Bookshelf as Biography

A lot of students come to my office.  A lot of them all say the same thing the first time they step in: "Whoa.  You have a lot of books.  Have you read all of them?"  I smile and say that I've at least cracked the spine on them and written my name in most of them.  I never knew just exactly how many volumes are stacked cross-ways and sometimes two-deep on the 4 units in my office, the 2 units in my spare bedroom, and the countless stacks scattered all over my living room.  Thanks to my friend Robert and a nifty bar-code scanner, I have spent time this summer counting and cataloging books on this fantastic website called LibraryThing.  I'm almost finished, and I hit the 1,000-mark today.  (File it under #firstworldproblem, I know.)

You can learn a lot about someone from what's on their bookshelf.  My collection is quite varied, ranging from radical feminists to Winnie-the-Pooh, from Austen to my sophomore accounting text, from Les Miserables to Lord of the Rings, from gifts received to gifts that I plan to give, someday, when I'm done reading them.  (Is that bad?)  The collection includes well-worn favorites, some "what was I thinking?" clearance-shelf impulse purchases, some that I doubt I'll need again, and some that have been written by people I know personally.  I'm not nearly as scattered and schizophrenic as my library suggests, but I do have lots of interests.

The cataloging would go quickly, except I easily get lost (again) flipping through pages, wondering why I marked that particular page, wondering why I have three copies of the same book, wondering why I didn't know I already had a copy of that book when I added it to my Barnes & Noble wish list last week, wondering if I really ever will read them all...  (There's the answer to the original question above.)

Upon closer examination, my bookshelves are a lot like a photo album. Reading the titles on the spines stirs up all sorts of memories.  The scratch-n-sniff book that was a family favorite at Christmas.  The coffee table book full of stunning photographs.  That textbook that my students hated.  That textbook that was mine (and I hated).  The novel that waits for me, just because it's one of those that "everybody" should read.  The novel that I have read countless times (because it's much better than the movie).  The latest on social justice and policy on issues that concern me.  WAY too many statistics books.  Not nearly enough classics.

Nestled on the bottom shelf are some real treasures.  An autographed copy of the Christmas Chicken Soup for the Soul with my brother's story bookmarked. One of my mother's college textbooks, with familiar handwriting in the margins, written by family scientists whom I would study 35 years later.  A few of my grandfather's high school textbooks, including a volume of British poems and an American history book which ends with the election of President Teddy Roosevelt.

Wikipedia, PhotoShop, and the like have made it possible to change text and image instantly.  Sure, books are revised, updated, available in an instant on your iPad, Nook, or Kindle.  I've been sucked into the digital universe, but I will always prefer being surrounded by paper, leather, and glue.

The books on my shelves reveal who I am and where I want to go.  They also reveal the issues and authors who have influenced me.  I read to be educated, to be entertained, to be persuaded, to be swept off my feet.  I read to connect with an idea, with a movement, with a story, with an author.   I guess C. S. Lewis was right: I read to know I'm not alone.

I'm a much better reader than writer.  I'm thankful to be surrounded by friends who are writers.  I may not know much about psalms or superheroes or epiphany or American architects or theology or literacy or making churches more environmentally friendly or more gender-inclusive, but I know people who do.  And they are my friends.  They occupy sacred space in my life as their works occupy space on my shelf.  I do love my books.  I love my friends more.

Thanks to a few days' work, I have some shelf space and some summer time that needs filling.  Suggestions?

O!

I remember this song (among others) from "Schoolhouse Rock":

Interjections/show excitement/or emotion...


I've had lots of "interjections" in the last 24 hours.  As most of you probably have heard, I was fortunate enough to be selected at random for a pair of tix to the taping of "Oprah's Surprise Spectacular."  Now unfortunately, these days when people hear "Oprah" and "Surprise" in the same sentence, it conjures up images of giving away anything from cashmere sweaters to cars to cruises.  I must admit, I was secretly hoping for a little something (like a Nook or Kindle or Canon SureShot), but I REALLY wanted just to be part of the experience.  It was, after all, TV history in the making.

Even though the whole show was a surprise to Oprah, she (well, her staff) did not disappoint.  I'll get my few gripes out of the way first.    The detailed list of instructions for the evening said that taping would start at 6 p.m.; doors to the United Center would open at 5 p.m.  Now, most people would have known it's impossible to cram 20,000 people through 8 doors and security checks in an hour.  So, taping didn't actually start until well after 7 p.m.  And we knew we were in for about 4 hours of no bathroom breaks.  There was also a lot of "work" to be done by the audience -- coordinating and choreographing white cards to be held up as a makeshift screen for some video images, finger lights (to be used in the VERY EXCITING musical number) and "pencils" (which was code for "get out the books the audience donated to stock school libraries in need").

