QUILTED LOVE, QUILTED PROMISES

Last night Larry gave the evening devotional at the European Theology Teacher's Convention, a gathering of 70 really, really serious thinkers who make up the core of the academic theological training in Seventh-day Adventist colleges and universities across Europe.  They've come to the campus of Middle East University to challenge each other with understanding and sharing "The Translatable Gospel."  

Instead Larry told them about The Quilt.   It's made up of ninety squares of embroidered, appliqued, buttoned, painted, penned, glued, quilted, ironed-on personal expressions from Village Church members we've left behind in Michigan.  It is big enough to hold years of memories and strong enough to hold tons of love.

I wish I could tell you about every single square:  Who made it.  What they've alluded to in their little piece.   The messages we hear and the love we feel.  

I wish I could share all the memories that each represents.  It took me a couple of days to make sure I'd seen and digested every square.  I know some tell stories no one could ever put in words. 

I wish I could tell you about the people who made the squares.  The personalities.  The families.  The histories.  The needs.  The victories.

But also I wish I could tell you about those who may not have had the inclination to express their care in a quilt or the creativity to produce a quilt square that they thought was adequate.  But they are just as precious to us.  Their love is also stitched into The Quilt.   

That's because, like a church body, The Quilt is a composite of many parts--all different, each unique.   Everyone could've each given us a square to stack on our dining room table--and then pack away in a box.  Ninety separate families.  Ninety different messages.   But all the parts together add up to much more...  They make a blanket large enough to keep us warm!  They create a single, united message of love.  

Appreciating Shannon's and Merna's persistence and energy in bringing
together quilt pieces AND people

So, when I  "read between the stitches" of all of them together--

* I see memories of working and worshipping with friends.   Of spiritual blessings that have been greater because they were shared together.  Of a spiritual family that our hearts will never leave.

* I see memories of how carefully and kindly God has led the whole Village Church along.  Over and over, after watching Him work in His inimitable way, I have come to only one conclusion:  This body of believers is surely "the apple of His eye."

* I see memories of what may have looked messy from the outside but what underneath was understandable, purposeful and even the process God used to grow His Village Church stronger.

* I see memories of truly difficult times.  Like parents who are endeared to the challenging child  simply because of the journey they've shared, our hearts are endeared to our Village family by the hardest of times, because we see in retrospect even more of God's love and leading through it all.  He has bound us more closely together as we've experienced the victories He's brought in the trials.

* I see memories of His grace.  It is enough to say that each square is a testimony to the miracle that happens when we draw closer to Jesus:  We find ourselves much, much  closer to one another.  Isn't it because in seeing Him we realize how much we're all in need His grace-giving love.

That--and much, much more--is the messaged stitched into The Quilt.

Enjoying the warmth together!

But...back to the auditorium of professors waiting for some profound theological insight Larry might give them about the translatability of the gospel into other cultures.

Instead, Larry told them about The Quilt. In particular, he described the square in the fourth row up from the bottom, second column from the left has meant to us.   It is a simple  marker-sketch of a little cedar tree surrounded by a carefully handwritten Bible verse:

In a very short time, 

will not Lebanon be turned into a fertile field,

and the fertile field seem like a forest?

Isaiah 29:17

Tears caught in our throats when we read it.  Among all the warm memories of those we've shared so much with, here was a picture of our future:  This is what God says He's able to do (v. 17) for Lebanon!  And it didn't take long for us to learn that His assurance comes as He points out the human tendency to do things on our own (v. 15, 16).

Now the quilt square is signed by Tom, Fe, Tristan & Alden.  They've only been part of Village Church for a short time.  Their Village memories aren't that long.  But they've sent us ahead with not just a longterm promise, but a reminder to let God do what only God can do:     Where there is nothing that appears to be growing, He can make a fertile field that is as lush and productive as a forest.  And He can do it in a very short time.

You don't have to be in Lebanon long to know there is one forest that is distinctly Lebanese and the pride of every countryman.  The cedars of Lebanon symbolize the country's rich heritage and resources.   Seedlings are planted with forethought and care.  Every cedar is protected by law.   That's because a cedar takes hundreds of years to grow.  No legislation, no planting program or protection can change nature's timeline.

