The Tuesday report--and how we got there and what happened next....

Already it is Saturday and this has been rattling round my head. I stood earlier to pray as the mosque singer called. And marveled that we get to live in this place in this season of life. Late fall means perfect days with all windows flung open, the lightest of breezes, and a flat-calm sea below. As I savored the quiet this morning something moved in the corner of my vision and I turned to meet the eyes of a stray cat passing through the living room with wary eyes fixed on me. Deservedly wary as I hissed him out. Olives ripen, though this is their off year in the two year cycle. For which I am daily grateful. The bumper harvest lasted for months last year and my back bore long witness to the daily bending and reaching to gather from our 14 trees. Sure enjoyed sharing the oil we made though.

This Tuesday found us far to the northwest of Kaş in Turkey's capital Ankara. We were there to visit Özer's family before their move this week to Kayseri. Özer is the man who oversaw the renovation of Spa for the Soul and became a dear friend in the process. 

Özer and Özlem

We rose early, dressed and packed, and said our goodbyes before climbing into our packed-with-city-shopping car. Rich with afterglow of days of sharing life together. The evening before extended family had gathered to watch our just-purchased Turkish language Lord of the Rings. Four of the flats in their building are occupied by family--Mom and Dad, and the families of three brothers. From six to seventy-five years old. The men all worked on our project and we have been lovingly taken in by the whole group. Monday evening we gathered on the covered terrace. Some sat in chairs. Others, including Curt and me, sat on cushions and leaned against the wall. Plates of roasted chestnuts hot from the woodstove, fruit, and sweet glasses of Turkish tea. As much chat and gentle laughter as movie watching. Some teasing over my efforts in Turkish. We hadn't been with these dear ones for almost two years. The everyday community of three generations who have made their way living separate-but-together. There we were tucked in the corner savoring the beauty of it, warmed by our inclusion. 

We were across the city to Josh and Sarah's home before 8am to share breakfast with their family. Though American, Josh grew up in Turkey and Sarah came to live here in her early 20's. Both are fluent in Turkish and a wealth of help and information. Since we first met them, Sarah has born two delightful children who played and chattered through our visit as we adults talked politics, shared about our lives and good books and people we care about and things we are working on. So rich. Josh's mind for detail, Sarah's wise and gentle mothering, and the loving hospitality and servant hearts that ooze from both of them. A prayer together and by 10:30 we were off for a quick stop at IKEA and then the nine hour drive home.

Curt and Alı Ulaş play chess in a shopping mall

I'm not sure what happens when we who live in a village get into big shopping places in cities, but the quick stop for a few candles turned into a four hour wander that included an electronics store and coffee at Starbucks and more bags to load into our already packed car. We finally were on the road a bit before 3pm. 

The route home was through high dry hills golden in the late afternoon sun. We plugged in a thumb drive of music by Turkish believers that Josh had loaded for us. The deep peace of a road trip. Non-stop beyond necessary toilet breaks and a fast-food meal. At 9:30 we stopped at a solitary gas station out of Elmalı. Not far from home in distance, but two hours of torturous downhill winding on an empty back-road still lay ahead. Five minutes and we were back in the car. Which did absolutely nothing when Curt turned the key. Hmmm...long day, late night, loaded with purchases, middle of nowhere. Time to roll with the punches.

We don't own a car in Turkey. Since we are not here peak season, we are able to rent from local friends who are happy to see income from a few of their hundred or so cars during the quieter months. For less that it would cost us to own we drive late model cars, and we don't have to worry about maintenance and insurance and registration and emissions testing and what to do if the car breaks down. So. We called Fahti. 

Meantime the guys at the station had gathered. Pushed the car a good ways to try to pop the clutch and get it running. Without success. Even as Fahti worked to arrange a mechanic. Pushed the car back up the hill into the station lot. Then they jumped the car. Which, to our surprise, worked. We drove off amid exhortations not to stop until we were home. No kidding! By midnight we had unloaded and backed the thing into its stone niche. Where it would remain until 4pm Wednesday when the Renault mechanic required by the warranty made the hour and a half drive from Fethiye and fixed it in ten minutes. 

