Small Signs

I was surprised by my daily Advent reading for November 29 (yesterday) - Search Amid The Small by Henri Nouwen.  It seemed to echo my own thoughts from my blog and reminded me, once again, to look for the simple gifts and remember who gives them. No matter what your spiritual practices may be during the holiday season, I hope this will encourage you as it did me.

A reflection for Advent from Henry Nouwen:

Our salvation comes from something small, tender, and vulnerable, something hardly noticeable. God, who is the Creator of the Universe, comes to us in smallness, weakness, and hiddenness. I find this a hopeful message. Somehow, I keep expecting loud and impressive events to convince me and others of God's saving power; but over and over again, I am reminded that spectacles, power plays, and big events are the ways of the world. Our temptation is to be distracted by them and made blind to the "shoot that shall sprout from the stump (Isaiah 11:1)." 

When I have no eyes for the small signs of God's presence -- the smile of a baby, the carefree play of children, the words of encouragement and gestures of love offered by friends -- I will always remain tempted to despair.

The small child of Bethlehem, the unknown man of Nazareth, the rejected preacher, the naked man on the cross, he asks for my full attention. The work of salvation takes place in the midst of a world that continues to shout, scream, and overwhelm us with its claims and promises. But the promise is hidden in the shoot that sprouts from the stump, a shoot that hardly anyone notices. 

Dear Jesus, I know that you can give me eyes to see the signs of your presence in the world, and I pray for this. But I also pray for faith in you for those times when I will not be able to see, to understand or feel your presence in my life. Grant me the courage to persevere and to hope in the unseen.

Sandy Shoes

My kids sandy water shoes are on the front step. They went tide pooling the day after Thanksgiving with our extended family and our international friend. I thought I should probably pick up the shoes today and put them away. But instead, the shoes caught my attention and reminded me of the past weekend and a gift I had been given.

I had not been feeling well on Friday so stayed home when everyone else went off to the beach. I love the beach. I love watching my kids tromp through the water. I love seeing the sun set over the Pacific. I love going to the tide pools in the winter when the high tide brings in all sorts of sea life. And last Friday was the lowest tide of the year. My husband sent me a picture via his phone of the octopus they got to see!

I was feeling a bit sorry for myself when I opened the picture on my phone. I imagined my daughter's face when she saw the octopus. And yet, I was savoring a quiet house and the time to rest on my bed and read a book -- one of my favorite things but something I rarely get to do these days. I have been trying to practice gratitude with the help of a group of women I meet with weekly. So I chose to enjoy the quiet and let the day move along instead of lingering on what I was missing.

When everyone arrived home, my two-and-half year old daughter bounded up into my arms and exclaimed, "Mommy! Mommy! I brought you a present. Seashells. Seashells for YOU!" What a gift! And then she was so excited to share about her adventures on the beach and about finding the octopus. "A BIG ONE!" She couldn't wait to share her joy and give me her gifts. Her heart was full because she got to share her joy with me.

I am so grateful for my sea shells.

Last night my kids had trouble going to bed. They both needed extra time with me at each of their bed times. I remember thinking how much I had to do before I went to bed. But I stopped and enjoyed the quiet moments to snuggle with them. I listened to their breathing get deeper and calmer as they drifted off to sleep. I soaked in the moments of being their mom.

I am so thankful that I get to be their mom.

Out of the blue one day, my son said, "I am so glad your my chosen mom." He knows he has a birth mom so he decided I needed a special name too. This spoke deep into my heart that day as I was feeling the residual effects of infertility. I didn't get to choose what age I would become a mom or how close in age my kids would be or what hospital they'd be born in or what month. Sometimes I get blindsided by women who talk about making a family as if it is like baking a cake. You just put in all the ingredients, set the magic timer, and everything comes out just as you planned. And then they get disappointed that they had to have a c-section or a different doctor or to use drugs. I guess I just don't get that emotion when you are holding a healthy, beautiful baby in your arms. So even today, I sometimes get hit by infertility after all these years. My son reminded me that I get to be his Chosen Mom. And even though it's not what I planned, that's a good thing -- for both of us!

