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Models of Faith

arabic letter n

Today, the voice from Sojourners Verse and Voice blog:

“If nothing else, prayer was the glue that enabled my freedom, an inner freedom first and later the miracle of being released during a war in which the regime had no real incentive to free us. It didn’t make sense, but faith did.” – James Foley, journalist who was executed by Islamic State jihadists this week, on his captivity in Libya in 2011, as written in Marquette Magazine

Again, the prayers of the faithful remind me that when nothing else makes sense, walking with God in faith frees and heals. I will remember James Foley, not for how he died, but for the memory of his life and his witness in a very dark place. May his parents, family and friends find comfort knowing he is in the arms of a loving God. Those left behind who shared space, indeed were shackled, with him tell stories to us of a man of God, a man who encouraged them even as he was singled out for the most harsh treatment.

I never had the chance to meet James Foley, and now I never will. There is another man of God whom I know only through the stories told by others. I will never meet him either, although I hope to walk in the city where he walked and is buried in November.

Father Frans van der Lugt was a Dutch priest, a Jesuit, who lived nearly fifty years in Syria, serving Christians and Muslims alike. He first came to my attention when I heard about him in May, 2013. The Christian community of Homs, Syria, which numbered in the tens of thousands before the war began in 2011, had been decimated. Many had been killed and many, many more had fled. About 75 remained and Fr. van der Lugt stayed with them. None of them were Catholics, but that did not matter to Fr. Frans. He stayed with them through all the days that Homs was under siege: through bombardment, through lack of utilities, through the hunger that ensued. I saw a video of him pleading to the world in Arabic to remember that they were still there. He was a shepherd, caring for his flock, and they knew his voice.

He stayed with them until he was abruptly called home to Jesus on April 7, 2014. He was killed by extremists, the same kind that took James Foley’s life in the middle of the desert this week. It was not the same group, not the same manner, but it was the same hatred, the same lack of humanity. And I know the grief of God above was the same, too.

I don’t know if my faith will ever be tested this way. I pray that it never is. But if it ever is, I want to be found encouraging those with me. I want to be found sharing what I have with those who have less. I want to be raising my voice so others will hear and respond. I want to be a witness to my God, father and creator, savior and redeemer, counselor and guide. I want to be found faithful, faithful as James Foley and Fr. Frans van der Lugt.

There are other models of faith to me in those places, still serving like Fr. Frans: Assis Mikhael in Sidon; Preacher Rula in Tripoli; Assis Ramsey in Zahle; Assis Hadi in Minyara; Joseph, Adeeb, George and Fadi, all pastors in Beirut; Najla and Mary, preachers in Beirut; Assis Boutros in Damascus; Assis Maan in Mahardeh; Assis Saoud in Hesekeh; Assis Firas in Kamischli; Assis Mofid in Homs; Assis Haitham, Assis Magdy, Elder Zuhair, Assis Farouk, Assis Magid, His Grace Patriarch Louis Sako, Saidna Habib, Msgr. Emad, Father Aram, Father Turkum, all in Iraq. These are the ones I know and have worshiped with. These are the models I pray for regularly. They are my friends, my brothers and sisters, my heroes of faith.

My friend Assis Salam Hanna at the grave of Fr. Frans van der Lugt in Homs, Syria, May, 2014.

My friend Assis Salam Hanna at the grave of Fr. Frans van der Lugt in Homs, Syria, May, 2014.

Several weeks after Fr. Frans was murdered, the two-year siege of Homs was lifted. My friend Assis (Rev.) Salam Hanna posted this picture at his grave. He also posted a video of the church bell being rung at the Evangelical (Presbyterian) Church of Homs, where his father Samuel had served as pastor for decades. Salam and Samuel were fellow ministers with Fr. Frans in Homs.

The Evangelical Presbyterian Church of Homs, Syria, May, 2014.

The Evangelical Presbyterian Church of Homs, Syria, May, 2014.

That church building, like many others in Homs, suffered damage during the siege, but the church body had returned to start repairing it even before their own homes. With God’s blessing Steve and I will walk in that place in November when we return to Syria with a team of fellow sojourners.

And this will be my prayer (thanks again to Sojourners) that I will pray at Fr. Frans’ grave:

O God our deliverer, we thank you that you have not left us alone. Thank you for the Spirit who intercedes for us. Give us wisdom beyond ourselves that we might see the path you have set before us. Grant us words that bring life to the broken, the suffering, the addicted, the lonely, and those who long for the fulfillment of your kingdom. Amen.– From Common Prayer

And I would add “those who long for the fulfillment of your kingdom, like your faithful sons James and Frans.”

Amen.

 

 

Generations of prayer

 

1962. My Aunt Carolyn Thirtle (still a Franciscan nun, she was known as Sr. Edith Ann here), my grandmother Bea Thirtle and my mom, Jeanne Marie Thirtle Prescott.

1962. My Aunt Carolyn Thirtle (still a Franciscan nun, she was known as Sr. Edith Ann here), my grandmother Bea Thirtle and my mom, Jeanne Marie Thirtle Prescott.


