Miss May & Me

Meet Miss May, my good friend and ministry partner for about 10 years. Originally from South Africa, now living in Australia, May began working with me in Artslink and we clicked over a number of shared passions. Since we met in Georgia, where one addresses one's elders with "Miss" our morning routine began early on in the friendship: "Good morning, Miss May!" "Good morning Miss Pat!" I won't say who's older, but we're the same age inside :)

We’ve shared a lot of ups and downs over the years, drawing us closer as we share discipleship and spiritual formation ministry, especially during Incarnate. This was our 3rd Incarnate experience together, in which May had two main roles: Hospitality Manager and Discipleship Group Leader.

Hospitality Manager includes not simply finding rooms for guests, but also seeing to the many Incarnate community needs—ensuring appropriate foods for those on special diets, finding resources for the staff, and dealing with medical issues. Midnight airport runs, and praying long and deeply with and for participants round out May’s job descriptions. Everyone needs a May in their life.

As Discipleship Group Leader, May had a group of 5 young ladies between the ages of 24 and 34 with whom she met twice a week as a group and one-on-one during the week.  Individual times were often walks spent talking, listening, praying, guiding, encouraging, laughing and crying. May made herself available whenever they needed to talk, cry, or pray.  She continues to disciple these ladies from afar as everyone has returned to their ‘ordinary world’ to explore next steps.

May and I have also killed bugs together, made curries together, shared meals and long conversations, and compare sketchbooks now and then. May is also a gifted card and jewelry maker; you might see me with one of her pieces if you see me in person, and/or receive a card from me made by May. During Incarnate, May also became my nurse as I returned from a minor skin cancer surgery with a big wound to be dressed each day. She faithfully came over daily to minister healing spiritually and physically!

We also share a love of the beach, as does May's husband Dileep (Australian). They were my first visitors to House of Perez, during my first Christmas here, and helped me begin renovations by scraping yards of wallpaper off over their Christmas vacation. True friends!

I asked May if I could share a couple of her Incarnate stories, and she gave me permission. Stay tuned for the next blog to read one! 

Sunday--Part 1

Today we will meet the Torre Pellice church. Mat and I will be sharing briefly. In true Italian fashion, we arrive about the time church is to start, and go for a cup of coffee. By the time we return about 20 min. later, the church has still not started! Love it.

One of the leaders opens with Eph. 1:17-22, my signature passage to talk about the “eyes of the heart” being opened. Mat turns to me excitedly—“That ties in exactly with what I want to say!” “Me too!” I respond. Nerves die down a little as we anticipate what God has in store for us and the church.

I share what my experience in this valley has meant, what God has impressed upon me. I spot David in the back row, attentive; Matthew a few rows forward, craning his neck to hear, the Italians nodding their heads, calling out the occasional English word as my conscripted translator, assigned at the last minute, struggles. I must be patient, as I have no idea how accurate she is being; another opportunity to trust God to communicate through her what he wants.


I am determined to express some measure of the passion and vision I sense God has not only for this area, for his martyrs, but for the present, in this valley. I close with a prayer from Henri Nouwen, and a verse from Isaiah:

“…God is the God of Life, in whom no death can be found…touch our death-oriented world and call forth new life. Bring life, joy and a new vitality to those who are walking in the shadow of death…Do not let your people be conquered by the dark forces of death, but let your life-giving power enter their bodies, hearts and minds and let them recognize you as the son of the Living God.”

“The mighty man will become tinder and his work a spark; both will burn together, with no one to quench the fire.”—Isaiah1:31

Mat’s up next, and shares his heart. The congregation is so receptive. Communion follows, while Jill nails us again with a fantastic rendition of Silent Night in two languages. The sermon follows. Fun to hear a blast of Italian, interrupted by the occasional question to us in French—“Vous comprenez? Do you understand?” I missed a lot, but got the gist, and am thrilled that in this valley, so many speak French. I get to share with a number of people, in French or English, after the service.

And then we’re off to lunch at Jill and Anna’s, but first, a detour…

Seeing Purple

Well, my first week States-side is over, I'm re-Americanized, and my body has made its way through jet lag. I’ve plunged back into desk/office life with a vengeance, fired up with new thoughts and ideas and connections. But where does France go?

