Of China and Church - Easter Reflections

{Scarlett here}

Yesterday I read this article in the New York Times. It's about how members of a Christian church in China were detained for trying to hold an Easter service in a public square.

This breaks my heart. I can't imagine not being able to go to church on Easter Sunday, the most special of all Sundays, and I am humbled and worried to know that Christians on the other side of the world are probably still in jail for exercising a right that I often take for granted. It takes a lot of courage to believe in your Savior so much that you will willingly risk jail time to worship Him.

After reading this, I started to think of how lucky I am to be able to worship freely, and how sad I would be if I would ever have to miss worship on Easter Sunday. Then I remembered that one year I had. It was the Easter I spent in China.

For most people around me that day, it was an ordinary Sunday, and a work day for me. The season had changed; they always seemed to change so quickly and abruptly in China. One day it was bleak and cold, and the next day winds swept through bringing lots of pollen and dirt flying through the air and all of a sudden, lime green leaves began to sprout on the trees. I was teaching English at a private language school and the weekends were my busiest days.  The school administrator marked the occasion by bringing in a box of hot cross buns from the bakery to put in the teacher's lounge. I appreciated the gesture, but was really bummed that I was the only one out of all of my coworkers and friends who attached any religious significance to the day, and who mourned not being able to be in church. I heard that there was actually a Christian church in the Chinese city where I lived, but it was controlled by the Communist party. Even if I had Sundays off, I don't think I would have been comfortable worshiping there. (The reason Christianity is suppressed in China is because nothing is supposed to be higher than the Party.)

I was in China for 7 months, which is the longest stretch I've ever gone without ever going to church. It's interesting to try to figure out what being a Christian means in an environment like that when for all of your life, being a Christian has meant, if nothing else, going to church on Sunday. I'd like to say that I figured out, in the absence of my usual Sunday morning ritual, how to extend extra compassion, grace and love to my fellow man to make up for not being able to worship as usual. That I filled that empty cup with other good things.

The truth is, throughout the latter months of my time in China, it was all I could do to hang on to any sense of inner peace for myself, much less try to extend it to others. I read my Daily Guideposts nightly, which I think was my saving grace. In some way, that book made me feel connected to my Christian brothers and sisters even if they were a world away. As far as being able to discuss religion with anyone, when my coworkers--the only ones in that whole country of 1.3 billion I could speak English with--asked me about my faith, if I prayed, if I went to church, I answered them honestly, and my responses were usually met with derision. They made fun of me for so many things, for being from Texas ("small-town redneck" and "backwards"), for being an American ("sheltered know nothings who try to run the whole world but don't know anything about it"), for refusing to disrespect George W. Bush even though I have no love lost for that man but will not insult my own president in a foreign country, for not denouncing the Iraq war because my friends were fighting in it ("imperialist"), for trying to acknowledge the 4th of July (they tore down the red white and blue sign I put on my door). For all of those insults, they really hurt my feelings. But when they tried to make fun of me for being a Christian, it didn't hurt my feelings in the slightest bit. It just made me pity them. I suppose that's something.

When you get right down to it, the blessing of going to church isn't so much in the polished pews, the dress clothes, or even the beautiful music and thought-provoking sermons, though I love all of that. It's getting to be around people who believe what you do, who support you in struggles and who share in your joys and who understand the deep peace of knowing that God still speaks. Not having that in China made something inside my heart shrivel just a little bit. My faith didn't dwindle, but my joy did. (Thankfully whatever shrank has since been repaired.)

Back to those brave people who only wanted the joy of worshiping freely with other Christians on Easter morning. They have my respect, my sympathy and my prayers. I hope that if they're in jail they will soon be released. I hope that the day will come soon when they can worship freely and in peace.

Blessings to you,
Scarlett

the soul

My friend Work Girl sent me this gem today. She wrote it awhile back and was generous enough to share it with us. I hope it will lift your spirits like it did mine.

