Once I heard a pastor preach that if you don't know how to pray it's Ok, because we all have things we're good at and things we're not. I always remember that because I do not consider myself good at praying. To be perfectly honest, I don't believe in it. I just plain don't see how human pleas can advise an almighty God of the universe. Plus, the outcomes seem so random.
And yet I am calling on you to pray.
Don't call on me to make sense, I'm just doing what my friend asked. Heba asked me to ask you to all pray. To enlist your prayer chains. To organize your prayer groups. To make your conversation with God, with Jesus, with the Holy Ghost. To call upon the spirits. To generate the positive energy. To caste out the demons.
In recent weeks, I have been saying the Lord's Prayer a lot. Over and over. The repetition relaxes me. The hope reassures me. And if it does unleash some kind of a supernatural power for good, well that would be a bonus. Maybe I'm just tired and I don't know how else to resolve my daily thinking but to repeat a mantra.
It's actually ironic that I hold such doubts about prayer because I'm basically writing a book about it and the surprising ways I have utilized it. My book, that I attempt to write a half hour a day. (Not lately, though.) We were seriously living on a prayer when Bob was sick (I keep bringing that up lately) and even though it was a true blue miracle he survived, how can I say it was due to prayer given all the people who do not survive tragedy? I can not. But I can say this -- prayer always made me feel better. It made me feel better when I was alone with an evil presence. And it made me feel better when neighbors came and prayed on our behalf.
Will prayer assure a peaceful resolution in Egypt? All I can say is that question is not mine to answer. And it is not my call to ask you to pray. I ask because Heba asks. And Heba believes in prayer with all her heart, mind and soul.
Today I actually panicked and took my recent posts offline. I deleted all my facebook references. I asked my editor to remove my post on LivingLutheran.com. I worried that my words would implicate friends. I envisioned myself as fanning the violence. Only after triple checking with Heba that it's OK, did I put it back online. She said that this blog is "a great support." But it's not because of me--it's because of all of you, dear Charmer Readers.Thank you for coming here. Thank you for your prayers. Thank you for promoting peace.
Pray for Egypt.
With love, T
The Spirit Intercedes for us with sighs too deep for words to express. Romans 8:26
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
The Fantastical and Tonight
I keep thinking about the Egyptian men and boys doing night patrol to protect their neighborhoods. It's about 4:30 a.m. in Cairo as I write this, and I can't wrap my brain around the idea that two boys, Rafi and Wasim (see pics two posts below), are doing night patrol along with their father and other boys and men.
I think about when 4th-grade Wasim first knocked on our door to invite 2nd-grade Amanda to ride bikes together. He was so polite and smiley and elementary-school-handsome, it made us instant believers in the merits of an arranged marriage. It was the first time we let Amanda outside without parental supervision because there is a quality about Wasim that makes you trust him. They rode bikes a lot that summer, the first taste of independence and freedom. The two rode around the perimeter of family housing: through the playground, across the parking lot, up the hill, behind the building, and then circling the same route again. It was almost like their legs peddled in sinc. When I think of the two bike riding together, it plays slow motion in my mind, with a sappy happy soundtrack. It's how you imagine the perfect kind of childhood.
I think about Rafi and Aidan potty training together. Not that it was purposefully together, but we just spent a lot of time together and it happened to be that time of life for both boys. We used words like poo poo, pee pee, poopie or some other brilliant parenting phrase. Rafi's word was kaka. So we also heard that word and in fact, Aidan used all these words interchangebly. But it gets better. Our next door neighbors were from Tanzania and so Swahili was spoken in that household, where Aidan also spent alot of time. Apparently, the Swahili word for brother is--you guessed it--kaka. Aidan thought this was fantastical! How could one word be so naughty yet so nice? And perfectly acceptible to say in front of adults. So Aidan got to work with his bilingual skills, trying out linguistical tricks with his friends such as, "Where is your kaka? Do you have a kaka? Can I see your kaka?" and you get the idea. He considerred himself clever, and to be honest so did I. Still, we instructed him that he could only use words in a way that made sense to the family he was with. "Oh," he said.