The interjections then came at rapid fire:  Tom Hanks!  Tom Cruise!  Josh Groban! Patti LaBelle!  MADONNA!  BEYONCE!  Halle Berry!  Queen Latifah!  Diane Sawyer!  Rascal Flatts!  (They were an interesting choice -- the people beside me said, "Who is that?  Never heard of 'em.")

Beyonce's musical number was fantastic -- so fantastic she performed it twice.  We'll see what happens in the editing room.  The video clips and stories about Oprah's dedication to literacy and reading were also quite touching.  I'm also looking forward to seeing how all these things appear on TV.

Then, the second hour.  More interjections.  Will Smith!  MICHAEL JORDAN!  (Complete with Chicago Bulls theme music.  I have to say, THAT was spectacular.  I suppose a tribute to the Bulls was in order, given that this "Surprise Spectacular" overlapped with Surprise!  The Bulls are in the Eastern Conference Finals and Surprise!  They're supposed to play the Miami Heat at the United Center the same night you have Oprah's big party planned.  It was great to see MJ come home.

More surprises -- Jerry Seinfeld.  Jamie Foxx and STEVIE WONDER.  Simon Cowell, who introduced Oprah's partial "heirs apparent" in TV-land: Dr. Phil, Dr. Oz, Nate Berkus, and Rosie O'Donnell.  Maria Shriver, on the day the story broke about the Governator's scandal.  Tyler Perry.  Kristen Chenowith sang "For Good" (from Wicked) while telling a story about Oprah's support of Morehouse College in Atlanta.  I must say, that was the moment which most closely prompted tears from me.  I won't give too many details -- you should watch on May 24.  But the gratitude and loyalty shown by those men to their alma mater -- wow.  THAT is something to envy.

Alicia Keys!  Maya Angelou!

And then the finale -- a rare appearance from Stedman.  Who introduced ARETHA FRANKLIN.  Her rendition of "Amazing Grace" -- wow.  No other words but "wow."  Church continued for the final song of the night -- "O Happy Day" as sung by Usher.

Being there live was indescribable.  I'm not generally enamored by fame, but to see so many celebrities up close (relatively) and untouched by Photoshop and/or Autotune (because they weren't needed) was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.  Stevie and Aretha and Alicia and Kristen REALLY CAN SING.  Halle is flawlessly beautiful, as are Maria and Beyonce.  (And Beyonce can sing and dance, too.  Holy cow.  Again -- watch for that on the 23rd.)

Oprah, who is known for being on the giving end of surprises and who (I'm SURE) knows the depth and breadth of her culture-sculpting influence, seemed to receive the evening with the humility and excitement we also know her for.  I know not everyone is a fan, but I do appreciate that she has used her power for good, to give voice to the voiceless.  And she looked great in dark purple (my favorite color).

What a surreal experience to have a "This is Your Life" evening, and yet know that your "life" -- both personally and professionally -- is most likely far from over.  As I'm typing this, I'm watching O on one of the entertainment news shows.  I think she said it spot-on: "Most people don't live to see this."  (And she also said that the Morehouse men were one of her favorite all-time moments ever.  Glad we agree on that.)

While I wouldn't label myself an "Ultimate Viewer" (as the audience as a whole was labeled), I will miss The Oprah Winfrey Show.  This is where I first learned about Kiva, Half the Sky, The Girl Effect, and Dr. Phil's "How's that workin' for ya?"  While these represent maybe 10 shows out of hundreds and hundreds, they were enough to change my course, just a little.

Some are asking, "Who will be the next 'Oprah'?" as if Oprah can be replaced.  I think most have accepted that won't happen.  BUT, it will be interesting to see who the next great "culture shaper" will be...

Please, not Charlie Sheen.





Next blog post:  Most likely about my next adventure with a one-name wonder.  BONO.  Tix to U2 at Soldier Field in July.

Song

I heard her before I saw her.

I was loaded down with bags of coffee and accessories (cream, sugar, spoons, and a 12-cup coffee pot) to take to a coffeehouse/worship night on campus.  Our musician for the evening, Ethan, was a part-time youth minister/part-time worship leader who was visiting us with his 10-year-old daughter, Kaylea, in tow.