Home. Wednesday morning a tad before 8am our neighbor phoned. We'd neglected to tell Çığdem we were going to Ankara, and she wanted to know where we'd been and when we got back. Sensing she was hurt to be left out of the loop, I visited her for coffee. Later. After I was awake. Don't speak much Turkish when the phone drags me out of deep sleep. I'd brought her a gift, a pretty throw from IKEA, and greetings from Özer's family, which was the needed balm. We laughed over her eight new baby chicks and chatted about our adventures. 

I've had my own little hurts of neglect over the past couple of days, from people I know don't mean to leave me feeling unnecessary. Reminders again that I don't always even know what is rude and what is normal in this place--whether on the giving or the receiving end. And so I lean once more into equanimity, that grace that can carry us sweetly through late night breakdowns, the vagaries of life in community, the dark unknowing of opening homes and lives to those of another language and culture, and pain of unintended slights. 

The area around Ankara's ancient citadel is the best "junk" shopping ever. Fascinating sellers, bargains and surprises.

The Tuesday report—a day in the life…

Several who read my description of a Tuesday in our lives at Spa for the Soul commented that it helped them to “see,” to catch something of the meaning of our choice to live as we do. That they found the descriptions encouraging, nourishing.

So here’s another Tuesday. Just for fun.

Last week was the major holiday with many businesses and public offices closed for the whole time. Kaş was packed, the tour and dive boats full, the cars all rented, and the restaurants overwhelmed with diners. Children ran and played in the square while vendors hawked their almonds, ice cream and pretty lamps. Paragliders drifted down to land on the harbor wall. An enterprising village woman wandered among the guests to sell her bundles of fresh sage.

And then on Sunday they all left. Monday bleary-eyed restaurant workers and shopkeepers gave up their cheerful, energetic facades and sat slumped in the sun.

We were weary, too, and I hit the 6am alarm onto snooze several times Tuesday morning, finally coming awake at 7. The house was empty save for Curt and me. I had rushed to prepare our apartment for unexpected guests Monday and laundry lay in the kitchen floor when I padded in to make coffee. Two loads were already on the lines from the evening before. I hung a third load and started yet another. Leaving three piles to go. Sipped coffee in the quiet while I looked at email. Jeremiah, Paul and Moses greeted me when I opened to the day’s reading. Jeremiah full of the pain of presiding over Israel’s demise at the hands of Nebuchadnezzar, and I prayed over parallels to modern-day America. Paul exhorting young Timothy, and I prayed for our kids. Moses celebrating God’s faithfulness, and I once again shook my head in befuddlement at His crazy blessings showered on us, All at once it was time to jump in the shower and get ourselves to Kaş. Halil and Gül had plans for our day. Gül has a spanking new passport and Greek visa and asked me to accompany her on her first-ever trip out of Turkey. She and Halil can’t go together until the restaurant closes for the season.

And with Gül away for the day, Halil asked Curt, who had already been there to make juice during the final days of Bayram, to help in the restaurant.

The adventure out of Turkey meant we would take the ferry for the two-mile run to Meis, a Greek island just off Kaş. Not far, but complete with passport control on both ends and a duty free shop on the island. And a plane to Athens now and again, and a ferry to Rhodes every Monday morning. Meis (Kastalorizzo in Greek) is tiny with a sweet sheltered harbor, colorful Greek architecture, and loads of restaurants because there isn’t much else to do there but eat and drink, and the ferry keeps you there for five or six hours. Truth be told, the main reason for the trip was to buy rakı for the restaurant at duty free prices. Two bottles each allowance. Well worth the price of the ferry ticket. This coming weekend is Turkey's national day. For one last time in 2013 Kaş will be packed with holiday makers who tour and shop and dine.

Gül speaks only Turkish. Like Halil she has adopted me as Momi and we’ve done day trips together before. She was a little nervous to go to another country, one where people don’t speak Turkish much, and thus I was chosen.

