They Grew Up--Full Circle

A favorite camp spot. It is a tiny spot of Oman in the province of Fujairah, UAE.

The magic of the silver tube that hurtles through the skies. Its doors close on one place and a few hours later they open on another life entirely. Monday we were with Dan and Eda in Dubai. Tuesday afternoon we lit the woodstove to warm the week-empty house on the rocky hillside overlooking the Mediterranean Sea.

We're here, but the presence of dear ones in Dubai hangs in the air all around me. The magic lingers.

Dan and Eda. Typical for them in all the ways they are so different. Dan comfortable on the cool-breezy day in simple t-shirt, Eda happy in several layers and a wool cap.

Dan and Eda Bibaj Bidinger. Our tall son who builds world-record high flagpoles. His passport is the thickest I've ever seen with multiple visas for Jordan, South Africa, Turkmenistan, Azerbaijan, Albania and...well, you get the picture. His wife of six years (already?), Eda is our Albanian beauty strong in character and presence, assertive, humble in serving, and a loved teacher of very small ones. Their home on the 28th floor of a skyscraper overlooks Dubai Marina. Two rooms, decorated with exotica and leftovers from our years in Abu Dhabi--the heavy copper wedding tray supported by Turkish legs; hand-tied carpets from Afghanistan and Turkey and the soft hand-woven kilims of Albania; our ancient microwave table at the end of their massive sleepable sofa; that old easy chair we recovered in Abu Dhabi, and the wine cabinet we bought there catching keys and phones in their entry; wrought-iron Albanian eagles behind the stove on the kitchen wall; a closet stuffed with tools and craft supplies and camping gear and car parts; Eda's handmade throws and wall art, and photographs of love. 

"Would you guys like to go camping?" asked Dan when we skyped a couple of weeks ago. Would we? "Hello! We would LOVE to go camping! Do you have gear for all of us?"

"We'll manage," said he.

Dan was a babe in diapers on his first camping trip. He slept by our heads in the back of the old Suburban. Rainy cold camps by creeks and river mouths where we fished. 

At the ripe old age of eight Dan bounced with us through the Sinai in the back of an old Landcruiser. Or sat hands-on-wheel on the lap of the bedouin driver, freckled little face beaming in every direction except the way in front of him as they negotiated dunes, narrow wadis and rocky flats in the Sinai. The desert camping of the Middle East, an opportunity we grabbed while on a trip to Israel so that our kids would have a chance to know its freedom and joy. 

Dan was 19 when he first drove dunes. It was in our brand new Landcruiser in the corner of the Rub al'Khali called as Liwa. "Sure, you can go down that," coached Curt at the top of a precipice. "I know you can't see. Just take it slow." Which Dan did. Thump. Crack. Bumper connected with subka at the bottom...and broke. Curt chuckling. "It's okay, Dan. That's what these vehicles are for. Bumper was too low anyway." They later removed those parts of the trim from both front and back and threw them away. Together.

By Eda's first visit Dan was an experienced 4x4 driver with skills. We took them out together. In our car, with our gear. I planned the food and improvised bedding; Curt packed the jig-saw puzzle of provisions and gear enough for a crowd as only he could. Testy if someone interfered with his process. 

Their wedding brought gifts of tent, cooler, lantern and camp chairs. By then Dan was driving his Emma, the Pathfinder decorated with Albanian eagles on the door panels. We began to camp together. Their car and our car. Their gear and our gear. Joint food plans and shared cooking and cleanup. Curt in the lead through tricky sands, or Dan in the lead with his more agile vehicle, skittering ahead, then circling back to give our heavier truck a tow out of whatever hole or edge had caught us.

"Would you guys like to go camping?" asked Dan when we skyped a couple of weeks ago. Would we? "Hello! We would LOVE to go camping! But do you have gear for the four of us?"

"We'll manage," said Dan.

Those words hang in the air today. They shimmer and vibrate, throw off joy. An emblem of a new passage in the sometimes-treacherous journey called parenting. They managed, all right. We contributed nothing but our presence and camp-appropriate old clothes and tennis shoes, and Dan and Eda took us camping. This time it was they that made lists and scurried to organize, plan meals, pack gear, choose the route, drive, and provide everything necessary. Eda shopped and did the pre-work to make cooking easy. Dan packed his HiLux meticulously, while Curt lent a hand now and then and admired Dan's work. Dan drove the dangerously washed-out road while we road confident in his skill and his care. 

