tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28580210106884275402024-02-20T18:05:38.198+04:00lightspotillumination & inspiration for the journeyBecky Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012247062211644975noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2858021010688427540.post-12704722244104984602011-09-28T09:31:00.000+04:002011-09-28T09:31:24.064+04:00screaming down the mountain'Screaming down the mountain' is not a description of the speed of my driving. I knew I would be hoarse by the time I reached the bottom, but I didn't care. It felt like my head and heart were being ripped off of my body as I drove out of the YWAM parking lot, watching Josh slowly wander back to the center of the camp that will be his home for the next 3 months.<br />
As we unloaded his stuff, he found the cards I'd written, tucked into his backpack. 1 of them said, "to be opened when you think this was all a big mistake." He looked at me and quipped, "So, Mom, you mean I'm never supposed to open this one?" We laughed.<br />
That attitude is 1 big difference between Josh and me.<br />
Yes, he'll be ok.Becky Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012247062211644975noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2858021010688427540.post-79603996425585702622011-07-12T23:23:00.004+04:002011-07-13T07:41:29.311+04:00leaving home to go home<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><style>
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</style> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Most moms cry when their kid leaves home. When my younger brother left home, my mom looked like something had died. I understand that now. You give birth to children knowing they will grow up, become adults, have families of their own. You work hard and pray like mad that they will become self-sufficient, trustworthy, honorable people who have whatever it takes to live meaningful lives, to see their dreams fulfilled, to be happy. But if you're a parent and you haven't experienced it yet, don't let anyone kid you: when it’s time for them to leave home, there is grief. And there are additional layers of grief for ‘expat’ parents. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Many people who’ve raised their kids outside their own home country are taken by surprise when their children have difficulty adjusting 'back home’ or who choose not to go to <a href="http://www.expatwomen.com/expat-women-general/tcks-college-university-overseas-undergrad-rebecca-grappo.php">college</a> or live in their passport country. Understandably. It’s not ‘home’ to them. Those parents experience a grief of separation of <a href="http://expatkl.com/onlinemagazine/?p=2020">identity</a>. The parents are American or British, Indian or _______ (fill in the blank). But their children see themselves as something else. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Some parents fear for the well-being and the future of such children. Other parents feel rejected, distressed that they have somehow raised rebellious, ungrateful children. While I understand their worry, it seems to me that something my mom (my first cross-cultural coach) used to tell me, applies: "<a href="http://mylightspot.blogspot.com/2009/05/english-isnt-english-and-other-truths-i.html">It's not bad. It's just different</a>." These parents have successfully raised '<a href="http://www.tckworld.com/">third culture kids</a>' who may not tied to their parents’ place or identify deeply with their parents' people, but who are blessed with broader relationships, bigger perspective, and a greater capacity to experience life. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">But my son can't wait to get back 'home'! I asked him one day, "Has living in Dubai been so terrible?" With a look that let me know I must be a crazy woman, he replied, "No, Mom. I'm going HOME!" </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Did we do something wrong as parents? (Well, yes. But this is not the place to write about all of that!) But one thing we did well was to grow him up in a big world. Born into a cross-cultural home, to parents who were blessed with cross-cultural jobs, our son’s life has been filled with all kinds of people from all over the planet. He’s traveled internationally since he was a toddler. He’s eaten – and enjoyed - food from everywhere. He’s met – and loved – people from everywhere. So why is he so happy to ‘go home’ to the U.S.?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Did we wait too late to live overseas? Maybe. But couldn't be helped. Would he have been different if he'd have grown up in Madras instead of Madison? Surely. But what would not have been different, I see now, is that my son is tied to a place. He feels rooted to a particular country and culture. And that's not bad. It's just different. (Different from me anyway.) </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It makes me realize again that this life we have chosen to live as foreigners in a country not our own is not for everyone. A lot of expats live overseas to pursue a dream or a lifestyle. Some have simply followed work. Or a spouse. But some of us are here because it’s who we are, what we're made for. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So there’s an added grief for me as my son leaves home to go home. I'm an expat at heart. He’s not. I feel as if I was born to live cross-culturally. He’s an all-American boy. Yes, I'm grieving for all the 'normal' reasons as my son leaves home. But there's another grief. As I accept that we’re made for different lives, perhaps destined to live on different continents, I’m grieving because I'm losing my son to my own country and culture. </span></div>Becky Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012247062211644975noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2858021010688427540.post-16227969534515248092011-03-21T13:46:00.001+04:002011-03-21T13:49:10.617+04:00head and shoulders above the rest<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><style>
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</style> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">We got out of the taxi at the Madras train station, pulled our backpacks out of the trunk, swung them onto our backs, and huddled together to get our bearings. It was easy to see where we were supposed to be headed. As 8 white Americans in that churning brown sea of South Indians, we were all at least a head taller than anyone else.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">These 7 university students had never been to India. Most of them had never been out of the U.S. at all! It was my job to guide them - culturally, emotionally, and physically - through India. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Standing there in front of the station, the smells that were undeniably “Madras” seemed to rise up with the heat from the steaming pavement. I fended off the inevitable string of taxi drivers and ‘tour guides’ and pleaded with these college students to ignore the growing swarm of scruffy child beggars. Making sure everyone understood which train we were going to catch, reviewing the procedures we’d follow to get our tickets and get on the train, explaining how to find the platform in case they got separated from the group, and reminding them to vigilantly protect their valuables, I smiled, looked them in the eyes, and took a deep breath. </span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Now, let’s go. And try to look inconspicuous.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">There’s no escaping who we are. Our personality, our histories, our mannerisms and physical presence, often our very skin, becomes even more conspicuous in a new culture. Some of us, oblivious to how very conspicuous we are, carry on in expat life much the same as we did back home. Perhaps that makes life easier. It also cuts off any opportunity for self-awareness, personal growth, and expanding our capacity for relationship or even enjoying people and experiences outside those we already feel comfortable with. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I’ve also observed another group of expats. People who deny who they are in an attempt to belong, to fit in, to be inconspicuous in a new culture. It’s especially obvious when those people are Americans. You can identity these people by such remarks as, “I’m not like <i>those</i> Americans”, or “Those Americans ______ (fill in the blank with something negative.)” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I understand it. (In fact, I’ve done it!) Our dominant culture (the one that’s marketed so successfully all over the world), our history, even our own families or forebears have not always looked good or done good. It’s tempting to distance ourselves from a sketchy history, an unjust system, or the negative perceptions of Americans that dominate the world in this era in history. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">But there is no escaping who are. Even if we change our geography, our values and behaviors, our citizenship, those of us who have been brought up in the U.S., whose personalities, histories, and sense of self have been molded by the hands of American culture, we are Americans. And that’s not a bad thing.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Every culture, every race, every peoples are not all bad – or all good. If we can’t embrace both the good and bad of our own culture, our own social, political, historical and racial identity, then we are not able to embrace others, either, with all their good and bad. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Cross-cultural living is an immense gift. We can toss it in the trash, and carry on as if we are all good (or at least ‘better than those people’) and have nothing to learn from others. We can try to ‘look inconspicuous’, disconnecting ourselves from the very things that have defined us. (It all gets to be a bit ‘emporer’s new clothesish’ unless you have a true friend outside your own culture who’s willing to tell you just how ridiculous it is to think that you’re ‘not like those Americans’, no matter what your personal values or foreign policy.) Or we can accept who we are, the good and the bad, offering the gift of our true selves to others. Not because we don’t need to change. But so that we can. As we become aware of – and accepting of – who we are, we can make choices that honor others without dishonoring ourselves. </span></div>Becky Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012247062211644975noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2858021010688427540.post-6791384422303938432011-03-10T00:44:00.001+04:002011-03-10T10:00:25.206+04:00Lenten reflections on coffee<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><style>