As we entered the harbor Gül thrilled over the bright houses that look so different from what she knows. After the formalities of immigration we set off to walk the town. Looked in little shops (very expensive, we agreed), bought some things Güvenç had asked for, looked around the tiny supermarket where she marveled over a dark brown round of artisan bread, and then stopped for a coffee and savored the sharing of a luscious banana-chocolate crepe. As would prove true most of the day, the vendors spoke English but not Turkish and I found myself in a brand-new role as Gül’s translator. Which brought me deep joy, a sense that the investment in learning the Turkish language is well worth it. Gül found the cappuccino extraordinary. We swapped stories about what we knew of Meis and I learned a new word. “Dedekodu” (gossip) can be a problem for the tiny community. After a lazy sit in the sun we wandered on.

Halil knows people on Meis so there were connections to be made and greetings to be given. We walked around the big church hoping to find a door open. Gül had never seen one before and asked whether a church is the same as a mosque. “Sort of,” I answered. David told us about a tiny sculpture garden on beyond the last hotel on the harbor and we explored that. Gül pointed out several smaller buildings scattered here and there and asked what they were. Invariably they were small chapels. More churches. “So many churches,” she marveled and I longed for the language to tell her more. Then lunch at a friend’s place where we shared Greek salad, calamari, and something akin to falafel that she had never seen before. All fresh and local and vibrant with color and flavor.

As we sat Gül asked what I wanted to drink. Looked disappointed when I said water. When I asked if she wanted wine on this special day she said only if I was having. So we did. We sat just at the water’s edge. The walkway between the buildings and the edge of the concrete is, after all, just three meters wide. Talked about the women going about in bikinis, about how women who would never dress that way in their home place would come to Kaş and do the same. We saw a heavy woman my age in shorts and a bikini top. I told her about Eda’s response the first time she met a 60-something American woman in shorts. She still refers to “your friend with the puffy legs like marshmallows.”

Halil phoned many times to direct his wife’s journey, ensuring that she met those he wanted her to meet, saw things he wanted her to see, and, of course, got to the duty free shop in time to buy the rakı. I called Curt once just to make sure he didn’t feel left out. Smile. We arrived everywhere early because Gül didn’t want to mess up. We were back on the ferry 40 minutes before we needed to be. I enjoyed a read while she napped.

For Curt and Halil it was a slow day, an enjoyable time together. Yasemin ran to greet her mother, greedy for what gift she might receive. Halil waited all aglow with delight at this gift he'd give his wife. With Gül back, Curt covered the pomegranate juicing while Halil ran home to shower and change into his evening workclothes. 

Investing. Invested. In people, language, houses and lands and furnishings for guests. Another day of it. Closed with a tasty spinach and cheese pide (Turkish pizza) from the wood-fired oven of the neighboring restaurant. Home. 

A day in the life...

How often has someone said to me, "Your life is so exciting, so full of adventure! You must think my life is boring." Others urge us to send details of our doings often so that they can pray. But when we ask about their lives, "Oh, it's just the some old--you know--nothing much to talk about...."

My normal response is to explain that life is life--wherever one lives. The laundry still needs doing, the car needs gas, the ironing pile stacks up. We hang with friends, shop for groceries, chat with the neighbors and pull weeds. Today it is raining. 

Spa for the Soul
Gőkseki, Kaş/ANTALYA, TURKEY

Tuesday was a good day. I rose at 6am and padded down the two flights of stairs from our room to the kitchen. Softly, because every room sheltered a sleeping guest. Or my sleeping husband. It is still dark at 6, with stars and only the faintest suggestion that the sun will rise. The house was warm, so I opened doors and windows to the light breeze. I molded some dough for the morning's bread and left it on the board to rise while I made coffee and emptied the dishwasher. Oven set to 235C, timer set, I took my coffee to the sofa, lit candles, and settled into the quiet of dawn with Bible, journal and ipad. Email, a bit of news, Jeremiah, Paul and Asaph. Prayers for those in the house, for our kids who need to sell their house, and for the peace and prosperity of the community around us.

