Limited Space

My cousin, Priya Samuel runs an excellent blog giving tips on how to revamp small spaces, making them efficient, trendy even. Art breaths life into stoic pragmatism. She has a fascinating gift. Rearranging objects and furniture to allow for more living space can be cool and even artistically fulfilling; rearranging people to allow us some living space is a different exercise altogether.

A recent film, Detachment features the character Henry Barthes a gifted substitute teacher. He attempts to shoulder the pain of people around him and sees the promise, the potential each person holds. But in time he feels invaded by their issues; every attempt to clear the space they occupy is painful. He admits, “We all have problems, we all have things that we’re dealing with some days we’re better than others, some days we’re not so great. Sometimes we have limited space for others.”

I am discovering that rearranging or trimming people out of my life isn’t as easy as scissors to paper. Facebook falsely assures me of the extent of my control. Reading the Gospels gives me the sense that Jesus’ personal space was non-existent. Living embedded with others is not everyone’s cup of tea. But empathizing with them is. Living like He did could very well mean giving up our right to personal space. I am beginning to understand, following Him means nothing short of giving up my right to personal space. Uncomfortable? Quite.

Spicer: A Life in 20 Scraps

Our fondness for Spicer is difficult to explain. Even our closest non-Spicerian friends, spouses, or children turn mute and isolated in conversations about Spicer. A few exchanges into our conversation with another Spicerian, our non-Spicerian company is befuddled and frustrated. Our pride appears foolish. Why speak so highly of an educational institution so decidedly obsolescent?

If the bemused non-Spicerian chooses to listen-in to two Spicerians reminiscing, an answer to that question may emerge.

The following is a set of 20 scraps of paper recognizable to those who studied at Spicer in the last two decades. To every scrap of paper in this collection is tied a story. Perhaps many stories. Can office stationary and random pieces of paper salvaged from the dust-bin of history resurrect dormant memories?

Please begin at Slide 1.

Walking Worthy

Every pair of shoes I’ve ever owned have been gifts. Understandably, those shoes often reflected the taste, temperament and sometimes even the generosity of the benefactor. During the purchase, I was asked to try it on; “Does it feel comfortable?”, “Where do your toes sit?”,”Walk around, lets see how it looks,”

I do not enjoy shoe-shopping. I have always been glad to take the first, reasonably priced shoe my benefactor picked and then leave quickly. I seem to have missed something all these years.

Today I bought my very first shoe. I looked high and low for a low priced shoe. What would bankrupt students do without Wal-Mart? I tried on a size 12, black leather, dress shoe and walked on. I marched confidently to the cashier, wearing my new shoe. I walked out of the store with my badly torn, shabby, ten year old, size 12, black leather shoe in the new shoe box. I hoped to give it a proper burial. After all, it was a part of my life for ten years.

In the ten years I had worn that size 12, black leather shoe, it never once occurred to me that the shoe was actually too big. After I returned home, I noticed how odd it felt to have a lot of unfilled space at the back of the new shoe. My feet were hunched and jammed into the front of the shoe. “How odd,” I thought, “these are big, but definitely my size; I’ve worn this size ten years!”

I returned to Wal-mart today. I tried a size 11. Too tight, “But maybe that’s how it ought to be.” The voice in my head made me feel stupid. Before I left the store, I found a size 11, Wide, Black Leather, shoe. Perfect comfort! Perfect fit! Its a joy wearing my first, very own pair of black leather shoes.

Sometimes its good to care. Most often we are guilty of caring about clothes and comfort far too much. But there are areas where we are willing to just rush on with an ill-fitting choice. And quite possibly, we’ve done that for years. It’s fair that we care about what we fill our minds and bodies with on the inside as much as we care about what drapes the outside. Its vital that we care. Today, God used size 11W, black, leather shoes to remind me that shoes worth walking in and living a life that’s worthwhile are both good to care about!

Ephesians 4:1 NKJV ” I, therefore, the prisoner of the Lord, beseech you to walk worthy of the calling with which you were called…”

Walk Worthy, Words and Music, Joseph M. Martin

Looking for Ends on a Round Planet

Dear God,
Earth is just about to turn the corner.
Congratulations to you too!
This globe is still a great idea, foibles et al.

