Kiwi Birthday Reflections

On the drive home tonight, I heard a song on the radio that, for the first time in a long time, didn't make me cry. There were memories attached to that song that dates back about ten years, and healing had finally come full circle to that part of my story. But it also made me reflect on where I've come over the last ten years, where I am, and where I could have been.

Ten years ago around this time, I had to make some decisions about school that altered my whole life course and took some unexpected turns that led me to the cornfields.
Ten years ago around this time, I started blogging. Granted they were angsty teenage rants, but it was the very beginnings of a journey as an honest, and not-very-politically-correct writer.
Ten years ago around this time, I was falling in love with a boy barely seventeen, but he was the first to help me believe I had anything worth saying that people would want to hear.

Ten years ago around this time, I had a dream. I didn't know this dream was a revelation of what the next ten years of my life would be, but around this time last year, I finally wrote it down here.

There were parts of this dream that I still didn't understand as I was writing it last year, but it's all beginning to make sense now.

Two years ago today, I jumped on another flight, not knowing what I was getting into. Two years later, I'm celebrating what I've come to call my second "Kiwi birthday".
Two years ago today, the people of Westside Christian Fellowship welcomed with open arms another stranger into their midst. Two years later, we reflect on a journey that has seen tremendous joy and grief.

Two years ago today, I honestly didn't think I would make it this far. I had arrived in Auckland having accepted the role of coordinating the children's ministry, but having limited experience working with children myself. The church needed someone to tide things over in their children's ministry for a while, and I had said, "Here I am; send me." And so I came.

I've never been crazy about kids--still am not--but I didn't like them any less than I liked grown-ups. Little people are people too, and in the last two years, they've blown my mind and taught me more than I could possibly ever teach them. They've challenged me and given me permission to be more creative than I've ever been. They snuck into my heart and whispered stories that made me laugh and want to be their advocates at school, in church, and in society in general. They shaped my understanding of a balanced ecclesiology and made me want to fight the grown-ups that don't take them seriously.

Two years later, I cannot be more thankful today for the church that gave me permission to learn and experiment, and be a little bit crazier than crazy. And as the calendar year is drawing to a close, my time with my little people will soon end as well. It's hard to not fall in love with these kids, as rascally as they can be.

But the dream from ten years ago is beckoning. And just as I was responsible for being faithful to my role at Westside, I now have to be responsible for being faithful to the calling of the dream. This probably all sounds a bit frou-frou at the moment, but I promise I will write about the rest of the dream and what this will look like in time to come. Sorry Kiwi mates, but I'm still hoping to hang out in Auckland.

And I hope you will stay on board with me as you have all this while. Check back in, and see how the story is developing. Write, and let me know what you think. And if you're the praying type, pray.

As always,
i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

Little treats for the 2nd Kiwi birthday.
Because stopping and remembering is a necessary part of the journey.
(Clockwise from top left: Tim-tams and L&P.
Lamb dinner because lamb's never been this affordable until now.
Tim-tam slammed in milo.
And of course, paua from my first Kiwi birthday thanks to Amber and Jess.)

Arohanui,
Me

Tribal Stories: Water

She laid wide awake, staring at the stars. There was no way of telling what time it was, but she was certain it wouldn't be long before the sun would rise.

In the days since the last sand storm, she hardly slept. The days were long as she worked alongside the desert people, and as night fell, she would lay her weary body down but her mind wouldn't stop.

She thought back to the critter's last visit only days ago. As usual, they hardly said two words to each other and she quite enjoyed the few moments of comfortable silence.

"You need to start making preparations for the southern lands, you know," he finally said.

She sighed. She knew he was right, but with the recent change of landscape in the desert, all that occupied her time was making sure that the desert people could resume their way of life as quickly as possible. But the side of the story she had yet to admit was that she was afraid of the uncertainty about the days ahead.

Her mothers and grandmothers taught her that the way to work the ground was different in every land, and that she needed to learn new ways again as she arrived in the southern lands. And even though her gypsy friend had told her the ground in the southern lands was rich and fertile, it provided no answers for how or where to begin. Besides, she wasn't to live in the southern lands by herself, but how would she begin to gather people?

"The ways may be different, but people are the same," the sages once said. "Where there is water, people will come."

She laid awake that night, mulling over the words of the sages. They made no sense to her. Her mind went back to the conversation with the critter.