Guests turned up for the breakfast of eggs, cheese, olives, tomatoes, cucumber and peppers, yogurt and fresh orange juice. And bread warm from the oven and mugs of strong coffee. By 9am only Curt and I remained. Dishes. Desk time working on some last matters related to my dad's estate. 

Tuesday was Kurban Bayram, the day sheep and goats are sacrificed and shared among family, friends and the poor. And it was Halil's birthday. Halil is dear to us, and just four months younger than our Caitlin. So at 11am we headed for town to sit with him at his restaurant for part of his 20-hour workday. 6-year-old Yasemin ran to meet us as we crossed the square, kissing our hands and touching them to her forehead in the greeting that honors family elders. Similar greetings from Halil and others of those we "mother" day by day. We hugged and massaged sore backs and shoulders and hugged again over the next two hours. Gul and Halil were happy-weary from the heavy load of serving countless holiday-makers. Good business but coming right at the end of the long season--well, they count the days until they can rest. 

At 1pm we strolled over to another friend's restaurant to enjoy their annual art show and a chat in the shade of their garden dining space on the harbor. 

By 2 we thought it time to venture up to the Kocaer family Bayram doings. Fatih had phoned the evening before to invite us, saying they would start at 10am. A phone call told us that our dear Ramazan was covering the office while the rest of the family enjoyed the holiday, so we stopped at Andifli to pay him Bayram greetings. "Did you see Fatih?" he asked. "Just on our way now." "You didn't go yet? But I think he told you they would start at 10. They are finished now. He is not there!" 

Assumptions. Messed up. Because it was a big family do, I imagined an all-day-into-the-wee-hours affair. Done already by 2? We missed it? Ouch! Ramazan phoned Fatih and we all laughed over what we foreigners didn't know.

"But my mother is making food now. What are you doing? Will you come to our house?" Ramazan was eager, and not dissuaded when we said we had our own guests for whom we needed to prepare dinner. So we picked up some veg and some chicken and ran them home, then picked up Ramazan back at the office and headed up the hill to Circillar and his family home. His mom sat before an open fireplace stirring a huge pot of boiling meat while his morning-sick wife Melike good-humoredly stayed as far from the smells as she could. Three goats had been sacrificed for this family's feast and sharing. For us they grilled rib pieces and roasted peppers in the coals. And homemade baklava. Ymmm! Neighbors came and went. All the while packages of meat and plates of baklava were carried to the homes of yet other neighbors. When we rose to leave at 5pm, a huge bunch of late grapes and a dozen early mandarins were plucked from vine and tree as a parting gift. 

Home for an hour of playing together before Curt grilled chicken and vegetables and I made a candlelit dining room on the terrace under the stars. Gentle conversation with our guests, an American couple who work in Ankara and have also lived in Iran and Kenya over their many years together. By 9pm the kitchen was clean and we headed to our rest.

So are our lives full of adventure and excitement because we live outside our home country? We still cook and clean and shop for groceries. We take part in community events. We have guests and are guests. We drink coffee and invest our time and hearts in the people around us. We mess up and receive grace. A mundane existence.

And yet not. I love our time in the US, but I also love this. Things I love: the culture of hospitality and generosity, the habits of spending time sharing and listening and simply being together. I love speaking a second language--well, trying to, studying and practicing and understanding more and more. I love the tenacity and generosity family and friends give one another. I love the simplicity that envelops us: people have less and make do more; gardens are planted with food more than with flowers; public transport and walking are ways of life; chickens cluck and scratch and crow and we enjoy their eggs, and they are not designer birds living in elaborate coops either. Our food scraps feed the neighbor birds. Books are passed around until they are tatty. Things don't get recycled so much as they are not consumed in the first place or they are re-used and re-purposed. Laundry is dried on the line and water is heated by the sun. Lentil soup is our neighbor child's favorite food.

I love our summers in the US surrounded by believers and soaking in teaching, studying together and communal prayer. But at this point in my life I would feel adrift, or maybe just excess, in a land of spiritual abundance. I feel privileged to be Jesus' hands and feet in a place where the magnificence of his power and love are little known.