It’s dated April 14, 1961, and it came in the mail yesterday with other treasure from the past. It’s a letter that my great uncle Martin Chicoine wrote to his aunt, Leona, sometime after his mother, my great-grandma Cora Chicoine died. It’s four full pages of typewritten narrative by a talented man I never knew. (He died about four months after he wrote this.) He spent his career as a journalist, partly with the Voice of America. I have been to his grave at Arlington National Cemetery and made a rubbing of the headstone. But in this letter (and there will have to be another post about it!) Uncle Martin explained something to me about myself.

Letter from Uncle MartinYou didn’t read about any airplane crashes, so you know we landed safely. I know Mother must still be praying (it was a habit she couldn’t break—even if the Lord told her to stop and take it easy, I’m sure she’d slip behind a cloud, recite a couple on the sly).

I must tell you something amusing. When we got back to Omaha and went through her pictures and prayer cards, Lorraine found a little book. It contained her various prayer cards which she recited every night for her children, relatives, friends and, I suspect, quite a few strangers including some colored ones. (Please excuse this 50-year old observation from someone of a past generation. jpb) Lorraine was flipping through this list and she said, “I wonder who’s going to pray for ALL these people now?”

Bea was sitting slumped in a chair and after a long time, she mumbled: “I guess I’ll have to.”

Lorraine and Bea were Martin’s sisters. I spent a wonderful week with great aunt Lorraine in her New York City apartment when I was young. It was magical! She and great uncle Bill took me to their daughter’s wedding at West Point, where Kathy and Terry processed out of the chapel under the crossed swords of academy cadets. They even cut the wedding cake with Uncle Bill’s saber! My third-grade self was totally entranced.

Bea was my grandmother; we called her Grandma Thirtle when we were younger. It was always an amazing treat to get to spend the night or the weekend with her. My favorite place that she lived in my growing up years was in an apartment just off 33rd and Cuming here in Omaha, right across the street from what was then Omaha Technical High School. She had the most amazing collection of salt and pepper shakers, and she would let us take them out of the cupboard to dust them or play very carefully with them. I still have one very special set in my possession.

Grandma was a very devout Roman Catholic and I know she always hoped all of her children and grandchildren would be, too. When she lived in those Nottingham Apartments we would walk to church, up the hill to St. Cecilia’s Cathedral, one of the most beautiful churches in Omaha. To hear a high mass done there with all the music echoing off the stone walls is a heavenly experience that I still get to have once in a while and it always takes me back to being there with Grandma.

But what I learned about myself in this letter from Uncle Martin was about praying over those cards. On those nights I spent with Grandma at her apartment, and what she modeled for me when she eventually came to live with us, was that deep prayer life. Her mother had prayed every night over those cards and other tokens that Uncle Martin and Aunt Lorraine found in her things. It was important to Cora Chicoine to lift her family, her friends and even people whom she hardly knew, up to God almighty. She prayed for their health, their joy, their protection, their souls. If she was like her daughter Bea, my grandmother, she must have done it every night and her family noticed.

Who would do it now that she was gone? (I think my favorite part about this letter is Uncle Martin’s thought that his mother was still praying for them from heaven!) And my grandmother, her daughter, said, “I guess I’ll have to.” And whether or not she felt that it was a burden or that she was the only one who would possibly assume this mantle, she did. And I noticed. I remember Grandma’s prayer book that would sit on the table by her chair. Every night after she turned off the television, she would pick up that prayer book and go all the way through it. Those cards that were her mother’s plus the ones she had added to it over the years were stuck between all the pages. She would read a prayer from the book and then pray over the card that was there. Every page. Every card. Every night. Before she went to bed. The pages were worn from the use.

After she came to live with us in the house on 105th Street, she had another card that she added. It was the one from her own daughter’s funeral, the one for my mom.

I have never thought about my nightly prayers in terms of “I guess I’ll have to.” But I love knowing that they continue in my heart from my grandma’s and from her mother’s before that. It’s a privilege to pray for family. For friends. For those I have yet to meet. For those suffering in places many time zones from me. Every night, even though some nights there are so many I fall asleep in the middle of one. I am glad when the Lord tells me to take a break now and then.

It explains to me why it is so important to me to have the touchstones of paper memories: photos, articles, prayers in Aramaic, this letter from Uncle Martin, the things my travel journal is stuffed with. Each of them evokes a person or a place that I pray for. I believe God honors each of them and so I don’t stop. They will be as worn as the pages of Grandma’s prayer book some day.

Grandma Thirtle had a difficult life. She worked hard for her children after her husband left her. She didn’t have many things, other than those salt and pepper shakers. She didn’t get to travel. She buried two children. But she walked a journey with God that inspires me still and I am grateful to Uncle Martin today for showing me how I am like her.

May God Bless Me This Way Too

St Francis

May God bless you with discomfort at easy answers, half truths and superficial relationships, so you may live deep within your heart. May God bless you with anger at injustice, oppression and exploitation of people, so that you may work for justice, freedom and peace. May God bless you with tears to shed for those who suffer from pain, rejection, starvation and war, so that you may reach out your hand to comfort them and turn their pain into joy. And may God bless you with enough foolishness to believe you can make a difference in the world, so you can do what others claim cannot be done.
– Franciscan Prayer

A woman stopped into church today with a flier she wanted us to post. It’s for a prayer vigil for Pastor Saeed Abedini, a reformed pastor in Iran who has been in a horrible prison since September 26, 2012, because of his faith. Folks in our church have asked for prayers for Pastor Saeed several times, I told her. They would want to know. So I have joined her Facebook group, Nebraska Prays for Pastor Saeed and the Persecuted Church, to get regular updates and to join with others who are praying for his release.