But God is not bound by the natural order of things.  Or the norms.  He can break the records.
Dismiss the expectations.  Cut short the growing season.  Produce unusual results.  It is up to Him.  It's His call and His performance.  He can do amazing things in a very short time, with very limited resources, with very weak human beings.  I am soooo grateful.

Whatever lies ahead for us, He is willing to be responsible for what is accomplished.  He knows the end He's working towards.  Because the rest of the story is that "in that day"--in Lebanon, according to the text--the deaf will hear, the eyes of the blind will see, the humble will have joy, the poor will rejoice, justice will prevail (v. 18-21).

With so much in process,  I am willing to wrap myself in the promise of what He will do and accept the little part I have in honoring His name and standing in awe of the God of Israel (v. 23).

Wrapped in quilted promises

  

WELCOME TO LEBANON!

Certainly the Beirut airport is a good place to be welcomed.  Lori's wave to us, reaching above everyone's heads when we came through the door from customs, was a welcome relief.  Anyone getting one of Pam's big hugs feels right at home too.  We've been meeting people for days now: Being introduced to the campus hostess on the sidewalk outside the girls' dorm as we were unloading.  Scouting out the administrative offices early Thursday morning and being discovered...with big grins and strong handshakes.  Meeting more new faces on Friday evening. Being introduced at church. We've been welcomed officially, unofficially, personally, in a crowd, out of a crowd.

But my real welcome came at the grocery store our second day in town!

The neighborhood museum--at El Khawli's Superstore

Aside from experiencing worship in another culture, the grocery store--whether in Ireland or Mexico, Brazil or Austria--has always been my favorite tourist stop.  That's where I've always learned the most about a country, it's people, their tastes, necessities, preferences.  

Like any museum visit, my first stop at a Lebanese grocery store required time and patience.  First, I had to find what I came for.  "Peanut butter."  "Nutella?"  "No, peanut butter."  "Peanuts?"  "No, peanut butter."  "Butter?"  "No."  "Oh, marshareen."  "No."  The conversation all made sense when I learned that peanut butter is not an item.  It is something I make myself from peanuts.

When I spied a box of Weetabix, I almost yelped and instantly knew it's well worth anything, even $2 above Apple Valley's price.  It would cost me more than that to fly back for a supply or to pay for overweight luggage.   Weetabix are the flavor of familiarity.   They're a family tradition.  And they're available in Lebanon!  I feel at home.  Without peanut butter Weetabix are naked mush.  But we're halfway there... 

When I didn't recognize a single brand of soy milk on the shelf, I decided to buy the smallest container of several kinds, just to find our preference of texture, flavor, color--a process we'll go through with a few other products as well.   Some things even with the same label can be different on one side of the Atlantic than on the other.  

And does anyone carry the only brand lotion that helps my eczema?  This one's good, that one smells nice, this kind leaves you with a great feel.  But I see no Curel.  Anywhere.  Oh well, I brought a few month's supply from Michigan to allow for what I call my "search margin," the time I need to scout out every corner of Beirut for the essential goods and prices.

I don't mind the time involved or the tradeoffs of the supermarket culture.  It's worth it to amble up and down every aisle, looking for the familiar, noticing the unfamiliar:   Wondering what it is.  Trying to figure out how it's used.  Daring to try something new.  And even concluding with satisfaction that other countries know how to do some things better than my home country!   The olive inventory is impressive.  I could set up a chair at the end of the spice display and fall asleep in the aromas.  And feta cheese is soooo much more reasonable.

A world of olives--at TSC Mega Store

This first visit Lori was my personal guide; she explained the fruit seasons, the choice of bread flours, the different kinds of lentils, the cost of Campbell soup and labneh, the substitute sour cream.  

At the checkout counter Lori asked if I'd found any tomato sauce for my pasta.  Nope.  Only paste.  (Americans do sauce, the rest of the world prefers paste.)  She offered a jar of her favorite, showed me the label and added it to my cart.  Who knows what else she explained or shared or revealed as we stood there.  Would anyone have guessed we were tourists and tour guide?

Lori, chauffeur and tour guide

With our produce bagged, Larry fumbled through his bills.  (They use dollars as readily as the lira:  LB1,500 to one dollar and the exchange rate never changes!)   We looped the bags over our arms and headed out to Lori's little Suzuki, which is just right for four passengers and a week's groceries.

