1000 Cranes

Something special happened yesterday.

1000 origami cranes were delivered to my sister by a high school classmate who had enlisted other graduates to contribute to the project and show their support for her battle against cancer. Accompanying the huge pile of colorful cranes with wings spread wide was a plaque with these words burned into the wood:

Senbazuru - 1000 Cranes

The ancient Japanese tradition of Senbazuru promises

that if a person folds 1000 Origami Cranes or if their

friends and family perform this labor of love on their

behalf, that person will be granted a wish.

These cranes were folded with Love and Hope for

Pat Reed Tanner

By her Dragon Brothers and Sisters

The project was deeply meaningful because of our Japanese heritage and wonderful memories of growing up on Okinawa.

What struck me about this symbolic gift was how a community can impact one individual in simple but profound ways. When a community joins hands, something powerful, even miraculous, emerges.

Encouragement. Hope. Solidarity. Healing. Courage. Strength. And most of all, LOVE.

There are many ways a community can express support. Often they are rooted in cultural traditions like a quilt created by a group of women for a wedding shower or a "barn raising" to help a family whose home was lost. For the Japanese culture, 1000 origami cranes.

Makeshift public memorials have become more popular as a way for a community to share in the grief and loss of a member.

Whatever expression is chosen by a community, it can help to infuse hope into the one who needs to know she is not alone in what she faces. But it's also redemptive for the community.

Besides a way to deal with their own grief, a community needs to see visible signs of their own compassion. It gives hope that all is not lost, that there is still good in the face of evil, that we are still capable of loving well.

One paper crane is fragile but when you see 1000 paper cranes, a miracle happens and one's own fragility is transformed into strength.

Tears for the Children

Matthew 2:18 (NIV)
“A voice is heard in Ramah, weeping and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because they are no more.”

Innocent children. Evil intent. A gun instead of a sceptor.

Grief shared across 2000 years, one in the Afterbirth, the other in the Advent. 

Shocked. Helpless. Angry.

We weep.

The Real Elders Among Us

© 2011 Doug Wertman, Flickr | CC-BY | via Wylio

I sat with my new friend, a sweet soft-spoken woman with graying hair. We were sharing prayer requests and it didn't take long for her share her experience in the church where she and her husband had attended for years. With some hesitation and tears on the verge of spilling, she said this: "In all these years, no one has asked me where I can use my gifts."

Immediately I had a deep feeling of empathy as I remembered one of my own church experiences. For over a year I had been advocating for women but never once during that time did the elders ask me what God was calling me to or where I wanted use my gifts. I got the message.

Don't question where we put you - we are the gatekeepers of the Spirit's work among God's people.

But that's not how I read my Bible. Rather than listening to the Spirit and growing the church toward maturity, leaders can act like a dam on a river that restricts its flow. Asking and listening well to the Spirit AND the people will help to open the floodgates.

On behalf of my friend and others like me who are in this middle place
     between birth and death,
          between our stories of youth and our last chapter of life,
               between the journey of growing into our unique take on life and faith
               and the final journey to heaven:
     God is not done with us yet.

His Spirit is moving, transforming and empowering the elders among us. (Here I am referring not to church leadership but to those in the pews who are 50+.)

In fact, as I wrote in an earlier post, not affirming this hurts the church and grieves the Spirit of God "who more often than not waited until His appointed leaders were well past youth before they were called to enter into their most significant leadership and ministry roles." Remember Abraham, Sarah, Moses, Zechariah and Elizabeth, and Anna.

This is what I used to hear from the older church population when I was younger and seeking to empower others in ministry: I've done my duty in the church. It's the younger generation that needs to step up.

Looking back I wonder if the problem was not lazy elders but discouraged ones. Elders tired of being used and not known. Elders drained from working in expected roles rather than serving in their gifted roles. Elders used to duty and discipline but not freedom and joy.

Today, with the emphasis on the younger generation and the real need to disciple them well toward maturity, there is a danger of ignoring the elders into the margins, of misinterpreting the movement of the Spirit in their lives, of forgetting that dreams and visions do not die at age 50.

There is a danger that as the population of baby boomers swell within the ranks of the retired, these neglected servants and mentors shrink within the church.

We can't afford the same mistake.