My first thought, getting the coffee pot up and running before the students arrived, was interrupted by the infectious laugh of a girl playing ping-pong with her dad in the next room.  Ethan and I had corresponded via e-mail, so when we met face to face I felt like I was catching up with an old friend.  And then he introduced me to Kaylea, who had big curls and a bigger smile. 

Ethan played original music and told stories until past Kaylea’s bedtime.  (It didn’t help that she was fighting a cold AND the sleep-inducing effects of the cold medicine.)  At one point in his set, Ethan introduced one of his original songs that he wrote while his wife was pregnant with Kaylea – this lullaby was “Kaylea’s song.”   

When he mentioned that, Kaylea perked up and broke out into a grin from ear to ear – a sheepish, slightly embarrassed grin from being singled out in this group of college students, and yet a smile beaming with pride at knowing this song was her father’s gift TO her, and ABOUT her.  All this, while her daddy sat on a stool with his guitar singing and talking about the work of God in the lives of His children, a work that prompts us to sing and worship him. 

The next morning, Ethan also shared some of his original songs in chapel.  During the sound check, Kaylea was right on stage beside him, with her trademark smile, singing the words to her father’s songs, including her professed “favorite.”   

Maybe that’s the movement that God wants in His children – from being humbled and overwhelmed by the realization that our Father is singing TO us, singing a song that He wrote just FOR us, to joining in that song WITH Him. 

The LORD your God is with you, the Mighty Warrior who saves. He will take great delight in you; in his love he will no longer rebuke you, but will rejoice over you with singing.”  (Zephaniah 3:17, NIV)

All for a $12 watch

Of all things to break on this trip, I discovered before I even left the US that my watchband was broken.  I knew I was headed to a place where I wouldn't really need to know what time it was every second of the day, but that watch is somewhat of a comfort-object, that common "I feel naked without it" thing. 

With my limited ingenuity I held it together with a safety pin until Sunday, when the pin bent to the point of no longer being able to stay clasped.  I was visiting with my Ghanian host (Fannie) and the pastor of her church when they noticed me not-so-subtly trying to jerry-rig that watch back together.  Without losing track of our conversation, the pastor said, "Fannie will get that fixed for you."  I was somewhat dumbfounded at (1) his boldness in volunteering someone else to do something, and (2) adding one more small thing to the list of my diva-esque demands (such as gigantic bottles of water given on a regular basis and precious air conditioning).

The next day when I gave Fannie my broken watch, my North American host saw my facial expression and said, "you're feeling guilty, aren't you?"  Yep.  I bought that watch at a local big-box store, and it would cost more to fix it than to buy another one.  My plan was to limp along with that safety pin then invest another $12 in a cheapo watch that would probably turn my wrist green in a matter of months.

As Fannie looked at the watch, she motioned for another staff member of my host organization to take the watch.  He passed it off to someone else.  This was at lunchtime -- around 1:30 p.m.  I had my watch back, good as new, in less than 3 hours for about 75 cents (which of course they wouldn't let me pay for).  Small price to pay for such a big inconvenience, to have 4 people chasing all over town to fix that stupid thing.

As I processed my guilt over being treated like royalty (not just for this, but everything -- I discovered later that the staff had been up since 5:30 in the morning to get the air conditioning fixed in the building where I'd be teaching.  They wouldn't have done that if I hadn't been there), I realized how difficult it is for many of us who value our independence and maybe secretly pride ourselves on our self-sufficiency to receive a gift and to welcome hospitality.

There may be no more hospitable culture than the one where I am now.  Can't get in the car without someone opening the door for me, can't get out without someone running up to carry my bag for me.  But as I think "I can do this, really.  I can carry my own bag, get my own water, deal with my own heat exhaustion, make my own copies, etc." I also know that hospitality is SO ingrained in my hosts that my being a burden or inconvenience never crosses their radar screen.  Generosity and service are so natural -- not a trace of resentment in them.  And they are so reliant on each other that they knew exactly where to take my $12 watch.  It was as close to "no trouble" as you can get.

Similarly, when our car broke down on a major motorway Thursday, two phone calls and 30 minutes later we had 8 people on the case to fix the car and bring us safely back to town.  After the reflex thought of "I wonder what we interrupted them from", I realized that if this had happened in the US I would call Triple-A.  I pay for a service I may not even need because I want to maintain a facade of independence and not inconvenience anyone. 

How much money would we save and how much deeper would our relationships be if we relied more on each other in times of trouble?  How much more would the spirit of Jesus be in us if we allowed ourselves to be interrupted from our own agenda by those we love?

It is a rare gift to be able to receive.  I'm working on that.

