There are so many things I don't understand. Why do I never know what to say to the people I most want to talk to? Why are my greatest triumphs inevitably followed by depression and defeat? How is it that I can clearly understand what needs to be done and yet not be bothered to actually do it? How can I feel alone when I have friends within reach, ready to listen, and a God ever present who ever loves? Why do I study theology when I love music, want to write non-theological books and have no greater ambition than to be a wife and mother? What is it about Wales that lures me to love and grieve for a country not my own and a people whose culture is alien to me?
When I first came to Britain in '99 I made very little distinction between England, Wales and Scotland. We visited each. Each, in its way, was beautiful. The whole experience was an adventure.
In 2003 I encountered a Welshwoman on American soil. I discovered I had once visited a place known to her, near her home. I grew used to her accent.
Two years later I went to Britain again, in search of solace, space, spiritual renewal. I wandered about in England for several days, but when I boarded the train into Wales, I had the oddest sense of comfort, almost of being at home. It was on the Welsh coast that I encountered God in a powerful way and learned an important lesson, and it was Wales of which I thought a year later, standing on the shores of the Atlantic, gazing east.
On September 17, 2007, I stepped out of a cab and dragged my wheeled suitcases to the Baptist College here in Cardiff. When I finally found myself alone in my white-walled room with my bed already made and my pictures up on the board. I had the oddest feeling of having arrived, of being home and through all the odd sensations of culture shock and homesickness there has persisted this on-going awareness of the Welsh - their history, their spirit, their patriotism, their fierce pride. I dread to think of leaving, going 'home' back to what I've always known when something deep inside me wants only to disappear into the Welsh mountains, learn the language, embrace the customs and love these passionate people and their beautiful country.
What does that have to do with the study of theology? Very little, but I suspect it has everything to do with why I am here. Why should I love this country and its people? I know of no reason why I should. But I do.
27 November, 2007
22 November, 2007
Giving Thanks
Today is Thanksgiving Day. All across United States of America people are waking up early to put the turkey in to roast and plan the schedule for the baking of potatoes, rolls and green bean casserole. As I write this, I can picture my sister rising early at the home of my grandparents, going out in the cold morn to breathe the fresh air of Southern Illinois. I think of my brother, carefully seasoning his turkey in preparation for yet another T-day triumph. I picture my father in the kitchen with pastry and pumpkin and my mother making a list and checking it several times to be sure she has forgotten nothing. I see my sister-in-law preparing her home for guests - the right flowers, the right cutlery, the right table cloth, the right dishes and her own special cranberry relish. Everything is perfect.
I look out my window. The sun is not yet high in the sky, though it is 10 o'clock, but the grey clouds do not cover the heavens. Sunlight and strips of blue highlight the grey with white. The sky is beautiful even if the concrete, asphalt and brick city is a bit bleak. The traffic outside my window, vehicular and pedestrian, goes about its normal pattern. Today is just another weekday. One more step on the road of life. No one is staying home today to cook a turkey dinner. Few will even realize that this is a holiday in some other country.
What a sad contrast: visions of home - warm, fragrant, loving; visions of where I am - bleak, grey, lonely.
Or so it seems at first.
In actual fact this day is most appropriatly named, for I am indeed thankful and I have something to be thankful for. Last night I experienced an answer to prayer. The entire evening was a series of connections, building of relationships, outpouring of love, security, safety, uncomfortable transparency, unconditional acceptance and honesty. From pastoral group to chapel to chatting with Dr. Smith to a five-hour, three-way conversation culminating in a 2am bed time and a changed world.
The intensity of it means that I am still raw in the light of a new day, but I can give thanks today without the turkey because the spirit of the holiday still holds. While my brother bastes his turkey and my father bakes his pies, I will be thanking God for the miracle of my life here and now.
I don't much like turkey anyway.
I look out my window. The sun is not yet high in the sky, though it is 10 o'clock, but the grey clouds do not cover the heavens. Sunlight and strips of blue highlight the grey with white. The sky is beautiful even if the concrete, asphalt and brick city is a bit bleak. The traffic outside my window, vehicular and pedestrian, goes about its normal pattern. Today is just another weekday. One more step on the road of life. No one is staying home today to cook a turkey dinner. Few will even realize that this is a holiday in some other country.
What a sad contrast: visions of home - warm, fragrant, loving; visions of where I am - bleak, grey, lonely.
Or so it seems at first.
