rachel’s blog

At church this morning, I found out where I would be having dinner this evening. Yes, “found out.” I knew that someone would arrive at my house to carpool, and I knew that I was supposed to provide fruit for five people, but I didn’t know whose house we would be going to until I checked my mailbox at church this morning. They call this “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner,” and it’s a fun way to get to know people with whom you don’t typically socialize.

When 4:30 rolled around, my doorbell rang, and I discovered who I was carpooling with. He had also been told to bring fruit for five. Oops. I guess there could be worse mix-ups than two bowls of fruit salad and no dessert. When we arrived at our destination, our hosts were clearly expecting a total of 10 guests, so I guess the coordinators hadn’t been confused after all. A family of four soon arrived… with dessert!

We enjoyed delicious taco soup, bread, and two very different fruit salads for dinner, and topped it all off with chocolate cake and ice cream. The evening was filled with good conversation and plenty of laughter, partially because of the antics of this kid.

If your church has never done a “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner” event, I’d definitely recommend it. And if you’ve never seen the 1967 Academy Award-winning film by the same title, I’d highly recommend it as well.

Last evening I updated my Facebook status to read:

Rachel needs a sheep. The grass in her front yard is getting tall.

For those of you not familiar with Facebook, a status is simply a frequently-updated tidbit of information about yourself, always written in the third person. I live near the heart of downtown, so my property is obviously not zoned for agriculture, but after struggling to mow my yard this evening, I am fully convinced that buying a sheep would have been easier.

OK. This is how normal people mow grass: they get out the shiny red or green lawnmower, top off the tank with fresh gasoline, yank the pull-cord a few times (or perhaps turn the key), generate a ridiculous amount of noise pollution while cutting the grass, and then go back inside for an ice-cold beer. Maybe if I followed their example, it wouldn’t have taken me so long to mow my yard tonight.

I own a shiny red lawnmower, but I haven’t used it in almost four years. My renters used it while they were living in my house, which was great, but before they moved out and I moved back in, I purchased a push-reel mower at a yard sale. It’s lightweight, quiet, and doesn’t burn fuel, so the shiny red mower has just been sitting in my basement since last June. The push-reel mower works very well when the grass is a nice, reasonable length.

But it wasn’t.

I hadn’t mowed the grass yet this spring, so it was getting quite tall. I decided that it was time to get out the shiny red mower. It wouldn’t start. This is when the idea of lawnmower spirituality began to develop… I went ahead and mowed the back yard with the push-reel mower, but I knew that it wouldn’t like the thick, tall grass in the front yard. So as I listened to the whirr of the mower blades cutting the normal-height grass in the back yard, I prayed a sort of panicked prayer.

When it was time to mow the front yard, I fiddled with the shiny red mower again. No luck. (God, please!) OK, fine. I decided to TRY the front yard with the push-reel mower. To say that it was challenging would be an  understatement. (God, give me strength!) I was tired, I was hungry, and I was frustrated. (God, where is Mr. Right when I need him?)

I was tempted to give up on the whole thing, but I still maintained hope that the shiny red mower would roar to life, so I fiddled with it some more and tried again. (God, pleeeeease let the mower start.) The blasted thing refused to start. My front yard was half mowed and looked terrible, so I had no choice but to persevere with the push-reel mower. (God, please don’t let my neighbors think I’m an idiot.)

Pride is a funny thing. Pride is what kept me going when I was tempted to give up. I was far too proud to quit and admit defeat, and I even started rehearsing how I might turn down a neighbor’s offer to help. At the same time, my pride wanted me to put the stupid push-reel mower away, go inside, and maintain my dignity. I felt like a fool out there.

If you think I’m going to end the story by saying that a Hispanic man named Jesús showed up and mowed my lawn for me, you’re going to be terribly disappointed. Nothing extraordinary happened. I finally finished mowing the yard and vowed that I would never again let it get out of control! You might think this sounds crazy, but now that my yard looks like a neatly manicured golf course (or something like that…), I’m actually thankful that I had to struggle with the push-reel mower.

If the shiny red mower had worked like I wanted it to, I wouldn’t have thought to talk to the Creator of the grass.

Last evening when I got home from work, I changed clothes, put a load of laundry in the washing machine, and sat down at my desk. I opened the bottom drawer of my file cabinet and pulled out a manila folder labeled “2007 Taxes.” Finally! As I began to spread out the documents on my desk, the doorbell rang. Should I answer it? People rarely drop by unannounced; maybe this was something important. Or maybe a friend wanted to do something spontaneous and fun! I would find out soon enough.

On my way to the door I glanced out the window, but didn’t see any of my friends’ cars parked along the curb. I opened the front door and stepped outside, pulling the door behind me. Two young women stood on my porch. They looked like college students. One wore an orange shirt and carried an umbrella, while the other wore a long coat and had a scarf tied in her hair.

