Please Stay
Tell someone you have the ticket in your hand.
Everyone knows the station is there. Some pass by, avert their gaze. Some pass through, surveying the Departures board. Some of us have stood on the platform and by the grace of God stepped back, back into the fray.
Everyone is struggling. It’s hard, hard to keep holding each other up. It’s always another day. Isn’t there always another day? No, sometimes there is not and then it’s too late. If today is the day that you can’t face another day, please tell someone. It doesn’t feel like it because it seems everyone is doing their all to keep it together already, but someone cares about you and would want to help you stay. Even if they’ve pulled you back a dozen times before or if they have no idea you’re standing in the station, tomorrow they will grieve because you left and they didn’t know.
The world is better with you in it. Give someone the chance to prove it to you.
In the US: Call Lifeline at 988
Demolishing Strongholds
For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. (Ephesians 6:12)
I’m a Jesus follower and I’ve heard of spiritual strongholds, but I never expected to find little old me in one. But that is how the Adversary goes about his business, one brick at a time, when and where we least expect it. It’s been a hard, ugly season which I’d just as soon forget. But these lessons I’m learning -the only way out is through and I’m not through yet- just might resonate with and encourage someone else.
…the God of all comfort, Who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God. (2 Corinthians 1:3-4)
I’ve been in therapy, used various psychological modalities and the occasional pharmaceutical, but without God I wouldn’t be writing here today. It may all sound too woo woo for you, dear reader, and you’ll be closing this tab posthaste. That’s fine. I understand. I’ll be back to travel blogging and animal welfare screeds in due time. But if you are at all curious, or searching, or struggling, there may be something here for you.
So, where to begin? The first course of stones, the foundation, of this stronghold was laid decades ago: “If there is anything else that could be done, you haven’t done your best; you must always do your best.” Coupled with “If you don’t have time to do it right, when will you ever have time to do it again?” it made a strong framework for perfectionism. Of course, I never saw it that way. To expect perfection would be hubris… but only being certain to do my best all the time in everything? Anything less was just failing.
The next layer of stones was training and ability. Being able to do more meant I must do more, every time. In my case and for this season, it was having been a veterinary nurse. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, or so they say. When my cat, the Dragon Empress Kiwi Pu, began ailing, the vets here (far from a big city or cutting edge veterinary school) failed us repeatedly. I knew I should be able to make her well… but I couldn’t.
Another course of stones was cut from my own tender heart: Kiwi is my responsibility and if no one else can heal her, I have to do everything, stay by her side, make her well. And then there was Covid and the Lockdown. Not only did I not have to leave the house, I wasn’t allowed to. My world spiraled down into caring for her. Interleaved between these stone courses was one of our cat sitters moving away and the other finding Feline Leukemia in their household. It’s very contagious and fatal; I couldn’t let Kiwi go back. I was out of sitters. We wouldn’t be able to travel even when Covid was over, even to do recon for our future. The disease took one of those CatCampers, whom I loved. Sorrow.
And then… the towering presence always looking over my shoulder, the voice always saying that I must do my best, my father finished his time on earth. He had a very long good life, but he left a greater void than I ever expected. Grief.
A month after that, my only sister was diagnosed with cancer. Her surgery was successful, but there would be chemo. 5,000 miles away. And I couldn’t bring myself to leave Kiwi to go be with her. I was broken and ashamed. The stronghold was complete.
Our dad must have been barely settled into his mansion in Glory when our Father got to work on us. I know the man who raised us with such confidence in our abilities did his best. I hope it wasn’t as hard on him as doing our best was on us. I asked my sister how she felt about “doing her best.” She said it feels like a cop out, when someone says “Just do your best.” We both had arrived at a place where we just couldn’t do it any more. We had been convinced of ‘if you want it done right, do it yourself’ and found ourselves having to ask for help… and accept it. I started seeing a therapist. My anxiety had grown from constantly worrying about Kiwi to panic attacks over thinking about doing anything at all.
Even my man, a lapsed atheist/non-practicing agnostic, said it seemed like I’d stopped trusting my Big Guy. He was right. But how do I actually “Let go: let God”? I needed to be able to trust someone. He sent a woman, a new friend, with a very similar faith background to mine. She has a vet she really likes, whose name is Dr. Angelelli. Granted, not so unusual in Italy, but still, an angel when I was at the end of my rope.
Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you. (1 Peter 5:7)
That sounds great but not very practical. I struggled. How? How? How do I let go? Believe the people around you who want to help; let them. My man stepped up, took over the vet visits and treatments. It was no longer all on my shoulders. Having a cat was my choice, so I always felt she was all my responsibility, even my fault. “She is yours, but you are mine,” one of the most romantic things I’ve ever heard. He listened and told me it would all be okay . . . and how we would get through the scary bits that really weren’t okay at all. He became that conduit for the anxieties I was to be casting away.