Freedom

"For we know that our old self was crucified with him so that the body of sin might be done away with, that we should no longer be slaves to sin -- because anyone who has died has been freed from sin."  (Romans 6:6-7, NIV)

Today has been another long whirlwind.  I will post more about my actual work soon, but today was the ONE day that I had specifically requested when planning this trip -- a visit to the Elmina Castle in Cape Coast, Ghana, and a trip to a place called Sweet River.

Background -- I poked around my family genealogy a few years back after going through some old family photos.  I discovered that my great-great-grandfather on my mother's side had owned a tobacco farm in Kentucky which used slave labor.  My great-great-grandfather was a slave master.  Now I could dismiss that by saying that he found Jesus and freed his slaves in the 1850s (before the Civil War and before the Emancipation Proclamation).  But it doesn't change the fact that this awful chapter in global history is, in fact, now very personal.  It turned even more personal when I began my association with the International Justice Mission and learned about modern-day slavery.  It is still BEYOND my comprehension how slavery can happen, until I remember, "oh, yeah.  Sin."

I don't consider myself a Calvinist.  I don't know enough about it to declare one way or the other, but I do believe in total human depravity after today.  Let's start not quite at the beginning.

First -- a place called Sweet River.  It is called this because the water tasted sweet after those Africans who had been captured from the northern regions of Ghana had marched south to the coast for 3, 4, or sometimes 5 months.  They were stripped naked, shaved of all their hair with broken glass, and sorted for auction.  The river is divided into 3 sections, because it forks.  The first was for most of the women, the second for most of the men, and the third for those who were stronger and might possibly swim away.

As I walked in my khaki capris and black Skechers the same path that these men and women walked barefoot and naked, the pit in my stomach and clanging in my head screamed, "don't cry don't cry don't cry don't cry don't cry."  I knew if I opened that gate, the tears would be as strong as the river I stood beside.

The weight in my heart was almost unbearable, but why?  I was free.  I am as free as anyone currently on this planet can be.  I was carrying an American passport (with all the rights and privileges that go with it) in my bag.

Remember my first post, when I said I wanted to have a deeper, fuller experience of life?  I think today was a deeper, fuller glimpse into SIN.  I hate to turn into a Debbie Downer and use the "s-word" that people don't like to hear.  But I WAS a slave to sin.  I was a slave (although I would never claim to compare my experience to those who walked this path in the 17th, 18th, and 19th centuries).  I know that one popular view is to reinterpret Biblical references to slavery by saying, "Well, not all slaves were mistreated.  Some were valuable respected members of their household."  To use the sanitized Christian word -- BALONEY.  The weight of the ball and chain I held in my hands came close to equalling the weight in my heart.

And that was just the first place.

The second place -- Elmina Castle.  Built in 1482 by the Portuguese, later occupied by the Dutch and British.  The first thing the Protestant Dutch did when occupying the castle was to dismantle the steeple off of the chapel.  The second thing was to build a new water reservoir because they suspected the Portuguese would poison it.  The third thing was to replace the doors on the rooms that formerly served as holding cells for African goods to be traded (gold, ivory, etc.) with iron bars that would now hold the Africans to be traded.

The first room I went in was the room of condemnation.  This was the place where those who actively fought and tried to escape were imprisoned and starved. To death.  I could handle that thought just fine, until the tour guide closed the door behind us, leaving us to the lingering smells and utter darkness.  The doorpost was marked with a skull above it to serve as a warning.

You tell me.  Is that what you'd like to see after fighting to get back the freedom forcefully ripped from you?  Is this the image you want after being humiliated like you'd never dreamed possible?  You see my point.

There were more rooms and sights and smells and sounds that I will save for another post.  I'm sure you can understand that I need to come up for some Spirit-breathed air.

I did not end the day in a hopeless place, so I don't want to do that to anyone reading this.

As difficult as it was to see a physical place where people are held captive and died in that state, it was just as exhilarating to remember that

"My chains are gone, I've been set free.  My God, my Savior has ransomed me."

The weight of sin is gone.  I am no longer a slave to sin.

Praise be to Jesus Christ for this unspeakable, matchless gift of grace.

Waiting

There are two speeds in airports:  super-fast and complete stand-still.  Right now I am the latter.  Due to the fact that it's January, I scheduled my flight from Chicago to DC with a 5 hour layover before boarding my flight to Ghana.  I anticipated all the things that go along with January in the midwest and mid-Atlantic states -- you know, all those things that hit last week?  Wind, ice, snow, traffic, chaos...and right now, nothing.  It's cold and sunny.  Great flying weather, horrible sitting-in-a-terminal weather.

