Summer blessings

I could whine about whining mosquitos and the wet that blooms on my back as I walk to the store with the sun burning the top of my head.

Summer is not my favorite season of the year, but today I choose to remember the things I like about summer…

Electrifying cold water descending down down to pool in my belly. Coconut oil that pours rather than being chipped from the edges of a jar and butter that comes pre-softened. The chorus of air conditioners from those lucky enough to have them. Shadows sharp from the bright sunlight. Coolness seeping out of underground parking garages to embrace passersby. People who aren’t afraid of the night because of other people who aren’t afraid of the night. Late morning yawns on balconies and on streets. The long shadows of morning and evening, wide enough for everyone to walk in the shade. The coolness of freshly mopped floors under my bare feet. Open windows, open doors. Always a conversation on the tips of tongues: the heat, the dust, the wind. The perfume of sunscreen–cocounty and sweet– from those in line at the supermarket. Every excuse for a siesta. The lack of hurry from a summer culture who has time to wait. Cars and vans leaving town, roof racks piled high with bundled gifts for family just a ferry-ride away. The lessening, the stealth of quietness that crawls into town as more and more people slip away for the summer. A pace of life that finally matches the projects at hand. And enough time in the day to spend with friends (those who remain).

Foodie nights

This summer, I was encouraged to add recreational activities to my regular schedule. “What do I enjoy doing?” I asked myself. My default pleasure activity has always been reading, any free time passing with my nose in a book. But surely that wasn’t all I enjoyed.

Then I remembered that I like puttering around in the kitchen when I have purpose but no pressure. The remembrance felt like walking into the embrace of a dear friend, so when I returned to Spain, I determined to make time for recreational cooking.

Roughly every other weekend, but sometimes in another available time here or there, I plan a time for recreational cooking. I call it a “foodie night,” but mostly just to myself because, truth be told, I’m not a foodie; I just like trying a new recipe now and then without the pressure of it needing to turn out.

The foodie night process starts long before the evening I get to try out a new recipe. It starts with ideas–maybe an ingredient I see that I didn’t know I could get here in Spain, or something someone else mentions they made. Then I hunt down a recipe, gather ingredients from hither and yon around town (and invent substitutions for those I can’t find). And maybe the recipe requires a little prep beforehand. At last, foodie night arrives, and I pull out my collection of ingredients, turn on some music, and take my time.

Here’s what I’ve made so far:

Miso soup ⭐
Spring rolls with shrimp, cucumber, carrot, and mint dipped in peanut sauce ⭐⭐⭐⭐
Miso soup again ⭐
Gelatin gummies ⭐
100% Rye bread, recipe #1 ⭐
Sugar-free chocolate mousse ⭐⭐⭐⭐
100% Rye bread again, recipe #2 ⭐⭐
100% Rye bread for the third time, recipe #3 ⭐⭐

Perhaps the stars say it all. They surely tell you that you’re glad you weren’t around to taste test!

I decided that miso is an acquired taste that I don’t feel like acquiring. Or maybe I chose the wrong recipes to try. Who knows? The only thing the spring rolls were missing was more shrimp. My tight-wad amount of shrimp was masked by the show-stealing peanut sauce. The gelatin gummies were a nice thought, but just tasted like bland finger Jell-O. And then began the rye bread saga. The flavor was right every time…but I was always disappointed by the incredible density that made it more chewy than pleasurable. The last loaf puffed promisingly in the oven, but collapsed when I removed it. The chocolate mousse was a modest success, but only with myself since I didn’t share it with anyone.

Although many of these attempts didn’t turn out like I had envisioned, it doesn’t really matter. The joy of the process was exactly what I had envisioned.

Choosing a dream vacation

A couple of weeks ago, we had a team listening exercise in which each of us had to describe our dream vacation. A teammate would listen carefully and later give the details to the larger group.

What is my dream vacation? I like to think I’m adventurous, like maybe backpacking across Europe or ending up on the African savannah. A friend and I are planning a 40th birthday trip (still a few years off, but we might as well have a blast planning). She wanted to go to Australia until she heard about the poisonous snakes. I’m still voting for Scandinavia.

One teammate said he wants to go to every English speaking country over the course of 5 years. One wanted to travel to every continent. Another wanted Switzerland, another Alaska.

I said Ireland. I’d take a small fishing village on the west coast with a stack of books and plenty of solitude. I’d soak in the wild coastal nature and eat oysters every day. Maybe I’d slip into the city every now and then for a hot chocolate and street musicians. Maybe I’d invite a quiet friend along and we could drink Irish tea and be alone together in the gentle drizzle of a rainy day.

That’s the best I can think up right now. But I’m curious what everyone else’s dream vacations would be. Well? What would you choose? Feel free to leave a comment so I can dream with you.

Repetition at the sea

My favorite part of the beach is feeling the immenseness of God while seeing the careful details of His creation–a tiny shell, a delicate strip of seaweed. And all of the while, the waves rhythmically pummel the grainy shore.

