River thoughts.

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It was forty degrees and we were baking, so I took Solo and Isaac to the river.

Don’t forget this, I whispered to myself.

The river was warm, shallow, and full of algae in the late hot season. I trusted in our well developed immune systems. Flowers from nearby trees floated along, and the only other people there were a bunch of kids; the children of parents who work at the guesthouses along the river.

I was there with my boys, who took turns curling into me while I sat on the floor of the river. Every so often I climbed the bank and ran over to the garden to move the sprinklers. (I burned the bottoms of my feet on the hot pavement, not discovering this until later when I found it hard to walk.)

The river, the boys. Isaac attempting to skip rocks. Solo floating and diving down. These are the stories we will tell about our lives. I drive the chariot through town, we walk along swaying bridges. A man walks along the river with a snorkel mask and a spear gun, looking for his dinner.

Back at home, I went to the afternoon market and picked up some chopped pumpkin and made what we call Pumpkin The Egg, after a Thai menu board we saw ages ago. I made carrot juice and we were all tired after too much sun. Isaac lost his first tooth. After dinner, Solo practiced trumpet with Chinua and I practiced my neglected clarinet. Isaac tried to play the clarinet for a while, he’s fascinated with it.

We read together and then prayed for our friends, near and far. Every single thing we did was interrupted. Every thing I planned was edited with some other need. My teenagers are going through hard times. (Not Leafy! Ah, hormones come for all.)

Every time I tried to read or pray, Isaac would suddenly have a thought and HAVE to share it and it drove me crazy. Solo had a rough day in many ways.

But the river, the long hot afternoon, reminiscent of so many hot season afternoons through the years, the little tiny beautiful moments. The sun finally bright again after the smoke. The hope of rain. Change on the horizon. It is such a beautiful life, more intense with joy because it is so fleeting.

A Tangle of Cousins

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It’s a tangle of people, a pile of cousins. It’s beautiful and sad, because we live far away from one another. Distance heightens our happiness at being close to one another, and brings a sadness that a goodbye is coming.

Nieces are: help in the kitchen, talks about books, Harry Potter trivia, warm squishy hugs, a little hand pulling mine, being called “Auntie Becca” (not my real name), making big batches of mango shake, imaginary land rules (Dragon only breathes fire and ice, not water), quirk for days, and a lot of laughing. I love watching the cousins together, the older ones being great older cousins to the younger ones. It’s a mishy mashy pile of love.

Time with my brother and sister-in-law is: quickwitted jokes, quips and laughs and their very generous hearts. Lara looking out for me, my brother equal parts wisdom and stupidity (little brother forever). Chinua and Matty wrestling, a more even match than they have ever been. Game nights of wink murder and charades, Seven Wonders and Monopoly. Street food and water play for Song Kran.

We cram every possible moment in, because we only have two weeks. We lose sleep, the kids get grumpy, we keep them up too late and eat under the fairy lights strung in my tree. We invite our friends over to show each other off. (These are our amazing friends- this is our amazing family.) We swim nearly every day, because the heat is incredible.

Sometimes the joking or sarcasm becomes too much and then we return to softness. We check in with each other and reassure each other.

I love them so much I feel like my heart will burst with it. Love touched with sadness.

Thanks for coming, beautiful family. 

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Under the mango trees.

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It’s been a while. A few days ago I came out of the wild. Well, not exactly the wild, I guess. But a wildish sort of place. 

I volunteered at a Japanese music festival up here in Northern Thailand and it was such an interesting, rich experience. Sleeping in a mango orchard for nearly three weeks, looking at the stars at night, watching the sun rise.

I was with Kenya and our friends Tayna and Aya and spent a lot of time with them, especially for the first nine days, before the festival started. I was on a deco team with lovely Chinese and Japanese artists. We made a lot of signs, all translated into Thai, Japanese, and English. “We need a sign, three languages,” is a phrase I used a lot. I painted live and organized other live painters. 

I watched my husband play music. I sat behind our bhajan band on the main stage and sang in the response to our Jesus bhajans. 

Our car got dustier and dustier.

I learned how to say “good morning,” in Japanese.

I guided a meditation in a campsite, attended one, and kept the kids quiet for a couple.

I studied and wrote papers in a teak forest.

I went to the hot springs almost every day.

It was a busy time, full of wildness, adjustment, and lots of activity. But I came out feeling ready for the next season, and somewhat like I hit a reset button. 

Chinua leaves tomorrow for India. The kids and I will stay back, do school, and make art and writing. Tumble around, deal with smoky season, cook, water the garden, and swim. I’ll write my final research paper of the quarter. We’ll try to be creative and loving and patient, even as the days grow hotter and drier.

