Yesterday morning I ate a pink grapefruit for breakfast. It was simply delicious. I hummed as I carved perfect chunks out with my handy little grapefruit knife, taking very little time and effort since it's created precisely for the task and therefore does it beautifully.
As I ate I mused about that principle. There are several little items in my kitchen drawers which simply, each in its own way, make daily life that much smoother and nicer. To be honest, living in a country which doesn't grow citrus fruit, I rarely eat grapefruit; but when I do, it's a delight rather than toil and trouble... all because of that grapefruit knife.
My mother loved kitchen gadgets. She had a whole kitchen full of things like hard-boiled egg slicers, little yellow corn-cob holders, tea cozies and the like. But in amongst the junk there were a few real treasures: things made specifically for one job, which do that job superbly. Mom gave me an unassuming-looking stoneware crock which is precisely the right shape and size to whip 1/2 pint/250ml heavy cream quick as winking. The shape speeds the whole process up immeasurably; so much so that the first few times I used it, I ended up with butter.
When we were last in England, A and I went into a cookware shop where I happily browsed through all the aisles. We ended up buying plastic cling film in a custom container which dispenses it perfectly, so it doesn't tangle or wrinkle or rip (as Austrian brands always do), and a small device for making poached eggs in the microwave.
I don't know about you, but I simply cannot make a poached egg in the classic fashion (a painful admission for someone who considers herself not a bad cook on the whole). I end up with either egg soup or hard lumps. However, I like eating them and so does A. We thought it couldn't hurt, for the few pounds, to give it a try. And now this small device is the crown jewel of our breakfast kitchen. In less than 5 minutes 2 perfect poached eggs smile up at your from your toast. It simply cannot fail!
Have you ever tried to cook in a kitchen not your own and been unable to find a sharp knife? I don't know how people live with dull bits of metal in knife form. Do they just hack away at things until they stop resisting? A dull knife makes cooking a chore, rather than a pleasure.
When I die (which I trust will be no time soon, but you never know), having been a missionary most of my adult life, I won't be leaving much behind for my family to squabble over. But one household item, though unassuming in appearance, has been lusted over since its first use. That item is: THE Bread Knife. Everyone in the family knows which one I mean, because there is only one worthy of the name.
This knife was part of a very forgettable set given to my first husband and me when we married in 1977. That was before wedding registries were common; the only shops that offered them at that time were shops my friends would not be able to afford. It was the era of giving slow cookers (2), fondue pots (3), and stoneware crockery (not as much as we'd hoped for). The wooden-handled set was doubtless made cheaply somewhere in China and consisted of 6 steak knives, 1 (supposed) carving knife and... The Bread Knife.
It didn't look special then, and it certainly doesn't now, after over 30 years of constant use. I don't even remember why I kept it when we gave away the rest, having better steak knives and a carving knife that didn't bend upon contact with meat. I suppose we didn't own another bread knife then, and frankly we didn't need it as American bread usually came sliced.
However, I soon learnt it was fantastic at slicing heat-n-serve rolls, or sourdough loaves, so it stayed. And although I have owned (and given up on) several other bread knives throughout the years, nothing can touch this one for sharpness, staying power and utter indestructibility.
It's not even the classic shape for a bread knife: very long and thin, with a rounded tip and a serrated edge. But its very thinness is a boon: it never sticks to even the soggiest loaf, or the toughest-skinned Austrian Bauernbrot. I have no idea how it has stayed keen all these years, but it has....
And my entire family covets it. It's unlikely ever to wear out; the thing seems to have a life of its own. Maybe I'll have to make certain I "lose it" before I go the way of all flesh, to avoid an internecine war!
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Coincidence: When God Wants to Remain Anonymous
It's rather strange. Dare I still believe in signs? But I remember this place well: wanting something, unsure if it's completely okay to want it, not really daring to ask Dad too directly in case he's not thrilled about it, but praying anyway and taking steps toward the goal. And my experience has always been that sooner or later Dad meets me where I'm at, not where I think I ought to be. He's really good that way...
A and I have prayed several times lately along the lines of "Well Dad, you know what we're aiming for; you still have the veto and your interference is welcome, but if we don't hear from you pretty conclusively, this is where we're headed."
Looking toward moving to England, to be settled before A's parents really need us, finding an affordable place not so far away that it's difficult to get to them, but not so close that we're in each others' hair, we had in recent days focused on a quite old town called Shaftesbury. I'd never heard of it, but evidently it's famous through the UK because of a bread advertisement. Anyway it is a very appealing town, with all the amenities a city girl would need (Waitrose's-- and they deliver! a Costa Coffee, shops, etc.), yet small enough to get around in without a car (which expense we could do without).
A drove off with the 4 other members of the band today for Dresden, and a letter arrived in the mailbox addressed to him from G, his father; this is a rare occurrence as Mum is the one who usually writes.
When I texted A that he had mail, he was a little concerned that it might be "bad news" (remember, they are elderly) and asked me to open and read it. So I did, and could assure him it was simply a nice, newsy letter.
What made my eyeballs almost fall out, however, was that in some of the very first lines G writes:
"On a whim I recently decided to visit, during the heat of the day, the little town of Shaftesbury some 20 miles away." !!! He says nothing more about it but it took my breath away. On a whim? How many small towns are there within a 50-mile radius that G could have decided to spontaneously visit, and it is the very one A and I are looking toward moving to?
What, I ask you, are the odds of that?!
A and I have prayed several times lately along the lines of "Well Dad, you know what we're aiming for; you still have the veto and your interference is welcome, but if we don't hear from you pretty conclusively, this is where we're headed."
Looking toward moving to England, to be settled before A's parents really need us, finding an affordable place not so far away that it's difficult to get to them, but not so close that we're in each others' hair, we had in recent days focused on a quite old town called Shaftesbury. I'd never heard of it, but evidently it's famous through the UK because of a bread advertisement. Anyway it is a very appealing town, with all the amenities a city girl would need (Waitrose's-- and they deliver! a Costa Coffee, shops, etc.), yet small enough to get around in without a car (which expense we could do without).
A drove off with the 4 other members of the band today for Dresden, and a letter arrived in the mailbox addressed to him from G, his father; this is a rare occurrence as Mum is the one who usually writes.
When I texted A that he had mail, he was a little concerned that it might be "bad news" (remember, they are elderly) and asked me to open and read it. So I did, and could assure him it was simply a nice, newsy letter.
What made my eyeballs almost fall out, however, was that in some of the very first lines G writes:
"On a whim I recently decided to visit, during the heat of the day, the little town of Shaftesbury some 20 miles away." !!! He says nothing more about it but it took my breath away. On a whim? How many small towns are there within a 50-mile radius that G could have decided to spontaneously visit, and it is the very one A and I are looking toward moving to?
What, I ask you, are the odds of that?!
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Floating Down De Nial
I have been known to stand in front of large groups of women and share how we can use the gift of humor and cultivate "an eternal view of things" (ie, this is not the end of the story) to feed our spirits in difficult times. And I stand by that. When you find yourself within a temporarily negative situation which you are powerless to change, it's an effective short-term strategy for finding a way to live well in that place.
As a permanent lifestyle, though, it sucks. Especially if there's subtle pressure upon you from the outside to maintain the illusion that "everything's all right, really" --when it's not. This is the pressure I feel at VG. As long as I show up and shut up and appear happy, all is well. But information about what's really going on inside is not welcome.
That's a sweeping statement and patently unfair. I'm sure there are numbers of individuals who would wish to know (though very few have asked), who would listen with empathy, who would pray for me; all the stuff good Christians do for each other. But where the weight lies, my experience has been that even when there has been a listening ear, wherever my view of things has differed from the "official" one, it has made no discernible difference in the information released or the decisions taken (or the lack thereof).
These decisions affect me, and others I care about, directly and negatively. And hasn't anyone ever told these people that putting a decision off indefinitely is a decision in itself? It is a decision not to deal with what you know on the information you do have, which makes those waiting for action on their behalf despair.
Out of those who have been shafted by the euphemistically-called "financial crisis" in the church (because we don't want to call it by name for what it was: "misappropriation of funds"), two of my closer friends reached the point of despair before I did. One recently gracefully bowed out of the leadership team after several years, not being very upfront about all the reasons why, which is the usual Christian cop-out. She is still accepted, though I've heard her opinions more-or-less dismissed by the one who carries the most weight.
The other, chronologically first, had tried her very best to communicate, first in talks and then by writing, her utter frustration and (at least partly righteous) anger at the way things were going. She asked many pointed and perfectly legitimate questions, most of which still await an answer to this day. Finally, in despair, she wrote a final letter stating why she was giving up and withdrawing from a process stacked against her, but that nothing was solved. At this there was a sigh of relief and she was written off. Just like that. Nobody has ever answered her questions and though since that time it has been repeatedly proven that her view was often the correct one, this has made no apparent difference.
And this is a person who has given her heart to VG's vision and served it at her own cost for many years.
