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Boxes

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A friend of mine who recently moved posted the following on Facebook: “Does anyone need boxes? We have many!”

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The last pile of boxes waiting to move from our Bagabag house 2 years ago. Those same boxes have assisted in 2 moves since then. They now rest quietly in our upper cupboards. (Well, except for the one that got its big break as a Minecraft creeper head…)

What a wonderful status message! I actually can’t remember the last time we got rid of our moving boxes. To think of reaching a point where one doesn’t anticipate needing them in the foreseeable future… well, I think I’ll have to put that on my bucket list!

But (you may say), boxes are a fairly available commodity — why clutter up one’s home with them, no matter how soon the next move is? Well. I have two words for that. Pack. Rat. Yep, as much as I dream of having a boxless house someday (imagine actually being able to store linens in the upper cupboards!), the truth is we do get attached to our boxes!

We even kept a box once just because of the message on the outside. This was years ago. (25, to be exact.) We received a wedding present in the mail in a worn box subtly tatooed with the marks of a past life. Scrawled in ballpoint ink across one side were the words “ugly plastic wreath”. The backstory of that box — released at long last from years of unwanted-Christmas-deco bondage — so delighted us that we kept the poor thing long after the cheeses it conveyed were consumed.

Boxes. Such a part of our transient lifestyle. But someday I’m gonna ditch ’em all!

Q: What are your best “box” memories?

 

The Jesus Diet

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What does a natural-born alien eat?
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During our cross-cultural training, an oft-quoted rule-of-thumb was “Whatever is put in front of you!”

Ouch! The ultimate challenge for a picky eater! And all the more so when faced with unfamiliar — yea, bizarre-looking — local “delicacies”. (Take rambutans, for instance. I mean, who would have thought such a spiky, alien-looking fruit would be not only edible, but delicious!)

Whatever is put in front of you? Seriously?!

But Jesus apparently agreed. He was ready to “eat” whatever His Father put in front of him.

I just can’t stop thinking about that Jesus Diet: “My food is to do the will of him who sent me and to finish his work.” John 4:34

How do I — a picky eater in food and life — develop a taste for the same? Well, maybe I could start with an appetizer.

Appetizer: A food or drink served usually before a meal to stimulate the appetite.

When our son Jonathan was four, he had a standard prayer for mealtimes (honed to 5-second perfection!): “Thank-You-for-this-yummy-food. AY-men!”

Then one day, completely out of the blue, he amazed us with a spontaneous variation: “Thank you for this yummy food. We don’t want you to take it away! Whatever You give us, we’ll eat!”

Thank you for this yummy food. Whatever You give us, we’ll eat.

Out of the mouth of babes. That simple expression of thanksgiving for God’s gifts and faith in God’s goodness points the way for me.

When I, like Jesus and Jonathan, can turn from complaining to rest completely in God’s goodness … when I can begin every “meal” (of food or of life) with wholehearted thanksgiving … will my appetite grow for more? More of God. More of His will. More of the Jesus Diet.

With Jonathan, I say “AY-men!” Let it be so.

Diet of a Natural-Born Alien

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OK, I admit it. I’m a picky eater.

As a kid, I never ate salad. Abhored onions. (My kind mother used to blend them to put in sauces – it was the texture, not the flavor, that choked me.) And I really didn’t like trying new foods, especially if they had foreign-sounding names!

And then God sends me to another country. (Don’t even try to tell me He doesn’t have a sense of humor!) Thankfully, I’ve learned to love Filipino food. In fact, many days nothing satisfies like a steaming mound of rice and ulam.

I confess, though, that when stress hits, so do the cravings for first-culture “comfort food”. In my case, that would be macaroni and cheese. Chicken and dumplings. Biscuits smothered in sausage gravy. (And some days, what I wouldn’t give for a big mess of soup beans and cornbread!)

Our family has noticed another weird thing about food and culture: when we’re in one culture, we tend to seek out food that affirms our belonging in the other culture. When we lived in the province, for instance, it was a big deal to eat at Pizza Hut and even  *shudder*  McDonalds on trips to the city. Yet, we almost never ate at those places in the States!