If you know me, you know I don't understand how prayer works, why it seems to work sometimes and not other times. I can't help but to ask why would an all powerful God needs human advise to do the right thing. Yet I lean on prayer when I don't know what else to do. Heba and Magdi are full believers in the power of prayer. When Bob's liver failed, they were already back in Cairo, and they told me later that when they heard the news they instantly got down on their knees and prayed for healing.
Tonight, I don't know what else to do. But I do know that I don't like the idea of Wasim and Rafi doing night patrol. I don't like the idea of what could happen tomorrow, given the violence today. And so I pray that Mubarrek would accept a dignified and speedy departure from his position. That this country can start to rebuild. That the forces of goodness will prevail in the short run, the long term, tonight, tomorrow and forever.
And I give thanks for all of you who join me in this call for peace.
With love, T
I think about when 4th-grade Wasim first knocked on our door to invite 2nd-grade Amanda to ride bikes together. He was so polite and smiley and elementary-school-handsome, it made us instant believers in the merits of an arranged marriage. It was the first time we let Amanda outside without parental supervision because there is a quality about Wasim that makes you trust him. They rode bikes a lot that summer, the first taste of independence and freedom. The two rode around the perimeter of family housing: through the playground, across the parking lot, up the hill, behind the building, and then circling the same route again. It was almost like their legs peddled in sinc. When I think of the two bike riding together, it plays slow motion in my mind, with a sappy happy soundtrack. It's how you imagine the perfect kind of childhood.
I think about Rafi and Aidan potty training together. Not that it was purposefully together, but we just spent a lot of time together and it happened to be that time of life for both boys. We used words like poo poo, pee pee, poopie or some other brilliant parenting phrase. Rafi's word was kaka. So we also heard that word and in fact, Aidan used all these words interchangebly. But it gets better. Our next door neighbors were from Tanzania and so Swahili was spoken in that household, where Aidan also spent alot of time. Apparently, the Swahili word for brother is--you guessed it--kaka. Aidan thought this was fantastical! How could one word be so naughty yet so nice? And perfectly acceptible to say in front of adults. So Aidan got to work with his bilingual skills, trying out linguistical tricks with his friends such as, "Where is your kaka? Do you have a kaka? Can I see your kaka?" and you get the idea. He considerred himself clever, and to be honest so did I. Still, we instructed him that he could only use words in a way that made sense to the family he was with. "Oh," he said.
If you know me, you know I don't understand how prayer works, why it seems to work sometimes and not other times. I can't help but to ask why would an all powerful God needs human advise to do the right thing. Yet I lean on prayer when I don't know what else to do. Heba and Magdi are full believers in the power of prayer. When Bob's liver failed, they were already back in Cairo, and they told me later that when they heard the news they instantly got down on their knees and prayed for healing.
Tonight, I don't know what else to do. But I do know that I don't like the idea of Wasim and Rafi doing night patrol. I don't like the idea of what could happen tomorrow, given the violence today. And so I pray that Mubarrek would accept a dignified and speedy departure from his position. That this country can start to rebuild. That the forces of goodness will prevail in the short run, the long term, tonight, tomorrow and forever.
And I give thanks for all of you who join me in this call for peace.
With love, T
Heba and Magdi ask. . .
Just heard from Heba and Magdi. . .
First I wanted to thank everyone who has asked about them because today when I got a suprise phone call (evidently the internet is back on in Egypt) it was wonderful to tell them that "everyone is worried, everyone is praying, everyone is asking about you."
Our connection was not clear at all, but I wanted to convey what I heard from Heba:
They are OK.
The seminary is OK.
They are very worried with how this situation will resolve.
The kids are scared and they're trying to avoid watching too much news.
They are holed up in their apartment and running out of supplies.
Yet they have received deliveries of food and blankets. Heba says she has no idea who is providing these supplies and how they are making deliveries. (>>Please see Heba's clarification in the comments section.)
Magdi and the boys join the men on night patrol to protect the building.
Evidently, Mubarrek is telling people that they must go back to work tomorrow. (I believe Heba is an English teacher and also a host to visitors from outside the country.) She's worried because her commute is through the square and things have turned violent. (Mubarrek has called out his thugs--my words, not hers.) She's trying to decide what to do. Mubarrek says that people who don't report to work will be docked pay.
Heba asks this: She asks if we would all pray. If we could arrange prayer groups and prayer chains. I told her that I would convey this message.