They do many things just like we always did. Lamp chops and grilled peppers for first-night dinner, and sweet bread and coffee for breakfast. Camp kitchen near the fire, shade shelter up, tents on the other side and further away. Chairs arrayed upwind of the fire. Books and kindles to the ready. Headlamps, too. And yes, they do some things differently. Better ideas. A heavy-duty spray bottle to rinse dishes. Fire lit with Dan's blow-torch from work. Differences in taste. They use paper plates and plastic cups. We never do. Dan is a minimalist who enjoys seeing what he can make do without. We tend to have more things handy "just in case."

It has been three years since we last camped together, not long before Curt and I moved from the UAE. We returned to a favorite remote spot. 

Everything was familiar, so easy and comfortable. And yet we marked an entirely new passage in all of our lives. Parenting that introduces, teaches, celebrates good and beautiful places and ways of seeing them...several years ago gave way to parenting that shares the journey. Two couples did stuff together, though mostly we remained the models and leaders. This past weekend we become the receivers. A profound movement. Still two couples that love doing life together, but now we visit Dan and Eda's place and they take care of us. They do for us what we once did for them. They introduce us to new ideas and ways of seeing. And they do it so well.

We did the odd "helping" chores...

...but had time to read and nap.

Last weekend's camp stands for me as emblem of a bigger journey. We are coming full-circle. From childhood dependence to adult mutuality. And now glimmers and shadows of adult mutuality moving toward the dependence of advancing years. Our children established in their own families. Productive, loyal, adults of integrity. Creative, responsible, and generous. Grateful. Growing in insight, tough, spiritually committed and invested. We begin to fade as they take root and advance in fruitfulness and grace. They begin to see themselves as people who sometimes take care of us.

The circle is indeed coming round. And, though not nearly complete, we know ourselves blessed to experience it as full, pressed down, and oozing out goodness, health and love.

A glorious sunset--on so many levels

The Tuesday Report--interrupted

The New Year has included a decision to rise earlier. Which means I see the sunrise every morning. I love it!

FB posts as Christmas decorations came down and the holiday was packed away for another year carried a common theme: "The house feels empty, and I feel a bit down." For me, however, the day after Epiphany involved simply removing the baby cradle from the entry to its storage space under the stairs. With that same sort of the relief that follows the joy of guests and family and an overfull house and the quiet return of useful space to normal. The nativity remains because I think that little family and those shepherds and wise men continue to marvel and rejoice together and I don't want to rush them.

It was 3:30 pm January 3rd when Curt and I sat down to our traditional New Years Day brunch of Curt's Farmer Eggs, waffles, fruit salad and mimosas. That captures the randomness of a Christmas season where Christmas is unknown and yet Jesus has given us so many to treasure and love and give time and space to. 

Tuesdays? Christmas Eve Tuesday we worked around the house and started at last to hang the curtains in the studio. We've had them since April but the shop failed to provide the one of the corner pieces needed to mount the rods. After checking back many times over several months I finally got the picture and asked Süleyman (the world's most delightful carpenter) if he would make me something that would do the job. Which he promptly did, and then refused to charge me for it. Mid afternoon of Christmas Eve we ventured into Kaş for a late lunch of spinach pide. Not a Christmas acknowledgement anywhere. No decorations; no greetings. Just a quiet off-season day in a small town by the sea.

I think a spinach pide looks like Christmas food, don't you?

New Years Eve--much the same. Ayşe came to clean as usual, though New Years IS a major holiday and celebration here and she would later host all of her teen-aged son's friends for their all night fun. We, too, were invited to various shindigs, but preferred our own quiet and company to see in the new year. Once again we ventured into town in the late afternoon for our weekly pide and were out and home long before celebrations got underway. 

