Five Minute Friday: Red

I don’t get a great deal of alone time at home.  Usually when the kids are at school, I am at school, so last week when I found myself working at home for a couple hours in the afternoon, it seemed strange.  After mixing and kneading and shaping my hamburger buns, I stood at the kitchen sink washing dishes.  The largish plate glass window above the sink overlooks the backyard garden, and even though winter will soon be winding up here, the flowers are in full bloom.

I moved to grab a dish towel and when I glanced back up, I saw a flash of red – my daughter was coming up the hill toward the back door.

I smiled and my insides got all happy.

My sweet oldest has a bright, solid red hoodie, purchased in California when we were on furlough last year.  Somehow it was colder than we’d expected when we arrived in LA in March.  She chose red, and as she wears it nearly every day, I usually have little trouble spotting her in a crowd.  

She has endured numerous references to a certain basket-wielding, grandmother-seeking fairy tale character, generally either sporting a snarky adolescent grin or staring blankly, lips pursed in a straight line in a look that says, “Seriously?  Can’t you do better than that?”

I had relished the time alone, but somehow knowing she was coming made my heart leap.  It would be just me and her here … a phenomenon perhaps more rare than my being here alone.

I continued to wipe and put away the dishes, expecting the back door to open at any moment.

But, the moment never came.

I leaned slightly over the sink again and saw the flash of colour again – in the same spot - this time recognizing its shape as that of this bunch of amaryllis.

The corners of my mouth, and my heart, fell.

Maybe next time.

Written in conjunction with a community of bloggers who meet virtually over Lisa Jo Baker’s weekly Five Minute Friday prompt.  Click the button above to find out more or join in.

Five Minute Friday: Worship

A few weeks ago, during the Tok Pisin Sunday School retreat weekend, I was charged with conducting a short course on drama with a group of local children.  I did not know how many kids would choose the class and was a bit concerned about what particular drama I was even going to teach them.

They would be performing it in the Tok Pisin worship service the next morning.  But no pressure.

During the week prior, God began to formulate an idea in my mind.  It seemed like a good idea, but as it was just bare bones, it was still kind of hard to tell.  All I could do was pray and wait for the idea to flesh out.

And try not to panic.

Finally, the night before, the idea felt complete. I found a song that worked with the mime God had given, and – ever the planner – I timed each action out down to the second.

The next afternoon, I walked down the hill to see what awaited me.

I had four boys, all under the age of 12. 

I took a deep breath and launched into “what is drama” and “why drama” and “how drama,” stumbling over the language barrier many times in the process.  They looked at me as if I actually knew what in the world I was doing, and I plowed on.

Eventually we blocked the skit, discussing the meanings of the various ideas represented.  I still wasn’t sure if it was all computing.

When it came time to do a first run-through, my mind remained fixed on technicalities such as “be sure your body is angled toward the audience,” “exaggerate your movements a bit more,” “make sure you pick up all the broken pieces of the paper heart,” and “slow down that scene right there so we stay with the music.”

But by the second or third run-through, though their backs were still often to the audience and they did not always finish with the song, I began to see with different eyes.

These kids brought me to tears, and, as they told a story, I found myself worshipping.

I was amazed.

Not only amazed at the skill wrapped up in these four small individuals, but at the hearts within that I could see beating with innocence, fresh perspective, and a desire to honour the Lord.  Amazed at their ability to take something God had completed just hours before in the recesses of my mind and make it come to fullness of moving, convicting life.

I worshipped during the fourth run-through, and the fifth, and the sixth …

The next morning, I felt (personally) totally discombobulated.  Running up behind stage as the service started to make sure all the needed props were in place.  Emerging, walking through the now-playing worship band, and sitting down again.  Remembering during the third song that I had forgotten to give the flash drive with the mp3 to the sound guys, and then realising that said flash drive was now back stage.  Making a scene, again, as I did what I had to do to get the song from behind the curtain to the sound crew stationed at the rear of the room.  Making my way backstage for the actual event (we were now third in line behind tambourines and dance), only to realise that the two red paper hearts that I had cut just that morning, and that “Jisas” needed to have in his pockets, had been left at home.  Emerging from backstage again, slinking my way through the tambourine players and back to my seat to get my keys, running across the street to get some red paper, quickly cutting two red hearts, and rushing back to the meeting house as the tambourine players were finishing.   Disappearing behind the curtain and praying desperately the only scenes that anyone would pay attention to would be the ones at centre stage instead of those involving me and my forgetfulness.

Mortified and fearful that I had totally distracted a meeting house full of church-goers beyond the ability to truly experience any of this, I drew open the curtain.

As my boys shared their drama with the crowd, I was again mesmerised. 

Later in the service, I found out that others had been brought face-to-face with God as well.

“I’m so glad I got to see the children’s drama,” one national woman expressed during the sharing time at the end of the service, the end of the weekend retreat. “It was very challenging for me.”

Another national gentleman elaborated even further.

“The boys in this drama really blessed me,” he said, his thoughtful eyes sweeping the crowd.  “It made me cry.  And it reminded me that God must have his rightful place in my heart.”

I claim no right to or genius behind this drama, and certainly not behind the children who shared it.  But I am grateful that God used me and four small boys to deliver its message.

That once again, God chose to use weak and broken vessels to draw people to worship.