In his book Orthodoxy, G. K. Chesterton writes that maybe God is like a child in the way He enjoys the repetition of His creation. It’s not that He is stuck in a rut or that He even has a factory that stamps the same design on daisy after daisy. Instead, He delights in the repetition of His creation like a child, “[exulting] in monotony.” “For we have sinned and grown old,” writes Chesterton, “and our Father is younger than we.”

I think about this as I pick smooth pieces of broken shells out of the sand around my towel. The sea creeps closer. Then the wind picks up and I turn my back to it and watch people walking their dogs along the walking path. On top of the mountains swelling beyond the port, are caps of brilliant snow.

The roar of look-alike waves settles something so deep in me that tears prickle behind my eyes.

Just that week, darkness had threatened with a roar, but the roar of a starving lion rather than a roar of majestic waves. And for a few awful moments I had felt its breath on my neck, breath that smelled of despair.

Will the lion come back? My heart races to even consider it. Please no, God. Not again. But, if I’m honest, there are tired days I want to let myself be consumed, as if stopping the struggle could bring relief.

I pack my things–my damp towel, the handful of broken shells, and my sunglasses. As I walk to the bus stop, the salt from the ocean spray still clings to my lips. I lick them. And then I lick them again. The salt remains. I smile, imagining that I smell like the sea.

My heart has quieted. Perhaps it was in the faithfulness of the Father’s repetitive creation. Or the delightful majesty of ocean and mountains. Perhaps. But even in the bitter wind, His Presence is here.

Made in God’s image: thoughts on sexual harassment- Part 1

I hesitate to approach this topic because I have so much to learn. Yet, my silence isn’t much use to anyone. So, I’m lunging forward, hoping that victims of sexual harassment will grasp the power of knowing that harassment cannot touch their intrinsic worth.

MADE IN GOD’S IMAGE

“So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them… And God saw everything that he had made, and behold, it was very good.” (Gen. 1:27&31a)

God made man and woman–He made you— in His image. And He called you “very good.” Although “very good” included the human body, God wasn’t just talking about the shape of your nose or how pleasing your figure might be.

At a deeper level, God’s image on your being–the rational, moral, and spiritual–is what gives you beauty and worth. You are “very good” because you were created in God’s image. It’s integral; you cannot be separated from it.

But you can choose not to believe it.

When someone’s value as an image bearer is undercut, there is pain. It’s the sort of pain that no amount of “I must have done something to deserve this” can take away. We can bury it, but we can’t really hide it. And after a while, we start to believe that we are no longer worthy of God’s image.

Today, the discussion focuses on sexual abuse, a much more intricate and painful topic. But sometimes in our haste to address the big issues, we skim over the lingering pain of those who have been harassed but not abused.

“Harassment is normal,” we think. Indeed, we have normalized harassment to the degree that we don’t bother addressing it. Even as a victim, this was my approach… until recently.

IS SEXUAL HARASSMENT OKAY?

Harassment is common, not normal, and the more we normalize it, the more we give the message that it’s acceptable to harass and to be harassed.

During my first experience with harassment, I thought I was overreacting because everyone else ignored it. So, after a few fumbled attempts at addressing it, I accepted it as par for the course in my work environment.

Only recently have I been able to say, “This is not okay.” Why not? Because someone is trying to cheapen the image of God in me. God’s image is being objectified for the sake of someone’s pleasure or lust for power.

Clearly, harassment isn’t something we should dwell on; but, until we find healing, we will dwell on it, like it or not. By “dwell,” I don’t mean in conscious thought only; much of our “dwelling” can happen in the subconscious realm. My first incident was set aside and rarely thought of. Yet, inside of me there was a simultaneous shrinking from and hunger for the positive attention of men.

MY EXPERIENCE

I didn’t know how much my first experience with sexual harassment had affected me until another incident occurred. Suddenly, I was dealing with the emotional aftermath of two incidents instead of one.

But the emotions didn’t come from the incidents themselves as much as from the shame that wound its way through the memories.

It is my fault. Someone implied that I had been too friendly, too familiar.
I have to get over it. It wasn’t a big deal. Nobody else thought I was worth standing up for. Nobody seemed to think he should get into trouble. I tried to ignore it, but week after week of the same issue left my defenses ragged. (Sometimes I felt like I could just give in.)
Maybe I haven’t forgiven. Surely, if I just forgave, all of the pain and shame would vanish.

Along with sexual harassment, there is often a sense of pleasure that comes with being noticed and desirable. That sense of pleasure is God-given (read Song of Solomon!), but in cases of sexual harassment, it typically serves to deepen the shame. We think to be a “real” victim, we must never feel anything except disgust.

Sexual harassment attacks a vulnerable spot; therefore calling the pain to light also calls our vulnerability to light. So we hide behind masks of disgust, anger, or indifference, to name a few.

The offender is not the only victimizer. Many of us have also experienced a level of rejection from those looking on. “Get over it,” is a common sentiment from those who acknowledge what happened but don’t believe in the emotional aftermath. And there are always people who are skeptical, downplay the incident, or even defend the offender.

Regardless of how others respond to your experience, it still happened.

Next week, I’ll share a few ways to respond during and after an incident. In the meantime, I would be glad to hear your advice and wisdom as well. 🙂 See you next time.

Photo by Shoeib Abolhassani on Unsplash