I introduced myself and shook their hands while they told me their names. I like college students, and these two seemed especially fun and friendly, so I struck up a conversation with them. After the “where are you from” smalltalk, we moved quickly into conversation (and laughter!) about things ranging from the 75 MPH speed limit in Idaho to the horse-and-buggy transportation still used by some Mennonite groups in this area. We did spend a few minutes chatting about the reason they had stopped by, and they gave me some promotional literature, but soon we were back to discussing random things like illegal immigrants and the fuzzy socks I was wearing.

I considered inviting the girls to join me for dinner, but since the only thing on the menu was leftovers, I decided against it. We probably chatted for half an hour before they finally said they needed to move on.

Oh, and did I mention that these young women were Mormon missionaries? I knew this from the moment I opened the door, of course, but instead of turning them away abruptly, I chose to see who Christ might see — two fun-loving college students who were definitely worth getting to know.

It may not be the most earth-friendly action, but every day I drive the 1.6 miles between my workplace and my house just to eat a quick lunch. I spend a majority of the daylight hours in a windowless office, so it feels good to get outside for at least a little. Going home for lunch also gives me the opportunity to see the sunshine streaming through the windows of my cute house, and I’m convinced it helps prevent Seasonal Affective Disorder.

But today I was busy engaging my senses (my Lenten practice) long before lunchtime. When that infernal alarm clock started beeping this morning, I discovered that my sense of touch was compromised. My hands were numb and tingly. Either I slept on them wrong or I’ve been eating too much citrus. On the way out the door I grabbed the weekly bag of trash from my kitchen trash can to set by the curb. It didn’t smell too bad, but my nose still noticed it. As I drove to work, I saw the smiling face of our undergraduate academic dean as she passed me in a rather large pickup truck.

Hours later, as I was walking to my car to go home for lunch, I heard the wind rustling dry oak leaves that never fell from the tree, and I marveled at the white clouds in the baby blue sky. I expected to fully enjoy the beauty of God’s creation as I drove, but I became distracted by the car in front of me. The speed limit was 25, but the driver was going 22 (and occasionally hitting the brakes). After we stopped at a stop light, the burgundy Taurus crawled along at a staggeringly-slow 18 MPH. The only part of God’s creation I noticed as I drove was the green bird poop on my windshield.

At home this evening I savored a bowl of vegetable soup and a brownie as I listened to the banter of the nine teenagers around my dinner table.

The Lenten discipline of engaging my senses also means paying attention to the warm tears that slid down my cheeks tonight as I wrote a short email to my mom. Jesus experienced disappointment. And Jesus wept too.

“There is no better way to cheer up a dreary February day than to have a pot of dried beans simmering on the stove.”

Yikes. It sounds like the author of these words doesn’t get out much.  I have a pot of beans simmering on the stove as I write this, and I don’t feel any cheerier than I did an hour ago. Then again, I wasn’t feeling down.

The statement I quoted was the opening line of a no-nonsense article about beans I found in our local newspaper this morning. If you read between the lines, you’ll find that the registered dietitian is hinting at something far more significant than little legumes. If your outlook on life matches the typically blah February weather, engage your senses. Allow your nose to be delighted by the aroma of soup wafting through the house. Choose foods that your taste buds will truly enjoy.

Yesterday I attended a fantastic Shrove Tuesday worship service in which we celebrated our senses. Brightly-colored streamers, fingerpainting, incense, donuts, and glorious music helped us to fully engage our God-given senses of sight, touch, smell, taste, and hearing as we worshiped our Creator. (I opted to engage my sense of touch by playing piano instead of fingerpainting.)

Rarely do we engage our senses in such a dramatic way within a worship setting. The worship leader joked that perhaps we should give up our deadened senses for Lent. I decided to take her seriously.

Like many others, I have typically given something up for Lent, and it has been a very meaningful practice for me. My small sacrifices during Lent have been daily reminders of the ultimate sacrifice that Christ made. This year, however, in giving up my deadened senses, I’m actually taking on a spiritual practice: engaging my God-given senses. As I pay attention to the things I see, hear, smell, touch, and taste, I am not only drawn into worship, but I am reminded of Christ’s humanity. What did Christ see, hear, smell, touch, and taste during the weeks leading up to His death?

The first sense I engaged this morning was hearing. My alarm clock was persistent. I crawled out of bed, walked downstairs, and listened as my bare feet shuffled across the hardwood floor. Outside, birds were singing. As I opened the front door to pick up the newspaper, I felt warm air on my bare arms. It didn’t feel like February outside, but I wasn’t complaining.