I wonder if the foreignness keeps us more alive to the beauty and the sorrow around us?Our lives truly are "just life." Not much different. But are we different here? Do we experience the gift of each new day, of every opportunity more fully? Are we more alert, more alive to possibilities, more present and listening? 

Maybe it is not so much the exotic foreign land as it is the clarity that we are indeed aliens and strangers here, sojourning for a season with a purpose to bless.

The Mother-love of God

At last yesterday I could see the end of the project. There are some 30 windows in our eccentric five story tower of a house by the sea in southern Turkey, and they needed curtains.

The last nine pieces were cut and ready to sew, just in time to block summer’s intense sun. I had the sewing machine whirring when my neighbor Çiğdem appeared hugging a wrinkled bundle of shimmery fabric. Treasure to her, she said her sister had given it, and she wanted to make curtains for her son’s room. I thought she wanted to borrow my machine. No. She is afraid of the machine and wants me to make them for her. By today.

Weary as I am of curtains, “Tabii, canım.” I said. “Of course I will do this for you, dear one.” For weeks now we have watched them prepare for their youngest son’s sűnnet, the Islamic rite of circumcision for boys entering puberty. Furious cleaning, fresh paint, new furniture, rugs hauled onto the roof terrace and scrubbed. They even replaced their cookstove. This family is not wealthy, but they are proud. Extended family they rarely see will come from faraway parts of Turkey and all must be shiny.

Orkun, the boy at the center of all the hooplah, is nine. He’s still sweet and fun-loving. Respectful, well-mannered, and treasured by his parents. Though he was circumcised last summer the family is only now able to manage the expensive celebration. Sűnnet parties are a big deal.

Family will start to arrive Thursday. Friday night their closest friends will gather--in our garden. My husband Curt is down there now power-scrubbing old stone to make it as nice as we can for them. There will be music, traditional dances, plates and plates of food handed around, and the place will be awash with glasses of sweet Turkish tea until the wee hours. The men will huddle together to talk and laugh and argue. The women will make another circle of chatter and fun, all the while bobbing up and down to serve. And Orkun and his buddies will clamber all over the property to hang from olive trees and jump off terraces.

Saturday morning the ceremony will take place. Orkun will be dressed like a little prince

Orkun's big day

complete with scepter and shoes a genie would love. Four imams singing continuously for an hour, prayer, and then a feast for 200 of the family’s larger community. Friends and relatives will hug, pat, kiss and pinch Orkun’s happy cheeks. Though we are to sit in the grandparents’ place at the family table, we will be the only foreigners present and I will be the only woman without a headscarf.

Two weeks ago I was listening to a guest when Çiğdem came in. She made small talk for a few seconds, then burst into tears. Turkish streamed too fast for me to understand more than that she was heartsick and it was about one of her sons. I moved to hug her, to get eye contact, and to slow her down so I could understand. Gradually the trouble immerged. Not an emergency, but deep pain. “Orkun’s sűnnet is coming and my mother won’t be here, and you won’t be here either. No mother! I am so alone!” she wept. Çiğdem’s mother died suddenly two summers ago. Ever since she has, from time to time, put me in her mother-place. And two weeks ago our plan was to be away for the summer by the date of the big event.

I held her, I rocked her, I listened. I empathized, and she knows I can because I lost both of my parents in recent years, too.

Çiğdem stood shy at the fence the day she asked to use our garden for the party. That also was back when none of us thought we would be here. She claimed Orkun wanted it, because (she said he said) we are grandma and grandpa to him. Now that our travel is delayed, she rejoices and tells us that at the Friday night gathering the grandparents dance a blessing on the boy. She says we must take that part, too, along with the grandparents’ place at the feast table during the ceremony.

How did we get here?