Thanks so much to all. If you'd like to leave a message here that shows your support, I know it would be greatly appreciated.
First I wanted to thank everyone who has asked about them because today when I got a suprise phone call (evidently the internet is back on in Egypt) it was wonderful to tell them that "everyone is worried, everyone is praying, everyone is asking about you."
Our connection was not clear at all, but I wanted to convey what I heard from Heba:
They are OK.
The seminary is OK.
They are very worried with how this situation will resolve.
The kids are scared and they're trying to avoid watching too much news.
They are holed up in their apartment and running out of supplies.
Yet they have received deliveries of food and blankets. Heba says she has no idea who is providing these supplies and how they are making deliveries. (>>Please see Heba's clarification in the comments section.)
Magdi and the boys join the men on night patrol to protect the building.
Evidently, Mubarrek is telling people that they must go back to work tomorrow. (I believe Heba is an English teacher and also a host to visitors from outside the country.) She's worried because her commute is through the square and things have turned violent. (Mubarrek has called out his thugs--my words, not hers.) She's trying to decide what to do. Mubarrek says that people who don't report to work will be docked pay.
Heba asks this: She asks if we would all pray. If we could arrange prayer groups and prayer chains. I told her that I would convey this message.
Thanks so much to all. If you'd like to leave a message here that shows your support, I know it would be greatly appreciated.
Peace . Love . Joy . Blessings . Change . Do the right thing . Be kind . Help one another.
Love, T
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Heba, Habibi
A couple weeks ago I got lectured on my facebook wall by my friend, Heba. It was after the church bombing in Alexandria, Egypt, and "you usually call to check on me in such times and you did not call!"
She was right. I didn't call. And I almost started facebooking back all my excuses, I'm very busy, I'm really stressed, I'm so sorry. Lame. All I wrote was, I'll call you.
Heba is Egyptian. Raised in Sudan as the daughter of Christian missionaries, she now lives in Cairo as the wife of an Old Testament scholar. But Heba, who graduated from the University of Minnesota with a Masters in Educational Curriculum, is a force all unto herself and I must be careful in the stories I tell lest the revolution be over and she gets back on the internet and reads my words. :-)
Heba was the family housing administrator at Luther Seminary and ran that place like she lived there forever. Heba's kids and my kids are the same age so we potty-trained together, we picnicked together, we vacationed together, we cried together and mostly, we laughed together. (photo left: lifted from facebook, taken while in seminary--adorable!)
When they departed Minneapolis, we drove them to the airport and madly helped repack their bags at the baggage check in desk thanks to newly changed poundage limits. Actually, my job was to run after Rafi and Aidan who were playing tag in the terminal. The airline gatekeeper gave Heba and her family the third degree for "having one-way tickets to Egypt." (Um, its called going home.) Bob implored the airline worker that he didn't understand, he was talking to a Doctor of Philosophy and his family. Leave them alone.
Heba has a phone number that connects overseas like a local phone number. And so I was determined to keep my promise to call her, lest I get publicly whip lashed on facebook again. Keep in mind this was all before the popular uprising started last week. Keep in mind that she commented right here on this blog just one day before everything broke loose.
So, a week before the revolution, Heba and I played phone tag and when she finally got through to me I was driving through a snow storm and couldn't pick up. "Call me again same time tomorrow," I facebooked her. And then Mubarrek had to go and shut down the internet so I have no idea how she and the family are doing. It's kind of nerve wracking.
But today I got a sign. The news coverage said today that people of all sectors are showing up to the protests. Teachers, professors, "they're bringing their children," said the coverage, "They're bringing food."
That's it, they're OK, because that's what Heba would do. She would bring food. She always served food. When we went places we would squish into our minivan, which was one seat short of our two families. This made me crazy as I am a firm believer in one-person, one-seatbelt. No, we gallivanted around the Twin Cities, Cairo-style. I saw bloody accident scenes in my mind's eye. I saw red lights of law enforcement in my mind's rear view mirror. I saw lawsuit papers in my mind's mailbox.
And what did Heba see? Food. She pulled out a tray of Middle Eastern delights and passed it around the van--front seat, middle seat, back seat, another round. I kid you not.
I sat stiff with the assurance that we would crash and die. Everyone else just sat and ate.