Do you see why it isn't worth it to fight this thing? It has decided which view of reality it supports and will have its way in spite of any evidence to the contrary, no matter how well supported. I had a marriage in which this element increased over the years until there were large swaths of subject matter P and I simply avoided by common unspoken consent; it was pointless to go there because there would be no resolution. I am now not certain, knowing what I have since learned about his psychological profile, that even had P agreed to the counseling I'd begged for (and eventually gave up on), that this would have been redeemable.
Here, though, we have a whole group of leaders who (at least those who matter) seem to be able to remain in a state of blissful ignorance no matter how much information they receive. I don't really understand it; it sure looks like denial from the outside, though. Both A and I got email responses from I, who expressed her astonishment and dismay at the news that we are resigning membership. This just proves the point. Excuse me, I, but just how long did you think we could submit to the reality which is harmful to us, that you support (whether passively or actively)? How long did you think we could live in your La-La Land and thrive?
Or weren't you listening?
As a permanent lifestyle, though, it sucks. Especially if there's subtle pressure upon you from the outside to maintain the illusion that "everything's all right, really" --when it's not. This is the pressure I feel at VG. As long as I show up and shut up and appear happy, all is well. But information about what's really going on inside is not welcome.
That's a sweeping statement and patently unfair. I'm sure there are numbers of individuals who would wish to know (though very few have asked), who would listen with empathy, who would pray for me; all the stuff good Christians do for each other. But where the weight lies, my experience has been that even when there has been a listening ear, wherever my view of things has differed from the "official" one, it has made no discernible difference in the information released or the decisions taken (or the lack thereof).
These decisions affect me, and others I care about, directly and negatively. And hasn't anyone ever told these people that putting a decision off indefinitely is a decision in itself? It is a decision not to deal with what you know on the information you do have, which makes those waiting for action on their behalf despair.
Out of those who have been shafted by the euphemistically-called "financial crisis" in the church (because we don't want to call it by name for what it was: "misappropriation of funds"), two of my closer friends reached the point of despair before I did. One recently gracefully bowed out of the leadership team after several years, not being very upfront about all the reasons why, which is the usual Christian cop-out. She is still accepted, though I've heard her opinions more-or-less dismissed by the one who carries the most weight.
The other, chronologically first, had tried her very best to communicate, first in talks and then by writing, her utter frustration and (at least partly righteous) anger at the way things were going. She asked many pointed and perfectly legitimate questions, most of which still await an answer to this day. Finally, in despair, she wrote a final letter stating why she was giving up and withdrawing from a process stacked against her, but that nothing was solved. At this there was a sigh of relief and she was written off. Just like that. Nobody has ever answered her questions and though since that time it has been repeatedly proven that her view was often the correct one, this has made no apparent difference.
And this is a person who has given her heart to VG's vision and served it at her own cost for many years.
Do you see why it isn't worth it to fight this thing? It has decided which view of reality it supports and will have its way in spite of any evidence to the contrary, no matter how well supported. I had a marriage in which this element increased over the years until there were large swaths of subject matter P and I simply avoided by common unspoken consent; it was pointless to go there because there would be no resolution. I am now not certain, knowing what I have since learned about his psychological profile, that even had P agreed to the counseling I'd begged for (and eventually gave up on), that this would have been redeemable.
Here, though, we have a whole group of leaders who (at least those who matter) seem to be able to remain in a state of blissful ignorance no matter how much information they receive. I don't really understand it; it sure looks like denial from the outside, though. Both A and I got email responses from I, who expressed her astonishment and dismay at the news that we are resigning membership. This just proves the point. Excuse me, I, but just how long did you think we could submit to the reality which is harmful to us, that you support (whether passively or actively)? How long did you think we could live in your La-La Land and thrive?
Or weren't you listening?
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Clichés and the Helpfulness (or not) Thereof
After a visit to my doctor rather early this morning, with the happy news that yes, my BP is lower every time tested, I needed to go grocery shopping. At Interspar I found myself mulling over the concept of clichés, perhaps because I seemed to be encountering so many of them in person: the harried young mother with a full shopping cart, two fractious children and a desperate look; the paunchy mid-50s man shopping with his rather dreary-looking wife, who looked --thoroughly -- only at the chests of each woman he passed; the old woman slowly and carefully counting out her coins at checkout.
I suppose clichés only get that status because there is enough truth in them, enough of the time, to create a resonance when we encounter the "type" the cliché represents. Putting aside ethnic and sexist clichés (all Russians are gangsters, all blond women are stupid), there are enough "types" in the human race, seeming to overreach most cultures and eras, to provide fodder for clichés in abundance.
I am a cliché myself. Though I may think my story is unique and "nobody knows the trouble I've seen" (glo-REEE hal-le-LUUUU-jaaah), I'm a classic case: a woman whose husband, after over 30 years of marriage and the children leaving home, fell for a woman young enough to be their daughter. Resultant divorce, (rather forced) new start, new (younger) husband.
My ex is even more of a cliché, of course. Someone who knows him very well told me early on: "Don't quote me, but it's as if he read a book detailing mid-life crisis and, taking it as a textbook, went and did everything in it!" P lost a respected position as a Christian missionary, minister and church planter to start again with someone new. He now lives with his girlfriend, started his own translation company and is fulfilling his new goals, which seem to be to make a lot of money while climbing a lot of mountains. As far as I can tell he is content, except that he seems to resent the inevitable loss of respect. But as I repeatedly told him during our process, you can't have your cake and eat it too. You can have what you want, but don't complain about the price of it-- especially to me.
My new husband is a rather odd twist on a cliché. He, too, left an old life to start a new one. In his case, it was his wife who ran off with a salsa dancer younger than she. After some consideration (it happened quite suddenly), A realized the only real reason he had a large house and a well-paying job was to keep a wife he longer had. Faced with unexpected freedom, what does one choose?
In his case, A left a guaranteed career path and the solitude divorce had afforded (which he quite enjoys) for community living and, as he puts it, "the King and his Kingdom", not yet knowing what that meant or where it would take him. Well, it eventually took him first to Austria and then to a course of study in theology. Somewhere along the way it also took him to marriage with me, another middle-aged cliché-- and I am even older than he is!
What?! Starting a second career after years in civil service and a mid-life divorce is not uncommon, but isn't it usually something like sky-diving or "finding oneself" in Tibet-- not something uncommonly dull?
A left behind HRM's job security and what would have been an excellent pension (the one he'll still eventually get is certainly not bad) for a foreign country and a cleaning job which barely covered his rent. It was not until some time after he had left his old life thoroughly behind that his "spirit took the mike" (as he puts it) and it became clear to him what he really wanted to do with his new life.
I'm leaving behind 30 years of foreign missionary service to (quite probably) settle down in England, help look after A's elderly parents, and get a part-time job in some shop to supplement our income for the next several years while A finishes his theology degree. After having become thoroughly bilingual and bicultural, having traveled the world as a conference speaker and trainer in various Christian subjects, one might consider this rather a comedown, a waste, a shame that "my ministry" is-- for all practical purposes-- over.
But somehow I get the feeling it's just beginning.
I suppose clichés only get that status because there is enough truth in them, enough of the time, to create a resonance when we encounter the "type" the cliché represents. Putting aside ethnic and sexist clichés (all Russians are gangsters, all blond women are stupid), there are enough "types" in the human race, seeming to overreach most cultures and eras, to provide fodder for clichés in abundance.
I am a cliché myself. Though I may think my story is unique and "nobody knows the trouble I've seen" (glo-REEE hal-le-LUUUU-jaaah), I'm a classic case: a woman whose husband, after over 30 years of marriage and the children leaving home, fell for a woman young enough to be their daughter. Resultant divorce, (rather forced) new start, new (younger) husband.
My ex is even more of a cliché, of course. Someone who knows him very well told me early on: "Don't quote me, but it's as if he read a book detailing mid-life crisis and, taking it as a textbook, went and did everything in it!" P lost a respected position as a Christian missionary, minister and church planter to start again with someone new. He now lives with his girlfriend, started his own translation company and is fulfilling his new goals, which seem to be to make a lot of money while climbing a lot of mountains. As far as I can tell he is content, except that he seems to resent the inevitable loss of respect. But as I repeatedly told him during our process, you can't have your cake and eat it too. You can have what you want, but don't complain about the price of it-- especially to me.
My new husband is a rather odd twist on a cliché. He, too, left an old life to start a new one. In his case, it was his wife who ran off with a salsa dancer younger than she. After some consideration (it happened quite suddenly), A realized the only real reason he had a large house and a well-paying job was to keep a wife he longer had. Faced with unexpected freedom, what does one choose?
In his case, A left a guaranteed career path and the solitude divorce had afforded (which he quite enjoys) for community living and, as he puts it, "the King and his Kingdom", not yet knowing what that meant or where it would take him. Well, it eventually took him first to Austria and then to a course of study in theology. Somewhere along the way it also took him to marriage with me, another middle-aged cliché-- and I am even older than he is!
What?! Starting a second career after years in civil service and a mid-life divorce is not uncommon, but isn't it usually something like sky-diving or "finding oneself" in Tibet-- not something uncommonly dull?
