Posts Tagged ‘randy hasper’

I expected skilled and seasoned men.

I got little girls.

They were fine, better than fine. They were more fun than the tough guys; they took orders well, and more than that, they took the job by the throat and finished it off!

I asked the nine year old if she had ever pushed a wheel barrow. She said that she hadn’t, but she was ready to try, and off she went with the handles, plants swaying wildly but getting to their destination nonetheless.

The five year old, she could dig, and stand in the hole up to her waist, and roll a Raphiolepis into it and cover it up with a bag of garden soil.

When the job was done, we high-fived, and I was happy. It was a good workday at the church. My people came out.

Earlier that week, I’d had a similar experience. “Where did you get your skills?” I asked the guy who was kneeling in the doorway, hammering in a new threshold in our new worship leaders office.

“I learned a bit of everything when I was incarcerated,” he replied.

I needed him. We needed him. He was the perfect man for the job, the job of restoring fifty rooms at the church.

I drove him home. We were both happy.

The day after that, it happened again.

I was sitting in my office, with some of my church leaders ” We are a motley crew,” I said and laughed. We all laughed. A quiet artist, a retired school principal, a young Navy instructor, a former media repairmen, and me, the pastor, with an MA in literature from a secular university rather than an MDiv from a seminary — we are the ones driving forward a successful renewal at the church.

It’s Biblical. Jesus gathered a ragtag group of people around him. They got a shot at leading. They did good.

Recently I met with the leader of our food ministry. When she came to us she was a silent figure in the line — now she runs the place.

The transformation is stunning. She talks!

I look at her. One day she was a quiet follower, the next she was an empowered leader. We laugh thinking about it. “I know you can do this,” I say. “With your help I know I can too,” she replies.

Joaquin called me on the phone today. “Yeah I got your text. $1,800 is fine,” he tells me. We discuss capping the sewer, running the new water line.

We are unlikely partners, moving houses, building a big, beautiful new courtyard at the church. I prayed for the safety of his workers the other day after Joaquin and I finished lunch together.

“That was different,” he said, “I’ve prayed for myself, but I’ve never had anyone pray for me.”

Our church is undergoing a fairly dramatic renewal.

It’s being led by children, felons, and introverts, even by those just on the edge of the inside of belief.

A motley crew of successful leaders, bringing about astonishing changes — that’s different. That is so God!

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P1020582Francis Bacon said, ” A good conscience is a continual feast,” but this sumptuous feast isn’t one everyone eats at.

What is a conscience?

Conscience is our inner voice that tells us what is right and wrong. Conscience is a kind of knowing of self, of knowing what we believe and value, of knowing the voice of right and wrong within.

It may be helpful to note that there are three types of conscience.

First is the silenced conscience. This is a conscience that has been ignored so much that it no longer has a voice, it is silenced. We may speak of this as the deadened conscience, a hardened heart, a conscience with no voice left.

How do we know if we have silenced our conscience?

We know our conscience is silenced if we can do wrong things and feel no guilt, if we are numb to guilt, even when we know we have done wrong.

I had two bowls of ice cream last night. My conscience spoke to me about this. It said, “You should have had three.”

When it comes to eating, my conscience is broken.

If I say mean things to people and it doesnt bother me, my conscience might be hard. If I steal and I dont feel wrong, if I lie and it feels normal, if I have sex with other people’s spouses and I dont feel its wrong, if I dont serve other people and have no conviction over that, if I dont feel guilty for not caring — then perhaps I have knifed and silenced my conscience.

The second kind of conscience is the loud mouth conscience, the over-active conscience.

We have a loud, talkative, over active conscience, if it is always telling us we are doing wrong, even when we are not. “You can’t eat that food. You can’t have a friendship with that person. You can’t see that movie. You can’t take a vacation.”

If we see life as full of wrong choices to avoid, we may have a permanently guilty conscience, a kind of floating guilt, not that we have done wrong, but that we are wrong.