But when we’re in the U.S., it’s the other way around. Oh, sure — when we first arrive, we’re pretty much like kids in a candy shop, rediscovering all the foods we’ve missed. But after a few weeks, we start longing for some good Asian rice. Cooking up pots of chicken ginataan or pork adobo. Eyeing the Chinese or Thai restaurants we pass by. (On one furlough, our delight practically knew no bounds at discovering that not only was there an Asian restaurant in tiny Hyden, Kentucky, but that it was actually owned and run by a Filipino family!)

It’s pretty hard to separate food and culture, isn’t it? Food, it seems, serves as both an affirmation of our roots and an expression of our identity.

I wonder if that’s why Jesus said “My food is to do the will of him who sent me and to finish his work.” John 4:34

In a culture that offered only perishables — forbidden fruit, stone-ground bread — Jesus chose instead a menu that affirmed his belonging to Another. A diet of sacrifice that called him to become the Bread. So that we, satisfied in him, can bear fruit that will last.

What physical food says “home” to you? What keeps you satisfied spiritually?

Summer Camp

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June always says summer camp to me. Even now, living on the other side of the world, I can almost smell the freshly cut grass and newly-filled pool. (Ah! essential essence of chlorine!) I actually spent a lot of time at camp as a kid — all summer, in fact, since our family lived on the campgrounds. But there was always something kinda special about “my” week of camp each year. I can see it now…

As buses and cars arrived, small luggage hills sprouted amid the chattery mix of excitement and trepidation as we all milled around waiting for the bell to ring. Then we’d troop inside for registration, hoping for a good spot in line, maybe even engaging in a bit of “insider trading” — to get in a particular cabin, with a particular counselor.

And then there was the rush to the cabin — preferred bunks go fast, you know! Beds to make, luggage to stow, and cabin mates to meet. Hopefully best buds were a given (as per aforementioned “insider trading”!) But there were always some wild cards, too — people you didn’t know at all, or not very well. (Or maybe too well!)  In the evening we’d gather around like an awkwardly thrown-together stepfamily, scoping each other out and wondering — “Can I be myself with these people?”

Fast forward to Friday night. Trekking up to the campfire site with the same people — except now they feel like sisters instead of strangers. After all, by this time you’ve slept (not!), eaten (too much!), eschewed all modesty (don’t ask!), and short-sheeted the counselor’s bed together. You’ve lived a whole week with these people and you discover that (gasp!) you feel… at home with them! (Note: this is, of course, describing the best of camp weeks. Most veteran campers have had at least one of the other kind, too, but we’re trying to forget those!)

And then comes Saturday morning. Packing. Cleaning the cabin. Saying goodbyes. One week ago you didn’t know most of these people. Now you’re hugging, exchanging addresses (now I guess it would be cellphone numbers), promising to write, betrothing your firstborn children… and maybe even crying. And then walking away with shared experiences and memories, some of which will mark you forever.

Yet … you walk away. Camp is not home, and you can’t stay there forever.

One could go to camp (and a few did) refusing to engage, dead set against enjoying oneself or making new friends. (Later, as a counselor, I was convinced that some kids actually insisted on being homesick.) One could go and say “I’m going to go home again on Saturday, so what’s the point?

You could do that. And you’d still get home at the end. But you’d miss out on an awful lot along the way. The memories, experiences, friendships. The chance to learn more about who you are (a pretty good diver) and aren’t (foot races — not so much!) And maybe even a bit about who you are meant to be, and where you are headed. (I am, in many ways, who and where I am today because of camp experiences… but that’s another story.) Most of all, you’d miss out on that taste of what it’s like to belong.

That community of belonging… yeah, that’s where we natural-born aliens are headed. (Only better.)

But it’s also where we are, today. Because God’s Kingdom isn’t just a Place we’ll get to “someday”… it’s a Journey that we’re on right now.

So… ya wanna race me for the top bunk?

What life lessons have you learned from summer camp (and other temporary experiences)? 

Natural Born Alien

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One day at the supper table, we were talking about identities. Specifically, when you were born and raised in one country but are a citizen of another — how do you answer the question “Where are you from?”

Eleven-year-old Hannah, especially, struggles to think of herself as “from” or “belonging to” anywhere but this Asian country she has lived in all her life. Yet however much we may try to adapt to our host culture, she has been raised much more as an “alien” than a native.

I can’t remember now who said it first, but someone pointed out that she is, in fact, a natural born alien.

And so am I. Born and raised in one country, yet a citizen of Another. Like Hannah, I struggle to live fully here while always remembering that I am on my way Home.

How about you? When do you most feel like a natural born alien?