My November Guest

"My Sorrow, when she’s here with me,

Thinks these dark days of autumn rain

Are beautiful as days can be;

She loves the bare, the withered tree;

She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.

She talks and I am fain to list:

She’s glad the birds are gone away,

She’s glad her simple worsted gray

Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,

The faded earth, the heavy sky,

The beauties she so truly sees,

She thinks I have no eye for these,

And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know

The love of bare November days

Before the coming of the snow,

But it were vain to tell her so,

And they are better for her praise."      -- Robert Frost, "My November Guest,"

We walked our little parade, dressed solemnly in black suits and ties. The ladies wore skirts and heels, wondering why they had bothered to apply the mascara that tears would soon erase. Friends and neighbors flew and drove to sit in a little chapel in Firth, NE and remember a remarkable woman of God: Miriam [Kassarjian] Badeer. We exchanged many words about her. All of them are true, yet none of them truly do her justice.

The ladies from Bible study came all the way from Omaha to remember the lady who added so much vitality and energy to their weekly group. They barely recognized me - the scrawny little girl with blunt-cut bangs that used to follow Grandma to Bible Study on Tuesdays during "cooking camp," times at her house. One woman spoke of how she had been a traveling companion to Grandma en route to a Christian Women's Conference. "Some of the things that happened at that conference were outside of my theological comfort zone," she said honestly, "but Marie always told me, "I want all that God has for me. I don't want to miss anything." She pursued God her whole life..." and then the tears broke in and stopped her briefly. 

It brought back so many memories for me, to hear the stories of others about things back in Aleppo, Syria, all the way up to her gracious attitude when she and Grandpa sold their home of 40 years and settled in GoldCrest only 10 minutes from our home. On one occasion I tagged along with Mom to go see Grandma for the first time in months. Travels had kept me out of State and away from family. I was shocked to see that her physical frailty was like I had never seen it before - she rested in a wheelchair, still smiling, praying, singing hymns when nothing else could hold her attention. She looked at me, took my hand, and said, "I want you to have the best that God can give you. Not for the glory of Noelle, but for the glory of God. We serve an awesome God."  I almost burst into tears, right there in the hallway. All the way home, I wondered what kind of faith speaks those words at the end days of life in a nursing home? And how can I cultivate that faith in my soul right now? 

I remember, too, those mornings spent in Grandma's kitchen, around the table with Grandpa and my sister Leah, reading the Bible. The day did not begin until we had opened the Bible, read aloud, done some singing and prayed for those that needed prayer. Grandma gently opened my first Bible, a little blue Precious Moments copy, and taught me how to cross-reference. Her handwriting still marks the margins of that little Bible, all over in the book of Psalms. The books that I inherited from her library are underlined with red pen where she found things pertinent to her spiritual life. I may have traded the red pen for a pencil, but those habits have become an integral part of who I am, just as they were a part of her. 

.an empty doorway and a maple leaf.

"For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf."
-- Archibald MacLeish, "Ars Poetica"


“Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak
whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break.”
-- William Shakespeare


Give sorrow words. But which words shall I chose? The happy words of the past or the sorrowful ones that present me every morning? Shall I tell you about her favorite Christmas dress with the little red canaries? Or should I simply weep knowing that she'll never wear it again? 

The Autumn leaves just started falling. They dance to the ground in celestial harmony, unaware of the gravestones between them. The casket, baby blue with paisley and flowers, lay silent above the ground as of yet, still and serene. The very print spoke her name to me. It is just like her. It holds her now, still and sleeping while her soul has gone on to be with her Lord. Truly, she has the better end of this deal. Now in glory with her Lord, we are left behind on this earth with remembrance, and nothing more. A pretty casket, lowered into a quiet stone vault and a headstone with her name: Miriam Kassarjian Badeer. Such is life.

There are no words to put to grief. Perhaps it's just that they haven't found me yet. Perhaps another look at the fresh dirt will bring the healing tears about. Perhaps.

Life marches on at an alarming speed. There's work to be done, people with needs, demands to be met, and promises to keep. The sun shines as though it doesn't care if it's raining in my heart. The leaves continue their divine dance through the Fall breeze, reminding me that all is not lost. The same God that orchestrates their colors and shapes has a design and plan for my brief time here on earth.Though that plan will end with my body in the grave, that is not it's goal. Life is worth the toil, grief and struggle because it is not the only thing we have to look forward to. It's only the beginning. One day, each of us will step through the doorway of death into eternity. Grandma Badeer has walked through it into glory. Hospice care and nursing homes are history. She is whole again. I cannot grieve for her, but I can grieve for the loss of her in my life. She has stepped into eternity, and those who love her are left to wait their turn.