One never knows, do one? One goes overseas, not knowing what will change, internally or externally, or what to do with the changes. Readjusting back to life here is in part discovering what those changes are, and what to do about them. Sometimes it’s just bumping up against some activities and deciding, “You know, I don’t think I’ll do that anymore.”

Or the mind has been challenged, changed or forgetful. One must readjust thinking accordingly. I jot down a few notes for a poem. I need to carry John 4:34, learned in a new way in the Alps, into my Tyronian world. And that conversation with one artist lingers…what was that website she recommended?

As someone said, “When I lived in the States, I saw red. When I traveled overseas, I saw blue. Now that I’m back in the States, I see purple.”

Actions bring with them a strange sense of disorientation, until one remembers one’s habits. (Oh yeah, I bring a bottle of water from home because I hate the taste of the tap water at work. And oh yeah, I go shopping now on Wednesday because I qualify for the senior citizen’s discount. Oh yeah, so that means it’s better if I go to the gym Tues, Thurs, Sat…and so on…) And I call my sister and Donna on Sundays…slowly, disorientation dissolves into remembering…reorienting…routine.

Which surely won’t last long, but there it is. I crave it until I get into it, and then I wonder when I’ll hit the road again…

Bienvenue Chez Les Ch'tis!

It is a tradition that when the Moores and I get together, we watch “Mission Cléopatra”—a movie based on the famous Asterisk and Obelisk cartoons—which came out a few years ago. It is a very silly movie, but filled with hilarious and brilliant word/visual/ cultural plays, and there is absolutely no way to translate it. So I can only enjoy it with a few people—and last night we enjoyed it again, laughing until we fell inevitably on the floor in tears.

The Moores have also introduced me to another hilarious film, which not even all the French would get: “Bienvenue Chez Les Ch’tis”— Welcome to the Home of the Ch’tis—a film by Dany Boon, a well-known comedian from the North.

“Ch’ti” (pronounced “shtee”) is a local word for the people of the North, and it recreates the ‘sh’ sound the Northerners put everywhere, very often at the beginning of words. So for example, if I wanted to say I was from the North, I would say, “Je suis ch’ti, moi.” And it would sound like “J’shwe (one syllable only!) shtea moi.” It’s no wonder I didn’t know what I was hearing when I first got to the North fresh from language school!

Back to the movie: a spoof on Northern culture, the movie plays on all the clichés of the North, as the North is perceived by the rest of France, and the famous ‘ch’ti’ patois—the distinctive northern pronunciation and convoluted grammar. We are now walking around with our northern accents reved up, and leaving poor Andrew in the dust. (Although he is doing a fine job of picking up the more standard French!)

Unless you are from the North, or have lived there for a good amount of time, you would miss the allusions and word plays, even if you were French. But if ever you want to get a glimpse into my life in northern France, I highly recommend “Bienvenue Chez Les Ch’tis”—and don’t worry if you don’t get it all. If nothing else, we'll have something to talk about next time I see you! The translation is ridiculous, but the scenery and the emotional landscape are right on. The only inaccuracy is the weather--which belies the gray, dreary, rainy climate of the North.

So, two of the funniest movies I’ve ever seen I cannot share with my Anglophone friends! But you all know the joy of serious belly laughs with good friends. And
if you’ve lived cross-culturally, you know also the joy of finding again those roots that go so deep. We will always be ‘ch’ti’ somewhere in our hearts.

Discover Your Journey

In a whirl of travel, I have arrived. The swirl of emotion as my psyche tries to connect with what we’re doing, and where, is trumped by the need to focus: watch out for terrorists, and navigate through the labyrinthine Charles de Gaulle airport—one of my least favorite places on the planet. I need to get to the train station (probably at least a five-mile trudge through the airport) and catch my train to Grenoble.

The kiosk from which I am to obtain my electronic ticket won’t accept my Visa card; I have to join the very long line of travelers at the ticket counter. Ugh. The despicable task is made easier by the helpfulness of the ticket agent.