September 26, 2014, will mark two years of imprisonment for him and there will be a prayer gathering in Lincoln, Nebraska, at the west plaza of the capitol at 7:00 p.m. People across the world will be praying for his release. If it is possible for me to attend I will, but I will also honor her request to let as many people know as possible. You can read more about it here:

http://beheardproject.com/saeed

She was directed to me because of my heart for the people and the church in the Middle East, now under pressure in so many places. She seemed weary with her task. She had tried at her previous church and her current church to get the word out. One response was, “That’s the weekend of the men’s retreat.” That’s nice. Maybe the men of a church in Omaha could devote a small period of time during their retreat to pray for a brother imprisoned in another land for shepherding others who declare faith in Jesus. Or maybe not.

She seemed weary and said, “I’m just one person.” And that is where I tried to encourage her. “You are one person called by God for this purpose!” He doesn’t call the equipped, so the saying goes, he equips the called.

I am just one person, too. And yet God has placed a huge vision on my heart to help bring relief to the church in Syria and in Iraq in their work with refugees.

2 Timothy 1:7 says, “For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of instruction.” (That is quoted from the Aramaic Bible in plain English. If Aramaic was good enough for Jesus, it humbles me to quote it here.)

He has taken my former timid, shy, scared self and given me power and love to do his work. I am walking into that these days with my big project. I have been bold to ask those gifted in ways I am not to help, and they have said “yes.” I may be only one woman, but I have the gift of community and I believe this project will succeed because it is not my vision, but God’s.

God has blessed me in the ways that the Franciscan prayer above puts into words. My tears don’t stop, my anger builds, I have grievous discomfort over what I see and read on the news every day. And I am foolish enough to believe that one woman can make a difference.

The Lord’s Prayer

Arabic Lord's Prayer

Every night for as long as I can remember, (and I can remember a long, long time back!) I have prayed the Lord’s Prayer before going to sleep. It used to come in a long litany of prayers starting with, “Now I lay me down to sleep…” and ending with “Glory be to the Father, and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost…” And in the middle of all of those prayers came my own personal petitions of, “God bless this and God bless that. God protect him and her…” through multiple verses and choruses until I had named every family member, every cousin, aunt, uncle, friend… It was usually a very long time before I could actually fall asleep.

But the Lord’s Prayer, the “Our Father” as I called it, was the main point for me. The words of that prayer have brought me comfort in sorrow. They taught me a new way to pray one night, as if I really meant it. The night Jana and Susan were hit by that train 31 years ago, I finally listened to my heart as I said the words, “Thy will be done.” Did I really mean that? And it forced me to come to God in total humility as I prayed for his will to be done in the lives of my two sisters. I didn’t pray for their survival or a perfect recovery or that they would be without pain. I prayed that “thy will be done” and for me to accept that, even if they didn’t survive. That was one of the biggest lessons in my life.

The words of that prayer have joined me in community. I have prayed it in English while others around me were praying in Spanish, Italian, Czech, German and Arabic. I have been in the midst of the body of Christ all over this globe and been amazed at the wonder of its poetic meter. No matter what language the body was praying in, we always ended our phrases at the same point. Miraculous? Maybe. Purposeful creation? I’m pretty sure!

The first time I went to Lebanon and Syria, Dr. Emily Brink, one of our faithful women, brought us some songs to learn that they would sing in Arabic in the church. One of them was “Abana in Heaven,” the Lord’s prayer in Arabic. This is how I imagine we will all sing it in heaven someday:

I close my eyes and I’m there. Hauntingly beautiful, isn’t it?

But it was in Iraq this past March that someone else gave me an even more wonderful picture of this prayer, and so I would just close my post today with the blog I wrote that day in Basrah as we were preparing to leave our family there once more.

The Bread We Need (March 19, 2014)

We have come through our last full day in Basrah with an ending culminating in the centuries old tradition of baking naan, the Arabic flatbread served with schwarma. Bread. It is served at every meal. Daily. And it was the focus of Meryl’s devotion this evening. The Lord’s Prayer, found in Matthew 6:9-18: so familiar! Say it with us now, Give us this day our daily bread.

Meryl led us through several translations of this line from the familiar one above from the Greek to the one they use here in Arabic: Give us our bread sufficient for the day. It’s interesting how the focus changes from one of time to one of amount; the difference between a western understanding and an eastern understanding. And when the Greek is translated backward to Syriac, so close to the Aramaic which was the language of Jesus, it comes out this way: Give us today the bread that doesn’t run out. It’s the promise of sustaining life. It’s a prayer to deliver us from fear. It’s the vision of the great banquet with Messiah. It’s communion.

From our visit with the Chaldean church earlier this week, to our visit with the dear Armenian Orthodox Abuna (Father) Turkum today, to every moment with the Basrah Evangelical Church, it has been a time of holy communion.

Basrah crossThe benediction for today came at the end of our schwarma – our communion – this night. We shared words of gratefulness, words of love – the words that families share when they don’t know the next time they will gather. Hugs all around! Kisses galore! One more backward glance at sweet new babies, playing children, nodding elders. And as we left this place with gifts in hand and hearts full of pictures and stories, we walked one more time under the light of the cross at the top of the church. May it shine in this place for generations to come.