A left behind HRM's job security and what would have been an excellent pension (the one he'll still eventually get is certainly not bad) for a foreign country and a cleaning job which barely covered his rent. It was not until some time after he had left his old life thoroughly behind that his "spirit took the mike" (as he puts it) and it became clear to him what he really wanted to do with his new life.
I'm leaving behind 30 years of foreign missionary service to (quite probably) settle down in England, help look after A's elderly parents, and get a part-time job in some shop to supplement our income for the next several years while A finishes his theology degree. After having become thoroughly bilingual and bicultural, having traveled the world as a conference speaker and trainer in various Christian subjects, one might consider this rather a comedown, a waste, a shame that "my ministry" is-- for all practical purposes-- over.
But somehow I get the feeling it's just beginning.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
The United States of We're-All-There-Is
I received a letter in the mail yesterday from my American credit card company, Visa, where I have been a customer for over 30 years. The letter thanked me for my address change and yet was addressed to what they listed as my "old" address (which happens to be the correct one). The "new" address listed was some street address in North Dakota of which I have never even heard.
How did this come about? You may very well ask.
While in the States I called Visa in order to pay a bill by phone. This went great until they asked for my billing address. When I gave it, the computer program the girl helping me online was using rejected it, because I do not have the only kind of zip, or postal code, which it recognizes as such: five numbers, or five-dash-four. As I have so often experienced in dealing with American firms, their programs are set up ONLY FOR AMERICA, even though their customers (just how large is Visa?!) are scattered all over the globe.
The only thing I can figure is that in order to get my phone payment to work, the girl bypassed the program requirements by making a temporary address change long enough to get it to go through, and the letter was automatically generated as a result. But I can't know that, can I? Now I have to call the company again at my own expense from Austria to make sure that's what happened, and to make sure they have my actual proper address registered so I can continue to get my bills. Thank God for skype, is all I can say; otherwise this would cost me a bundle. As it is, the only cost is my time and patience.
Hello?? North DAKOTA??!
But it's not just Visa. It's been a snag almost any time I try to order online from the States, even from large, supposedly international companies. Many of these companies even have the word "international" in their names. This essentially seems to mean they want to sell their goods to people from other nations, but without accommodating those very customers.
Surely there are military people stationed all over the world who get their bills at a foreign address, although it is an American credit card? What's their solution-- or does the PX solve it for them? How hard can it be to find some computer geek who could change the program to reflect most of the rest of the known world? The same goes for telephone numbers: often, only an American one will do.
This means I have to essentially lie, claiming indirectly that I do live in the States and give my sister's address or telephone number to satisfy the inadequate system.
"International", now there's a word. There are others.
My European friends like to poke gentle fun at the names Americans give things: such as the "World Series" in baseball, which encompasses-- you guessed it-- North America. Last time I looked, that was hardly the world. It would be fitting to call such a thing, at the very most, the North American Series, though I admit that doesn't have much of a ring; and in the USA, a name must excite enthusiasm! A World Series in football, however-- and by that I mean what (only) Americans call "soccer"-- would and regularly does wipe Americans out.
For ten years I worked in tandem with a ministry which has "global" in its name. The idea was that it would have global impact, and it has indeed ministered in one way or another pretty much across the globe. But when, after many years' working with them, I assumed "global" also meant we should learn some cultural sensitivity and fit our US-style ministry to the cultures we were serving, suggesting ways we could do that, I was in for a rude awakening. Here "global" meant: we will do everything just as we do it in the US, thank you very much; we will just do it in other places.
To me, that simply doesn't reflect a global (or even international) philosophy.
I realize I have a certain point of view formed largely by having left my home culture 30 years ago, living in Austria and traveling extensively to other nations in the course of my work. And I can't expect people to have that same worldview who have either never left home, or left it only briefly for what my former husband used to call "American missions tourism": 7 to 10 days ministering in (granted) a foreign culture, but using your own language (with translators), within the context of a team from your own country, sleeping in posh Western-style hotels each night, all the time knowing you will return to your American creature comforts afterward. Don't get me wrong, these trips are great as far as they go and I'd recommend the experience to anyone, but that is "ministry", not "missions"!
However, I did erroneously think the opinion of someone who has had my experience might have carried more weight. *sigh*
It's easy to America-bash; from what's represented on TV and in the news, a European almost has to conclude it's a dark and dangerous place filled with either rapist/slashers and/or fat Walmart fast-food couch potatoes. That's another reason I need to go back and visit regularly, because (not denying the others exist) America is filled much more with lots and lots of friendly, normal "just folks" who only want a quiet life. And when there, these are the people you're most likely to encounter, because... they're everywhere. Not what you'd conclude from Hollywood, action shows or even TV sitcoms; just regular people living regular lives, most of them with relatively healthy values and blessed with a good dose of humor.
And even if I am overwhelmed by the 24/7 lifestyle, I admit it's very convenient. And though I'm admittedly allergic to TV-style religion, I'm not allergic to the people who attend churches which reflect that. And though I don't want to live there any more, I understand why people from all over the world have precisely that as their goal. I am, after all, American. And European. And a Kingdom citizen. And that's enough identity crisis for one post!
How did this come about? You may very well ask.
While in the States I called Visa in order to pay a bill by phone. This went great until they asked for my billing address. When I gave it, the computer program the girl helping me online was using rejected it, because I do not have the only kind of zip, or postal code, which it recognizes as such: five numbers, or five-dash-four. As I have so often experienced in dealing with American firms, their programs are set up ONLY FOR AMERICA, even though their customers (just how large is Visa?!) are scattered all over the globe.
The only thing I can figure is that in order to get my phone payment to work, the girl bypassed the program requirements by making a temporary address change long enough to get it to go through, and the letter was automatically generated as a result. But I can't know that, can I? Now I have to call the company again at my own expense from Austria to make sure that's what happened, and to make sure they have my actual proper address registered so I can continue to get my bills. Thank God for skype, is all I can say; otherwise this would cost me a bundle. As it is, the only cost is my time and patience.
Hello?? North DAKOTA??!
But it's not just Visa. It's been a snag almost any time I try to order online from the States, even from large, supposedly international companies. Many of these companies even have the word "international" in their names. This essentially seems to mean they want to sell their goods to people from other nations, but without accommodating those very customers.
Surely there are military people stationed all over the world who get their bills at a foreign address, although it is an American credit card? What's their solution-- or does the PX solve it for them? How hard can it be to find some computer geek who could change the program to reflect most of the rest of the known world? The same goes for telephone numbers: often, only an American one will do.
This means I have to essentially lie, claiming indirectly that I do live in the States and give my sister's address or telephone number to satisfy the inadequate system.
"International", now there's a word. There are others.
My European friends like to poke gentle fun at the names Americans give things: such as the "World Series" in baseball, which encompasses-- you guessed it-- North America. Last time I looked, that was hardly the world. It would be fitting to call such a thing, at the very most, the North American Series, though I admit that doesn't have much of a ring; and in the USA, a name must excite enthusiasm! A World Series in football, however-- and by that I mean what (only) Americans call "soccer"-- would and regularly does wipe Americans out.
For ten years I worked in tandem with a ministry which has "global" in its name. The idea was that it would have global impact, and it has indeed ministered in one way or another pretty much across the globe. But when, after many years' working with them, I assumed "global" also meant we should learn some cultural sensitivity and fit our US-style ministry to the cultures we were serving, suggesting ways we could do that, I was in for a rude awakening. Here "global" meant: we will do everything just as we do it in the US, thank you very much; we will just do it in other places.
To me, that simply doesn't reflect a global (or even international) philosophy.
I realize I have a certain point of view formed largely by having left my home culture 30 years ago, living in Austria and traveling extensively to other nations in the course of my work. And I can't expect people to have that same worldview who have either never left home, or left it only briefly for what my former husband used to call "American missions tourism": 7 to 10 days ministering in (granted) a foreign culture, but using your own language (with translators), within the context of a team from your own country, sleeping in posh Western-style hotels each night, all the time knowing you will return to your American creature comforts afterward. Don't get me wrong, these trips are great as far as they go and I'd recommend the experience to anyone, but that is "ministry", not "missions"!
However, I did erroneously think the opinion of someone who has had my experience might have carried more weight. *sigh*
It's easy to America-bash; from what's represented on TV and in the news, a European almost has to conclude it's a dark and dangerous place filled with either rapist/slashers and/or fat Walmart fast-food couch potatoes. That's another reason I need to go back and visit regularly, because (not denying the others exist) America is filled much more with lots and lots of friendly, normal "just folks" who only want a quiet life. And when there, these are the people you're most likely to encounter, because... they're everywhere. Not what you'd conclude from Hollywood, action shows or even TV sitcoms; just regular people living regular lives, most of them with relatively healthy values and blessed with a good dose of humor.
And even if I am overwhelmed by the 24/7 lifestyle, I admit it's very convenient. And though I'm admittedly allergic to TV-style religion, I'm not allergic to the people who attend churches which reflect that. And though I don't want to live there any more, I understand why people from all over the world have precisely that as their goal. I am, after all, American. And European. And a Kingdom citizen. And that's enough identity crisis for one post!
Friday, May 25, 2012
The Dread Deed Is Done
*Drumroll, please* --I have emailed my resignation letter.
