A Spa for the Soul

The sun was just settling into a bank of clouds over the sea as I tapped this on my keyboard from a balcony of that funky old village house perched on the rocky hillside. That dream we purchased three years ago. Mid-November. At last, renovation had begun.*

The five story tower was not much more than a shell after two weeks of cement saws and sledge hammers. A shell filled with hope. New openings to the outdoors will be enclosed with French doors to welcome the clear Mediterranean light and air. New openings and closings inside mean guest rooms with private baths, a private floor for Curt and me to rest and work, a working kitchen, and a garden studio to create, experiment and play. Each space opens onto a balcony or terrace. Olive trees and scattered tile roofs in the foreground below with islands, sea and sky spreading huge beyond.

Peaceful. Quiet-but-not-really, for birds chatter and the voices of children at play echo up from the village. That day I watched the tiniest of hummingbirds, not more than three centimeters from beak to tail, feed on the bougainvillea.

We work to create a spa for the soul. Prayer by prayer, brick by brick, worker by worker. “Spa”—a place to be pampered, massaged (to work out the kinks), scrubbed (to get rid of the dead stuff and bring on a glow), and anointed with oil (for softness and renewal). Fragrant with life. “For the soul”—a place to be still, to let the competing voices of daily life or work or technology fall silent, to pray, and write or paint or cook, and to dream. A meld of ancient Christian disciplines of communal solitude, listening prayer and spiritual accompaniment with more contemporary ideas of hospitable spaces for fellowship, exploration and play. We hope.

Today we watch from faraway Abu Dhabi as carpenters build 26 windows, 19 doors, shutters for the ground floor, the wood-and-glass studio and a rooftop pergola. Electricians and plumbers lay the hidden things necessary to the magic of water and light, guided by marks we drew on the walls and my pencil drawings covered with Őzer’s notes in Turkish. The tile layer arrives today. Next week I rejoin the workers for a few days—armed with sketches and ideas for the carpenter who will build cabinets, tables, bookshelves and dining chairs. And more for the ironmonger who will make bed and sofa frames. Everything home-designed and hand-crafted.

This place, this “spa”--we prepare an offering. Not a business, or a “ministry.” Just a couple of cracked old pots, retired folks, who want to share their mix of good food, listening, quiet, beautiful private spaces and hospitality with whoever wants to come and partake—from wherever they may come.

*Check out www.curtbidinger.phanfare.com for photos of the breaking, the deconstruction necessary to any real transformation.

Bride

I opened the door. There she stood, a touch of whimsy in the frill on her t-top, jeans, hair long and loose and unashamedly gray. Her smile dappled through to her eyes and we moved to embrace. Kathleen--come to visit me in my empty new house.

“Would you like coffee? Or can I take you to lunch?” I wanted to care for my guest, to treat her, to honor her travel to my place. “No! Please. Can we just sit right here and talk? I want to be with you! No, no, I don’t want to wait while you make coffee--I don’t want to waste a minute!”

And so, over my protests of desire to feed my guest, to carry her off somewhere with furniture and china and a marina full of boats and blue sparkle, we sat in junk-store chairs turned to the window in the empty room. And we talked.

Kathleen hails from my long-ago. Thirty years have passed since my friend Susan and her friend Kathleen house-sat. Memory is oh-so-vague. A young woman in prairie dress with long hair done up in a bun. No make-up, no jewelry, as mandated by the sect to which they belonged. Fun, happy-spirited, easy-going.

We reconnected last year. Susan put Kathleen onto Cracked Old Pots, and she engaged me. She told me how in ’95 she left the sect and put her hand in that of Jesus. How in some mysterious way we had played a part through impressions and memories. Joyous surprise.

Since then we’ve read each other’s work and conversed a bit. Kathleen exudes energy and encouragement with books to recommend, articles and music to explore, creative groups to join with--introducing me to a far-away creative world of which I know nothing. I, in overwhelmed weariness, have been more passive. So touched by the extravagance of her love for a quiet near-stranger in a faraway place.

So when I headed to Sequim a few weeks ago to take possession of our newly-purchased bolt-hole in the US I floated a suggestion. “Would you come and spend a day with me?”

Oh, the blessed conversation! We shared our families, our love for our husbands, our passion for hospitality and mutual appreciation of the work that it is. We talked about the church and genuine community. She spoke wonderful, expressive phrases: “workbook Christianity,” and “community happens in circles, not in rows.” She confessed to trepidation as she stood outside my door. Who would greet her? Her memory retains a sleek, sophisticated Jeri. (I laugh.) She rejoiced over the worn, old-comfy-clothes, no-makeup-wet-hair-braided-back version. Her only inarticulate moment of the day was in response to my “what if” a tan and classy woman had greeted her in my voice.

