The List

The shadows of the patrons at Bipartisan Cafe talk against the poster-full wall, “Freedom From Want” is the tag line on the bottom of this old patriotic poster. What do we want? According to this poster, a huge roasted turkey. The meanings of images and words do change over time. My mom just bought me a book about love, named “Love”. Apparently it was a popular book when she was in college, and she wanted me to read it. Although she qualified the book by saying she liked it when she read it, but wasn't sure she'd like it if she read it now. I might read it just to know what a professor in 1970 defined love. In the midst of these thoughts of time and definitions, I thought of my mom's friend Joe, who we visited on Monday. Joe has a construction consulting business in Portland and is interested in green building, and energy techniques. This is how my mom knows him, I guess they had some classes together. So Joe asked me how my month and a half old marriage is going. A question that I have gotten a lot and am still not sure how to answer...I mean it just seems to early to really tell how its going. But I managed this time to say something like, “Its going well...ummm... you know we're still getting used to living together but we have time.“ To which he replied, with a knowing smile, “That can take a while,” and with a laugh he declared, “I'm still not used to it.” So Joe, has been married for thirty-some years.
So it really got me thinking about how my marriage is going so far and I ran across a list in my journal that I had made during our honeymoon. I kid you not, this is word for word in my journal:
“~get settled in home
~find a church home
~manage finances
~play games
~exercise together?
~agree on school options
~have sex as much as our bodies and minds can handle
aka please one another”
I guess it gave me some categories to judge our fledgling marriage on, and I felt pretty good about how things have been going. We are pretty settled in our new home, we've managed to put together some kind of financial plan, we are gamers so that one is easy, Hans just started running more, and well the question mark gives me an easy out, we've agreed on school options, and as far as intimacy goes we've managed to meet my sex goal as far as I know. The one that is still in process and one of the more important ones, is finding a new church home. But, we've made some pretty serious leeway on this one so far. So to answer the question, how is being married so far...I think pretty much awesome.
A lot of times I get really freaked out about my new life, because everything feels so brand spanking new. You know, that is exactly how it is supposed to feel, because we are newly weds. So, might as well enjoy the status while it lasts. I am guessing 30 years from now, we'll still not really know what we are doing. The words in my list will mean something totally different, but our hearts will still mean it when we say, “I love you.”

Fall and Americans

The dusk is descending upon us in Portland at five o'clock, while the ever falling leaves flare out their colors and then fade away to brown, black and then get ground into nothing. I guess that is why they call it Fall, a season of stark change. But then again every season means change, we just don't always like the kind of change that occurs in the seasons. One time the Romanian son of the Romanian neighbor, stole a car from the African American/Asian family. So the story goes, later that week Luis saw the boy's head being beaten against the pavement. Silvia (my best friend and wife of Luis)once spied the little Romanian girl peeking in their mailbox that lines the road in front of the house. She then, being the sort to speak her mind, asked the girl in so many words to only check the mail box that belonged to her. Restlessness, a good word.
As I stood washing the dishes at my fiance's (Hans) house, the Romanian neighbor walked in front of the window, animatedly chatting on the phone, a few dishes later he walked back. This was only strange because he walked through the yard to do it and it felt like the window was the only thing separating us. His daughter played with the Chinese girl next door, whose parents are from Hong Kong. They often ride their scooters around the yard and into their respective driveways, a flash of yellow hair then a flash of black hair. Her dad gave us Bok Choy from his first harvest and first garden, motioning for Luis (Hans' housemate/friend) to take the vegetables for lack of the right words. He said we could use his fire wood, "forever." Which we've interpreted to mean, "whenever." Generosity, a good word.
No wonder, when we are all so cramped together. How can it be that there are five houses in this space where three houses should be? Two Chinese families to the left, front and back, and the African American/Asian and Romanian families to the right, front and back. In this house: two Mexican Americans, a third-gen. Norwegian, and sometimes, me who is a little mixed up ethnically. The back Chinese family were fighting with each other one night very loudly in Cantonese, and when the cops came, I saw the Romanian boy peek his head over the fence to see the what the commotion was about. Every weekend too, we hear the African American/Asian family do what seems like play fighting. Slightly drunk men yelling at each other, and escalating most weeks to some sort of threat of violence. It is usually just talk. Catharsis, a good word.
In this space where we fight and love, give, and sometimes take, it is both maddening and endearing at times. But, it is where we live, this place we call SE Portland, this place in Oregon, this space that is, for lack of a better word, America.