You’ve been watching I’m sure,
Its been such a great year for protests
Tunisa, Egypt, Libya, Syria, Kuwait, China, India…
London, Wall Street, …
It’s going out of style, it’s too bloody,
It’s sad.
but it seems to give humans purpose.

This has also been a year for big, costly weddings.
they say one wedding this year cost more than the gross national product of some countries.
And why not. A fancy plowshare is better than a fearsome sword any day!
I understand, even You like a good wedding.

This year has been good to the jobless
Some without jobs found jobs. The others without jobs found the GOP debates.
A good year for them both.
We also lost Jobs (Steve) and a few more friends to old Grim Reaper.
Its sad because we forget we’re human.
We’re shocked and surprised at death every single time!
We’re bad at this game.

I’ll be honest with you, God.
We’re a little tired of this not-so-merry-go-round planet.

This new year is just the old year with a different number.
We’re getting the hang of this game.
“All news is old news happening to new people.”
“Its always winter, but never Christmas.”
Always rehearsal, and never the final performance.
We frequently mistake the rehearsal for the final performance.
And far too busy living our “rehearsal”.
We march to the drumbeat of our selfish drives,
We’ve forgotten how to sing your song.

So please come soon…
We long to hear your Brass-Band-in-the-Sky,
Ring out the old and Ring in the New!

It would be great,
if at the stroke of the midnight hour
we kissed Time goodbye
and embraced our tryst with Eternity.

Yours entirely,
Paul

p.s.: You know… much love etc.

Note to other readers: In writing this letter, I relied on pithy phrases from such sources as Malcom Muggeridge, C. S. Lewis, Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Sunset Bolevard and Jawaharlal Nehru.
Quotes have all been taken entirely out of context.

Skipping Christmas

We’ve never celebrated Christmas in my family. Our fundamentalist church believed strongly about disregarding Christmas as a festival. They even sang hymns about the Sufferings and Death of Christ to prove their orthodoxy. For years, Christmas came and went without a thought. Christmas lights, trees, carols, cake and apple cider never marked the season. Sure, there was the occasional Christmas card from a friend or relative from America. Its arrival met no prior anticipation. It gathered dust and pity on a table awaiting its fate among other unfortunate Christmas cards from years past.

An unexpected discovery at Grandma’s changed everything. She’d found a brand new set of Christmas lights which choreographed with music that played in a small box attached to it. The urge to celebrate Christmas was so bizarre even to me. My parents were first amused. My sister offered unmitigated support. Together we laid plans to buy a tree to hang the lights, and then create a sandbox nativity scene.

It was difficult work. It cost us a sum. Our parents even pitched in to help. Mom donated one of her large plant pots. Dad helped make the tree stable. Once the lights were all strung, someone turned the lights off and we hit the switch. The lights appeared to dance to the music. The colors filled the living room. This was Christmas. We were celebrating Christmas! It felt special. My parents were moved, even awed by the lights.

A few days later some kids and their parents came carol singing. This carol singing was an effort to collect money for the poor. They even tried to sing songs about the Second Coming to make sure it wasn’t a wholesale celebration of Christmas. The kids saw our christmas tree. They were awed by the lights just as we were. They had seen nothing like it before. Then trouble began. The kids began asking their parents why they couldn’t have Christmas trees at their homes. After all, Pastor Shadrach and his family have one! That evening was uncomfortable and very difficult for our family.

The next morning, our first and only Christmas tree met its premature end in a roadside dump.

Christmas is an uncomfortable idea. It is uncomfortable because God was willing to give up the splendor and beauty of Heaven; only so we wouldn’t look at Him and be awed or feared of His dazzling brightness. He left everything just so we’d understand He loves us. Christmas is an uncomfortable idea. It is uncomfortable because loving Jesus back might mean loving our friends as much. It might mean giving up somethings that aren’t necessarily evil, but to them, still a cause for stumbling. Celebrating Christmas without a tree can be amazing! There are scores of things we think are indispensable to us. And they may be the very things that keep us from the people who need our love. More importantly those things may keep us from being accessible to those who need Jesus’ love. At my home church Jesus taught me to give up Christmas to truly celebrate it!

Son, Behold your Mother!

Asking my mother to forgive me is one of the most difficult things I’ve ever attempted. I am not exaggerating. All three times I’ve tried it, I turned into a nervous wreck. She offered her full, overflowing, joyful, super-sufficient pardon; pardon for that wrong and all the wrongs I’ve ever done to her. Few experiences can top that.