But spiritual warfare isn’t that simple and the Adversary wasn’t going to give up that easily. I’d been broken, was barely beginning to heal, and very fragile. I’m still using the mind management techniques from therapy. Every morning, I meet with my Creator to reclaim His promises:
But the Lord is faithful, and He will strengthen you and protect you from the evil one. (2 Thessalonians 3:3)
…the One who is in you is greater than the one who is in the world. (1 John 4:4)
Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid. (John 14:27)
That last one is Jesus speaking. If the Son of God gives us His peace, no power on earth can take it away… unless we let it. And don’t we just? But He didn’t give it once and wish us luck. He wants us to be filled with it.
May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit. (Romans 15:13)
I cry out to Him on the daily because I want that peace. I need it. This next one has a whole lot going on, some instructions and some promises, bedrock stuff:
Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. (Philippians 4:4-7)
It doesn’t promise the answers we want, but divine protection of our hearts and minds through it all. Yes.
One of Kiwi’s various ailments had been first taking all the fur off her belly, then when I was resigned to it never growing back but being content as long as the skin was healthy, she started getting disgusting gooey rashes on it. So, when I finally let go and gave Kiwi back into God’s hands (rashes, recurrent bladder stones, wonky kidneys, and all) I asked Him to show me what that looks like. The rashes began resolving under the treatment Dr. Angelelli prescribed. Phew, I was so relieved. Then her fur began growing! It’s been years that her belly has been mostly bald. Now it’s the sweet fluffeh belleh I missed so much.
Circumstances still freak me out that never used to. This anxiety disorder may be with me for a while, a spiritual war wound. The Adversary may use it to make me feel overwhelmed and powerless. Yet now I know it’s probably a warning signal that there is something I need to bring to God, first, before I do my best and break myself because it’s not enough. And to be gentle and understanding with others when their best isn’t “enough.” It’s not mine to judge what is their best, or enough, or possible.
If you’ve made it this far and are so inclined, please pray for me (and Kiwi). When I press Publish, it may put a target on my back. And if that is because even one of you has been encouraged by the thought that none of us has to walk this broken world alone, it only means I am fighting the good fight.
Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for He who promised is faithful. (Hebrews 10:23)
Mae Moo
“Can you spell ‘elephant’?” I was about seven or eight, so no, probably not. My grand-uncle loved to ask me if I could spell elephant. He and my grand-aunt had been on safari in Africa. They saw wild elephants. I was fascinated by their adventures, but could not spell elephant. And from the day that I could, he never asked me again. Where would the fun in that be? But elephants had taken hold in my imagination. My grand-aunt collected them, figurines, statuettes, ornaments, carvings, sculptures. Who would have guessed that forty-odd years later, I would find myself feeding and scrubbing and walking with these magnificent beings? And you, gentle reader, can find that tale here.
My experience caring for Phoolkali and Maya and the others in India opened the door for conversation about asian elephants with a Thai friend. She lives in the big city and was aware of elephant camps and “sanctuaries” in her country, but had no idea how they are treated in some, sadly most, of them. The abuse and neglect in the name of entertainment and profit is heartbreaking. Beaten into performing unnatural behaviors such as standing on their hind legs, giving rides under injurious saddle rigs, ‘playing soccer,’ and doing other tricks, the elephants are emotionally and psychologically broken, often malnourished and seldom receiving any medical care at all. This is how they have always been used to fuel tourism.
But things are changing. The shining star in the Thai elephant sanctuary movement is Elephant Nature Park near Chiang Mai. Since the 1990s, they have been rescuing and rehabilitating asian elephants while being open to the public for observation and minimal interaction.
When the founder of Maesa Elephant Camp, also near Chiang Mai, transferred ownership to his daughter, she took the opportunity to make a drastic pivot in the operation. After reaching out to Elephant Nature Park for guidance, the saddle rigs and bull hooks are gone. There are no more chains and spikes, no more performances. The resident elephants are allowed agency over their days. They choose where they go, what they do, what they do not do. They have a river and lush jungle to explore, plus shelter, feeding, and medical care from the humans committed to this new way.
My friend went to visit when they reopened after the closure for covid-19. She helped prepare the elephants’ food and give it to them. She watched them just being elephants. Then she reported to me what she saw. It’s a good place. They are doing right by the previously enslaved pachyderms.
So, now I have one more ele-friend, through long-distance adoption, whom I will go meet in person at first opportunity. They send new photos and videos of Mae Moo every month. Her life is good now. If you would like your own personal ele-friend, check out the website and adoption options.
E-l-e-p-h-a-n-t
Here and There
Quarante, forty, the number of days suspected plague ships remained at anchor before passengers and crew were allowed to disembark and enter the city. So, while not technically quarantine, having no reason to suspect illness amongst ourselves, today is our fortieth day of solid isolation. We are required to remain indoors or on our personal property, aside from kitting up and going out to acquire provisions, which the two of us have done about once weekly each.
My friend who owns a lovely little shop of knick-knacks, souvenirs, and an assortment of small necessities has been required to remain open because she also sells lotto tickets and tobacco products, federally taxable items, one of the few sure fire ways to get taxes out of Italians. She has shared some remarkable stories, from people buying every carton of a particular cigarette, leaving none for anyone else, to coming in every day to buy one pack as an excuse to be outside when, for their own good as well as the health of our vulnerable neighbors, we are all supposed to limit such excursions to only the very necessary. The most jaw-dropping tale was of a woman who berated my friend for not wearing mask and gloves. She stands safely behind a counter and handles money all day long; of course she washes her hands like a fiend. The woman who felt so endangered by this unforgivable behavior was in the shop to buy her lottery ticket.