Windy Seminary Day

The internet is down again due to a Northwest wind storm of sorts, and because Comcast sucks (at least once a month our internet goes fritzy). Last night while I was trying to sleep, and trying not to think about my upcoming wedding, I heard a loud crashing noise outside and then something scraping against the side of the house. For some reason I didn't get up to see what it was, I just speculated that it might have been the plywood knocking over the grill. I dreamt that I tried to look outside but my view was obscured even though in real life I can see where the grill is from my window. This morning though, I did look and it was as I had imagined exactly, the grill was sprawled forward, revealing its many greasy rusted stains running down its back like sweat that had never been wiped off. I felt bad about it because I had discovered it when I told Joel (housemate) about it, I almost felt guilty, like it was my fault the grill was so exposed and fallen. I told him that I thought the noise was a branch hitting the grill, but in fact, I had suspected it had fallen over. What causes this sort of strange deception I wonder? Often, I try to appear that I don't know things that I know. I like to appear less than I am sometimes, or at least, different than I am. I recently accosted Hans(fiance) about doing the same thing to Luis and Silvia (his housemates), I felt he was being disingenuous with them, a little sneaky, I told him he wasn't trusting them. As right as I was about Hans, I only knew he was that way because I am that way. The thing is that trust is terribly scary and vulnerable stuff and sometimes I'm cowardly.
I drove to school reluctantly this morning, hot lemon and honey as company and peanut butter toast in hand, and the wind was pressing everything this way and that. I saw two Comcast vans and one Quest van parked on the side of various streets in Southeast Portland, their frantic drivers outside in puffy jackets holding various wires and gadgets in their hands. I almost wanted to yell out the window, “Are you fixing my internet?” But I thought that might slow down the actual internet fixing process. Looking back on it, I wish had yelled something because hours later, still I have no internet and I think I'd feel less bitter about it if I had expressed my frustration to the puffy jacket guy. When I arrived at school my usual 5 min. late, my classmates were listening to some tabernacle singers and jotting down their impressions. Apparently I had a little peanut butter on my face that I discovered about ten minutes later, but in that moment I tried my hardest to write down my impressions of the song. “Choir in heaven, angels singing,” I wrote, then, “wind blows where it will and we try our best to fix our things,” on the line beneath it. I figured, while they were listening to the song, I was listening to the wind on the drive over.
Next up, we were to share our impressions of this choir song with our “learning communities.” This is difficult for me because I am in a group with three very intellectual guys, there is one in particular who, whenever he speaks in class I cringe inwardly and sometimes my heart literally hurts. One of the first times I spoke with him, he shared that he tries not to talk to anyone or build relationships because he wants to go to theological war with everyone. So in short, my learning community is scary and threatening sometimes. But, as we shared today I heard something in this man that I was endearing. He shared that he hated choir music of the kind we heard because he, at one time, was taken in by it, but now found it shallow, empty and peitistic. I heard what I can only describe as bitterness in his voice, he reminded me of a friend from college who had a similar temperament, and also my ex-boyfriend, intellectual men who have a difficult time with church and community and often get lost in their heads. When I heard him talk about how he doesn't want to build relationships unless he agrees with someone's doctrine, my heart ached because it seemed to me that he had been burned badly somewhere on his journey. The thought made me angry and sad as well, but sadder even, that it was clear that his response was walls and walls. I almost felt grateful that he was so glaringly honest and not given to hiding anything back, a quality I both admire and sometimes revile because I wish I could do the same, but also feel terrified to do so at the same time. So, even though he doesn't seem like a safe guy to befriend, I prayed for him today because it seems like he is hurting and needs help.
I don't share much of myself in this little group, but I listen and try to give input where necessary. Today this man and I went to make a comment at the same time, and we deferred to each other, and then he spoke. That was when I really felt for him, but then I didn't get a chance to speak. I didn't feel bad about it because it seemed he needed to say what he said, and I was only trying to say something so I seemed engaged and intelligent. But, I sort of feel strange about it now. Like, somehow in class I've lost my voice and become timid with myself, distrustful. Should I feel so intimidated? But I've come to wonder if it matters at all what I say in the four walls, under the roof of the Seminary. Still, there is something I can't quite pin down about what this experience is teaching me. It is difficult, but I want to keep going on to see what is next I guess. At least, I have to try and trust and let the wind take me where its going.