If we have a lot of rules for living, if we are always telling people they are doing the wrong thing, if we never feel good enough, perhaps we have an over-active conscience.

This may have come from our parents, if they were too strict, and we were made hyper-sensitive to right and wrong. It may have come to us from shame, from not feeling forgiven, then we may default to a guilty, shame-based identity.

What can we do with our too silent or our too loud conscience, our conscience that doesn’t speak to us enough, or that speaks to us too much?

We can recalibrate our conscience. Think of the touch-screen phone. Our phones with touch screens must be calibrated to work correctly. To accurately calibrate the screen, we go through the steps of touching center, top right, top left and so on until the surface is accurate to the touch.

So how do we recalibrate the conscience?

First, we can calibrate our conscience by exposing it to the truth. This is done by reading truth, by reading the scripture, by reading wise books, by resetting our brains with wisdom, knowledge, reality, as seen through the lens of written truth. What is right, this is wrong — these are not new concepts, and we will all do well to build our sense of morality with the wisdom of the ages.

Secondly, we can put ourselves up close to wise people. We can open our thoughts to the wise, and ask them if they think what we are feeling guilty about is right or wrong. What is right? What would you do?

This will lead to the development of the third kind of conscience, the healthy, accurate conscience.

This is the conscience that knows right and wrong, convicts of wrong at the right time, and gives permission to do right. It says “guilty” when we are guilty; it says “pure and free,” when we have done nothing wrong.

The healthy conscience can detect bad advice

This week a conversation with someone about sex. It is so healthy, to talk about sex, especially with the younger generation. Someone told another the person I was talking to, ” I had sex with my boyfriend, I don’t see anything wrong with this. I think the Christians have made too big of a deal about this.”

The person I was talking to said, “I don’t agree with what my friend said. I still want to wait until I am married to have sex.”

I said, “We’ll, then honor your conscience, honor your own soul. Know what you soul needs. I actually don’t think it is wise, to fragment your soul, by bonding it sexually with multiple partners. I think that it is wise for you to wait for sex until you make your marriage vows to one person.”

That is what the wise books have always indicated is wise, and I think that a healthy conscience is in tune with a morality that is larger than ourselves.

We didn’t make the conscience up, and we don’t make morality up, it is a gift, something God put in us. I think that one of the really amazing experiences of life is to life is the alignment our conscience and our behavior with God.

All of us always do well to ask: God, what do you want me to do? And what do you want me to stop doing?

We fragile, shifting humans, we want many things! But who we are, and what we will be, and what we say is right or wrong, this is best put before God, because a healthy conscience is the continual feast put on by the master chef of the whole universe.

DSC00814“What I appreciate is that when I was blowing it, you didn’t judge me.” The team member speaking looked across the table at me with warmth. I don’t think that anyone else had any idea what was being talked about. “You helped me see what I needed to do, and you went through it with me. You didn’t condemn me.”

There was a pause. We soaked in the good feeling of the semi-private moment. Another staff member looked at me and said, “Just don’t try to do too much, too fast. You’ll have to rely on other people. I thought when I first worked for you that you micro-managed, but then I saw later that you didn’t, that you let people do their jobs, but just watch that.”

I looked around the table at my staff. The moment felt good. We were in the middle of an exercise from  Patrick Lencioni’s book The Advantage. The instructions were to say something you thought the team member was doing well and add any suggestions for improvement, perhaps something to watch out for that might trip the person up.

It was good, the affirmation, and the honesty. I thought the team might not do well at the part of the assignment where they were to suggest improvements. They did. It was almost like they had just been waiting for permission to be helpful to each other.

It worked, but partly because a number of the team members are already good friends. They love each other, and that already-established warmth and trust, it helped the room.

Later, one of the team members told me, “My friends and I haven’t always been honest with each other. I’m going to stop doing that.”

I like it. I like the power of it. You create an open atmosphere in your organization where people can be honest, in appropriate and positive ways, and the next thing you know, they are establishing a redemptive culture of mistake-making. Cool! They begin looking at each others mistakes and weaknesses not as disqualifying, not as behavior to judge and condemn, not as,”Well, fire her!” but as an opportunity to help each other get better.