However, this lock-down has had such a minimal effect on my own life, it is hardly worth writing about. We live in an apartment suitable for an Italian family of five, so with careful consideration, we have managed not to resort to violence… yet. The heaviest impact we are feeling is having our usual travel schedule truncated. We had already amended our plans for Japan when travel in Asia started looking dicey in February. Two European sojourns this spring have now gone by the wayside as well. Facebook keeps reminding me that three years ago we were in India, two years ago in Sri Lanka, one year ago was Thailand and Laos. There is a story from Luang Prabang I have not yet told! That is what you get today, dear reader, because aren’t we all just a little bit tired of the ‘unprecedented’ news coming every day, sounding very much the same as yesterday? Maybe I am more so than some because news from the US is frightfully similar to news from Italy at least a month ago. If the Powers That Be had listened to what we were hearing, paid attention to what we were seeing, taken the advice we were getting (yes, the internet had it all, and surely World Leaders have more robust connection than we do), maybe the news coming out of the US today wouldn’t be so tragic. Did I mention that as of today we have been heavily isolated for forty days? I do not know anyone who has covid-19. But that is not what this post is about.
Rice! nice white rice. Don’t you feel better already? Breathe in the steamy air. Smell the tropical scents. Have some tea. Luang Prabang, Laos has dozens of Buddhist temples, wats full of men, young and old, some doing their temporary novitiate and education, some lifelong monks. The local residents support the wats and feed the monks. Every morning, just before dawn, approximately two hundred saffron-robed, bare-footed monks file out of their temples into the street. Each carries a lidded metal bowl in a wicker basket strapped over one shoulder. Residents await them along the side of the road with freshly made rice. The monks accept these offerings, sai bat, into their baskets, which will be the majority if not the entirety of their sustenance for the day. It is a sacred ritual, these silent morning alms, between the faithful and their monks.
There are also tourists, mostly along the main road, sitting on little plastic stools, cameras at the ready, chattering amongst themselves. Some have arrived by as large a conveyance as is allowed in this UNESCO World Heritage site. There are tables set up, too, selling rice. Not all the monks look as tranquil as westerners might think they should, not ‘zen’ enough.
Excited tourists scurry up to the monks to give the rice they just bought. The monk might take it, he might not. This person did not rise early to make the rice with devotion, to give honorably. It was sold for profit to someone who doesn’t understand how offensive it would be, or possibly doesn’t care. Around the corner, people too poor to make rice for alms-giving sit along the side of the road with plastic bags. The monks who took the profane rice drop it into these bags. It won’t go to the temple, but it won’t go to waste. The groups of jabbering tourists do not see this. They are already clambering back into their mini-vans, having ticked this must-do activity off their lists.
I did my best to stand back, to be quiet and still, and respect their custom even in my curiosity to see the beauty of it. Just a few photos to remember this place, these people, and the warning of trying to participate in things which are not for you.
Who is Feeding the Sheep?
There is a very old church in London, a Cathedral, a fancy church where the Bishop hangs his mitre, a big stone House of God with flying buttresses and stained glass windows and ancient tombs. One day, a hungry soul came to the door. She was welcomed and fed. Homeless, she was given refuge. Alone, she was loved and accepted. She is a cat. Some may say “just a cat,” but some will always just-ify their scorn for those who have or seem to be less than they. However, if Doorkins Magnificat could find kindness and charity at the hands of God’s people, shouldn’t anyone? This is the thought of the Dean, the Very Reverend Andrew Nunn. *
She has become the feline face of Southwark Cathedral, a symbol for many of our openness, our inclusiveness, our hospitality, and our humanity.
Yes, this is what it means to be the Church. More than a building to host people in their Sunday best, more often only at Christmas and Easter, if then, the Church should be the family who take you in and love you no matter who you are or what you’ve done. That is how Jesus met people, right there deep in their need. He asked. He listened. He reached out to the very people society wouldn’t see: the poor, the broken, the lost. Every person who bears His name as a Christian is expected to feed His sheep. It was one of His last recorded commands to us (John 21:17).
Whatever you may see in the world, this is who Jesus is. We, His followers, are a poor reflection at best. But He said, Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with that person, and they with me. (Revelation 3:20) He is still reaching out to us, in our poor, broken, lost world. And we whom He has rescued from the darkness must be about His work, shining the light and feeding His sheep. And His cats.
*In October of 2019, Doorkins Magnificat retired from her duties at the Cathedral and now resides with a staff member, in good health for her advanced age. I should have written this last year, just after I found her sleeping above a radiator at the front of the sanctuary. But then someone might have made the pilgrimage to see her, only to just miss her, which would have been a shame. It was with great joy that I did find her there.
https://southwarklivinggod.wordpress.com/2019/10/27/retirement/
https://cathedral.southwark.anglican.org/visiting/doorkins-magnificat/
I Call It My Art 