My daughter's shell now rests on my windowsill. It's a reminder that I didn't get to go to the beach that day, but my daughter did and brought me back a gift. It also reminds me that as I enter into the Advent Season, I don't want to miss the real gifts because I am too busy getting things done or planning how things should go. Most of all I want to be awakened to God's presence in my life and his unexpected gifts.

I am grateful that I stopped and looked at sandy shoes today.

The Oboe's Song

I came across this rendition of Gabriel’s Oboe. Yo Yo Ma plays the cello. Amazing. And I have always loved the oboe. It's like sweet laughter. Yesterday, I just closed my eyes and let the music fill the room. 

You may wish to do the same. Listen before you read the post. Just pause for four minutes and enjoy. 

This piece moves me. It reaches deep into the soul. I am amazed by their artistry. I am inspired to find my own expression of creativity.

There is something that happens when I allow for creativity to flow into my life. I never realized it until I was walking through the grief of my dad's death. He was a man who loved to create but was hindered by a disease. He loved photography. He loved to cook. He would start with a recipe and then become inspired to add his own touches. He loved to write and often wrote for local political campaigns.  

For those who know me, you know that I love photography, to cook with a variety of exotic spices, and to write. It wasn't until my dad's memorial service that I realized that he and I shared so many creative outlets. I never saw it before because I didn't give my life any margins to be creative.  I was too busy being productive. I also couldn’t see my dad beyond his disease of addiction. I only saw the struggle and not the man behind the disease. I struggled to see his creative heart. 

My dad gave me my first camera. He taught me to cook my first meal by his side at the stove when I was in kindergarten. I felt so proud when we delivered it to the table together. He loved to share his writings and help me with my grammar. He was such a stickler thanks to his high school English teacher, Mr.Killion. 

As I grieved the loss of my dad, I found that when I allowed myself time to explore my creative outlets I was more able to feel a connection not only to my dad, but also to myself and to God. The God I worship, I believe, is a Creator God. He loves to create. I see that every time I look at a sunset – A new canvas of color every evening. I don't need to know how all the molecules collided to make it happen. I can just stand and gaze and enjoy its beauty. 

When I take time to be creative, I believe I become more connected to the God who created me. Maybe it's because when we create, it comes from our uniqueness. It reminds us that we are not a face in the crowd, but we are a beautiful child of God created in His image. 

Gabriel's Oboe touched my heart in a way that it reminded me of my life's journey.  For me, the cello is life as I move through its ups and downs. Life in all its emotions. Life in all its complexity. The oboe is those places along the way that surprise me with joy and punctuate the cello's notes. I now know that they do come and often when I least expect it. And finding creative expression is one way I can help my life hear the oboe's song.

Creativity can come from so many places. 

Experimenting with a new recipe 

Trying a new spice

Planting a vegetable garden, rose garden, or herb garden

Picking up a camera 

Making something out of Legos, wood, play dough or fabric 

Writing a poem 

Knitting a scarf 

Playing the guitar, piano, or recorder

Painting with oils, crayons, watercolors, or finger paints 

Learning a new sport

Dancing

Singing

The list is endless.

My children remind me that creativity and using our imagination is how we grow, celebrate, and discover who we are meant to be. Today, I need to remember that I don't have to master it. Just try it and enjoy the process of discovery. What do you enjoy? Add a comment and add to the list. Let's discover together.

Gratitude - Selah

To learn more about this series, please visit SELAH.

I bought fuji apples today. I buy apples twice a week. My kids love them. I love them. But today was different. I cut open my apple and found MITSU, the honey spot in a fuji apple. I just stared at it. My daughter had no idea why I was grinning. I said, "Mitsu! Mitsu in my apple. I can't believe it!"

For those who follow my blog, you know I wrote about mitsu a few days ago. I haven't seen it in an apple for years. I was so excited! Mitsu always reminds me of Japan.

Today, all these memories from Japan came rushing back to me. But the one that stood out was my first Sunday in Japan after arriving from the States. I was 23 years old. After attending the worship service at Sakai International Bible Chapel (a city outside of Osaka) where I would go every Sunday for next two years, the ladies gathered in the small kitchen to prepare green tea and snacks. Today was special because someone had brought a box of 16 big beautiful fuji apples each individually wrapped in a protective holder. One apple probably cost the equivalent of five U.S. dollars or more. (That was two decades ago!) It was November and the perfect time to celebrate the gift of these beautiful apples with everyone.

