Ecclesiastes in the Day of Climate Change
November 30, 2009
Nutie and I left Nicaragua for Florida, Hawaii, and Colorado at the beginning of the coldest winter anyone could remember. The day after Christmas I thought about my friend Mark MacBeth's orange groves and wondered if they were going to make it. I felt angry. I thought, "Somebody ought to take Al Gore hostage, tie him up to a Washington telephone pole dressed in a wife beater and jockey shorts and leave him out there till he gives the order to resume global warming." That wasn't a very godly attitude, I realized, so I went outside in my shirtsleeves and embraced the obstinate American winter just as it was, like Jesus embraces us when we come to Him. I also watched the Winter Olympics on TV for the first time.
Brown fields of hay baled like cinnamon rolls tipped on their side. Scores of empty osprey nests on platforms atop telephone poles along Florida's Route 98. In May the fish hawks should be back, having babies. To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven. Oh, how I've missed my children! Nutie has missed hers just as much. It was so good to celebrate Christmas all together for the first time. Awkward in the beginning, but in the end Brian said that it was one of the best Christmases he could remember. For a brief moment it felt like summer, the fields green and the nest full.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
We arrive back in Nicaragua, country which sent zero speed skaters to Vancouver. Bursting through the terminal doors with a cartful of luggage at Augusto C. Sandino International Airport, we are welcomed by a familiar wall of heat. Ah! Tropical air: thick, chunky, steamy like good salsa, only blue, bottled in the fragile jar of earth's atmosphere. Exuberant foliage, vines like Rapunzel's hair hanging down, the moon rising through the trees. Yader, our Nica taxi driver, says he read that the earthquakes in Haiti and Chile altered the tilt of the earth 2.7 millarcseconds. "¡EL TIEMPO SE DESCONTROLÓ!" he exclaims. I'm not sure whether he's referring to the climate or the time being out of control; for who knows what a millarcsecond is, or what effect a few centimeters of shift in the equilibrium of earth's mass will have on us?
"God is in control," I said, "but it does feel like He's wrapping things up."
Tuesday, February 23
Florida in the days of climate change. Today was warm but not that warm. Not like Central America or anything. Four o'clock ... I observe a shadow stretching slowly toward me like a black panther stalking; suddenly it engulfs the metal bench by the valet parking booth, plunging me into cold and a quickening desire to be gone. So I think about getting up and going back to the car with my book. The car had been stuffy even with all the windows down, but now stuffy and warm seemed a desirable option. Waiting. Waiting is good; it produces endurance. Let endurance have its perfect result, that I may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing. I celebrate Nutie and Kirsten inside the Millennium Mall shopping for wedding things ... O what a wonderful season in Kirsten's life, for mother and daughter to be sharing these moments together ... hopefully they should be out here any minute now so that we might beat the rush hour traffic out of Orlando. "They can find the car by themselves," I think to myself. "Like I told them: 'go down the parking isle in front of the Cheesecake Factory. it's the third dead tree on your right.' "
Two mall employees with blue uniforms round the valet parking booth and stop a mere two feet from me on the empty sidewalk. Really close, like Miskito people get when they talk to each other.
"¿'Ta terminao?"
"Tengo que volvel pa' jompel la' cajas."
I'm craving Spanish like mamma's cooking; I haven't heard any during the three months that I've been here in the United States. It is Puerto Rican Spanish, rough but Spanish just the same. I lift my eyes from the page and incline my ear. They're only discussing trash removal, but I desire to engage them in conversation just the same. I always want to do that when I'm in the States; in secret I feel as though we've been through experiences together, coming up here to el norte and all. The older of the two appears to be around my age; he was probably a Boricua kid when I lived there, along with about 3 million others. Maybe he called me gringo and stuck gum to the back of my cubayera in school. Maybe I faced him in the batters' box, but probably not. We wouldn't recognize each other even if we had been classmates. There's no way of telling by my appearance that I've spent most of my life in Latin America; conversation would have to happen naturally, or this man would not be able to get over the shock of a white guy addressing him in Spanish, if I were ever foolish enough to do something like that. He'd probably think I was being demeaning and answer me in English. I acknowledge silently to myself that I am a pilgrim and a stranger here on the earth, a visiter in every country.
My phone's on vibrate, massaging my left quad ... it's Nutie. "Where are you, my love?"