I awoke at 4:30 a.m. today, with my heart racing and my stomach churning. I lay there trying to figure out what was up, as I couldn't remember having had any distressing dreams. But the symptoms persisted, and I remembered what K had told me: many peoples' blood pressure peaks in the nighttime, of which they are unaware. (Layman that I am, I'd have assumed the opposite.) So finally, for the first time, I reached for the little spray bottle of mint-flavored nitroglycerin solution my doctor had prescribed for moments just such as these. After 2 squirts under my tongue I again waited for a change, but I think it was another good hour before I fell into a restless sleep.
A had to leave the house relatively early this morning for a band rehearsal. I lay there in bed sluggishly watching him get ready, feeling deadened in every limb. After I told A about my night he came over and prayed for me. This provided me at least the energy to get up. I knew very well what I had to do today, and knew I'd better do it first thing or I might procrastinate further.
I hadn't expected such a body-stress reaction, because I'd gone to bed quite cheerful and positive about the future, something I had not really experienced since returning from California.
Yesterday afternoon A and I lay companionably snuggled together on our blessedly large bed, talking about possibilities for our future. I found that during our honeymoon and the distance from Austria, something within me had shifted without my even really having been aware of it: I had no more inner resistance to a move to the UK. This was a bit of a surprise to A, but a welcome one. We talked through the implications of a move, the timing, and especially the cost. A was pretty sure it would cost at least as much to live there as it does to live here, which was rather a downer, actually. But we decided not to assume; instead, to research.
Which, until we left that evening for house group, we did. And found to our surprise and delight how wrong we had been!
Our target area is no more than an hours' travel by train or bus away from A's elderly parents; not so far as to be prohibitive for either side, but no so close as to be living in each others' laps. Since A will be an at-home student for probably the next 6 years, we can live anywhere so long as we can cover the bills of daily expenses with our savings and with whatever income I can bring in on the side. And frankly, the thought of working a "normal job" in Austria depresses the hell out of me. But the UK has both a different work ethic and a different concept of service. The thought of working part-time in, say, a cookery supply shop or a bookstore (two of my loves) in my native language and with polite people is almost a thrill.
We were very happy to find that we could quite conceivably, judging from what is available right now, pay a third less rent for up to 1 room more in most of the target areas we looked at. That means half the rent or more would already be covered by what would come in from the student apartment I own here (rather too small for us to live in, but great as an investment), and the rest could be made up by my working part-time. A knows the society and the health system and everything necessary to help me feel secure in a new environment (it helps that things are set up simply there, not the maze of conflicting administration one is faced with here).
And I am more and more convinced that I need a completely new start, in a completely new location. I need to cut my losses and walk away from any more possibility of my shouldering responsibility for others' understanding or actions regarding them.
Another factor in our reasoning is that, since Ryanair flies directly from Stansted to Graz, visits to and from the kids (and eventual grandchildren) living here in Austria shouldn't be prohibitive either. We're looking at towns rather than villages, but small enough that one can walk to shopping, because we're thinking of starting out life there without a car and seeing if we (or rather, I) can function like that. Buying and maintaining a car costs less there than it does here, but it is still a regular expense we could do without. If I go absolutely stir-crazy, though, A assures me we can make it work somehow!
Having something a little more concrete to aim for and look toward is helping me a lot psychologically. My body just doesn't seem to have gotten the message yet. I guess that will take time; it took time to get to this state, too.
Last night after house group K, who is a "new" doctor, measured my BP and agreed it's still too high. I'd been hoping to borrow a BP cuff from her but what she has are 1) an ancient model which is probably inaccurate and 2) a model which requires a doctor to use and decipher it. Today I shall troll the Internet for something digital which is easy to use and which I can afford.
When K was taking my BP it hurt like hell; she seemed to use a whole lot more pressure to get a reading than either the docs in the USA or my doc here did. My left arm is still aching today! But I do have to bring these levels down before I get on a plane and fly to Cape Town on June 11th. I really would like to get there and back without a brain aneurism exploding on the way!
I awoke at 4:30 a.m. today, with my heart racing and my stomach churning. I lay there trying to figure out what was up, as I couldn't remember having had any distressing dreams. But the symptoms persisted, and I remembered what K had told me: many peoples' blood pressure peaks in the nighttime, of which they are unaware. (Layman that I am, I'd have assumed the opposite.) So finally, for the first time, I reached for the little spray bottle of mint-flavored nitroglycerin solution my doctor had prescribed for moments just such as these. After 2 squirts under my tongue I again waited for a change, but I think it was another good hour before I fell into a restless sleep.
A had to leave the house relatively early this morning for a band rehearsal. I lay there in bed sluggishly watching him get ready, feeling deadened in every limb. After I told A about my night he came over and prayed for me. This provided me at least the energy to get up. I knew very well what I had to do today, and knew I'd better do it first thing or I might procrastinate further.
I hadn't expected such a body-stress reaction, because I'd gone to bed quite cheerful and positive about the future, something I had not really experienced since returning from California.
Yesterday afternoon A and I lay companionably snuggled together on our blessedly large bed, talking about possibilities for our future. I found that during our honeymoon and the distance from Austria, something within me had shifted without my even really having been aware of it: I had no more inner resistance to a move to the UK. This was a bit of a surprise to A, but a welcome one. We talked through the implications of a move, the timing, and especially the cost. A was pretty sure it would cost at least as much to live there as it does to live here, which was rather a downer, actually. But we decided not to assume; instead, to research.
Which, until we left that evening for house group, we did. And found to our surprise and delight how wrong we had been!
Our target area is no more than an hours' travel by train or bus away from A's elderly parents; not so far as to be prohibitive for either side, but no so close as to be living in each others' laps. Since A will be an at-home student for probably the next 6 years, we can live anywhere so long as we can cover the bills of daily expenses with our savings and with whatever income I can bring in on the side. And frankly, the thought of working a "normal job" in Austria depresses the hell out of me. But the UK has both a different work ethic and a different concept of service. The thought of working part-time in, say, a cookery supply shop or a bookstore (two of my loves) in my native language and with polite people is almost a thrill.
We were very happy to find that we could quite conceivably, judging from what is available right now, pay a third less rent for up to 1 room more in most of the target areas we looked at. That means half the rent or more would already be covered by what would come in from the student apartment I own here (rather too small for us to live in, but great as an investment), and the rest could be made up by my working part-time. A knows the society and the health system and everything necessary to help me feel secure in a new environment (it helps that things are set up simply there, not the maze of conflicting administration one is faced with here).
And I am more and more convinced that I need a completely new start, in a completely new location. I need to cut my losses and walk away from any more possibility of my shouldering responsibility for others' understanding or actions regarding them.
Another factor in our reasoning is that, since Ryanair flies directly from Stansted to Graz, visits to and from the kids (and eventual grandchildren) living here in Austria shouldn't be prohibitive either. We're looking at towns rather than villages, but small enough that one can walk to shopping, because we're thinking of starting out life there without a car and seeing if we (or rather, I) can function like that. Buying and maintaining a car costs less there than it does here, but it is still a regular expense we could do without. If I go absolutely stir-crazy, though, A assures me we can make it work somehow!
Having something a little more concrete to aim for and look toward is helping me a lot psychologically. My body just doesn't seem to have gotten the message yet. I guess that will take time; it took time to get to this state, too.
Last night after house group K, who is a "new" doctor, measured my BP and agreed it's still too high. I'd been hoping to borrow a BP cuff from her but what she has are 1) an ancient model which is probably inaccurate and 2) a model which requires a doctor to use and decipher it. Today I shall troll the Internet for something digital which is easy to use and which I can afford.
When K was taking my BP it hurt like hell; she seemed to use a whole lot more pressure to get a reading than either the docs in the USA or my doc here did. My left arm is still aching today! But I do have to bring these levels down before I get on a plane and fly to Cape Town on June 11th. I really would like to get there and back without a brain aneurism exploding on the way!
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Another Step Closer
Well, I've written my resignation letter. It's been brewing in my mind for a long time. I decided to take A's and D's advice and be as brief as possible; because if they have not already heard me, they will not hear me now either. I spent a couple of hours on it, let A review it, revised it a bit, and then sent it on to E for proofreading. Even after 30 years of speaking German, I still find writing it correctly an iffy thing. E responded with corrections which were helpful, so it's now pretty much in its final form, though I don't plan to send it until Friday.
And ever since, I've been depressed.
I know it's the culmination of many months, if not many years, of process. I know it's the right thing to do, if only for the sake of my health, because staying here quite literally has the potential to kill me. But I also know this will be misunderstood and harshly judged (behind my back; the questions people genuinely have they will ask of each other and not of me, because that's the way it's done in Austria). People will feel offended and hurt by my "sudden" decision, and speculate --yet again -- about me. Though a few will be secretly relieved that, by studiously ignoring the issues I've challenged them on long enough, the problem has taken care of itself (ergo, I will henceforth be out of their hair), most will be clueless as to why this move is necessary-- no matter how much I explain it.