Around the bend in the river.

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Yesterday, Leaf and Brendan moved to Chiang Mai. Their son Taran is going to highschool, and the family is making it possible by moving.

It’s only three hours away. And yet.

We’ll see them all the time. And yet.

They are some of the kindest, most generous people I know.

I remember when they came to live here.

I remember the first time I walked out and found flowers on my motorbike. 

I thought, this is what it’s like to live in a town with Leaf.

Leaf and I like to sit by the river to talk. We’ve done it many, many times. Sometimes on the ground, sometimes on a little platform. The platform washed away in the rainy season this year, along with the bridge. We tried not to make too much of it.

Sometimes, when I’m driving my motorbike, I catch a flash of dreadlocks out of the corner of my eye, and realize Brendan has just whizzed by on his bicycle. When Isaac and Ruby were small, Brendan drove around town doing all his errands with them. Tubtim (Ruby) and Meenoi (Isaac- it means Little Bear) charmed the laundry lady, the market sellers, the landlords. 

Ruby and Isaac act like siblings, tumbling over and around each other without paying a lot of attention. I love to watch them, to see how completely at ease they are with each other. 

Taran has been joining our little group of homeschoolers for a little while each day, for years now. This group of funny, snarky, thoughtful teens is a highlight of my life. Taran brings the creativity. He and Kenya climb trees, make swings, come up with interesting ways to defy the laws of gravity. 

This family is woven into our life. We don’t even have to let go. It’s just the day to day things that will stop. School together. Bumping into each other on the road. But we’ve been friends across wider distances than this. They got on a train and visited us for the first time in Goa, when Solo was only a couple days old. We took a train to them when I was pregnant with Isaac, journeying long hours to sit and have chai under the mango tree.

We can’t see around this bend in the river. What will it be like to have two communities instead of one? (Eventually.) What will living at a distance be like? 

Right now it feels like loss. But I hope soon it will feel like expansion. Like taking a long deep inhale. Like more adventure, more possibility, more talks by the river, a larger space for love to grow. Those are the parts that God has to bring. I’m tired of trying to manufacture things. Of trying to control outcomes. I didn’t want them to have to leave. But God has different ideas, and he breathes on things and makes them beautiful. He brings the sparkle.

 We can’t see around this bend, but good things have come out of the unknown before. Many good things.

Breathe on us today.

Mary: A Story

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I wrote a story for our Christmas Eve celebration at Shekina Garden. Here it is for you.

Part 1

Mary was born in troubled times. Years ago, when her grandfather was a boy, Rome had overcome Jerusalem and occupied all of Israel and Judea. There were terrible stories of that time and even now, the land seethed with danger. The Romans had installed Herod as King, and Herod did not care for his people. There were so many things to remember, to stay safe. Mary’s mother told her to keep her head down and never walk alone. Mary had a sick feeling in her stomach if she came upon a group of soldiers standing on a corner in their red and silver uniforms. Even if she walked with her uncle or her father, she felt afraid. It was too easy for something to go wrong. She had seen a man beaten just for walking too close to the soldiers.

Her village felt like the sea, one thing on the surface, and so much beneath the water. Every family felt differently about the occupation. Some people ran willingly into the arms of idol worshipers, her father said. Some resisted and moved into caves in the wilderness, to make grand plans of rescue. And some kept their heads down, waiting, always waiting for the one who would come to set them free to worship celebrate the feasts. Last year Herod had canceled Passover in Jerusalem, a thing of great sorrow. Mary’s father had wept for hours, sitting on the floor with his tallit over his head. 

Her parents often warned her about walking after dark.

“If it is too late to get home before sunset,” they said, “stay where you are. Send a boy to tell us. We don’t want you walking at night. It’s not safe with the soldiers everywhere.”

So it was dangerous, but there were beautiful parts about her life in the village. Meals at the family hearth, goat milk with spices in the evenings. Her family had a flock of goats, and Mary loved the feeling she got when she went out to call the goats home and the whole world was bathed in golden light. There were moments that nearly called her heart out of her body: the shadows over the low hills, the smell of plants crushed under her feet. She got the urge to run, and sometimes she did, chasing the baby goats until it was time to bring them all home. 

She wondered if she would feel the same freedom when she married Joseph. She had been promised to him for a long time. Sometimes, when he came to visit her father, she peeked at him from under her veil. He had a kind face, with curly black hair and skin just a shade lighter than her own brown skin. There was gray in his beard, though. When Mary mentioned the gray beard, her mother frowned. 