She's been greatly refreshed during our three months in the United States. Nutie's at home here, and I'm at home with her. I'm an American by proxy, I guess, as much as I am by birth. It's just all the in-between that has been difficult to figure out for much of my life: where is home? Lord, you have been my dwelling place...
Remember December, back in Sebring, Florida, with the church (i.e. people) who gave me such a soft place to land when I came up from Honduras in 2005? Now my heart melts the moment I enter the sanctuary at Sebring Grace. Sweet sadness to see everyone in so fleeting a visit. I was really involved here; now I see my son Tommy's name included in the pastoral staff on the Sunday bulletin. I got to see him preach Spanish service; he doesn't need my help. It's Awesome and Terrible to be a victim of my own met goals; I've seen my sons find their place and I've been sent out by my church to do the work to which I've been called; on the other hand, I'm no longer in their midst. I can tell that everyone's very glad to see me, but they know that they can't hold onto me. The earth's axis has shifted, seasons have changed. "There is an appointed time for everything, and there is a time for every event under heaven." I'm immensely grateful for the care they've shown to my sons and to Kirsten, and for the prayer they offer up to the Father on Nutie's and my behalf.
Sunday, January 31
At the 9:00 service I stop singing for a moment to watch my friends worship ... there's Miss Evie with her hand raised in a neoprene sleeve ... Don Plumber's exuberance displays the illogical convergence of yielded-ness to God with the mental toughness of Vince Lombardi ... Steve Swann's sitting stiffly on the edge of his chair, grittily rubbing his knee ... I know what that is: the Holy Spirit is showing me nerve pain shooting down his leg as he prepares to undergo back surgery, so that I might pray for him. To pray for all of them. That's all I can do: keep them in remembrance. I'm so soon gone back to Nicaragua. I miss Pastor Randy. The snowstorm on the East coast has delayed his flight back from Israel, but Aaron Michaud's message show's me that he's picked it up a notch. I've got to download the outline from his blog because I can really use it in Nicaragua. This team's deep; God is moving.
Maui. Saturday, January 16
We attempt a surprise party for Erik Andersen. It works! Upcountry Kula, the air is definitely cooler than the posters. People got sweaters and down vests; no coconut bras here. I'm gazing up into the sky with Erik on this night in his honor; the world's best telescopes are situated a little higher up on Haleakala but we've got a fine view and the eyes with which God has blessed us. I'm happy to see all my familiar stars from the shanghaied years in Honduras, when I had cried out to the Lord from my dock on the Karataska Lagoon. I show Erik the Miskito constellations: Kiswa, the stingray, Puhpu, the fish that brings Christmas , and Uhki, the still, silent heron on the Northeast horizon. He tells me native Hawaiians also had their own constellations, and shows me a sketch book in which he's drawn out ideas for sculptures based on the Western configurations. One of Nutie's goals for the new year is to learn to identify them as a tribute to David, who knew them all. Down below, the ocean, not my warm Caribbean, but a huge fearsome thing. Erik says that there's been 40 foot surf the last couple of days. "It's the best winter people can remember," says he.
I'm surprising myself because I'm O.K. with not going to the beach, not even getting to see the giant waves. I've spent a lifetime on the ocean--I've got this precancerous spot on my nose to show for it, which I didn't get checked out in December because it would be wrong to go around with a surgical mask over my nose during my time on Maui, or to have all of Nutie's friends worry about her after having accompanied her through all the grief of losing David. I was O.K. with our priority being time spent with them all--friends, that is--upcountry, in the shade, in church and in homes, our calender scribbled through to the margins with invitations to suppers in a graphic representation of how Jesus would have us pour out on each other the love He gives us. I'm O.K. with gaining 10 pounds; yes, they are 10 pounds of love received, gratitude displayed unashamedly on my waist, to be addressed in a different manner at a later date, like the spot on my nose. There is a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing ... In small group meetings we tell excitedly about what God wants to do with us on the Coco River and we are so incredibly blessed by their willingness to partner with us in prayer and financial support. As I explain again and again in so many homes about the spiritual needs of the people of the river I'm acutely aware of the difference between here and there, between the hardship of my life then and the overtaking of it with blessing now. Repetition is making me good at talking, I thought to myself. The fullness with which I'm being filled must find its tangible expression in ministry down there with people who are empty ... a time to weep, and a time to laugh ... "Don't lose touch with your past, Keogh, man ba wabul dih raya kapram."