In actual fact this day is most appropriatly named, for I am indeed thankful and I have something to be thankful for. Last night I experienced an answer to prayer. The entire evening was a series of connections, building of relationships, outpouring of love, security, safety, uncomfortable transparency, unconditional acceptance and honesty. From pastoral group to chapel to chatting with Dr. Smith to a five-hour, three-way conversation culminating in a 2am bed time and a changed world.
The intensity of it means that I am still raw in the light of a new day, but I can give thanks today without the turkey because the spirit of the holiday still holds. While my brother bastes his turkey and my father bakes his pies, I will be thanking God for the miracle of my life here and now.
I don't much like turkey anyway.
13 November, 2007
Inadequate, Afraid
Can I do this?
I know it's a little late to be asking. After all, I'm already here, presumably doing it. Right?
Can I do this? Can I be an "academic"? Can I defend my assertions with reasoned arguments? Can I explain myself? Can I hold my own in academic conversation?
I wonder if I ever felt confident about the answers to these questions. All along I have functioned on the faith that this is the path God wished me to travel. I have clung to the opinions of others that I trust who tell me I am capable, even fitted to this life. Not a week ago, I received further confirmation from a new acquaintance who referred to me as an academic and even went so far as to say that I think "like a philosopher." To these people my ability is obvious. When I worried about the quality work I turned in two my tutor ten days ago, Clare stated that it was not rubbish. "How do you know that? You've never seen my work?" She acknowledged the fact, but went on to point out to me that I already had two degrees and had spent all summer working on a thesis, therefore I must be able to write.
Ahh, face to face with logic. Nor can I deny the truth of her words, but things are different here. Or are they? Am I simply out of my element - uncomfortable without the familiar structures of American Christianity? I know that the assumptions from which I reason are necessarily foreign to those with whom I interact each day. As a result I am both fearful and self-conscious. I feel that, by default, I represent my church tradition and my country because I am the only representative of each in view. My goal has always been not to be personally offended or defensive against comments directed against the US president, the Southern Baptist Convention or similarly American institutions. Much like a domineering older brother, I don't mind complaining about them myself, but I dislike it when others criticize my home.
So I do not open my mouth. I don't offer my opinion. I sit outside the spotlight and take no part in the discussion, seeking to learn all I can from listening. When, as today, I am specifically appealed to, I flush and stammer and feel utterly inadequate, fearing that every word I speak is liable to misunderstanding and resisting the temptation to preface everything I say with a disclaimer.
Today, as I once again found myself avoiding a formal discussion, I began to search for the reason of my reticence... I found the fear. Fear of what? Inadequacy? Fear of failure? Or is it something less innocent? The fear of looking foolish? That fear that is born of pride.
Food for thought. Food for prayer. I need to sit down and do, not to think about and fear. Now that I have named the enemy, will it be easier to fight?
I know it's a little late to be asking. After all, I'm already here, presumably doing it. Right?
Can I do this? Can I be an "academic"? Can I defend my assertions with reasoned arguments? Can I explain myself? Can I hold my own in academic conversation?
I wonder if I ever felt confident about the answers to these questions. All along I have functioned on the faith that this is the path God wished me to travel. I have clung to the opinions of others that I trust who tell me I am capable, even fitted to this life. Not a week ago, I received further confirmation from a new acquaintance who referred to me as an academic and even went so far as to say that I think "like a philosopher." To these people my ability is obvious. When I worried about the quality work I turned in two my tutor ten days ago, Clare stated that it was not rubbish. "How do you know that? You've never seen my work?" She acknowledged the fact, but went on to point out to me that I already had two degrees and had spent all summer working on a thesis, therefore I must be able to write.
Ahh, face to face with logic. Nor can I deny the truth of her words, but things are different here. Or are they? Am I simply out of my element - uncomfortable without the familiar structures of American Christianity? I know that the assumptions from which I reason are necessarily foreign to those with whom I interact each day. As a result I am both fearful and self-conscious. I feel that, by default, I represent my church tradition and my country because I am the only representative of each in view. My goal has always been not to be personally offended or defensive against comments directed against the US president, the Southern Baptist Convention or similarly American institutions. Much like a domineering older brother, I don't mind complaining about them myself, but I dislike it when others criticize my home.
So I do not open my mouth. I don't offer my opinion. I sit outside the spotlight and take no part in the discussion, seeking to learn all I can from listening. When, as today, I am specifically appealed to, I flush and stammer and feel utterly inadequate, fearing that every word I speak is liable to misunderstanding and resisting the temptation to preface everything I say with a disclaimer.
Today, as I once again found myself avoiding a formal discussion, I began to search for the reason of my reticence... I found the fear. Fear of what? Inadequacy? Fear of failure? Or is it something less innocent? The fear of looking foolish? That fear that is born of pride.