It's a Small World Afterall

My toes wiggled through the damp sand as I stood at the edge of the Pacific Ocean. It was finer than the sand I had always known. At least the water was warm like what I was used to. But the landscape behind me was foreign.

It was my freshman year of college. Across the vast ocean was home where my family remained while I settled into dorm life. The adventure of leaving home and being on my own didn’t take long to evaporate into the warm salty air of San Diego.

The university was situated on cliffs overlooking the ocean. I would stand and gaze out towards the horizon overwhelmed by the vastness of the separation that was at times unbearable. I wanted to go home so badly. But each time I turned around and walked back to my new world. Eventually it became home.

The hardest thing to adjust to was the size of the United States, almost 4 million square miles. The island of Okinawa where I grew up is only 464 square miles. The more I realized how big my new home was the smaller I felt inside and the smaller I got, the more lost I became.

But the one thing that helped press back the looming lostness was my new faith in Christ. My journey of navigating this country is in some ways a metaphor of my journey into the vastness of God and his love for one small person.

Each step, each move, each tear, each embrace of whatever and whomever God put in my path has enlarged my world both inner and outer. God has grown and stretched me into the space he ordained from the beginning but waited and worked patiently to fill in my 56 years.

The last 12 years have been especially trying and stretching. They were years of regaining a passion for ministry in the church, of earning a masters in theology, and of discovering and using my gifts. But they were also years of wounding, of disappointments, of being misunderstood, of resisting efforts by others to keep me small, and of being named and shamed.

It meant I had to leave two churches that I loved dearly. But I found another church and it felt like I had finally landed on a friendly shore. I was ready to engage my new community and find my niche.

Then just as I thought I was going to fill out the rest of the space God had for me, he had something else for me to do. I found out my sister had lymphoma and she needed me to be a caregiver. God had another battle for me to fight, the beginning of which I described in my last post.

Since then the events have carried me like a whirlwind to another place. Only recently have I had the time to begin processing where I have landed.

My world has become small once again. It consists of only two places, my home in Portland and my second home in Florida. There’s no other place I’d rather be as I have walked on holy ground journeying alongside my sister and her battle against cancer.

But I am on an “island” once again. I have to say no to the yearnings I feel when I stand at the edge of this new ocean and remember the land I once inhabited. I have had to put all future plans on hold. I constantly remind myself that being inwardly large is not directly proportionate to outward achievements. I struggle to believe that my value, my identity, and my gifts are intact and that God will continue to grow me whether I’m constrained on an island or roaming a continent.

For now my world is smaller but I am choosing to believe that I am not.

A Different Battle

There are times when you need to turn around and walk away.

Retreat from the conflict.

Reflect on the events and conversations.

Reframe your story and a new direction.

Restore any cracks in your identity to its resurrected condition.

Reconcile the disappointments to the bigger Story of Jesus and the Spirit's movement in your life.

In the past two months I've started doing all of these.

It meant leaving a church and leaving my blog in order to regroup. During that period the fight I was engaged in on a small scale was being duplicated on a larger scale in blogs that have a national and worldwide following.

As I listened to conversations about what women in ministry can or cannot do or whether wives should or should not desire mutuality in marriage, I struggled with deep emotions and wondered if God was going to ask me to continue the fight.

I seriously wanted to walk away forever.

I'm in a church now that has women elders. So far what I see is giving me hope that I can do life with this beautiful, raw, vulnerable, imperfect, compassionate community. I feel wanted. I believe I can contribute with my gifts and strengths.

No more battles to fight, right God?

Well, the answer wasn't what I expected.

I'm in another battle but it's not mine. It's my sister's. My younger sister. My only sister.

Pat has cancer.

God has called me into a season of helping her fight for her life, of serving her in ways I have never done for anyone else.

My friend Ed recently wrote a blog to encourage us to walk away from the battle and choose to serve others for the Kingdom's sake. Instead of fighting people, fight the darkness of this world.

I believe he has wise words to offer those who are battle-weary or those who are fighting for the wrong reasons.

There are times when God will call one into battle against thoughts, arguments and pretensions that are set up against the knowledge of God (2 Cor. 10:5). Arrogance and a lack of Christian love will mistakenly meld the person with the argument. As Ed eloquently points out, fighting people will not grow the Kingdom of God.