Fort Collins, Colorado; Tuesday, February 9 to Friday 19
It seems like yet another country. Last year at this time we were in Ireland and this too feels like we're somewhere on the outskirts of Europe. It is the first anniversary of our honeymoon. A cultured university atmosphere in quaint Old Town. There's snow and the smell of wood fires in hearths. Nutie's Dad speaks with a British accent and her Mom with a Norwegian one. Boiled potatoes and meat without seasoning to mask it's flavor ... her Dad rails on garlic at the supper table. He calls me "George." Nutie says that's good, it means I've been accepted as part of the family. I get to sit at his right hand, fully aware that it's also within reach of his notorious right elbow, the one with the angular features. I love Nutie's family, every one of them. They're all about Christianity and the creative arts ... I kick the snow off my boots, entering through some Narnic closet that opens onto a cosy house where a hobbit who looks like Francis Schaeffer greets you with a smile and bids you sit by the fire in an antique chair. Nutie's brother Harry and Kathy's tiny home, with a violin shop in the back yard, is gorgeous and has the holy atmosphere of an abundant life lived on a human scale, waiting on the Lord. Kathy has a plan to help support us through her business network. Nutie and I are overcome by God's kindness and spontaneously begin to weep, like laughing in the spirit, only with tears of thanksgiving.
We're staying with her parents. Five siblings are over with their families: Nutie, Kris, Nikki, Wendy, Harry. After supper we watch the Winter Olympics for awhile, cheering for the USA and for Norway and for all the athletes; then we mute the television for sing along. Nutie says that when she was growing up they didn't even have a TV; it was banished from the house. They had sing along with Elsa, her mother playing old folk ballads on the guitar while everyone joined in with voices all off the charts. The neighbors probably wondered if you had to try out to be in this family. I'm thinking: "At this moment Kirsten is stuck in a blizzard in Washington DC, recording a CD of her own songs." I'm convinced that some day soon her name will be well known in Christian music circles if not directly as a singer then because somebody famous made platinum out of one of her compositions; she's that good. But that doesn't amaze me, because when it happens, I will have known this: her gift was generations in the making, tracing back through her mother to Singing Elsa and her grandfather's decision to forego TV. Now, with the Olympics on mute, Nutie, Harry, and Kris' sons grab guitars; Elsa can't do it anymore because of her arthritis. Music begins, weaving its spell. Oh, the fox went out on a chilly night... Nutie's 80 year old father busts out a stocking- footed jig in the warm living room, the snow falls silently outside, there's a smile on Elsa's face, by the hearth, in Fort Collins, Colorado.
The next day we're on top of the world, literally, hiking in fresh snow at Rocky Mountain National Park; Nutie and Nikki and Rick and I. Rick is Nutie's brother in law ... I don't know what that makes us in English, but in Miskito I just call him Waik, which covers all the men on Nutie's side of the family except for her father, who I'd call Dap if I thought he'd like that. Probably not. Rick is tall, legs like firs, and has lungs specially designed for high altitude. We race off ahead of the sisters, well I'm mostly plodding straight forward trying to keep up, letting him expend energy bounding from rock to rock. Leaving the snowshoe- tamped trail behind we reach Black Lake, elevation some 11,000 ft; there's nothing left in front of us but a sheer, vertical sheet of blue ice a thousand feet high. "Next time I'll take you ice climbing," he says. "It's a good beginner's climb." Gulp. I can't imagine myself up there, but then again, I couldn't imagine myself here. I haven't seen snow for 35 years. Sometimes God uses you when you go the extra mile, terrified.
A day later Nutie and I pray for her sister Kris, giving thanks for Tom the nursery guy's generosity and God's provision for her in a very painful season. A time to plant, and a time to uproot what has been planted.
March 7. Granada, Nicaragua
A town full of backpack tourists from Europe and the United States, and the people who derive their income from their presence. It's a beautiful colonial town; there is an underbelly. The Efudex treatment on my nose is into its 10th day; the little precancerous spot has become a crimson throbbing proboscis bulb thing and I'm sitting in Sunday morning worship service at "The Bridge/El Puente" church looking like a full-on alcoholic with my hands held high, breaking free ... which is exactly where a lot of these guys were not too long ago. These are not the wealthy Nicaraguans comfortably rubbing elbows with the American expatriate community. It is a church that has reached out to alkies and crack heads in the community, seen them set free, prepared, and sent out, yet again one of its distinctives is that half the people here are Spanish speaking Nicaraguans and the other half English speakers from the States. "A Bridge between two cultures," says the little yellow bulletin in both languages. Absolutely everything here is done in concurrent Spanish/English except for the closing song, which breaks into a rap--regguetón style--in whatever language comes out ... because it's not freestyle unless it's free, right?