"Got any baklava?" Bob asked Heba, as he scarfed down the hummus, pita, feta, cucumbers and what have you, wiping his hands on his jeans.
"Oh Bob, I sure do!" and Heba pulled out a party plate of sticky, sweet, flaky treats.
I offer just this one story of Heba's hospitality.
Apparently, according to the news coverage, people are bringing food to the revolution.
I pray everyone is OK. I pray they are safe. I pray for Egypt, for democracy, for peace, for the people who watch over each other. I pray for change.
Heba, Habibi, if you read this, please call.
With love, T
She was right. I didn't call. And I almost started facebooking back all my excuses, I'm very busy, I'm really stressed, I'm so sorry. Lame. All I wrote was, I'll call you.
Heba is Egyptian. Raised in Sudan as the daughter of Christian missionaries, she now lives in Cairo as the wife of an Old Testament scholar. But Heba, who graduated from the University of Minnesota with a Masters in Educational Curriculum, is a force all unto herself and I must be careful in the stories I tell lest the revolution be over and she gets back on the internet and reads my words. :-)
 |
| These adorable children are the same ages as our children, plus they used to all play together constantly, hence the intensity of our friendship. Obviously, the kids are all now teenagers (Wasim has graduated from high school!), but the rest of us never age. |
When they departed Minneapolis, we drove them to the airport and madly helped repack their bags at the baggage check in desk thanks to newly changed poundage limits. Actually, my job was to run after Rafi and Aidan who were playing tag in the terminal. The airline gatekeeper gave Heba and her family the third degree for "having one-way tickets to Egypt." (Um, its called going home.) Bob implored the airline worker that he didn't understand, he was talking to a Doctor of Philosophy and his family. Leave them alone.
Heba has a phone number that connects overseas like a local phone number. And so I was determined to keep my promise to call her, lest I get publicly whip lashed on facebook again. Keep in mind this was all before the popular uprising started last week. Keep in mind that she commented right here on this blog just one day before everything broke loose.
So, a week before the revolution, Heba and I played phone tag and when she finally got through to me I was driving through a snow storm and couldn't pick up. "Call me again same time tomorrow," I facebooked her. And then Mubarrek had to go and shut down the internet so I have no idea how she and the family are doing. It's kind of nerve wracking.
But today I got a sign. The news coverage said today that people of all sectors are showing up to the protests. Teachers, professors, "they're bringing their children," said the coverage, "They're bringing food."
That's it, they're OK, because that's what Heba would do. She would bring food. She always served food. When we went places we would squish into our minivan, which was one seat short of our two families. This made me crazy as I am a firm believer in one-person, one-seatbelt. No, we gallivanted around the Twin Cities, Cairo-style. I saw bloody accident scenes in my mind's eye. I saw red lights of law enforcement in my mind's rear view mirror. I saw lawsuit papers in my mind's mailbox.
And what did Heba see? Food. She pulled out a tray of Middle Eastern delights and passed it around the van--front seat, middle seat, back seat, another round. I kid you not.
I sat stiff with the assurance that we would crash and die. Everyone else just sat and ate.
"Got any baklava?" Bob asked Heba, as he scarfed down the hummus, pita, feta, cucumbers and what have you, wiping his hands on his jeans.
"Oh Bob, I sure do!" and Heba pulled out a party plate of sticky, sweet, flaky treats.
I offer just this one story of Heba's hospitality.
Apparently, according to the news coverage, people are bringing food to the revolution.
I pray everyone is OK. I pray they are safe. I pray for Egypt, for democracy, for peace, for the people who watch over each other. I pray for change.
Heba, Habibi, if you read this, please call.
With love, T
Sunday, September 26, 2010
My Students and I
How much do I love my students? I love them in so many ways. Imagine -- a sandwich counter worker, a scrap metal worker, a flooring worker, a windmill factory worker, a hospital worker, a Wallmart worker, two nursing mothers, a mortuary science student, one married couple, two sets of boyfriend/girlfriends, and sisters who are both single mothers --all this amazing opportunity in my Thursday night Composition I class.
In a way, we go together because they're all beaten down from jobs, kids, and school. And so am I. Beaten down may be an overly melodramatic way to put it, but my point is I think we get each other because we're all trying to do it all. Why else would anyone teach or take a three hour night class?