"Your worship must engage your spirit in the pursuit of truth. That’s the kind of people the Father is out looking for: those who are simply and honestly themselves before him in their worship. God is sheer being itself—Spirit. Those who worship him must do it out of their very being, their spirits, their true selves ...."  John 4:23b-24, The Message

Written on Monday in conjunction with a group of bloggers who meet virtually to respond to a given prompt each Friday … or thereabouts.  To learn more or join in, click the button above.

Five Minute Friday: Last

On Friday we hosted the annual Primary Campus Sports Day.  As the race starter for the longer sprints and distance runs on the soccer oval, I was part of the team that coordinated the several heats for each age group and gender.  We would pull the fastest runners aside to run the ribbon race – the race that counted for all the beans - after all the heats were finished. 

I was impressed time and again.

We have a lot of fast children in our school - that is for sure.  I am convinced there is some sort of genetic relationship between melanin and swiftness of foot that transcends cultures and continents.  And as always it was fascinating to watch the children fly.

But it was the ones who soared who impressed me the most.

The ones who watched the backs of their friends getting smaller in the distance.  The ones who persevered despite the fact that short of a drastic injury 100 metres ahead of them, they would most certainly be crossing the finish line well after all the others. The ones who would never even get to participate in the ribbon races.

The ones in the place called “last.”

A couple weeks ago my son was dissing the “team” events, saying, “If you don’t win, you get a second place ribbon, but it’s not really second place.  It’s last.  Your team lost the event.”

We had a heart-to-heart about sportsmanship, participating for the fun of it, and for the love of competition, and phrases ending in “it’s how you play the game that counts.”

He got it.  In his age group of boys, the teams split the events evenly … two blue ribbons to the red team, two blue ribbons to the yellow team.  That meant two red ribbons to each team as well.  But, you know what?  I truly believe that my son was not irritated about the red ribbons.  He did not come in “last” in his mind.

He had fun.  He played hard, he played for the fun of it and for the love of competition.

He got it, and I was impressed and grateful.

 

And those kids who came across the finish line “last?”

It was obvious that they got it too.

They persevered.

They ran it out.

They ran it hard.

They ran the last 50, 80, 120 metres as the only participants still on the track, and yet they finished with smiles on their faces.

They got it.

And so should we.

Written in conjunction with Lisa Jo Baker's Five Minute Friday community.  Click the Five Minute Friday button for more information or to join the fun.

 

SOS! A BLT needed in the EHP of PNG ASAP

“Life expectancy would grow by leaps and bounds if green vegetables smelled as good as bacon.” ~Doug Larson

“I think we love bacon because it has all the qualities of an amazing sensory experience. When we cook it, the sizzling sound is so appetizing, the aroma is maddening, the crunch of the texture is so gratifying and the taste delivers every time.” ~Alexandra Guarnaschelli

I fell in love at the bowling alley.

I was attracted immediately to the scent.  The object of my affections was firm, toned, yet soft.  Perfectly tanned on the outside, and oh so hot … sizzling even.

It was the best BLT of my life.

My friend Lynette and I went back to the bowling alley in Friedberg, Germany numerous times over the next year or so, normally before heading to the racquetball court, and always ordering bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches.  She remembers, too.  I asked her a few months ago when we were home on furlough and bacon had come back into my life.  In the last four months of 2012, around the same time I was brainwashing … I mean, sharing the joy of BLTs with my son, I posted three different pictures of bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches on Facebook.

My family thought I was crazy.  But I’m pretty sure BLTs are going to be on the heavenly buffet menu.   Or maybe we’ll have a Jetsons-esque celestial Food-a-Rac-a-Cycle.  Or maybe I’ll actually enjoy cooking.   

Any of those would be fine with me.

Disturbing.

I know there are people out there who have proudly put themselves out there in the world of social media as a “Fan of Bacon” (you know who you are), and last year when we were in the US, we saw that bacon seemed to be taking over the world in some rather disturbing ways.

I’ve always considered sausage the quintessential breakfast meat (excuse me while I duck projectiles from the bacon-lovers), but I have come to realise that bacon has its place.

Unfortunately that place is not here in PNG.

To be honest, we can’t get “ground breakfast sausage” here either (think chub packs of Jimmy Dean) but it is easier to make than bacon.  Add an egg and a few spices to ground beef (here called “mince”) or ground pork (harder but not impossible to come by) and voila! 

But, bacon?

No.  There is just no way that I have found to make homemade bacon.  Maybe if I could start with a pig and a lot of salt …

I tried a few different things during our first term to simulate the cured pork product, but nothing thrilled us.  When we returned from furlough we found that the mission store was now carrying imitation bacon bits. They are not expensive, surprisingly, and decent for the occasional salad or baked potato, but made with textured vegetable protein (i.e., soy), there are definite drawbacks.   

Pretty soon, however, a friend introduced us to “Tasty Pork,” (a product of Denmark, and even has its own facebook page!)

Now, having given this spamish product a fair chance, I have to agree with our friend that Tasty Pork is a pretty good substitution! And thus the idea was born that while we couldn’t have a true BLT here (I did manage to find one in Australia last month - don't tell my son) we could try a TPLT instead.

No keyless entry for this bad boy.

Remember Spam?  Yeah.

The thinner the slices, the crispier it fries up.

It even sizzles and pops, just like bacon!

The finished product.

Evan gives it a thumbs-up!

So, there you have it.  If you're one of the two people who felt sorry for me when I whined about not having bacon, your days of obligatory compassion are over!

We Americans can make a satisfying BLT using Danish Spam in the highlands of New Guinea.

At least until the store runs out of Tasty Pork.  :)