“You are very lucky, Mary. Joseph isn’t that old! It is only that he has been taxed as we all have. Times are hard for us. We have to give most of everything we earn away.” Then she would sigh or cry and Mary would sneak out to look at the stars outside the door.

Mary didn’t want to think about the taxes, the occupation, or King Herod. She wanted to think about the stories of Adonai making the world. How did he do it? she wondered. She wasn’t often allowed to sit and listen when the men talked about such things. But she sat and looked at the stars and thought, and thought, and thought about it. Especially on mornings when it seemed that the world was exploding with light and color. How did he do it? And having made such a lot of beauty, did he ever think about her? 


One night she took too long bringing the goats back. Her mother had been crying, again, about how much of their grain Herod’s tax collectors had demanded, and Mary felt that if she could run along the hillsides, she could outrun all of it. 

But the sun fell behind the mountain before she knew it, and the world was suddenly darkened. Heart beating, she gathered the goats and urged them through the pasture and into the yard. When she got them to the animal hut, her heart was in her throat. Everything she had ever heard about darkness and danger came back to her. She pushed the goats through and went inside to pour their water. 

She nearly screamed when she saw the… man standing there. Was it a man? He was so tall that his head brushed the rafters, and his skin was dark like a night without a moon, a darker, bluer black than she had ever before seen, but his skin seemed lit with silver light where her lantern shone on his hands and face.

“Elohim sees you, young sister,” he said. “The Lord has seen you and knows how beautiful your heart is. He has chosen you.”

She stared at him. “He knows who I am?” she whispered.

“Don’t be scared,” he answered. “You can come closer if you want.”

“Where are you from? Do you have a name?” she asked. 

“From the sky,” he told her. “My name is Gabriel. And I’m here to tell you that Adonai sees you and is giving you a gift beyond your imagination. You are going to have a baby and you will call him Jesus. He will be the Son of the Most High and will be a king like David, and he will reign over the house of Jacob forever and of his kingdom there will be no end.” 

“I’m sorry,” Mary said. “I’m not sure that I heard properly. When? When is this supposed to be? I’m not even married yet.”

The man smiled. “This won’t happen in any kind of ordinary way. The Spirit of God will come to you and the power of the Most High will overwhelm you. The baby will be the Son of God.”

A goat bleated loudly. Mary blinked. She looked down at herself, her brown hands and bare feet, her completely ordinary body, her tunic flapping around in some strange wind. She had asked if God saw her. He had answered. The wind tugged at her hair and she felt a strange, sudden joy. The angel smiled at her again. 

“I have only ever wanted to serve the Most High,” Mary whispered. “I am willing. Let it be to me as you say.”

The tall, tall man stooped to leave the barn, touching her on the shoulder as he did so, and she felt courage cover her like a warm blanket.

Part 2

Joseph hadn’t called off the wedding. This was what Mary reminded herself, over and over again, as they journeyed the long miles to Bethlehem. For safety, they traveled in a big group, and Mary was thankful that Joseph owned a donkey. Even though the donkey walked with a jolt that made her feel as though her hips would never be the same. He was affectionate with her but stubborn. She named him Nimrod, and was thankful that she didn’t have to walk, since it was during her ninth month of pregnancy that Caesar had got it into his head to count his hordes of subjects. “To make sure he gets enough taxes,” her mother had said, wringing her hands.

It was after dark when they finally arrived in Bethlehem. Their companions had trickled off one by one as they went to their home towns, until it was finally just Joseph, Mary and Nimrod. Mary could tell by the set of Joseph’s shoulders that he was worried about traveling after dark. 

“What was the dream like?” she had asked him, on the day he came back to her father to say that he would marry her after all.

Both of them had stared at her. Her father had sorrow behind his eyes that had been there since the day Mary told them of her pregnancy. She understood. It wasn’t supposed to be possible for women to get pregnant on their own. Her father didn’t know whether to believe her when she told him about Gabriel.

“There was a man.”

“Black as a night with no moon?” 

“And a sword in his hand…” Joseph said, nodding. “He called me the son of David, and told me that the baby in your belly is from the Holy Spirit. Like you said, Mary. And that he will be called Immanuel. God with us.

Once they were within the walls of the city,  Joseph relaxed. He grew anxious again, though, when innkeeper after innkeeper looked at them and said, “We’re full.” Mary couldn’t tell if they were lying. She stood leaning on Nimrod, waiting while Joseph went from door to door. 

“Is it you?” she asked the donkey, stroking his nose. “Or me?” 

They certainly looked rough after their journey, and she was obviously a northerner, with the distinctive patterns on her rough woven cloak. She winced as she felt a sharp pang at the bottom of her belly. Nimrod whickered beside her. Another pain came, this one sharper. No! She thought. Not now. Joseph turned away from the last innkeeper, anger and humiliation warring on his face. 