Six years ago we responded to what seemed an invitation from God to settle in Turkey. We moved to this house in our retirement to establish a place for prayer and listening, for contemplative retreat. Perched on a hillside overlooking the Mediterranean, it is our home as well as a place of welcome to whoever God draws here. We came to Kaş and then to the nearby village of Gőkseki for the ambiance—a lavish outpouring of natural beauty, delightful climate, sounds and smells of peace and simplicity, abundant Biblical imagery, and a bohemian community that celebrates peaceful outdoor and artistic endeavors. We bought property and put down roots without knowing much about the people here, or the civic or religious life, except that Kaş is much more than tourist town or foreigner enclave.

Six years and two major renovations later Spa for the Soul is open, and we know a good deal more about this place.

We know more facts. Kaş is a relatively open town where foreigners are received in peace. The winter population of 7,000 souls is a mix of Turks whose families have dwelt here for generations, Turks who came here for summer tourism jobs and ended up settling down and starting families and businesses, Turkish retirees from cities like Istanbul who are educated and relatively wealthy, and a smattering of foreign residents like us. In summer the population multiplies many times over with tourism workers who mostly come from eastern Turkey, part-time foreign residents, and, of course, tourists both Turk and foreign.

We know that Kaş is relatively secular and tolerant religiously, though with many observant Muslims in the mix. We know that many consider it the most beautiful place in Turkey. We know that Christians were forcibly expelled in the ‘20s as part of the great population exchange between Muslim Turkey and Orthodox Greece, and that many still refer to the old Orthodox church as “the mosque that used to be a church.” The traumatic memory of a community torn asunder remains. We know that since then there has been little Christian witness here, and there is no church today—other than us. Some tell us they never met “real” Christians until we came, and most are certain that it is impossible for a Turk to be Christian because to be Turk is to be Muslim. The two things go together—end of story—though faith in Allah and religious practice is not understood as necessary.

And over time I have come to know this another thing. Jesus loves this place. Intensely.

From the first we chose to understand the five-times-daily Islamic call to prayer that echoes over the hillsides, penetrates our bedrooms and our sleep, and wafts out to sea, as God’s call to us to go to the balcony and pray for this place. In early days I would think hard about ways to pray as I observed people go by on the street below and listened to the singer. Over time, I became conscious that I stood there beside Jesus, watching with Him. I sensed him loving, brooding, longing, and sometimes weeping, intensely interested in each life, in the agriculture and the hum of business and family. My own prayer simplified to that of Jeremiah, asking for the peace of God and His prosperity to come to this place. Awash with the tenderness and compassion of His presence, and with how He knows it all.

One day a couple of months ago I encountered an acquaintance as I crossed the square. Mustafa is my age or older, a businessman who knows everybody, and who loves being called by honorifics. He embraced my hand with his two. “Gűnaydın, Momi!” he exclaimed. “Good morning, Mommy!” An affectionate greeting for sure, but Mustafa would never see me as Mom. My insides grin as I realize that he has heard me called Momi by so many others that he thinks it is my name. He doesn’t know that “mommy” is anne in English.

It was Halil who first named me Momi. A young married man just our daughter’s age and with a baby of his own, he has called me that for at least five years. For a long time I figured he must call a lot of women my age by that name as a gesture of familiar respect. But gradually I realized that I had been singled out for his special affection, and that of his wife and child. Even he can’t express why. When three years later I moved here to live full time, the circle of momi-callers expanded.



Halil's wife Gul with our granddaughter Lia



Now 20 or even 30 people call me either Momi or Grandma. I would divide those into three camps: the ones with whom I share special affection, the ones who don’t know that Momi is not my name but a term of endearment, and the Momi-wannabes.

This last group is the lonelies who see the sweet relationship and long to share in it, but with whom there really is not the relational connection of trust and affection that makes it feel comfortable, real. These dear ones need the mother-love even more, I think, and so I embrace them and stand ready to play the part as they are able to make the connection. Our neighbor Çiğdem is among those. She longs for the richness and freedom of having me as Mom, but it is uncomfortable and ill-fitting, too. So she is tentative, hopeful and recitent all at once.