Before I sliced a grapefruit in half, I held it in my hands for a few moments, pressing gently against the smooth, almost rubbery skin. Later, as I brushed my teeth, I paid attention to the view out my bathroom window — a white church steeple and the dark wood of a bare tree against a backdrop of blue mountains and a gray sky.

I don’t have any windows in my office, but I’m thankful that one of my colleagues opened her window, allowing me to smell the fresh out-of-doors while I worked at my desk. After lunch, as I returned to the office, I saw my shadow appear on the sidewalk in front of me. Sunshine!

This evening as I was driving to an event at church, I glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw less pavement between my car and the Dodge Durango behind me than I would have liked. A few miles down the road, I was surprised to see colored Christmas lights. (Maybe the owners of the house left them up for Mardi Gras…) As I pulled into the parking lot, I caught a whiff of a skunk. A few minutes later, I heard a small blonde-haired boy say “Peekaboo!” to me as he jumped out from behind an easel.

Have you ever imagined Jesus tasting fresh fruit? Or seeing His shadow? Or smelling a malodorous animal?

Lent isn’t really supposed to be enjoyable, but this year I don’t care. I’m having too much fun celebrating my God-given senses.

We’ve all seen them — three adolescent boys wearing bathrobes and Burger King crowns, looking more like wise guys than wise men. If they’re lucky, they won’t even have a speaking part in the Christmas pageant. The boys will carefully lay the glittering boxes of gold, frankincense, and myrrh in the straw next to the manger and secretly breathe a sigh of relief.

It’s a scene oft-repeated in Christmas pageants and children’s Bible storybooks, so I’m sure many people would be surprised to discover that it didn’t really happen that way.

First of all, where did we get the idea that there were only three wise men? Oh, that’s right. Gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Three gifts, each carried by one of three wise men, right? Probably not. Although the Bible doesn’t say how many men were in the caravan, I suspect there were more than three.

But was the stable in Bethlehem big enough for 17 wise men to crowd into? Not to worry. The wise men never went to the stable. By the time the wise men arrived in Bethlehem, Jesus was no longer sleeping in a cattle trough.

“On coming to the house, they saw the child with his mother Mary, and they bowed down and worshiped him. Then they opened their treasures and presented him with gifts of gold and of incense and of myrrh.” (Matthew 2:11)

Since set changes during a Christmas pageant would be too disruptive, we’ve compensated by changing the story. Today is Epiphany, the day on which the Christian Church remembers the arrival of the wise men in Bethlehem. Instead of changing the story, let’s allow the Truth to change us…

While some of you have been busy decking the halls, I’ve been stuck in thankful mode… which isn’t such a bad thing. On my drive home this evening, I thought back to a some words I wrote a couple years ago. Although the details of my life are different now than they were when I wrote this, I still have many reasons to choose to be thankful. Here it is — with a few small editorial changes.

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Monday, November 28, 2005

There is one parking space in the entire world that is reserved for me. ME. It’s mine. The space is clearly marked so that nobody else could possibly believe that they would be allowed to park there. And yet, on very rare occasions, someone parks in MY parking space. Last week I arrived at my parking space only to discover that someone else had decided to occupy it with their car. My automatic reaction was to become quite irritated with whoever had the audacity to take the spot that was obviously reserved for me.

But as I pulled into a different spot, I said to myself, “Self, you have so much to be thankful for! How dare you complain about someone else being in your parking space?!” I have no right to complain or be ungrateful. I should be thankful that I have a car to park. I should be thankful that I don’t have to live in my car, as some people do. And I should be thankful that God brought me safely to my parking space… or at least a nearby parking space.

I’m increasingly convinced that thankfulness is a choice. Thankfulness isn’t always my immediate attitude, but the more I choose to be thankful, the more it becomes a natural response. It’s easy to thank God for new jobs, beautiful weather, and successful surgeries, but how often do we thank God in the midst of the mundane?

Yesterday I was returning home after being away for Thanksgiving weekend, and in one area I inched along in stop-and-go traffic for 10 miles. I wasn’t particularly in a hurry, but I wasn’t exactly enjoying the delay. When I got home, I suddenly realized that I needed to thank God for the slow traffic. It was a rainy evening, and traveling more slowly kept us all safe. I also decided to thank God that the delays were caused only by heavy traffic, not accidents.

No matter the circumstances, there is always a reason to thank God. Bible commentator Matthew Henry, after being robbed, wrote this in his diary:

“I thank Thee first because I was never robbed before; second, because although they took my purse they did not take my life; third, because although they took my all, it was not much; and fourth because it was I who was robbed, and not I who robbed.”

Choose to be thankful.

I saw a very sad scene on the way to work this morning.