A bit of advice: when someone enthusiastically announces you are a "forerunner" and your life is "prophetic" (or, as in my case, these are things you've heard regularly) --don't get too excited. In my experience that generally means a lonely journey several steps ahead of (or aside from) where most other people are at. And by the time they have moved into that place, you're off again somewhere else new, so you will often be misunderstood and misinterpreted by all but a few fellow "forerunners".
So... at the moment I have no energy to tackle all the after-wedding duties that have awaited my return from honeymoon: thank-you cards, organization, etc. I feel slightly nauseous, have not much appetite but have been eating for something to do. What I'd really like to do is cry, cry, cry and then sleep, sleep, sleep ...but I know by bitter experience how very much I will regret the exhaustion and having eyes like Jabba the Hutt for the entire following day.
God is patiently waiting for me to just let it ALL go. And I have done my best, over and over, for many months, and each time something more has been released-- yet I still find more I'm hanging onto. I currently identify strongly with these lines from an old worship song, "Surrender":
I'm giving you my dreams, I'm laying down my rights,
I'm giving up my pride for the promise of new life.
This has been a difficult process, partly because I have always had a strong sense of righteousness and injustice, and I know very well that "they owe me", whether they can ever see that or not. But I also know that as long as I cling to the right to be heard, the right to be valued, the right to recompense, even the right to have it acknowledged that these are RIGHTS, not privileges, I am laying down... I'm blinded to the good in my life that is the way out of resentment. And I block the way into the "new life" I've been amazingly offered the chance to have-- growing old with someone I love, who loves me.
My constant prayer, and I include myself in it, is, "Father, forgive them, for they don't know what they're doing."
My mind screams: BUT THEY MUST KNOW-- THEY HAVE BEEN TOLD OFTEN ENOUGH! Yet my heart knows this is the only way.
That doesn't make it easy.
My hope is that being separated from the source of aggrievement will help me loose it all. When P was having his relationship and we were living in the same house, I first distanced myself emotionally (for example, P wanted to talk about his relationship with X all the time and I refused to be his sounding board for something that hurt me personally). Then I moved out of the bedroom; but that wasn't until half a year had gone by. By the time another half year had gone by, I was ill from the constant stress and HAD to move out-- and was judged for it.
But distancing myself from the constant rubbing of salt in my wounds did help me start to heal. I can't expect people to know, or even be interested in hearing, my story, unless they love me enough to ask-- which most simply didn't. And if they don't love me to that degree, one cannot force love, so one cannot force being heard.
I tried that, both in my marriage and in the church, and believe me it does not work. A quote that carried me through some of the hardest times was from Bill Johnson: "My influence with you is only as great as the honor you have for me. Any attempt to go beyond that leads to manipulation and control." Not wanting to manipulate and control (as I observed P doing), I simply had to conclude after several tactics that despite their fondness for me I have no actual influence with this group of people. It's almost moot why-- it isn't there, so I was wasting my breath.
In the letter I have assured the leaders that I plan to continue the genuine friendships I do have within the fellowship, and that if any of them feel the need to talk with me, my door is open. But I will be initiating no more conversations with them; if they value my input, they may ask for it, and I will be happy to give it. This sounds so harsh, but it is the only reality I can live with. I love these people, but I no longer have the strength to beat my head against a brick wall.
In more than one sense, I resign.
And ever since, I've been depressed.
I know it's the culmination of many months, if not many years, of process. I know it's the right thing to do, if only for the sake of my health, because staying here quite literally has the potential to kill me. But I also know this will be misunderstood and harshly judged (behind my back; the questions people genuinely have they will ask of each other and not of me, because that's the way it's done in Austria). People will feel offended and hurt by my "sudden" decision, and speculate --yet again -- about me. Though a few will be secretly relieved that, by studiously ignoring the issues I've challenged them on long enough, the problem has taken care of itself (ergo, I will henceforth be out of their hair), most will be clueless as to why this move is necessary-- no matter how much I explain it.
A bit of advice: when someone enthusiastically announces you are a "forerunner" and your life is "prophetic" (or, as in my case, these are things you've heard regularly) --don't get too excited. In my experience that generally means a lonely journey several steps ahead of (or aside from) where most other people are at. And by the time they have moved into that place, you're off again somewhere else new, so you will often be misunderstood and misinterpreted by all but a few fellow "forerunners".
So... at the moment I have no energy to tackle all the after-wedding duties that have awaited my return from honeymoon: thank-you cards, organization, etc. I feel slightly nauseous, have not much appetite but have been eating for something to do. What I'd really like to do is cry, cry, cry and then sleep, sleep, sleep ...but I know by bitter experience how very much I will regret the exhaustion and having eyes like Jabba the Hutt for the entire following day.
God is patiently waiting for me to just let it ALL go. And I have done my best, over and over, for many months, and each time something more has been released-- yet I still find more I'm hanging onto. I currently identify strongly with these lines from an old worship song, "Surrender":
I'm giving you my dreams, I'm laying down my rights,
I'm giving up my pride for the promise of new life.
This has been a difficult process, partly because I have always had a strong sense of righteousness and injustice, and I know very well that "they owe me", whether they can ever see that or not. But I also know that as long as I cling to the right to be heard, the right to be valued, the right to recompense, even the right to have it acknowledged that these are RIGHTS, not privileges, I am laying down... I'm blinded to the good in my life that is the way out of resentment. And I block the way into the "new life" I've been amazingly offered the chance to have-- growing old with someone I love, who loves me.
My constant prayer, and I include myself in it, is, "Father, forgive them, for they don't know what they're doing."
My mind screams: BUT THEY MUST KNOW-- THEY HAVE BEEN TOLD OFTEN ENOUGH! Yet my heart knows this is the only way.
That doesn't make it easy.
My hope is that being separated from the source of aggrievement will help me loose it all. When P was having his relationship and we were living in the same house, I first distanced myself emotionally (for example, P wanted to talk about his relationship with X all the time and I refused to be his sounding board for something that hurt me personally). Then I moved out of the bedroom; but that wasn't until half a year had gone by. By the time another half year had gone by, I was ill from the constant stress and HAD to move out-- and was judged for it.
But distancing myself from the constant rubbing of salt in my wounds did help me start to heal. I can't expect people to know, or even be interested in hearing, my story, unless they love me enough to ask-- which most simply didn't. And if they don't love me to that degree, one cannot force love, so one cannot force being heard.
I tried that, both in my marriage and in the church, and believe me it does not work. A quote that carried me through some of the hardest times was from Bill Johnson: "My influence with you is only as great as the honor you have for me. Any attempt to go beyond that leads to manipulation and control." Not wanting to manipulate and control (as I observed P doing), I simply had to conclude after several tactics that despite their fondness for me I have no actual influence with this group of people. It's almost moot why-- it isn't there, so I was wasting my breath.
In the letter I have assured the leaders that I plan to continue the genuine friendships I do have within the fellowship, and that if any of them feel the need to talk with me, my door is open. But I will be initiating no more conversations with them; if they value my input, they may ask for it, and I will be happy to give it. This sounds so harsh, but it is the only reality I can live with. I love these people, but I no longer have the strength to beat my head against a brick wall.
In more than one sense, I resign.
Monday, May 21, 2012
It's (Almost) Official: I Am Getting Out
Of what? you may well ask. Out of a place which has in some sense been my home for the past two decades. Out of a community which I co-birthed over 20 years ago, built up and then released (I had thought) several years ago now. Out of the greatest source of mixed joy and personal pain I've ever experienced. Out of my local church.
What has finally pushed me over the edge into a decision which has been brewing for many months now, was the unexpected discovery of my dangerously high blood pressure levels. Up until four years ago, when my life period of most stress began, I'd always had normal to rather low blood pressure levels, so it simply wasn't a factor on my health concerns list. But when A and I walked into a clinic in Stockton to get antibiotics for our bronchitis, the RN took my blood pressure. And wouldn't let me leave for the next couple of hours, until meds had sunk it enough to be allowed to walk out the door, clutching a prescription.
This morning I was back at my local doctor's office. I asked her lots of questions because I know I've eaten more healthily and exercised more regularly in the past two years than ever before. She confirmed, though, that a period of high stress and the onset of menopause combined were more than enough to send blood pressure soaring, that it had nothing to do with what I ate or how much I exercise.
What can I do?
Take meds to bring it down and stabilize it, yes. But also, remove myself from regular exposure to whatever excess stress exacerbates it.
Up until the point in 2009 my then-husband P fell madly in love with a physiotherapist young enough to be our daughter, I had found ways of coping with the usual stress levels of living with a difficult man. But as his infatuation went on and on and nobody seemed to see, want to hear, or care about my resultant pain (it was all about "healing P"), I'm now convinced that my blood pressure was steadily rising, though I knew it not. I finally left the house we shared (after P didn't keep his word promising me the space I needed) when my health deteriorated to the point where I was constantly nauseous and could not sleep. It took that to get me to act in my own interests.
In 2010 my marriage of 33 years was officially dissolved, freeing me from one source of excess stress (at least, the last couple of years of that marriage were certainly the most stressful of my life).
That leaves church.
