Last week, I had the opportunity to visit a most beloved place. A city that held and meant so much to me for my formative, young adult years. This place beheld my first years as a married woman; my grad school endeavors; and my most immersive ministry experiences in the U.S.

Consequently, this place holds many memories and special relationships.

It is also one of the most beautiful and fascinating places I know.

I had not been back to Philly for over 8 years. The intervening years held my most significant life changes to date. Ted and I lived and served in Haiti in these years. We also became parents and reacclimated to life on the West Coast. These recent years have been intense in ways that our grad school and ministry days in Philly were not - strange as that may sound.

Tragedy and growth and new experiences have marked this time.

Which is why revisiting Philly felt a bit like going back in time, and a bit like visiting an alternate reality - a place I knew so well, yet the finer memories of which had grown dusty and muddled with disuse. I couldn't remember what the airport looked like, or how Henry Ave connects with Walnut Lane. All of the pieces fell back into place as we drove the streets of Mt Airy and Chestnut Hill, and as I took in the sounds, smells and textures of a place that I once knew so well.

I got to reconnect with two dear, wonderful friends - I am lucky to know women of such caliber. I got to laugh, hike, soak my feet in Wissahickon Creek, and taste the city's delicacies. I spent a day meandering through the Art Museum and strolling along the Ben Franklin Parkway in sunny, crisp weather; collecting memories and treats to take home for my loved ones. All my senses were satiated, and I came home filled with gratitude and appreciation for this place that  shaped me for over six years.

I read recently in this great book, Stability, how places take on meaning because of the experiences we  share there. It was very appropriate to read this on my way to Philly, and to recognize the truth of it, as I delighted in reacquainting myself with this beautiful place.

A great way to ring in my 41st year! :)

Worship

A field of flowers 

resplendent in pinks and golds 

curled back their petals 

Opened them wide to embrace 

Sunlight 

Faces turned upward

they basked in the Sun’s glory

in a posture of worship 

modeling our destiny

Decisions

Decisions can be hard for me. Big ones, and not-so-big ones. It ebbs and flows. At some point in my 20s-and-30s journey, I learned that not  making decisions (on say, vocation, work, how to spend/not spend my time) is a decision in itself. Waiting at a part-time job that was meant as a placeholder until the "better thing" came around is a decision. In other words, putting off the big decisions until the moment feels right - that is active decision-making

This gets complicated. Listening for God and praying for discernment are important practices of our Christian faith. Pausing to consider before taking action is generally regarded as a mark of maturity, wisdom even. But, in some of my own, extended pauses of indecision and waiting, a quiet fear or perfectionism burrows. 

We can be afraid of making the wrong decision. Of jumping the gun; "missing" God's plan for us. When this happens, our view of God's "plan" may be too narrow. I know that I was raised in this Western, modern time where the emphasis is placed on the individual and what the individual will accomplish to make their mark on the world. This seeps into our Christianity, where verses like Jer 29:11, "For I know the plans I have for you..." are taken to mean that God has a particular, special path for each of us. Instead of focusing on the general things we know God desires for all of us - to grow in trust and love for Him; to exhibit the fruit of the spirit; love our neighbors; care for the poor in our midst - we can hyperfocus on the many decisions we face as 20 and 30-somethings. Decisions about career, location, church. Of course these decisions matter; but they are not the be-all-end-all. 

Loving God is the be all end all.

Anyone with some history of anxiety - like me - can take the messages from youth and college conferences  that are surely meant well, and turn them into a high-stakes game.  "You are special; designed for a unique purpose; discover God's plan for you; don't waste your life !" feels like Crap! I better get this right! The stakes feel very high - too high.

But we know this hyper focus on the individual is a modern thing. Our over-concern with our own life and plans can draw us away from the bigger picture and the overarching call of Christ.  Love God, love others. There is nothing simple about this call, but it's a beautiful journey, meant to be lived into with others.

Decisions aren't always hard for me, and I'm thankful for that. I have friends and a husband, and the grace of God that helps me to find rest in God's sovereignty from time to time, pulling me away from an overly self-focused stance to one of actual worship and praise - putting the attention where it is due.