Most of the Americans here today are college students come down on Spring Break for a short term mission, but I'm wishing for some backpackers in the crowd. Pastor Charles Kaye has done an amazing job. This is one of the few places in the world where I'm not conflicted, trying to reconcile two very different cultures that live inside me. The service is held outside in the courtyard. It is imperative that I stay in the shade at all times, because the chemicals in the Efudex have eaten away the outer layer of my nose so that the damaged skin might later be replaced with new material. For now it's like the hole in the ozone--ultraviolet rays can go right on in and cook the meat. The sun is rising fast and the shadow cast by overhead roof tiles retreats; light inches its way slowly up my outstretched legs. I had been embarrassed that I looked like an alcoholic so I wanted to tell people that no, my face was the result of keeping my nose to the grindstone. There's no way to translate that into Spanish so I had to tell the truth. Now everybody's scrunching in closer together so I can move back closer to the wall. I hate that. I hate it.
After church we go to Kathy's Waffle House with Pastor Charles and his two kids. His wife Sarah's in the States visiting her Mom. Charles tells us that he's realized from watching the two of us together that it's better for Sarah and him to work together more, and they are exploring ways to compliment each other in ministry. But he's a Bostonian New Yorker, if you can believe that. A former hedge fund manager who confesses to have kicked a 16 pack a day smoking habit ... that's a cigarette every 3 waking minutes ... to go along with the 2 cases of beer he allotted himself for a per diem. He's still struggling with driven-ness. He's surprised to hear that we've been in the States for the last 3 months.
"So how was your ... extended vacation," he asks wryly, looking directly at Nutie.
"Awesome."
Charles trains his gaze on me. A Red Sox fan in New York does not back down from conflict. He's taller than Randy Johnson. "How about you?" he asks, expecting a different answer.
"It was stretching for me. It's good to be stretched," I reply thoughtfully.
"Refreshing time for me is stretching time for Tom," Nutie explains. "Now begins the stretching time for me. Tom is very comfortable here. But I'm ready. I'm absolutely filled from spending this time with our precious friends, and now I'm ready to give it all away again."
Charles knows that there's more to it than just culture; there's something in me that's more like him. I'm really into the work--the production end--and tend to derive my sense of worth from it; the natural Tom would consider the task of strengthening relationships with our mission supporters back in the States as an unfortunately necessary part of the work in which my role is to give account of the things that I've done while out of their sight, to assure them that their investment in the kingdom of God in the third world has not been turned into some Jimmy Buffet fantasy. That shouldn't have to take three months out of my year. But Nutie sees it from an entirely different perspective, one in which the Kingdom of God is built by continually filling and emptying the vessel of our souls through verbal interchanges with God and other people in every place, sharing with every lively stone in the building which for us spans at least these two countries. This, to her, is the work. One thing is certain: Jesus decides what is gold and what is hay. In the end, at the judgement seat of Christ, the hay will be burned up and the gold will remain. Nutie and I need to help each other insure that we find gold. It is our belief there is more gold for the both of us in the working out of our ministry together than individually, and that requires stretching. There's gold in the stretching.
Norome; Saturday, March 13
More temblores in Chile. Make good use of the time, for the days are evil. We can't get a flight out to Waspam until Thursday the 18th. I'm sitting here in yet another tourist destination, praying, studying my bible, writing and reflecting on the meaning of the last three months, because I wasn't able to communicate it clearly to Charles. I process by writing, rather than by speaking, like Nutie does. What conclusion could I have drawn that might have helped him settle some quiet matter in his own mind? I knew that he wasn't grilling us for judgement; rather, he had been thinking about himself and Sarah. "If it were the case," I would say, "that if I don't need to spend time in the States, but Nutie does, then WE need to go, and if we need to go, I need to go. That's marriage. But the truth is that we both need to see the church and our mission from God's perspective. If we do that successfully we will be a strong bridge, one that cannot be shaken by earthquakes. A bridge from heaven, traversing oceans not only to Nicaragua, but to Florida to Hawaii and back again, till God makes everything new and there is no more sea. We will see fruit in the whole earth, eternal fruit grown in the Red Clay of Adam, raised up again from vanity and glorified. Twelve manner of fruit, each in its own season. Tom
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