A two hour wait for my train is filled with people watching, drawing, munching on biscuits and drinking Evian. I inhale a familiar smell—the train station at Charles de Gaulle. I wonder how many times I’ve sat here…

I find myself sitting straighter. No slouching. No smiling. The strict code of public etiquette. The quietness of public spaces, the soft voices, the discretion, things I always appreciated. My French personality spurts out in spasmodic reflexes as familiar patterns lurch into consciousness, triggered by the sights, sounds and smells.

The lady sitting next to me asks me something forbidden, with a worried look on her face: would I watch her luggage while she goes to buy a bottle of water? “My flowers need it,” she pleads, indicating the bouquet wilting on her suitcases. It takes me a minute to respond; she is the incarnation of someone I know in the North—even to the cadence of her speech, and her word choices. She must be a nordiste, I think, and I want to give her a hug, faire des bises, and I stifle a pang of homesickness for Lille. She is not who I remember; and I am pretty sure she is not a terrorist; I assure her I’ll watch her things, if she will watch mine while I find a toilet.

What will it be like to return to France? I have a few hours on a train ride to ponder that question, if I don’t sleep through the whole trip. I settle back against my suitcases and rehydrate with great gulps of the Evian water.

This is going to be a different kind of journey…

One Question

“If you could wish one thing from God today, what would that be?”

Richard Sharp, one of my colleagues here at OM, is a master of evangelism. He sent over 400 of us around the Mediterranean with this one question to ask people, followed by a second one when they answer:

“Would it be ok if I said a short prayer with you now, that God would help you fulfill that wish?”

Imagine 400 evangelists, young and old, green and seasoned, unleashed upon Rome in the heat of a July day, with this stunning mantra: “If you could wish one thing from God today, what would that be?”…”May I pray that for you right now?” Off we went…

One of our young people asked someone that question, and led that person to Christ.

Another group asked a confused Korean couple that question and helped them find lodging for the night. As it turned out, there was a Korean on the team, who learned that they were honeymooners, living a nightmare in Rome: due to a communications glitch, they were homeless for the night! A quick financial collection, a phone call, and the honeymooners were soon housed, and learned how much God cared for them.

Another of our group asked a Muslim that question, who agreed to prayer. As my friend prayed, she began to weep and kept repeating how much God loves the Muslims, and His desire was for them. The Muslim gave her a tissue and comforted her. She returned the next day with an Arabic-Italian bible for him.

We received so much during the Transform 2010 conference to equip us for ministry in the Med: training, language and culture cues, maps, emergency contact numbers and literature. We took in more information that we can digest in a year, more prayer cards, bookmarks, calendars and email addresses that we can cope with, yet I believe this one question may be the most valuable thing we received. We used it in L’Aquila and Teramo. I plan to use it as much as possible; may I challenge you to do the same?

Marco

When Marco showed up, another in our line-up of surprise guests, something about him struck me early on. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it; neither could I tell if it meant trouble or blessing. At the least, it meant another leadership challenge. Marco was, well, a guy, and had a strong personality; how would he take to a woman leading? He was a high producer, always wanting more work to do, but his English was poor. How much energy did I now have to expend, working with a translator to train a non-artist to contribute to an art exhibit? What jobs could I give him?

The challenges evaporated in Marco’s humility. He never flinched when I gave him the most menial of tasks. It always seemed to work out that he was ready for the next job when I was ready to give him more instruction, and a translator was handy. And he disappeared when I needed him to, without me saying so. Because of his help, I was able to complete two pieces of artwork that might never have made the exhibit otherwise (one of which is the piece going to Rosella).

The first potential leadership clash came when we were informed that Marco would be preaching during the art exhibit. (Insert audible gasp here.) I objected immediately. This was the antithesis of an art exhibit; we couldn’t in good conscience integrate a sermon into an art show without undermining the power of the art to speak. “People will feel manipulated,” I pleaded. But Marco would not be moved; Pastor Giorgio had spoken.

I informed the artists, and the artists bristled. One suggested that we pray God strike Marco mute at the appointed hour! I suggested we let God handle how he wanted us to get around this, but pray we did!