Food for thought. Food for prayer. I need to sit down and do, not to think about and fear. Now that I have named the enemy, will it be easier to fight?
11 November, 2007
The Move
I had an interesting experience this weekend, helping a friend move. How is loading and unloading furniture interesting? Well, I suppose some background information may be in order.
This last Tuesday - 6 November - I packed a bag or two and left on a trip to mid-Wales. Anne, a fellow College student, had invited me some weeks previously to spend reading week with her at the home of her friends, Sue and David. It was after I had accepted the invitation that things fell in place for her to move this week. She gave me the opportunity to cry off, but I was pleased to have the prospect of doing something in return for her friendly offer of a week away from Cardiff and offered to help with the move.
Sue and David were married in 1994, his second marriage, her first. In spite of a large age difference, they go along quite well together. Sue's mother, twice widowed, is married to her third husband, some years her junior. Thus Sue's step-dad (Walter) is about seven years younger than her husband. Are you confused yet?
On Friday night, Walter came to the house to meet Sue, Anne and myself. He sat himself in the corner while we finished breakfast and went along with Sue to pick up the hired van in Llandrindod Wells. We met at Anne's old house there, rented for the last eleven years while she was out of the country with BMS (Baptist Missionary Society), to pick up some furniture. We returned to Sue and David's home and proceeded to load various items into the van from their garage (pronounced GAR-age). In an unexpected (at least for me) turn of events, I ended up in charge of the loading of the back of the van. While I asked for things of various sizes, shapes or densities, Anne picked what she wanted to take, Walter and David brought them to me, and Sue was everywhere at once, helping, organizing and advising.
When the loading was done, Walter went home and I went up to bed, aware that I must rise early to help in the pick up and loading onto the van of the new three-piece suite (purchased Friday afternoon in Knighton) and the donated wardrobe. Happily this last item was still in unopened factory sealed pieces, making it much easier to pack. Sue and I left early, retrieving Walter from the street near his home (the van was too large to make it to his door) and meeting Anne at the furniture warehouse. The three piece suite and wardrobe pieces fitted nicely in the space I had left for them in the van, and it wasn't without a certain sense of satisfaction that I rode back to the house between Sue and Walter, with whom I enjoyed joking on the drive.
A few hours later, Anne and I arrived in Merthyr Vale, to find the van parked in front of her new home with Sue, David and Walter preparing to unload. There followed the surprisingly short process of unloading and carrying in the house, often up the stairs. By half past noon we were unloaded and eager for lunch. The afternoon was taken up with shifting items and putting furniture together, but the crowning achievement was the construction of the donated wardrobe. To everyone's surprise this item turned out to be large enough for me to stand up inside and wide enough for three doors!
It was much more surprising to me, however, to find myself in charge of the assembling of said wardrobe. It wasn't until later that I was struck by the incongruity of it. Here was I, 26-year-old student, instructing individuals much older than myself on the assemblage of an item of furniture. Even more amazing, to me at least, was the way they responded to my leadership, following my instructions, contributing suggestions, willingly holding, moving, screwing or fetching as I asked. The construction of that wardrobe took an amount of time at least equal to the unloading of the van, but the sense of satisfaction involved, for me at least, was far greater. I felt I had achieved something, and my companions liberally gave me the credit, even going so far as to say they would not have been able to complete it if I had not been with them.
Sitting downstairs, resting on the new chairs, Walter asked me if I had siblings. When I had told the ages and occupations of my older brother and sister, David put down his newspaper and said, "Then you must be in your twenties." I was surprised by the comment...."Yes," I said, "how old did you think I was?" "I thought you must be at least thirty - you have so much confidence." The slight feeling of affront at being taken for several years older than my actual age (he seemed even more surprised when I said 26, guess he was calculating on 28 or 29 when I said my sister was 30) was swallowed up in a sense of gratification and that pleasant feeling grew as the day closed.
When we all took leave of each other around 7pm, I felt in the embraces and kind words of my new friends not only acceptance and affection, but genuine and strong respect. In the invitations to visit again I heard more than polite hospitality, and when I said I would be sure to come, I saw genuine pleasure at the prospect of my next visit. I was stunned, delighted, confused as to what I had done to earn their good opinion. I remarked on this to Anne as she drove me down to Cardiff. "Yes," she said, "you are very intelligent." "And that is unusual?" "Perhaps not, but you are also very practical, and the two don't often go together."