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</style> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Not having grown up in a liturgical church, the 'church calendar' and some of the traditions that many Christians around the world take for granted force me to do what, I think, those seasons and traditions are intended to do: make me think. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Today Lent begins. I'll leave the <a href="http://logicandimagination.wordpress.com/2011/03/07/lent/?preview=true&preview_id=4793&preview_nonce=405fb443ab">historical explanations and theological musings</a> to others who know better. All I know is that:</span></div><br />
<ul style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><li><span style="font-size: small;">I am not big on fasting. Or giving up things. But I’m sure there is something good to be received by doing it.</span> <span style="font-size: small;"> </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">I know that whatever is given up during this season does not make God love me more or win any kind of spiritual brownie points with God, as if He can be bribed or bamboozled.</span> <span style="font-size: small;"> </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">I don’t believe in fake fasts. So I’m not ‘giving up’ something that doesn’t matter to me.</span> <span style="font-size: small;"> </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">But I am <i>not</i> giving up coffee. </span></li>
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTtFEM7MZksqzuN-YaFx-co9sCSeLXHIhPp27z6HbSKQw5Ihh-a3fG9L8CVhQYWQit3-hILl1fvOrfV6OGEJcGDVrnQXho0l9vFih3V5wZVJdj7-TVFAPrNkTottMX1lOD385tOrDgpwk/s1600/DSC_0994.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTtFEM7MZksqzuN-YaFx-co9sCSeLXHIhPp27z6HbSKQw5Ihh-a3fG9L8CVhQYWQit3-hILl1fvOrfV6OGEJcGDVrnQXho0l9vFih3V5wZVJdj7-TVFAPrNkTottMX1lOD385tOrDgpwk/s320/DSC_0994.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #783f04; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Concerned for my health, my family talked me into <a href="http://mylightspot.blogspot.com/2010/08/were-not-in-kansas-anymore-toto-or.html">spending 3 weeks at a natural health center in India</a>, where various forms of fasting and a rigid regime of daily exercise and naturopathic treatments was to replace my far-from-healthy normal routine. After 3 days of a fruit juice diet, my doctor asked, “Are you ‘regular’ since coming here?” As I shook my head, she wrote something down on the card I was required to carry outlining my daily treatments and ‘meals’. I explained, “My body is missing coffee!” She smiled and said, “I have just prescribed coffee for you!” “Really?!” My eyes lit up with excitement. Showing me the card, I read “coffee enema”. </span></i></div>Becky Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012247062211644975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2858021010688427540.post-8760852199060925642011-02-20T18:25:00.005+04:002011-02-22T17:17:25.151+04:00looking up remix<span style="font-family: arial;">I thought I'd been there, done that. But here I am again - looking in front of me, around me, inside me for some light for my next steps. I forgot. I've gotta look up. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: arial;">Just as a reminder to self, I'm re-posting my first blog entry about the experience that prompted this blog in the first place. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: arial;">If I want to see the light, I have to look up.</span></b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">I have been praying for months that I would learn to “walk in the light of God’s presence” (Ps. 89:15). Last week, in 5 minutes of silence, I understood the frightening reality of what I had been praying for. And it was too late to take it back.<br />
<br />
There I was, standing alone in a beam of light. And all around me, only darkness. The whole world was full of darkness- except for a faint light on the other side. Sure, it was God’s light. Certainly it was an affirmation of God’s presence. A sign that He was, indeed, answering my prayers. But it surely was not what I’d expected.<br />
<br />
As I’ve pondered that picture, one thing has become clear: I like to see. All it takes is a little bit of light in front of me to start planning next steps, to be encouraged that I’m moving in the right direction, to adjust expectations of what should be and to create expectations for what could be. When I asked God to teach me to walk in the light of His presence, I expected Him to shine a beam of light down the road, so I could step into that light. I expected to be able to move ahead - in the direction of “His will” or “my destiny” or “a significant purpose”. But the only thing illumined is <i>me</i>. My pitiful neediness. My inability to be still. My ineptness at intimacy. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br />
Straining to see the significance of what’s past is useless. Behind me, only darkness now. Panicking to see something in front of me to hold on to is pointless. Ahead of me, I see darkly. I long to look into the light and move ahead. But yesterday, in 5 minutes of worship, I understood. If I want to see the light, I have to look up. It's there I see God’s encompassing love for me. His mercy poured out on me. His yearning for relationship with me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">The past is past. And the future, a mystery. But God. He is present. And He, not some plan or pathway, is my destiny and the answer to my prayers.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: #cc6600; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #990000;">"Blessed are those who have learn to acclaim you, who walk in the light of your presence, O LORD." Psalm 89:15</span><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: #666666; font-size: x-small;">Take 5 minutes in silence.What longings arise? Lift them to the LORD. Let Him lead you.What dark places in you become visible? Allow God to cleanse and heal you as they come into His light.<br />
Take 5 minutes to worship.How are you experiencing God's love? Love Him back.How is God making Himself visible to you? Acclaim (applaud or to salute with shouts of joy!) Him.</span></div>Becky Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012247062211644975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2858021010688427540.post-80855612853078522252011-01-13T15:44:00.000+04:002011-01-13T15:44:35.806+04:00what could be<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> <style>
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</style> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I’m an activist. I can’t help it. I see ‘what could be’ and move towards it with all my might. That’s probably why it took over 20 years of hearing the same refrain from my husband AND my mom, “You should write a book”, for me to start writing. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Maybe it’s different for other writers. But for me, writing is a discipline. One I’m not very disciplined at. I paid for an online writing class last May. But cold hard cash couldn’t seem to get me started. (Money's never been a motivator.) My friend, Dawn (who’s always keen to learn and is always looking for ways to grow that big, beautiful creative streak of hers) decided in December to take the class, too. So we started it together. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Even so, (sorry Dawn), by January it took a back seat – again - to activist pursuits. I could say I can’t help it. It’s how I’m wired. But when, at the end of a satisfying day of vision-driven activity, I sit down to think about what I need to do next to move towards ‘what could be’, I remember writing. And somewhere in the back of my brain (perhaps the part that’s connected to my heart) a wispy thread of a thought tries to break into my consciousness. Something I’m not quite able to grasp: some seed of unformed idea; some remnant of untapped wisdom; some fissure that might crack open a new reality...if I could only let go of ‘could’ and ‘should’ and my idealistic activist visions long enough to sit still and reflect on what <i>is</i>. And, if I’m brave enough, to give my imagination over to what isn’t. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Maybe that’s all this writing class is. An opportunity to see ‘what could be’ if I would just sit still and let go. </span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"> ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Don't be too harsh to these poems until they're typed. I always think typescript lends some sort of certainty: at least, if the things are bad then, they appear to be bad with conviction. </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Dylan Thomas, Welsh poet</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Our first assignment in <a href="http://www.writelifestory.com/">Write Your Life Story</a> class:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Write about an experience of the first time you entered a place.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Do it in 15 minutes. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Don’t edit as you go. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Read it to someone who will 1) tell you what they like about it and 2) tell you what more they’d like to know. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">We did it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">We enjoyed it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I hope you do, too.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_a2BN5aMsn20/SMFy5tnjcII/AAAAAAAAAOE/sz_1kgCVc2s/s1600/heresyourlife-77.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_a2BN5aMsn20/SMFy5tnjcII/AAAAAAAAAOE/sz_1kgCVc2s/s200/heresyourlife-77.JPG" width="133" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">what Becky wrote</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Oh the wonder of it all! Weaving our way through the crowds – the happy crowds – as my Dad, Mom, little brother and little me enter The Magic Kingdom. We went to Disneyland so many times while I was growing up that the experiences have merged in my memory as a single delightful event. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> “Here! Here!” screams Dee, dragging my Mom into the candy shop on Main Street. He’d spied the round rainbow suckers that were bigger than his head.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">“Where do <i>you</i> wanna go, Beck?” asks my Dad with that deep, slow Midwestern accent of his. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> “<i>You</i> know.” I reply with my eyes fixed on the castle in the distance. “The tea cups.” (It had always been my favorite ride. Spinning round and round until dizzy with laughing I begged, “1 more time!”)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Buying us each a sucker (not quite as big as our heads), Dad gathered us up and steered us into the colonial blue and white theater where we watched as President Lincoln gave that speech of his that seemed to have the power to bring tears to my eyes, though I was too young to understand why.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Blinking in the light of the sun, feeling the joy of a bright blue day we couldn’t help but laugh out loud as Dee and I shouted together, “Tea cups!” and ran towards the castle gate.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF-gncp9-cnpaZSgLhlqYGZSenvC7Nc6FFAfV3COK3LJmcnKP14cnYhWo7GoESMXvP3VOVApoDeFOxLWW-uTDox73esiWm_6S-LH-znN2ac8FQer4rBID3c44CfOXcYyVivAgs96WIMH0/s1600/DSC_0219.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF-gncp9-cnpaZSgLhlqYGZSenvC7Nc6FFAfV3COK3LJmcnKP14cnYhWo7GoESMXvP3VOVApoDeFOxLWW-uTDox73esiWm_6S-LH-znN2ac8FQer4rBID3c44CfOXcYyVivAgs96WIMH0/s200/DSC_0219.JPG" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: small;">what Dawn wrote</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">I didn’t know where to stand to not be seen. Heavy dark curtains fell around me. My heart was in my throat and thumped like a drum in my ears. Anticipation and excitement filled the air inside my enclosed space. I had never been a surprise at a surprise party before. I felt both honored and emotional. The vision of my cousin entering the family-friend-filled hall and seeing him for the first time in four years brought a tear to my eye. Deafening roars of “Surprise” and “Happy Birthday” were my cue– pulling me out of my melancholy state. I take the unrehearsed step from behind the curtain and tripped into the unsuspecting arms of the man I had once shared a playpen with.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
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</div>Becky Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012247062211644975noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2858021010688427540.post-47007718619907084462010-12-17T20:12:00.001+04:002010-12-17T20:13:19.943+04:00reflection on the story of Joseph<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><style>
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</style> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">God with us in our fears</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">in our confusion, our darkness</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">in our humiliation and shame</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">in our loss and grief</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">in alienation and isolation.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">God with us </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: large;">not to make sense of things, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: large;">but to assure us that though we can’t see, He can; </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: large;">though we have no control, He does; </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: large;">though it looks very bad, He is at work to do good for us.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">God with us as we question</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">as we cry out in hopelessness </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">as we search for a way out</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">as we grope for a bit of light in our present darkness.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">God with us to instruct us</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: large;">not so that we’ll be able to map out our future and feel secure, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: large;">but so that we’ll see the next step and know that we’re part of God’s story.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">God with us in Jesus</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">born in human history and family drama</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">born as 1 of us so that we can be with him </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">born to die for us so that we might live. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">God with us</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: large;">not always in the ways that make sense, but surely for our salvation.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">God with us in our own stories</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">in our families</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">in our past</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">our present</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">and our future.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">God with us </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"> as He promised.</span></div>Becky Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012247062211644975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2858021010688427540.post-79487180743857217502010-12-14T09:00:00.000+04:002010-12-14T09:00:04.433+04:00this morning<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><style>
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</style> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">curled up</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">coffee cup</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">christmas lights</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">city sights</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">worries here</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">so is fear</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">not home</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">but not alone</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">could cry</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">but why</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">advent wreath</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">and underneath</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> I’m happy</span></div>Becky Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012247062211644975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2858021010688427540.post-24901880040518068472010-12-05T10:52:00.000+04:002010-12-05T10:52:29.354+04:00what he saidI don't have time to write a blog today because I'm busy staring at the beach from my balcony. My friend, Denis calls that '<a href="http://blog4critique.blogspot.com/2010/10/gaining-wisdom.html">gaining wisdom</a>'. I like Denis.Becky Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012247062211644975noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2858021010688427540.post-32507973911556350532010-11-27T14:34:00.003+04:002010-11-27T14:43:39.362+04:00don’t just catch your breath. stop running.<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">T</span><span style="font-size: small;">rying to catch my breath after weeks of running life at high speed, I realize that I’m at it again. I’m chasing activity. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">That’s nothing new. But that’s the problem. After years of consciously working to develop a different kind of life, I’m back to my old crazy ways. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I want to say it’s because I’m feeling comfortable in my new city. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I tend to think that it’s just the logical – and desirable - consequence of reaching some level of competence in a new environment. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I like to believe that it’s because I finally feel free enough to get things done. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">But I know better. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So why do I over-busify myself? Because over-activity makes me feel better. It’s a security blanket. A pacifier. And while those things are fine for a baby, a 54 year old should not have to suck her thumb to feel that all’s right with her world! Yes, they’re good activities. Yes, I’m capable. Yes, they need doing. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Oh really. Who am I kidding? This ‘freedom’ to make things happen, to get stuff done, to bring about change, blah, blah, blah, all too quickly becomes a burden, a trap, the very opposite of ‘free’ as I entangle myself in oh so many activities. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Ever since I can remember I have been compelled to transform ‘what is’ into ‘what could be’. 10 years ago I took an extensive motivational assessment as part of a job interview process. It accurately summarized my prime life/work motivation: “to impress, impact, make a mark, shape, effect lasting change”. Yep. That’s me. The assessment was on target, stating that my transformational motivation is triggered by the “unknown, unexplored, untried, risk, hazards and adventures” and is kept alive by “challenges, tests, and the chance to be creative”. So true. So it’s no wonder that in every new place (and there’ve been many!) I find myself chin-deep in activities that demand high-level commitment. I confess I love it. And I hope some of it’s made a difference. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">But coming to Dubai was supposed to be part of a <i>different </i>adventure. One requiring an even greater level of risk and creativity. Not denying my primary motivating force, but viewing it from a higher vantage point; embracing a deeper kind of impact that has little to do with my areas of competency and my love of – or need for - activity. But under the on-going stresses of this risky adventure it has felt oh so good to avoid the oh so many out of control bits of life by chasing activity. But it’s not how I want to live. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So today I remember…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">…not everything <i>needs</i> to be changed. Some things just are. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">…not everything worthwhile requires intense high level activity. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">…not everything <i>can</i> be made better. At least not now. And not by me. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">…some things are simply to be enjoyed or watched from a distance or ignored altogether. Not because they’re unimportant. But because…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">…value is not measured by busyness and…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">…fears are better faced than fended off. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I’m beginning to breath again. It’s a relief to be free to sit on the balcony of my 42nd floor apt. and simply enjoy the view. Or to write a blog without worrying whether or not it will change the world.</span></div>Becky Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012247062211644975noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2858021010688427540.post-37227837066693397942010-10-02T20:30:00.001+04:002010-11-27T14:40:48.333+04:00there's no place like home<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><style>