On Saturday, the day of our first exhibit, after the torrential downpour that sent us scurrying into the arcades, Marco pulled me aside for a coffee. As we entered the coffee bar, Marco, with broken English and broken spirit, confessed with chagrin his lack of submission to my leadership. I could hardly see where he had done that; I believed he had been operating solely in obedience to his pastor, and told him so. He was understandably caught between two lines of authority; perhaps he had sinned interiorly, but I had seen no evidence of anything but a servant heart. And bottom line: we were here to serve the pastor and the local church.

Marco apologized; I assured him no offense had been taken. With the air cleared, and my respect for Marco continuing to rise, we threw back our high octane espresso, and headed back to the square.

And I don’t know if it was intentional, the rain, or forgetfulness, but Marco did not preach that day—or the next. At least, not overtly. His life was a testimony to me, as I am sure it is to many, and it was a privilege to meet and work with Marco.

The Wild & Lonely Salad of Italy

And while we’re on the subject of food…

Our diet in Italy revolved mainly around the four major food groups: pizza, pasta, watermelon, and gelato. There was the occasional tomato and mozzarella salad, and bread, plenty of bread. And coffee. The kind that spoons stand up in. But other than that, well, let’s just say the carbs were flying and I am paying for it now! Re-entry diet is almost as painful as jetlag, but lasts longer!

A steady diet of only four items creates some interesting dinner conversation: one evening as we were discussing our ability to eat yet another slice of watermelon (with the table evenly divided between “Bring it on!” and “Have mercy!”), the kitchen crew surprised us with a sort of ball of Nutella, chilled into a chewable consistency, and held together by cornflakes.

“Breakfast!” Meri squealed, as I passed her the platter. “Creativity!” I responded. “Camp dining at its finest!”

Another memorable moment came in the pizzeria in Teramo, when Jeff and Meri could be overheard to discuss the flora on their pizza:

Jeff: “What’s this on the pizza? I thought it was spinach.”
Meri: “It’s rugala.”
Jeff: “What’s rugala?”
Meri: “Rugala is rugala.
Jeff (more insistently): “What’s rugala?”
Meri: “Salad.”
Jeff: “Salad?!”
Meri: “Yes, rugula is salad!”
Jeff: “What kind of salad?”
Meri: “Salad!”
Antonella: “The wild and lonely salad of Italy…grown without the help of a man.”

Pizza! Sometimes it’s plain, sometimes it’s loaded with olives, pepperoni, potatoes or rugala. Sometimes there‘s nothing on it at all, just plain bread, brushed with olive oil. We wondered if we could stuff it with something, perhaps…watermelon! Meri declared her intention to launch the new, the first of its kind, in Finland: watermelon pizza...

Church in a Shack

Well, not exactly…but we did meet for a second time with the church in L’Aquila. The first time, as you may recall, we met in a grove of black birches, in a field next to a restaurant. This time, we pulled into the parking lot of a shopping mall. Along one edge, we parked next to a line of those little wooden cabins you might plunk down in a mountain campground. We followed the singing (yes, we were late again), and climbed into one of the tiny, hot cabins, and there was the church! We were then ushered into an even tinier back room, where we would have translation. (We learned that the church doesn’t always know where it’s going to meet; Pastor Giorgio phones around 11:00 pm Saturday night to tell everyone where to go the next morning!)

I took a seat on a surprisingly fancy and upscale sofa, with carved wood and floral fabric, and began sketching our translator, the daughter of the pastor. She has been impressive, I thought as I sketched—20 years old, mature beyond her years, already tested and tried by the earthquake. She is well-positioned for a future place of leadership in the church.

After the singing, an invitation came to share: what has God been doing in your life this week? And of course, they wanted to hear from us. As that bit of translation came, I signaled our team member Ellie, who speaks some Italian; it would be a nice token of respect to have someone from our team give a report in Italian. Immediately our team translator came over and reminded me of a cultural faux pas I was about to commit: women don’t speak in churches.