But, you say, isn't the local church supposed to be the precise place where the people who care about you rally around you and support you in a time of such personal need?
I used to believe that. In fact, I still do. But in my case, just the opposite happened.
I am well-read; I also know these people and the values of this society. And I know of the unhealthy behaviors (for which I am partly responsible through my many years of co-dependence) which are built into the fabric of this community; ergo, I know many of the reasons why it happened that way. But understanding why or how something personally painful happened does not mean it doesn't hurt, deeply.
I recently read a quote which has encouraged me to represent my reality in this blog. I am very aware it is "only" my reality and, though it contains truth, is not the whole truth. However, it is what I experienced. And this is my story.
"You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should've behaved better." ~Anne Lamott
Therefore I feel able to make this statement:
In my time of greatest personal need, over a period of at least a year and a half, I experienced little but abandonment, betrayal and judgement by not only my local "brothers and sisters in the faith", but by some of my own spiritual children. And from those to whom I have expressed this clearly, I have received little to no understanding nor apology; only explanations why I should understand them.
Does this cause excess stress? You bet your sweet bippy it does.
And living in the current reality of this community, which appears to want to "gain new vision" and "move on" without owning or correcting from where it must move; which BY ITS ACTIONS (often, by its lack thereof) has repeatedly proven that it values the perpetrators of damage and their purported good intentions more than it values the victims of their actual physical, emotional and monetary damage; which, when I look around me, appears not to value much of anything that I do, or thought I had been teaching and living out among them all these years-- this continues to cause great inner stress.
We experience outcomes of others' behaviors, whatever their intentions may have been. If you run over my foot with your car, breaking it, your explanation of not seeing me does not change the fact that my foot is broken. Explaining your motivations or reasoning for your behavior toward me is not an apology, nor does it excuse the fact that your behavior, however unintentional, was harmful to me and that you carry some responsibility for the outcome.
The people in this church (including, but not limited to, myself) who have suffered loss are living in the daily reality of that loss, sometimes to great personal and financial detriment. Their suffering has not been recognized or honored, nor has anything (that I am aware of) been done to alleviate it. They are simply told to stop having "a victim spirit". The perpetrator is still being protected at the victim's expense, which is abusive. And this is being maintained and supported by good Christian people who honestly mean well and think they are doing the right thing.
WTF??!!
It's definitely time to leave. I would like to leave well, but I do not yet know how possible that will be. My desire would be to leave from a foundation of a mutual view of reality, but that has so far proven to be a forlorn hope, even in such an obvious matter of "how much money did we have, where did it go, and even if it was legal, was it moral?", where there is a paper trail. I can only represent my reality, and hope for it to be included in the mix--- eventually. In the meantime, though I am no quitter, I've got to get out of here. My health, perhaps my life, now depends upon it.
Apparently, it takes a lot to get me out of my rut!
What has finally pushed me over the edge into a decision which has been brewing for many months now, was the unexpected discovery of my dangerously high blood pressure levels. Up until four years ago, when my life period of most stress began, I'd always had normal to rather low blood pressure levels, so it simply wasn't a factor on my health concerns list. But when A and I walked into a clinic in Stockton to get antibiotics for our bronchitis, the RN took my blood pressure. And wouldn't let me leave for the next couple of hours, until meds had sunk it enough to be allowed to walk out the door, clutching a prescription.
This morning I was back at my local doctor's office. I asked her lots of questions because I know I've eaten more healthily and exercised more regularly in the past two years than ever before. She confirmed, though, that a period of high stress and the onset of menopause combined were more than enough to send blood pressure soaring, that it had nothing to do with what I ate or how much I exercise.
What can I do?
Take meds to bring it down and stabilize it, yes. But also, remove myself from regular exposure to whatever excess stress exacerbates it.
Up until the point in 2009 my then-husband P fell madly in love with a physiotherapist young enough to be our daughter, I had found ways of coping with the usual stress levels of living with a difficult man. But as his infatuation went on and on and nobody seemed to see, want to hear, or care about my resultant pain (it was all about "healing P"), I'm now convinced that my blood pressure was steadily rising, though I knew it not. I finally left the house we shared (after P didn't keep his word promising me the space I needed) when my health deteriorated to the point where I was constantly nauseous and could not sleep. It took that to get me to act in my own interests.
In 2010 my marriage of 33 years was officially dissolved, freeing me from one source of excess stress (at least, the last couple of years of that marriage were certainly the most stressful of my life).
That leaves church.
But, you say, isn't the local church supposed to be the precise place where the people who care about you rally around you and support you in a time of such personal need?
I used to believe that. In fact, I still do. But in my case, just the opposite happened.
I am well-read; I also know these people and the values of this society. And I know of the unhealthy behaviors (for which I am partly responsible through my many years of co-dependence) which are built into the fabric of this community; ergo, I know many of the reasons why it happened that way. But understanding why or how something personally painful happened does not mean it doesn't hurt, deeply.
I recently read a quote which has encouraged me to represent my reality in this blog. I am very aware it is "only" my reality and, though it contains truth, is not the whole truth. However, it is what I experienced. And this is my story.
"You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should've behaved better." ~Anne Lamott
Therefore I feel able to make this statement:
In my time of greatest personal need, over a period of at least a year and a half, I experienced little but abandonment, betrayal and judgement by not only my local "brothers and sisters in the faith", but by some of my own spiritual children. And from those to whom I have expressed this clearly, I have received little to no understanding nor apology; only explanations why I should understand them.
Does this cause excess stress? You bet your sweet bippy it does.
And living in the current reality of this community, which appears to want to "gain new vision" and "move on" without owning or correcting from where it must move; which BY ITS ACTIONS (often, by its lack thereof) has repeatedly proven that it values the perpetrators of damage and their purported good intentions more than it values the victims of their actual physical, emotional and monetary damage; which, when I look around me, appears not to value much of anything that I do, or thought I had been teaching and living out among them all these years-- this continues to cause great inner stress.
We experience outcomes of others' behaviors, whatever their intentions may have been. If you run over my foot with your car, breaking it, your explanation of not seeing me does not change the fact that my foot is broken. Explaining your motivations or reasoning for your behavior toward me is not an apology, nor does it excuse the fact that your behavior, however unintentional, was harmful to me and that you carry some responsibility for the outcome.
The people in this church (including, but not limited to, myself) who have suffered loss are living in the daily reality of that loss, sometimes to great personal and financial detriment. Their suffering has not been recognized or honored, nor has anything (that I am aware of) been done to alleviate it. They are simply told to stop having "a victim spirit". The perpetrator is still being protected at the victim's expense, which is abusive. And this is being maintained and supported by good Christian people who honestly mean well and think they are doing the right thing.
WTF??!!
It's definitely time to leave. I would like to leave well, but I do not yet know how possible that will be. My desire would be to leave from a foundation of a mutual view of reality, but that has so far proven to be a forlorn hope, even in such an obvious matter of "how much money did we have, where did it go, and even if it was legal, was it moral?", where there is a paper trail. I can only represent my reality, and hope for it to be included in the mix--- eventually. In the meantime, though I am no quitter, I've got to get out of here. My health, perhaps my life, now depends upon it.
Apparently, it takes a lot to get me out of my rut!
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Yesterday Was My 54th Birthday
I suppose I am now officially a "woman of a certain age" (said in a meaningful voice with one eyebrow raised). A and I planned our honeymoon to be back home in Austria by then. My two grown kids and their spouses have been secretive about some future but imminent occasion whereupon we will celebrate Mother's Day, my birthday and two of theirs all together (which I always love), but yesterday we had peace and quiet at home. In the late morning, pumped full of coffee against encroaching jetlag, A and I headed out to Hofer and Interspar, our two standard shopping destinations, for much-needed groceries.
I love food shopping with A. Food shopping used to be time for myself, the much-appreciated regular escape from the four walls of the home in which my former husband and I raised our missionary kids. P, though an avid recipient of the end results of my efforts to feed a family of four, generally showed little interest in the process of getting it onto the table. But now I really enjoy sharing this experience with a fellow foodie, and (added benefit!) A does all the heavy carrying back up to our 3rd-floor flat. A had had no time between getting home from the USA and my birthday to shop for me, and at Interspar we found a pressure cooker at half price. I'd left my old one with P when we divorced, so voila! the gift question solved!
We've just spent a month in the USA where we grew accustomed to the checkers bagging everything for us, chatting cheerily as they did so. Now it's back to a sort of All-Stars' Conflict between the checker and the customer. The object of the competition seems to be for the checker to scan everything as quickly as she possibly can (one rarely encounters a male checker). If necessary she will throw it through (A swears he has seen them levitate objects!), in order to be able to tot up the total obscenely quickly and sit there bored, tapping fake fingernails, as the poor customer scrambles to a) get everything into the shopping cart without breaking whatever survived the checker's treatment, and b) pay with either debit card or cash, acutely aware of the queue of customers impatiently flexing their fingers and awaiting their own turn to compete. (One cannot pay by check in Austria.)
