He who has had a bath needs only to wash his feet.

Jan28

The past two days I have been emerging from an intense bout with the flu feeling a renewed burst of energy that I almost don’t know what to do with. Besides finally doing my laundry and paying my student loan bill (sorry Gordon-Conwell) I have been making phone calls and emails for fund raising (up to 51% and rising), plotting a letter writing campaign to David Kern’s Children’s Literature professor (how hard would it be to let the boy take his exam early so he can go to his friend’s wedding and see all of us who love him?), trying to reintroduce my stomach to its former role of digesting (it seems to still be adverse to this “eating” thing: I think a week and a half of nothing but Sprite has it out of practice), and picking up books that have laid neglected.

The first book I re-picked up was The Inner Voice of Love, by Henri Nouwen. My housemate Mark gave me this book (technically I bought it myself, but he truly gave me the gift of it) a few months ago and it has been like a direct lifeline between me and God. It is the private journal of Nouwen, written when he was undergoing an intense personal despair, and it resonates with me as few other books have. Yes, I have gone fully Bostonian/politically correct/touchy feely, etc. and started using phrases like “resonates with me.” We all knew it was coming.

The second book I re-picked up was The Brothers Karamazov. I have been planning on rereading this for eleven years, but saving it as a rare and beautiful treat. It bowled me over when I read it in my senior Russian Literature course, and I am very excited to be into it again. It turns out that some friends — Graeme, Aaron and Karen — are reading it as well, so I look forward to good discussions.

The third book — sad that it was not the first, I guess, but that’s what it is — is the Bible, specifically my two favorite passages, Matthew 5-7 and John 13-18. I have been trying for years to memorize these pieces, but my memory has the habit of lasting only so long as I am daily practicing them. Still, there is something powerful about reading a passage that you have at least attempted to memorize. The words are a part of you, so that you feel you are reading not only the Word of God, but your own Word as well. I love the feel in Matthew that the God of Abraham, Issaac and Jacob, the creator of the universe and the terrifying presence on the mountain with Moses is sitting among his people, speaking his words of love and grace for the first time clearly, without intermediary. Blessed indeed are those who hear. And in John I love the raw pain and confusion of the disciples as they struggle to understand where Jesus is going and what he is telling them. Today I wept again as I read Peter’s plea, “Then, Lord, not only my feet but my hands and my head as well!” Jesus’ response was a reassurance to me, as well, as I emerge coughing and exhausted from fighting the flu: “He who has had a bath needs only to wash his feet.” I am not starting from scratch, though it feels like it. I am on a continuing journey, and it is overseen by One who knows both its beginning and its end.

And so I wash my feet in the Word, and in Nouwen and Dostoevsky, and jump back into the business of life. Right now my business is fundraising, getting to 70% as quickly as possible so I can get onto campus and start the work I feel called to do. My business, also, is relationships. I feel this calling as strongly as any career path. My old friends, the Greenhaus community, the International students from church, Bagshot Row — these are all my “job” to me as much as InterVarsity.

May the Lord be with you in your business as well.

Nor’easter

Jan14

Snow in Boston, and I was able to express a part of myself I haven’t in years.

Beauty, freedom and healing. That is what this snow represents to me today. And that it clung to each branch and twig, piling up to an inch thick in places: A miracle of balance and beauty!

I don’t know if the pictures can communicate the hushed greyness of the day, everything muffled and stilled by the snow: The cars still unshoveled, the heavy branches of the bushes forming arches over the sidewalks. The clothes of the people walking by were the only bright colors in a peaceful dim closeness. Voices carried as if distance had been compacted; it was impossible for me not to look into the eyes of everyone I passed. Some looked back, and with some I shared a secret smile. You can always tell those people who are noticing the same things you are. Since I was a kid I could tell.

Some details of my life, in pictures.

Jan11

kitchen sink Washing the shelf from the refrigerator: The water was pooling in the most perfectly round droplets.

dandelions Dandelion leaves: Laid out to dry by my 8 yr old housemate, Elias.