Christmas Day we drove the three hours to Antalya to be with believing friends and enjoy a meal together. Spent the night so that we could take in the new Hobbit film--so very worth it! New Years Day we hosted friends for games, Mexican food, and the first Lord of the Rings film in Turkish. We've been gathering the bits for a home theater system in our studio, and this was the inauguration. I think we were thirteen that day. One other American and the rest Turk, with the delight of two of our favorite children thrown in. The new system was pronounced a success. It is even better now because I've had a boatload of floor cushions and pillows made. Chairs abandoned: guests lounge with cosy throws. 

Christmas gave way to preparation to receive 16 women from up and down to Mediterranean coast for a new years retreat at Spa for the Soul. Hint: that could be why we finally got going and hung the curtains in the studio/meeting room. The women's ministry team at the international church in Antalya had booked our space and invited participants. Program by me. Support and food service organized by me and spearheaded by Curt with our dear Gül and Halil, who lent their restaurant expertise and 3 days of work. Retreatants ranged in age from 23 to 80, and came from six nations. Our neighbor and my language helper Çiğdem joined us for one session and a meal, and delighted that so many of our foreigner guests spoke good Turkish. Five year old Yasemin appointed herself greeter and she, too, delighted in foreigners with whom she could chat away. Especially Jennifer, who is her new best friend. Dobby the retreatant dog did his retreat with the guys in the kitchen. Mild sunny weather meant women at prayer in quiet spaces all over our property. Incense rising to the heavens. Enthusiastic song resonated down the hillside from our times together. David, Haggai, Zechariah, Hosea and Mary prodded us. Gül and I tied placecards to napkin rings with pretty ribbon. I pulled out favorite dessert recipes and enjoyed the rare chance to prepare them. Pitchers of drinking water beside tables, an After Eight on every pillow. Programs printed on the last of my pretty paper, and the basin and the towel prepared for Curt and me to wash the hands of our guests in blessing on that first evening. 

And then it was over. By 3pm yesterday all were on their way to their own towns, and we'd delivered Yasemin, Gül and Halil to their place for a well deserved rest. Curt and I settled into the studio on the cushions, opened a potpourri of thoughtful little remembrances from our guests, consumed the chocolate cherries, and watched Invictus to honor Mandela's passing. Then Star Trek just for fun. Then Curt put on something else but I was asleep. I woke on those cosy cushions at 5am this morning, studio dark and quiet around me, and made my way to our bed. Twelve hours asleep both of us, with glad and praise-filled hearts. 

Like God's love, fresh and distinctive every morning

Christmas Cradle

Where to begin? Perhaps with Çiğdem in our entry. "Çok güzel bu beşik! Ama, Momi, neden burada?" Good question. Why would I have an old handmade cradle parked in a corner near the front door?

Or I could start with Yasemin and Halil. As they gather coats and bags to leave at the end of a visit Halil points to the tiny wooden Mary and Joseph and asks his daughter whether she remembers their story from last year. They, too, admire the cradle and I tell again how we wait in this season for Jesus to come. How we remember that he did come, and that we look for him to come again. We speak of the similarities in our Jesus traditions, and once in a while the heart question is asked: "So, Momi, what is the difference between the Muslim Jesus and the Christian?"

Or with Cait, who wonders how to care for friends in her choice to leave Santa out of Lia's world. Or with a friend (unnamed because I don't know how far she has shared her pregancy) who posts a FB question about how her believing friends talk to their children about Santa and Jesus.

"And the Word became flesh, and made his dwelling among us." (John 1:14) And angels sang and invited shepherds to worship. And a star appeared and drew those who could read the skies to find a child in a manger and offer their riches. God entered into human history and communicated good news. 

I see lots of blogs and articles about how to master the craziness, how to keep time to wait for and with Jesus, how to resist the commercialism and hyperactivity of the season. From my perch I wonder why the writers and the readers don't just simply stop. But I can talk, can't I, for I live on a Turkish hillside overlooking the Mediterranean in a village where people have barely heard of Christmas. My neighbor allows me to see that before we talked about it she always thought Noel was the Western name for New Years, which is more and more celebrated just as we in the West do Christmas. In the cities at least, and via TV the whole country sees it. Trees, gifts, lights, Santa--all of it. Commercial interests have noticed that Christmas is a money maker, and big shopping malls here look much like those in the US just now. It doesn't hurt, either, that we live just east of the birthplace of St. Nick and just west of the ancient town where he served as bishop 1,600 years ago. Santa is Turkish. Did you know that?