"You're a collector of stories," he had said. "That's where you need to begin."

She knew that full well, and if she were honest, it was that which frustrated her most. In the journey to the southern lands, she had filled so many other roles that she was getting weary and easily irritated. Yet she knew that there were no stories that could be collected until the crops were growing and the people began to have food.

Suddenly it all made sense. She was a collector of stories, and having other roles to fill didn't change that. She would continue collecting stories as she worked the land, and she would speak about the water to begin gathering the people.

She fingered the rocks she held in her hands as she recited the familiar words again.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."
"Love your neighbour as yourself."

As the sun's first rays began to illumine the sky, she whispered words of blessing and thanks for her mother and mothers, and her grandmother and grandmothers, for the sages, for her tribespeople, for the critter, for the village people, for the gypsy, and for the desert people. She knew their words of blessing had gone before her to the southern lands and they would carry her the rest of the way. Most importantly, she gave thanks that the forces held them together.

Tribal Stories: Weary

The sun shone bright in the morning sky as she tucked away the last of her tent-pegs. The sands were only just beginning to settle after the last storm. She wanted to spend one more day breathing in the taste of having come around the mountain and weathering another storm, but she knew it was time to keep walking.

With one hand over her brow to shield out some of the glaring rays of the sun, she squinted ahead as she tried to find her way forward. In the distance, she saw several of the desert families gathering as they began to find a way to work in the landscape that had shifted again since the last sand storm.

Since the beginning of her journey on the desert road, she had known she was just passing through. But she also knew she had a responsibility to help the desert people find a way to grow crops--never mind that she was a stranger in their land. As the days passed, she began to realise that the desert people carried with them a weariness heavier than her own. Others had come alongside to try to help them find self-sustainable ways to grow crops, but the ways they found seemed counter-intuitive to the way of life in the desert.

"If you want to know how to build life in the desert, you have to spend time with those who have lived in the desert their whole lives," her gypsy friend once said. "There may be others who, like us, are passing through the desert lands, who are trying to help. But we are all foreigners in this land, and we cannot assume to know their way of life. The desert people are the only ones who can teach us how to help them."

She wondered if that was why the desert people that had adopted her were weary. She wondered if they were so tired of trying to find their own way of growing crops that they simply took on board any new ideas that were thrown their way--even if they were counter-intuitive to the desert life.

She knew she herself was weary. She had put the wounds from the exile behind her, but the journey on the desert road had wore her out. Since the last sand storm, the landscape had shifted so much that she was left with most of the work. Even though they had received word that help was coming from the city, no one knew how long it would be before help would arrive. While she was regaining hope for the desert people, there was still work to be done in the meantime. Help that was coming from the city still had to learn the ways of the desert lands, and the desert people needed help getting ready to receive the help. She also knew her journey on the desert road would soon end, and she desperately needed time to make the preparations for her arrival in the southern lands.

"Take deep breaths," she whispered aloud, as the words of her tribespeople came to mind. "And remember, we are called to simply be faithful."

As the first tear of weariness fell, she found the rocks that had carried her through her lifetime as a wanderer and closed her fingers around them tightly.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."
"Love your neighbour as yourself."
"Do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God"

There was still work to do. But first, she had to sit down and simply weep over the weariness in the desert lands. Help was coming, but she pleaded with the forces that held them all together that there would be enough strength and hope in the desert lands to carry them in the meantime.

Quick Thoughts on the City Harvest Trial

A friend asked recently what I thought about the City Harvest Trial. As usual, I avoid making public comments about issues like this because everybody has an opinion and wants it to be heard but doesn't want to hear anyone else.

But I've been thinking about it a bit more recently, and even though I confess I haven't followed the news as closely of late, I do have a few thoughts to share.

(Back story: six leaders, including founder and lead pastor Kong Hee, of City Harvest Church, a mega-church in Singapore are accused of conspiring to channel S$24 million into two companies using "sham bond investments" to fund the music career of Sun Ho, Kong Hee's wife. Another S$26 million was allegedly used to cover up the first amount. Source: Channel NewsAsia)

Assumptions, assumptions
(You know what they say about assuming.)

When the news first broke about the arrest of the six leaders, I was back in Singapore, just about to head out to dinner with my parents and some friends from church. So of course, that was the dinner conversation. My mother, who's an accountant and has helped with bookkeeping at the church we used to attend, said almost immediately that it's easy for folks to make assumptions because we all need someone to blame.