Recently, I told someone who we had helped through a tough mistake, “Hey man, we love you.” He quipped back, “I know that; otherwise you would have called the police.” Touche!

Sometimes we do need to call the police, and sometimes we do need to let employees go, but too often bosses and teams default to quick and dirty solutions when we all would be much better served by allowing mistakes to become part of a process by which we  create growth and improvement, a process by which we churn out healthy leaders.

Mistakes and weaknesses; all teams have them, we all make them, but in our businesses and our homes and our churches, it is full of warmth, good will and future promise to go through our failures with honesty and love — together.

P1020582“Sometimes I can’t stop crying at night,” she said to me.

I understand; I don’t at all. I don’t know what it’s like to lose a husband after a lifetime of having him.

Someone else, whose mom recently die, (her mom had lived with her and taken care of her for fifty years),  said to me recently, “I just feel so totally al0ne. I miss my mom. We used to sing together. Now she’s gone. I sing alone. I watch TV alone. She isn’t there to laugh with me, to tell her something that I’m thinking. I feel so all alone.”

I’ve felt alone —  not that alone. I don’t know what it’s like to lose a mom that took care of me for fifty years because my disability made me dependent on her, then to have her gone, vanished, never coming back, an empty apartment, everyday and every night. The silence. The utter aloneness.

We know; we don’t know. We know loss; we don’t know others loss if we haven’t experienced it. Empathy only goes part way up the steep path.

This week we finished cleaning out the old house that once served as the church office. It was a house, then an office, now it is going to be put on a truck, driven to a new lot, and become a house again. It is being repurposed.

Life is like that, here, gone, then something new.

I told one of my friends whose has experienced a huge loss, “Think of it as like moving to another country. You used to live in the country of  mutual dependence; now you live in the land of independence. In this new land you make your own decisions, and you take responsibility for yourself. It’s very different for you, it’s scary,  but gradually you’ll get more used to  your new country and it feels more familiar to you.”

I know what I’m talking about; I have no idea! Every person has a snowflake experience of life; every relationship is unique, every loss is unique too. And yet I’ve noticed of late that loss has a parallelism in it; my tracks run through territory not unlike that which others travel.

Loss has a tendency to have a kind of gain in it. Gain runs right there along side of loss.

The old house has that in it.  Things that happened in that old house that were vert good; people connected with each other there. Other things  dark, harmful and  wrong happened in that house. Peope were hurt there. I’m glad the house is moving. A bit of the ugly past  moves with it, and gone, the space opens up for something beautiful, and new.

I’m happy. I am happy for what will replace the house. The little piece of earth it has squatted on will now become a beautiful church courtyard, a patio garden, a place where lovers will marry, where children will chase each other, where people will sit and eat and talk and be not so alone anymore at all.

We drew the plans for the new courtyard on paper this week. Very soon it won’t be on paper. I’ll walk on new; I’ll celebrate on it! I’ll walk on an epiphany, a vision, a dream — a sacred space will itself contain new paths that will lead to new relationships.

Loss can be so very painful;  we won’t have what we once had, ever again, and that really sucks.  And yet, when something is gone, then there is new space for something else to begin. Loss creates new open space, to run in and new experience to play with,  and new places to be a different person in. Change offers a different country to find new friends to sit with, to cry with and to talk a little to and maybe sing together with.

I’m looking forward to seeing that old house on a truck, flying down the street to its new home.  I’m looking forward to a new garden to sit in with new friends, especially those friends who have losses and need a new space to recover in, and places, just perhaps, to laugh in, once again.

I don’t like loss, but I like new places.

Let it come.

P1030190There is a bison, with eight legs, running underground in the dark. It’s beautiful. There is also a horse with its quadriceps bulging, flexing and moving, graceful and lovely.

There are mammoths, lions, leopards, panthers, bears, owls, hyenas, and
rhinos. They are all together in a ancient, hidden place, drawn on limestone in the famous Chauvet cave in southern France.