"the soul" by Work Girl

There are some very simple things to understand about the soul.  It is the one thing that never perishes, it does not run along the same course as the body but has the freedom to grow younger and lighter as the body gets older.  Its spirits can rise even as physical form is assaulted, beaten down.  It is not fettered to common sense, physicality, fatigue, time.  The soul actually maneuvers, lives, breathes, acts outside of time.
Talk about a miracle.
Conversely, the soul can wither and fade even at a person's peak of physical health.  It can crack as the body gets stronger, break as the mind learns more and ages experientially.  The soul can be the transient opposite to any situation.
The soul proves God more than anything in nature ever will because it proves His image outside of time, space, culture, matter, tangible forces, scientific absolutes.  And yet it is an absolute and can be proved everytime someone smiles peacefully and contentedly as they lay dying of cancer or as an Olympic athlete fights depression and inadequacy after winning a gold medal.  There is nothing scientific to prove about that.  It is simply labeled something aloof and indeterminable like 'the human condition' and set aside as a silent component of life not to understand but certainly to marvel at abstractedly upon hearing a story of someone gaining hope as they begin to starve stranded in an imploded mine.
The soul lies completely unseen, intangible, and yet its form is known and felt every moment as though it were a ponderous giant sitting on our head, filling a room... or as though it were a panther, strong and stealthy, stalking the situation with intentional force.  Sometimes the soul behaves as a fairy fluttering through the forest shedding rainbow glitters, dusting everything with evanescent brilliance.
But here, we have to give visual, physical image to the soul in order to communicate it.  Because the actual soul is unseen.
But it is not unknown.
Even though neither the strongest microscope nor largest telescope could distinguish it under the most focused scrutiny.  Could you imagine if a scientist one day expounded the startling declaration that he had captured a soul and taken a picture of it? How much do you think that image would sell for?
A soul is beautiful without being seen.

Scarlett's LA Adventure

A few weekends ago, I got to have a fabulous LA adventure with my mom. It was an absolute blast. We got to see all of the glamorous sites of Rodeo Drive (helLO opulence), tour stars' homes (well, their neighborhoods anyway... HelLO Harrison Ford), and have some fun in the sun on the Santa Monica Pier.

Here are a few snapshots of our weekend:

Our Favorite Hangout

{Scarlett}

Scout and I have many things in common. We love fashion, we love books, we love travelling, we love writing, we love double entendres. We love plotting our futures. And more often than not, while we're scheming, talking and kibbitzing, we're drinking coffee. Sometimes together at my mom's kitchen table, or at Scout's kitchen table, or at a booth at the Sutton County Steakhouse.

I'm sure it's no surprise to any of you that we love to hang out at coffee shops. Today, we're going to treat you to a mini-tour of our favorite coffee joints. Mine is 2 blocks from my new apartment in a ritzy suburb of Washington, DC.

It's called the Bayou Bakery. (Yes, that's snow on the awning. Curses.)

I love this place. One the one hand it's funky and upscale because, duh, this is Yuppie Town, so it has to be stylish. On the other hand, it has down-to-earth Southern touches that make the Texan in my soul jump up and scream with glee. Example: the people at the table next to me are eating buttermilk biscuits with honey. There's New Orleans jazz piped through the speakers. There are light fixtures made out of Bell jars. Love.

It's Sunday morning, the perfect time to sit and relax before heading to church. Here's what I treated myself to:

We've got my order of beignets* piled with powdered sugar,** chicory coffee in a French press with lots of half and half and raw sugar, and my Message bible for a little morning inspiration. I love my Message bible because it's a translation that's easier (for me) to follow than some others and really brings the Word alive. A gem from this morning:

My grace is enough, it's all you need.
My strength comes into its own in your weakness.

Not pictured is my bible bookmark: a picture of Baby Scout from her 1st birthday party invitation. It makes me smile every time I open it.