I can talk, but I struggled with all the same stuff when living in my home culture. Over time we did many things to simplify and refocus, but Christmas worship always began for me only after Christmas Day, when everything went quiet and I could rest and think and pray. Other expats write blogs and articles about how much they miss all the trappings of Christmas and about what they do to make things more like their passport homes and about how hard the holidays can be. I rejoice in the freedom to quietly watch and wait for Jesus.

When Jesus entered our human world, forgiveness, love, salvation, reconciliation and power were conveyed. In all kinds of ways. As we represent the incarnation, we think about what will communicate Jesus to our friends and neighbors. As well as what might obscure him. The issues aren't so different from anywhere else, but here we have a blank slate. Last year we put up two nativities. One very beautiful one lent by a friend celebrated the rich beauty of God's gift. Another small wooden one children could play with demonstrated his accessibility to all. We strung a few lights on the balcony and gave a string to the neighbor boy to put on his house. And we hosted a meal between Christmas and New Years and used the little figures to tell the story, prayed for our guests, and ate of the bounty of this place.

This year we've added and subtracted. We have only the simple nativity. Mary and Joseph wait for the baby while shepherds watch their flocks in a nearby field. The angels watch and the wise men are still far away. Baby Jesus is in a drawer until Christmas Day. Advent candles have marked our private journey, and I found an old cradle in a junk shop and fixed it up. It is handmade, so we talk about the simplicity of a family long ago. It is empty, and we explain that we wait for something. It is in a corner of the entry to our large house, a house designed for guests, and we tell about how many people had to journey to their home places because the government required it, and the house was overfull. But the young couple were part of the family and a place was found for them and made as welcoming as the host could make it.

Rustic, and not particularly skilled craftmanship. I picture a young father without much money lovingly preparing for the arrival of his firstborn.

A little vegetable oil rub took care of a lot of dirt and brought warmth to the wood. 

Yes, I've seen these cradles and the support is twine woven back and forth.

My sailing knots come in handy.

Simple. But chosen because of how it makes it easy for us to tell the good story, and to express how important it is to us. Props to augment our limited language skills, nothing showy or expensive to distract, and each bit rich with context. 

Though Santa comes from just up the road, we ignore him. We did with our kids when they were small, too. How could we teach them that both Jesus and Santa were real even though they never actually saw them, and then later admit that Santa was a myth? How could we glorify a figure that encourages greed and self-focus at a time when we remember how God gave the ultimate self-sacrifice as His gift to humanity? How could we let our children think that we might not always be truth-sayers to the best of our understanding?

As always, if people are to experience our story, they must be made welcome. At feasts, and in the in and out of everyday. Knowing our love and delight whenever they can be here. 

I love this. Which is not to say that I would not hang a wreath on the door and put up a pretty tree with loads of lights, or join the choir to sing the Messiah, or otherwise join the festivities of another place. Where these things communicate goodness and truth and family and love. For this place and this time, though, I am grateful. And Jesus is here.

Noel Beşiği

Çarşamba günü biz Noeli kutlayacağız. Bu bayram Hıristıyanlar için İsa'nın doğumu hatırlıyoruz. Amerıka'da özel ağaçlar, güzel ışıklar, ve başka çok şey ile evler süsleniyor. Hediye veriyorlar ve özel tatlıları yapıyorlar. Bir kişi Türkiye'de yılbaşı için aynı yapıyorlar.

Noel burası bizım için farklı, ve bunu seviyoruz. Aynı burası Yılbaşı için her şey ticari Noeli de Amerika'da. Çok reklam, pahalı dekorasyonlar ve hediyeler, fazla yemek ve ıçecek var. Ve İsa'nın doğumu önemli değil. Unutulmuş.

Burası bizim için Noel sade ve sakin. Huzurlu. Biraz ışık evimizin balkonında cünkü İsa dünyanın ışığı. Eski bir el yapımı beşik giriş kapısında bekliyor cünkü ne zaman İsa doğdu onun sehrinde çok kalabalık oldu ve ev ailerle doludu. Yani küçük bir yer evde buldu yeni bebek için. Şimdi bizim evimizde de küçük ahşap Meryem ve Yusuf hayvanlarla evde bekliyor. Ahşap çobanlar kuzularla yaylada. Ve üç ahşap bilge adam yıldızları seyrettiyorlar ve yolculuk Beytlehem'a gidiyorlar. Küçük ahşap bebek İsa bir çekmecede bekliyor. Biraz özel yemek yaptım. Sakin bir hafta İsa'yı gözlüyoruz.

