her mobile prison for a warm hug

Cold fingers, weak arms, aching shoulders, soft scent of Knowing comforting her little girl

Loving words dissolve over the long-distance phoneline from her dragging tongue still trying to speak

Mother of many who listen to her wisdom lying on dad’s king-size handiwork having tea and home-made cake

He curls her carefully cut hair according to his color-coded diagram

Carpenter fingers, gym-trimmed triceps, graying chin still dishing out kisses to his lifelong bride

His humbled words echo when his faith runs low still trusting God for hourly grace to persist

Father of three who buried two, obediently loyal to his Creator King receiving his daily bread

I tell our stories in foreign tongues, singing to aching hearts, smiling at hopeless eyes

Touching the palm of His hand when these memories stick in my throat, my head against His chest feeling our shared breath rise up and down

Pain, suffering, loss―His merciful tools still shaping my sensitivity to the mercies of a full life in His love

Pa, Ma en liefling kind ―available servants to the One who makes gallaxies and babies

yellow roses and in-laws

Friday afternoon

Middle aged women clad in wisdom from years of hardship and joy in marriage

Mentoring under autumn colored leaves and prayers for anonymous husbands on the lawn

Friday evening

Young Indian bride-to-be browses through American sized underwear to find something special

Tears of anticipation as she leaves for the airport to meet her in-laws in Oregon tomorrow

Saturday morning

My singleton’s prerogative to decide how many times I can get back into bed and pull the covers over my head

Dreams of making two mugs of coffee instead of one

Saturday afternoon

Orange punch, chocolate wedding cake, a jazz trio in black celebrate two friends wowed to provide and encourage together as one

Fresh pedals leave a trail to godly sanction of this covenant in love

Saturday evening

Country Western dancing for the first time, watching wordless grey-heads shuffle in perfect understanding

Perfect harmony in the balanced designed of submission and leadership

ancient girl-talk:according to Ruth

Resting her sore neck against the window sill, she closes her eyes, trying not to cry. Warm water brings relief to her hard feet and the scent of olive oil soothes slows her heartbeat as she breathes deeper―calming herself mentally despite the panic inside. The everyday sounds of rural life drifts into the room on the back of a Fall breeze. Heavy branches move in the dusk and animals settle into their pens after a day’s work. She hears the door open and swallows her tears before they run down her face, not blinking.

“How was your day?”

“Fine.”

“I thought I’d treat you a bit before your big night.”

Wrinkled hands stir the soapy water in the clay basin. They gently take out one foot and dry it off with a warm towel. The sensation of rough salt mixed with some more olive oil and crushed lavender rubbed onto her feet and swollen ankles helps her forget about spending all day in the merciless sun, sweating, working, praying for relief.

“I finished the hem on your dress this afternoon. You looked so lovely in it this morning. We still have time to wash your hair and fix it up just a little bit. Nothing fancy...just special. What do you think? All the way up or just the top bit?”

“I don’t want to go.”

“My darling...why not? Did something bad happen between the two of you today?”

“No. it’s not him. It’s just the whole situation.” She looks out the window at the day waning into royal blue. Sighing deeply, she drops her chin onto her chest and quietly lets the water run over her freckled cheeks. Massaging ointment into the other foot, the old woman silently prays for wisdom.

“Don’t cry my love. We must trust that God knows what He’s doing. He’s brought us this far.”

“I don’t fit here. I can’t see how this could ever work.”

“What happened? You were so excited about tonight before you went to work today.”

“The local women kept on mimicking my accent and I’m done pretending that it doesn’t hurt my feelings. I get so frustrated when they assume I should like and know everything about their foods and traditions. I miss my family and my country when it seems like everybody else knows what’s going on and I don’t.” Stuck in the chair, she sits up straight instead.

“It’s tough. I know what you must feel right now. I had to forsake my country at one time too...but there you became part of my life, now you’re all I’ve got. That’s worth everything I gave up back then.”

“I know. I know.” Her voice cracks as she tries to speak and catch her breath at the same time. “I’m older now. Life has worn me out. What if he decides that he doesn’t want me? What if he finds me too strange to relate to? It’s been so many years since I’ve tried to make an impression like this. I don’t think I can do it.”

“He’s a godly man. If he’s the one God has in mind for you, he’ll choose you, no matter what the price. Trust God to provide what you need at that moment...remember: courage and faith.”

nature as observed at zip code 75204

I see the end of the day drawing near through double glazed windows―giant man-made eyes for this exoskeletal shed. Inside this maternally motivated machine, men serve three meals at clockwork precision. Reminiscent of military monotony as green shells move along in the exact same pattern morning, noon and night. Latexed fingers fiddle on disinfected surfaces, condiments stacked individually-sealed for the sake of hygiene and convenience, lightweight polystyrene containers for every conceivable purpose―easy to manufacture, even easier to dispose.

Waste.

I flee from this artificial womb to breathe authentic pollution under the pastel sky. The relentless humming of air-conditioning units pumping heat out into this evening’s humidity compete against the roar of airplanes aiming for Lovefield’s runways. Passing fruitless trees on Apple Street I follow the nervous fluttering of wings across the manicured lawns. Tension rustles through the solitary trees in every concrete courtyard I pass by. My heart resonates with the anticipation of her unabashed display.