Personally, I have my biases against mega-churches. One of my dearest friends is the junior high pastor at Willow Creek, and she and I often joke about how different styles work for different people. I have a lot of respect for Gretchen and the work she does with the junior-highers, but I just don't know how to wrap my mind around how a mega-church works. Admittedly, that affected my bias toward the situation, and I was ready to make assumptions about a situation of which I didn't know the full story.

Church as Family
One of the things I love about the Church is that it can be family. At the same time, that can cause problems. My mum pointed out was that often in church settings, we sometimes shift things around in the finances without doing the necessary reporting. "It's all in the family," so it doesn't really matter... Or does it? Perhaps it doesn't matter as much when we're dealing with petty cash. But as the church grows and budgets increase, "petty cash" becomes more significant, and we could run into trouble with "it's all in the family".

Accountability
Because we work in a "religious" setting, it can be easy to spiritualise leaders and those overseeing ministry, as if they can do no wrong so we don't worry about reporting or asking for transparency. Not that we shouldn't trust our leaders, but as a safety net for all involved, proper accountability procedures should be set up and followed--something I personally struggle with because I don't have an official organisation that provides that level of accountability.


So there you go, my few thoughts on the City Harvest trial. I don't know who's right or who's wrong, and I don't think I'd be a fair judge. But I know there are lessons for us to learn from this, and those are the three I've learnt so far.

Where We Come From: Holiness and Unity Part #4

One of my first lessons on ecclesiology came not from a textbook or lecture, but from a conversation with a dear friend. Caldwell Manners was a first year student at the School of Theology back in 2004 when I was starting my freshman year at Anderson University. He was the first friendly face I met on campus. I had come knocking on Uncle Mac and Auntie Jean's home the day I arrived in Anderson. They weren't home, but this Indian kid came to the door. I didn't know what to make of it except that he was friendly, and I was awkward. By the time we had a second conversation, I knew we were going to be friends.

I don't remember how it started, but one evening, we found ourselves having a lengthy discussion about denominationalism. At the time, I had no interest in theological education because as far as I was concerned, theologians were either dead white men or nerds who buried themselves in books and didn't know how to interact with the real world. But Caldwell simply asked if I thought that God's ideal was for everyone to camp under the same church roof and sing Kumbaya (granted, those weren't his exact words). I felt like the right answer was to say, "Yes, of course that's God's ideal," but something in Caldwell's tone of voice hinted that he had expected something different.

And I don't remember how he explained it, but I remembered that conversation for a long time. It wasn't until years later that I understood that it was ok for us to claim Wesleyan, or Church of God, or Nazarene, or even Calvinist or Baptist--as long as we could leave each other on the common ground that we all love Jesus and each other. I began to understand that we are story-formed people, and that the variety of denominations created space for all stories to be embraced.

There are traditional churches with pipe-organs and sanctuary choirs, and there are the hipster churches with their cafes and praise bands.
There are country parishes with the pianos that accompany every hymn, and there are gospel choirs.
There are house churches and underground churches, and there are churches that meet on the streets.

These styles of "church" came into existence because story-formed people came together under different contexts, each bringing their own God-woven story and deciding to share them in a particular manner that was comfortable to them. And they all simply display the creativity of the God we worship.

The beauty of the Church of God theology I embrace is that there CAN be unity in all of the differences. We don't all have to interpret baptism the same way or use the same word to describe communion or the eucharist. But we all believe Jesus died for us, and wants us to choose life with God. And we all live under the "Love God, and love your neighbour as yourself" rule, which means we should all be able to work side by side for the Kingdom.

Over the past couple of weeks, I had the privilege to spend a significant amount of time with the Wesleyan Methodist Church in New Zealand. The thing I love about spending time with the Wesleyan Methodist Church is that I get to interact with the Pacific Island and Asian communities, and to hear songs and prayers in different languages. And we get to sit around the tables with our Nazarene and Salvationist brothers and sisters, talking and learning from each other.

One of the questions raised in our conversation was this: What impact does context have on our understanding of holiness? Should it have an impact?

The conversation around the table was lively, and I was intrigued by the question so I brought it back to our small group yesterday and asked the ladies the same question.

Let me just say, they blew my mind.