But humility and authentic Christian love will serve the other -- even in a battle. This may be tough, confrontive love or this may be patient, quiet love. This is Christ both washing the feet of Judas and then identifying him as a betrayer.

Then there are seasons in which God calls one away from the battle, away from those who might betray you or cage you in places where they might feel safe but you are not. So you leave to be safe, to be free, to be loved by a different tribe.

But I am discovering that just because I walk away from one battle in order to serve does not mean there isn't another one to fight.

Currently I am not fighting people or belief systems. I am fighting alongside my sister against a consequence of fallenness in the world, against cancer.

I entered battle by going to her when she called for help.

I will battle the cancer in my sister's body just as fiercely as I have battled against injustice and inequality.

I battle with prayer every night while I tuck her into bed. I pray over every cell of her body to submit to the regimen of drugs in order to return to normalcy, over her mind to face this with faith, hope and courage and over her heart to believe that she is not alone.

I battle with truth as I read Scripture and Sarah Young's Jesus Calling to help her believe that Jesus sees her, knows her, loves her and is present with her.

I battle with love when I shampoo her long hair knowing she may lose it soon and when I massage her feet which have felt the sheets of the hospital bed for too many days.

When I do what God has called me to do, no matter what it is I battle those forces that fight to thwart my calling. It may be traditional views of women. It may be spiritual arrogance or ignorance. But it can also be fear or loss of health and hope.

Right now I am fighting with my sister against unseen forces gone awry in her body.

I battle through serving.

In Search of an Adult to Grow Into

In my last post I described a delightful visit from two Japanese relatives who judged our lives to be joyful and productive. Intersecting with us for three days prompted them to ask me, "What is your power?" I gave a pretty short answer but if I had more time and they had indicated a desire to go deeper, I would have explained that the Jesus-kind-of joy is usually juxtaposed with pain. That grief, tears and disappointments deepen the well for joy to fill. That an abundant life does not mean an easy life but it's a life that makes even the poorest on earth feel rich.

Their question helped to remind me of the life Jesus has called me into, which I especially needed at this time.

During the recent transition from one church to another, my husband and I worked hard to leave well. We met with the elders to plan an exit strategy since we were very involved at several levels. The discussion went well but the execution of the plan hit a snag and in the process, I was deeply hurt in two very painful conversations.

It was a disappointing ending to six years of loving and serving in this church. A period of depression and withdrawal followed but it was very brief. I came out stronger and more confident of who I am as a woman and follower of Christ. The pain was felt, grieved and then released. In the aftermath I have felt more alive and clear of what life means for me. It is filled with people I love and who love me and is superintended by Christ who loves and delights in me. 

Often I will reflect on my past journey taking note of patterns and significant felt changes. I am amazed that after each point of pain and disappointment, there has been a greater awareness of and sensitivity to people, a growing clarity of my values and purpose in life, and a deeper experience of God's love and acceptance. I feel more alive today than last year and the years before that.

Put another way I feel like I've taken another step from adolescence toward adulthood.

I admit I am still waiting to grow up and be an adult. Not adult as in physical development, educational achievements, job security, family responsibilities or age of majority. Adult as in emotional and spiritual maturity. The reality? I will always be adolescent in some way.

As much as I want to get past adolescence, progress is not something I can totally control. The next painful event exposes another childish way, whether mine or someone else's, and it's not easy to put it behind me as the Apostle Paul exhorts in 1 Corinthians 13:11. Those "childish ways" insist on playing peek-a-boo.

Despite the continuing threat of emotional and spiritual growing pains, becoming an adult means being more comfortable in my own skin, accepting others where they are and embracing life along with its gut-wrenching, take-the-air-out-of-you moments. I have taken comfort in knowing that Frederich Buechner confessed at the age of 80 that he had not yet become an adult.

I am not a past participle but a present participle, even a dangling participle. I am not a having-grown-up one but a growing-up one, a groping-up one, not even sure much of the time just where my growing and groping are taking me or where they are supposed to be taking me. I am a verbal adjective in search of a noun to latch onto, a grower in search of a self to grow into.

An "adult adolescent" he calls himself. The adolescent ignores the pain or is trapped by it. The adult will grow through the pain without burying it or succumbing to it. Pain puts you in touch with your emotions which makes you more human. It is not how much you know or how well you reason your way through life. It is pain that grows you up.