I've got a little more time left here to finish my coffee and read the Washington Post and New York Times online.  I love lazy Sundays!

*Beignets are Cajun/French donuts made famous by Cafe Du Monde in New Orleans.
**Ask my dad sometime what happens when you inhale a pile of powdered sugar before you take a bite.

~Ciao!

{Scout's hangout coming soon!!}

My Egyptian Friends

{Scarlett}

I'm not here today to give my political views on what's going on in Egypt. Today, I just want to tell you about my Egyptian friends. They are weighing heavily on my mind because I'm so worried about their safety and their future. By telling you about them, I'm hoping that I can show some personality and humanity behind all of the TV images of rioting mobs and unspeakable violence. To me, those people gathered in  squares in Egypt's largest cities aren't just unnamed masses. My friends might be among them, friends who helped me through a hard month in Egypt, friends who I'll never forget.

I went to Alexandria, Egypt, one summer in July a few years ago. I wanted to study Arabic, so I signed up for a program and booked a plane ticket. At this point, I'd already traveled to 20 foreign countries so I thought I was a savvy traveler and that my days of culture shock were long behind me. I was wrong. My first few days in Egypt were terrifying, mainly because everything was SO foreign to me that I didn't know what to do or how to be. I was petrified of leaving the walls of my room by myself because I didn't know what would happen if I walked around on the streets alone. The heat, the unruly bustle of traffic, the unfamiliar language, the unfamiliar way people dressed, the jeers I got from men, and the jarring call to prayer blasted on the loudspeakers 5 times a day freaked me completely out. On my first day, a monk at the convent I stayed in walked me to a McDonalds. That meal was about the only thing I ate for 2 days. I was too scared to venture out to find anything else.

Then I started my Arabic school and met some of the most wonderful people who made me feel welcome, who (slowly, slowly) taught me how to read, write and speak, who took me to mosques, hookah bars, and to a Muslim wedding, who made me laugh with their jokes and made me think with their tough but respectful questions about the US.

First is Afaf.

She was a language teacher who worked with me on vocabulary. She was also an expert on ancient Egyptian history and could even read hieroglyphics. And in the male-dominated culture of the Middle East, she was a rare example of a female entrepreneur. She started her own tourism business and led tours around Cairo and Luxor. She was funny and vivacious, and very open with me about her Muslim faith and was willing to answer any of my questions. One day I asked her, "Afaf, why do you wear that head scarf? Doesn't it make you feel oppressed?" I will never forget her answer.

She said, "No! I wear it because I am precious. God made me so special that only my husband can see me without it. You can put a tomato out on the street, but a woman is precious and she must be covered." If that's the way she feels, who am I to tell her differently? Afaf guided me through a mosque and even taught me all the motions that Muslims go through when they do their prayers. She wasn't trying to convert me, she was just trying to explain.


Next is Sallam.

Talk about personality! He introduced himself by saying, "My name is Sallam. That means peace!" This guy was a huge flirt, and all of my female Italian classmates (and ok, me too) thought he was adorable. He always had that huge smile on his face and was free-spirited and fun-loving. He told me his favorite place in Egypt is Luxor, except for in the summer because it's too hot. One time he saw me typing an email on the school's computer and just marveled at how I held my hands on the keys and how fast I can type. He thought it was amazing and said one day he wanted to learn to type like that.

Last is the one who's closest to my heart. His name is Amr, and, looking back on it, he's the closest I've ever come to having a Muslim sweetheart.

He's from a small town and his dad is a preacher (well, an imam), so we had that in common. (Sidenote: you know how if you say you're from small town Texas, people ask you if you ride horses to school? He said the same thing happened to him except it was camels.) He's a really bright, intellectual guy who speaks impeccable English. He teaches at the best university in Cairo that's one of the most reputable universities in the whole Middle East. He taught at my school for that summer to make extra money.