The maple leaves were also laid out to dry by Elias. He lay them randomly, not noticing the pattern that they made.

zipcar If you don’t stop to think about it, you can be at the White Mountains in two hours. Maine takes a bit longer, but is worth the trip.

Details of the top of Mt. Batty: Fir tree, blueberry bush, the first colors of autumn.

Jamaica Pond

Aug21

Snow melting on the Pond in 2015

Almost every day I take the little boy I watch for a walk around Jamaica Pond. Some days he is in a Bjorn (a kind of baby backpack, but worn in the front), some days a stroller. People are friendlier on the Pond. Often they’ll even talk to me, which happens much less on the city streets, just yards away. Of course babies are always an acceptable topic of conversation. And the albino squirrel that hangs out near the boat house often stirs comments. I was watching it once (it almost looks like a mink rather than a squirrel) and a man jogged by and said, “Look!” pointing at the squirrel. I smiled and nodded and he panted, “Very rare!” in a didactic tone, and kept running. Another time I walked by a sweet little old man in red glasses who was watching the squirrel, and he looked up at me with the biggest grin on his face. I grinned back at him, and we shared a moment of complete understanding and joy, though neither of us said a word.

Today on the Pond another old man surprised me as we passed by asking, “Are you going to look at me and say ‘hi’?”

“Hi!” I said, stopping, and we both looked at the baby. Babies are always an acceptable topic of conversation.

“He’s sleeping,” I pointed out unnecessarily.

“Is his face warm enough?” the man asked, concerned.

In fact, Baby was so bundled up in leggings, sweaters, fleece pants, hat, mittens and snow suit that he couldn’t move, and had promptly gone to sleep in protest.

“Oh, he’s fine,” I assured the old man. We contemplated Baby for another minute, then wished each other a good day and moved on.

A breezy spring day on the Pond in 2013

I love that old man for asking the question. It reminded me of a story from Acts, when a beggar at the temple asks Peter and John for money. Before the conversation continues there is a crisp sentence that changes the whole tone of the narrative: “Peter looked straight at him, as did John.” Someone once said that if you had any one verse of the Bible, you could grasp the whole gospel message. What message would one intuit from that verse? What would your life be like if you lived it based on the gospel of looking straight at everyone you saw? Of noticing and acknowledging everyone around you?

“Are you going to look at me and say hi?” I wonder the same thing every time I pass someone, but I would never be bold enough to ask. I just glance up, shyly, making brief eye contact, smiling slightly, noncommittally. You pass so many people in the city it would really be impractical to greet everyone. But I love the brief moments of connection when people do take the time to say hi. It happens more often on Jamaica Pond. You can let go of your defenses a little there, and entrust yourself to the breeze coming off the water, the rustling trees, the scurrying grey and white squirrels, and the sweet sight of a sleeping baby.

A warm summer day on the Pond in 2008

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Seymour Glass, lack of poetry and two offerings.

Aug20

Last week I read Seymour: An Introduction, a short story by J.D. Salinger. It is the reminiscences of Buddy Glass about his older brother, Seymour, and he spends a large amount of the story talking about Seymour’s poetry. We never do get to read any of this poetry, except for one poem, sent to Buddy by their sister Booboo, from when Seymour was young:

John Keats

John.

Please put your scarf on.

As intriguing as that scrap of poetry is, I began to feel deeply the loss of the missing poems. This shows Salinger’s brilliance since, as far as I know, he is describing poems that don’t exist.

Seymour writes Haikus, or rather “double Haikus” – his own invention. Inspired by the negative space in the story, I paused to compose my own Haiku (a single). Here it is:

Baby sleeps. I read.

Use bank receipts as bookmarks.

Ten degrees, March sixth.

Traditionally, the last line of a Haiku is supposed to touch on Nature. See how I did? The syllables are tricky, though, and to be perfectly honest it was twenty three degrees and March seventh when I wrote the poem. But there’re way too many syllables in twenty three and seventh. In my defense, the previous day, March sixth, had been ten degrees (-15 with the wind-chill, a fact which made me question my sanity at choosing to live in Boston).

