For How You Hope.

God sovereign and generous,
Who commands the rise and fall of the nations,
Who calls and has chosen many peoples,
Who weeps when they harm each other,
Who haunts every local culture – including ours –
With your will for well-being,
Who draws close to the powerless and
Surprises with power via weakness…

You are the one whom we praise in astonishment,
We adore in gladness,
We thank in gratitude…

For who you are,
For what you do,
For how you hope.

Look with mercy on us this day,
On all the churches we serve and love,
On all the people we name,
On all the communities so fragile in which We are embedded.

Look with your mercy, and we will obey you all the day long. In the name of Jesus who obeyed fully. Amen.

Walter Brueggemann
Awed to Heaven, Rooted in Earth 

Isaiah 19:23-25

Ahoy…

It happened the summer before I moved to China.

I went on a cruise to the Bahamas with my awesome friends Katie and Erin. (See the cheesy awesome cruise photo on the right.)  Now, I didn’t really consider myself to be a tropical cruise type of girl – maybe I saw myself more on a Mediterranean or Alaskan cruise ship.  But regardless, I absolutely knew this was going to be a fun vacation, mainly because of the awesomeness of the company and the promise of lots of sunshine.

Along with plenty of opportunities for chilling on the deck, drinking fruity beverages and working on our tans, we also went on excursions every day.  Sea kayaking was hands down the best thing we did.  The water was incredibly clear, and it was just beautiful.

But there was one excursion that made me nervous beyond description – snorkeling.

I’m not the strongest of swimmers and just really, really did not want to die.  But Katie and Erin assured me that we’d have a blast.  They described how cool it was getting to just float on our tummies, kicking around looking at colorful fish and coral.

And so, I agreed. 

In my mind, I pictured snorkeling close to the shoreline.  Safe, and with land in plain view.  So the next morning when we all climbed onto a ship, I was terrified to realize that we were actually headed OUT TO SEA.  It didn’t help that the weather was also pretty bad – rainy with big choppy waves.

Once we were officially out in the middle of nowhere, everybody else put on their gear and hopped off the side of the boat.  I stood firmly on deck, wearing my flippers and my lame little inflatable life vest, asking if there was an alternative way to enter the water.  They lowered these massive steps out the back of the boat, which I went down one step at a time on my butt.  Once I was about waist deep in the water, I turned around and asked if they had ANY additional floatation devices at all. 

The captain rolled his eyes and handed me a hot pink noodle.

I tucked the noodle under my arms and went for it while repeating to myself, “Kick your feet, breathe through your mouth, don’t die…”  I was so preoccupied with kicking and breathing and living, I didn’t even really look below me.  I don’t recall ever seeing a colorful fish.  Not one.

In the beginning, I was swimming with other people.  But at some point I stopped seeing other flippers in my view, so I put my head up to have a look around. 

I saw nothing.  No boat.  No people.  NOTHING.  I was officially lost at sea.

I had absolutely no idea which direction to swim and was terrified.

But then way off in the distance I heard a voice calling, “Pink Noodle!  Pink Noodle, hold on!  We’re coming to get you!”

It was the captain of the ship calling.  He then swam out to rescue me with one of those big red floaty things.  When he got out to me, his first words were, “What the %#@* were you trying to do – swim to Cuba?!?”  He then said that I was absolutely buying him a beer when we got back to the ship.

We got back to the ship, safe and sound.  I think Katie or Erin bought me a fruity drink for being so brave.  And the rest of the cruise was fab.  I also inherited the new nickname “Pink Noodle.”

The end.

I told this story the other day to a friend on a Gmail chat, and he pointed out something that I’ve been mulling over ever since:  my perspective from the water was totally different from the captain’s view on the ship.

I panicked basically because I had no clue where I was, right?  At sea level, my visibility was terrible.  All I could see were waves upon waves.  But from the ship, the captain saw my noodle and me much more clearly – he was the one with the accurate perspective.

Remembering this story caused me to wonder how many other times I’ve lost my bearings and panicked, simply because of my perspective.  So often, my faith can only reach as far as I can see.  

Maybe all you can see right now are waves – and maybe that’s freaking you out.  Or maybe everything is great but you just don’t see which direction your life will go next.  But in all that, just know that God sees it all.  He doesn’t just see the waves – He has a much grander perspective.  He never sets us out to sea and then leaves us to toss around with nothing but a lousy noodle.   