Buechner describes what I have found to be true:

We are never more alive to life than when it hurts - never more aware both of our own powerlessness to save ourselves and of at least the possibility of a power beyond ourselves to save us and heal us if we can only open ourselves to it. We are never more aware of our need for each other, never more in reach of each other, if we can only bring ourselves to reach out and let ourselves be reached...We are never more in touch with life than when life is painful, never more in touch with hope than we are then, if only the hope of another human presence to be with us and for us.

What is my power? It's not "what" but "who."

Christ saves and heals me, binds me to a community, takes the yoke of my adult burdens, teaches me how to carry them with gentleness and humility, gives me permission to be emotional and fragile.

Christ takes me from infancy through adolescence into maturity, into the fullness of Himself so that I am less and less tossed back and forth by men.

That is when I am most human and most like Him.

That is when I feel most alive and most adult.

A Life That Needs No Translation

I've been on a two-month hiatus from my blog, taking the time to realign my heart and readjust to this new place I am entering. I have transitioned out of one church to another where I am no longer fighting a patriarchal system. This means I'm trying to get back on track on why I want to write and what I want to write. It is going to take some time. In the meantime...

I admit I was a bit nervous and a little stressed about the two strangers who were coming to stay with us for three days. Strangers but also family from the other side of the world whom I had not seen for many years. I had met my Japanese cousin only briefly 15 years ago on a trip to Osaka with my mother. His daughter had visited our home 27 years ago. There had been no communication since then because my deaf-mute mother could not call long distance nor write a letter, having never learned how to read or write. I did not know Japanese either. My cousin and his daughter were now 72 and 46 years old. Our lives had changed drastically on both sides of the world.

The time spent hosting them in our home turned out to be surprisingly fun despite the challenge of translation between English, Japanese and sign language. They responded to every new experience with "Ahh!" and "Ohh!" in harmonious squeals of delight. Rejecting offers to take them to Japanese restaurants, they preferred the real American thing, preferably Portland-style. So we introduced them to McMenamins one evening and Multnomah Falls Lodge the other. They especially loved craft beers. We capped off their final night with a late evening firepit and roasted s'mores. Everything was captured on their digital camera.

In between expressions of gratitude for caring for my mother, they made frequent references to one particular observation. My cousin lamented that the Japanese worked too hard and did not know how to enjoy life like the Americans did. I assured them that Americans had the same problem. But according to their observations of our home and never-ending fun projects, our children and grandchildren, and our hospitality, they insisted that Jon and I knew how to live life with exuberance and joy.

Now granted, we have had more time to enjoy life since Jon retired from teaching three years ago. Even that amazed them because Jon was able to retire at the young age of 55. My cousin had no thoughts of retiring even in his 70s. Believe me, we keep pinching ourselves that we are in this particular season of life.

On the day they departed, we spent a few hours enjoying our last three-language conversation on our deck under a billowing, yellow canopy that shaded us, along with the forest of 150-ft Douglas fir trees, from the hot sun. Then during a lull in the craziness of broken English and gesturing hands, my cousin turned to his daughter and asked her to translate a question to me. He saw our productive, happy, love-filled lives and wanted to know what our "power" was.

Our power? You mean motivation? Her head nodded. I thought for a minute and gave two answers. In short, my father and my Father. I had a father who taught me I could do anything and I am a Christian who loves Jesus. They accepted my answer happily and offered their own Buddhist faith as a point of mutual contact and respect. I accepted in return.

Since that exchange I have reflected on their question some more.  What does not need translation is a life that is enjoyed and filled with people who are loved. Maybe that's why Jesus insists we treat each other with his kind of love and live his kind of abundant life. Such a gospel-life "speaks" so loudly that it prompts the question, "What is your power?"

My Japanese relatives only saw a very small slice of our life. When I have guests I'm like any other person - I behave my best and put a lot of effort into my hospitality. But my hope is that what they saw was the real thing, the Jesus-kind-of-life that comes from loving Christ with every fiber of my body and every intention of my heart. I don't have the gift of evangelism but perhaps my gift of hospitality is close enough.

I don't live that life well all the time but there are moments like those spent with my relatives from the other side of the world that tell me I am progressing with my translation skills.