Just as we stepped out of the store, I heard a pleasant "Welcome to Lebanon!"  It was so well-modulated I thought it must be a new marketing technology.  Perhaps a recording that is triggered at the door when someone walks through with a U.S. chip in their passport.  Or something like that.   I didn't even turn around, certain it wasn't directed at me. 

But as we were walking down the ramp to our car I noticed two beautifully groomed young Lebanese women close behind me, smiling at us.  I paused and smiled back.  OK.  How did they possibly know to welcome me?  A few unlikely reasons flipped through my mind.  But I knew better.  How could anyone miss me and my tour guide at my first Lebanese food museum!   DUH.
  
But even more disarming, the one closest behind me stepped back with a knowing smile and exposed her friend, "She said it!"  The friend, with an embarrassed grin--probably a mix of "OK, I couldn't help myself" and "Oh dear, I wish I hadn't done that"--nodded shyly as they moved away from us.  There was no chance to respond.  Only to appreciate.

It was enough for me.  I was welcome in Lebanon!  Spontaneously.  By someone who had no reason to bother.  By a perceptive, open-hearted neighbor.  I don't know how much the two of them had observed or overheard as we made our way through the store.  They could probably tell I was half lost and half enamored.  Maybe they'd visited another country themselves and knew a food museum tourist when they saw one.  Perhaps they'd felt the same at a Meijer's in Detroit.   However it happened, they were pretty certain I was at the very beginning of my Beyrouth Journey...and I was worth a kind welcome!

My museum experience at TSC Mega Store,
one of the largest grocery stores 
in Beirut, with the same colors and flavors of 
the little produce markets in every neighborhood.

I GREW UP IN THE MOUNTAINS

No, I didn’t grow up in the mountains.  But I know some people who grew up in the hills of Pennsylvania--and that's close enough!   They're not real hillbillies, inspite of the stories about the family's 150-year-old slave cabin, the dead-possum-flavored spring water, spotlighting deer on Saturday nights and skinny dipping.    But they can sure sound the part when they get together for a Lichtenwalter reunion. 

Now, I haven’t been to many family reunions.  Growing up a Baasch, we never thought of such a thing.   Daddy was an only child, a missionary kid, and one of only two cousins to settle in America.  We were short on extended family.  Grandma Baasch died when I was five.   My picture of a family reunion was when Grandpa Baasch came up from his basement apartment and sang the bass part of all five verses of "Abide With Me" with us for family worship.  The security of that song has never left me.

My mom’s Munson family made a larger circle and gathered when they could, though  usually without us.  (After four generations of missionaries, I suspect someone realized that if they didn’t connect, they wouldn’t even know each other’s names.)  I remember my mom helping to plan the one Munson family reunion we attended in California's redwood forest some time in the '60s.  The reunion song they chose was George Beverly Shea's, "He can turn the tide and calm the angry sea....He's always ready...to forgive."  The melody has never left me; neither has the smell of the redwood forest every time I hum it.

But if you’re a Lichtenwalter and you grew up in the mountains "where snakes have four legs, where hoot owls speak English and roosters lay square eggs," a family reunion is a common event.  All five generations are coaxed to the same corner of Pennsylvania on a sticky August day.  Or a crisp fall Sunday.  Or an icy March evening.   Of course, like this year, the hardest part is finding the best time for Larry and his disconnected family to show up!  It's gotta happen this time; we're headed on a long journey to a faraway place.  A family reunion is what makes memories...that won't leave us.

After a few dozen phone calls and several different plans, we finally met at Lisa’s one Saturday night in March.  Every square of table space was covered with Nana’s famous  pecan meatballs, oatmeal patties, and apple pies--along with an amazing spread of traditional family dishes and a fridge full of drinks!  Over a long evening, the Lichtenwalter clan sauntered in, hugged each other, poked fun, poked back, and caught up on the last few months.  I didn't get everyone's names, but that's always been hard for me.  The new generations expand the clan quickly; Nana is a great-great-grandmother several times over already.  

Towards the end of the evening, someone suggested a family picture.  Everyone’s iPods and cellphones came out.  And while Nana sat gloriously in the midst of her tribe, someone broke out singing the first line of the most famous of her repertoire.  

Most of the family is gathered here just seconds before someone in the crowd
began singing that familiar drone-like beginning, "I grew up in the mountains...."    