"Life is real! Life is earnest!
        And the grave is not its goal;
    Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
        Was not spoken of the soul." 

        -- H.W. Longfellow, "The Psalm of Life,"

**Sharply Dressed Gentlemen**

"Be devoted to one another in brotherly love; give preference to one another in honor; not lagging behind in diligence, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord; rejoicing in hope, persevering in tribulation, devoted to prayer, contributing to the needs of the saints, practicing hospitality." -- Romans 12:10-13

What does it mean to give preference to one another in honor? To "outdo one another in showing honor" as the literal translation reads? I picture two gentlemen, sharply dressed, standing at the doorway. Each offers the right of way to the other with equal fervency, until one of them realizes that the gracious thing to do is to walk through the door, and accept the preferential treatment. They both walk into the next room, smiling. One has given preference to the other, honoring them as valuable. What does this look like for me at the office? Does it change when I come home in the evenings to my brothers and sisters? Does preferential treatment mean that we play the games that they choose? Could it be that talking about Nancy Drew books for hours on end is part of what "giving preference" means?

Devotion has also been a source of contemplation for me recently. To think of it as a posture of my being, rather than 20 hurried minutes before work is an entirely different mode. Devotion is so much more than the last bit of time that I ungraciously offer to the Lord after a busy day. It's the attitude of my heart that will, with the help of the Holy Spirit, offer myself to Him for His purposes throughout the day and into the night. It ought to be like fragrance that sticks to me all through the day, and occasionally floats through the air so that it gets the attention of others. My heart's posture being bent before God will naturally change the out-flowing words and deeds.

What does community mean in my life right now? Who are the people in my community locally? What about nationally? What does it look like for me to cultivate a sense of meaningful community life? I have been challenged to more fully love the people in my life: family and co-workers especially. We overlook them as being standard parts of our lives, and so often ignore them as needing the same amount of love and support. Simply put, we take them for granted. 

Do you and I think about how important family is? Not often enough. They shape who we are, and yet when we come to the college stage, we want to throw them off like a garment that's out of style. This is not God's desire for my family relationships. They are the ones who will most clearly see the work that God is doing in my life. The fruit that the Spirit can bear through me will be obvious to them. They are the ones that pray for me faithfully, who love me when I'm at my ugliest, and listen to ungrateful words come out of my mouth. Father God, work in me to make my love for them equally unconditional.

Thanks be to God. He is ever so willing to change and sanctify me into His own glorious likeness. It is I who must, like the smartly dressed gentlemen, open the door.

Book Review: "The Three Musketeers" by Alexandre Dumas

“Take care d’Artagnan, take care,” said Aramis. “In my opinion you are too interested in Madame Bonancieux. Woman was created for our destruction; and from her all our miseries arise.”   

So begins the adventures of young, impetuous, chivalrous d'Artagnan. He begins with nothing more than a letter of introduction and a few coins in his pocket, and winds his way through politics, secrecy, duels and killings to become what he had only dreamed of. Along the way, Dumas takes care to teach us everything he knows about human nature. Take this little bit for example: 

“A rascal does not laugh in the same manner as an honest man; a hypocrite does not weep with the same kind of tears as a sincere man. All Imposture is a mask; and, however well the mask may be made, it may always, with a little attention, be distinguished from the true face.
Now, it seemed to d’Artagnan that M. Bonancieux wore a mask, and that this mask was a most disagreeable one.”    -- Pg. 231  

Dumas has done a masterful job of weaving politics, romance, intrigue, and adventure into one magnificent work. His story is gripping, complicated, and full of little bits of information that will serve the reader well, regardless of occupation. After all, we can't all be famous swashbuckling heroes...  

More stunning and cut-throat than "The Count of Monte Cristo," the only thing it doesn't have to offer the reader is the expected happy ending. In my opinion, it's only fitting that characters who taste and smell so real should experience what so many of us do: the end of a good chapter. I encourage you to go along for the ride and look forward to the sequel.

Feminism Hurts...

  ...Our love lives, among other things. It’s snake-like deceptions have crept into every area of life. The workplace is where we’d like it to be - sitting on a thousand desks looking like Doctoral degrees, shiny medals and trophies for intellectual achievements. We think that it’s separate. Surely it’ll sit content on the desk with my “good as a man” trophies and leave home life alone. Like a Starbucks latte, it carries me through the day and gets me to the end of the tunnel - 5:00p.m. and my evening of freedom. Or better yet, the weekend off with the love of my life. I’ll “switch gears,” and be the girl of his dreams as soon as I slip into a little black dress and a sultry smile.  Isn’t that how this is supposed to work?