What should we make of this beautiful ancient art, these creatures, these fluid lines, their shading, their placement in a cave on a cliff, their simple, graceful beauty?

Scientists and art historians are still working on that, but at the very least Chauvet tells us that ancient people understood the grace and dignity of animals, the beauty of motion, the power of place and of art

Last week my friend Joaquin and I stood in the inner courtyard of my church in Chula Vista, California and looked around. The patio was a bit cave-like, and not.

A two-story classroom loomed like a stucco cliff on the south side, the church sanctuary sat like a stately piece of art on the west side. The sanctuary is Spanish Revival, stucco, tile, with arches, and a bell tower. It’s nice, some good lines, but by way of contrast, in the center of the courtyard squats a small house — old, chipped, worn and out of character.

Joaquin and I walked into the little house to check the electrical subpanel, then came back out and looked around, like spelunkers, blinking upon returning to the surface. Ugly, cracked black top covered the ground at our feet. Overhead was better, a nice Ficus tree in a bright cerulean sky. At the east end of the courtyard reclined a patio garden room, recently renovated, very nice, with brick pavers in circles, trellises with vines, curving areas of grass bordered by Agapanthus — good lines.

But the house in the middle, as we turned back to it, pointing out this and that — very un-Chauvet — no art, no grace, a minimum of dignity. This little two-bedroom bungalow was the true eyesore on the property — nothing revival or Spanish about it — cracking paint, decaying wood, composition shingles, a huge, warty, rusted swamp cooler on the roof.

Joaquin and I looked up from the swamp cooler to the bell tower on the church sanctuary. A decorative design graced the stucco tower; dignified arches and a lovely red tile roof capped the top. There was no match here, between the swamp cooler and the bell tower. In fact the entirety of the little house, by its very design and essential character, broke the dominant architectural theme, like a blotch on a canvas.

On Tuesday of next week Joaquin’s property developer and I will sign an agreement for him to jack up the little house, roll it down to the street, put it on a truck and drive it away. It is going to a new home, in a residential community, where it will get a facelift. I’m glad to see it on the move, finding its legs, repurposed in this way.

And the church courtyard, it will at last open to more light, it will begin to breathe freely, be given eight legs, a beautiful stucco wall, with lovely arches, and bright green grass and flowers and climbing vines. And the courtyard and the bell tower will run together at last, like the horses and the bison at Chauvet.

People will come here, I know it, to this artful courtyard, with its Spanish Revival motif, as if to a destination. Children and young adults and their parents will meet here and they will luxuriate in this sacred, open cave, and like the ancients, take joy in the beauty of motion, the power of space and the redemptive power of art.

How will that happen?

This is a church, and I believe that God himself do that.

DSCN0170When I stuffed her head and arms down into her body cavity, one of the detached and dangling arms got hung up inside of her torso and I had to pull her out and try again.

What is it about bodies? They are so uncooperative!

The next time I was more succesful. I shoved both her  arms, her dismembered head, and her trumpet inside of her, then I picked up her folded body and jammed it  into the cardboard box in front of me.

I duct taped the top closed.

My Christmas yard angel was packed up —  trumpet, arms, head and all —  to close out another Christmas season.

But not all of life is that manageable.

On my wife’s way home from work this week, she experienced chest pains. They were so painful, she drove to a fire station and the fire people called an ambulance and it took her to the hospital.

As I stood and watched strangers load up my wife — stuff her in a big box with wheels on it —  I could feel it. I might have some kind of modest control over my Christmas angels, but other really important matters,  way out of my control.

By the time the whole ordeal was over, fortunately, all my sweet wife had to recover from was tape.  Transdermal nitroglycerin patches, tape patches for her heart monitor — when she came back home, her skin showed the wear and tear of too much tape.

We were fortunate. She didn’t have a heart problem. She is home; we ate ice cream with chocolate sauce and whipped cream today to celebrate my birthday, life is good.