One evening he invited me to a sidewalk cafe where we had non-alcoholic beer (like all good Muslims, he didn't drink) and talked about life and politics. He invited me to his apartment (which is a HUGE deal in this society and was probably a faux pas to have a member of the opposite sex unchaperoned in your living room) where we ate dinner and talked to his friends and roommates. He had to do most of the interpretation because I don't think they spoke English. Then one night, we were walking along the beach to a concert and he grabbed my hand and held it as we walked along the shore. As an American, this is about as mild a form of physical affection that you can get. But in Egypt, and in public no less, this was a major break with convention. It was sweet.

His dream was to study in London or in the US, but he said he'd prefer England because he'd heard that it was really dangerous for Muslims to live in the US and was worried that he'd get beaten up. He eventually did get to go study or work in London for three months and said it was a wonderful experience.

When I heard about all of the rioting, I emailed him to ask if he was OK. It took him a few days to get back to me, but eventually he was able to write back and say that he appreciated my email, he was OK and would write more soon.  That's the last I heard. I don't know if he's involved in the protests or not.

I get knots in my stomach when I think about what my friends might be going through right now and what their futures might hold. Every time I see pictures of the riots in the paper, I search the crowds for their faces.

I want so badly for them to be safe. I want so badly for their futures to be bright.

I'm sending them all the prayers my heart can hold.~

No Mo' Snow

I sit here on my perch in my corner apartment watching a dazzling winter snowstorm from my floor-to-ceiling windows. Big, fat flakes are falling to the ground. (And the snow is coming down hard too. Heh.)

Some people might say it’s beautiful. (And OK, right now, I’m warm and cozy on the couch in my sweats under an electric blanket drinking hot spiced chai and home two hours early from work and my view does kind of look like what Frosty would see from inside a snow globe.) But if you want to know the truth, I HATE SNOW.

It makes such a mess and is scary to drive in. And the day after, the snow on sidewalks and up against the curb turns brown and gross. It makes dirt stick to your car. Have you ever had to scrape snow and ice off your car while it’s still falling? Ugh!!!

I used to not be this way. I used to think snow was picturesque and I used to be pro-snowman building. This all changed for me on a dreary winter day, December 20, 2006. At the request of my good friend Gator, I will tell you the story. Lean in close…

…As I said, it was December 20, my 24^th birthday. I was working as a receptionist in downtown Denver. The snow started to fall in the morning, and it fell hard. Coloradans are hearty folk and don’t believe in missing work because of snow. I had to do some major arm-twisting with my boss to be able to leave by noon. By then, at least 6 inches of snow had already accumulated and it was still coming down hard. I got in my Acura, got on the highway, and hoped for the best.

It was treacherous driving. A few miles from my apartment, the already slow traffic came to a complete standstill. I moved maybe 6 inches in the first hour. And the snowfall had turned into a legitimate blizzard, a total whiteout. I could only see through a tiny 4-6 inch square on my windshield, and, through that, only the taillights of the car in front of me. My wipers were getting so caked with ice that they were useless against the onslaught. Every 30 minutes or so, I’d roll down the window, lean out as far as I could to grab the windshield wiper and knock some of the ice off with my scraper. The snow was blowing sideways and would whip into my ears and blow my hair all around my face. It was terrifying. I wasn’t able to move, I couldn’t see, I didn’t want to get out of my car for fear of being run over by an out-of-control vehicle, and worse: I was low on gas, low on cell phone battery, and had to use the bathroom.

After at least four and a half hours of being stuck like this, I finally made it up to the intersection where I could turn around. I thought that I might make it home if I took a different route. However, there was an incline to get to the on-ramp to the interstate, and my Acura just couldn’t do it. My car did amazingly well up until that point, but then it just … gave up. It wouldn’t go forward. When I tried to back down, it wouldn’t go backward. I was stuck. And the blizzard was still coming down.