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</style> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">“I’d say ‘Welcome home’ but I know this isn’t home to you anymore.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Wrong, Joel. It’s still home. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">For years I trained overseas employees, warning them that the best way to derail their cultural adjustment was to go back “home” before their 2-year anniversary on an overseas assignment. I should have followed my own advice and not come back here now.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">4 weeks ago, as my husband drove me to the Dubai airport I had a sudden urge to call this whole trip off. I didn’t understand it at the time. But I see now that I was afraid I wouldn’t want to go back after coming “home”. We’ve met a lot of people this past year – people from all over the world. People who’ve lived in Dubai for a lot longer than we have. And everyone we know goes “home” every year. Because the desert is not a place to put down roots.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">When I stepped off the plane in Washington DC I had an experience I’ve never had in my 54 years of moving and travelling – my feet felt different as I stepped onto U.S. soil and I almost cried as I thought, “I’m home”. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Walking towards customs, there were 2 signs: “US citizens” and “non-US citizens”, with arrows pointing us in 2 different directions. The people in both lines looked the same: all kinds of faces, many races, various colors, classes and ages, all standing in a long line after a long flight, headed for somewhere. As I looked around at the people in line with me, I couldn’t help it – I cried – as I thought, “These are my people”. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">When I arrived in the U.S. and it was my turn to be inspected by the officer in Washington D.C. a smiling young man looked at my passport and greeted me saying, “You’ve been gone a long time! Welcome home! And have a happy birthday next week!” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Everyone everywhere is looking for that same sense of belonging and shared identity. That’s very evident in Dubai. All kinds of people are born there. People from all over the world continue to go there. But no one really seems to belong to the place. People huddle in ethnic and language groups; they live in neighborhoods designed and built for “their people”; they work in jobs assigned according to country of origin. And eventually most of them leave. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">But as I’ve shared meals with old friends here, I’ve thought about Carrie’s fabulous dinner parties and thoughtful conversations over coffee with Dawn and Christine. As I’ve worshipped with my big church family in Madison, I realize I miss singing, laughing and praying with my little choir in Dubai. As I’ve delighted in the beauty of autumn leaves, I remember with delight mornings with Dorett and afternoons with Nick & Jane. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I confess I don’t love Dubai as a city. But I do love the people I’ve met there. And the life we’re beginning to create in this unique city.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">On the way to the U.S. 4 weeks ago I thought perhaps nowhere was “home” for me right now. But today I know that I belong wherever there are people I love and who love me. So today I leave home to go home. </div>Becky Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012247062211644975noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2858021010688427540.post-32214428405287056812010-08-22T02:41:00.005+04:002010-08-22T02:46:17.521+04:00from my journal<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">July 4, 2010</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>looking down on Bangalore from the plane window</i></span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I remember the first time I landed in India. June 1988. I cried for joy then. And now. It's been 14 years since the last time I landed in India. I've missed it more than I knew.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>on the drive to Jindal</i></span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The roads are new. But the driving is still the same old adventure.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Signs advertise new technologies. But it's still the same old Indian English.</span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">This is a new season of life. But I've got the same old love for India.</span></span>Becky Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012247062211644975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2858021010688427540.post-24167402378765655212010-08-18T17:59:00.003+04:002010-08-22T08:03:54.955+04:00we're not in kansas anymore toto OR welcome to nakedness<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgQFA6mPgEnGpzgnX80Npcqwoz9CjakAJ3gJ28E40db1GwRCqP2V1X1DMtmjbQ5oVML5jLe3fYmiTQjjE39YASgb93bNaM0F523jY2eZeacw7CAPXh6rLTBSoVL5wrMxXOFGPPhPqhqns/s1600/DSC_6720.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgQFA6mPgEnGpzgnX80Npcqwoz9CjakAJ3gJ28E40db1GwRCqP2V1X1DMtmjbQ5oVML5jLe3fYmiTQjjE39YASgb93bNaM0F523jY2eZeacw7CAPXh6rLTBSoVL5wrMxXOFGPPhPqhqns/s200/DSC_6720.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-size: small;">There was a sign on the walking path: "Naturopathy requires humility, sincerity and discipline."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">No joke. I had just been more humiliated than ever before in my whole life. And it was only day 1.</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;">I was proud of myself. I didn't flinch that first morning while being weighed and interropgated about my health and habits by strangers. I endured an enema (my first, but not my last during those 3 weeks). And now I was looking forward to 1 of the reasons I'd said "yes" to this whole thing: a massage. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;">1 of the "pros" on my shall-I-really-do-this list had been massage. It was 1 of the luxuries I left behind in the U.S., along with a steady paycheck. Here at "The Farm" massages were classified as part of the daily medicinal "treatment". Thinking it would be like the massages I'd experienced in the U.S., I was totally unprepared for what came next. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;">From the spa-like reception area, I was escorted to a private room by a tiny smiling woman who told to "take your clothes off and lie down, madam", as she closed the door behind her. Thinking I must not have understood her properly, I wrapped myself in the sheet from the massage table and waited for her to return. I was startled when a gruff-faced woman who looked more like a prison guard than a masseuse walked in. Giving me the once-over and mumbling something in broken English about "no clothes", she defrocked me with a simple tug. Crawling onto the massage table, boobs to the ceiling, I wondered what happened to India. Where was that unquestioned modesty in a society where women can bathe and change saris in public showing barely a bellybutton? During that first hour-long massage, I understood something of how abused children dissociate from their physical self; how prisoners of war are systematically broken.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;">I know that sounds dramatic. And my therapist friends may be inviting me over for unlimited free sessions after they read this. But getting naked several times a day in front of strangers was the toughest part of my whole experience. My mother didn't raise me like that. I'm one of those girls who in jr. high changed my clothes in the toilet stall. I'm still one of those girls! For the first 3 days I had to muster all of my willpower and inner strength just to go through the motions of my "treatment plan" while I tried to figure out a survival strategy for 20 days of nakedness. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;">And you can bet I had a lot to say to God about it! If this was His gift to me, then why the trespass of my values? Why the assault on my sense of self? Why this pain of humiliation? I'm still not totally sure why humiliation was necessary (or perhaps the question is, why I was so humiliated by it!) But by the end of those 3 weeks, something came together for me. Perhaps it's a no-brainer for others who are more in touch with the physical. But it was a revelation for me: that pain is not the end of the road, but a gateway to a place of freedom. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #993300;">God has tried before - at least since 1997 - to get me to face my physical self. But I couldn't - wouldn't - believe that "the real me" is not just soul, mind and heart, but body as well. But this time, for some reason I've yet to fathom, when God brought up this touchy subject with me again, I was ready. </span><span style="color: #993300;">A concerned family member offered to pay for 3 weeks in India at the <a href="http://www.jindalnaturecure.org/">Jindal NatureCure Institute</a>. India - I'm always ready! Fat farm - hmmm...not so much. It took me 3 days to make a decision. Another 3 days to adjust to the Jindal routine. And now, 3 weeks after the experience, I'm still sorting out what it all means and where to go from here. I haven't figured it all out yet. But I'm still moving forward - </span><span style="color: #993300;">soul, mind, heart AND body.</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;"> </span></div><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> </span>Becky Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012247062211644975noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2858021010688427540.post-82437144854541482082010-08-08T10:26:00.016+04:002010-11-27T14:44:42.511+04:00closet gnostic OR "blue pill or red pill?" OR too old to deny it any longer<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I started this blog last year</span></span><br />