Sylvia began by saying, she wasn't exactly sure how or why yet, but she knew the answer had to be that context DOES impact our understanding of holiness. She went on to describe that those living on the fringes probably understand their need for holiness far better than those of us who have been living a good life. We often assume that because we have been good, we have also been holy. But holiness has nothing to do with being good as much as it has to do with realising our need for Jesus.

Nina talked about how holiness would mean something different to a Buddhist than to us, and how we don't touch the heads of Maori children because the head is tapu (holy/sacred). It made me realise that the question was actually really open-ended, but MY context as a Christian has already impacted my understanding of holiness in that I hadn't even considered how holiness might be understood by those who didn't follow Jesus.

(Seminerdian friends, I'm aware there's still a load of stuff to unpack from that question, but that isn't the point of this post.)

The point is this: We don't all have to love pipe-organs more than praise bands or ukeleles, and we don't all have to have a trim latte before church. We don't even have to understand holiness in exactly the same way, except in that holiness requires us to love God and love our neighbours as ourselves. And that is what brings unity.

And that. That is where we come from.

Tribal Stories: Sands

The winds were starting up again. The darkness of the night limited her ability to judge what the sands were going to do this time.

She had gotten quite used to life on the desert road so that whenever the winds started up, she would begin preparing for the sands that would come. Sometimes, they were just small gusts of dirt. Other times, the sands would blow so hard that even when she shielded her face, her eyes would still feel their sting.

As she readied herself for the sands, her mind drifted back to the encounter with the giant. The day came and went uneventfully, for which she was relieved, but also uneasy. At first she thought it was because she had gotten used to the perils of life during the war that an uneventful day was a nice change. But she couldn't shrug off the feeling of uneasiness. Were there to be unforeseen consequences because of an uneventful day?

But she knew her job on the desert road wasn't to worry about the giant. No, she was there to help prepare the land to produce crops for the desert people as she passed through on her way to the southern lands.

Tilling the land in the city had been easy because her mothers and grandmothers had taught her the way to work the dirt there. But her mothers and grandmothers had warned her the desert lands were a different task altogether. The climate was different, and the crops to be planted were also different. And she learnt the frustrating lesson that she could till and she could sow seeds, but then the winds would start up and the sands would come, and they would unearth all the work she had done. There had been nights where she would cry herself to sleep, frustrated with the winds and the sands. Was it even worth it? After all, she was just passing through. Why be concerned for the desert lands?

"We are simply to be faithful to our work. The forces that hold us together will bring fruit to the work we do in time," her tribespeople once said. She didn't understand, but their words haunted her frequently and would help ease frustration. Before long, the sands would come again, and she would lean into those words again.

She also knew her time in the desert was coming to an end. While she was relieved and looked forward with anticipation to the possibilities that the southern lands held, she had come to realise in the recent days how attached she had gotten to the work of the desert and the desert people. She had come to the desert alone, uncertain of her work. But in the time that she had spent working alongside the desert people, shielding each other from the sands and figuring out how to plant crops in their land, the desert people, too, had become a part of her tribe. The pain of leaving the city was only just starting to heal. She wasn't ready for another dose of pain when the time on the desert road ends.

She fingered the rocks she held in her hands for they had carried her through her lifetime as a wanderer.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."
"Love your neighbour as yourself."

She didn't have much, but she had the rocks. And she had her people whose stories she took with her as she continued on her journey.

Looking to the heavens that night, she whispered words of blessing and thanks for her mother and mothers, and her grandmother and grandmothers, for the sages, for her tribespeople, for the critter, for the village people, for the gypsy, and for the desert people. Most importantly, she gave thanks that the forces held them together.

Tribal Stories: Held Together (Guest Post)

She sat in the field, watching the sunset. It had been a hard journey. She had been home for nearly two fortnights, but she still didn’t feel completely restored from her days in the prairie lands. Looking back, the time seemed to have been short, compared to the time she had spent in other villages, but the difficulty of living on the prairie had made the days seem long and endless. She was sustained with the word that would come from the tribespeople and by the forces that held them together. It had been often in these two fortnights that she had sat in these fields, watching the maize and the wheat, giving thanks for these forces and for the tribespeople who made those forces feel almost tangible at times. Tonight, she thought of the wanderer of her people. The wanderer, who had become her sister.