Praise God.

August Rush

Freddie Highmore as Evan Taylor/August Rush (photo source: imdb.com)

There aren't many movies I choose to go back to. But if a film has captured some part of my heart or imagination, or sparked some artistic inspiration in me, I will eventually revisit it. Even then, my list of go-to "feel good" movies are short, and they are usually in the comedy realm (who has time to revisit emotionally-laden dramas or suspense films over and again? Well, I don't!) My short list includes: About a Boy, Slumdog Millionaire, Bend it Like Beckham. And I may only rewatch these every few years.

Which is why it's not surprising that it's taken me over 10 years to rewatch August Rush. I saw it when it first released in 2006, and then Ted claims we have watched it sometime during the course of our relationship, so my total view count is now at "3.") 

I knew that I liked something about this movie. Was it mainly the music? The love story? Or was there something remarkable about the acting? It was hard for me to remember. And there was a good chance my sensibilities as recent college graduate may not be in sync with my now, almost-40 year old self.

While rewatching August Rush this past week, the opening scenes gave me the impression that the movie did not age well with me. If the love story was to be the glue that held this film together, it felt hollow.  The acting was fine, but not remarkable (however, the more I consider Freddie Highmore's performance, the more it impresses me. And one can't knock Robin Williams, ever).

But as the plot picked up pace, and the movie came to its crescendo and triumphant ending, I was engaged in familiar ways with the story as a whole. How did this happen?

I reflected afterward that this movie has a unique element that carries it to such a rewarding end - the music. The music really tells the story in August Rush. It takes center stage, far and above the cast of supporting actors. The pleasing soundtrack carries us from August's foster care facility, to the streets of New York, and into his parents' loving presence. 

The music tells the story, and August is the conductor. From the opening scene, he is conducting the music he "hears" in an wind-whipped, open field; and he continues doing so, bringing about all the main action of the film. He "conducts" his ultimate reunion with his parents, and their reunion with each other.

Like the different players in an orchestra, there are no stand-out players in this film (apart from August, our lead). Yet when they play together, they do create the symphony, or in this case, August's final rhapsody that he unveils in Central Park.

My husband pointed out some other, notable aspects of the film. The title is very Dickensian (think Oliver Twist), as is our protagonist. August is a down-and-out "orphan," lost on the streets of a big city.  He navigates urban blight; suffers exploitation at the hands of his "Fagin;" and is victim to a broken child welfare system.

August and his captor, "Wizard" (photo source: imdb.com)

Don't some of the best works of art carry echoes of larger, more profound works of art? Ones that have, like Dickens' works, "stood the test of time" and speak to higher truths and our deepest cares as humans. I am not putting this film up there with the "best works of art," but this film is memorable for me, almost in spite of itself (the gushing sentimentality would cause endless eye-rolling for some!) 

God is even woven into this story. We meet the minister and his angelic, youthful parishioner toward the end of the film. When August is in his most critical moment, back in "Fagin's" clutches and yet so close to his appointment with destiny, the minister hints to God being the chief Conductor who will help August navigate away from harm and find his way. The minister asks the little girl "did you pray for him?" She nods. He replies, "Ok. Then I'm sure he will be fine." August's Father (in Heaven) is ultimately the one orchestrating August's return "home."

I may wait another 15 years before watching this one. But the music, the main storyteller of this film, will stay with me for awhile.

The Ocean

I love the ocean. Its vastness. The rhythmic crashing of its waves. 

I've passed many blissful moments of my life "lost" in its near-euphoric beauty.

Growing up near the Pacific Ocean, I had easy access to its southern Californian beaches and temperate waters. Sand play and sunscreen filled my childhood. And as a young adult, I could drag my lucky self there most any time I pleased. My most memorable youth group bonfires, baptisms, and deep, intellectual conversations with friends - and sunburns - are tied to specific beaches along the North County San Diego shoreline.

