Jordan Pond tea in my fish mug from Maine. Thinking back over the year, not wondering where time went.

I certainly learned a lot — hard lessons, as all truly useful ones are. In addition to finding new depths of strength and courage, I also learned about my capacity for jealousy, meanness, weakness, resentment… I stretched to my limits, good and bad.

That’s worth something though, to know. How can you live honestly unless you know all that’s in you, unless you’ve faced everything you are? I’m glad for all of it; I feel prepared to go into the new year, armed with clarity about what lasts, about how to be strong and responsible for myself, about adventures that aren’t worth having, about friendships that are true and good for me and friendships that are not, and I’m hopeful to have a little more wisdom, a little more compassion for the lonely, and a little more insight into life that’s worth living and how to step forward without looking back.

I’m very grateful for my faith. It’s been the grounding element throughout the last months, and I’m stronger. I’m grateful for my family, ever faithful. I’m grateful for friends who’ve come alongside, who understand that life happens in seasons and who’ve proven themselves in difficult times. And I’m grateful for the people I met this year who gave of themselves and made life easier in significant ways — I’ll treasure them forever and will try to pass that grace along.

Hey, 2020…

Hour after hour, ‘round the world,
Lights brave out the darkness
Bringing peace on earth;
As land by land repeats
In music, laughter, gifts, and feasts
The day that Love was given birth.

When I was working long days this summer, days without sitting down, days trapped listening to “new” country music and hours and hours of horrible pop, I promised myself a concert for the fall.

Gershwin was coming up when I checked. I hesitated, wondering if maybe I should do something Christmas-y and traditional, like The Nutcracker, but it wasn’t about Christmas, it was my gift to me, so Gershwin it was. I got the last seat on the floor and saved the date on the calendar.

Is it silly to pay to go listen to something familiar and go by yourself? I’ve been thinking about that, asking myself for my reasons. Why Gershwin?

I think it boils down to wanting to hear something good of America, something good from my roots, something uplifting. I often feel ashamed when I look around the world and see a lot of noise and drama we’ve created, when I see how a lot of our work is done halfheartedly, when what’s on the radio sucks the life out of you and seems out to make you nothing. I wanted to enjoy something that came out of America that was higher and better and worthy, and I wanted to be with Estonians, even strangers, who’d enjoy it too. I wanted to not feel like an imposter in the world: I wanted to go to the theater and belong. I wanted to be good.

Anyway, it wasn’t all familiar. I knew Rhapsody In Blue and Someone To Watch Over Me, but the rest was new and I learned something. All of it was rich; there were things alive all in it — ideas and pictures, memories. The conductor — he also did the piano in RIB, and just… he was all over the place. So cool…

I’m feeling good right now. It was worth it.

Ten days left before I head back to the States. I’m making the most of them, at least the most I can.

It’s been rainy and gray today. I went to Nordica then came to a coffee shop in Old Town and have been writing. I’m on a Jordan Peterson kick, and one of the things he talks about is the importance of writing about things in your past (and in your life in general) that keep bothering you, that keep you from moving forward. He says that anything that happened more than a year and a half before that still bothers you is something you really need to turn and face and find your way through.

Turns out there’s a lot to tackle, but it’s work I need to do. I’ve been taking just one or two things at a time, not making myself go too deep too fast and starting with the obvious and small.

I’m about to head out, but I realized it’s been a while since I posted anything here so I’m going to copy-paste one of today’s topics to leave here. It’s not about a single event, and it’s not very clear or sophisticated, but it’s representative at least.

                                                            ————————————————–

Ok, next question. Why do I feel apologetic for being “American”?

What does that mean? I’m embarrassed by my nationality?

It’s weird because I’m not embarrassed by much else (I don’t think), not by by being an English-speaker (I love this language) or by being white or a woman… I just get squirmy when I’m classified as “American”.

How can I disassociate my self from my nationality? Or maybe that’s the wrong way of thinking about it, because there are other aspects of being American that I actually think are valuable and good. To be “American” also means being hard-working and innovative and eager to explore. It means living with a sense of humor and being fair and telling the truth, and a lot more good as well.

Ok, so… What part of “American” do I feel is offensive, that I feel like could actually be offensive?