But then she rose to speak of true beauty, of the beauty of one who knows herself beloved. Passion pervaded her voice once more. “What is the best gift I can give my husband? To let him love me! To receive his love with joy and gratitude! To affirm it and desire it and celebrate it!” She continues. “The Bible tells us that to Christ WE are BRIDE! That what He most desires is that we enjoy and celebrate His love!”

The Hallelujah chorus swelled in my mind. In her utterance the sweep, the trembling desire of Song of Songs reverberated and echoed. She spoke my journey better than I had verbalized it even to myself--so that today I hold, I rest in, that crystal vantage point.

Kathleen, the beloved bride, alive and free enough to know it in a way that radiated from her whole being. Thank you, sister of my heart.

Christmas table

Curt and I traveled during the weeks leading up to Christmas. Were home for just seven fast days before the Christmas feast. No time or head-space for any big plan. We prayed and only a few came to mind to invite.

As we took our places at the table I looked around and marveled. Pawan, Ehab, Naomi, Alfonso and Marli had joined us other years. This year Pawan brought two brothers who also work in UAE. Khadka is a new friend who helps with

housework, and he brought his wife. What joy to serve him for a day, and to sit together and play a game. Mike moved to UAE last summer. Jenn joined our household in October. All these, book-ended by four Bidingers. Nepal, Brazil, Switzerland, Japan and Peru, Jordan, Albania, and the US. A housemaid, a military advisor, a jeweler, a midwife, an urban planner, a security guard, an office boy, an oil guy, teachers and laborers, housewives. Christian, Hindu and Muslim.

Some we invited; some found their way to our table. I say Jesus invited them. I recall His banquet story in Luke 14 where this rich guy invites all the expected guests to a feast and few could be bothered to come. So the host sent to the streets and brought in the people no one would think to invite. Not that our friends had refused our invitation, but I was humbled and awed at the company Jesus chose. People we would never meet to invite in the normal way. Rich fellowship of nations, the essential dignity of all people, and a common invitation to take a place at the table of the Kingdom of God.

Glorious celebration of God come in human flesh!

Lessons I learned from Nadeek

He stands at the edge of the kitchen. Slight and muscled, with rich brown skin, the young-ish man in jeans and polo shirt watches and waits. His stance is erect. His brown eyes are alert, yet calm. Invisible, yet fully present. Willing to do nothing; ready to do anything.

The house is quiet, but a walk from room to room counts a dozen or more people reading, resting, scribbling in journals, praying. Christians leaning into the Lord Jesus in a space set apart for them this day.

We are hosts to a silent retreat. Men and women spread in comfortable chairs, or on cushions piled in a corner. Others stand gazing out the window or into a painting. Nadeek is not a participant. He is here to serve, to make sure the juice pitcher is full, the fruit bowl is replenished, and the dishes get washed. He works for us.

I work, too. As retreat leader, chief cook, and hostess I have plenty to do. Still, Nadeek’s undivided attention arrests me.

I am here to serve, a guardian of space, peace and the silence conducive to focus and meditation. Yet within all that I have my own agenda. I, too, desire as much holy solitude as I can carve for myself. So I come and go from my space in the study. My attention is divided.

“I lift up my eyes to You, to You whose throne is in heaven. …As the eyes of a maid look to the hand of her mistress, so our eyes look to the Lord our God, till He shows us His mercy.” Psalm 123:1-2.

I see myself as servant. Yet Nadeek takes me aback. How flawed is my understanding of genuine servanthood. As a creature of the West, where individual trumps community, I see “service” is an activity of the moment. “My time” is to be maximized to get in as much “me-time” as I can around my responsibilities to others.

Nadeek is from Sri Lanka, a child of the East. He turns “servant” into a dignified profession as he gives me a lesson in humility. I asked him to help out with lunch and dishes. He is otherwise free to disappear into his own pursuits. I don’t see “enough” for him to do. Nadeek, on the other hand, sees this set-apart day as filled with opportunities to bless in quiet ways and has set himself as guardian. Most of the day he will stand invisible, but empty cups magically disappear, tea and coffee are ever replenished, the kitchen serving area is spotless. The smallest needs are intercepted before they have a chance to become disruptions.

Suddenly I stand on holy ground as witness to the heart and soul of a true servant. Nadeek could be out about town, resting, or pouring over his beloved sports page. But his master has something going, and he can’t imagine not being there, alert to faces and body language, giving full support to my agenda as he attends those I’ve taken in today.

“Teach me your way, O Lord, and I will walk in Your truth; give me an undivided heart, that I may fear Your name. I will praise You, O Lord my God, with all my heart; I will glorify Your name forever.” Psalm 86:11-12.

With gratitude to my teacher, Nadeek.