<ul><li><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">to process my latest transition</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">to share cross-cultural insights that might help others</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">to have a format and some motivation for writing.</span></span></li>
</ul><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">But a couple of months ago I couldn't do it anymore.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Maybe I was adjusting to life in Dubai.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Maybe I was finding other ways to satisfy my craving to teach.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Maybe I wasn't cut out to be a blogger.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Maybe.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I wrote lightspot as a cross-cultural journey blog with a bit of spiritual insight thrown in. But my writing urges were taking a different direction. Something less cross-cultural and more spiritual. And I wasn't ready to go there on a blog. At least not on this blog.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Gradually, I became conscious that something else was going on, too. Something hidden. Something I couldn't quite wrap my brain around. Something wasn't sure I wanted it brought into that Divine lightspot. So deep and disturbing that I could not blog about something else. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">One day in May I realized that this journey was taking an unexpected turn. And I didn't like where it was going.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Like it or not, God used 4 strangers, an art project, an in-law, and a 3-week stay in an Indian naturopathic clinic to get it through my thick skull that I am not just mind, emotion and spirit. I am also body.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">It's been 2 weeks since I returned from what proved to be a difficult and enlightening physical-spiritual experience in India. But already I see myself moving away from the light, longing for the darkness of denial, wanting to go back to the path I'd been on. But there's no going back. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">So I think it's time to tell a bit about it all. Time to bring not only my mind and heart and soul into the light, but my body as well.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #993300;">highlight</span><br />
<span style="color: #993300;">I wanted this <a href="http://noonewayarts.com/projects/dailybread">art project</a> to be the introduction to the things I'll be blogging over the next few weeks. </span><span style="color: #993300;">You can find my piece on the top row, center. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #cc9933;">reflection</span><br />
<span style="color: #cc9933;">I have a body. That conclusion should have been easier to come to in my nearly 54 years of living. But like so many other things, assenting to a truth mentally is no guarantee that that truth is connected to ones heart, soul and body.<br />
<br />
What do you "know" or "believe" that is not evident in how you live?<br />
What parts of 'you' feel disconnected from the rest of you?<br />
What aspects of life or self do you tend not to pay attention to or shy away from?</span><span style="color: #993300;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> </span></span>Becky Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012247062211644975noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2858021010688427540.post-70898443888632517752010-07-04T11:29:00.003+04:002010-08-08T10:16:14.425+04:00spoiled. but not spoiled rotten.<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It's been a year since I left the organization I'd worked for for nearly 30 years. There's been a lot of water under the bridge since then. But not enough. Lately I've been shown - again - that there's still a lot to forgive and a lot to be healed from. But it's also clear - every day - that I have a heck of a lot to be thankful for, too.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I knew my years in InterVarsity had shaped me. But I didn't realize how much I had learned both on purpose and by osmosis. I knew we'd been given many good gifts through the people and the organization, through our experiences and our opportunities. But we had no idea how very useful it all would be in our new life and work here.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">My husband and I talked about it again last night as we walked through the Ibn Batuta Mall. (Some last minute shopping before my trip to India today.) We have been spoiled. Spoiled by decades of outstanding teaching, high level training, strong work ethic, expectations of excellence, commitment to personal development and intentional learning, and by so very many people of integrity and character, not only in the US, but all over the world through our precious relationships in the International Fellowship of Evangelical Students.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Being spoiled like that makes moving to another country and a different kind of work environment and worldview challenging. (To put it nicely.) We realize here that what we took for granted as "normal" is not normal at all. Far from it. Our standards and expectations - some that we weren't even aware of - must be constantly evaluated and revised for our own sanity as well as for the sake of others. We are committed to living lives of grace and freedom here. (Something which everyone needs but seldom finds.) So we are trying to use the wonderful skills and exceptional experiences we've been given in ways that bless and release others rather than condemn and shame them.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">We came here thinking we had nothing in our hand to give. We've been caught by surprise at the rich treasures that are being made visible as we open our hands and hearts to others here. Thank you, InterVarsity, for blessing us richly. We are trying to be good stewards in our new life, passing on to others all the good that we've been given. And forgiving the rest.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.intervarsity.org/" style="color: #cc6600; font-style: italic;">InterVarsity Christian Fellowship</a><span style="color: #cc6600;"> is 1 of over 150 indigenous national student movements affiliated with the </span><a href="http://www.ifesworld.org/" style="color: #cc6600; font-style: italic;">International Fellowship of Evangelical Students</a><span style="color: #cc6600;">, working and praying together to see God transform students, campuses, communities and cultures.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #cc9933;">I feel a bit like the disciples who were given a tiny sack lunch by a tiny boy and who watched Jesus turn it into a banquet for 5000 families! You can read the story in the Bible in the book of John, chapter 6.</span><span style="color: #cc6600;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div>Becky Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012247062211644975noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2858021010688427540.post-56465807159950998662010-06-01T11:25:00.004+04:002010-07-04T11:15:17.181+04:00we've turned a corner<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">After my husband became a U.S. citizen 6 years ago, I occasionally preface remarks to my family with, "So, Peoples of America..." A few days ago I said it again to my 16 y/o son. To my surprise, he corrected me saying, "Mom, I'm a Dubaian, too! So make that 'Peoples of America AND Dubai!"</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">8 months in and we've already turned a corner. It feels good.</span><br />
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<br />
<span style="color: #cc6600;">I recently joined an online artist community - </span><a href="http://www.noonewayarts.com/" style="color: #cc6600;">No One Way Arts</a><span style="color: #cc6600;">. (Just one more unexpected outcome of the visit from the 4 amazing artists I wrote about in the last blog.) It felt like a huge risk to me. (I'm not an artist. And I'm don't fit the demographic of this online collaborative arts community.) But it also felt like 1 more invitation from God to move towards prayerful reflection, creative expression, and cross-cultural relationship. Our first project - Daily Bread - is due later this month.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #cc9933;">Identity is shaped not only by our family of origin and our past, but by our present relationships, </span><span style="color: #cc9933;">environment, </span><span style="color: #cc9933;">and choices.<br />
Who do others say you are? How do you feel about that?</span><span style="color: #cc9933;">How does your environment provide space and opportunity to be or to discover yourself?</span><span style="color: #cc9933;">What choices are you making today to expand your world, your worldview, your capacities, abilities, relationships, and your confidence in who you are - and are becoming?</span><br />