I’ve seen my mother accept a tongue-lashing from me with a smile. I’ve heard my mom call me to a scrumptious dinner minutes after I refused to help her prepare it. I’ve eaten my share of chocolate and then all of hers; she has never complained about losing her share. The sum of all I’ve done to wound, insult, ridicule and blame her would take volumes if written. But even if it were all written down, my mother has already made all of that irrelevant because she told me she’s forgiven me. What’s more, in all of these years, she has NEVER reminded me of any of how I’ve treated her in the past. Come to think of it, she has never made an exhibit of my past mistakes, period.

I think very often why it’s EASY to ask God to forgive me. I ask God to forgive me everyday before bedtime. It has never been difficult to do. Could it be possible it isn’t so difficult because I don’t see God choke up when I’m callous? Or can it be because I don’t see Him lavish me with amazing, unexplainable love when I think He’s a bothersome pain?

Or it could be that God gave me a mom to show me that’s precisely how he feels… and that’s precisely how He loves … and He loves to forgive and NEVER ever mention again everything I’ve done to wound Him. Asking God to forgive me is not easy anymore… loving Him is.

“Then Jesus said to the disciple, “Behold, your mother!” John 19:27 (ESV)

Roxanne

Celebrating Christmas can be a hot-potato in some churches. I was not surprised when some well-meaning folks at the Spicer College Church, took umbrage at our Christmas pageant plans. The protest received considerable attention after a small, fiercely vocal minority demanded an explanation for this Christmas pageant. Our organizers explained: “This hasn’t been done in years, and we think it’s a great tradition,” they also suggested, “Its also a great way to witness to people and retell the Christmas story.”

I was part of the organizing team and part of the acting crew. I believed the task of defending the cause was mine. I asked Roxanne to join me for a friendly chat under the trees near the library. Things got out of hand very quickly. Now, lets get this clear: Roxanne looked short, sounded like Tweety bird, and also commanded, nay demanded respect. She was known either to out-talk her opponents or win them over with her charm. She was undeniably a brilliant mind.

After that chat I felt severely lambasted. I walked away nursing wounds that wouldn’t heal very easily. Try losing an argument with a puny, sweet-voiced girl! Things only got worse. The arrangements for the pageant gathered momentum. The college administration put its weight behind it. And this vocal minority played the role of painfully annoying mosquitoes to perfection! We were helpless to do anything about them. Any attempt to shut them up, only exacerbated tensions. It all came to a head one morning; what started as a smart-alek remark from me, went on to become a loud argument – in front of many confused but delighted theology students. To the best of my memory, I was unforgivably out of line. I provoked and then went on to insult Roxanne. She didn’t take it sitting down either.

A few days later, she handed me a beautifully crafted letter. Its immediate concern was to mend the rift between us and to help me see her position on celebrating Christmas – or more precisely, against celebrating Christmas. It contained an impassioned plea. I felt deeply moved. She told me she had been praying about this a lot. She went on to plead and urge me, in her letter, to take a stand for the right and not cave in to do something that didn’t really benefit or belong in God’s Church. However, her letter was not an invitation to dialogue; she didn’t believe dialogue was necessary.

Whatever the case, her attempt to mend a friendship worked. Unfortunately she did not succeed in convincing me against celebrating Christmas that year. I’ve lost contact with Roxanne; she appears to maintain a low profile and avoids social networking sites, its been years since we’ve written each other. But I still hold on to that letter. Roxanne was a radical reformer, I wasn’t prepared for her approach. But her attempt to mend the breach is both admirable and puzzling. It is admirable because I was the provocateur of that distasteful argument. It is puzzling because her attempt at making peace did not involve losing even an inch of ground on her part. We became good friends later… still adamantly different on celebrating Christmas. Revival and Reformation is the mantra today in our church. Reformers with Roxanne’s passion for a pure gospel, and her brusque manners may also need her graciousness after a spar… and one thing she lacked, a lot more patience with people like me. I’m sorry, Roxanne! 🙂 If you’ve read this, I hope we’re still friends!