By the time we reach the final third hour, I know we're getting to the end of every one's brain power, including mine. I try to keep the three hours interesting with small groups, class participation, audio/visual diversions, and a plentiful supply of hard candy strewn across the center of the table around which we sit. I dismiss at about 8:45 pm and my students dart out of the room like rockets. I don't blame them. They still have 30-40 minutes of driving in the dark. They return to homes in all directions, north, south, east, and west.
So, here's the magic. Last Thursday I returned their first batch of graded papers, essays that I was terrified to grade. I got some advise from a dear professor friend on how to set up the next assignment; but for this one, I just had me to go on. Grading essays is almost as terrifying as being a parent--you just don't want to shut anyone down. Yet you want the grade to be fair and academically useful. And so I decided to make up for my inexperience by giving each paper a lot of consideration. I went over each student work three times and wrote tons of comments including what worked well and suggestions on where to stretch the writing.
Yes, the magic. And so it was 8:45 p.m. and time to dart out the door. I returned their graded papers and excused the class. . .and. . .where's the darting? No one darted. My students just all sat there in their seats and poured over my comments, unique to each essay. And so who darted? I did.
It's a moment when you realize the power you have over others. And it's frightening. Yet I understand, because I do the same thing when my monthly packet is returned from my mentor. When I see that red, white, and blue postal priority mailer arrive I drop everything and immediately rip it open. On the spot, I read all the comments front to back. No matter what. I read my mentor's suggestions over and over again. And then I put them somewhere special knowing that I will probably read them again in the future.
My writing mentor is always extraordinarily kind and useful. I have great teaching role models.
Why am I blogging when I should be reading, annotating, writing, preparing my class, participating in the book discussion board?
Because I am.
Thanks so much for coming over!
With love, T
In a way, we go together because they're all beaten down from jobs, kids, and school. And so am I. Beaten down may be an overly melodramatic way to put it, but my point is I think we get each other because we're all trying to do it all. Why else would anyone teach or take a three hour night class?
By the time we reach the final third hour, I know we're getting to the end of every one's brain power, including mine. I try to keep the three hours interesting with small groups, class participation, audio/visual diversions, and a plentiful supply of hard candy strewn across the center of the table around which we sit. I dismiss at about 8:45 pm and my students dart out of the room like rockets. I don't blame them. They still have 30-40 minutes of driving in the dark. They return to homes in all directions, north, south, east, and west.
So, here's the magic. Last Thursday I returned their first batch of graded papers, essays that I was terrified to grade. I got some advise from a dear professor friend on how to set up the next assignment; but for this one, I just had me to go on. Grading essays is almost as terrifying as being a parent--you just don't want to shut anyone down. Yet you want the grade to be fair and academically useful. And so I decided to make up for my inexperience by giving each paper a lot of consideration. I went over each student work three times and wrote tons of comments including what worked well and suggestions on where to stretch the writing.
Yes, the magic. And so it was 8:45 p.m. and time to dart out the door. I returned their graded papers and excused the class. . .and. . .where's the darting? No one darted. My students just all sat there in their seats and poured over my comments, unique to each essay. And so who darted? I did.
It's a moment when you realize the power you have over others. And it's frightening. Yet I understand, because I do the same thing when my monthly packet is returned from my mentor. When I see that red, white, and blue postal priority mailer arrive I drop everything and immediately rip it open. On the spot, I read all the comments front to back. No matter what. I read my mentor's suggestions over and over again. And then I put them somewhere special knowing that I will probably read them again in the future.
My writing mentor is always extraordinarily kind and useful. I have great teaching role models.
Why am I blogging when I should be reading, annotating, writing, preparing my class, participating in the book discussion board?
Because I am.
Thanks so much for coming over!
With love, T
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Who ate the What?
Match the letters with a number. Multiple matches may occur.
a. scrambled eggs
b. popcorn
c. boiled pasta with butter
d. fresh smelling spaghetti and meatballs leftover from ten days ago
e. girl scout cookies (one entire box of carmel delights)
f. canned garbanzo beans and frozen broccoli, sauteed in olive oil, onions, and garlic
1. the father
2. the mother
3. the sister
4. the brother
5. none of the above due to parental disagreement: odor vs. time
Average suburban family has just returned from normal spring break. Father, mother, sister, and brother are serenely smiling at you now. Mother tilts her head in satisfaction. You may calmly return the smile and offer a polite "hello." Wait a minute, stop this narrative -- where's the dog? Where's the average suburban family dog? You may now holler in panic, "Where's the DOG GONE DOG!" Calm down. There are zero dogs and two cats. (There's always got to be a rebel in the 'burbs.)