Inshallah

Burning Man

Mike at the Norden ChuteI don’t really have to cook anymore because I married a man with a passion for cooking. Don’t get me wrong; I can cook. I learned from some great teachers like my Aunt Suzy and Aunt Heddy. Good stuff too, like homemade spaghetti sauce and lemon chicken. But Steve loves to cook and who am I to get in his way?

But baking is not his passion so I still do that. I maintain that baking is how I first caught Steve’s attention. I baked every Saturday for the three years I served on the Adult Education Committee at church. I didn’t feel like I could add anything spiritually or theologically to that team, but I could make sure that those attending classes every Sunday for those three years had something freshly baked to feed their bodies while they were filling their souls. I’m pretty sure that’s how I came into Steve’s line of sight.

Baking cookiesSo today my kitchen looked like this so I could make these for my little brother Mike.Fresh baked cookies

 

 

 

 

 

Mike is heading off to his first Burning Man Festival in the desert in Nevada next week. He tells me it’s about self-expression and self-reliance, so could I please make him some cookies to take along? So I expressed myself through baking so he could rely on himself why he bakes in the desert. It seemed to make sense at the time.

Don’t tell him, but I would actually do anything for Mike. He has grown into a person that I never expected he would based on our younger selves. He answers all my questions about computers at which he is self taught (Macs! Only Macs!) He can build a house and repair anything in one. He can ride a horse and herd cattle and call cattle and brand them, too. He learned all that (not the computers) on a ranch in western Nebraska in his teens. He can fix cars. He can and does run our family printing business as the production manager. He can hula-hoop and do yoga. He knows the entire Frank Zappa catalog, along with anything related to Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young collectively and in all their combinations.

He teases me for being a red wine drinker and for living in a Federal style house. He worries when I travel to the Middle East. He is always there for Jana when she needs him and won’t let her get away with feeling sorry for herself. He has a big heart when it comes to his sisters, even when it may not look that way to others. WE know!

As a young kid, Mike was what we called a burn-out back in our day. He smoked, tobacco and other things. He drank. He skipped school. I remember once coming home from church headed south on 105th Street with the whole family (except Mike) and passing what looked like our other car going north. I said to Daddy as we went home after passing the VW squareback with the Road Runner decal on the back, “I think that was our car, but no one was driving it!” Someone was. It was Mike and he was maybe thirteen at the time. He ducked as we passed on the street.

I was home from college one summer and stayed up late to watch television. Mike came in about one in the morning and headed to the bathroom. He was very sick and I was so worried about him I went to wake up Daddy. Daddy came and stood outside the bathroom and listened. After about a minute, he knocked on the door and said, “We will talk about this tomorrow!” I didn’t understand until the next day. (I have not always been such a slow learner, just a bit naive.)

Anyway, I think it is a miracle that Mike lived long enough to grow up, but he did. He is an amazing person. I know he is my brother and I am slightly prejudiced, but it’s true. And I don’t know what our family would be without him.

I know we wouldn’t be as close. With all the trauma we have experienced in our lives from the early death of our mom, to an evil abusive stepmother, to sisters who were hit by a train and survived, to the death of our dad and the murder of our baby sister, we should be a family that has moved as far from each other as possible. But Mike is the strong one who moves us closer together. Mike is the one who organizes family canoe trips on the Niobrara where we camp together, canoe together, prepare family meals and watch movies under the stars. (That’s him hanging out over the Norden Chute in that picture above.) He is the one who has organized our new tradition of going out to Lake McConaughy at Christmas time to make great family memories. He gets me to make cookies so he can take them out in the desert and share them where they are needed.

The best thing that Mike has taught me in this life is to get off of the Interstate and take the two lane roads. There is no need to speed to your ultimate destination and miss all the amazing scenery along the way. Enjoy the journey. He used to just head out on the road and take the least traveled one to where it ended as dirt tracks that tapered off in a field somewhere. You have to stop for cattle…or buffalo. You’ve got to open your eyes and look and if you travel at 75 mph you will miss so much. You’ve got to get out of the city so you can look up at night and see the stars and watch the International Space Station orbit the earth. You’ve got to pull the canoe over on the Niobrara so you can climb up the stairstep falls. If you just speed by with the current, you will never find them.

As he heads out to the desert next week, I know he will get there and express himself in a drum circle or a fire dance under the stars. I am positive he will point out the ISS to new friends that he makes, people that he will share those cookies with. I know he will take time on the journey to look.

I am confident that he is totally capable of self-reliance, but I am oh so glad that he has chosen to remain in this family and to let us rely on him. I am so glad that we get to share the journey with him.

So burn the man, Mike! But come back…we’ve got to figure out the McConaughy trip and we need you to do it.

 

1000 words

I was looking for that picture of us as small children with our rabbits yesterday and I found it. It was a good memory to share. I have so many pictures that tell a story just by looking at them. It really is true that a picture is worth a thousand words.

And then I found this one:

Cathy and me in my bedroom with Tiny Tim Carlos Chico Pisarkewicz Prescott.

Cathy and me in my bedroom with Tiny Tim Carlos Chico Pisarkewicz Prescott.