After a brief inner growl, I thanked him for the correction, and leaned over to Ellie’s husband, asked him to take the lead, and asked another man on our team to also give a report. Our dear and nervous team translator relaxed. He would speak too, he assured me, and introduce me as the ‘one responsible’ for the team. Sigh…ok, got the script, and not that I’m looking for honor and glory here, but it seemed that we had just been asked to act out something that felt very wrong to me—like a cold bucket of water on a lot of enthusiasm to report what God had done.

What felt like the quench of the Holy Spirit in my own spirit was miniscule compared to all that must have been quenched in the women not only in this church, but across Italy, and across so many other countries where this was the case. I felt a deep grief for the loss. The Body of Christ was hopping on one foot in so many contexts.

What would it take, Lord, to be able to move in freedom in the Italian church as a woman? What about someone like Sarah? With so few committed, engaged believers, with so few ‘workers in the field,’ would the Italian church forego someone like her because she is a woman? Not that the women are perfect of course, but….

Well, this is not a battle for me. Women have a faithful Advocate on high, who does want to hear from them, and who will fulfill his purposes for them. I trust that. Sara is in God’s hands, and he will help her find her voice and place in the church. I am sure she will navigate the cultural waters with great skill.

Rosella and the Ice Cream Shop

Although I never saw her at the exhibit, Rosella had at some point sneaked out of the ice cream shop on the piazza (which the team had been known to frequent, um, frequently) to see it. When I took a toilet/gelato break about midway through the exhibit, she came right up to me from the tables she was waiting, and asked to buy one of my pieces. I thanked her, but had to let her down: the artwork was not for sale.

She persisted—in Italian, with much passion and hand waving. I responded—in English, and American guilt. I hated to say no, and hate when I can’t speak a language I need!

Later in the day, during another bathroom break, with another coffee, I another round with Rosella, who insisted that she wanted my artwork. I used every Italian word I knew to explain they weren’t for sale, had been committed to others already, etc., etc. Rosella glared at me, waved her hand in disgust, and went back to work.

As the exhibit came to an end, I stared at the piece she wanted so badly. Some of the artists had also been asked to sell their work. What should we do? We had already committed to giving the artwork as gifts to our Italian helpers, our translators, the church, and OM Italy. Could we make some exceptions?

I spoke to one of the church elders and we agreed on a plan: we took the names and phone numbers of everyone who wanted to buy artwork. They would be contacted by the church after the exhibit. Anyone who wanted to buy could make a donation instead to the church. In this way, the church would have further contact in the community with a number of people, and benefit financially as well.

And I would go with a translator (Ursula, who I mentioned yesterday) to see Rosella one more time. We would offer the artwork to Rosella for a donation, and Ursula would bring it after the exhibit.

Rosella looked like the least likely candidate to be an art patron. She reminded me of an Italian Fantine (from Les Miserables)—hard-working and sweaty, with thin, stringy hair, and very little eye contact as she scooped cone after cone for L’Aquila’s gelato lovers. When she did make eye contact, one could see the deadness in her eyes.

But those eyes bored into me as she insisted she must have my piece of art, entitled “Heart of Stone, Heart of Flesh” (see photo), a work based on Ezekiel 36:26-27: “I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. And I will put my Spirit in you and move you to follow my decrees and be careful to keep my laws.”

The piece calls the viewer to choose which heart he/she wants: a heart of stone, or this new heart that God offers? Is Rosella looking for a new heart?

She wants to hang this in the gelato shop. Can you imagine how God could use this one piece of artwork to speak to the steady stream of customers coming in and out every day for ice cream or coffee?! It blows my mind, and is one of the most gratifying results of this outreach for me.

Pray for Rosella! And Ursula as she goes with this precious delivery. May a new friendship form, and above all, may Rosella receive a new heart—one that God puts in her!

How Do You Spell Outreach?

Antonella, the young student mentioned in a previous post, moved in with us last week, to help.

Katia arrived over the weekend. “Who’s Katia?” you might ask (as we are). No one seems to know, except that she is here to help. Apparently Pastor Giorgio sent her. Her arrival, along with a group of about 50 Italian young people for a camp, necessitated the move for three of us to the next building.