<span style="color: #cc6600;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div>Becky Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012247062211644975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2858021010688427540.post-40820678624342837392010-05-15T13:45:00.003+04:002010-08-04T11:09:43.033+04:00the last word is love<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I picked up 4 strangers at the airport Tuesday night. I had no idea I'd fall in love.</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Friends of a friend, these 4 artistic-types had a long layover in Dubai and wanted a (free) place to catch a few hours of shut-eye. But they never made it to bed. Stopping for a bite to eat, we fell in love over shwarma. Talking, laughing, telling stories and sharing our passions, we drank in every word - along with a lot of coffee til with big hugs and sincere promises to meet again, they climbed into a taxi to catch their next flight.</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">It has been a while since I pulled an all-nighter. 14 months ago, in fact. Then Jo Parfitt's inspiring writer's workshop kept me up all night. Creative energy came uncorked, spilling words on to paper. Like blocks tipped out of a toy box or colors splashed by a child learning to finger paint, ideas and snatches of stories tumbled out all night long in uncontrolled phrases and messy pages. </div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Jo and my 4 new friends are, I believe, Divine encounters. Arranged by Someone with more creative power and artistic passion than me, for my good. These artists have unlocked treasures in me I didn't even know existed. And probably wasn't ready for til now. I'm still recovering from this week's all-nighter. (I'm not as young as I felt on Tuesday night!) But I don't plan to recover from the love connection I have with these folks or the gifts they've given to me by just being themselves. </div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">One of those finger-painted ideas following Jo's workshop was a book: The 31st House. I had not yet moved from Wisconsin to Dubai, but had already begun the grieving process. Writing about some of the places I've lived and the cross-cultural and life lessons I've learned in each place is 1 way I'm helping myself create a new life - again - now in my 31st house. </div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Here's an excerpt from 1 of the chapters that tumbled out that night.</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>25th House</b></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Durga Kund, Varanasi, India</b></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">There was no way we could sleep. Not when it was 100 degrees inside and 130 outside. Not when the electricity went off - again - and you felt the muggy stillness closing in on you in the darkness. Not when you had to lie naked under a silent fan in a sweaty puddle. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Groaning and exhausted, we slid out of bed. Air. We need air. Hoping for some breeze, we stepped out onto the balcony. The skin-sizzling heat and clinging humidity blasted us and the only thing moving was the mosquitoes. At least the mosquitoes were enjoying themselves! As the hordes moved in for the kill, I started to cry. Tears of tiredness were followed by great big sobs of despair. I couldn't even go to Roy's arms for comfort. It was too damn hot.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">"Damn it. DAMN IT!" (Even Roy's angry tirade couldn't scare off the mosquitoes.) "I'm sending you away from this hell," he fumed. "You can go stay with my parents til the hot season is over."</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The thought of leaving my husband of 4 months made me cry even harder. "I'm not leaving you! If you stay, I stay" I said between sobs. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">We survived that summer in Durga Kund. Together.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Why put up with unimaginable heat, without fans and running water? Why endure fiery flesh by day and stupid flesh-eating creatures by night? Why do any of us tolerate the million hardships, inconveniences and frustrations of living in another culture? For love. Love of a person. Love of a people. Love of adventure. Love of a way of life. Love of God. Some days the love factor is all you've got when everything else is turned off. It's love that lasts when the heat is on. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">More was said that night on the balcony in Durga Kund, between mosquito bites and cursing the heat. But the last word was love.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
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</div>Becky Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012247062211644975noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2858021010688427540.post-39554420976516240282010-05-09T14:51:00.001+04:002010-05-09T14:52:48.288+04:00a psalm of the desert<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The desert.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The desert rises up.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The desert rises up in waves.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The desert rises up in waves to greet you.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">You, Lord of the desert</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> of sand</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> of wave upon wave of amber sand.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Camels come, too, to meet their Master.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Turning their faces at the sound of your approach</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Bowing knobby knees in recognition and honor</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Even while you are still far off.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Desert shrubs release their blooms.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Wishing they could be something other than they are</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">(Majestic redwood or scented cedar)</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So they, too, could bow.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"It is enough", you say.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> for you made them as they are</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> and they are yours.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Those living in the desert do not understand</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">These rising sands and sudden blooms.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"A change of season", they say.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">And so it is.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">They wait for the rain.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span>Becky Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012247062211644975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2858021010688427540.post-6125801797687407902010-04-07T14:10:00.000+04:002010-04-07T14:10:46.689+04:00it may not be a job. but it's still work. and it's definitely meaningful.<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">My work over the past 30 years has brought me into relationship with a lot of amazing people. Many of those people, like me, no longer work in the same organization. They have gone on to teach, counsel, pastor, train, advocate, rescue, and do business in the U.S. and in many parts of the world. It’s a joy to still be in touch with many of them – thanks to the wonder of technology. </div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">1 of those amazing people from my past life contacted me recently for an interview. Brent Green and his wife Stephanie are now career consultants and life coaches in the U.S. and Eastern Europe. You can hear my interview - about pursuing meaningful work - on Brent’s website, <a href="http://leadershipequipnetwork.com/034-pursuing-meaningful-work-wisconsin-to-dubai-to-pursue-a-calling/">Pursuing Meaningful Work</a>. </div>Becky Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012247062211644975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2858021010688427540.post-837681770886211322010-03-08T17:08:00.007+04:002010-04-07T14:09:21.312+04:00moving forward in reverseSome people live in the past. <br />
Stuck in old dreams. Old loves. Old regrets.<br />
Reliving past glories and triumphs. Taking satisfaction in achievements long forgotten by everyone but them. <br />
<br />
Some people run from the past.<br />
Blinded by the pain. Confused by the questions.<br />
Looking for new loves. New purpose. Something to make them feel alive.<br />
Or at least to fill life till, still running, they drop dead in their tracks. <br />
<br />
I could be those people. Perhaps I am.<br />
I think that's how I ended up in this lightspot. Unable to make complete sense of the past. Unable to grab onto anything tangible in the future. God's way of getting me to pay attention to Now. To God. To me. <br />
<br />
I had a flash of insight last week in the lightspot. And I'm not sure I like it.<br />
In fact, I'm sure I don't. <br />
<br />
After the stress of moving to another country and starting over in a new kind of life; after submitting the manuscript of my first book to my editor (that's another blog), I have space and time to sit and pray and to wonder, "What's next?" Instead of some beautiful plan revealed to me (which is what I hoped would happen), I see something else: Me. The ugly me. The bitter me. And a flash of clarity that the only way forward is in reverse. <br />
<br />
Sometimes, looking back on the past decade, instead of feeling gratitude for a job I loved (which I did), joy in the wonderful relationships I had (and there were many), and satisfaction with what was accomplished (both the visible and the invisible), I become a seething mass of painful memories, volatile emotions and vengeful inclinations. I've been surprised at the level of pain I've experienced in those recollections. Not because I was unaware when it happened. But because I thought I’d forgiven. <br />
<br />
So I've been looking backwards. Not just at what others did. But at how I responded. In the light I have, I see that I did forgive. And forgive. And forgive. Not because I’m just that good. But because I had to. (I've learned the hard way what unforgiveness can do.) Forgiveness has proven to be critical for my own health and my own capacity to do the things I love to do with any measure of integrity. It’s been necessary for relationships that matter to me, including my relationship with God. It’s been the only way to move towards the destiny I believe I was created for. So I’ve worked hard at it, persisting, with God’s help, even when I thought at times it was impossible. (And, humanly speaking, at times it was.) <br />
<br />
But this time, it’s different. Harder. Because I see that there’s another kind of forgiveness needed. One I've never learned to give. So I have to go back and forgive a few folks not just for what they’ve done, but for what they are. <br />
<br />
When I forgive doing I can somehow hope that they will stop doing it. That they will change their behavior. If not with me, then with others. But when I see that I have to forgive being…well, that’s a different story. A story I don't know how to write. A story that feels as if it will not have a happy ending. But how do I know? It's not a story I've told before. <br />
<br />