Wet Mind Boxes

I wrote this poem during the year that Hans and I were living in different cities, and at a time when I was still adjusting to life outside the Reservation. I have been reminded lately of that time and its challenges, which are similar to those in my life right now. My professor was talking about a ceremony that the Israelites used to do during this time of year during the Feast of Booths. In Israel it is the harvest season, but also the end of the dry season, so water is scarce. So they hiked from Jerusalem to the Pool of Salome for seven days to draw what little water was left and they poured it out in front of the temple as they processed with Psalms. There was something about this that has felt insightful and important. As if to say to God, it is dry, but I am seeking you and showing something tangible, an offering of water that is so precious at the end of the dry season. In my heart I know that in the dry season I don't travel to the water and pour out my offering to God, but instead seek out numbing agents to pass the time. But, when I heard about this I knew that I was like the Israelites, that I needed to continue to dip my cup in the water of life and ask for help again and again. So I share this in hopes that indeed, this is the end of he dry season for me, as I persevere to trust God to give what I need. Also, to remind myself of the many gifts of love and grace, like puddles in the road, I've been given along the way.

Wet Mind Boxes
November 2008

From the window, in my room,
The spacious skies seem like doom.
Form the strange, conscious, moons,

that throw, and throw, and throw.
The distance burns us dry
As empty as the vacant

House next door, the eyesore.
Then the rain falling on the pane
Says something to muddled brain.

Sings pattering like the steps
Of children dancing 'round brooms.
Says something about time,

Waiting-patterns of grace on
The cusp of the face, of the face,
The face of every created thing.

Brenda's Top Ten Reasons why the Wedding industry is crazier than a box of turtles on Meth:

10.Almost every advertisement, magazine, and vendor markets to brides only because they think all grooms are like Drew Barrymore's stupid fiance on “The Wedding Singer”(With the exception of Portland Bride and Groom magazine.)
9. All wedding industry drones say, “This is your day!” with a devilish grin, but what the really mean is, “If you choose to use my services/venue I own your ass.”
8. Common fine print of wedding venues are as follows: Base fee $1500 for 6 hours, if you want carpet on the floor $50, chairs and tables $500, linens $300, forks $100, other utensils are extra, a jug of water $10, light bulbs in the fixtures $50,TP in the bathroom $200, air fresheners in the bathroom $500, and to use your own caterer instead of our overpriced one, you must give a check for %15 percent of the catering bill to my evil organization (this last one is for real).
7. Even the dudes at the tuxedo places are passive aggressive and say things like, “Let me ask you a question: Do you not think that the colors you picked out with this vest and tie would look totally ugly?” or“Wouldn't you rather have what I've just suggested instead of what you just explicitly told me you want?”
6. Wedding industry drones think they have telepathic abilities and tell you exactly what you want and how you would like to have your wedding.
5. Everyone (even perfect strangers) gives you free advice (grit grit grit), even the guy at Men's Warehouse who is still waiting for the right girl to find him on e-harmony.
4. Wedding industry drones are like the storm troopers from Star Wars, only they don't have the same outfits and they technically aren't clones.
3. Finding a place to have your wedding for less than half a million dollars is like being on the Matrix, taking the blue pill, and finding how deep the rabbit hole goes, accept you can't wear cool outfits or beat up the people trying to control your mind.
2. Everyone tells you to by their crap that you could make for a lot less. Example: David's Bridal veil price: $135, vs. Making it your own damn self price: $25.00.
1. Many respectable churches will squeeze just as much, or even more money out of poor bride and grooms to be, or their families, as every one else. They will also be just as controlling and make you pay their pastor to marry and counsel you into matrimony, tell you not to have real rose petals, and make you give a pound of flesh if you break anything in the church or make any noises louder than a mouse screaming “Help me, Help me, I am in a box with a bunch of turtles on Meth.”