It’s the side of Americans that can be overbearing and controlling. Americans can be intrusive and rude, self-centered, obnoxious. Americans can be shallow, loud, self-promoting, proud, uninformed, opinionated… I’m sure more will come to mind. (…)

Ok… so if that’s the case, and those are things I don’t want to describe me, how should I behave? Maybe I list the opposites, maybe that’s how to do this right…

So what’s the opposite of overbearing and controlling? Willing to work with others. Thinking things through before acting, considering everyone involved before making decisions that affect them. How about “intrusive and rude”? Well, how about minding my own business and treating others respectfully? How about finding the value in the cultures and experiences of others?

I just thought about this: I remember Kevin H. saying that it was difficult for German youth to feel proud of their country because of their history. I wonder if we, coming after what’s been perceived as a kind of bullying of the world, are swinging too far the other way in order not to be perceived like that. All of the “equality politics” are kind of a way the people that care are trying to prove that we’re not what the rest of the world assumes we are. And to do that we have to be extreme, we have to live a life that can be judged to show that we’re not the kinds of people who judge others.

Ok, to respond to the rest of what I just listed here: self-centered, obnoxious, shallow, loud, self-promoting, proud, uninformed, opinionated…

Do I listen to others and take them into consideration? And what’s the opposite of obnoxious?

Haha, I just looked up antonyms of obnoxious from RhymeZone:

Words and phrases that can mean exactly the opposite as obnoxious:   (0 results) 

Ok, so… the opposite would be behaving in a way that draws attention to others as best facilitates the good of the group? Like… if you’re obnoxious you’re drawing attention to yourself in a way that disregards the people you’re with?

Shallow… Do I think? Am I trying to put pieces of life together over and above what I already know, or do I assume that I already have all the pieces and that I already know it all?

Loud… Well, that’s kind of obvious. Or maybe it’s worth asking how much of the audible atmosphere I take up. Is it more than my fair share? Is it less? Because I think you can take too much attention by taking up too little of the space as well, space that belongs to you, or space that should.

Self-promoting… Does everybody need to notice any good thing I do? Like, honestly… How much do I post on social media, or how much do I blog for that matter? Or how much do I talk about? Do I post or say anything about myself or my life that other people could see and figure out on their own?

Proud… I think this kind of goes with self-promotion, except that self-promotion can also be rooted in feeling inferior. Proud is more aligned with assuming you know truth, and I guess the antidote to pride is holding the truth you know in one hand and a degree of openness in the other.

Uninformed… Well, yes, I really don’t know what’s going on in the world. So, even though I don’t trust mainstream media, I need to find a source of news that’s fair, or that “at least doesn’t lie.” That would give me more pieces to put together, to be less shallow. And maybe to know better what’s useful in the world, and what problems need to be solved, and if there’s anything I can realistically do.

Opinionated… The danger of swinging too far on this one is that if I don’t think or believe anything I’ll be a pushover and completely useless. But I see that a lot with young people, going back to the pushing against the world’s idea of “American”, that it’s wrong to really believe anything. But maybe the way to avoid seeming “opinionated” is to actually have beliefs and not merely opinions. Faith, those beliefs around which I structure real behavior, seems like a stronger place to stand.

Ok, so there are a few things I can do to improve. My foreign-language abilities sure need work (and I’m working on them), and I can be better informed about the customs and cultures around me, but if I actively nurture the positives and am aware of the danger of the downsides of our culture, I don’t need to be embarrassed about my nationality.

We the people can be something good in the world as well.

Priidik’s sister, Annika, leads a Christian music group. They were singing at Kalju yesterday morning.

I don’t know if it was actually supportive to have a stranger in the audience, but lately I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that I need to be doing something for people who are doing good things in the world.

If I’m honest, those feelings come from questioning the good I’m doing myself, so I’ve been thinking about it and trying to work it through. Maybe it’s enough, though, in the quiet times, to simply be there for others. At least, one more set of ears and an open heart is another place for their good to grow.

So I went to church. They played and sang and it was lovely. I thought about God, about how it must please him when on a Sunday there’s more praise in his world than there was the day before.

Mai came with the baby. Triin and Priidik showed up too. Andrus and Ulvi were there… There was also a Filipino family from Cebu (small world.)

The lesson is actually the thing that made me want to write. It was about the pitfalls of the prosperity gospel, a hard look into the scriptures about what we’re promised if we follow Jesus.

• A cross…
• Trouble…
• Sufferings…

I felt encouraged, not because the message was happy but because someone was telling the truth. (I’m so hungry for someone to tell the truth.)