I live just a few blocks from an elementary school, so it’s not uncommon to see children walking to school. As I drove down the street towards the school, I saw a boy cross the street at a crosswalk. He seemed to have a bounce in his step, despite the cold morning. Maybe he’s a fifth grader.

When he got to the corner on my left, he turned around and looked towards the street and started saying something. I looked to my right and saw a chubby girl on the opposite corner who I presume was his younger sister. She was standing still. She had her backpack in her hand and her coat was hanging open.

The girl was bawling. The look on her face said, “I have been wronged by my big brother, and now I’m angry!”

I realize that sibling spats are not uncommon, but the whole scene was just so sad. A conflict had emerged and Big Brother crossed the street without Little Sister. For one brief second, I considered pulling over to the curb, walking over to the girl, and asking her what was wrong. But I didn’t. Children are taught to be wary of strangers, and I didn’t want to further traumatize the girl.

As I drove past the school and on down the road, I found myself wondering whether I had been a good Samaritan. Should I have stopped? On the one hand, it was none of my business; if the children are old enough to walk to school without their parents, they’re old enough to resolve their own conflicts. On the other hand, the little girl was not coping well with whatever was going on and may have benefited from some adult intervention. Of course, if the girl had been bleeding or otherwise injured, I’m sure I would have stopped, but is physical suffering the only reason to stop and help someone? What about obvious emotional and relational suffering?

I know what you’re thinking. “Get over it, Rachel. It was just a normal brother-sister quarrel.” Perhaps it was. And maybe she’s a brat who was being unreasonable. Who knows? But does this mean it’s OK to just look straight ahead and pretend I didn’t see the situation on the street corners?

South African Archbishop Desmond Tutu once said, “If you see injustice and say nothing, you have taken the side of the oppressor.” Well, you say, we don’t really know whether the boy had treated the girl unjustly. True. But does that mean I shouldn’t have even bothered to find out?

Forgive me for sounding cliche, but I can’t help but wonder… What would Jesus, the Prince of Peace, have done?

This morning at church I accompanied a song that took me right back to 1998. I have many memories associated with various hymns, so I wrote a collection of vignettes for a church music class I took last year. Following is one of those stories, and I have added a few bracketed details so it makes sense to my non-Mennonite blog readers.

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During my sophomore year of college, my friend Heidi and I “Mennonited Our Way” through the Southeast for spring break. We mapped out a preliminary route, consulted the “Mennonite Your Way” directory [a listing of Mennonites across the U.S. who are willing to host overnight guests in their home for a small fee], sent letters and made phone calls, thanked Heidi’s dad for his gas card, and headed off to visit a variety of strangers (as well as a few relatives). Since I was only 18 years old, my mom wisely suggested that I call home every few days while we were traveling to let them know we were OK.

As indicated on our itinerary, Heidi and I planned to spend our final night in the mountains of western North Carolina. Night had already fallen as we wound our way up the curving mountain roads, marveling at the fact that we no longer had any radio reception. Since it was 1998, neither of us had a cell phone, but we had made prior arrangements to meet our hosts at a fast food restaurant and then follow them the final distance to their home. As we waited in the parking lot, Heidi and I were glad to see a car pull in with a license plate reading “606.” [This is the number of the most popular hymn in the old Mennonite Hymnal -- "Praise God from Whom."]

Orpah hopped out and introduced herself to us; we would meet her husband Elam when we got to their house. As Heidi and I hauled our duffel bags into their home a few minutes later, Elam was sitting at his organ playing a hymn he had selected for this very occasion — “For We are Strangers No More.”

I had never heard the song before, but Elam announced that he was playing a special song for us and happily explained the reason. A few minutes earlier, after Orpah had already left to meet us at the restaurant, my mother had called their home to see if we had arrived yet… and Elam decided to play the Mennonite game [think Six Degrees of Mennonites]. Through the course of our visit, Heidi and I also discovered that Elam and Orpah were the great uncle and aunt of our friend Christopher. Six years later, through my work, I got to know two of Elam and Orpah’s college-age grandchildren, Amanda and Conrad.

For we are strangers no more, but members of one family;
strangers no more, but part of one humanity;
strangers no more, we’re neighbors to each other now;
strangers no more, we’re sisters and we’re brothers now.

This was yesterday’s “Close to Home” comic on my page-a-day calendar…

I feel quite certain that somewhere in the world, a Mennonite has already tried this… or has at least thought about trying it. Haha. It reminds me of the Fritter Car that was supposed to be here in town a few weeks ago, raising money for MCC. It runs entirely on used vegetable oil.

Speaking of MCC, here’s a goofy movie clip I recently found called “Secondhand Pants,” which promotes MCC thrift stores. Hats off to my mom for managing one of those crazy places! Oh, and be sure to watch the clip all the way to the very end for a tiny treat.