I stopped to ponder it for awhile yesterday and then I showed it to Steve last night. “There is so much going on in this photo,” I said to him.

First of all, there is that room. It’s the basement bedroom in our house on 105th Street in Omaha. Daddy and Mommy bought that house in September, 1965. There were seven of us kids at that time and it was a small three bedroom house. They built an addition in the spring that included one bedroom (a small master), a bathroom to go with the only other one in there, and an informal dining room off the small kitchen, where we ate our meals. Mom died that March, never really able to enjoy the house or raise her family.

But that basement bedroom became a place of so much fun! After Daddy remarried and Heidi, Heather and Greg joined us, we became a family of ten children living in that slightly larger house. At one time, five of us girls shared that bedroom in the basement and had epic games of blind man’s bluff where only the blind man could touch the floor. The other four had to go from bed to dresser to desk with a swing through the closet to keep away from becoming the blind man. That is a story in itself.

But on the walls of that room in this picture is the wallpaper I picked out. There used to be some gray paneled wallboard and I thought it needed some color. We bought that wallpaper on a sale table at JC Penney. There was no sample, just rolls of what seemed a good choice of green and lavender. It went with my sheets and Daddy said, “Okay.” We didn’t ever see the pattern until he unrolled it to put it up. And then we had to live with it, but hey, it was the 1970s and we thought it was cool.

Then there is the bed in that photo. It is one of a pair of twin beds that were joined top to bottom for a long time as bunks. I never got to sleep on the top one, that was Jana’s, but I have great memories of the cave I made the lower bunk with draped blankets and all my stuffed animals lined up inside there with me. When those beds were moved to the basement, they couldn’t be bunks because the ceiling was too low. It is scratched and worn in this picture from doodles and stickers that had been removed when someone else got the bed. Such stories it could tell…

I crocheted that afghan, granny squares, in one of my early attempts at the needleart. I always loved it. And you can see the hint of a green quilt there, too. That was my very first quilt! I made it from green sheets on a treadle sewing machine a decade before I really learned how to quilt. Sewing on that machine which I had acquired from an estate sale run by my cousins made me think of my mom. She had a similar machine that she made clothes on for us when we were very small.

And look at that awesome stereo! I bought that with my high school graduation gift money before I went to Lincoln to go to college. It cost $75 new at Target AND it had an eight track player in it. For whatever reason, it was so cool to have an eight track and it didn’t seem to bother us when the track switched in the middle of a song. Who would put up with that now?

That dog was Tiny and he was my dog, even though we all picked him out from the Humane Society. When he came home with us when I was a sophomore in high school, he never slept anywhere else but with me. He would crawl under the covers with me at night and curl up in the warmth at my feet. This picture had to be taken when I was home for the summer, because once I came back from Lincoln for good, I had a room upstairs.

But the thing that really made this picture so valuable to me yesterday is that Cathy, my baby sister, is sitting down there on the bed with me and Tiny. I have no recollection of when or how this picture came to be taken, or even who took it. But I am struck that Cathy and I are in it together. I remember making that blouse I have on and I remember those John Denver-style glasses I always wore. I remember the wallpaper and the bed and the afghan and the quilt and the dog.

I don’t remember that day or that moment, but I do remember Cathy’s smile. This was before she ran away from home because of the pain caused by our stepmother, she who is not to be named. This was before her health failed and she lost a lung. This is before her multiple times in the hospital as a patient, called her to be a healer and go to nursing school. This was before she had a stroke at 40 that robbed her of speech and good use of her hands. This was before she moved away from us to California and crossed paths with the man who murdered her. This was before we got word that his competency hearing has been delayed again and some form of justice for her death seventeen months ago is put off for at least two more months. This was before the millions of tears we have shed since her loss on March 24, 2013.

But there is a moment when we were younger sister and older sister, sitting in a cherished room on a bed full of memories with our sweet little Chihuahua terrier mix.

And that is the 1000 words that this picture tells for me on this day.

Bunnies

Baby bunnyI admit it. I love bunnies. Every time I look out the kitchen window into our yard that contains our tomato and raspberry gardens, I expect to see at least one. Sometimes there are as many as four or five out there and it just makes me smile. I will stand at the window and say “Hello, bunny!” as if they can hear me. Apparently they can’t because they never respond.

We have had many bunnies in that yard since we moved here twelve years ago and every year there is at least one crop of baby bunnies. Our dog Yoshi (she has since moved on to the Rainbow Bridge) was a master bunny hunter. I won’t go into the time we found just a bunny head in the sill of our back window, but just take it as proof that she could catch them. One Mother’s Day about seven years ago she swallowed a whole nest of baby bunnies whole. I felt so terrible! Poor bunnies! Poor bunny mother, and Mother’s Day to boot.

We never really had much trouble in the main backyard while we had Yoshi and Reese, but once in a while a bunny would get back there and eat roses, hostas, coneflowers. You name it, they chewed it down, and that we could not stand. We found a way to defend against their entrance by clipping chicken wire all around the fenced perimeter and that worked pretty well. We have a construction project going on right now and that has lowered our defensive bunny shield, so Steve has had the live trap going most of the summer. Suffice it to say that three bunnies have been transferred to new, undisclosed locations in the public area of our city.