I was asked to help prepare the apples. When I cut the first one open, I noticed some darker color inside and began to remove it and then throw it in the wastebasket. All of a sudden, several women were talking in animated voices and telling me something in Japanese. I now know they were probably saying, "MITSU DESU!" One of the women then said in English, "This is apple's honey. It is the sweetest part! Don't put in gomi (garbage)."

I thought about this memory today. It was my first taste of culture shock with many more to come over the next four years I lived in Japan. But what struck me today as I remembered that event was how I didn't recognize the mitsu. I had to be in another culture to even discover that it existed and then recognize that it was the best part.

Yesterday, I wrote about waiting. About how I had to learn to live in gratitude while I waited. This memory in Japan is a picture to me of that journey. Sometimes I miss what is beautiful in my life because I can't see it. Sometimes I need to be shown where to look.

Gratitude is also a spiritual discipline. Some people write out a short gratitude list every evening. I don't do that, but I do like to write a list regularly in my journal. I do it because I find that gratitude helps me to live one day at a time. I can't be thankful for something tomorrow. It hasn't happened yet. I can only be grateful for what is here today.

Today I want to pause and really live in gratitude....For the things I can't buy or collect or obtain by my own effort. Today, the mitsu in my apple at lunch is at the top of my list. I may share my list tomorrow.

How do you practice gratitude?

(We just found our second mitsu of the day! So fun!)

Waiting

When I was a college student, I worked as a staff counselor at a summer camp in Sebastopol, California. I vividly remember Steve, the lead staff counselor, gathering a group of counselors together at the base of a hiking trail for a training session. We were getting ready to work together with high school students in an intensive two-week camp and needed to be able to rely on each other.

Goat Rock at the Sonoma Coast

Steve loved to challenge us physically so that we couldn't do things on our own but had to work together. Trust each other. Listen to each other. The week prior it was a hike up Goat Rock at the beach so named on the Sonoma coastline. I dreaded these training times. I never realized until that summer that I didn't like being pushed out of my comfort zone physically. I liked to play it safe. I had fear of heights. Steve loved to get us up high!

On this particular day we were divided into groups of three. Two of us were blindfolded while the third was the leader. We were to hike up a narrow trail with our leader guiding us. The trail was steep, narrow, missing steps with rebar (steel bar) jutting out. I joined my group of three, put on my blindfold, and listened to our leader as he asked us to hold hands. His voice then guided us where to place our left, then right foot, as we made our way up the trail.

At one point in the journey, our leader stopped us on the trail and said, "Kim, you'll have to wait here. I can't lead you both at the same time. Wait until I come back to get you."  I stopped and waited while he led my friend on up the trail. I waited and waited. I knew this trail. Just last week I had been with the team rebuilding steps. I thought, "I can go forward by myself". With my blindfold on, I bent down and started to use my hands to feel the steps. They were missing. I had no idea what was up ahead. I only tried for a few seconds and decided that I needed to wait until I could be guided by someone who could actually see.

What struck me about this moment was that I even considered going forward at all. Why couldn't I just stand there and wait? Why did I hate waiting so much? Why was I so determined to move forward even though our leader promised he'd come back for me?

I have come back to that experience many times in my life when I have had to wait. I know a lot about waiting. I waited month after month in hopes of a pregnancy. Those months turned into years. I waited for doctors to tell me if the procedure was successful for a pregnancy. I waited for paperwork to be approved for the adoption process. I waited for the pain to lesson from a failed adoption. I waited for the courage to try again. I waited for the phone call that said we'd been chosen. I waited for the baby to arrive and be placed in my arms. I waited for the adoption to be finalized. And then I did the adoption process all over again a second time.

I know waiting. Waiting that is filled with wishing and longing. Some days I waited with hope. Some days with fear. Some days with surrender. Some days I waited in tears.

During my years of infertility, I asked God for a miracle. I wept. I pleaded. I waited. I wrestled with God and asked him why he didn't give us a miracle. When I looked to the Biblical narrative, I found many times when God's people had to wait. But I struggled as I looked for comfort and only read of barren women who all got their miracle -- a pregnancy.

