india.aching.

front page of every online news network currently says something to this effect, as BBC puts it:

"Gunmen have carried out a series of co-ordinated attacks across the Indian city of Mumbai (Bombay), killing 101 people and injuring 287 more. "

thank you, Caedmon's Call, for putting some of my reaction to this horror into words:

"Father God, You have shed Your tears for Mother India;
they have fallen to water ancient seeds
that will grow into hands to touch the untouchable.
how blessed are the poor, the sick, the weak
Father, forgive me, for I have not believed
like Mother India, I have groaned and grieved
Father, forgive me, I forgot Your grace
Your Spirit falls on India and captures me in Your embrace

The serpent spoke and the world believed its venom
now we're ten to a room or compared with magazines
Father, forgive me, for I have not believed
like Mother India, I have groaned and grieved
Father, forgive me, I forgot Your grace
Your Spirit falls on India and captures me in Your embrace

There's a land where our shackles turn to diamonds
where we trade in our rags for a royal crown
in that place, our oppressors hold no power
and the doors of the King are thrown wide
Father, forgive me, for I have not believed
like Mother India, I have groaned and grieved
Father, forgive me, I forgot Your grace
Your Spirit falls on India and captures me in Your embrace"

[and i felt compelled to try out www.wordle.net for this one, owing to Amy's discovery/sharing]



right now, i'm just taking time to grieve and shed tears with our Father God for my Mother India. apparently he likes to have me sitting on the other side of the world when one of my 'home' countries is being majorly attacked by terrorists (i was in India on Sep. 11, 2001). at least i'm with my family for this long weekend while we watch and wait for the news to unfold, so we can process it together. 'happy thanksgiving' hmm.

cold.cloud-covered.dia.

It is no wonder that just the touch of another human being at a dark time can be enough to save the day.

- Frederick Buechner,

Beyond Words

a.beautiful.addiction.

no, i'm not thinking of coffee. although i'm definitely addicted to its bitter beauty.

not books. although i go through withdrawal when i haven't read something lovely for a while.

not music. although it's breathtakingly beautiful sometimes, and my life is full of it to the brim.

not prayer. unfortunately. although it is becoming more of a habit and instinct, it would be good for that to become my addiction. but i can't say it is one yet. wow. what a sweet life goal, what a beautiful addiction that would be. but that's not what i'm thinking of.

no, my most recent injection of this particular addictive experience came this weekend in the form of the 9:30 service at First Baptist Church of Indianapolis. no ordinary service, no. this worship service was packed with people, listening to the preaching and praying, and all praising God - in the Karen language. they are refugees from Burma, who meet every week to worship together in the crowded chapel in one little wing of the FBC.

yes. i confess. i am addicted [or maybe that's not the word, since i so rarely get a fix of it - maybe it's more like, intensely attracted] to being immersed in worship experiences in languages that i can't understand.

why am i addicted to this, i wonder?

maybe it's the mystery. the reinforcement of the reality that i can't know everything, that other people's spiritual experiences are essentially just as valid and special and deep and acceptable to God as mine, and quite unknowable by me, and that is more than okay.

maybe it's the yearning to put myself in their shoes of jumping into an English-speaking culture without knowing a word of English.

maybe it's the freedom of not having to strive to fit in; i'm already a different color than almost everybody in the room, and in God's presence it doesn't matter, we're all one family.

maybe it's that vision of unity that i have, that somehow desperately i hope to live out by placing my physical presence in the midst of diversity.

maybe it's the desire to become like a child again, not straining to grasp any deep truths or life lessons; just simply trusting in God's power and goodness and hearing of prayers, and accepting the goodness and love that shoots through the fingertips and smile-creases of his children.

maybe it's the abundance of cute babies that are on my level linguistically, so i have more time to wink at them.

maybe it's the memories of Dutch church in Amsterdam. of the Arabic and Spanish worship song-fest at a campfire. of the Greek churches on Easter morning in Athens. of Verbo Iglesia en Cuenca. of Tamil weddings and building dedications. of the Akha village church in Thailand. of the Sumi Baptist convention in Nagaland. of various Green Lake missions conferences. of the hallways of my high school in Kodaikanal.

maybe it's a subconscious wish to speak in tongues like the Pentecost people.

maybe...i don't know. all i know is...i'm addicted. and it's beautiful. and i'm so thankful for this weekend, and this particular limb of the church body that has blessed me simply by being themselves and inviting/allowing me to be present with them, before the throne of God.

dancing.in.the.streets.

