Our Daily Miracle: Elders
Okay, so I hate Facebook. To me, it seems like a distraction from real community.
Martin is a Facebook person these days. "I feel burned by your moral superiority," he said the other day (or something like that).
"I am TRYING not to judge," I said.
"You are anyway," he countered, bending his head to scan the contents of the refrigerator.
"Well, I don't think that you're in jeopardy morally," I explained. "It's just that you've been duped by the devil. Facebook is evil."
He straightened up and looked me in the eye. "That's what I'm talking about."
----
I am self-righteous, yes, and like most self-righteous people, I am occasionally a big, fat hypocrite. Sometimes Martin reads me a post on Facebook that melts my firm impression of cosmic evil. For instance, this morning he read me a post from Uncle Robbie, father of my dear friend Kara Robinson, cohort and soul mate extraordinaire from my first or second day in sixth grade in Kenya until now. Growing up, I regularly fled to the Robinson's house to escape the busy, constant activity in my own house, and a girl couldn't have asked for a more peaceful, mythic oasis. Picture rain drumming on a tin roof, jacarandas dripping long purple trumpet-flowers on the ground, a golden retriever, tail awag (obese from eating too many fallen avocados), a pot of tea steeping under a well-used cozy; the larder stocked with dark chocolate and crumbly digestive biscuits AND dill pickles (oh, so many at the Robinson's house but none at mine), an African grey parrot, rather grumpy but entertaining, a somewhat eccentric cat, Cookie, and a woman--Kara's mother--with softly greying hair who is gentler than anyone I've ever met.
Uncle Robbie, Aunt Margie's other half, is round and bearded and jolly and has a booming voice and a laugh that can make ivy sprout out of your shoes. . .I was always a bit intimidated of him growing up but he's since become an inspiration. Like my own parents, he and Aunt Margie live life topsy-turvy. While most people settle down to a predictable, safe, well-padded life, Uncle Robbie and Aunt Margie recently cashed in those chips (and they're just a few years from retirement), to jump off a ledge into the unknown. They both grew up in Congo and they both have an abiding love and concern for that beautiful country, so war torn of late. Without going into many details, Uncle Robbie decided that it was time to devote himself to his work there, and so they just upped and left his great job and a cozy house and moved. It was a completely counter-cultural move, borne of a deep sense of vocation and not career.
I've seen my own father make many such moves; instead of climbing steadily up The Ladder, he climbs down a few rungs, not out of weakness, but because his passion for his ideals and for the people he serves is so strong. Over and over again, I've seen him resolutely turn his back on positions of power and recognition in order to serve better. I've seen him quietly hoist up plenty of people in front of him. And occasionally it seems he lets go of the ladder altogether and falls back into the abyss, full of faith that there are people there who need him. It's the work I'm called to that serves others, these good lives tell me, not the work that will serve me.
When I am tempted to feel afraid of the future, I think of these people--my parents and the Robinsons--who refuse to give into the easy pull of security and live instead lives of adventure and service to others. Their homes, while they're not appointed with all that money can buy, are welcoming sanctuaries of grace, peace, and tea. When life is too adventurous for me, I duck into these spaces and feel much like Frodo Baggins, resting myself at the feet of the wise, listening to their stories and strengthening myself with tea and goodness for the next journey.
These are people that are traditionally called "elders" in a society. They are our heroes that have watched us grow up, to whom we can go when we are in need of guidance. In my experience, truly wise elders will not tell you what to do, but they will show you with stories (verbally, or just by living), that will guide you to the next step in your own story. Martin and I are at such a crossroads in our lives, and it is good now to look to the elders. I just wish there were a baobab tree under which we could all gather with battered tin cups of chai.
_________
To close on a light, unrelated note, here's one more thing from the evil, time-waster site, YouTube :) that also inspired me this week. See here not elders, but the bright, joyful youth of Canada. My favorite line involves waiting and dumplings. Click below:
LEGO MAN IN SPACE
Martin is a Facebook person these days. "I feel burned by your moral superiority," he said the other day (or something like that).