Red berries hang like drops of blood from the contrasting green branches forming a natural vault above my head. Dried orange, yellow, brown shapes edged with saw-tooths, others like five-fingered hands crunch beneath my feet as I deviate from my original route. Avoiding the chloride fumes from the fake fountain I turn right into the arched colonnade where I suspect to find raw nature at work despite the perfect octagonal terraces cascading onto concrete.

Stripped tail feathers flash ahead when she swoops unexpectedly in this predatory dance. Taunting her next victim blatantly she flies straight into the center of a gathering of doves―flushing them all out, dispersing radially in a tapping of wing tips and petrified cooks. She whisps over my head, a well-rehearsed ritual before escaping from my line of sight.

I run into the president’s courtyard. Where the bluebird lives―north of the minimalist magnolia trees where the Macadamia tree has a power socket attached to its trunk. She cuts further left and disappears behind the terracotta tiles and leaves me standing alone, wingless―stuck to the orthogonal pedestrian paths back to my cold Cappuccino-coffee-cocktail in the polystyrene cup.

I walk back with itchy hands. Needles pricked at lazer-beam precision. Measured deposits of bio-chemical warfare against me. Strategically preventing my blood from clotting before my assailant could get a could swig of it first. Scratching the tiny bumps where I find evidence of me joining the food-chain at the lower end.

To my surprise, I enjoy this irritation. Like the plucked feathers that lie strewn beneath the green canopy, these marks on my hands testify to inescapable death on this planet. Tragic to some but to me the gateway to discovering nature as it was intended originally.

Je suis belle (I am beautiful ) by Auguste Rodin, 1882

Ready. Set. Go.

Vehicles take off, the navigator gives details from the back seat. We find the street―no parking. We find the garage―no parking. We disappear three levels under ground in our search for the elusive collection of beauties. Following polished signs toward daylight the revolving door spits us out into the granite plaza with music playing from the potted plants and people taking smoke-breaks.

Inside the museum we synchronize our watches and disperse with another map in hand. A hushed response from a serious art lover directs our search to the European art section. Scurrying from the red elevators to the blue elevators and staring at the wrong set of doors delay our discovery as precious minutes roll away along the muted corridors hiding behind the heels of uniformed volunteers who look unhappy.

We find it.

We hesitate for a moment―stuck in the center between three giant photographs.

To the left―dust, desert, desolation. Arizona or New Mexico reminds me of Namibia and fresh air.

In front―a photograph taken inside the Berlin Museum of visitors looking at a classical Greek structure. We transcend into shared recollections of the Seine in Paris over looking the Eiffel Tower. We hear German seep from this moment caught in time continents away, dripping from the frame and run down onto the wooden floor beneath us. We turn clockwise to see red brick buildings soften the mechanical mirrored monuments of a parking lot in Dallas. A sudden burst of children’s voices chase us out the room stumbling down some stairs, to land among bizarre interior exhibitions.

A clattering of golden colors in velvet, middle age candle stands and Japanese vases confuse my art chronology as I stagger ahead in this room, trying to regain my focus. I look down at the plastic brim around the ancient furniture, careful not to touch anything lest I induce a reprimand from the art police and notice a lump of bronze mistaking it for an elaborate door stop. This Frenchman’s handiwork catches me unaware. Hidden behind so much clutter I almost missed it.

Two figures. Male and female. A visual of unexpressionable approval.

Exaltation. His robust back muscles strain as he holds this delicate bundle of woman against his chest.

Did he just receive her from God? Is he offering her back to Him?

In his public display of unashamed adoration his strong arms provide security and protection to all she represents in his life. He carries her livelihood, her fears, her body, her heart. Her head turned to the right with her left cheek almost touching his lips. She feels completely accepted, appreciated, loved in all her vulnerability. Like a little bird nestled beneath wings, still, kept high away from dangers, she lies hunched on his torso in safe warmth.

All chattering cease. The race ends. I understand.

I am beautiful and wonderfully made.

time and expectations

“may he kiss me with the kisses of his mouth…”

says the wisest man in human history through the eyes of his new bride

did she expect him to exchange her for nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine other women?

today my mom began her fifty-sixth year

outliving her two brothers by four years who both died of Muscular Dystrophy

was carrying his bride into the shower part of my dad’s retirement plan?

yesterday I learnt that my god-mother had recently been diagnosed with Parkinson’s

now unable to ride her twenty thorough-bred horses like she used to

how will my god-father adapt his lifestyle to this new season?

last week Friday I met the blind husband of a fellow student of mine

she moves around on campus in her scooter as she suffers of Multiple Sclerosis

did she dream about a husband who needs her help to get to the bus stop each day?

“for her worth is far above jewels, the heart of her husband trusts in her…”

even if I should lose my breast to a mastectomy like my father’s mom did

would he still want to fall asleep with me after decades of late night conversations?

last week Sunday my neighbors' baby girl arrived ten days too soon

today I felt her bunny-soft skin as I touched her cheek two days before her birth day

how many pumpkin breads will she bake in her lifetime here on earth?

back home Jacaranda trees color October in lilac purple – die mooiste mooiste maand

here the streets and houses shine orange, anticipating red and yellow gardens soon

how many cold Novembers remain here for me to share with my American family?

“enjoy life with the woman you love all the days of your fleeting life which He has given…”

says the now wiser man after wasting every good gift he expected to keep forever

would You send me this gift when I stop expecting You to do it?