But it’s a reminder, this little detour to the hospital. We are fragile, and we aren’t much in control of some really significant things.

Whether we are being stuffed in a box, tape up by doctors, or just commuting home with the full expectation of arriving safely, life can happen, and in a moment life can change.

One day we are out in the front yard blazing with bright lights and glory, the next day we are in a box in the back of the garage — or in the ground.

We have less control than we think. We can be boxed in a moment.

But it’s okay. I’m okay about this and good about that, because it has come to me that God has more control over our lives than we have ever imagined and if he has more good for us we will have it, and if he doesn’t, we won’t.

The length and even the quality, of our lives is not in our hands, very much. Yes we can eat well, or not, and exercise, or not, and that makes a difference, and we can drive home carefully, but in the end there will be an end that we won’t determine.

It’s come to me, even this week, through circumstance and through revelation, that every good thing that happens to us, every success and every bit of progress and every bit of wealth and accomplishment and every moment of safety and every delicious bite of ice cream with people we love and every bright moment in which we light up the yard, and every return home — it is all given.

The power to live, to shine, to avoid being folded into the box — given.

Are you alive? Give thanks!

The ScreamNow the world is outraged! It is 2103. We  think of ourselves as a modern, civilized people, but a 23-year-old woman has died of injuries sustained during a brutal gang rape on a bus in India.

We are aghast! But not enough.

It is noted in the popular press that India is a country with the world’s oldest religion, the largest democracy, and one of the fastest growing economies, as if old religion or large democracies or strong economies don’t tolerate rape. We know otherwise.

The religious, the democratic and the prosperous — they rape.

Certainly the way things are done or not done in India is part of the problem and should be addressed. Indian law doesn’t recognize rape committed within a marriage. It doesn’t count acts of oral sex as criminal rape. And it doesn’t allow for rape of men. India is slow to prosecute rape cases. Indian law enforcement does not do enough to protect its women from being harassed on its own public busses and streets.

We are offended! We should be. We focus our offence: India has a problem. It does. Indian laws, perspectives and protective measures need to change. But the problem is not isolated to India and it extends beyond rape.

Rape is an act of violence, and we Homo sapiens are a violent species – world-wide. We want to point the finger concerning sexual brutality at India. The statistics point everywhere. I live in the United States. My country is no exception.

The American Association of University Women reports that up to one in four American women experience unwanted sexual intercourse while attending college.

According to Stephen Donaldson, president of Stop Prison Rape, in the United States, more than 290,000 male prisoners are assaulted each year. Prison rape, says Donaldson in a New York Times opinion piece, “is an entrenched tradition.”

Studies indicate that people in the United States with developmental disabilities are four to ten times more likely to have acts of violence committed against them. Other studies also suggest that up to 68% of girls with developmental disabilities and 30% of boys with developmental disabilities will be sexually abused before their eighteenth birthday. Research suggests that 97% to 99% of abusers are known and trusted by the victim who has the developmental disability.

That’s shocking! That’s not. That is who we are, and that is what we are doing.

Everywhere, in India, and in the United States of America, in our wars, our prisons, our hospitals, our schools and even in our homes, we are systemically violent people, and everywhere sexual violence is semi-tolerated. We are habitually violent. We use force to get what we want – sex, money, revenge and control. And we are calm about that too much.

What we have world-wide is a crisis of violence against persons. Let it be talked about. We humans are habitually, systematically, consistently and brutally assaulting each other! We have a problem — all of us! We have governmentalized, commercialized, sexualized, and sanctified violence. We are violence machines; we know it, and we go with it, on and on and on.

Over 60 million lives were snuffed out in World War II. Over 60 million human beings! In our time, in our father’s generation, in our grandfather’s generation, we trashed and dumped 60 million bodies.

Of course, there were the causes, and the forces that had to be stopped, and the rationale and the reasons and the explanations and the conclusions, and yet 60 million lives, young lives were abused, shot, blown up, diseased, hacked up, experimented on and even incinerated alive.