Sevgililer, bizden size neşe bu Noel.

The Tuesday Report--the good, the bad, and the ugly

I'm not sure where to say Tuesday started this week. Was it when I woke at 8am with the harsh realization that Ayşe would arrive to clean sometime in the next hour and that my hair was bad-dirty? Or was it at 2am when I rolled my pitiful self into bed after hours of a computer game I'd clung to as cover for a lonely heart? Telling myself it didn't matter, that I could sleep until noon if I wanted.

I love to tell of good, of peace and joy. But after a Monday of Turkish study, fiddly desk work of bill paying and a messed-up internet order (in Turkish), and preparation of the flat for coming guests--ironing, bedmaking, balcony cleaning, and reorganizing the kitchen, once again mystified at how little elves creep in and rearrange cupboards according to their own better ideas...well, Curt finished his Turkish class and we grabbed a quick pide and were home by six. At which time Curt went straight upstairs to his desk without saying a word to me and returned to his play with his photos that had consumed his morning. Not one word spoken until he said goodnight and went to bed.

Ouch. Not that anyone was angry, but neither had we discussed desires for the evening. Nor had we spent more than a few minutes together the entire day. It was like he forgot I existed. I sat on the sofa, tried to read, couldn't concentrate, felt sad, and played on my ipod. Self-pity stalked and I hid from it behind the addictive little shapes that affirmed me with good scores and then dumped me. With the promise that it would go better if I played just once more. I told myself I deserved a night off and a long lie in the morning.

Anyway, I was naked and dripping with tangled wet hair when Ayşe arrived for her day's work. Curt, again lost in his photo editing, made no move. "I hear Ayşe," said I. "Uh," said Curt. "Amm, could you go down and greet her? I'm not dressed." "Hmpf," said the man to his demanding wife, and managed to drag himself from the screen to stomp downstairs. We then worked at our desks in silence for an hour until she was ready to start on our office space. Curt gathered his things, still without a word, and went to the dining room and right back to his project. I brought down the coffee things, did dishes, and simmered. 

"I'm pretty angry with you," the simmer boiled over. "Huh? What? Why?" Curt gradually broke the surface of his deep self-space to gasp his surprise. And we talked. And Curt apologized, and we talked some more. He bore me no ire, but I already knew that. He just sort of forgot he lives with another person and that the stuff of life was getting done by that person while he created and played. It happens from time to time. As does my self-pitying response. I wonder whether our years of living apart and alone have left this scar?

Curt connects deeply with nature, people and prayer through his photography. He shares some of it at www.curtbidinger.phanfare.com

We talked. We hugged, loved, and let it go. I moved to the studio to attack the ironing pile. Normally I keep up with it, but somehow this pile had grown to where I could barely lift it. Clothes, dinner napkins, dish towels, and LOTS of bedding. Christmas music would speed me along. Rose, who lives on her sailboat with her husband, came up to do some sewing. She uses our studio because Brian spends winters tearing apart electronics and other things in their tiny space. A simple work table in our sunny room supports their marital sanity.

Curt, now happy and present and attentive, asked if he could make lunch so that I could stay with my project. "I suppose," said I, uncomfortable with my whine that had led to us to this. Lunch was a chicken curry from a recipe, so off he went. Rose sewed, I ironed. She caught herself singing to a Christmas carol and chuckled. Dinghy cover mended, she put things away for another day and headed back to the marina to lunch with her husband.

I finished the massive pile just as our late lunch was ready. Duvets carefully laid over work tables to avoid a single crease. I thought the curry looked a little strange. More red than curry-yellow. Discovered my dear dyslexic husband had read chile for curry and had used a tablespoon of cayenne. Whew! We enjoyed our meal. Curt's head beaded with sweat, my nose ran, and Ayşe's eyes watered as we all heaped seconds on our plates. She was shocked to learn that Curt had cooked, and duly impressed, even as we laughed together over his spicy mistake. She asked about the light strings on the balcony. Were they for the New Year, which is more and more often celebrated in this part of the world as Americans celebrate Christmas, with lights, decorated trees, Santa Claus, and gifts? No, I told her, but for Noel. Which is different. 