Life is difficult and imperfect, but the only reason to ever feel like a failure is if things were supposed to be perfect and you screwed them up. But if the truth is that our troubles come from having taken up our own cross to follow Jesus, it isn’t a sign that God has left us but that we’re on the right track to being “changed into his image.”

That’s the point of crosses and troubles and sufferings… to be changed to look like Jesus, who reflected God so perfectly into the world.

I think… I think I’m actually learning, more than the knowledge kind of learning, that faith is staying open to God, open to being changed. I’m starting to really believe it’s true: the heart of life, the art of life, is living with our hands open to God, to put into them whatever he chooses. I work hard and do my best with what I’m given, but I have to let him be God in what happens.

“Let God be your God…” Brandi always said.

But yes, the sermon. A few things stuck, especially the line, “Prosperity isn’t a sign of Christianity, peace is.”

Or another one, “We’re promised that God won’t give us more than we can bear. But that also means we’ll be given more than we want to bear.”

I’m going to see The Lord of The Rings with friends in a couple of weeks (throwback!), and I’ve been thinking about epics and narratives and stories in general.

We all seem to understand that we’re part of a story that has a happy ending. Since we’re naturally self-centered, though, we naturally assume that we’re the story.

So Happy Ending! becomes motivation and end-goal, and we work and study and manipulate and finagle and work longer and harder to make it turn out like it’s “supposed to”. Then, when things go badly wrong, we lose all sense of self and purpose and… hope.

It’s the endless human cycle. It’s the world. It’s everywhere. And most of us find ourselves in one part of our stories or the other.

But following Jesus means trading the story of my life for a bigger story in which I play just a small part — like a paragraph, like a chapter. Following Jesus means trading my own happy ending for a happy ending to God’s story. Following Jesus means that instead of expecting every line to brim with positivity, I put my whole heart into the epic.

Because God’s story is a great story, there’s much to write. So my chapter might be one where there’s a plot-twist, or where the hero suffers, or where he goes on a journey and crashes on couches and doesn’t have a home.

But in a masterpiece, none of those parts are merely for using up ink or for the author’s self-indulgence, rather, they’re for character development — to bring out the story in the story and the hero in the hero.

Paul talks about being a living sacrifice. Maybe that means saying, “Ok, God. It’s your story. Here’s the life I can offer. What kind of chapter do you want to write?” And if he says, “I want to write a plot-twist. I want to craft some character development…” you say, “Alright… Make something of me.”

And God says, “I have just the thing in mind.”

We don’t want troubles, we want beautiful lives, but that’s the thing about beauty… Beauty always comes through something. Beauty is brought out, and written, and made.

Beauty always comes through something.

Maybe that’s the thing worth encouraging in the ones who are bringing out the good and beautiful in the world.

Maybe what I’m seeing is the other story.

It’s gotten colder, but there’s no wind.

I’ve been in the city.

Little things have been making me feel spread out… Like the other day I had the beginnings of a song, but my guitar’s in a closet in Alabama. Or I wanted to paint a square for something, but my gouache and the paper cutter are… also in Alabama. There was a slow day that I thought of my huge-comfy yellow t-shirt (not here either), and then my shoes started leaking when it rains, which isn’t a problem except that my winter shoes didn’t make it into the suitcase.

It’s like I have everything I need, but not in the same place at the same time.

Ever, actually.

And those are just my things. I’m not even going to start on never having all my people together.

But the point isn’t to complain, I’m writing this because never having it all together has made me aware of that thing everywhere I go, in people everywhere.

Nobody has it all together…

Pay attention:

The lady in the fancy coat — her left shoe is scuffed, and quick, look in her eyes before she passes by… she’s tired.

The group of teenagers — check out how they’re holding their coffee, how they’re standing. Are they actually having any fun, or is “coffee” just what they think they’re supposed to do?

The girl behind the checkout — her ponytail is Day3. She’s working, but she’s not really here. Is she overwhelmed trying to juggle school and this job? They said that’s getting more and more common…

Suit guy, three o’clock — his blacks are off and the jacket’s just a teenytiny bit too tight… Was he required to have a suit for work and pieced it together best he could? Suits are expensive…

It’s not just me. Nobody has it all together. Not a single person. Not one.

There are so many nice cars parked in front of old apartment buildings, so many not-so-nice ones parked in front of big houses… It’s like sometimes some things are good, and later other things are good, but it’s never All Good.