But it gives one time to think, if one likes to do such a thing.  I can ponder such wonders of science like "why did my little travel pillow deflate?" and "how do flight attendants wear those high heels?" (Better question: "WHY?")  I can ponder the marvels of linguistics and communication, as I eavesdrop on conversations that are in different languages and then turn around and eavesdrop on those same people (in perfect English) ordering grande, skinny, white chocolate mochas from you-know-where. 

I have 4 hours to kill.  An hour ago, this place was jumping.  It was like Frogger, trying to dodge people, bags, wheelchairs, "mind the cart!", strollers, the line at Dunkin' Donuts, people with the deer-in-headlights look, who realized they just passed their gate, the sprinters who realized their gate was changed from gate C-34 to gate C-3, and that flight is now boarding....  all the flurry of activity of realizing that where you are is not where you are supposed to stay.  Airports are clearly not designed for those who are waiting.  I find myself somewhat wishing I smoked so I could hang at the "smokers' lounge."  I haven't found the "I have a 5-hour layover, I don't smoke but I think I saw a Five Guys and now I want a cheeseburger lounge."  So here I sit, across from the Hudson News and a gate with a flight to Pittsburgh, waiting.  The gates all around me are empty, getting ready for the next round.

It's been good to wait -- I've talked to friends and family who have wished me well.  That means so much, as I'm flying solo on this.  I am working with an NGO in Ghana, but the travel is just me and my security object (whom I will introduce in a later post).

Airports are a great metaphor for life, I suppose (but again, EVERYTHING can be a metaphor for life.  It depends on how much you want to stretch it).   We're not where we started out, and yet maybe not where we want to be.  As one who is licensed by the state of Illinois and approved by a national professional organization to help people manage change in their lives and relationships, I have also seen that there are two speeds when trying to change -- HURRY UP and get better, or when will my life ever be different?  It's so difficult to be patient.  I'm living proof of impatience -- just ask my mom.  Change is difficult.  I do realize there are those overnight/answer-to-prayer healings of addiction, hurt, trauma, whatever -- but more often I see change as requiring maneuvering and persistence and courage and stamina that often we don't realize we have. 

At the risk of sounding cliche (and adding to it) -- life's a journey; enjoy the ride.  And find a way to enjoy the waiting.

Now -- I think it's time to hunt down that burger and a football game on TV. :)

Begin.

I couldn't sleep last night. Maybe it was the coffee, maybe it was the long "to do" list. Instead of counting sheep, I counted all of the exotic places that various close friends of mine had visited in 2010. The itinerary rivals that of Magellan's -- Zambia, India, England, Australia, New Zealand, France, Haiti, Ethiopia, China, South Africa, Turkey, Italy, Kenya, Spain, Michigan...

I remember my first overseas trip that was truly a vacation -- Paris, France. March 2009. With our luggage still sitting in the hotel lobby (a lobby the size of a closet) and heads still foggy from jetlag, I and my traveling companions (who are WAY more sophisticated than moi) set off to find something famous to see. Which wasn't hard.

The first building we entered was L'Orangerie, which now houses the entire collection of Monet's "Waterlilies". I didn't know (1) that there are NINE of them, and (2) they're HUGE. It was here I first realized that pictures in books RARELY do justice to the things themselves. And I also realized that it is fun to travel with people who are smarter than me (as one of my companions puts it -- people who are "full of facts").

Don't get me wrong -- I LOVE my books. Anyone who has seen my office knows that immediately. But something inside me is drawn toward a deeper, fuller experience. Sometimes it's seeing something for real that had only been portrayed in books. Sometimes it's stopping to breathe in the smells along with the sights and tastes and textures and sounds of life around me. Sometimes it's about asking what seems like an insignificant question and learning a quite fascinating answer.

When I have those moments (and I don't seek them as often as I should), I generally find myself thinking, "Oh, I wish so-and-so were here. They'd really enjoy this." (Case in point -- remind me to tell you about taking my dad, the lifelong farm boy, to the Farmers' Market in Madison, Wisconsin.)

Resolution for 2011 -- have more of those "stop and smell the roses" moments. I know for sure one will come (literally) in July, when I head to the Chicago Botanical Gardens. REALLY -- if you haven't seen the roses there, go and smell them. Believe me. You will smell them long before you see them.

January moments: trip to Accra, Ghana. Rather than watching an episode of Oprah or reading about women who are working to create a better life for themselves and their families, I'm going to talk to them for myself, videocamera in hand. I'm sure I'll get some great stories.

I wish I could take you with me.