He sees.
He rescues. 
He guides.

Let’s Start With Ridiculous And Work Backwards

Do you remember the scene in the movie “Stranger Than Fiction” when Harold Crick kept a tally in his moleskin? 

He recorded all occurrences in his day, determining whether the story he was living was a comedy or a tragedy.  If my own moleskin contained such a tally, I have no idea which way I’d go with this one.

Saturday night just before bed, I turned on a small A/C unit in my bedroom, as well as a tiny little fan on the nightstand next to my bed.  It cools the room just right and provides the soft, soothing “whirrr…” that guarantees a sound night’s sleep.

Little did she know that this seemingly innocuous act would result in her imminent death [of a good night's sleep]. 

At 2:30 a.m. I awoke to the sound of loud, incessant banging. 

It took several minutes for me to realize that the commotion was someone hammering on my front door. 

Stumbling out of bed, I looked through the peephole to see a very old, very tiny Chinese woman using her cane to wail away on my door.  I figured that unless she was Jackie Chan’s grandmother, there was not much of a chance she could take me in a fight, so  I opened the door.  With the same skillfulness of squeezing oneself onto a crowded Chinese bus, this lady wedged herself past me and planted herself in the middle of my living room.  Wagging her finger at me and yelling in a combination of Cantonese and Mandarin, she was clearly furious. 

Have you met anyone who simply might loathe the very core of you?

With her cane and her tiny beslippered feet, she first pointed at my row of shoes by the front door and then stomped around my apartment, repeating the same word over and over again (I can only assume the word was something like “loud” or “noisy” or “elephant”).  I tried to explain I never wear my shoes in my house, but she totally ignored me.

She then barged into my bedroom, pointed at my A/C unit and declared, “Ah-HAH!!”  She started yelling at me again.  I could hardly understand anything she said except for the words “no sleep.”  She kept talking and talking, as I just stood there.  Every once in awhile, she’d take a moment to breathe and I could jump in with, “I’m sorry, but I can’t understand you.”  This did not register.  The yelling and finger-wagging continued. 

Then all of a sudden her face changed as if she’d just realized something.  She squinted her eyes and looked at me again.  She got right up to my face and yelled the obvious: “You’re NOT Chinese!” 

Immediately, her entire demeanor changed.  She started apologizing and bowing.  Bowing and bowing, with her little wrinkled hands clasping mine.  Then she apologized for making my apartment dirty by not removing her slippers upon entering.  She asked me again and again me to give her a broom.  Not knowing what else to do, I obliged.  As she fussed around my apartment, I just stood there – still half asleep and trying to figure out what was happening.

Apology accepted.  But only because you stammered.

Before I knew it, she was gone.  For several minutes, I stood by my front door with my sleep mask still shoved onto my forehead, holding my broom and dustpan. 

I hoped this would be a one-time encounter, but I was wrong.

Getting home from Beijing Sunday afternoon, I went straight to my sofa for a nap.  Just as I was about to drift off, the doorbell rang.  (Do not imagine an American doorbell.  Imagine the sound a dying cat would make if you stuffed it in a tiny space and yanked its tail repeatedly.)

Bleary-eyed, I answered the door again.  In she came a second time, talking a mile a minute.  Finally, I interrupted her and said slowly in Mandarin, “I’m sorry, I just don’t understand you.  Please let me call my Chinese friend and you can talk to her instead.”  I called Sally, explained the situation, and handed the woman my phone.  She sat her self down at my dining table and started to talk.  And talk.  And talk.  I made her a cup of tea since it was obvious she had no plan to leave anytime soon.  After about twenty minutes, she handed me back my phone, smiled triumphantly, thanked me for the tea, and disappeared.

Sally explained what I had already assumed:  this lady wasn’t able to sleep at night because the sound of  my air conditioner outside her window was keeping her awake.

Apparently this lady also told Sally I was far too pretty to not be married, and that I should move back to America to find a husband.  Then maybe she could also have a quiet, Chinese neighbor who could understand her.

So last night out of politeness, I “slept” with no air conditioning.  It was a long, hot, sticky, miserable night.