But there was a place that gave me comfort. It was a place that surprised me. It came from what was not written. I was drawn to the silent years of Jesus' life. The Gospels give an account of Jesus' birth, of an event when he was a young boy, and then when he began his ministry when he was around 30 years old. He then began to reveal himself and do miracles. But Jesus lived for years in Nazareth before anyone knew who he was. He must have known people he had grown up with who were sick, dying, hurting. And yet, he had to wait. It wasn't his time to reveal himself. He didn't heal them even though his heart must have longed to do so. He had to wait until it was His time. Even Jesus had to wait for God's timing. This gave me profound comfort in the midst of my waiting.

God's timing is a mystery.

Sometimes the journey of waiting presses in on how I see God. Is he truly loving and good all the time? Sometimes it pushed in more than I thought I could bear. God's timing is a mystery. And somewhere along the way, I began to live in the mystery.

That doesn't mean that I ignored my grief and pain. But I had to learn how to live in the midst of the waiting. For me that meant living one day at a time. I had to choose to stop living in "if only I had a baby, I will be happy."  Slowly, I found I could do one day at a time. When I looked at tomorrow, it was too scary. Some days I did that better than others. Some days I needed to be gentle with myself when my empty arms were too heavy with grief. But slowly, I began to choose to start looking for the things that were good and beautiful in my life in the midst of the pain...one day at a time.

I have friends who are waiting. For a baby. For a job. For a spouse. For an end to chronic pain. For an adoption to be finalized. For a family member to choose recovery. I wish I could tell them how long they will have to wait. I wish I could tell them that they will get what they are waiting for. But I can't. And I don't know what they need. But I can ask. I can listen. I can wait with them and pray with them and let them share their pain. I can walk with them.

I still don't like waiting. I still want to rush through it and try to find a way out. Steve knew what he was doing that summer in 1989. He knew that we needed each other to help us up the trail. We can't get very far when we try to do it on our own. We don't have to wait alone.

Delicious Autumn

Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns. -- George Eliot

Autumn always reminds me of the years I spent in Japan and how I enjoyed my favorite season. When a student would bring a large fuji apple to share with everyone in the English class. A hike to the nearby mountains to view the momiji  or maple trees.  The taste of a sweet crisp persimmon or the smell of chestnuts roasting at the kiosk near the train station. A trip to an onsen or natural hot spring. Oh I miss that!

Japan is a culture that pauses to enjoy the coming of each new season. If you ever visit a traditional Japanese garden, you'll notice that the landscape is designed so there is a burst of color for every season. Cherry blossoms and azaleas in the spring, hydrangea and iris in the summer, ginkgo trees and Japanese maples for fall, and plum trees in late winter. Just to name a few. The gardens are a picture of how the culture is intentionally infused with traditions to celebrate the beauty of all four seasons.

My experience in Japan helps me to see each new season as a time to pause and enjoy its simple gifts. In many ways, it's how children enjoy nature when they marvel at a caterpillar or ant or cloud. When I pause, it renews my soul especially when life feels busy and over-scheduled. Maybe it is because these gifts are free and require no planning. Maybe it's because the God who created me knows that I need to remember that life is not just about doing but also about being.

Even though fall seems to elude us here in Southern California and we don't have drastic changes in weather, there is still evidence of a change of season. I love how the shadows change and lengthen earlier in the day. Or how the sun seems to set slower in the evenings with deeper hues of orange and magenta. I love to soak in the warm sunlight as it beams through my window in the late afternoon on a crisp cool day. I sip a cup of Yorkshire Gold tea and let it warm my cold hands. I slice a fuji apple and look for the sweet honey spot or mistu inside. So common in Japan but I have only found it once since I returned home 14 years ago. What a gift it was for the season!

So today I will enjoy the simple beauty of this time of year. I will not get distracted by all the activities or the commercial displays but will soak in the beauty of God's creation. It may mean that I'll need to slow down and become aware of what I can see, smell, taste, hear and touch. What will I notice today? What can I be grateful for? What mistu does God want to give me today?

Delicious autumn. I will savor you today and feed my soul.