We can’t dodge this reality! We are a violent species. We have been massively violent, recently — and not only at the level of Indian females.

We are aghast! We are not enough so. We are offended! We should be. World outrage does not match the depth of the affront or drive to the core of the problem. A more appropriate aghast-response is needed.

We should be much, much more offended than we are offended. We are under-offended!

Our aghast-reaction is underwhelming! There is not enough marching, standing up, protesting, lobbying, arguing, researching, understanding, confronting, problem solving and reforming our world’s life-style of violence.

We are under-responding to the insult against women and against bodies worldwide. We are not protecting bodies, everywhere. We must face reality: We have a planetary tradition of insulting bodies.

Aghast, the aghast must not stop, the sense of horror must not be dulled by the neat explanations and the nicely organized war museums and the moving on of popular culture and the unimpassioned explanations in history books and the under-reaction of the news media with their quiet sentences and civilized, standardized reporting and their pointless end-stop punctuation.

We should begin to change this, all of us, now, yesterday! We are too quiet on rape! We need more crying out! We should go into violence-correction mode, with no end stops. We should not stop shouting that the current world-wide violation of bodies is totally unacceptable to all of us.

A world-wide movement protest against rape is needed. A world-wide protest against all forms of violence is needed. The violence we are allowing is simply not acceptable for human beings.

Our very bodies need to cry out for themselves, “Respect us! Honor us. Do not touch us without our permission. Our skin is a boundary that all of you must honor! Leave our women alone! We require that our developmentally disabled live without being sexually assaulted!”

All bodies, sick, well, male, female, disabled, not disabled, foreign, family, friend, near, far, small, large, gay, not gay, religious, not religious, foe, enemy, different, the same — they should be given nurture and care and love and protection – always!

Bodies of the world, unite.

Randy Hasper

Randy Hasper

Lethe, the river of forgetfulness, was one of the five rivers of the Greek underworld, the other four being Styx (the river of hate), Akheron (the river of sorrow), Kokytos (the river of lamentation) and Phlegethon (the river of fire).That’s a nasty bunch of waters, and I’m not boating these if I can help it. Instead, I’m chosing to float another stream — mindfulness. These days, I’m remembering — good things.

Oscar Wilde wrote that “memory is the diary that we all carry about with us.”

I’m carrying that diary these days — all the time, a diary of the good things that are happening to my new friends, and I’m liking it.

Yesterday Isabel who is six, and Dolores, who is seven, came to my house for lunch.

“What’s your favorite story,” I asked Dolores.

“The God story,” Dolores said.

Three years ago she wouldn’t have said that. Three years ago her father was rafting hard down that river of fire that is made up out of crystal meth — Phlegethon, flowing hard and fast. He’s not now. No smoking meth; just working in the ship yards, and going to church. Because of this things have changed for Dolores, as well as for her nine siblings, and for her mom too. I’m remembering, and smiling.

Sunday at church I shook Aaron’s hand. He’s a single dad. He introduced me to a friend who was with him.

“How do you know each other?” I asked.

“Recovery,” said Aaron and then he laughed, having outed his friend the first thing.

Aaron told me recently that he was able to buy a house for he and his two boys. He’s so happy. A few years ago, his life was impossible — Kokytos of devastating proportions. Not now. The hard crying is behind him.

I’m remembering. I’m smiling.

Jeanie and I sat down to catch up recently. Jeanie is one of my many new friends.

“I’m telling my daughter that I love her now, ” she told me, breaking a little as she says it. She continues emotionally, “I never used to be able to say that.” Her eyes are wet.

When I met Jeanie she was traversing Akheron. She’s not so much now. She’s expressing emotions. She’s feeling. She’s coming back from the dead.

“Why do you think you’ve changed?” I asked her.

“Love,” she said emotionally, “I’ve found unconditional love. Now I’m able to give it to others.”

But Styx — it’s pervasive.

“I want you to pray for me,” said Robert.

“Why?” I asked him.