It’s making me think about God and about how, as long as we keep messing up, he doesn’t get to have it all together either. It’s making me think about how he must be waiting and waiting until his All Good plans are ready. When finally…

I don’t know what it will actually be like, but I think it will feel like:

I look my best, I feel my best, and hey! my steps are spring-y…

Coffee, such friends… How is this so easy? (How is everyone so masterful at puns?)

I’ve got this. And I have awesome hair.

I love doing great work in this suit custom-tailored for me (for free) by the King of Armani.

It will feel like having all the good things in life everywhere you go, all the time. (Especially all your people.)

Thank God, we’ll finally… get it together.

I feel chit-chatty. Probably because no one else is home.

I’m on my third cup of tea. I finished a book. I pulled a few pictures to print.

Evelin and her Finn-Man will be in town this afternoon and we’re meeting up for coffee/tea. In the meantime, thank goodness for quiet.

(I used to think I was an extrovert…)

The book I finished this morning is called Garden City. It’s about the rhythms of work and rest, like many other books, but this one is different in that it explores the very nature of work and of rest, why both are important to God, what we reflect through each into the world, and the purpose within space and time behind everything we do.

I couldn’t put it down. It was the fun, easy-to-read version of Surprised By Hope.

The author, a pastor, lives in Portland, where I was born; and it’s interesting to think about life continuing all these years in the city and the kinds of people who live there. I’d like to visit someday, to feel if it’s homey or just another place. There’s at least one good church, apparently.

I’m reading another book now, one called Boundaries. Not sure yet how I feel about it, but I am sure that I need it. It’s been a telling mirror, like a lot of things lately.

This year has been like that: meeting the weakest parts of myself, of my character.

Hello.

There’s no choice but to keep moving forward though. That stuff is in me, but surely there’s a way to grow through the empty places and out to the other side; there’s surely a best way to try.

God can use the stuff, he can make up for what’s lacking, he can change people so that there’s less stuff and more good inside.

That’s the kind of Creator he is.

I remember a conversation I had with Jay once, about how best to grow. “You have to jump,” he said. “Like a baby bird.”

Like a baby bird…

I guess what he meant was that the bird has to have a faith of sorts, a faith to live. A point comes when it doesn’t matter if it’s the strongest or best in the nest, it has to jump.

But it’s not just one jump; I think for us there are many times in life that we have to throw ourselves out there and try. That’s the continuing nature of faith, not that we believe once and fly forever, but that our faith keeps us jumping.

Again and again we have to try — in our childhood, our teens, our twenties, our thirties. Every part of life is different, and in each we come up against things that are bigger than what we have and are. But faith keeps us jumping, keeps us open to being made stronger.

It’s like feeling at every stage that your wings are taken off, only to find that God is in the middle of replacing them with stronger ones so you can fly to new heights. But even when your new wings are ready, you still have to test them; it still takes faith.

Just like when you were a baby bird…

See, chit-chatty.

Time for more tea.

When I was in Finland, Iiris was knitting socks. Socks for Harri.

We chatted, she knitted. We sat down to tea, she knitted. I crocheted a washrag with a fat hook once, so Iiris working with four needles and a pile of yarn, to me, was brilliant.

Iiris laughed and said it was easy. She kept at it. By the time I left, Harri had hand-knit socks that fit just right.

Brilliant. 

Iiris came to Tallinn a couple of weeks later. We went to the library for another Book Club book and before we left she set down her backpack.

“I have something for you.”

She reached in and pulled out another pair of hand-knit socks. For me.

“You better wear them,” she said. “I don’t want them to end up on a wall somewhere.”

I laughed. That’s exactly the kind of thing I would do.

But yes, what a present. I love them. They fit just right. They’re handmade; handmade by a friend; handmade from a pile of recognizable yarn.

Those are my new socks. I have new mittens too.

I was in Old Town taking pictures again the other day. The temperature had dropped. My hands were freezing. It was getting progressively harder to advance the film, and I decided it was time to mitten-hunt in earnest.

I found them. At the sweater wall. It was the last place I looked because I thought things would be most expensive there, but it turned out that they were more affordable than others.

The mitten lady was about 45 with quiet, dark eyes and a calm face. I don’t know if I’ve met a nicer person. Maybe Gay Spencer or Jennifer Thompson, but up there.

She was Russian; her speech was thoughtful and clear. She was attentive but didn’t hover. She saw I was cold and carefully helped me try on a couple of pairs.