At this point, my memory gets a little fuzzy. It had been about five hours and I was rapidly losing the will to carry on and barely cared what became of me. I resigned myself to living out the rest of my days in a car stuck on the on-ramp.  A police officer appeared and tapped on the window. I rolled it down. He asked me how I was doing. I told him that my car was stuck, my cell phone was dead, I was almost out of gas and it was my birthday. He said happy birthday. (Thanks, buddy.) He asked if I needed help. I’m like, duh.

He got some other cop, and the two of them held onto my arms as we walked down the interstate on-ramp to a police SUV at the bottom.  I got in the back of the SUV, and the two officers, whom I still think of fondly, let me pick the radio station and chatted with me on the 2-3 mile drive home. They couldn’t actually turn into my apartment complex because of the snow. They got as close as they could to the nearest curb. I waved goodbye and walked about a quarter mile through thigh-high snow to get to my front door. My hair was wet and ropy. My clothes were drenched, and when my roommate opened the door, I’m sure she saw a wild look in my eye.

A few days later, I, with the help of some friends, a big jeep, and a tow rope, recovered my car from an impound lot. It had snowed AGAIN after they put it in the lot and it was stuck in ice and had to be jerked out. I almost didn’t make it home for Christmas and, on my move back to Texas, got stuck at a trashy truck stop in Durango on New Year’s Eve thanks to another storm.

Since then, I’ve hated snow. Living through Snowmagedden last year didn’t help. I’ll save that story for another time, but let me just say that I put the ‘crazy’ in stir-crazy.

Dreaming of fruity drinks on tropical islands,

Scarlett

Work Girl: Eating Our Way Through Central Texas, Part 2

{Work Girl}

We've all heard the old adage 'the way to a man's heart is through his stomach'.  For our recent road trip through Central Texas, this morsel of wisdom also held with equal truth 'the way to Scarlett and Work Girl's heart is through bbq.  And not just any bbq.  Texas bbq'.

Scarlett and I rolled hard into Austin looking like we had been run hard and drug wet.  I can't adequately express the mini's dilapidated, pathetic demeanor.  It started raining as we began our journey to College Station, and the drizzle and occasional torrents were still flowing strong in Austin.  Fortunately, Scarlett decked us out in style at the historic and majestic Driskill Hotel in the heart of downtown Austin, right on 6th Street.  We were both speechless with appreciation upon our first bedraggled step into the decadent lobby.

After a short siesta in our size XXXXXL complimentary Driskill robes, we were refreshed and ready to paint the town red. 

Scarlett's bubbly and lovely galpal swooped us up in style for dinner at Lambert's BBQ, where we joined her significant other and enjoyed specialty cocktails muddled and swirled by the bartender who also happened to be her handsome, single, actor cousin.  The night was already off to a terrific start.

The bbq itch must have been equally strong in both Scarlett and me as we ordered brisket and pulled pork, an uncommon practice for either of us.  But, Lambert's confident attitude and classy style assured us this would be a special experience.  First, we savored deviled eggs and pickled olives and shallots which alone would have been enough to call the night a success.  This was followed by the barbequed brisket and pork that truly felt like cutting into butter and had such warm, smoky flavor that it was easy for us to stuff ourselves senseless and remember why Texas is famous for its bbq. 

We ended this perfect meal with Americanos and dessert.  Scarlett ordered:  fried apricot pie.  I ordered:  pumpkin bread pudding.  Both topped with homemade vanilla ice cream.  Need I say more?  We needed to be rolled back to our hotel room, but it was worth it.  And, it's safe to say we both lost our hearts to Texas bbq that night, and I can't wait to go back and lose my heart again. ;-)

Scarlett and I did not stop there but enjoyed an amazing breakfast at the Driskill's famous cafe & bakery, hiked to the Capitol, and lunched before beginning our journey home.  As we rode into the sunset with stomach's grossly extended and laughter brimming, we marked down another triumphant adventure... of eating our way through Central Texas.