This morning right before I headed to work, she appeared outside my apartment again – this time, holding a handwritten note.  Sally translated the note for me when I got to the office.  It outlined the days she will stay with her children in Beijing – and thus, the days she will “permit” me to use my air conditioning.

Like anything worth writing, it came inexplicably and without method.

In China, you always defer to the older person’s wishes, out of respect.  But does this mean I’m going to spend most of my summer in misery?

And so, internet friends, I put it to you – am I living in a comedy or a tragedy?

And so she did what countless punk-rock songs had told her to do so many times before: she lived her life.

All in a Day’s Commute

Moroccan, Thai and Greek Food…Oh My!

Chinese is not my favorite food.

Gah, that’s a terrible thing to admit, right?

Okay, I can say I love noodles and most dumplings.  And I frequently crave (and enjoy) barbeque from a local restaurant.  And there are a few Chinese dishes that I really do think are delicious.   But as a general rule, I just don’t find myself getting that excited to eat Chinese.

Maybe it’s because I eat at least one Chinese meal a day?  Maybe you really can get too much of a good thing?

Living in a little village, there just aren’t too many non-Chinese-food options.  But here’s what’s really great about living close to Beijing:  the cuisine is unparalleled in quality and variety.  Never in my life have I enjoyed food from so many different parts of the world.  With so many embassies and outside companies from all over the globe, it only stands to reason that there would also be an incredible diversity in dining options.

This makes me really happy.

In the year and a half that I’ve spent living here, I think I’ve gleaned out Beijing’s true gems of ethnic dining and have an absolute blast sharing these discoveries with visiting friends and summer volunteers.

• I’ve learned that I LOVE Moroccan food.
• Nine times out of ten, I will gladly choose an Ethiopian restaurant over a western one.
• I will never, ever turn down an opportunity to enjoy Pad Thai at the Purple Haze.
• Athena’s Sunday buffet is hands down the best Greek food I’ve ever tasted.
• There’s nothing like sitting outdoors at Schindler’s, sipping their homemade ginger ale with a soft pretzel.
• I never knew that Malaysian, Thai, and Indian food could fuse so well together until I tasted the wonderment that is Asian Star.
• When I’m craving a truly western experience, a big basket of fries and a juicy burger from Let’s Burger will always hit the spot.  Or if I’m wanting healthier fare, having a fruit smoothie and warm spinach salad with crumbled bacon and apple slices at Element Fresh is another major fave.

Now that summer is here, most of my favorite restaurants now have outdoor seating.  This probably makes me love them even more.

Summer is also the perfect time of year for making my own salads-of-amazingness.  Two particular recipes come to mind…

Sort of a Fiesta In Your Mouth
Mixed Greens
Fresh Cilantro (chopped)
Marinated and grilled lime chicken
Sliced Avocado
Grated cheese
Can of black beans (drained and rinsed)
Can of corn (drained and rinsed)
Lime vinaigrette

Caroline’s All-Time Favorite Salad
Mixed Greens
Diced apple
Diced pear
Crumbled bleu cheese or shredded swiss cheese
dried cranberries
cashews
Poppyseed dressing

Suffice to say, I’m eating pretty well here in China.  Good thing I’ve got a 3 mile walk to work every day, right?

And to think that I saw it on a street in Beijing!

My commute to and from work is pretty predictable.  Leaving my apartment complex (actually called a “commune”), I walk out onto a busy road.  There’s always a tangle of bikes, scooters, motorized tricycles, cars, buses, and trucks all trying to play chicken with each other – weaving back and forth, honking, weaving some more.  Getting closer into the village, vendors line the streets selling vegetables and fresh meat.  I walk briskly, not even realizing how much I’ve come to enjoy the predictableness of being in a place that is still foreign in many ways but has also become familiar.

But walking home last night, something very UN-predictable happened.

Just as I passed our village’s middle school, I saw a camel standing in the middle of the road.  A CAMEL.  I stopped dead in my tracks, mouth hanging open.  Everybody else was just walking by, not even noticing that a CAMEL was in the middle of our tiny rural Chinese village.  A CAMEL.

But then I heard a child calling out, “Mama!  Mama!  Look Mama!”

Finally, another person was stopping to gawk along with me!

