Who Am I?

Identity. So much of our lives are based on what we accept as our identity. For better or worse we are told who we are by our families, our friends, our society, our culture, by media executives, and even by strangers. Even if they are wrong, even if they are lies, we will accept what they say and act accordingly. Is it really any surprise how messed up we get?

Centuries ago, when people first started using family names/last names, people were often labelled by their occupation. Cook, Taylor, and Smith are common names today because they were common occupations. When I meet someone with such a last name, I catch myself wondering about the very first one in their family history to bear the name. Was she the cook for a laird, was he a tailor for a royal, was he a blacksmith for the local hamlet?

My last name means “town of the sacred place”. I have no idea where that town is or what the story was behind the sacred place. I do hope that one day I will be able to travel to the land of my ancestors and set foot in that town. I want to learn about the first one in my family to have identified himself with that sacred place.

Recently I came across someone with the last name Sinner. I kid you not. Talk about a label! My first thought was, “If that was my last name, I would have changed it.” I wondered about the first Sinner. What was their crime? Who would have been so heartless as to label that person and everyone in their future lineage a Sinner? And why did the family keep that name? Or have they, and everyone currently bearing that name, become so hateful of those that would label them Sinner that they now wear it as a badge of pride? Like many in our society, the things that would have made our grandparents drop dead of a heart attack are now out there, thrown in everyone’s faces, and you are the one labelled if you have a problem with it.

But then again, how many of us actually feel that our last name has anything to do with who we are? I doubt everyone with the last name of Makepeace feels compelled to mediate for others, no more than everyone with the first name of Christian actually is a follower of Christ.

If you were to give yourself a name, first and last…what would you pick? Would it be a badge of pride or one of anger? Would it reflect who you are or who you hope to be? Would you spend hours researching its meaning or would you go with whatever sounded cool, or strong, or poetic?

All I can think is that I am greatful that who I am here is temporary. When I get to heaven, I will be given a new name. The things of this world will fade like a dream, and all the labels that I have been stuck with, labored under, and wondered about will be gone. My Creator will be there. He will whisper in my ear a new name, one that He kept especially for me. It will be a name that reflects the fullness of who I am as His daughter, the daughter of a king. It will reflect the beauty of His intimate creation. More fitting than the title of any painting, more apt than the heading of any poem, I will receive a name so precious that when I hear it, I will understand who I am, forever. I can’t wait.

A life lesson on waiting

I learned a hard lesson recently, one I’ve been reminded of almost daily since.

Waiting is a part of life. Whether or not you are a planner, the time will come when you have to wait for something to happen. The wait can be long or short, joyful or miserable, peaceful or anxious; but on a regular and recurring basis we all must wait.

The lesson I learned had to do with what I assign to what I’m waiting for….hope or expectation. As a former sign language interpreter, I was always frustrated that the sign for hope and expect were the same, because the words are very different.

Hope, while generally optimistic, comes equipped with the understanding that what you are hoping for may not happen. There is no certainty. Hope may even fly in the face of unlikeliness. There may be little chance of your hope becoming reality, but you choose to hope anyway.

Expectations are different. Expectations come with a likelihood that what we are waiting for WILL happen, it’s just a matter of time, and that’s the problem. Sometimes we allow our minds to go places they shouldn’t. When we should be hoping for something, recognizing it may not happen, we instead allow ourselves to believe that it really will happen. We even jump to believing that it should happen, and it should happen in the manner and timing that we assign to it.

For example: A man opens his own butcher shop when he is young. He works hard to make his business successful. He earns a reputation in the community for being fair and generous, this keeps people coming to him instead of going to the large supermarkets. During this time he marries and has a son. The man hopes that one day the little boy that started out sweeping the floors of his butcher shop will want to take over his business. His business will become a legacy, passed down from generation to generation.

The test of whether or not his hopes have become expectations comes when that son comes to his father and says he wants to go to Juilliard and become a concert pianist. Does the father recognize that his hopes were his own, not his son’s? Is he able to tenderly and gently set them aside to help his son fulfill his own hopes and dreams? Or have the hopes become more rigid expectations? Does the father fill with anger and disappointment and frustration?

Hope deferred makes the heart sick, But desire fulfilled is a tree of life (Proverbs 13:12 NAS). There is no doubt that hope can be painful. Those times when our hope becomes reality are profound and encouraging. But what do we do when our hopes are dashed? Can we yield them up? Acknowledge that the object of our hope really wasn’t ours to hold onto? Or do we strengthen our grip and transform them into expectations? Expectations that, when not met, fill us with anger and confusion, frustration and sadness, and perhaps worst of all, disappointment.

A dear friend helped me see that I had assigned my expectations to God, and when He didn’t come through in the way I wanted Him to, I was disappointed. “But I thought He showed me this-and-that”, I started to argue. “After all, I was only doing what I felt He was showing me to do…and it didn’t work out. It didn’t happen.”