The first time I went through checkout with A at Hofer, he sagged against the shelf at the back of the store afterward, passed a hand over his face and shakily enquired, "What the hell just happened there?! This is the first time I've ever been punished for shopping!" In England, a land where they seem to have heard of the words "customer service", A had developed a system for his shopping, separating toiletries from foodstuffs, heavy from bruiseable items in the trolley, and placing them carefully back into their positions at checkout. This is, of course, patently impossible at Hofer and indeed, since the advent of scanners, almost anywhere else in Austria. But will the checkers use their down time to help you get your groceries into the cart, let alone bag them for you? Heavens, no, that's not their job. Here, one brings one's own bags and moves with the hopelessly tumbled cart of partially crushed checked groceries to a shelf at the back of the store to fill them. If you forget your bags, you may purchase new ones from the store at 5 to 10 cents a shot for recycled plastic, a couple of Euro for cloth bags.
After this reminder of "yes, we are back home", we carted the bags back up to the flat and stored our goods. Following another rejuvenating cup of Joe, we put on the Dave Mathews Band and A set about preparing the kitchen whilst I carved up the whole chicken (much cheaper that way!) we'd purchased. We have a companionable work ethic in the kitchen. Sometimes we chop and chunk together, while one of us gets it cooked. Sometimes we divide the labor with "you do the salad and veg, and I'll do the main course". Sometimes one of us does it all while the other washes up. But there is never the "this is your job, not mine, and if I do your job you have somehow failed me" vibe I always got from P. A's attitude is similar to many of his generation and (former) earning level in the UK: this is part of life, we both have to live, and so we both do whatever it takes to enable that. I find this very refreshing and relaxing. Things always get done, and there is no score being kept.
A's efforts resulted in a fabulous Indian meal of coconut chicken curry over spicy Basmati rice and fried aubergine (eggplant) with lemon. A very highly flavored combination which stimulates all the senses: eyes, nose, tastebuds. I needed regular gulps of my beer (the only drink we've found which really fits Indian food. Aside from a Lassi, of course) to get relief from sensory overload, but then always happily went back for more! Glutted, we moved to the couch and digested whilst facebooking (me) and reading (A).
I read -- and "liked"-- every single one of the birthday greetings I received on facebook (at last count about 85). About a year ago, I went through and unfriended all the people I didn't actually know, who had somehow slipped through. If I read your name and didn't know who you were, you got unfriended, even if I would remember you should you stand before me and speak to me. The problem with having been relatively high-profile, a "public person" for about 10 years in several countries is that many people feel they know me-- since I always speak from my own life and experience-- without my knowing them. I'm in a new season now, and many of those relationships have no more mutual context.
But those people to whom I actually do relate through facebook --and there are many-- are precious to me. I can't call most people I "talk" to, since we live in different time zones and phone charges here are hideous. There's always skype and SkypeOut, but the time factor remains. Many of my younger friends won't answer an email to save their lives, and if required to manually write and post an actual letter on paper, would possibly spontaneously combust. There is no point in complaining about that. If I want to maintain contact with them, I must to some degree enter their world. So I facebook and skype and text. I have so far successfully avoided a smartphone, but it's only a matter of time and economy. Eventually they will be unavoidable-- though that doesn't mean I have to have it turned on 24/7! *End of digression.*
At any rate, I had a lovely birthday with my favorite person, and this year promises to be full of new things. Some will be welcome, and some will be painful, but it will not be boring. I was unexpectedly encouraged by something a friend re-posted on facebook. Doug Addison is a rather theatrical prophetic type (he is, after all, a Californian) and, though I don't follow him, several things he has written lately have been right on the money regarding my current state in life. This is the link (entry dated May 15, 2012), in case anyone is interested: http://blog.dougaddison.com/
It was mid-May when I discovered that a portion of my current circumstances is, quite literally, capable of killing me, and I finally concluded that a certain change I had been dreading must come.
More in another post...
I love food shopping with A. Food shopping used to be time for myself, the much-appreciated regular escape from the four walls of the home in which my former husband and I raised our missionary kids. P, though an avid recipient of the end results of my efforts to feed a family of four, generally showed little interest in the process of getting it onto the table. But now I really enjoy sharing this experience with a fellow foodie, and (added benefit!) A does all the heavy carrying back up to our 3rd-floor flat. A had had no time between getting home from the USA and my birthday to shop for me, and at Interspar we found a pressure cooker at half price. I'd left my old one with P when we divorced, so voila! the gift question solved!
We've just spent a month in the USA where we grew accustomed to the checkers bagging everything for us, chatting cheerily as they did so. Now it's back to a sort of All-Stars' Conflict between the checker and the customer. The object of the competition seems to be for the checker to scan everything as quickly as she possibly can (one rarely encounters a male checker). If necessary she will throw it through (A swears he has seen them levitate objects!), in order to be able to tot up the total obscenely quickly and sit there bored, tapping fake fingernails, as the poor customer scrambles to a) get everything into the shopping cart without breaking whatever survived the checker's treatment, and b) pay with either debit card or cash, acutely aware of the queue of customers impatiently flexing their fingers and awaiting their own turn to compete. (One cannot pay by check in Austria.)
The first time I went through checkout with A at Hofer, he sagged against the shelf at the back of the store afterward, passed a hand over his face and shakily enquired, "What the hell just happened there?! This is the first time I've ever been punished for shopping!" In England, a land where they seem to have heard of the words "customer service", A had developed a system for his shopping, separating toiletries from foodstuffs, heavy from bruiseable items in the trolley, and placing them carefully back into their positions at checkout. This is, of course, patently impossible at Hofer and indeed, since the advent of scanners, almost anywhere else in Austria. But will the checkers use their down time to help you get your groceries into the cart, let alone bag them for you? Heavens, no, that's not their job. Here, one brings one's own bags and moves with the hopelessly tumbled cart of partially crushed checked groceries to a shelf at the back of the store to fill them. If you forget your bags, you may purchase new ones from the store at 5 to 10 cents a shot for recycled plastic, a couple of Euro for cloth bags.
After this reminder of "yes, we are back home", we carted the bags back up to the flat and stored our goods. Following another rejuvenating cup of Joe, we put on the Dave Mathews Band and A set about preparing the kitchen whilst I carved up the whole chicken (much cheaper that way!) we'd purchased. We have a companionable work ethic in the kitchen. Sometimes we chop and chunk together, while one of us gets it cooked. Sometimes we divide the labor with "you do the salad and veg, and I'll do the main course". Sometimes one of us does it all while the other washes up. But there is never the "this is your job, not mine, and if I do your job you have somehow failed me" vibe I always got from P. A's attitude is similar to many of his generation and (former) earning level in the UK: this is part of life, we both have to live, and so we both do whatever it takes to enable that. I find this very refreshing and relaxing. Things always get done, and there is no score being kept.
A's efforts resulted in a fabulous Indian meal of coconut chicken curry over spicy Basmati rice and fried aubergine (eggplant) with lemon. A very highly flavored combination which stimulates all the senses: eyes, nose, tastebuds. I needed regular gulps of my beer (the only drink we've found which really fits Indian food. Aside from a Lassi, of course) to get relief from sensory overload, but then always happily went back for more! Glutted, we moved to the couch and digested whilst facebooking (me) and reading (A).
I read -- and "liked"-- every single one of the birthday greetings I received on facebook (at last count about 85). About a year ago, I went through and unfriended all the people I didn't actually know, who had somehow slipped through. If I read your name and didn't know who you were, you got unfriended, even if I would remember you should you stand before me and speak to me. The problem with having been relatively high-profile, a "public person" for about 10 years in several countries is that many people feel they know me-- since I always speak from my own life and experience-- without my knowing them. I'm in a new season now, and many of those relationships have no more mutual context.
But those people to whom I actually do relate through facebook --and there are many-- are precious to me. I can't call most people I "talk" to, since we live in different time zones and phone charges here are hideous. There's always skype and SkypeOut, but the time factor remains. Many of my younger friends won't answer an email to save their lives, and if required to manually write and post an actual letter on paper, would possibly spontaneously combust. There is no point in complaining about that. If I want to maintain contact with them, I must to some degree enter their world. So I facebook and skype and text. I have so far successfully avoided a smartphone, but it's only a matter of time and economy. Eventually they will be unavoidable-- though that doesn't mean I have to have it turned on 24/7! *End of digression.*
At any rate, I had a lovely birthday with my favorite person, and this year promises to be full of new things. Some will be welcome, and some will be painful, but it will not be boring. I was unexpectedly encouraged by something a friend re-posted on facebook. Doug Addison is a rather theatrical prophetic type (he is, after all, a Californian) and, though I don't follow him, several things he has written lately have been right on the money regarding my current state in life. This is the link (entry dated May 15, 2012), in case anyone is interested: http://blog.dougaddison.com/
It was mid-May when I discovered that a portion of my current circumstances is, quite literally, capable of killing me, and I finally concluded that a certain change I had been dreading must come.
More in another post...
Thursday, May 17, 2012
I Must Be Home
Last night I slept deeply and well on a bed which did not allow me to feel every little movement my husband made next to me. I drank an excellent morning latté made with proper espresso, and afterward I had a most satisfactory bowel movement. Most noticeably, the toilet tissue did not come apart uselessly upon contact with moisture. This all must mean that I am back home in Austria after a month in Supersize Land (otherwise known as the USA).