“Look Mama!” he shouted.  “A foreigner!  Look at her – a FOREIGNER!”

Forget the camel, the kid was staring at ME.

Growing Plants…and Friendship

My dad has an amazing ability to make things grow.

As a kid, our house was always surrounded by rose bushes of all sizes and colors.  At the end of each brutal Montana winter, my dad would coax these plants back to life.  He could even cross-pollinate different varieties and come up with an entirely new rose.  He’s got a gift.  Unfortunately, this was not a gift I inherited.

I’ve killed several plants over the years.  But despite my complete ineptitude in all things plant-related, I still cling to the hope that someday I’ll be able to keep a plant alive.  So a little over a year ago, I bought a pretty house plant at a market in Beijing.  I placed it by the window and watered it once a week.  It didn’t really grow – but it didn’t die either.  Let’s say it hung on.  And then I went back to America for Christmas – completely forgetting to ask somebody to care for it in my absence.

And so…it died.  Just like all the rest.

Since that time, I’ve had every intention of replacing the plant and starting again.  But for the past two months, I’ve just had a sorry dead plant sitting in my living room.  I even brought it to my new apartment.

A couple days ago, I came home from work and found the prettiest burst of green coming from the pot.  At first, I thought that my plant had somehow been resurrected.  But after a closer look, I realized this wasn’t the case.

My ayi (cleaning lady) brought me a new plant – a healthy, cheerful, optimistic plant.  She left it for me as a surprise.

Looking at that little plant, I was so touched by her gift.  I’m not sure she had any idea how much it would mean to me.  I know that I pay her to come and clean – that’s her job.  But she goes so far beyond that.

When I hired her a few months ago, I was initially really uncomfortable with the idea of having somebody come to clean.  But I realized that it was a win-win situation for both of us – she needed the work, and I needed a clean apartment.  In the months since then, we have built a fun friendship.  She has such a sweetness about her – I love the way she sings as she sets to work.  Sometimes she brings me Chinese breads from the village, and I’ve shared some of my baking attempts with her.  Once in awhile, we see each other on the road – she on her scooter, me on foot.  Very often, she’ll insist on giving me a ride to wherever I’m going.  We can communicate pretty well together, but inevitably we still have those moments where we burst out laughing because neither of us can get our point across.

I’ve been hesitant to write this blog, mainly for the “cheese” factor of drawing a parallel between growing friendships and growing a plant.  I mean, come on.  It’s so cliché, right?  This idea has already been printed on greeting cards, embroidered on cushions in your grandma’s house, and written on those little packets of wildflower seeds that they sell at farmer’s markets.

But it’s still true – growing anything takes patience and tenderness.  And this week my ayi gave me a visible reminder of this.

A New Apartment

“He is the happiest, be he king or peasant, who finds peace in his home.” Goethe

Adventures in Haircuts #3

February 2009

So I reached the 4-month mark since my last haircut.  The style didn’t naturally turn under anymore or make that cool “swish, swish” motion when I turned my head.  The ends were getting scraggly too.

And so, my thoughts naturally turned to Gavin.  Of Gavin Studio.

A few of my female friends at work were also talking about needing a new style.  An American who recently moved to China brought some brand new hairstyle magazines from the States for us to peruse – wonderful!  So for several days, we all poured over the magazines – analyzing several cuts and helping each other decide which style most suited our personalities.

I decided on something kind of like a messy bob.  It was about chin length with chunky layers – a style that simply said, “Hi, I’m hip and bohemian and look this terrific without trying.”

Saturday morning we excitedly headed into downtown Beijing – ready for our transformations.

Carrie, Lauren, and Elva all went before me.  They all looked terrific.  Then it was my turn.  We showed the photo of my chosen hairstyle to Gavin.  He looked at the magazine.  He looked at me.  He looked at the photo again.

“I don’t like it.  It’s out dated – I can do better.”

Elva and Gavin started arguing back and forth a little – I couldn’t understand most of what they were saying.  Finally, Elva turned to me and said, “He says the style you chose is just ’so so.’  He says he has a better idea.  He wants to know if you trust him.”

“Uh, sure.  I trust him.”

“He wants you to look at him and tell him you trust him.”

I looked Gavin in the eye and said, “I trust you.”