Even with my Haiku, though, I still feel a lack of poetry. So I’m posting another one of mine, free form, that I wrote a couple of years ago. A little mythological background: Prometheus, if you remember, is the god who took pity on chilly men (who quite possibly were living in Boston, I don’t recall) and brought them fire from heaven to warm themselves. He was punished for this divine rebellion, though at the moment the nature of his punishment escapes me. Edith Hamilton would be glad to tell you all about it, if you really want to know.

Here you go. Enjoy.

Prometheus’s Gift

When I opened the door of my study

A piece of paper – an idea for a story

Fluttered into the candle and began to burn.

And I thought of all the centuries before electricity,

When people worked by candlelight,

And drafts caused similar accidents.

I didn’t think of other writers,

Though that never-published novel

Which I consequently never read

May be the reason for

That deep and lonely

Ache I sometimes

Feel.

No, I thought of physicists, philosophers,

Economists, politicians and theologians.

Countless numbers of them, huddled over documents

That would have ended world hunger,

Brought about peace on earth,

Or taught men and women how to understand each other;

In a careless moment, opening a window,

Prometheus’s gift licking the thin pages.

They caught it in time, like I did –

Grabbing the paper and dropping it into the sink.

Their house did not burn down, their wives (or husbands)

And children were safe. No smoke

Choked the family pets, or ruined the drapes.

No one even knew.

And I’ll write that story anyway:

I have a pretty good idea what it was going to be about.

But the exact wording, that particular plot twist

That could have made it Nobel prize-worthy

Is lost. So, maybe, the secret meaning of life,

Discovered, maybe, again and again throughout history,

Was blown into a single flame,

And given back to the gods.

Past the Solstice

Aug18

Today we have one more minute of daylight than yesterday, and tomorrow one more minute than today, and so on right up until the summer solstice in June. I watched the sun set on December 22nd, the shortest day of the year, and rose on the 23rd just in time to see the sun rise again, bringing fresh hope even as the winter settles in. Hopkins poem takes on new meaning:

And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

We’re still in the Christmas season now, which goes until Jan 5th. A good excuse not to throw out my gorgeous Scottish pine, which is looking as fresh as ever! But after the 5th I will give in to Daniela’s pointed stares and take the tree up to Crane’s beach in Ipswich, to be used to prevent the dunes from eroding. If you’re ever in Ipswich, please do visit Crane’s beach, which is one of the most gorgeous beaches in New England, and includes hikes through the dunes and nature trails. And say hello to my tree if you see it.Advent is over — the season that means “coming” — and Epiphany will begin on the sixth. The term epiphany means “to show” or “to make known” or even “to reveal.” It is meant to remember the coming of the wise men bringing gifts to visit the Christ child, who by so doing “reveal” Jesus to the world as Lord and King. It is also a time to think about our own role in revealing Christ to the world.

Part of me wants to stay in Christmas. Christ as a baby, me as a kid even at 32, opening presents in my pajama’s at my parents’ home in New Hampshire. But as my dad pointed out in his Christmas Eve sermon, Christ’s birth was just the beginning. It’s a terrible and wonderful time we’re living in, between the two advents of Christ. There is much suffering in this life, as the old hymns acknowledge:

And ye, beneath life’s crushing load,
Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way
With painful steps and slow.
I don’t think it’s an accident that the Christmas season is only 12 days long, compared to the month or more of Advent and Epiphany. Before and after this great act of Heaven is much waiting. We are in a second Advent now, waiting for the second coming of our Lord. And not just waiting. This is not the age to sit and gaze at a cozy manger scene. There is much to be done.

But for now, there are eleven more days of Christmas. The tree will stay, I will even continue to play Christmas songs on mySpace. The shepherds are here now, but not yet the Magi. Let us pause to adore the Christ Child at this his first Coming.

Ten Thousand Places

Category Archives: Peripatetics