Word had come from the southern desert lands where the wanderer labored and spoke the peace of their people. She knew of the troubles that had been swelling there in the desert heat. Her wanderer-sister was weary. It was difficult at times to simply trust the forces that held them all, to also hold so much together in that southern desert land. She reached for the rock that their sage had given them, the sage who had long gone on to live fully in the Kingdom: “He himself is before all things, and in him all things hold together.” We are the people of peace, and Love is our story, she reminded herself. Those forces do not break, no matter how strong the troubles, no matter how great the war. He was holding her wanderer-sister together too.

She thought again of the long gone sage. It was this same sage who had commissioned the older tribespeople to their work, telling them, “You are to be about building villages on the edge of the kingdom. This is your task.” We are trying, she said aloud. Her hands still ached from the tent ropes she had wielded in the prairie lands, trying to build a small village there. She turned them over and over, noting how the rope burns were now fading. She had labored hard, but the tents she had set up were always whisked away by the violent winds and heavy rains that always seemed to come from out of nowhere. The work had been difficult to say the least, and she had become so used to the feel of rope in her hands. The ropes were useful in the work, to be sure, but her hands were not meant to pull rope; they were meant to hold stones. The wanderer had reminded her of that. She had learned that she had to let go of the rough, dry rope in order to feel the smoothness of the stones, for they wouldn’t both fit in her palms. When she would let herself remember this truth, the coolness of the stones would soothe the places where the work had done damage. She reached for the other two stones, and squeezed all three together in her rope-worn hands,

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."
"Love your neighbor as yourself."
“He himself is before all things, and in him all things hold together.”

She would not be in the homeland for long. This, she knew for certain. There were villages to build on the edge of the kingdom in other lands. What was not certain was what was waiting ahead on the journey. Yet, this was true for all of the tribespeople. They were making a new way in the lands to which they had been scattered. This was their work, their task; this is what they must be about. The forces that pushed them forward also held them together and to one another, and for this confidence, in the face of so much uncertainty, she gave thanks.

The sun was setting, and the sky was still pink from the warmth it had left behind. She lifted her face to the stars that dotted the sun scorched sky and breathed blessings and thanks for her mothers, and grandmothers, and for the sages, and her dear tribespeople. She prayed for protection and strength of heart for her wanderersister. Especially, this night, she gave thanks for the One who is before all things in the journey and is holding all things together in even the most uncertain of times.

Faith Crises

The earliest one I remember happened when I was about eight or nine. It was at our church camp, and Pastor Neivelle had shared the story of his life as an ex-con. I remember him saying that even if our lives are not as colourful as his, God still wants to use us. As an eight or nine year old, I struggled with that. I was the good kid that stayed out of trouble. How could God possibly use me if I didn't have a fascinating story to tell? Pastor Neivelle then said we could invite Jesus into our hearts and he would help us figure that out. So I did.

Only a few years later, another crisis season hit. My brother and I had been the stars of our Sunday School as the kids who had been a part of the worship team since we were eleven and thirteen. We were also the Sunday School teachers' dream because we knew Moses from Abraham and found great joy in acing Bible quizzes. But by the time I turned thirteen, all I could think of was that someone was eventually going to call me out as a fake. I did all the right church things and tried my best to believe in God, but I didn't know what any of that meant. I even knew the right answers to the questions in the grown-up Bible study, but my questions were starting to be bigger than just about righteous living. You didn't have to follow Jesus to be a good person. I had been a good person my whole life, but I somehow knew that still wasn't the same as following Jesus or worshipping God. Those were frustrating years, and since I couldn't find answers in Church, music became my life. It only worsened the guilt of pretending to be a good Christian, but I didn't care since being a band geek gave me a high.

The year I turned sixteen, Pastor Caleb sat me down while we were at another church camp. He listened to my questions and he prayed with me. He talked me through the role of music in my life and what it could look like. About a year later as I was getting ready to leave for Anderson, he gave me the words from Luke 5, "Go a little deeper". It became the theme verse for the next big wave of what I now call "all the crazies". I don't remember much of what else happened then, but I remembered thinking maybe that season of crisis was over.


I was at the Connect Rally last night sponsored by the Wesleyan Church in New Zealand and the athletic department from Indiana Wesleyan University. Several of the youth and athletes from both Auckland and Indiana shared parts of their life story. There was a common thread in all the stories: crisis moments. Sports athletes whose worlds revolved around the sport they played crashing out because of injury and finding God in those moments. Family crisis, bullying and the death of close friends.