The Red String

This whole week my stomach has been upset, every morning I have awaken to the sensation of some sort of burning oil trying to escape my stomach through my throat. I have been fighting myself, attempting to keep my mind occupied, attempting to give my self amnesia, unsuccessfully attempting to not see the signs on the road that have said, “Engagement Ahead”. But, it was so difficult to ignore suspicious boyfriend who closed e-mails quickly and went on “mysterious” errands. Still I have to give him props for successfully laying doubt upon my firm feelings by placing little traps on twitter etc. This same week I started hyperventilating emotionally about our future financial situation. It all felt so unknown and frightening as I felt a growing fear of deficit grow in my mind. As I assessed my situation I realized more and more how little I felt I had to offer. So I'd ping pong between speculations about engagement and fears about life in general. So, when my sister, Christine, and friend Joanna, hopped into the car on our way to Multnomah Falls I tried to squelch all expectations of any sort down with all that stomach acid.
The road was windy and long because I had the smart idea of taking the scenic route, which only added to the nausea. Joanna asked me if I was OK in the back, but I knew her driving was not the cause of my stomach pain at this point, so I said I was, “Fine.” Christine, Joanna and I took pictures with the droves of people at the falls, endured the scenery for about ten minutes when Joanna suggested that we find a more secluded location because, “it was too crowded.”
We quickly drove to a little trail called Angel's Rest, near Bridal Veil Falls, and like good Asians we took lots of goofy pictures along the way. It was a strange experience to ascend to the unknown, knowning that something monumental could be just around the corner. First, every person that passed us on the way was eyed very suspiciously, but then dismissed quickly as I tried to apprehend just what the surprise ahead would be. I guess that is the trick with surprises, even if you know one is coming, you still don't really know how it will be packaged. My impatience gave in about ten minutes up when I started to begrudge Hans for making me walk so far, and at such a steep angle, to reach whatever he had planned. But about five minutes and two water breaks later (I am apparently out of shape) we reached a little tree that had a sign, unmistakably in Hans writing, “Please Don't Touch”. Then ahead was some red string that ran away through the bushes hugging the right side of the trail. It was there Christine and Joanna told me this is where they were leaving me, that I should simply follow the red string and I'd be fine. As I hugged them goodbye and thanked them for getting me this far I was almost embarrassed within myself that I had no idea really how to proceed from here. I think I even glanced back at them as I rounded the bend up and away from them on the path, searching for some answer in their comforting presence. But then it was simply me, the red yarn, and the way it looked against the vibrant green foliage next to the rocky path ahead. A hiker passed me by and I tried not to look like I was following a red string through the woods.
Finally the string crossed the path ahead and I half expected Hans to jump out from a tree at that point. But thankfully he didn't, the red string just lead into another thicker path. It was then, in the still forest, I realized my heart was pounding, and I had been almost running the entire way. So I took a breath and looked ahead at the string in the wood, I felt sort of frantic and I realized that all my guessing was giving me heartburn instead of the joy I wanted to skip down this little path with. I felt a tug on my heart and a whisper that said, “You can trust where he's taking you.” I thought about how afraid I was and how worried I'd been about our lives and I knew that God was using this path and this little string to show me how I'll be blessed if I trust him. So I relaxed and believed, and I walked ahead some more, pushing little branches out of my way. I finally saw Hans and his bright colored vest just through the bushes. He smiled and said, “Hi,” or something like that. He also helped me climb down some rocks, holding my hand so I wouldn't slip.
We arrived at the destination, a waterfall you can walk right up to that had step-like rocks jetting out of it and some funky moss that looked like big red hairs. Hans then ruffled in his pockets for a white piece of paper and unfolded it saying, “I”m going to read you a poem I've written you.” So he read it, and some parts I was a little distracted by the waterfall, but I got most of it enough to know get that at the end he was asking me to be is wife. That part he repeated and pulled out a small wooded box, which he opened to reveal a picture of a white flower he'd cut to reveal my mom's old ring renewed, shined up and changed color. I said, “Yes” with a big hug, that puffed out air from his poofy vest, and a couple of kisses. We enjoyed the next couple moments in relative silence sitting by the fall looking out into the forest, eating cheese and crackers, sipping some wine and discussing little things that weren't that important, but interesting to us at the time. How much I'd guessed, how long he'd waited for me, what we'd both been nervous about. I thought about how I was going to call him “fiance,” from now on, but that still hasn't sunk in yet.
Since that Saturday, I've been thinking about that red string, been thinking about it leading me down the path and how strange it felt to simply trust the placer of the string to lead me. It was strange how hard it was for me to just enjoy. Also, I think about Rahab who trusted the spies to honor their word by putting a red string out her window and was rewarded with, not only a new life, but a God who loved and care for her all her days. When remember the red yarn in the forest I remember the story of Jesus in the wedding at Cana, the story that Christine read me the day before the engagement. Here I was so afraid of some sort of lingering deficit, of a scarcity that hadn't even happened yet, and here was a story about running out of wine at a wedding. When there is a deficit what do we do? When there is a minus there is a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, a weight around your neck that tells you you are doomed, hopeless, this is a cancer that will grow within you and never leave, there is a finality in this deficit that appears like death.  And when you are a real adult, the first response is usually to ignore this sinking feeling, but after a while it grows and grows until it looms like the shadow of a UFO hovering above you, stalking your steps.  Until finally the real adult can do nothing but cry the tears they have been saving up, and ask the question they've needed to ask all along which is, Dad, why did you let this happen?  I say Dad and I mean Daddy in heaven. To which I have no confirmation on what he reply might be, but would venture a guess that what ever it is we need to hear it.  Perhaps he'll say, "this does not concern me, it is not time yet."  But, perhaps in the background of our lives, before we even know we are about to run dry, God is sending someone to fill up stone jars of water and turning that water into wine.  