After a lifetime of experience in forgiving, I realize that I don’t know how to forgive like this. This demands a different kind of self-reflection and learning, another type of prayer and faith. Vindication, transformation and repentance are not necessary outcomes. Ever. And I begin to get that bitter taste in my mouth again... Until a flash of light startles me and there I am - in the light, with God, seeing that this is the kind of forgiveness He's given me. And that bitter taste in my mouth begins to fade... <br />
<br />
So. Moving forward in reverse. It’s 1 more new challenge – a never before attempted feat – in this new life of mine. In this lightspot I see my future options: I can look back and let go, walking into the future as I, by God’s grace, forgive not just behavior but being, without expecting those forgiven to be sorry or to be different. Or I can stay where I am and continue to mentally and emotionally wrestle with my past in some sad and twisted effort to fix it. <br />
<br />
That's not really a choice. I may be bitter. But I'm not a fool.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #993300;">My friend, Dr. Gayle Reed, has a professional practice that includes forgiveness workshops, individual forgiveness recovery consultation, and classes at the University of WI extension. Gayle’s forgiveness workbooks are also available for those entering into the forgiveness process related to either personal or professional relationships. </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.forgivenessrecovery.com/"><span style="color: black; text-decoration: none;">http://www.forgivenessrecovery.com/</span></a></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #cc6600;">Whether you’re on a cross-cultural journey or</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #cc6600;">the journey of following Jesus,</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #cc6600;">1 of the inevitables is that</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #cc6600;">on the road to where you’re going,</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #cc6600;">you will have to face yourself.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #cc6600;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #cc6600;">If you don’t have the guts for that, better to stay home.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #993300;"><a href="http://www.forgivenessrecovery.com/"><br />
</a></div>Becky Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012247062211644975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2858021010688427540.post-21332525281856962692010-02-11T16:06:00.005+04:002010-03-08T15:57:09.810+04:00ode to mom<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWXIEW1fLThDyf-94itSQZHMke0XYPivE1QtdLEmDvZ-ZLM7gcEtcxSqmEc_nVyq5THZpJJV1oTQLBPxSz7DQt27vLpBLgEpl-UWQRnF5v37Q26dQI62h9voLu1R8OR5JCDtkK1NmygeI/s1600-h/here's+your+life-60.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWXIEW1fLThDyf-94itSQZHMke0XYPivE1QtdLEmDvZ-ZLM7gcEtcxSqmEc_nVyq5THZpJJV1oTQLBPxSz7DQt27vLpBLgEpl-UWQRnF5v37Q26dQI62h9voLu1R8OR5JCDtkK1NmygeI/s200/here's+your+life-60.JPG" width="55" /></a>When I was just a little girl<br />
All blonde and dressed in blue<br />
I felt your love and watched your life<br />
And hoped to be like you.<br />
<br />
When nearly grown at seventeen,<br />
You wondered what you'd spawned.<br />
Unknown to you I watched you still,<br />
Your trust and faith so strong.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3_rl0smQO7IjRd68kajwdLxaHMYQg98YrF2ZEb-1c_7pkIwAPeKDTf_GsSff-QaHrS4xmcR49wS7znn2KvBuc4BYfKVDYMjNf9qCt_qXC1M2VIRQZnrbw83l-1mQdXWI2Ynp0xvx7X2Q/s1600-h/here's+your+life-230.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3_rl0smQO7IjRd68kajwdLxaHMYQg98YrF2ZEb-1c_7pkIwAPeKDTf_GsSff-QaHrS4xmcR49wS7znn2KvBuc4BYfKVDYMjNf9qCt_qXC1M2VIRQZnrbw83l-1mQdXWI2Ynp0xvx7X2Q/s200/here's+your+life-230.JPG" width="141" /></a>At 24 you cried for me.<br />
At 32 you trusted.<br />
At 36 you took us in<br />
Though your world had just combusted.<br />
<br />
Even when you made mistakes<br />
Or I sadly let you down,<br />
Forgiveness and a living hope<br />
Just turned it all around.<br />
<br />
You've loved me, served me, shown me how<br />
And offered motivation.<br />
You've never said, "I told you so!"<br />
Though I've given you occasion.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHku11NhktuURObFKPyHp7QkwtSY6j8B_uVEFLYHxNXyVjHIpYXy4B3fvgaQRaoXVPGYDHt6rwbajV6CvtRh6d7STHJoJMMqQ-Ujq2ws2TdGuRY6isJyON8Mph3yZZj94DkiYgDJZf4ac/s1600-h/becky+and+norma+alaska+cruise.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHku11NhktuURObFKPyHp7QkwtSY6j8B_uVEFLYHxNXyVjHIpYXy4B3fvgaQRaoXVPGYDHt6rwbajV6CvtRh6d7STHJoJMMqQ-Ujq2ws2TdGuRY6isJyON8Mph3yZZj94DkiYgDJZf4ac/s200/becky+and+norma+alaska+cruise.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>So now you're turning 76<br />
And I am 53.<br />
No longer little golden girl<br />
Who sits on Mommy's knee.<br />
<br />
But in every place and every stage<br />
Your life has taught me more<br />
Of womanhood and motherhood<br />
And prayer and faith in God.<br />
<br />
So on your birthday, my dear mom,<br />
Rejoice in what's to come:<br />
More love, more faith, more time to show<br />
Your daughter how it's done.<br />
<br />
by becky dodds stephenBecky Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012247062211644975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2858021010688427540.post-12429289815659044752010-01-28T17:45:00.002+04:002010-02-11T15:28:21.816+04:00write a blog? me? what was I thinking?<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">From Afghanistan to Zimbabwe the world's a mess. And here I sit trying to write a blog. Today it seems very self-absorbed and petty.</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Well, at least it's not a tweet.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #993300; font-style: italic;">Knowing people who live in A or Z makes my world bigger and encourages me to pay attention to something beyond my tiny little life. Have you met anyone from A or Z lately? It’s easy to be content to hang out with “my people” (however we define that). It takes some effort to move across boundaries – whether geographic, social, economic, racial, religious, or generational – to learn about and from others. To listen to and care about their concerns. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #993300; font-style: italic;">Make the effort. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #993300; font-style: italic;">And don’t tweet me while you’re doing it.</div>Becky Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012247062211644975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2858021010688427540.post-82720696155546691952010-01-12T07:53:00.008+04:002010-01-28T17:43:56.513+04:00now we're cookin'<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">My husband is famous for his metaphors. Maybe it’s being Tamilian. Perhaps it’s his brainy ability to see how seemingly random ideas or events are related. Or it could just be a manifestation of his own unique perception of reality. Whatever it is, I’m always amazed – and sometimes amused – by the metaphors my delicious husband dishes out. </span><br />
<br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Last summer, just before he left for Dubai, he was cooking dinner. (Yes, an Indian man who cooks. He’s amazing.) Leaning on the counter, watching him happily chop vegetables and prepare spices, we talked together about the uncertainty of the future, the undefined roles, the seeming randomness of what we were stepping into, and our fears that this was more foolishness than faith. </span><br />
<br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">He said something then that I’ve held on to all these months when our life has been chaos, when we don’t have a clue what we’re doing, when it looks like we’re just wasting our time and nothing will ever come of the risks, the losses, and the hard work. </span><br />
<br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">“It is like having all the vegetables chopped and all of the spices prepared. It’s the prep that takes the time. When it’s time to eat, all you have to do is heat the oil – dinner will be ready in 1/2 an hour because all of the real work is already done. “</span></i><br />
<br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So right now we’re chopping. Sometimes the onions make me cry. And I still think we’re missing some of the spices. But the point is that we’re cookin’. And at the right time it’ll all come together. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="color: #783f04;">reflection</span></b> <br />
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #996633;">My husband can tell when I’ve cooked a meal in a rush just to get something on the table and when I’ve taken some care to do all of the necessary steps. Slowing down a little so ingredients can be cut to the right size, added in a certain order and served in a beautiful bowl transforms a chore into a feast. <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #996633;">It’s a metaphor.<br />
</div><br />
</div>Becky Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012247062211644975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2858021010688427540.post-48246442985058715172009-12-10T17:01:00.004+04:002010-01-12T07:53:42.252+04:00practice makes perfect. but who cares about perfection?<meta content="" name="Title"></meta> <meta content="" name="Keywords"></meta> <meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta> <meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 2008" name="Generator"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 2008" name="Originator"></meta> <link href="file://localhost/Users/BStephen/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0/clip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link> <style>