The thing about crisis moments is that they are often pivotal points in our spiritual journey. We hit those low points and in the moments of darkness and wrestling comes a point where we make a choice whether we hold on to the things we have always believed in, or we let go and embrace something else.

As I sat listening to those stories last night, I couldn't help thinking about my own faith crises. I'll be the first to admit that I'm a bit of a wuss in my seasons of crises. I wrestled, but I was always too afraid to let go completely of all the things I've always believed in.

When Keren died, I found myself surprised that I never questioned God. I remembered feeling like my world was completely shaken, but it was more because I was realising these things do actually happen in real life than because I was questioning whether God existed. I wondered then if I was wallowing enough in the depravity.

When I started seminary, I was looking forward to that season of existential crisis that all my other seminary friends talked about. But even my season of existential crisis was short. There had been two deaths in the family within a month of my starting seminary, and only a year after Keren had passed. I found myself struggling with being far away from family in that time, and began wondering if my call was even real. It was around 3am one night and I was trying to finish writing a paper on sanctification when I began realising I couldn't talk about sanctification if I wasn't even sure at that point if God was real.

In that moment, I panicked. And this is where I sometimes feel like I had wussed out instead of completely diving off the deep end. I emailed Greg and told him about my crisis moment, and explained that I probably wouldn't be able to finish my sanctification paper while I wasn't sure if this God thing was real. Then I turned my computer off and went to bed. Even in those moments, I prayed and prayed that when I woke up in the morning, God better show up and prove that God was real. When there were no fireworks or handwriting on the wall the next morning, I panicked even more.

I told Paul the next day about the crisis moment, and he gave me the very annoying, "aww, how cute" smile. I wanted him to push me off the deep end, but instead all he said was, "Even if you don't believe, God is big enough to believe in you." I silently cursed him out inside.

When I eventually came around, it wasn't because I had done all the scientific research and digging to prove that God is real. No, it was because Paul and Jen and Amity amongst others kept doing the very annoying, "aww, how cute" thing of reminding me that my faith was bigger than that.

As I thought about all these moments last night, I found myself wishing again that I had been braver and dove off the deep end into the unknown and embracing the possibility of life without God or acknowledgement of a greater being. The truth was, in all those moments of faith crises, as small as they were, my biggest fear wasn't of the unknown. I've lived with enough unknowns to not be afraid. I was more afraid of what I would become if I didn't have hope and certainty in a being that is bigger than the limitations of my human mind. I was afraid that in that dark space, I would no longer have reason to live. And because I'm too much of a wuss to even inflict self-harm, I would just be trapped in this in-between space of neither living nor dying.

And for that reason, I will always have great admiration for those who have dove off the deep end and is continuing the search for Truth because I think they have greater courage than me. And I get to live vicariously through them in their search for Truth and asking bigger questions that I lack the courage to ask.

This weekend marks six years since Keren's passing. I daren't claim to have achieved much in the last six years, except to have learnt to turn the crisis moments into stories that perpetuate the hope that keeps me going. It's the only way I know to find resolution to all of these crises.

Tribal Stories: Tilling

She patted down the last bit of dirt, covering the last of the sprouts. Dusting her hands off, she pushed herself back on her feet, took a step back and took a deep breath.

Days had passed since her most recent visit to the city. The road had led her down an unexpected winding path toward the giant, giving her a bit more time to think. In the last few days, she set up camp at the base of the mountain and waited.

Her mind drifted back to the days before the war. Life had been pleasant. Simple. Her mothers and grandmothers worked the earth, and when she had been adopted, she eventually picked up the trade as well. She remembered the long hours of tilling the land. As a child, it wasn't the most pleasant way to spend the days because it seemed like tedious work with nothing much to show. But her mothers and grandmothers would always say that tilling was an important job; for a well-tilled land made good seedbed for crops.

As she grew older, she began to understand her responsibility better. There wasn't much to show, but she began to enjoy digging deep into the ground, turning up the earth, and loosening up hardened dirt. It used to frustrate her that she would only be allowed to help with that little bit before she got moved to a different plot of land. She wanted to do more; sow a few seeds perhaps, even help gather in the harvest.

"We don't always get to choose what we're good at, child," her mothers and grandmothers would say.