Day One, Day One, Start Over Again

Everyday I begin with trepidation, reborn and shivering, everything is magnified or muted. I am lost and want to be productive, helpful, though it is hard to just do those things for my own edification. I lack the discipline to do good for good’s sake. Often loose touch with God. But, when I stop he says, “Follow me,” and I am often reluctant and frightened. I have this idea I think from God to just walk around the city on the max go down town and pray so I’d like to do that, each day seems to fill up with my own little tasks or distractions and I haven’t done it yet. So my goal, on Monday to do that beginning I guess in the morning sometime and come home in the afternoon. It be nice to have a friend to do things with like this, or tennis, but for now I think ti would be good to go in alone. It reminds me of Hong Kong, newness, when all of life feels like a risk.
I miss the wide-open space of the Rez, how easy it is to feel free and full of the sky. It feels like here everything is so closed in and hilly that the expanse of heaven has shrunk. But it is just my view of heaven that has shrunk not heaven itself. I really miss being able to have Christine close and her companionship, just staying up and talking into the night, or playing games, or watching TV, mostly I do that alone now and it feels so much more empty. My hope for this place I don’t know how to locate, so many things I can’t locate inside of myself, and still I feel blessed perhaps guilty for the blessing of such a insulated life and at the same time I’m not sure I enjoy this lifestyle as much as the one I had before. The city is exciting and scary, the traffic makes me cuss and hit my car, but I am starting to adjust. I guess this is what they call culture shock. I miss brown people and not feeling like I have to look nice to fit in. I hate not being able to walk to the store and being able to not talk to anyone if I don’t have to. Its weird, I keep expecting to see the same people I used to, to wake up and talk to Christine, or get a random call from Corey, or Kris Sohappy asking me for a ride. It’s like I half expect to show up at youth group next month and unlock the stinky Presbyterian Church building and see James, Tino and Caleb waiting for me to let them in.
Sometimes I feel so useless here, like I’m just taking up space and not affecting any sort of common good. It’s hard being a busy bee when you can’t see the flowers and miss the smell of honey.
Still I am looking forward to being in a different kind of community, with some friends from college we are starting a little small group. Also, the green trees are helpful, I really need growing things to survive spiritually, even if they are seeds that haven’t sprouted yet. I think I need to find some grass and stare at it long enough to see a couple bugs. Usually that lightens my heart, seeing little ants or flying things helps me to relax. Those sort of pictures of God help the feelings of inadequacy and fear subside and remind me that the Creator loves the flying things and he loves me more (not sure why). I’ve been reading this Anne Lamott book and she says something like, when all else fails, ask for help and follow directions. Which is helpful for me, but even before that, my insides usually need to be reworked, cracked open enough to let out the muddy gunk, allow the wax out of my soul’s ears so it can hear the million different ways God is saying, “I love you.” I am scared and nervous about life right now in all this newness. Most of the time I freak out and then finally get to the point where I have to choose between my freakish existence and simply believing that, one way or another, my Father in Heaven will be faithful, as he has been over the last 24 years of my life, and particularly the last three. In Psalm 37 it says, “Dwell in the land and feed on His faithfulness.” That I guess is what I hope to do, as scary as it is sometimes.