“These ones are pretty, but these of course are warmer…”

I went with the warm ones. They’re thick and dark grey and fuzzy, like little black sheep.

“Here you are,” she gave my change. “Thank you. Now take them, feel better…”

I did feel better. I do feel better. And it wasn’t just the mittens.

There have been many times in life when I’d have gladly paid as much, or much more, merely to be treated as kindly. That was worth more to me than the mittens.

And now, interestingly, the mittens are worth more to me than the mittens. When I wear them I think of gentleness and thoughtfulness and the warmth of people.

Jesus said that not even Solomon was dressed as well as God dresses the flowers, and that God will clothe us and care for us the same if we love him. When I think about my handmade socks and the mitten-lady, I believe it.

Not even Solomon’s clothes were made by such friends, not even Solomon was treated as kindly. And those sorts of things — friendship and kindness — come from God.

How happily I’m going to wear these good clothes…

It’s raining in Tallinn… Forecast: More.

Yesterday was clear, though. I took the Pentax to the streets for several hours, taking pictures in the city, of everyday things.

Film takes a while to come back, so here’s a favorite from Helsinki a couple of weeks ago.

I love it because it feels like something.

I love it because it feels like something.

I thought I needed a new camera. Turns out I needed an old one. Turns out what I was looking for wasn’t an easier way, wasn’t sharper images or richer colors.

I was looking for a feeling.

I was looking for the feeling you get when you put your whole heart into finding beauty where you are. I was looking for the feeling you get when you commit to the picture and know that, for better or worse, it truly belongs to you.

I was looking for the feeling you get from knowing that it might cost you, but that it’s worth the time to wait and worth the price of bringing it alive.

I was looking for pictures that remind you of those things.

I’m so glad to find film again. It’s risky, but it’s rewarding.

And I love it because it feels like something.

 

I couldn’t sleep last night.

I’m thinking and thinking about Simon Sinek’s Golden Circle, and the Why, How, and What…

I’m thinking, too, about how different fields of study develop different parts of your brain, and how they teach you to think in different ways. Math, Science, Social Studies, Music, Poetry, History, Language…

I’ll have to talk about it with someone later to help develop it, so this is raw and I’m just putting the idea out here, but I was thinking about God’s Word, and about all the different genres in the Bible, and how for pretty much ever God’s people listened to it (all of it) and followed along, not visually, reading words off a page, but in their minds as they tracked with what was being read.

Think of how their thinking would have been developed. Think of everything they would have had to wrap their minds around:

• History
• Social Studies
• Music and Poetry
• Math (calculating weights and measurements, for starters?)
• Science
• What about imagery and apocalyptic language?

I was thinking about how we get caught up in asking if details in the history are true, and throw the entire thing out over questions about words.

We don’t ask if God’s word as a whole forms us into wise and capable human beings, into what people can and should be, instead we throw out entire ways of thinking over questions about words…

I was wondering if maybe God gave his people his Word like he has because he wanted to form our minds, to teach us to be wise, to develop us into the kinds of people who can handle all kinds of things.

Real life takes many different skills and various ways of thinking. For example, you can’t be a calculator and forget about relationships because no one will want to be around you, and the reverse doesn’t work either. Or I’ll take traveling since it’s something I know: to get the most out of traveling you have to be able to think logically (to follow signage, for example), and have language skills (to understand signage in the first place) but you have to understand people as well (to ask for help when your language skills are lacking), and you have to have a sense of humor when you get lost after all, and it doesn’t hurt to be able to write a song or poem or draw a picture about your experience when you’re back home because that puts the whole experience into a form you can keep and pass along (like maybe to your new foreign friend who helped you with directions.)

I mean, think — the “best” artists and musicians and teachers and doctors and cab drivers out there are the ones who’ve found ways to combine different ways of thinking into to what they do:

• Music and Math
• Science and History
• Poetry and Music
• Language and Science
• Etc.

So my question is, are God’s people being formed into God’s People? Like maybe we’re… not? Maybe something isn’t happening that should; maybe we’re not developing like we could.

Maybe the minor prophets matter, and Ezekiel’s visions, and the feast laws, and the Psalms, and the Gospels, and the whole book of Esther from beginning to end. Not because of the words, but because of how our minds have to stretch around them.

Maybe God wants us to be wise. Maybe he wants us to actually — clearly and beautifully — think.