Old People and the Old, Old Story

Old people can be incredible fun and unbearable pain. There are some old folks who live between those extremes. Either way, I am fascinated by them. Just watching them is grand entertainment. When I get down to the business of talking and after they’ve opened up, the promise and possibilities that conversation holds are endless. I can listen for hours. And by the way, I’ve never ever met an old person who isn’t funny! They’re funny even if they don’t want to be funny! I’ve felt time has a way of satirizing old photographs; I’ve come to understand, it has that effect on the people in the photographs as well!

Ever since I was a little kid, I watched my grandmother first put my grandfather’s dentures in little glass bowls and then her own before lights-out. I’d look at the dentures and then look at their mouths. Just then, I’d ask them a very serious question, only to see how they’d talk without their teeth on. That was loads of fun! Incidentally, they were quite serious about the ritual. They removed their teeth every single night. And I was never at a loss for pre-bed-time entertainment. Never a dull moment between them either! My grandfather A. P. Samuel was quick witted. My grandmother ever the pragmatist, managed to have the last laugh. Like for instance, the summer of 1985, the first time my grandparents visited my uncle and aunt in America, my grandfather lost his way walking around my uncle’s neighborhood. He knocked on an old lady’s door and asked for directions to… um… oops! he didn’t know where. He’d forgotten to ask my uncle what his house address was. She invited him in, gave him some hot chocolate, called the cops and was helped home!

My grandparents were staunch Seventh-day Adventists. They loved the church. They truly loved God. There was nothing fake about their faith. They were quite intentional about their faith and they let others know they were! In the time I spent with my grandparents at their modest, tile roof, row house at 23, Thandavan Street, Madras, every morning was an evangelistic campaign! My grandmother played her Audio Bible cassette tapes on a small stereo – at full blast. After which my grandfather played his violin and sang glorious hymns! My grandmother also had the outer walls of the house covered with verses from the Bible. And these weren’t John 3:16 or Genesis 1:1. These verses were a systematic apologetic on such topics as the Law, the Sabbath, the state of the dead, the second coming of Jesus and so on. She believed her Pentecostal neighbors would read it and be saved, or die knowing she was right!

Now you’d think their neighbors were angry and disgusted with them. After all, at 5:30 am things can easily go sour at row-houses with a blaring stereo, even if it’s the Bible that’s blaring. But in all the time I was there, I cannot remember any of the neighbors complain… not once! Quite the opposite. Despite the very conscious, in-your-face evangelism my grandparents was actively engaged in, those neighbors loved them to bits. They saved my grandparent’s lives more than once: flood, heart-attack, blindness, electricity failure, you name it they were always around to help.

It’s been several years now since my grandparents lived in their beloved little tile roof house on Thandavan Street. The house no longer stands, and my grandparents are asleep in Jesus. There’s so much about their ways that I’m only beginning to understand all these years later. But this evening, I also remember my grandparents sharing all of the very little they had selflessly, baby sitting their neighbors kids, praying for them, offering practical wisdom, feeding them their simple food any time – and what scrumptious food! Their neighbors could walk in, night or day, and walk out fed, listened to, chatted with and loved.

It dawned on me this evening – their love blared louder than their stereo. If all our neighbors ever hear from us are the “words” of our gospel, it’s a small wonder they hate us. Perhaps my grandparents knew that. Or perhaps they were just being amazing, hilarious, wonderful, lovable, old people!

Never Forget?

My practical jokes habitually went too far. That evening it hurt one of my three roommates, who was also one of my best friends. I remember instigating the wicked scheme to keep the door locked, while Shelby knocked, demanded, threatened and pleaded for us to open the door. My other roommates laughed uproariously while I kept prodding Shelby to try a different “secret code-phrase”. He knocked on the door of the neighboring room, they allowed him to climb into our balcony from their’s. But oh how clever we were, we locked the balcony side door to our room.

It was an inhuman hour and as I would later learn, he was exhausted. If that wasn’t reason enough to lay off the evil I was doing, there’s more; earilier in the week, I convinced Shelby to join me and another friend on a jog every morning at 5:00. For a few days we had remarkable success keeping that appointment. That evening he had determined to go to bed early so he could continue keeping it. Frustrated and infuriated at my insanity, he left to sleep on the hostel’s airy rooftop. But there, mosquitoes buzzed around baying for blood. We undid the locks when we realized he was seriously upset. He returned defeated by the mosquitoes and very disgusted with my foolish carousing.