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</style><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;">I’ve been thinking of putting my son in a theatre class. He has what it takes to be a good performer. He’s got an excellent memory. He’s a hilarious mimic. He enjoys people, appreciates everything from Shakespeare to Larry the Cable Guy, and he loves being the center of attention. Even when he lacks talent or isn’t prepared, he has no shame in calling people to watch him perform. (Maybe his parents should not have found him and his antics so entertaining.)</span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">But I have one hesitation. While he loves to perform, he hates to practice. Well, I can’t truthfully say he hates practice because</span> he’s never practiced anything to know how he really feels about practice! He has an aversion to repetition for the sake of mastery. My son has always felt that whatever he did was good enough. Even great! So why practice? For him, it’s all about the performance and to hell with perfection! (Just one more thing that makes him so very different from his mother.)</span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Maybe as he grows up his metanarrative of life will be something very different than mine. I see everything as connected and having a Purpose. I believe my life – and every life – is moving towards a Destiny. So the present and my response to it are practice for what’s ahead. And all that’s past is rehearsal for the present.</span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Motherhood equipped me for corporate management. Working hard to be a good mom, usually feeling like a failure, I eventually realized that mothering – and any kind of healthy people management - is not about planning good programs or following effective formulas, but about building trust with unique human beings. In a trusting relationship, failures are not disasters, only another opportunity to practice for the next time.</span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Life in India was, among other things, practice for returning to the U.S. The culture and the organization I worked for had changed greatly in the 5 years I was gone. My cross-cultural experience and skills being perfected in another cultural context had to be put into practice back home.</span>
<span style="font-size: small;">The journey of forgiveness I was forced to walk during my parents’ divorce still gets encore performances every day in my own marriage and in many other personal and professional relationships.</span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Realizing my own courage and strength as a leader in a previous and very difficult job gave me the idea (and the boldness) for the life script I’m living today.</span>
<span style="font-size: small;">There are so many lessons learned over the past 53 years of “practicing” life in 8 U.S. states, 3 countries and oh so many amazing relationships and jobs. Every day in my new city I get to put into practice what I’ve learned in other places. And I’m sure the things I’m living and learning in Dubai are not only for my good today, but are in some way rehearsal for all that is ahead.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"> </span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-size: small;">My son doesn’t see it that way. He has a different metanarrative. Or perhaps he doesn’t even think in terms of an all-encompassing framework to make sense of his life and the world! Because for him, today is not practice. It’s the performance. And that’s true, too. </span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #cc6600; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Today’s
problems and possibilities are another opportunity to choose to put
into practice what you’ve learned by both success and failure.</span>
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #cc6600; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">As
you think about life today, what conflict, dilemma, or question is
consuming your energy and time or challenging your creativity or
patience?
</span>
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #cc6600; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">What
have you experienced in the past that might have been practice for your
present situation? What skills have you rehearsed that need to be put
into practice now? What insights have you gained about yourself or
others?
</span>
</div><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: #cc6600; font-style: italic;">You have what it takes to perform well - or better - today. Or at least to make new mistakes.</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-size: small;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span>
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><o:p> </o:p>
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><o:p> </o:p>
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><o:p> </o:p>
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><o:p> </o:p>
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><o:p> </o:p>
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><o:p> </o:p>
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><o:p> </o:p>
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><o:p> </o:p>
</div>Becky Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012247062211644975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2858021010688427540.post-25835855267844035842009-11-24T14:49:00.009+04:002009-12-10T16:44:46.814+04:00<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">The noise.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">The shuffling</span>. <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />
The clatter.</span> <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />
The chatting.</span> <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />
The crying children</span>. <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />
This cacophony was not a marketplace, but a house of worship! </span> <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />
<br />
Every Friday our church is chaotic. But it was especially so this past week. There were 5 babies to be baptized, brought by families, cheered on by friends, many of whom don’t normally spend their day off in church.</span> <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />
<br />
The baptism promises were spoken.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Some will keep them.</span> <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />
Some will not.</span> <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />
<br />
The liturgy continued.</span> <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />
Sometimes heard.</span> <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />
Sometimes not.</span> <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />
<br />
The creed was read aloud together.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Some from faith.</span> <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />
Some from habit.</span> <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />
<br />
The sermon was preached.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Some listened.</span> <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />
Some laughed.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Just when I was about at wits end from the commotion, I understood.</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />
This was the environment that Jesus taught in. </span> <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />
He didn’t demand silence or full attention from the crowds. </span> <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />
He was doing what the Father sent him to do. Saying what he was given to say.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">I appreciated again the Christ-likeness of our priest. His huge capacity to be kind, to offer grace, to be a peaceful presence, to move towards his God-given purpose in the chaos.<br />
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</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">I’m not like that. I have to work hard in church to attend to what Jesus is saying and doing. To refrain from judgment. To extend grace. To not run screaming into the parking lot! But I choose to stay. I don’t want to be like those first 12 followers of Jesus who told kids to be quiet and kept them from Jesus. Or like the crowds waiting for Jesus to arrive, expecting great miracles while telling the man crying to Jesus for healing to shut up. I have to embrace this experience as another aspect of my cross-cultural adjustment here. And as some mysterious and not very tasty medicine for my own healing. (Christ have mercy!)</span> <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />
<br />
We were invited to the Lord’s Table.</span> <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />
Some came.</span> <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />
Some did not.</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />
<br />
And all the while</span><br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Children ran around the aisles.</span> <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />
People moved to chat about business.</span> <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />
No attempt to whisper.</span> <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />
No recognition of a holy moment. </span> <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />
A holy place. </span> <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />
A holy Person.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">But hymns played on.</span> <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />
Sung by some.</span> <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />
Ignored by others.</span> <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />
<br />
The man behind me was making noise, too.</span> <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />
His clear voice ringing out the truths of God in song.</span> <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />
Like a prophet’s voice raised above the harangue of the marketplace.<br />
</span> <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">It’s a parable of the Church in the world. </span> <span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />
<br />
Whoever has ears to hear, let them hear. </span><br />
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<b><span style="color: #cc6600;">highlight</span></b><br />
<span style="color: #cc6600;">Jennifer is one of those people I wished lived next door. She's got something I need - the ability to hear God in chaos and to invite others into the chaos to hear Him, too. You're invited too.</span><a href="http://allthingshenderson.blogspot.com/" style="color: #000099;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> http://allthingshenderson.blogspot.com</span></a><br />
<span style="color: #cc6600;"><br />
I had to laugh. When I went to her blog to get the link, I saw that she's reviewing this book: <span style="font-style: italic;">Living With Confidence in a Chaotic World</span> by Dr. David Jeremiah</span><span style="color: #cc6600;">. How did the publishers know she was the perfect person for that job?</span><br />
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<b>reflection</b><br />
It's easy to pay attention in silence.<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"> </span>Becky Stephenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06012247062211644975noreply@blogger.com0