We had a new crop of babies this year. A mama bunny made a nest in a flowerpot right on our back porch. On our twelfth wedding anniversary as Steve and I were going out to celebrate, we must have scared them as we left the house and five babies jumped out! It was amazing to see them hopping all over the place, and mama kept a watchful distance. I am pretty sure the three that we moved to a new home were part of this batch. That picture at the top is one who just stays in the safe yard. And again, whenever I see it out there, “Hello, bunny!” is my greeting through the window.

I know why I love bunnies so much and it goes back to our childhood. Grandpa Piskac raised bunnies in his garage. (It was many years later that I learned it was for his DINNER!) That garage was a magical place for us, especially with those rabbit hutches situated on the south side. There was an earthy smell in there that was so amazing.

Mike, me, Heather, Susan and Heidi. Prescotts with our bunnies. The white one is Cuddles and she was mine. The big black one was Midnight and he was Heidi's.

Mike, me, Heather, Susan and Heidi. Prescotts with our bunnies. The white one is Cuddles and she was mine. The big black one was Midnight and he was Heidi’s.

Daddy would not let us have a dog or a cat when we were growing up, but for some reason he said “yes” to rabbits. Heidi got the first one, a big black rabbit that she named Midnight. We could put a harness on him and take him for a walk! He was beautiful. For several months he was our only rabbit, but one Easter we went to a local pet store and they had a whole batch of babies. “Please Daddy? Can’t we get them?” We must have had very imploring eyes and voices because at least three more rabbits joined the family after that. Mine was a white bunny with black ears, one of which was torn. Nobody wanted her but me. Her name was Cuddles. I remember Heather named hers Grey Shadow, but those are the only names I remember.

Heather and Susan with the bunnies and their hutch.

Heather and Susan with the bunnies and their hutch.

With his cousin Joe’s help, Daddy built them an awesome hutch and we learned how to care for them. We cleaned their hutch, we fed them Purina rabbit chow and we just loved them. They lived in the backyard, eventually under the weeping willow tree at the end of the driveway.

One spring day about a year later there was a tornado warning after school and we were so worried about those bunnies! We brought them inside into the basement where they would be safe with us. We had an old, large dollhouse frame and we turned it on its side. It made a great high-walled container for those bunnies while the tornado sirens wailed outside. They were safe and so were we.

Several weeks later Cuddles gave birth to a new family. All my dad could do was roll his eyes and sigh. I’m pretty sure I said, “Hello, bunnies!”

Thin Places

Thin places are those places where you can just reach out and grab a hold of God or feel that he has grabbed you in a big bear hug. I love those hugs and try to give as many as I can. I gave one to Julia Ann, also known as Peg, yesterday, and she hugged me back. I received an embrace from Jesus yesterday in the arms of an elderly lady with beautiful white hair. A thin place. The veil was torn. The divine invaded the mundane in an incarnational and relational way as we would say here at West Hills Church.

I have experienced those places on my holy trips to Lebanon and Syria and Iraq as well.

The Aziz family, refugees from Iraq living in Aleppo, Syria, August, 2010.

The Aziz family, refugees from Iraq living in Aleppo, Syria, August, 2010.

Can you imagine being invited into the home of an Iraqi refugee family in Aleppo, Syria? Neither could have I, but it happened. The Aziz family had found their way to Syria to escape the sectarian violence of Iraq due to our invasion and subsequent war in 2003. Why would they invite in the source of their loss and pain? Why would they use their meager treasure to prepare a banquet for us? Why would they let us share their dreams of a bigger and better life for their lively son Martin? Why indeed. The hospitality they offered to three American women around that table in a place not their home was the communion table that we are all invited to. It was a thin place.

Sanaa Koreh in front of what used to be the nursing school at Hamlin Hospital. Her vision is to remodel it and give it life again as a nursing school. And when Sanaa sees it in her head, it usually happens!

Sanaa Koreh in front of what used to be the nursing school at Hamlin Hospital. Her vision is to remodel it and give it life again as a nursing school. And when Sanaa sees it in her head, it usually happens!

I have experienced that same thin place in the mountains above Beirut at a place called Hamlin Hospital. Started by missionaries to treat those with tuberculosis, it is now an elder care facility run by Jesus incarnate, also known as Sanaa Koreh. In the most holistic and gentle ways possible, Sanaa and her staff care for those near the end of life whose families cannot bear the burden anymore. Christian, Muslim, Druze, it doesn’t matter. Each is a soul loved with beautiful mountain air, fed with homemade food that was grown in the gardens, clothed, sheltered and loved amid music, games and play. When I have been to Hamlin, I have walked as close to heaven as I can get in this world.

Our presbyterian church home in Basrah with radio antenna.

Our presbyterian church home in Basrah with radio antenna.

In Iraq – in Basrah and Kirkuk – I have heard the stories of an amazing radio ministry that reaches out kilometers across the country to share the good news with those far and near. One of those stories was about a young jihadi who had been bent on killing his own sister for what he thought were violations of some religious code. And then he heard the story of the woman about to be stoned for adultery. You remember it, it’s in the book of John. “Let any among you without sin cast the first stone.” And they all walked away. And so did this young man. He walked right into the arms of Jesus because of what he heard on that radio station. He is now a pastor, working to plant churches. And I imagine he is somewhere in the north, caring for those who have fled from the fires of hell in the form of ISIS.