The next morning, I woke up a few minutes before 5 and realized last night’s bearing on the morning’s appointment. Now I was supposed to be the one knocking, figuratively. I stood beside his bed gingerly, extending my hand to tap him awake but then pulling it back. Why did he have to help? I was the one afraid of stray dogs on the jogging trail. He would do very well to let me go. I turned around to wear my shoes, to face the bitter cold morning and the stray dogs by myself, when I heard him climb down from his bunk.

We jogged in complete silence. 45 minutes. 5k.

I was thorougly ashamed and felt an enormous weight of guilt and sadness. I dreaded talking things through, apologizing was a terrifying thought. It seemed easier to go on forever without talking. Many times through that jog, I tried to mouth an apology, but couldn’t produce a whisper, only large puffs of steam. My tounge felt dry, my throat hurt and the weight of what was happenning was nearly unbearable.

We were minutes away from our hostel. After many false attempts to utter a syllable, it came tumbling out. “Sorry about all that yesterday”, I blurted out.
“Ah, that’s all fine”, He waved dismissively.
And once again, we fell into easy, hilarious chatter almost as if nothing had ever happened!
The knot in my throat dissolved, the enormous weight over me vanished. Forgiven twice over, I could fly!

At the risk of being insensitive, I ask, could forgiving the perpetrators of 9/11 make sense? Could we break the cycle of hate and “ungrace”, as Philip Yancey calls it? Could grace – amazing, incredulous, scandalous grace be the answer to our Hurting? All of us feel the sense of justified rage at the sheer idiocy of those dastardly acts. The rallying cry of this nation since 9/11 has been “Never Forget”! But even justified anger breeds justified anger. Our “rhetoric of hate” as Delyse Steyn calls it, has only left us in fear, waiting for the next 9/11. What’s more, our anger is felt by the children walking the streets of Karachi, Kabul, and Kandahar both tangibly and intangibly. They know in their hearts that we dislike them for what they could be associated with. And that idea of that we hate them, will spawn hatred in them and the cycle of hate will turn vicious and continual.

Grace, pure, amazing, unbeliveable grace is what we need in our hearts, right now! We can break the chain of ungrace and begin a whole new revoloution, choosing to forgive and forget just like Shelby did. Ten years after 9/11, it isn’t too late to start.

Living Unfinished Stories

Who says all stories must have an ending?

Everyday we create stories that may never see completion. There’s the life-changing book we pick up and grow excited about, only to suspend reading to get the laundry done. The book and all chances of that life-transforming event just sit there, suspended, waiting, on page 63. Years may come and go and that moment, like liquid suspension will have dissolved into a hazy memory.

There is the flash of an idea, the nagging irritant question, or the wisps of imagination. All rabbit trails no doubt, leading into Wonderland or Blunderland. But in one of those many wild and ridiculous escapades an Adventure of several lifetimes awaits.

There is also the beginning of relationships. People alter one’s destiny exponentially more than any book or daydream. The people we pass over, the people we befriend for short spells and then forget about, the people we live with all our lives and still remain unknown have unencountered magic. They hold the magic portion potent to make us small enough to wiggle through the escape door from dark, grim prisons of circumstance. Their virtues can work like a cure, allowing us to grow tall above mediocrity and baseness. Their love can fill our senses like verdant green freshness of the everglades while we trudge through dry trackless emotional wastelands.

The drumbeat timing the march of destiny never really slows. The special moment? That special person who alters my heartbeat? I wish i could see. I wish I knew. I wish I could stay. The phone rings, the laundry waits, rabbits run waiting to be chased and the person with the power to change life is still standing, suspended, between earth and heaven. There are moments, days, nights when I wish my story was a finished work. I don’t care for happy endings.

Today I met one Person. I’ve passed by Him scores of times. He stands by a Cross. He’s hoping I don’t pass Him by or think He’s not worth my time. He’s holding a lot more than magic. He says He’d like for me to stay around. Would I like to learn the hard facts about myself? Would I like help changing my flaws? Would I be interested in a friendship that lasts for ever? Would I like being loved? Would I like waking up everyday to know that He’s got the plans for that day? Would I be glad for some adventure? He laughs. Everything else can wait, I suppose.

My story is still unfinished. Because of Jesus, thank God it isn’t.