Then she asked me, “So do you stop doing what you know He wants you to do, because you are disappointed; or do you keep going until He has finished what He wants to do in His timing? Will you yield everything to Him?”

I thought I had. I thought I yielded it all to Him; but as my dear friend prayed for me and I silenced my rebellious thoughts and asked God to show me the Truth in this matter, I realized I wasn’t yielded at all. If I am totally yielded to God, I cannot be disappointed, because I am allowing Him to choose if, and where, and when. I only get disappointed if I ascribe to God MY plan and MY timeline, and it doesn’t happen the way I want.

This has changed how I wait. Yes, my heart still hopes; and I even have some expectations. I have, however, learned to yield. Sometimes yielding is a one time thing; but for me, it is most often a state of constantly giving up the reins. I make my requests known to God, and then I leave them in His hands. If I am truly yielded, I can see my timeline come and go, and be thankful that it passed unfulfilled. And yes, there are still times when my heart aches, even breaks. My heart grows sick. But if I run to Him, and allow Him to be my everything, I’ll be ok. I won’t be spared from pain or hurt, but that pain can become the deeply tilled and fertile soil for something amazing to grow. I hope.

Isn’t It Romantic?

I go back and forth over whether I consider myself a romantic or not. I tend to think of myself as practical and logical. To me, it’s the thought that counts; and I’m not one of those women who says that but doesn’t really mean it. I’d rather dance under the stars to the car radio with a view overlooking the city than go to some ridiculously overpriced restaurant. To me, romance is when a man takes the time to do something he knows you would like, instead of throwing money at a situation. The thought behind the action is what matters. If he tried to take me on a moonlight picnic in the park and we ended up covered in ant bites because we couldn’t see that we put our blanket down on an anthill, I would laugh it all off (while applying Calamine lotion liberally and downing a Benadryl). It was the effort that mattered, whether or not the attempt failed.

That’s one of the reasons I disagree with so many people who love The Phantom of the Opera. They think it’s romantic. Well, I guess that depends on how you define romance. If you define it as being expressive or conducive to love, I disagree. I don’t argue that it’s an amazing production. The costumes, the songs, the staging are all top notch, perhaps even unparalleled. The idea that the character of the Phantom is romantic is where I draw the line. My friends who love it tell me I have it all wrong, that the Phantom is in love with Christine and he’s been hurt by the world, he just doesn’t know how to go about it more appropriately. Um, sorry, I just don’t see it that way. While I was watching the 25th Anniversary production of The Phantom of the Opera thanks to Netflix, I keep the closed captioning on to make sure I didn’t misunderstand any of what was being said or sung. Here are the highlights that support my side:

Christine’s father told her that he would send The Angel of Music to her after he died, to watch out for her. The Phantom uses her naïveté to call himself the Angel of Music to control her. He sings of his power over her growing. He encourages her to “surrender to your darkest dreams” and give in to him and his music. At one point when Christine is getting sucked back in by the Phantom, Raoul has to remind her that the Phantom is not her father (which just seriously crosses the line into creepy given the Phantom is using that to get her to fall in love with him, ew).

Eventually Christine admits “I gave him my mind blindly.” She knows there is no excuse for the violence or the murders he has committed to be in control of the theatre, to make the owners and the players all his performing puppets. Yes, he wanted Christine to be his lead in the production, but I think it was more out of control than love for her. She was his discovery, his student, his creation. He wanted to show everyone that he was better at running the theatre than they were, that he was right. Otherwise, would he commit murder to force Christine to perform? Would he make her choose between marrying him or the death of her fiance, Raoul?

And I’m sorry, the Phantom saying, “I love you” to her does not make me feel sorry for him. All I saw was a man whose birth defect made him bitter with the world. He felt entitled to force others to do things his way. He messed with people’s minds. He used fear, coercion, violence, and murder to get what he wanted…power.

And poor Christine’s only other apparent choice is Raoul, who cuts a better romantic figure, except for the fact that he sees freeing Christine from the Phantom’s control as best being served by her doing everything he (Raoul) tells her to do, including putting her in danger. Nope, not my idea of romantic.

So what is romance in my eyes? Look at Les Miserables. Jean Valjean is a man thrown into prison for stealing bread for his sister’s family. He is given an unreasonable sentence and treated mercilessly. He becomes understandably embittered; but in one beautiful act of grace, a priest renews his faith and he vows to become a better man. He doesn’t change for a woman’s love; the love of a child (a child not even his own) changes him. He recognizes his own choices, his own responsibilities, and goes about living a better life. He makes a mistake here and there; but his life is one of redemption and self-sacrifice. To me, that’s romantic. That’s someone I would want to spend my life with. Someone whose life isn’t about his own power and control; but is instead about doing what he can to help those around him.