Katia moved in with Meri and Phoebe, and helped us with translation and distribution. She left two days later, although we thought she was here for the week, to be replaced by Marco. At least we found out that they are both linked to Pastor Giorgio through a sister church in Rome. Any bit of clarity in this outreach is a windfall, and as deadlines continue to shorten, we are quite content to welcome Marco and ask him if he’s ever cut a mat. Marco’s English is as fractured as his work ethic is strong, given us moments of delight; he has proven to be an enormous help, and probably the reason I’m going to have two more pieces in the show that I might not have been able to finish otherwise. (And his cappuccino NOT to be refused!)

The decibel level has risen dramatically on campus, while available laundry and shower time has reduced considerably.

The best news is that our daily rations of pizza, pasta and watermelon have evolved through the efforts of a mysterious someone who is obviously into the culinary arts, and we are saying thank you…..

In the middle of all this transition, we learned we must also move to another location on Saturday, the day of our first exhibit, and no time is scheduled for the installation on Sunday. Groans from the team, gulps from the team leader, and another revised schedule to try to cope with the changes.

How do you spell outreach? C-H-A-O-S!!!!

And yet…in the middle of it all, a germ of an idea came over the weekend…we sat by the beach for a few hours decompressing on Sunday after church, and after an emergency trip to the pharmacy for an artist in respiratory distress. I thought about it a bit as I stared at the beautiful Adriatic Sea, and decided it was from God. How would the team take to it?

On Monday as I rose early for some quiet time and an available shower, I had the full assurance that God was with us and about to meet us in a big way; I went into our devotional time ready to announce that to the team, to try to encourage them as we began our second week. God beat me to it 

But that’s a story I will tell you next time. For now, the team is off on errands and distribution, and I am hunkered down producing an exhibit brochure, a list of the artwork and artists’ statements, and laying out an installation plan. Soon the team will return and many questions will need answers, and probably one meltdown will need a little attention. I still need to wander around the property, looking for a wireless connection to post this…wondering how it can all happen that God delivers us exactly what we need in the midst of chaos, confusion and speaking in several different tongues…

The Little Van That Couldn't

After our herky jerky ride up to Isola, we left in fear and trembling for church Sunday morning. But Frederico the van was not up for it, and gave up the ghost on the A24 to L'Aquila.

While our menfolk bent over the engine, wiggled wires and cleaned the carburator, we womenfolk did what we do best: bonding! Walking along the roadside, collecting discarded objects for possible art projects, we took pictures of ourselves with the Gran Sasso as a backdrop, and waved to the women walking over the overpass above us.

A round of prayer and our hero Edi finally got it started. We limped to church, which was held in a field next to the restaurant where we would have lunch. Since the earthquake, which collapsed the church building, the church has been meeting wherever they could find a space, sometimes splitting up into homes and meeting throughout the city. About 50 were gathered.

We had the privilege of witnessing three baptisms--truly an event in any European country--and enjoying a festive meal afterwards: fresh trout, salmon, white beans and pasta, salad watermelon. The obligatory nap in the lounge chairs completed a very long meal...of several hours...and then we were off to L'Aquila to survey the damage...

Frederico is now at the mechanic's for an indefinite hospitalization. Three of our number are experiencing nightmares. And our pastor/leader has been called to Germany for the serious illness of his mother-in-law. Yes, prayers would be in order.

Liplock, Stares and Other Cultural Cues

OM Italy’s field leader stood to ask a question in the midst of our cultural orientation: “Can I say something about kissing?”

“Italians greet one another with a hearty and obligatory series of kisses. Always start with the left cheek of the person you’re greeting, or you risk liplock. Italians are also known for ear kissing, nose kissing, big sloppy juicy on each check (and maybe on the forehead too) kisses…

“They also stare. Italians stare. They just do, and you may find this strange, but they are waiting for you to greet them! Return the stare. Acknowledge it with a smile and then they will smile and then say ‘Buongiorno to them!!!’”

And for more cultural cues, you will want to visit this link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LzEvX2eXufE

Brilliant!!!