And it is not just in Turkey. There are others who call me Mom. It started when we moved to Abu Dhabi in the United Arab Emirates nine years ago. Abu Dhabi is a big city where 87% of the population is expatriate guest workers far from home and family. There was Sri Lankan Nadeek, Nepalese Pawan and Khadka, Pakistani Tahir, Romanian Isabella, Kyrgyzstani Saliya, and American Jenn. Buddhist, Hindu, Muslim and Christian. And my Albanian daughter-in-law Eda, and my American son-in-law Josh.

The whole thing bemuses me. Other expatriate women do not get adopted as Mom time and again. In fact, they think it's a little wierd. I puzzle over it and wonder what it is that draws this response to me. A retired lawyer, and thinker way more than feeler, I used to be dubbed intimidating. I’m older now, with wrinkles and gray hair. And I’m softer. Not so slim and fit. I no longer look the chic professional who has it all together. And I have mostly left organizer/leader/teacher-mode behind. I’ve schooled myself to listen prayerfully and ask gentle questions to help people move deeper into their own stories, their own journey with Jesus.

I think it must not really be about me at all, but a response to Jesus in me. After all, as the only believers we are Christ incarnate in this place. I think that for these who call me Momi, it is the mother-love of God that draws them. These dear ones are all far from birth family. Several suffer mother brokenness—separated by death, or illness and poverty that reverse dependency to child-responsible-for-parent. Absent in their lives is the mother-love that is present and safe, that listens, sees goodness and potential, and loves towards growth and maturity. With generous doses of playful affection, story-telling, small gifts and treats, feeding and prayer.

Our world is that of living among unreached people groups in closed countries. Not as “missionaries” but as expatriate professionals and lately as retirees. We live in places where traditional missions like evangelism and church planting are largely blocked. A place where long-term work appears nearly fruitless and can be dangerous. Frustrating places.

But our world is also a world of gracious hospitality. In contrast to the West, these are places where community trumps individual, and where people want to be part of a family with the daily in-and-out closeness of asking what happened yesterday and what is for dinner tonight and can we drink tea together now? We aren’t just Momi or, for my husband Curt, Grandpa. We are Abla and Amca—Big Sister and Uncle--in a culture that assigns to older friends terms of family relationship as honorifics. A month ago we were “cousins” at an annual family gathering of first cousins. When urged to join them I had said, “But we are not your cousins.” “Ah, but you are part of our family!” was the sweet reply. One cousin who arrived late and who did now know me greeted with, “Are you my cousin?” “Well yes, I’m your cousin from Alaska.” “Ah, my cousin from Alaska. So good to see you!”

I hear other believers speak of how dark this place is, of dark spirits and difficulty in prayer. I know the feeling because I’ve experienced it elsewhere. But I don’t here. Here it seems many just need a mother. And children need a funny, playful grandpa.

I think they respond to the mother-love of God, of Jesus in us.

I watch Him weeping over Jerusalem, longing, full of sorrow at her rebellion, desiring the return of His love, desiring relationship. “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, and you were not willing. Look, your house is left to you desolate. I tell you, you will not see me again until you say, ‘Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.’” Luke 13:34-35 (NIV).

I watch Him weep with Mary. “When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who had come along with her also weeping, he was deeply moved in spirit and troubled. ‘Where have you laid him?’ He asked. ‘Come and see, Lord,’ they replied. Jesus wept. Then the Jews said, ‘See how He loved him.’” John 11:33-36 (NIV).

I watch His prodigal father, the father Rembrandt painted with a mother’s hand, abandon all dignity to run to meet his wayward son. “But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him.” Luke 15:20.

“Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne? Though she may forget, I will not forget you! See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands….” Isaiah 15-16a.

Mother-love. Love that watches and listens, notices and attends. Love that provides an oasis of safety in a scary world. Gentle, empathetic. Demonstrative. Truthful, seeing things the way they are and the way they could be—for truth wins over sentiment every time. Hopeful, encouraging. Rich with laughter as well as with tears. Wise, yet not much given to telling all she sees and knows. Love poured out and still pouring from some deep well that has no bottom.

Could it be that these dear ones who dwell in darkness will be met by the Father-God who made them not through argument or persuasion, not through shoe-boxes and well-told stories, or community development, but by means of His attributes of mother-love? Of family and community, of coming to know that there is a family place for them as a beloved child in the Kingdom of God?