[no beating around the bush here. i've done that long enough. it's time for freedom of speech in anna's world, time to cast out my long-held fear of expressing political opinions. you privileged readers, you, who get to read this historic blog post. haha. ;-) i guess i just feel grateful to be able to write it. and to live in light of what will happen next.]

so i paid my dues for exercising my right to vote:

yes, i spent my two hours in line to vote in the swing state of indiana today.

but what a beautiful sunny day it was on which to do so.

with lots of lovely people to wave to ahead and behind.

and what a wonderful investment of my time.

because. it. swung.

and.

Barack Obama.

WON.

now, 'dancing in the streets' is kind of a figure of speech for me, one that i've been whispering to myself whenever i felt peer-pressured to waver in my convictions about this election, and a story that i've occasionally voiced as delicately yet sincerely as possible to those who i thought might have open ears to some of the love-logic behind my opinion.

it comes from a kid. an almost-grown-up kid. a third culture kid whose family is mostly American but grew up mostly in the Middle East/North Africa. i remember the kid's name and can picture his tight curly mop of hair in my mind's eye right now. a creative kid who played guitar and helped lead worship at the camp i was helping to lead. a very intelligent kid who knows much more about politics than i could ever hope to. a kid who saw realistically some of the good and not-so-good on both sides of the ballot, and articulated these tensions quite thoughtfully. a kid who cares deeply for his sisters, his parents, his friends, his neighbors, his countries. a fun-loving kid who ran around and rode roller-coasters all day before settling down on the bus on which we had this conversation with a small group of TCKs interested in the political issues at hand.

at that point, the race for the Dem. nomination was still going on between Hilary and Obama. the kid was observing that although either candidate would be more welcomed by people in his country than a Republican candidate, Hilary might not garner too-too much respect in the Arab world because of her...well...femaleness, which wouldn't carry so much power in such male-dominated societies. so i felt compelled to ask: "and in your impression, what would be the reaction of people in your country and in that area of the world if Obama was elected?" and he said:

"they would be dancing in the streets."

and i thought: i would very much like for them to dance.

and i also thought: i would totally dance with them. i want to be able to dance with them.

and...as of a few sweet hours ago... so i can! tonight, tonight we can DANCE! unfortunately, it's more of an inner dance for me because i still have homework to do tonight, and most people around here are asleep, not to mention they're not necessarily quite as euphoric as i am.

so, although i may have to keep it on the down-low around this conservative campus, 'euphoric' is my new favorite word of the day. i found and claimed it on this neat page at the NY Times site where you can submit a word, every hour if you want, that describes how you're feeling post-election-day, as a supporter of Obama, McCain, or neither.

also on NY Times, an article said "It would be hard to overstate how fervently vast stretches of the globe wanted the election to turn out as it did." [and i'm so freaking proud to be part of those vast stretches.] it frames his victory in light of the fact "that for America to choose as its citizen in chief such a skillful straddler of global identities could not help but transform the nation’s image." [and i'm intensely interested in how the strengths of his TCK identity will serve him in this internationally influential role.] of course, i'm aware "that peace and happiness are not going to suddenly break out."

[except that - in a way or two - they. just. did.]

because - que hermosa - que bendita - a friend who was watching a different TV channel than i was, told me that he saw news clips of people, la gente, in Kenya.

dancing.

in.

the streets.

and they are not alone.

amen.and keep on praying, whether you feel like dancing or not.

peace!

my.portrait.by.myers.briggs.

this is so healing. and hilarious, at the same time. to read about my personality type and realize that some of the struggles and weaknesses and ridiculous-sounding ideas i have are not just insanity...well, some of them may be...but that some of them are explainable in light of the way my mind and heart have been made to work. also it's reassuring that there's some other people in the world who share these tendencies in common with me. it's funny but so appropriate that i would have to read about it to find out that other people like this exist, because many of my type are so reserved about what they really feel, or some have learned to function in more socially acceptable ways...even when we would rather be hermits sometimes...so anyway...

i'm an INFP. also called an 'Idealist Healer'.

Healers present a calm and serene face to the world, and can seem shy, even distant around others. But inside they're anything but serene, having a capacity for personal caring rarely found in the other types. Healers care deeply about the inner life of a few special persons, or about a favorite cause in the world at large. And their great passion is to heal the conflicts that trouble individuals, or that divide groups, and thus to bring wholeness, or health, to themselves, their loved ones, and their community. Their deep commitment to the positive and the good is almost boundless and selfless, inspiring them to make extraordinary sacrifices for someone or something they believe in. Set off from the rest of humanity by their privacy and scarcity (around one percent of the population), Healers can feel even more isolated in the purity of their idealism.

INFPs are focused on making the world a better place for people. Their primary goal is to find out their meaning in life. What is their purpose? How can they best serve humanity in their lives?