“I grew up in the mountains where snakes have four legs,

Where hoot owls speak English and roosters lay square eggs. 

Oh, I’m a truthful fellow, they call me truthful Bill. 

I never told a falsehood and I bet I never will."

“I shaved my beard and mustache the morning I was born.

That night I beat my old man and drank his rye and corn.

Oh, I’m a truthful fellow, they call me truthful Bill.

I never told a falsehood and I bet I never will."

“I flew my way to Paris and in my aero plane,
Dah-dahee dah dee dah dah, and started back again.

When I got halfway over the darn old engine stopped.
I left the thing set up there and I got out to walk.

Oh, I’m a truthful fellow, they call me truthful Bill.

I never told a falsehood and I bet I never will.”

"The father of our country, he never told a lie.

He was my great, great uncle, I ask you why should I?"

And that was only the first song that rolled off their tongues like fast, loud recordings.   You should hear "I'm My Own Grandpa" and "In the Crust of the Old Apple Pie" and "Mrs. Murphy's Chowder."  They can rattle them off so easily, you know everyone's  heard 'em a thousand times:   From Grandma Campbell as she flipped her plate-sized pancakes.  From Nana as she rolled out noodles for chicken pot pie.  From children to grandchildren.  From grandchildren to great-grandchildren.  

The music of each family I belong to carries a thousand memories, generations of experience, a bond that can't be explained.   The reunion with the past is in the music we've shared.  Sometimes even the melody has gotten lost to my ear, but the memories and meaning never, never leaves me. 

Why else can I still smell baking pies, see the shell collection in the corner cabinet, feel the breeze of a cool California evening, and hear the grin in Grandpa Munson's high tenor voice as he slaps his knee and belts out...  Well, it was a silly, nonsensical melody he liked to sing to us in Malay at tongue-twisting speed.  The song itself is lost to my ear, but the memories that accompany it have never left me.

I've never mastered the doggerel that comes with growing up in the mountains where snakes have four legs, but the purpose is served anyway:   Even I--sitting on the couch where I've just pulled Nana down to join me in order to make her get into the picture--even I have a rich treasure of memories connected to the family who knows their songs so well.

* * * 

By the way, any Lichtenwalter historian reading this is welcome to supply the "Dah-dahee...dah dee" line for me!  Either the song never sunk in or it's already sinking out of my memory and all I'll be able to recall is the feeling of Nana falling on me... Who needs all the words to keep the memory?!

THE WAY IT HAPPENS

Yesterday I folded up my music stand—yes, I kept one for myself—loosened my bow, stuck a damp humidifier into my violin and closed the case.  It wasn’t exactly a ceremony, but it was memorable.  The simple routine marked the end of 30 years that I had shared as “Teacher Kathie” with nearly 700 mischievous, endearing, maddeningly gifted young people.

Beautiful music is nice.  Teaching is fun.  But I love those kids.   To even the most casual observor, though, love may seem an unlikely result of the whole violin process.  I know the feeling of being associated with the enemy.  ("I hate violin, Mommmmmy.   I hate music.  I hate practicing.  I hate lessons!” does not hold great prospects for the teacher.)  But through it all I've had the wonderful opportunity of becoming a permanent fixture to a whole crowd of kids and their families, inspite of it all. I am sure one of the reasons I love teaching violin is the challenge of using such an irrational, frustrating project to forge the best of friendships.  Every time I’ve helped an uncooperative instrument and an eager, awkward kid accomplish something good together, I have made a special, young friend and a precious memory...

I remember the Sunday morning Lauren came kicking and screaming to my studio door—in her mother’s locked arms—still in her pink nightgown, absolutely adamant she would not attend her lesson, do violin, practice ever again.  So much for stubbornness.  If “Face to Face” is the theme hymn for all those you love, Lauren, and the melody for all our performances together over the last 15 years, it’s also the story of the deepest kind of heart music I ever wished for you. God will make that song real for you some day…and you will see Grandpa Owen again.

I remember the third lesson in a row that little Dominique curled up in the corner of my studio behind the parents’ chair, screaming hysterically while I took her dad out to the entryway and explained how to teach her violin for another week.  So much for overwhelm.  Your solo concerto with your school  orchestra was superb, Dominique.