Strange words of commendation, but not as compelling as Sue's embrace, David's benediction or Walter's smile. It seems a long time since I received such genuine affection and approval from my fellow humans. I felt not that they were accepting me or showing kindness to me because I was a stranger and in need, but because I was a friend, useful, helpful and accepted.
This last Tuesday - 6 November - I packed a bag or two and left on a trip to mid-Wales. Anne, a fellow College student, had invited me some weeks previously to spend reading week with her at the home of her friends, Sue and David. It was after I had accepted the invitation that things fell in place for her to move this week. She gave me the opportunity to cry off, but I was pleased to have the prospect of doing something in return for her friendly offer of a week away from Cardiff and offered to help with the move.
Sue and David were married in 1994, his second marriage, her first. In spite of a large age difference, they go along quite well together. Sue's mother, twice widowed, is married to her third husband, some years her junior. Thus Sue's step-dad (Walter) is about seven years younger than her husband. Are you confused yet?
On Friday night, Walter came to the house to meet Sue, Anne and myself. He sat himself in the corner while we finished breakfast and went along with Sue to pick up the hired van in Llandrindod Wells. We met at Anne's old house there, rented for the last eleven years while she was out of the country with BMS (Baptist Missionary Society), to pick up some furniture. We returned to Sue and David's home and proceeded to load various items into the van from their garage (pronounced GAR-age). In an unexpected (at least for me) turn of events, I ended up in charge of the loading of the back of the van. While I asked for things of various sizes, shapes or densities, Anne picked what she wanted to take, Walter and David brought them to me, and Sue was everywhere at once, helping, organizing and advising.
When the loading was done, Walter went home and I went up to bed, aware that I must rise early to help in the pick up and loading onto the van of the new three-piece suite (purchased Friday afternoon in Knighton) and the donated wardrobe. Happily this last item was still in unopened factory sealed pieces, making it much easier to pack. Sue and I left early, retrieving Walter from the street near his home (the van was too large to make it to his door) and meeting Anne at the furniture warehouse. The three piece suite and wardrobe pieces fitted nicely in the space I had left for them in the van, and it wasn't without a certain sense of satisfaction that I rode back to the house between Sue and Walter, with whom I enjoyed joking on the drive.
A few hours later, Anne and I arrived in Merthyr Vale, to find the van parked in front of her new home with Sue, David and Walter preparing to unload. There followed the surprisingly short process of unloading and carrying in the house, often up the stairs. By half past noon we were unloaded and eager for lunch. The afternoon was taken up with shifting items and putting furniture together, but the crowning achievement was the construction of the donated wardrobe. To everyone's surprise this item turned out to be large enough for me to stand up inside and wide enough for three doors!
It was much more surprising to me, however, to find myself in charge of the assembling of said wardrobe. It wasn't until later that I was struck by the incongruity of it. Here was I, 26-year-old student, instructing individuals much older than myself on the assemblage of an item of furniture. Even more amazing, to me at least, was the way they responded to my leadership, following my instructions, contributing suggestions, willingly holding, moving, screwing or fetching as I asked. The construction of that wardrobe took an amount of time at least equal to the unloading of the van, but the sense of satisfaction involved, for me at least, was far greater. I felt I had achieved something, and my companions liberally gave me the credit, even going so far as to say they would not have been able to complete it if I had not been with them.
Sitting downstairs, resting on the new chairs, Walter asked me if I had siblings. When I had told the ages and occupations of my older brother and sister, David put down his newspaper and said, "Then you must be in your twenties." I was surprised by the comment...."Yes," I said, "how old did you think I was?" "I thought you must be at least thirty - you have so much confidence." The slight feeling of affront at being taken for several years older than my actual age (he seemed even more surprised when I said 26, guess he was calculating on 28 or 29 when I said my sister was 30) was swallowed up in a sense of gratification and that pleasant feeling grew as the day closed.
When we all took leave of each other around 7pm, I felt in the embraces and kind words of my new friends not only acceptance and affection, but genuine and strong respect. In the invitations to visit again I heard more than polite hospitality, and when I said I would be sure to come, I saw genuine pleasure at the prospect of my next visit. I was stunned, delighted, confused as to what I had done to earn their good opinion. I remarked on this to Anne as she drove me down to Cardiff. "Yes," she said, "you are very intelligent." "And that is unusual?" "Perhaps not, but you are also very practical, and the two don't often go together."
Strange words of commendation, but not as compelling as Sue's embrace, David's benediction or Walter's smile. It seems a long time since I received such genuine affection and approval from my fellow humans. I felt not that they were accepting me or showing kindness to me because I was a stranger and in need, but because I was a friend, useful, helpful and accepted.
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