Time To Grow Up

"I thought I should ask of thee- but I dared not- the rose wreath thou hadst on thy neck. Thus I waited for the morning, when thou didst depart, to find a few fragments on the bed. And like a beggar I searched in the dawn only for a stray petal or two.

Ah me, what is it I find? What token left of thy love? It is no flower, no spices, no vase of perfumed water. It is thy mighty sword, flashing as a flame, heavy as a bolt of thunder. The young light of morning comes through the window and spreads itself upon my bed. The morning bird twitters and asks, 'Woman, what hast thou got?' No, it is no flower, nor spices, nor vase of perfumed water- it is thy dreadful sword.

I sit and muse in wonder, what gift is this of thine. I can find no place to hide it. I am ashamed to wear it, frail as I am, and it hurts me when I press it to my bosom. Yet shall I bear in my heart this honor of the burden of pain, this gift of thine.

From now there shall be no fear left for me in this world, and thou shalt be victorious in all my strife. Thou hast left death for my companion and I shall crown him with my life. Thy sword is with me to cut asunder my bonds, and there shall be no fear left for me in the world.

From now I leave off all petty decorations. Lord of my heart, no more shall there be for me waiting and weepting in corners, no more coyness and sweetness of demeanor. Thou has given me thy sword for adornment. No more doll's decorations for me!"

-Rabindranath Tagore, Gitanjali #52. (Translated from Bengali)

Here In America, part II

I had ambitious plans to write a trans-America installment every day of my recent road trip, but WiFi limitations made this extremely difficult. So, I ditched the schedule and had a blast flying by the seat of my pants instead. Now I'm in Toledo, busily unpacking boxes and settling into my new apartment. Still, before I run off into a telling of all these newer tales, let me finish about my road trip. It was a deeply special time, something I will cherish for the rest of my life.

So let's revisit Wednesday the 8th. I left Walla Walla, my beloved home. Andrew Peterson's song “Canaan Bound” gave me a lot of courage as I thought about the future and God's call on my life. Cat and Greg were indeed a special experience. A night in their cabin was also the last time I'd have a shower til I hit Iowa!

On Thursday the 9th I set off across Montana listening to Bruce Cockburn, my new sacred musical hero. Cockburn is a socially and politically astute Canadian singer/songwriter. But more than that, his lyrics are spiritual rich, deeply honest, and very beautiful. I heard him the weekend before my trip started at a University of Victoria child soldier's fundraiser. It was a duo event with General Romeo Dellaire, frustrated head of the UN's “Peacekeeping” mission to Rwanda during the genocide. (Also author of “Shake Hands With the Devil.” You saw his character depicted in the recent film “Hotel Rwanda.”) I have struggled so much to find a voice for my India experience. I have struggled to approach it humbly, honestly, and reverently all at the same time. But Romeo Dellaire did those things that night, and he did them well. He didn't set himself up as some hero, but he handled the ovations with grace-- they were the price he had to pay to tell the story we so badly needed to hear. Now, I would not be so obscene as to compare myself with a man like Dellaire. Kolkata was certainly not the Rwandan genocide. But in my own small way I resonated with his circumstance. After hearing him I felt emboldened, even convicted to talk about the things I haven't yet talked about-- the things I've been too afraid to talk about.

And so Cockburn traveled on my lips through the rugged Montana wilderness (especially his song, “Child of the Wind.”) All these thoughts of sharing touched my heart as the sun touched the distance, and I drove on.

I arrived at Yellowstone (Wyoming) quite late on Thursday and slept in the cab of my truck. There was thick ice on the inside of my window the next morning, but I kept warm thanks to Nova and my down blanket. A park ranger informed me that I would need to go out the north entrance when I left because a winter storm watch had closed off the east entrance. I got busy driving around snow-covered Yellowstone so I could get out with enough time to make it to Sheridan, Wyoming that night. The steamy geysers looked other-worldly between our frozen earth and sky-- viewed through my melancholy eyes, they seemed extraordinarily dramatic. Unfortunately for me, Old Faithful was rather unfaithful on the day I visited. Apparently she did erupt, but the six inches were not visible from where I stood in the falling snow. Rich Mullins' “Love That Knows No Bounds” was my song that day.

I left Yellowstone by 2:00 but had to pull off the road after I got through Billings. The weather was so bad that I couldn't even see 6 feet in front of me! I slept at a truck stop and shoveled myself out of the snow the next morning.

On Sabbath I drove across Wyoming and into South Dakota with enough time to have a moving experience at both the Crazy Horse Memorial and Mount Rushmore. For the last several months I've been struggling to learn how to pray, and about six weeks ago I picked up a helpful discounted Richard Foster audiobook on prayer. Celebration of Discipline was a useful introduction to the spiritual disciplines, but not much more. His book on prayer, however, was extraordinary. I listened to it several times in the car while driving to and from Walla Walla, and it only increased my hunger for a deeper prayer experience-- one of intimacy and power.