Routines and Rhythms

-----Original Message-----

From: Caitlin Kading
To: Jeri Bidinger
Subject: Mom questions

So I have some questions about mothering. Or I need some reassurance. :) This routine thing keeps coming back to me. You read so much about how babies need routine to feel safe and secure. You also read and hear about babies having a natural routine. I guess Lia has sort of got one: eat, play, eat, sleep. But the time varies drastically. More routine than that is frustrating for both of us. She doesn't keep the same timing and then I feel stuck at home. And I'm learning that she likes smaller more frequent meals than have been recommended.

So yeah, I know in my head we are doing okay--even if it isn't 'by the books.' But I could use some reassurance.

Meanwhile, just now she is trying to catch the cats. Cizme and Pollux are both weaving in and out around the dinner table--watching her but staying out of reach. Gypsy, poor dog, can’t come into the dining room while we are at the table, so she sits in the living room and whines to join the fun. It is pretty funny!

Love you!!
Cait



-----Reply-----
From: Jeri Bidinger
To: Caitlin Kading
Subject: Mom questions


Yep, I think you mostly need reassurance.

As I recall, you fell into a routine quite early--which was a huge blessing with me in law school. But it was your own routine. I didn't orchestrate it. It just happened and I felt so grateful. Dan--I'm not sure he ever had much of a routine, other than that imposed from outside: my schedule, your schedule, and the requirements of those. He wasn't much of a sleeper--ever. Never consistent about a morning nap and he dropped the afternoon nap quite early. He was always hungry.

Yes, rhythms and routines have a safety about them, but they are much more than a time schedule. A story and prayer at bedtime. Snuggling on the couch with Dad while he plays video games. Letting the dogs out whenever you return from an outing—and enjoying their wag-tail, licky greeting. Kissed and hugged often. Prayer before meals. Meals at the table. Manners. Safe in the car seat, strapped in with love. Favorite blankets and toys. The same bed most of the time.

Many routines come naturally: bedtime and rising because Josh goes to work. Dinner together around the table. Routines of household chores. Friends who show love as they come and go. Ice cream or a donut on grocery shopping days. Mom and Dad reading the Bible.

You and Dan were born at a time when schedules were OUT. We were urged to be flexible and free-flowing, to see babies and young children as portable and includable in the wide varieties of good things in life. But when I was a baby, schedule was everything. My mom confessed to feeling guilty if she picked me up from a nap before the clock said it was time. As I think about it, I wonder if things are swinging back again because many children today have hardly any of the routines I have mentioned.

Lia does. You value the love-routines of healthy family life together.

Lia, of course, must move towards fitting in with the rhythms of healthy life. Bedtimes, mealtimes, ready on time for church or school. And these things do contribute to her sense of safety and security. But that is a growing thing. Her main security will always come from routines of love: Mom and Dad with calm voices and cuddles, pets and familiar toys, her own bed most nights, familiar foods mixed with the joy of savoring a new food and mixing it with the good stuff that is known. Mom and Dad listening well, loving each other. Also from Mom and Dad saying "no" and being firm about it when necessary for safety, appropriate manners, or the overall health of community life--that is to say, routines of consistent boundaries.

Flexibility, spontaneity, adaptability--these also are important values. Listening to one's own body--as with the "maybe smaller, more frequent meals are better for this child with a sensitive stomach" thing. We are NOT all wired the same. There are ways we must conform despite our innate wiring, like letting others sleep at night even if we don't. There are many more ways we can roll with it, like letting the night person alone in the morning until they are ready to talk, or skipping dinner to go to Baskin Robbins once in six months.

Remember, honey, that these schedule things come in waves and fads. But calm love, fun and laughter together, routines that celebrate beauty and community, consistent discipline towards safety and healthy life together, healthy food and plenty of outdoors and exercise, good stories and colorful pictures--those aren't fads in childreading, but rhythms of security, wisdom and joy.

Let me know if this helps. Much love to all of you!
Mom