And another story of the radio ministry: the signals from the broadcast tower itself miraculously kept a car bomb from exploding in front of the church. It was abandoned there, ready to be exploded by remote device because the driver who was supposed to blow himself up with the church got scared and ran. The robots of the bomb squad showed up and were stopped in their tracks too. It was only after the police learned that the radio signal was being broadcast at that time that they figured it out. The frequency of the signal had stopped the remote blaster from working as well as the robots to defuse the bomb. All came out well in the end. Saved by a holy frequency! A thin place indeed.

I know when I go back to Lebanon and Syria in November I will have these encounters again, feeling those embraces from a savior who walks with me, invites me to his table in communion with family and shows me over and over again that the promises in that holy word are true.

I wrote this poem in Basrah in 2012. I come back to its message time and time again, like yesterday when Julia Ann, also known as Peg, tore down that veil once more.

“Thin Places in Him” (11-12-12, Basrah, Iraq)

Sometimes we get a chance to see
A glimpse of heaven, gloriously
Where life mundane and life divine
Come close together, intertwine
We stand upon such sacred ground
We experience love that is so profound
It happens when his word is spoken
It happens when the bread is broken
It happens when FM radiowaves
From towers emit and lives do save
It happens in him and nowhere else
It happens when we forget ourselves
And look into another’s life
And share their joy and share their strife
When we find these places thin
When we choose to enter in
We look upon his loving face
We feel the warmth of his embrace
There is no time, there is no space
There is only His amazing grace!

 

So Jesus walked into church today

Peace hands worldI get a daily email from Sojourners called verse and voice. This was today’s verse:

O Lord, you have searched me and known me. You know when I sit down and when I rise up; you discern my thoughts from far away. You search out my path and my lying down, and are acquainted with all my ways. – Psalm 139:1-3

And this was the prayer that went with it:

All-powerful God, we pray that you might send us your Holy Spirit. May that Holy Spirit help us to model a pace of life that strives to keep in step with the movement of the Spirit. May the comfortable be discomforted by Your Spirit. May the afflicted find rest in your Spirit. God, help us walk together in our journey here on earth. Amen.

So many days these verses and prayers cut right to the center of what is on my mind and heart for that day. It can be a bit unnerving to think that others know what I need prayer for! But it happens so often.

Today’s were no different, but I didn’t really give them too much thought until Julia Ann walked into the office.

She was elderly, with a great head of short white hair that in my current state of active alopecia – handfuls comb out of my head every morning – made me a bit envious. It’s quiet here today because most of our staff are out at a conference. The day-to-day office worker bees were here though: the support staff! I happened to be walking through the copy room for something and she came in through the other door. I asked if I could help her and she said she came to look at our church because an old friend had invited her to a class and she wanted to know where she would be going. I smiled and said “That’s great!” (I was also thinking what a good friend she has and wouldn’t our pastor be glad to know that our people are inviting others in!) And then it got interesting…

I asked her the name of her friend. The poor woman searched her brain and it came up empty. She was so embarrassed that this blankness came over her and she just couldn’t come up with it. We both laughed and she said, “Don’t tell her I forgot her name!” I said, “Don’t worry. I can’t tell her if I don’t know it either!” It was just so funny. She couldn’t think of the name of the class or the name of the friend or the friend’s husband and out of that came the most interesting conversation.

In trying to come up with the name of the friend, she went through how they knew each other from years ago and then lost touch. Not too long ago their paths crossed again and they were talking about church which prompted the invitation. But then she went on to tell me about how her dad died when she was little and her mom worked all day, every day. She was of that generation when days off and five-day workweeks weren’t the norm. A teacher of hers would take her to Sunday school and teach her the bible stories we all know. She taught her about Jesus. She was given a bible with her name engraved on it. She raised her own children in the church and they were baptized. She was widowed about five years ago. It was a long conversation we had, about thirty minutes. And all the time she was so befuddled, trying to remember the name of her friend.

She told me her name was Peg and I introduced myself, Julie. She said, “That’s my name too! Julia, but everyone calls me ‘Peg.'” I said my middle name was Ann with no “e” on the end, and she said hers too! It was just such a weird thing. And again, she kept trying to pull the name of her friend who had invited her to West Hills out of her brain, but it just wouldn’t come.

She went on to tell me that after her husband died, she remembered that little bible she had received as a child and wondered where it had gone in all the moves of their life. As she was going through her husband’s things to give away to family or to donate to Goodwill, she discovered a small box in his desk. Inside the box were several small things, including her childhood bible. Her husband had an eye for the valuable, not just monetarily, but for the memories and meanings attached to things. She took this as a message from him to hold on to that word and its promises. Again, all this was very befuddled and hesitantly offered and she kept trying to remember the name of that friend.

And then she told me about how she had refused counseling after her husband died because she knew she herself could get through the grief and come out on the other side without help…until she couldn’t. She spent one hour with a counselor who just listened; that amazing gift of presence is so important!! And at the end of the hour that counselor wanted to tell her one thing. She said, “Peg, there is nothing you can do about this now. God owns it. He will make all things right in their time and your time here is not done yet. Let God have this grief because he knows what to do with it. It’s his. Let him have it.”

She thanked the counselor and they never met again. But Peg would put her head down on the kitchen counter every morning after that for a year and just thank God for what was his and not hers. And daily she would start to feel different from the day before, until one day God spoke to her and said: “I have given you a new heart.” And she believed it.