Recently I’ve been giving thought to the many subtle ways in which feminism speaks to us. It whispers in our ears more often than the Gossip in the cubicle next to you at work. The sad thing is, because it’s not as annoying as s/he might be, most of us don’t notice. We soak it up like the sunshine - thinking it’s good for us.  Has Feminism really delivered the goods it promised us as women? Are we liberated? Are we truly free to be truly feminine and truly equal?  I don’t think so.

In a sense, Feminism has defeated its chief goal. By assuming that women are not equal as long as they are different in purpose (and design) than men, it’s made “equality” and “femininity” mutually exclusive. What’s a girl to do? Most of us become as much like men as possible, and wait for the applause of other “powerful” women across the globe. In the meantime, we shuffle home from the daily grind at the office to switch roles and be good wives and moms during those few evening hours. In an effort to have it all, Feminism has given women nothing more than all the confusion, hurt, depression and isolation that comes with chasing the shadows of something we can never be.

In the process, women have suffered in their relationships, too. Life is not a stage, and all the people actors on it. We’re simply not satisfied with having to change our colors and character for every situation - be it work, home, date night, or mothering. In an effort to be all things to all people, we’re left feeling like who we truly are will never be enough.  Feminism has made women promises that it can’t keep, and it’s casualties are the women and children it professes to care the most about.  Consider this clip from “How Feminism Hurt Our Love Lives,” by Dr. Wendy Walsh:

“In some ways, we are too independent. For, we have lost the art of being interdependent.
I think the whole feminist movement is a bit of a misnomer anyway -- feminism didn’t liberate femininity. Feminism liberated masculine energy in women. It was a masculinist movement. This is a good thing. Because of masculism, er, I mean feminism, we can now procure income in the male dominated marketplace and buy ourselves any kind of life we want. Those of us who aren’t completely fulfilled baking cookies can now choose to fly jets, put out fires, or handcuff bad guys. We can also look for a cure for cancer, design computer programs, and sink basketballs, if those things suit our fancy.

“But make no bones about it, feminism did not liberate femininity. In fact, I think it did the opposite. It pushed femininity in the closet, turning feminine traits into embarrassingly weak elements of our personality -- a side that we began to show to fewer and fewer people.”  


Ladies, this is the tragedy of feminism. In an age where a woman can become Speaker of the House, and run for President of the United States, we still can’t understand why we’re unhappy. Our career choices are more easily made than the more important one of who we’ll spend the rest of our life with. We hide our feelings, keep the frilly, pretty things at home in the closet (they’re not professional enough), wear the pants and play tough in a “man’s world.” When the lights go out at the end of the day, we cry ourselves to sleep. Why? Because this isn’t what we were made to do. And we’re too ashamed to let anyone else see who we really are... afraid that they’ll see some shade of womanhood that isn’t fit for the title of CEO.

Feminism hurts. Let’s turn the tide so that women are free to be feminine again; free to be what God created us to be: different, but equal.

raindrops are falling on my head...

It clouds up, then the humidity comes and builds up to a lovely little sprinkle. Then comes the rain in sheets on the velvet green carpet of grass on the Capitol lawn. The day lilies drink up the water they've been waiting for with eagerness in their leaves. The ground is refreshed, the sun comes out again and everything is roses. The air smells sweet like rainwater and flowers. To wait through the rain with an umbrella, dressed in a trench coat seems only normal. We even complain about the wet dreariness and the sloppy shoes that accompany the drizzle. But to get lost in the dark and damp is to miss it's purpose; the grander scheme of things that stay beautiful, healthy and iridescent because the rain falls.

Sometimes the sky becomes a mirror for our emotions. We know well how to hide them from the rest of the world, but it feels free. Standing over the earth in majesty, it weeps some days. The night comes, and the moon guards the dark sky alongside thousands of brilliant stars. He calls them all by name. Then He brings the sun up the next morning, and all His mercies are new.

"The LORD is righteous in [Israel's] midst, He will do no unrighteousness. Every morning He brings His justice to light, He never fails..."  

"The LORD your God in your midst, The Mighty One, will save; He will rejoice over you with gladness, He will quiet you with His love, He will rejoice over you with singing."                                                                                         - Zephaniah 3:5, 17

TOMS

Mine came just the other day in a cute little recycled-cardboard shoe box. Wrapped neatly in the TOMS flag, there sat my beauties - red classics. They fit like a glove (without socks), and they're comfortable, too! Yes, you can wash them. Yes, you can wear them with anything. Yes, they're awesome. On top of that, every pair you purchase means that TOMS outfits one needy child with his/her own pair. What's not to love?

You know you want some, too. 

Get yourself {and a needy child} a pair here:   http://www.toms.com/