Extravagant Welcome

I sit here pecking away at my laptop, easy-chair turned to face the view. Erratic stone-walled patch-work rolls down to the Irish Sea. Brilliant greens mix with the darker, duskier colors of waning heather and gorse.

In this place, I have permission to be quiet. It’s okay to lie in late, or to rise early to read, pray and drink coffee behind closed door until I feel ready for conversation. My room invites me to work or relax, with coffee pot, fruit bowl, ample lamps, music, books and candles. The garden and the hills beckon, but so does the fireplace in the living room. Meals are regular and simple, but made celebratory with views, candlelight and gentle companions.

Luke talked this morning about a dinner at Simon’s house.[1] You know, Simon the Pharisee, that Simon. The meal was proceeding well, and then this WOMAN arrived. Not on the guest list, and with her reputation, not likely to be. We’ve had some odd interruptions at our house, but never yet has a street person wandered in sobbing to pour sweet-smelling ointment over a guest’s feet and rub it in with her hair!

As Luke unfolded his story, I noticed Jesus’ comments about the welcome He’d received at Simon’s house. Simon is all worried about reputation, and feeling critical of Jesus, his invited guest. Jesus was experiencing something else entirely:

“Do you SEE this woman, Simon? I come into your house. You did not give me any water for my feet, but she wet my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair. You did not give me a kiss, but this woman, from the time I entered, has not stopped kissing my feet. You did not put oil on my head, but she has poured perfume on my feet. Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven—for she loved much. But he who has been forgiven little loves little.”

Truth is, Simon DIDN’T see her. He only saw a disruption, a sinner. Seems he didn’t really see Jesus, either. Certainly not for who Jesus was, but not even as a “real” houseguest. No water to wash His feet, not even that basic courtesy. No double-checked kiss of warm welcome, as we give and receive all the time in the Middle East. No anointing to bless his Guest and set His coming apart as something special.

Over 25 years Ken and Eva Needham and Curt and I have swapped hospitality, so far in Alaska, England, Scotland, Ireland, UAE and Turkey. I love being in their home. They see Jesus, and they see me. Their various homes have all celebrated creation’s beauty, and been rich in thought life, and deeply prayerful listening—places designed with guests in mind. Masters at balancing their own work and solitude with attending to their guests, their peace is contagious. Patterns to imitate, people to learn from.

We saw a stranger yesterday.
We put food in the eating place,
Drink in the drinking place,
Music in the listening place
And in the sacred name of the Triune God
He blessed us and our house
Our cattle and our dear ones.
As the lark says in her song:
Oft, oft, oft goes the Christ in the stranger’s guise. (Unknown author)

[1] Luke 7:36-50

No one to wash their feet

Is there a better metaphor for cultural differences than the public toilet?

A pit stop at a gas station, shopping mall or movie theater in UAE gives graphic demonstration that we are indeed at the crossroads[1]. Check the various stalls and take your pick. Traditional? (That’s a ceramic platform set level with the floor, designed for squatting.) Western? (My readers know this one!)Toilet paper? (A nasty contact with filth that grosses out many in this world.) Backside-sprayer hose? (Running water is necessary to lots of folks for ritual cleansing and purity. But I so want to know how one dries oneself enough to get dressed again!)

Hospitality manifests in providing choice of toileting style. Even in our apartment, we have sprayers installed in the guest toilet and maid’s quarters.

That the prevailing culture here is Islam manifests in the prayer-time mess.

A key tenet of Islam is ritual prayer five times each day. To prepare, one must purify oneself by washing hands, face, head, and feet--three times up to the ankle. Since few public toilets offer a convenient place for washing, the faithful resort to the sinks. Result: water everywhere! Nobody likes it. I took this photo at the Istanbul airport.

A quick google while last in the US taught me that we non-Muslims don’t tolerate it very well, either. Any number of news articles railed against the mess, the practice, and the affrontery to be so public on “our” turf.

Back in April I sat barefoot and cross-legged on a chapel floor and listened before a lovely stained glass of Jesus washing Peter’s feet[2]. I could hear the collective gasp as Jesus took up the basin and wrapped himself in servant’s towel. I regarded my own feet and Peter’s protest welled up in me. The event is pregnant with Jesus’ magnificent humility as he stoops from eternity to lovingly attend to the stuff that clings after a day of following him, but it also speaks of our human need for purification to be fit to rest in his presence. Those weary men needed washing, but there was no one to do it until the Lord of the Universe displayed such love.

Islam requires clean feet to come to God’s presence, but provides no one (and often no place) to wash them. And the rest of us are irritated by the mess. I wonder—how can you, how can I serve as foot-washer to a Muslim neighbor? What act of grace, what gentle humility, what open acknowledgement of a need would provide winsome, even provocative relevance that would draw her into the presence of Jesus himself?

[1] At Home at the Crossroads, posted 20 July 2008
[2] John 13:1-17