So she decided to learn everything there was to learn about tilling--it was her responsibility to their people.

In the more recent days since the exile, she began remembering that there was tilling to do even in the desert lands if she were to help the desert people begin life. As she spent her days working the land, her mind was still on the giant, and she feared what he might bring for the people in the desert lands. She wondered if her work on the ground would be worth it if there was to be no life after the encounter with the giant. And she wondered too, if she--they--would get away unscathed, and if she had what it took to stand up against him.

Then she remembered what her mothers and grandmothers used to say.

"There is no 'Them'. There is only 'Us'. We are all Us."

She brushed away the first tear with the back of her hand. Perhaps that was the hardest part of the war--that it was all "Us" fighting against "Us". But the years of war left her wondering if they still believed they were all "Us". She herself, she knew, was guilty of forgetting every once in a while. One of her tribespeople once had to remind her to dig deep into the stories of their people--that Love was their story.

The giant, too, was "Us," and only wanted what was best for the desert lands--even if she may not completely see eye to eye with him. She hoped they both remembered that when they eventually meet.

She picked up the rest of her tools, including the two rocks.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."
"Love your neighbour as yourself."

Looking to the heavens that evening, she whispered words of blessing and thanks for her mother and mothers, and her grandmother and grandmothers, for the sages, for her tribespeople, for the critter, for the village people, for the gypsy, and even for the giant. Most importantly, she gave thanks that the forces had allowed her that little extra time to not just till the land but sow a few seeds this time around.

Tribal Stories: Earth and Time (Guest Post)

He sat thoughtfully at the edge of his field while the last rays of daylight disappeared over the horizon.  Many weeks had gone into the preparation of this year’s crops, and soon it would be time for the harvest to come in.  He always felt a sense of ambivalence about this time of year:  the harvest could be magnificent, or it could be eliminated through any of a number of tragic circumstances.  Storm, drought, thievery, and even the nature of wild beasts threatened to harm the labor of his hands.  He could sense that the harvest was near.  For all his readiness, though, only Time would dictate when the ripening would be complete.  All he could do is sit and wait…and keep watch.

News from a far-off land occupied his thoughts:  details of the escalating war in the southern desert lands.  He first learned of this news while conducting business in the city.  The wanderer, soon to depart for the war-torn south, had met with him in the city some weeks earlier.  She was concerned about the war, and yet she felt compelled to give herself for the peacemaking efforts.  She spoke of her tribespeople and of their shared mystical heritage.  He could not fully understand her native dialect, but their common respect of Earth and Time helped them to communicate with each other. 

Earth and Time.  His business, his activities, his religion revolved around these two poles of faith.  From his earliest days, he had been taught to respect Earth and Time.  He had learned his father’s trade, that of growing crops for the community’s good, by studying his father for some years.  Now he worked his own field, applying the basic principles of his religion, the depth of which he was only now beginning to appreciate:

“Respect Earth, for Earth gives life.”

“Respect Time, for Time gives friendship.”

Respect for Earth was easy; growing crops took all his strength, but those crops gave life to him and his community.  He could not understand Earth, but he depended on Earth’s love for each year’s needs.  Respect for Time was more difficult.  Surely, Time dictated when the ripening would be complete, but from his childhood a question plagued him:  How could Time give friendship?

Once he began working Earth on his own, he learned the true value of Time:  not to ripen crops, but to strengthen relationships among fellow laborers.  Growing crops was a lonely profession, but his time in the city had reminded him that he did not labor alone.  The wanderer, different as her journey was from his, sat next to him in the city one night some weeks earlier.  She spoke of her tribespeople and of their shared mystical heritage, and then she spoke of how he was included in those groups.  She gave thanks for Time which had brought them together in the city.  She gave thanks for Earth which would connect them even after they parted ways.  And then she pulled two small stones out of her pack, gave them to him, and said:

“You say, ‘Respect Earth, for Earth gives life.’
You say, ‘Respect Time, for Time gives friendship.’
I say, ‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’
I say, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’
Perhaps we are not so different.”

He sat thoughtfully at the edge of his field.  Daylight was fleeing.  The harvest was not yet ready, but soon it would come, just as it always did for his father.  He rolled the two small stones over and over in his hands.  And then he looked to the heavens and uttered a prayer of thanksgiving, for Time indeed had given friendship.