"I am TRYING not to judge," I said.
"You are anyway," he countered, bending his head to scan the contents of the refrigerator.
"Well, I don't think that you're in jeopardy morally," I explained. "It's just that you've been duped by the devil. Facebook is evil."
He straightened up and looked me in the eye. "That's what I'm talking about."
----
I am self-righteous, yes, and like most self-righteous people, I am occasionally a big, fat hypocrite. Sometimes Martin reads me a post on Facebook that melts my firm impression of cosmic evil. For instance, this morning he read me a post from Uncle Robbie, father of my dear friend Kara Robinson, cohort and soul mate extraordinaire from my first or second day in sixth grade in Kenya until now. Growing up, I regularly fled to the Robinson's house to escape the busy, constant activity in my own house, and a girl couldn't have asked for a more peaceful, mythic oasis. Picture rain drumming on a tin roof, jacarandas dripping long purple trumpet-flowers on the ground, a golden retriever, tail awag (obese from eating too many fallen avocados), a pot of tea steeping under a well-used cozy; the larder stocked with dark chocolate and crumbly digestive biscuits AND dill pickles (oh, so many at the Robinson's house but none at mine), an African grey parrot, rather grumpy but entertaining, a somewhat eccentric cat, Cookie, and a woman--Kara's mother--with softly greying hair who is gentler than anyone I've ever met.
Uncle Robbie, Aunt Margie's other half, is round and bearded and jolly and has a booming voice and a laugh that can make ivy sprout out of your shoes. . .I was always a bit intimidated of him growing up but he's since become an inspiration. Like my own parents, he and Aunt Margie live life topsy-turvy. While most people settle down to a predictable, safe, well-padded life, Uncle Robbie and Aunt Margie recently cashed in those chips (and they're just a few years from retirement), to jump off a ledge into the unknown. They both grew up in Congo and they both have an abiding love and concern for that beautiful country, so war torn of late. Without going into many details, Uncle Robbie decided that it was time to devote himself to his work there, and so they just upped and left his great job and a cozy house and moved. It was a completely counter-cultural move, borne of a deep sense of vocation and not career.
I've seen my own father make many such moves; instead of climbing steadily up The Ladder, he climbs down a few rungs, not out of weakness, but because his passion for his ideals and for the people he serves is so strong. Over and over again, I've seen him resolutely turn his back on positions of power and recognition in order to serve better. I've seen him quietly hoist up plenty of people in front of him. And occasionally it seems he lets go of the ladder altogether and falls back into the abyss, full of faith that there are people there who need him. It's the work I'm called to that serves others, these good lives tell me, not the work that will serve me.
When I am tempted to feel afraid of the future, I think of these people--my parents and the Robinsons--who refuse to give into the easy pull of security and live instead lives of adventure and service to others. Their homes, while they're not appointed with all that money can buy, are welcoming sanctuaries of grace, peace, and tea. When life is too adventurous for me, I duck into these spaces and feel much like Frodo Baggins, resting myself at the feet of the wise, listening to their stories and strengthening myself with tea and goodness for the next journey.
These are people that are traditionally called "elders" in a society. They are our heroes that have watched us grow up, to whom we can go when we are in need of guidance. In my experience, truly wise elders will not tell you what to do, but they will show you with stories (verbally, or just by living), that will guide you to the next step in your own story. Martin and I are at such a crossroads in our lives, and it is good now to look to the elders. I just wish there were a baobab tree under which we could all gather with battered tin cups of chai.
_________
To close on a light, unrelated note, here's one more thing from the evil, time-waster site, YouTube :) that also inspired me this week. See here not elders, but the bright, joyful youth of Canada. My favorite line involves waiting and dumplings. Click below:
LEGO MAN IN SPACE
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