There was no iPod this time, but I saw the same look of earnestness and determination on his face.  His lips pursed in concentration, Gavin began his work.  I closed my eyes, repeating my promise over and over again in my head.  “I trust you, I trust you, I trust you.”

Within just a few minutes, my head felt significantly lighter.  “Wow, he’s taking a lot off,” I thought to myself.  “Calm down.  I trust you, I trust you…”

When he told me he was finished, I opened my eyes.

Have you ever had one of those moments when you thought to yourself, “Keep it together.  You can make it.  Just get yourself out of this room…and then you can cry.”

That’s exactly how I felt.

Trying to mask my disappointment, I smiled and thanked him.  I paid.  We left.  The girls all assured me that it was a great cut and that I just needed to get used to it.  They told me I’d love it once I styled it myself.

“Just give it a few days and you’ll feel totally different.”

I look like one of the Jonas Brothers.

Want to know what I think of you, Gavin of Gavin Studio?  You may have dimples and you may have a great collection of scarves, but you also have an over-inflated ego.  You thought you knew my hair better than me but you left me looking like an adolescent boy.  Oh and another thing.  Your funky glasses?  Yeah, everybody can totally tell you don’t have glass in the lenses.  Faker.

Adventures in Haircuts #2

October 2008

About a week before leaving for my sister’s wedding in Ireland, I took a long hard look at my hair.  I’d had it cut by my beloved Cherie when I was back in the States about 6 months prior, but it was clear that my head needed some attention.

Desperately not wanting to recreate the disaster that was my first China haircut, I looked around to see which of my Chinese friends had the cutest hairstyle.  The winner was Elva, an amazing girl who does public relations work for the foster home.  She told me about her hairstylist in Beijing – he worked at a salon in a popular shopping district downtown.  Hmm…sounds promising.  We set off for Beijing that Saturday with high hopes for a new and improved Caroline.

We arrived at Gavin Studio.  It was hip and funky and trendy and way cooler than I’ll ever be.  Most of the apprentices wore tight white tee shirts that said “Gavin Studio: More Than Hairstyle” along with black parachute pants and black All Star sneakers.  All the stylists were men.  But not just any men.  Men in tight jeans and puffy hair.  Men who posed.  Men who knew hair.  The aroma of expensive hair products floated in the air.

Elva let the receptionist know we were there, and they directed us to some corner sofas to wait.  They offered us fashion magazines and juice boxes (Oh how I love the Chinese!).  After a few minutes, HE walked up to us.  Dressed in tight jeans, a perfectly-fitting blazer, a scarf tossed carelessly but perfectly around his neck, Italian leather shoes, funky plastic glasses, and a hip little holster holding the tools of his trade – scissors, combs and clips.  Oh.  And he had dimples.

It was Gavin.
Of Gavin Studio.

He smiled warmly and then came right down to business.  Slowly, he walked around me with a critical eye.  I straightened my posture, rejoicing inwardly that I’d thought to wear skinny jeans and apply a little eyeliner.  I kicked myself for forgetting lip gloss.  He continued to walk around me, running his fingers methodically through my hair.  He then looked me straight in the eye and said very slowly and deliberately in Chinese, “Your hair…is awful.  But when I am finished, it will be music.”

Okay then.

Gavin sat me down, put on headphones, pressed “play” on his iPod, and got to work.  With every snip of his scissors, he flicked his wrist – tossing the unwanted hair as far from himself as possible.  He approached the task with earnestness, confidence, and just enough flair.  About halfway through, he removed his blazer to reveal a vintage-looking Weezer tee shirt.  I asked him, “Is that what you’re listening to?”  He smiled and nodded.  Oh wow.  What a haircut I am going to get.

He continued on his course, snipping and combing away.  Out came the blow dryer.  No need for a brush or styling products – just the skillful hands of Gavin.  He dried and styled and did final touch ups, all without ever letting me look in the mirror.  But at the end, with one final WHOOSH, he spun me around in front of the mirror, tore off his headphones, and proudly declared, “NOW your hair is MUSIC!”

And he was right.

It was stylish.  It was sleek.  It was even a little mysterious.  But more than that, it was ME.  A Chinese haircut that was ME.

All thanks to Gavin.
Of Gavin Studio.