“I don’t want to hurt people anymore,” he said. He told us about an incident. He said, “I don’t want to use violence anymore.” He’s done trafficking on the river of hating.

We prayed for him.

Robert lives in a group home. Apparently there is nobody to tell this kind of thing to there. It’s hard to find people to tell this kind of thing to anywhere.

I’m happy for Robert. I’m happy as this year closes. I’m happy because I’m remembering my friends who are abandoning the polluted rivers of the underworld.

I’m with them. I myself refuse to float Lethe anymore. Mnemosyne — I want her.

I have too many good things to remember to be spending time forgetting.

I have too many memory stones to pile up to be losing river rock these days.

I’m remembering my people. I’m remembering my people, my precious ones, the transforming ones who God has given to me, the ones who are floating new rivers with me.

I’m remembering them. I’m happy.

Randy Hasper

Randy Hasper in CoronadoWe met the Aussies on the beach on Christmas day, waving at them from a distance across the sand, then walking over to them and greeting them warmly. We had actually met and talked to Mona, the Australian mom, in Starbucks only a few minutes before as we met getting coffees, and now here she was again with her son and husband, strolling towards us.

“Are you following us?” I teased.

They weren’t, of course. We had recommended this beach to them. They were vacationing from their home in Australia, and asking questions like,”Where can we best access the beach?” and so we had told them where we were going. They had just come from Hawaii, now they were here in San Diego, then they were going to Washington D. C. and Chile and other places wonderful and distant. Christmas was as they wanted it, away from home,  international, social and interesting, and it was the same for us meeting them here in our home town.

My daughter Laurel and I,  just before spotting them, had been leaning against the big, dark rocks of the jetty in Coronado and talking about finding ways to get out of ourselves, ways to migrate from our obsessions, ways to connect to something bigger than us, ways to place distance between ourselves and our fairly familiar familiarities.

So we talked with the Australians for a while, and then  in parting,  I said, “I’m sure we’ll meet again, when we are in Australia someday and walking down your street.”

Mona laughed and replied, “And we’ll recognize you because you’ll be wearing that same black jacket and Laurel the same blue sweat shirt.”

“Of course we will,” I said.

“I won’t remember you,” said her husband, “because I can never remember people and their names.”

“Then I’ll remind you that you owe me money,” I said, and we laughed.

Only the day before, at church, during the Christmas Eve candle light communion, we had more of this kind of thing. At the service, upon my wife Linda’s request, Isabel came from the row in front of us and stood between Linda and I, and for a moment, just as on the beach with the Aussies, a few of us formed a little, temporary international family. Isabel is seven or eight and on Christmas Eve she was dolled up in a pretty dress with a pony tail in her dark hair, and she stood between us like a granddaughter might and held Linda’s hand and leaned against me.  It was good, very good, because we have history, Isabel, her family, Linda and I, and for a moment, we were without borders.

In front of us in the church were others, new friends from Brazil — Priscilla, Thalita, Lukas and Isabella. We met them at church only a few months before and struck up a friendship. I’ve traveled in Brazil. I love the culture, and since going there I have been hungry to reconnect with warm, beautiful, fine Brazilian hospitality. Through these new friends,  I have done just that, and here, on Christmas Eve, my Brazilian family, was worshiping with me.  At the end of the song-filled, candle-lit, reflective worship, we chatted for a moment at the door and gave each other warm hugs. We are getting to know each other.

Last Saturday, Sebastian, Priscilla’s husband, invited me to attended his daughter Isabella’s birthday party in their home. I went with my daughter Rosalind, and I ate hot dogs prepared Brazilian style — cooked in tomato sauce with spices and onions — and I drank passion juice and ate Brazilian candies.  At the party we sang a happy birthday to Isabella in English, Spanish and in Portuguese.