And then she looked right at me and said, “He will give you a new heart because you have thanked him for it over and over again.” And she was standing there, speaking clearly, not befuddled, not struggling to come up with a name, clear-eyed, clear-minded and all I could see was Jesus. It wasn’t Peg after all. It was all I could do to keep the tears from streaming down. She was there to comfort me.

And then Peg was back, reaching for the handle of the door. “I am so sorry to have taken so much of your time. You have work to do.” And I reached over and hugged her – probably scared her! – and I said, “I know why you came here today. You came just for me.”

Oh Lord, you searched me and you knew me. You discern my thoughts from far away.

God, help us walk together in our journey here on earth.

I know it was Jesus. And her name was Julia Ann but people call her Peg. And in my grief over so much, he sees it, he knows it, he owns it. And he’s giving me a new heart.

St. Simeon

A beautiful and peaceful spot, St. Simeon Stylites near Aleppo.

A beautiful and peaceful spot, St. Simeon Stylites near Aleppo.

I received an email from Marilyn today with an update on what is happening in Syria. This one is not about what is happening to people there, but what the people there are trying to do to preserve and protect their history. So much has been lost! This is an ancient place where many civilizations have come and gone, each leaving those traces of history for us to learn about who and where we came from. It’s tragic. It’s awful. You can read about it here: http://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-28191181

The Grand Umayyad Mosque in Damascus, Syria, as it looked in August, 2010. This is the burial place of Saladin and also perhaps the resting place of St. John the Baptist.

The Grand Umayyad Mosque in Damascus, Syria, as it looked in August, 2010. This is the burial place of Saladin and also perhaps the resting place of St. John the Baptist.

It was heartbreaking to read about this cultural loss. I have been to some of those places mentioned here like the Grand Umayyad Mosque in Damascus, the Citadel in Aleppo, and the marvelous maze of the old souk in Aleppo. The last has

A soap merchant at the souk in Aleppo. This man was an Olympic wrestler.

A soap merchant at the souk in Aleppo. This man was an Olympic wrestler.

been bombed and burned and is no more. I brought home saffron for Steve from one of the spice vendors. I look at that jar and remember the man who sold it to me. He sat me in his booth, brought me tea and sweets and smiled as he waited for someone to fill my order. Centuries of stories like that simple transaction are now just memories.

The Citadel, Aleppo, Syria, as it looked in August, 2010, when the faithful women visited.

The Citadel, Aleppo, Syria, as it looked in August, 2010, when the faithful women visited.

Me and Barbara at St. Simeon near Aleppo.

Me and Barbara at St. Simeon near Aleppo.

As I read the stories of damage and the people who are working to save what is left, I took heart at their courage and effort to preserve this for others who will live there one day. I also remembered another special site that we visited and wondered if it was still standing. Of course it was ruins when we visited, but the remains of the place will always mark the story of Saint Simeon the Stylite and how he lived out his faith. His story reminds me that Christians walked these lands from the beginning and they are responsible for my being able to hear the good news.

Simeon was born around 390 CE in what is now Turkey, the son of a shepherd. The story goes that he was converted to Christianity, convicted of the truth of Jesus after reading the Beatitudes, from Jesus’ sermon on the mount:

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of God. Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled. Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God. Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. (Matthew 5:3-10)

He joined a monastery at the age of 16 and disturbed his brothers when he chose to live a very austere lifestyle. He even spent two or three years in a hut by himself, fasting through that Lent – no food or water – and miraculously survived.

St. Simeon's pedestal in the center of the church.

St. Simeon’s pedestal in the center of the church.

He left the confines of the monastery to be alone with God, choosing a solitary existence to deepen his prayer life and relationship with the Lord. People would seek him out for his counsel and help, and to escape all those clamoring after him, he climbed a stone outcropping, large enough for him, but barely. He would spend hours and hours in prayer in awkward, uncomfortable positions, for instance holding his arms out for long periods of time as if crucified like Jesus. His superiors decided to test him in his obedience (and sanity I think) by demanding that he come down. If he was obedient he would submit. And he did. Passing this test, they let him be and his story spread. More came to see him and over the course of years he moved to higher and higher pedestals. It was said when he died, the pedestal was over fifty feet off the ground. He wrote letters, he preached to those gathered below. He prayed. He spent 47 years up there and died September 2, 459. His feast day is celebrated on September 1.

Inside the compound at St. Simeon near Aleppo.

Inside the compound at St. Simeon near Aleppo.

The Roman emperor was so taken with his faith that a beautiful church was built around his pillar. Four basilicas meet at the center where the pillar stood, and the remnant of which is still there. The remains of that place are what we walked through and explored that hot day in August, 2010. It was so peaceful. You could look for miles in every direction. It was a place where you could feel the closeness and accessibility of God, even without being fifty up on a pillar. I don’t know what has happened to this place where St. Simeon inspired so many, including other ascetics who followed him and became stylites, needing little but to be close to God. I don’t know what has happened to the family who ran the little gift shop, supplying cold drinks for us on that hot day. I know what I read in the BBC news today and it angers and saddens me. I pray for them all and I hope their courage and fortitude will allow them to continue to preserve and protect this history and these stories so that others may hear and believe. But this I know: Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.