Average suburban family is indeed serenely smiling because they are over budget and under no circumstance going out again tonight. Over tired and under the weather. (Actually, just the father is that, but mostly Ok.) They've decided to eat only what they can find in their ho-hum middle class cupboards, fridge, and freezer. How can a middle class kitchen be so full of food and yet nothing to eat?
O, but there is. A feast is found in these cupboards, fridge, and freezer. And you, dear Charmer Friend, must match the above numbers with the above letters to guess who ate what. Multiple matches may occur. On such a Saturday night, why would you possibly want to do anything otherwise more meaningful than to play this extraordinary food game?
Thanks so much for coming over to the Charmer Blog. Answers tomorrow.
With love, T xoxoxoxo
P.S. Average suburban family needs a normal, ho-hum garden.
a. scrambled eggs
b. popcorn
c. boiled pasta with butter
d. fresh smelling spaghetti and meatballs leftover from ten days ago
e. girl scout cookies (one entire box of carmel delights)
f. canned garbanzo beans and frozen broccoli, sauteed in olive oil, onions, and garlic
1. the father
2. the mother
3. the sister
4. the brother
5. none of the above due to parental disagreement: odor vs. time
Average suburban family has just returned from normal spring break. Father, mother, sister, and brother are serenely smiling at you now. Mother tilts her head in satisfaction. You may calmly return the smile and offer a polite "hello." Wait a minute, stop this narrative -- where's the dog? Where's the average suburban family dog? You may now holler in panic, "Where's the DOG GONE DOG!" Calm down. There are zero dogs and two cats. (There's always got to be a rebel in the 'burbs.)
Average suburban family is indeed serenely smiling because they are over budget and under no circumstance going out again tonight. Over tired and under the weather. (Actually, just the father is that, but mostly Ok.) They've decided to eat only what they can find in their ho-hum middle class cupboards, fridge, and freezer. How can a middle class kitchen be so full of food and yet nothing to eat?
O, but there is. A feast is found in these cupboards, fridge, and freezer. And you, dear Charmer Friend, must match the above numbers with the above letters to guess who ate what. Multiple matches may occur. On such a Saturday night, why would you possibly want to do anything otherwise more meaningful than to play this extraordinary food game?
Thanks so much for coming over to the Charmer Blog. Answers tomorrow.
With love, T xoxoxoxo
P.S. Average suburban family needs a normal, ho-hum garden.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Walking in the Warmth
You know what I like about Brooklyn? Especially on a sunny 70 degree day? Elderly people. You see lots of them slowly walking about the neighborhood. You also see disabled people, baby people, Jewish people, Catholic people, Arab people, Chinese people, and at least one visitor from Iowa. People are coming out from the dark of their double and triple locked apartments.
Here, people live close to each other. They have to because there is simply no room for otherwise. You can't believe how valuable a parking space is. You could get claustrophobic. Or you could simply soak up the warmth of honest to goodness human contact with people of all sorts and sizes.
There's an unexpected gentleness in Brooklyn. Folks walk slowly. It's nice.
I still feel sad when I stand at the 69th street pier, scan New York Harbor, spot the Statue of Liberty, and miss the two towers that disappeared. I don't think buildings should be built that tall, but I still miss them.
Thanks for coming over to the Charmer Blog.
With love, T
Here, people live close to each other. They have to because there is simply no room for otherwise. You can't believe how valuable a parking space is. You could get claustrophobic. Or you could simply soak up the warmth of honest to goodness human contact with people of all sorts and sizes.
There's an unexpected gentleness in Brooklyn. Folks walk slowly. It's nice.
I still feel sad when I stand at the 69th street pier, scan New York Harbor, spot the Statue of Liberty, and miss the two towers that disappeared. I don't think buildings should be built that tall, but I still miss them.
Thanks for coming over to the Charmer Blog.
With love, T
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