Isabella, who just turned six, is very shy, but very cute, and so at the party I found myself wanting to win her as a new friend but not succeeding. Then I spotted an art table set up for the kids, and so I took up some colored pens and drew a picture of Isabella and me standing side-by-side holding hands. I gave it to her. She said nothing, but then only a few minutes later I saw that, seated besides her dad, she was adding butterflies and birds and flowers to “our” picture. It was a good start on a new friendship. When I went home, I did so with gifts —  some new friends and a wonderful Panettone, sweet and fluffy and so delicious. Panattone is a sweet bread from Italy, but very popular in Brazil.

My Christmas this year had a pattern running through it.  I liked the motif. I had a Brazilian Christmas. I had a bit of a Mexican Christmas. It was an Aussie Christmas. I want more Christmas’s like that. I’ve been praying for just that.

I have been praying, “God, give me my people. God, give me more people. Please, give me  different people. I want them, I need them, I think that they might need me too. Different kinds of people  are my people. Please send my people to me.”

I think that this is a good thing to pray; I think that this just might be the kind of prayer that gets answered.

P1030619When I was little, I found a safe place high up in a tree near my house.

The first time I climb that tree I saw that above me, higher up and near the top, were grape vines tangled in the branches. I climbed higher, and I saw that the vines formed a kind of roof over me, and so I poked my hands and then head through the leaves and netted vines,  and there found a kind of vine nest, a skyfort — hidden in an upper world.

“Cool!”

I climbed up, and into it, and I laid back, and I floated on my back far off the ground, and I put my hands behind my head, and I looked up at the blue sky, and no one walking by knew I was there lounging above.

That place has stayed with me. Last year, I had the chance to go  back to where I grew up. The skyfort isn’t there any more, but my need for it remains. I still find myself ferreting out somewhere where I might be alone and feel safe for a moment and watch the world pass by below. I need such a place. We all do and if we don’t find it, we go crazy looking for it.

My office, at my work, is a bit of this  kind or place for me, where I meet with people and help them. My bedroom, at home, is such a place for me, where I write and play my guitar and talk to my wife. These places are good, but they are not enough, nor will they ever be.

I spoke to someone recently who isn’t okay —  no skyfort, no place up above it all, where they can go and feel okay. This person has a home, but there is still no place to get away from what he has done and especially what he has not done and fundamentally and intrinsically from the rejection of himself by himself.

“Hold me,” my daughter said to me recently, and so I held her, my own flesh and blood, close, safe, in the arms that have no harm in them but only want to protect and comfort and rescue. And then she let down and rested.  She was safe there, leaning back into her nest of  not-aloneness that exists within the not-aloneness of my care, where she can lounge and  watch the world go by and be okay.

We’re all looking for that kind of okay, but most of us don’t find enough of it. I know I don’t. My daughter either.

Life for all of us is less that we hope for in our moments of hoping and dreaming and imagining what might yet be there somewhere above us.

Needy, we tend to climb life, unrested, looking for a vine-net of affirmation, but usually all we get is a bunch of criticism, a pack of rules and a parcel of lies. They tend to shove us  back, away from each other, and toward the ground. We experience the “not good enough” in the very places we hoped for “your all I ever hoped for.” Even in the places we expected to find the web of understanding, places like marriage, home, church and school, we meet the cool eyes of distancing disapproval.  And then in anger and stubbornness we retreat and sniff out alternate places, dangerous and harmful places of escape and avoidance and brain numbing stultification. Yet these places are not nearly strong enough to hold off the harsh judgments of our peers and of ourselves.

There seems to be no place, to make us okay, because in no place do we find unconditional acceptance.

Except one.

Where is that?

It is in God.

God only, Christ only, accepts the unacceptable heart when it comes to him broken and unacceptable and self-rejected and allows itself to be forgiven, lifted up and held close. There is no other place to go to be okay. No human arms, no social success, no known substance, no  wealth, no hidden tree fort, nothing on the planet or in the universe that can erase the loneliness incumbent in our own failure to love and be loved. This only happens  in God.

God.

One place.

God is the one place in which we unacceptable persons may  begin to be acceptable again. He is a safe place in which  a new okayness can be found,  from which we can begin to recover and look out and gather strength and live and love ourselves and others once again.

God.

He is a skyfort.