INFPs are highly intuitive about people. They rely heavily on their intuitions to guide them, and use their discoveries to constantly search for value in life. They are on a continuous mission to find the truth and meaning underlying things. Every encounter and every piece of knowledge gained gets sifted through the INFP's value system, and is evaluated to see if it has any potential to help the INFP define or refine their own path in life. The goal at the end of the path is always the same - the INFP is driven to help people and make the world a better place.

INFPs do not like conflict, and go to great lengths to avoid it. If they must face it, they will always approach it from the perspective of their feelings. In conflict situations, INFPs place little importance on who is right and who is wrong. They focus on the way that the conflict makes them feel, and indeed don't really care whether or not they're right. They don't want to feel badly. This trait sometimes makes them appear irrational and illogical in conflict situations. On the other hand, INFPs make very good mediators, and are typically good at solving other people's conflicts, because they intuitively understand people's perspectives and feelings, and genuinely want to help them.

INFPs are flexible and laid-back, until one of their values is violated. In the face of their value system being threatened, INFPs can become aggressive defenders, fighting passionately for their cause.

INFPs are usually talented writers. They may be awkard and uncomfortable with expressing themselves verbally, but have a wonderful ability to define and express what they're feeling on paper.

INFPs never seem to lose their sense of wonder. One might say they see life through rose-colored glasses. INFPs have the ability to see good in almost anyone or anything. Even for the most unlovable the INFP is wont to have pity. Of course, not all of life is rosy, and INFPs are not exempt from the same disappointments and frustrations common to humanity. Many INFPs struggle with the issue of their own ethical perfection. Frequently they hear a call to go forth into the world and help others, a call they seem ready to answer, even if they must sacrifice their own comfort.

The INFP needs to work on balancing their high ideals with the requirements of every day living. Without resolving this conflict, they will never be happy with themselves, and they may become confused and paralyzed about what to do with their lives.

[this insight-filled mish-mash of descriptions compiled from:
here, there, this, and that]

i.have.so.much.to.live.up.to.

hermitage

friday.night.thoughts:

my own voice from the practice room rings in my ears as i sit in the student union, one girl and her computer and cell phone and books and pens and cup of tea at a big empty table, having passed up one too many chances to go out or hang out with people tonight. no art show. no coffee shop. no library study buddies.

so i'm thinking about my music, from Samuel Barber's 20th century art song cycle, "The Hermit Songs", i sing one piece about ominous church bells, one piece about a saint's vision of nursing the baby Jesus at her breast, and one piece called "The Desire for Hermitage". ah, to be all alone, in a little cell, with nobody near me...

i get so anti-social sometimes. and i think that has to be okay. probably an indication that i need some intentional space-time of solitude with God, to get right with the world again, to make things make sense again.

because really, as Henri Nouwen says so piercingly in his book "The Return of the Prodigal Son", I am God's home! Jesus says, "Anyone who loves me will keep my word and my Father will love him, and we shall come to him and make our home in him." ...To make our home where God has made his, this is the great spiritual challenge...Coming home and staying there where God dwells...that was, indeed, the journey I most feared...when would I be ready to accept that kind of love? ...I am called to enter into the inner sanctuary of my own being where God has chosen to dwell. The only way to that place is prayer, unceasing prayer. Many struggles and much pain can clear the way, but I am certain that only unceasing prayer can let me enter it.

prayer. i wish i could just take a week, a month, a year, and be a hermit, practicing prayer, unceasing prayer. but i guess the secluded hermitage is not my calling right now. right now i must live in the open spaces, the mingling crowds, the testing fires, the betraying kisses, the spread tables, the clinking glasses, the ringing harmonies, the gritty towels, the clasping hands and knocking knees and penetrating eyes and discerning ears of community. however much i want to run from it sometimes...i know there is no other true vocational option for me, but to find God's home in me; to love and serve the people he has made; and to learn to receive their love and service as gifts from him. from the Father in Rembrandt's 'Return of the Prodigal Son' painting that lives in the Hermitage in Russia. he is just as present in the multitude as in the solitude, in the din of communication as in the silence of stillness, in the busyness as in the restfulness, in the chaos as in the peace. because wherever i am...there he is. wow. sounds so simple, but so easy for me to forget.

the.painting.

so. hermitage. as with many things, i go through a rollercoaster of how much i love/like/need/hate/want the idea to be reality. for tonight, in some little, almost trivial ways, it has been my reality, even though murmurs of conversation drift around me from neighboring tables, little islands of whirring, ticking, talking, working minds and mouths inside this dome-shaped architecture. ah, to be all alone... but i don't need to. no Lord, all i need is to

be.
with.

YOU.