I remember a blur of lessons with you, Tommy, that stretched into our family supper time as I bent down from my teacher’s stool to eyeball you, because you did not agree with how a bow should be held.  So much for stubbornness.  We have the evidence.  Your mother has a photo of your bow hold somewhere deep in her files that you need to show Itzhak and see what side of the argument he comes down.   You’ve achieved unbelievable successes in music.  Your greatest success, though, will always be in how your life honors God and blesses others.

I remember the utter relief we felt not long ago, Ivanna, when we all finally understood.  I remember the years of wiggly feet that could curiously wrap around each other.  And the eyes that wandered to the trees outside  my window, looking for the bird you could hear singing.  I remember the puzzled look on your face when I “caught you” with a question you hadn’t even heard. So much for years of slow progress.  It was OK, though, because we were hanging in there until you could get the help you needed to focus.  All the music in you suddenly came together and came out, like the birdsongs that distracted you.  God has known all along how much music has been waiting inside you...and how well He can use the extraordinary music in your heart.

I remember Skype lessons from Montana, Kaitlyn.  Watching the bow jerk across the computer screen and hearing the broken scrape of the bow through satellite signals is not a violin teacher's dream.  But it was precious, endearing time with you to walk through numbered measures or fingering or note names to unearth what made the song hard--and what would help you enjoy a new melody.  So much for distance.  It kept our hearts together.  Over our three years on Skype, I could end every lesson so naturally with, “I love you, Kaitlyn.”

I remember the contract I wrote for you to sign, Lauren.  It seemed the only reasonable way to continue violin in the face of petrifying recitals, friends who seemed to play so easily and songs that just didn’t sound right to you.  So much for results.  I may have been out of the country when you married the guy next to you in orchestra who had a better violin than you did, but I shared in the joy.  Shar’s Fine Instrument department did their best to match the tone of your violin to his, didn’t they?  If you ever forget what brought you together, get out your instruments...and practice!

Speaking of weddings, Paul.  I remember leaving my church a little early one Sabbath so I could be at your wedding ceremony across town and play Lover’s Waltz at the end of a deeply spiritual, moving service.  If anyone questions a fiddling number in church, how else does a guy celebrate God’s leading in his heart that prompts him to propose to his stand partner with a solitary rendition of “Lover’s Waltz?"   How creative of you, then, to plead with her to play the duet with you for the rest of her life!  I hope it's gentle harmony reminds you both how much you need Him to help you play in beautiful, lifelong ensemble.

I could go on and on...with memories for each one of "my kids."   Of tear streaks on violin varnish.  Of “broken” strings and scissors.  Of Suzuki books criss-crossed with tire tracks and practice guides overwritten with scathing declarations.  Of scale books that lost their covers--and the bad words that were written on them.  Learning violin can be hard.
But it can also be discovery.  Accomplishment.  Success.  Getting through “Mary Had  A Little Lamb” or Monti’s “Czardas.”  Holding a solid chin grip or hearing the wobble of a beginning vibrato.  Deciphering those mysterious notes or creating a song.  Playing your first gig and collecting that first check.  The memories are not just mine, I know.  Don't forget how great it was to have your name drawn for a Stringshop door prize.  Or to twirl those slippery gypsy scarves.   To perform barefoot on the stage of the Howard Center.  To survive playing a beach wedding in sand-biting wind.  Or to collapse in air conditioning after fiddling at the St. Joseph art show.  

Violin is about high hurdles and sweet satisfaction, about hard things becoming easier.  I'm amazed at what can take place in the little bit of time we shared together each week and what gets accomplished after a year, or two, or ten.  Look, Michael, at what you've done in the past sixteen years! But maybe it's not that amazing after all...

Julia not only knows what it takes to design and make a 
totally edible violin cake for the final recital, 
but she knows what it takes to make four totally talented, 
semi-eager young men into developing musicians.

Because in the shadows behind all those lessons and group rehearsals, recitals and StringShop concerts--along every step of the way--is always a tenacious mom, a supportive dad, a highly interested grandma or grandpa who has made the real investment and helped it all happen:  The one who should stand and bow at the end of the performance.

I have learned, no matter how thorough my teaching or how motivating I am, success is in the hands of  a strong parent like Julia who says to a discouraged teen,  “Look, Mutungi, you will not skip out of Teacher Kathie's last recital.  You will play 'La Folia' too.  And.  I will let you drive my car.” 

Sometimes that’s how it happens.