I tasted some of that intimacy in South Dakota, and in ways I did not expect. At Crazy Horse I found myself very grieved over the story of Wounded Knee, the “white man's” battle with Native Americans on the frontier, America's continued bigotry, etc., etc. I of course grew up learning about Native issues, art, culture, and history, in school, but in South Dakota it really hit home for me in new ways. I was astonished by the beauty of Native American bead and leather work, by its culture's sensitivity to nature and the ways of the Great Spirit. I felt a profound shame for what the European settlers did to the keepers of this land, another drop into that widening sadness of cruel things human beings have done again and again to themselves and each other.

When I got to Mount Rushmore my sadness was very thick indeed, and staring up at those chiseled faces through the fog, all I could do was apologize to God for the sins of my country. I felt as if I had committed them myself-- as if I had stolen land and betrayed contracts with Native Americans, as if I had owned slaves, as if I had not shared from my abundance (and I haven't). I felt as if I had done all these things personally, and I felt moved to repent for them. In a very unusual prayer experience, I did. And when I found myself stumbling for a follow up, it occurred to me that in prayer I have always been accustomed to asking for something after a personal apology, like “and help me to be more kind.” Or, “please draw me closer into love.” But at Mount Rushmore there seemed nothing else to say, and I felt almost questioned by the Holy Spirit, “Why must you clutter this prayer with requests? Can you not be wearied? Can you not just grieve with me, feel with me?” Before I listened to Foster's tapes I probably would not have recognized this interaction as a genuine prayer experience, but this time I did. And through our shared sadness, we rejoiced.

Saturday night was spent in a Rapid City Walmart parking lot. It was beastly cold again, but my blankets (and Nova) kept me warm so long as I didn't step outside.

Sunday was glorious. I sailed into the Black Hills and the Badlands early, blaring Rich Mullins' “Calling Out Your Name” as loud as my speakers would go. I have dreamed of driving through those two spots of South Dakota with that song on my lips. As long as I live I shall treasure the memory of those hours.

The Badlands were incredible-- so still and silent (like the song says). Why are we afraid to use our imaginations when we think of God? Why do we limit him to gold-crusted cathedrals and stale doctrine? Why can't we sing him? Why can't he dance through barren landscapes, illusive and lovely and free? We had a good time that day. Thank you, Brother Rich.

It was wonderfully eerie that night all alone under the stars. There was tension in my heart between dark adventure and the warm safety of my u-haul cab. The next morning I left early and booked it through Minnesota all the way to Iowa (via a sweet authentic 1880s town with Dances With Wolves props) for a very different sort of intimacy.

I met Carolyn Dahl in Switzerland while I was studying at L'Abri. She was Edith Schaeffer's caretaker, and the whole Dahl family has been very involved with L'Abri for several decades. Carolyn has eight brothers and sisters, all of whom have been to L'Abri at some point. One of her sisters was even a worker at English L'Abri for a stint (that's how she met her husband). The Dahl parents are corn and soy bean farmers, and so I was delighted to be invited to to their home for some wholesome family time and fun. Oh, it was really so SO beautiful. We played board games and laughed our heads off. We drank tea and ate good food and had so many wonderful theological exchanges that we found it hard to keep talking and thinking in any one direction. Our board game would stop again and again for the sake of some really good comment or question or L'Abri story.

In the morning we all gathered for fresh bagels and cream cheese and more tea and more talking. Then we prayed together from the Book of Common Prayer and gathered around the piano for a lot of soulful music. Carolyn's fingers danced on the piano while her sister played the flute, her brother the guitar, and an in-law tapped a Celtic drum. With joy and gusto we sang “I Heard the Voice of Jesus Say” until it got so good that we actually recorded it! That was my European theme song, and Carolyn and I used to share it together in the Farrell House chapel in Switzerland.

It was very hard to pull myself away from the cornfields the next day, but by 2:00pm I was back on the road contentedly humming Andrew Peterson's “Queen of Iowa.” It was a long haul with Berrien Springs, Michigan my midnight goal, and unfortunately I didn't quite make it. Passing Illinois and Indiana, I finally crashed at another truck stop 45 minutes out of town. But Andrews came early the next day. Jody and I nearly knocked each other over when we collided in our tangle of hugs and shrieks and love just outside the seminary. She took me in for chapel service and there I bumped into several other old Walla Walla friends-- Andrew Perrin, Nick Jones, Robert Carlson, etc., etc. Unfortunately I missed Terrance and Jaci and Jenny Tillay and Brian Cafferky. Oh well. Guess you can't have everything. Thankfully I did have time for a chat with the good people of the In-Ministry (MDiv) department, and I was pleasantly impressed by the quality of the message presented in chapel. It could be that Andrews is a more agreeable place than all I've imagined...

After giving the floor of my truck a bath (it had acquired a generous sprinkling of rolled oats and cat food coated in spilled brewer's yeast powder mixed with kitty litter dust), I picked up Natalie Weir from the girl's dorm. She, Jody, and I then went for a DQ party where we laughed so hard our sides ached!!

Nova and I left Andrews at about 6:00 that night to journey “further up and further in.” Yes, we made it to Toledo on October 15th. Praise God for what was. Praise God for what will be. In the words of Rich Mullins, “I'm home anywhere if You are where I am.”

And so I'm home, even if it's here “in America.”