It's a beautiful thing how lying belly-down on the warm sand for an hour in between dips in the ocean is considered a completely acceptable use of time. One could even call it "productive" if working on one's tan. :)

Meandering conversations with friends could lull into meditative snoozes without notice. What a perfect activity for moody, introverted teenagers everywhere! 

My sister and I walking the North County San Diego shoreline

I missed the warmth of San Diego beaches while living in the Mid-Atlantic for 6 years; which is one reason our move to Haiti delighted us so much with its seemingly endless coastal treasures.  

Yet it took some "work" to unearth these salt water treasures.  

The traffic and noise often felt claustrophobic in Port-au-Prince, where we lived. On a handful of memorable occasions, we escaped the city for a day at the beach; or, better yet, a well-planned overnight vacation. The reward for putting up with the grinding traffic on the outskirts of the city was the cool breeze and the pale blue, lapping waters of the Caribbean that greeted us at the other end of our journey. Reclining, dazed, on the beach was pure heaven.  One could breathe deeply here without choking on exhaust fumes or the scent of burning trash. The fresh fish and lobster weren't bad either :)

One of my many special memories from Haiti's beaches took place on Bon Bon beach, way out near the island's westernmost city of Jeremie. I was buried in my latest historical read - the Black Count- which follows the life of a French Revolution general and father to the famous author Alexander Dumas. At that moment in my reading, I discovered that Dumas Senior passed much of his childhood in the town bordering this very same beach. The history nerd in me got a faint "period rush," as the past collided with my present on that pristine, sandy shore. 

The ocean has offered more than beauty and special memories to me; it offers me a place of refuge - a space of rest and care for my soul.

The sound of crashing waves alone is enough to "carry" me to this place of rest. My final anecdote speaks to some of the craziness of 2020 for us all, so I'll close with it here:

Lily was born 4 months into the shelter-in-place. The trip to the hospital felt like a pseudo-"staycation," in a twisted, pandemic-kind-of-way. After her birth, Ted and I were "treated" to 24 hours in post-partum care, where we were largely left alone because of COVID restrictions on visitations. The medical staff also "clustered" their entrances into our room to reduce spread of germs. The "treat" was that we actually had chances to snooze with our day-old baby. And the hospital's white noise machine had an "ocean waves" setting that provided the soundtrack for our stay. Holding my new baby in relative quiet, she and I could both dip in and out of slumber to the sound of the crashing waves.

Compared to the harry and stress of labor - and the general stress of 2020 -  this time stands out to me as 24-hours of  post-partum bliss. :)

Lily's newborn slumber

A Haiku

I was locked into an unexpected 2nd period prep yesterday - given one hour without anything to do and without my Kindle - so I decided to write a haiku. I was sitting in one of my favorite classes to sub for - a French class. Here we go:

A French classroom

Gold glitter projects
splash the walls. Paris! Venez!
Global dreams take shape.

Fin :)

Port Townsend

On my retreat, I am walking wooden piers and watching the seagulls glide. I am easing into talks with a friend that dip smoothly from tangential to deep. I am surrounded by a world of water that is cool, rhythmic, deep. 

Grey mist lifts to reveal a sun-kissed landscape around me. Snowy mountains encircle us but remain enshrouded in cloud – silent and invisible guardians of our space.

On my retreat, I am at home in rooms painted warm hues of yellow and orange. The walls are splashed with family photos that recall memories of laughter and joy. The world is brought near by homegrown artwork that evokes journeys we have shared. 

On my retreat, I eat. 

The garden is alive, even if in a wintry “in between.” It gives me my first taste of mustard greens, and it enthralls me with the life that always beats beneath the surface. I am fed – Moroccan delights, spiced eggs, fresh salmon - and my own scraps feed the chickens, who then feed the earth. 

Twinkle lights, laughter. Freshly baked cookies. Painting at the kitchen table. Endless cubbies of tea. The hot water kettle delivers in an instant. We enjoy cozy couch sites. Together.

Here to greet me and care for me, on my retreat: a doctor, caregiver, storyteller, friend, a bank of knowledge and humor - many people wrapped up in two kind hosts.

My retreat- a gift given and gladly received.