Ayşe inserted herself into the kitchen cleanup while Curt and I together made up the house. All beds with freshly ironed linen and ready for soon-to-come guests. A big job made light in the sharing.

Then back to the now-shiny clean office space where we would work a bit more and then play cards. And talk. Christmas plans. Blog posts. An evening of quiet savored in front of our wood fire. The health of Turkish study, retreat planning, people we love to think about, and prayer. 

New vocabulary. Pick three words and write a sentence, or ten and write a story. 

So there it is. Goodness. Messy uglies. Vulnerability and forgiveness. Life in a community. Life together. 

...and moved into the neighborhood

"And the Word became flesh, and made his dwelling among us." (John 1:14)

There is this story I tell. To my kids, to students, and as part of my story of what matters. I grew up outside the church in a family stuck in the muck of addictions and anger. When I was 15 some girls from school, urged on by a believing woman who chose to love me, tried to bring me into their circle. One day several of us went to Krissy's house. There I sat, uncomfortable, an outsider to their laughter and confidence. 

The phone rang. I could hear Krissy's mother's end of a conversation from the next room. 

"Really? That's big--what a hard decision! No, I don't know what you should do. ... Hmmm, I don't know. But I'll pray for you. Yes, the Lord cares about this. Let's pray to know how to handle things. I'll call you again tomorrow."

The chatter, the giggles and teasing, my discomfort--all faded as I eavesdropped on that call. A mom who talked about God on the phone. A mom who prayed. A mom who thought prayer mattered, that Jesus might enter and show the way.  In that moment my whole world changed.

My usual talking point for this story is that we never know what goes on behind the doors of another's home, and we never know what profound impact our everyday actions of faith might have on lonely eavesdroppers in our homes.

"The Word became flesh" and moved to a new place. Jesus left his eternal home to make a temporary home in a place where no one knew him.

We find ourselves on the Mediterranean coast of Turkey. After living seven years in the Middle East. Not by accident. We were drawn here, invited, we believe, by that same Word who moved to physical Israel 2,000 years ago. Invited to purchase property and make space for people who seek solitude for prayer and rest. We call it Spa for the Soul, and we moved here with intention.

But we soon understood that we also moved into a neighborhood, a community where no one had before encountered the Word enfleshed. As I write these lines the mosque singer sings and his call echoes above the wind over the hillside. It penetrates our office and our bedroom and wafts down to the sea below. Twelve days into advent and not a sign of Christmas anywhere.

We understood we'd moved into the neighborhood, so we schooled ourselves to listen and to love. From earliest days first one, and then a few more, and then others, called me Mommy. Their children call me babaanne or anneanne (father's mother or mother's mother) depending on which parent attached first. It surprised me. Still does. I looked for a cultural explanation, but found none. I listened to their stories and realized that many of these dear ones are distant from birth-family. Some have lost their parents. Others, well, there are stories from their growing-up years. All are met deeply by parental love.

Mother love. Attentive, accepting, forgiving. One who listens, treasures, helps, and on occasion is severe. One who takes time, who is interested. One who is present. 

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;

your walls are ever before me. (Isaiah 49:15-16)

Yes, we came with a purpose. But we also moved into a community. As the Word did 2,000 years ago. Incarnation. Jesus in human flesh. To make a home among these beloved ones, to invite them to our home, to let them hear us pray for them, to offer welcome to true and eternal homecoming.

And so in this season we light the advent candles and we put out a small nativity not too fragile to be played with. I prepare an old handmade cradle that we will put in the entryway so that we can tell of an overfull house with place found for just one more, the Gift who makes space and welcome for us all. The One who invites us home to live with him.

Making olive oil with the neighbors

The ultrasound to determine gender is a family event!

A day out with believing friends who live ten hours away

Jenga works in any language

Curt helps a friend during a busy time at his restaurant

Thanksgiving shared--with much to be thankful for