“Sir!” she said, before the innkeeper closed the door. “Can we stay there?” She pointed.

“Mary!” Joseph said. “In the animal hut?”

“We must, husband,” she said, gasping now. “We need a place to rest.”

He stared at her for a moment, and turned to look at the innkeeper. The innkeeper gave a brief nod, and none too soon.

The animal hut was dark and dirty, but it didn’t matter. Mary gave birth there, with only Joseph to help her. The innkeeper offered some towels and warm water, and his wife helped to clean Mary up.

The birth was worse and better than she had expected. Worse because it was more painful than people had described to her. Better because it was fast. Worse because when the baby left her body, she felt separated from a kernel of peace that had rested under her heart for all these months. She picked him up and nursed him, murmuring over him, kissing his sweet head and velvety brown skin. He opened his eyes and looked at her, and a tiny star flared up again inside her. The world was well, when he was in it. 

Immanuel, she murmured. 

Part 3

The shepherds were a surprise. She was finally falling asleep when they came roaring up. They drifted into the animal hut, looking stunned, scared, and sleepless. They had a story about the sky filled with fire and singing creatures, but all she really wanted to know was what the first angel looked like. “He filled the whole sky,” one said. “His skin was like the darkest depths of the sea. But he shone like sparks of fire.”

Mary smiled and picked the infant out of the feed trough, pulling him close to her and laying back in the little nest Joseph had made for her. Gabriel, again, she thought. The tiny star inside her glowed. He told them, too, she thought. She looked at her new baby. He told a group of shepherds about you. Who are you? Why does Adonai love me so much, that he gave me you? 

The days turned into a kind of long dream. She slept, ate, and took care of her baby. Sometimes when she gazed at him sleeping, she felt a familiar longing. It was the same feeling she had when she looked off at the hills. As though she wanted to run, and run. But she no longer asked whether Adonai ever thought about her. She knew he did.

People whispered about her, in the market, on the road. They knew she and Joseph hadn’t been married long enough for Jesus to be born to them. But between lack of sleep and the wonder she lived in, Mary couldn’t feel the sting of the whispers.

“My soul reaches to Adonai,” she whispered to Jesus as he slept. “My spirit is singing to Hashem the saving one. He saw me, even though I am very small. Even though I am the smallest bird, just a little sparrow. He saw me, and he gave me you, and no one will ever forget it.”

But times were troubled. The king was growing increasingly difficult. There were stories of violence, and the little family decided to stay in Bethlehem to be safe. Mary tried to ignore the rumors, until she was thrust right into the center of everything. 

One night, there was a knock at the door. When Joseph opened it, he let out a little sound of surprise. There were three men there, with a whole train of servants in the yard. Mary covered her head quickly. She had never seen anyone like these men from far off lands. They wore fine embroidered cloaks and elaborate head-dresses. Their faces were strange. She sat holding her baby, and when the men saw her there with him, they fell on their knees and bent their faces to the earth. She was frozen in shock. No one should bow except to Adonai alone. 

She looked at her baby. He gazed back at the men, and the tiny star within her flared into a bright flame. Tears ran down her cheeks as the men offered treasures to Jesus. They told her of a star that had guided them, and dream they had, a giant angel like a radiant night, who told them not to tell Herod that they had found Jesus. And then not much later, Gabriel visited Joseph again in a dream.

“He spoke to me again,” Joseph told Mary the next day.

She didn’t have to ask him who.

“What did he say?” she asked. 

“We have to run, to flee to Egypt. Herod wants to destroy Jesus.” 

Mary couldn’t understand why Herod wanted her son, but she needed no other warning.  Gabriel had always been right. He had been helping and watching from the beginning. Joseph and Mary packed what they needed and left, with barely enough time to say goodbye to their neighbors. Nimrod carried Mary and the baby once again, and as they rode, Mary’s heart felt as though it would swell to bursting with joy, which made absolutely no sense. They were refugees, penniless, with only a donkey to carry them. They could only hope the Egyptians wouldn’t turn them away. But the star in her heart burned bright and strong. Adonai cared for them, sending his angel to save them. She felt like he had run with her, across the hillsides, carrying the beauty of the mountains right into her heart. He had given her Immanuel, her own infant son to care for, and she would carry deep joy as long as Jesus was with her.

“He has done great things for me, and holy is his name,” she whispered to Jesus as they crossed fields in the dark. “He has brought down the powerful from their thrones. He has lifted the poor and needy, and fed the hungry. No one can be proud before him. He will pour mercy down on his children forever and ever.” 

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Much love to you all,

Rae