Everything here seems comfortably small and homey after America. One cannot get lost in our local airport unless one is drunk or has dementia. The streets are narrower, the drivers sensible, and today is yet another holiday on which Mary probably did something or other (she was a very busy woman in May, and I can never keep all the Roman Catholic holidays straight), so it's very quiet for a Thursday. A and I unpacked our luggage and I did three loads of laundry, which are now drying in the rather cool breeze and intermittent May sunshine on the balcony of our flat. Like most of the people we know here, we don't own a clothes dryer.
It was, though not A's first trip to the USA, his first time on the West Coast, which is a world unto itself. I grew up there, so for me it's a matter of "watering my roots": visiting relatives and friends, enjoying the sunshine, and making disparaging remarks about how American society has gone to hell in a handbasket since I left it in 1983, especially grammatically (really? You went to the store multiple times??). However, whilst disparaging fast-food chains I still gorge myself shamelessly on quintessentially American goodies like REAL charbroiled cheeseburgers, vanilla malts, Mexican food (well, yes, in California!) and almost anything from my favorite food store Trader Joe's. My husband sports 7 kilos more around his middle than he left home with. I have not dared the scales yet; though my jeans are noticeably tighter, they do at least still fit me.
We took advantage of the current dollar-to-Euro ratio to buy A a MacBook Air, which he has been coveting anyway and which he actually needs for his studies. A is a middle-aged back-to-schooler, working on a theology degree from home. But this isn't one of your cheat-sheet, get-a-degree-quick operations; no, this is a serious course of study involving genuine application and many books of bigness. And A's old Mac (I mean really old; it still has the non-magnetic lead) had been showing even more signs of its age than usual lately, aside from not being able to handle most software updates. So A ordered the MacBook, necessary software, a case and all the trimmings from Amazon and paid less for all of that than he'd have paid getting just the MacBook here. Which he couldn't have done anyway, since any MacBook sold in Austria would have a German keyboard (like mine does). Ordering it from the UK, his home country, would have cost even more.
Yes... there are some advantages to the USA. There are actually, in one sense, many advantages; since life seems to be built upon the precept of "everything must be convenient", it mostly is. The cost of living is generally much lower than I am accustomed to. Food in particular (bearing in mind the current $1 - €.075 ratio) seemed ridiculously cheap, as did gasoline. And the American customer service industry has made that crucial connection between good service and their own salaries which has, so far, seemed to escape the notice of most employees here in Austria. As a result, one generally gets good, friendly service in retail sales, eating establishments and even in a public service context.
Although I admit I'm still a little taken aback when a complete and utter (and often, in our recent experience, clearly gay) stranger plonks his hip on my table, leans into my personal space and smilingly declares, "Hi, my name is Timothy and I'll be your server today. If there's any little thing you want, you just be sure and give me a holler!" The first couple of times this happens when back in America, I tend to withdraw: I don't want to know your first name or date your brother, I just want to order a meal! But I get used to it and even appreciate it when I compare it to the surliness often experienced here. And I admit that even when the service isn't great, it's more pleasant to have cheerful poor service than snarling poor service.
But, having spent a month in The-Land-Where-The-Fun-Never-Ends, it is nice to be back where life simply moves at a slower pace. A holiday means just that: school is out, there are no public services besides trams and buses on a reduced schedule, and all retail establishments are closed, as are many restaurants. This happens every Sunday anyway, so at least once a week we must stop the hectic 24/7 lifestyle that America (and, increasingly, the UK) demands incessantly by its very nature. I've grown to appreciate that, and I think I would find it difficult to live differently now. Which raises the question: Can one live differently in the midst of a society which, by its very nature, dictates that I must be available and online at all times? It must be possible; possible, that is, without retreating into the hills, hippie-style. We ran into enough aging hippies in Northern California who in the 1970's had settled into small communities and now run pottery stores, tie-dyed T-shirt shops or make goat cheeses by hand. There seem to be enough of them already. And I've lived in the 'burbs or in a city all my life.
However, 30 years of one lifestyle are soon coming to an end, so I will have to adjust anyway. It may be a more minor adjustment: from one German-speaking city/country to another, still in central Europe. I am fluent in German, though A is not; we could get by, as we have done here. Or a bit more adventurous: to the UK, where they speak "my language" (though they would not all grant that I speak theirs), but the society is quite different to either country where I've lived. Or more adventurous still: to the USA, where Heaven knows what we'd do with no job, no health benefits and very rusty social skills.
What is a middle-aged, bi-cultural, divorced and remarried ex-missionary to do?
Everything here seems comfortably small and homey after America. One cannot get lost in our local airport unless one is drunk or has dementia. The streets are narrower, the drivers sensible, and today is yet another holiday on which Mary probably did something or other (she was a very busy woman in May, and I can never keep all the Roman Catholic holidays straight), so it's very quiet for a Thursday. A and I unpacked our luggage and I did three loads of laundry, which are now drying in the rather cool breeze and intermittent May sunshine on the balcony of our flat. Like most of the people we know here, we don't own a clothes dryer.
It was, though not A's first trip to the USA, his first time on the West Coast, which is a world unto itself. I grew up there, so for me it's a matter of "watering my roots": visiting relatives and friends, enjoying the sunshine, and making disparaging remarks about how American society has gone to hell in a handbasket since I left it in 1983, especially grammatically (really? You went to the store multiple times??). However, whilst disparaging fast-food chains I still gorge myself shamelessly on quintessentially American goodies like REAL charbroiled cheeseburgers, vanilla malts, Mexican food (well, yes, in California!) and almost anything from my favorite food store Trader Joe's. My husband sports 7 kilos more around his middle than he left home with. I have not dared the scales yet; though my jeans are noticeably tighter, they do at least still fit me.
We took advantage of the current dollar-to-Euro ratio to buy A a MacBook Air, which he has been coveting anyway and which he actually needs for his studies. A is a middle-aged back-to-schooler, working on a theology degree from home. But this isn't one of your cheat-sheet, get-a-degree-quick operations; no, this is a serious course of study involving genuine application and many books of bigness. And A's old Mac (I mean really old; it still has the non-magnetic lead) had been showing even more signs of its age than usual lately, aside from not being able to handle most software updates. So A ordered the MacBook, necessary software, a case and all the trimmings from Amazon and paid less for all of that than he'd have paid getting just the MacBook here. Which he couldn't have done anyway, since any MacBook sold in Austria would have a German keyboard (like mine does). Ordering it from the UK, his home country, would have cost even more.
Yes... there are some advantages to the USA. There are actually, in one sense, many advantages; since life seems to be built upon the precept of "everything must be convenient", it mostly is. The cost of living is generally much lower than I am accustomed to. Food in particular (bearing in mind the current $1 - €.075 ratio) seemed ridiculously cheap, as did gasoline. And the American customer service industry has made that crucial connection between good service and their own salaries which has, so far, seemed to escape the notice of most employees here in Austria. As a result, one generally gets good, friendly service in retail sales, eating establishments and even in a public service context.
Although I admit I'm still a little taken aback when a complete and utter (and often, in our recent experience, clearly gay) stranger plonks his hip on my table, leans into my personal space and smilingly declares, "Hi, my name is Timothy and I'll be your server today. If there's any little thing you want, you just be sure and give me a holler!" The first couple of times this happens when back in America, I tend to withdraw: I don't want to know your first name or date your brother, I just want to order a meal! But I get used to it and even appreciate it when I compare it to the surliness often experienced here. And I admit that even when the service isn't great, it's more pleasant to have cheerful poor service than snarling poor service.
But, having spent a month in The-Land-Where-The-Fun-Never-Ends, it is nice to be back where life simply moves at a slower pace. A holiday means just that: school is out, there are no public services besides trams and buses on a reduced schedule, and all retail establishments are closed, as are many restaurants. This happens every Sunday anyway, so at least once a week we must stop the hectic 24/7 lifestyle that America (and, increasingly, the UK) demands incessantly by its very nature. I've grown to appreciate that, and I think I would find it difficult to live differently now. Which raises the question: Can one live differently in the midst of a society which, by its very nature, dictates that I must be available and online at all times? It must be possible; possible, that is, without retreating into the hills, hippie-style. We ran into enough aging hippies in Northern California who in the 1970's had settled into small communities and now run pottery stores, tie-dyed T-shirt shops or make goat cheeses by hand. There seem to be enough of them already. And I've lived in the 'burbs or in a city all my life.
However, 30 years of one lifestyle are soon coming to an end, so I will have to adjust anyway. It may be a more minor adjustment: from one German-speaking city/country to another, still in central Europe. I am fluent in German, though A is not; we could get by, as we have done here. Or a bit more adventurous: to the UK, where they speak "my language" (though they would not all grant that I speak theirs), but the society is quite different to either country where I've lived. Or more adventurous still: to the USA, where Heaven knows what we'd do with no job, no health benefits and very rusty social skills.
What is a middle-aged, bi-cultural, divorced and remarried ex-missionary to do?
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