What difference does it make if some see one thing as romantic and some see the other? It matters to me. I’m a counselor now. I sit across from people who tell me that it doesn’t matter that he tried to kill me a couple times because afterward he cries and says, “I love you, don’t leave me.” They go back to brutality because it’s easier to live under someone else’s control and menace than it is to face life alone, to face the possibility that there might not be someone else better for them, someone who shows them what real love is. Love isn’t obsession or possession. Love isn’t power or control. Love doesn’t demand or threaten. Love doesn’t use. Love is tender and kind. Love thinks about what is best for the other person, and is willing to put them first when it is in their best interest. Love is gentle and patient. Love protects.

So yes, a part of me cringes when romance is identified with something like the Phantom; just as it does when I think of the message of Beauty and the Beast (if I love the Beast enough, eventually he will become a Prince). I don’t think fantasizing about the romantic serves us any good purpose in reality; in fact, it can do the opposite. I’d much rather walk, eyes-open into this world and be ready to see reality, to see a man for who he really is. That’s what I hope he will do for me.

Akaroa (travel blog, the final chapter)

My last full day in New Zealand I decided to venture out on my own. I picked up a brochure in the hotel that offered a bus to and from Akaroa, a French settlement in New Zealand. The brochure indicated for $10 more you could get a full scenic tour of the Akaroa area, but the driver who picked me up had no idea about that, so I was on my own. To his credit, he went above and beyond the standard drop off shuttle and actually stopped once each way to let us use the loo, and at various points along the way to explain Maori culture, New Zealand history, or to let us snap a few pictures. Here he was explaining to us how the eels would try to make it from the nearby lake, across the shore, and into the sea. The Maori were allow to catch them at this time, but only the Maori are allowed to do so.

This was a Maori meeting place where he stopped to explain the ceremony required for an outsider to be invited to enter.

Akaroa harbor has a little island in it called whale island, for I think obvious reasons.

While Akaroa did have streets and businesses with French names, there was very little else French about it; perhaps the occasional historic building,

or statue

As I had hours to kill before the bus came back for us, I decided to wander off the beaten path to find The Giant’s House, the self-proclaimed World Famous mosaic sculpture garden that is the creation of a lady in her 60s with bright blue hair.

Her terraced backyard is combination garden and mosaic sculpture; and for $20 she warmly greets you (offers you an umbrella in the rain) and allows you to wander her quirky creations.

From the blue hair I’m guessing several of her mosaics are self-portraits. Even some of the walkways were mosaic, which made for a slippery challenge in the rain; especially since her house (and backyard) is on a very steep incline. The adventure did not last very long but it did make the time go by.

It was the end to my New Zealand adventure. The next day brought me to the airport and back to the reality of life’s daily frustrations. It was a grand adventure. I glimpsed Middle Earth, tasted some New Zealand staples (gluten free), and managed more than one fear-busting challenge along the way. I am sad that it is over. It was a dream I had held for so long, and now it has come and gone; but how few of us are able to make our dreams a reality. I was blessed. I will always treasure it. And now…for a new dream.

Mt Cook/Lake Tekapo (travel blog pt 12)

The final day of our coach tour began by our final journey into the mountains to see Mt Cook. The weather could not have been more obliging. The vistas were stunning, the wind gently sweeping snow off the peaks.

A little sad, realizing it was all coming to an end, it felt fitting to make our final tourist stop at Lake Tekapo to see the Church of the Good Shepherd. There were quite a few people stopping to enjoy this very little church with the very big view. The Japanese ladies seen outside in this picture:

soon found their way down to the lakefront. In a divinely inspired moment, they began singing in Japanese a melody that was familiar to me. Without the words in English it took me a moment before realizing they were perfectly harmonizing to How Great Thou Art. It leveled me.

A short walk from the church was this monument to the sheepdogs that helped make New Zealand agriculturally great. Any country with a monument to a dog has a place in my heart.

Our tour ended that night back at the same hotel where it began in Christchurch. Yet another buffet, but this time with an M.C. and a singer to unite us with a medley of songs, culminating in Auld Lang Syne. There was a round of hugs, for me ending with Dianne, the Christian Aussie I met the first night who so staunchly became my protector early on in the trip. As she hugged me she whispered, “Stay close to Him.”

I still had one more day in New Zealand; one more day trip that I had planned for on my own. The coach tour had come to an end. I was beginning to think of the long trek home, and all the “life” waiting for me to address it when I got back. I pushed those thoughts out of my mind to make room for one more day.

Dunedin (travel blog part 11)

Dunedin is called the Edinburgh of the Southern Hemisphere. It’s train station (seen below) is the second most photographed building in the Southern Hemisphere (after the Sydney Opera House).

For the most part Dunedin is a big, industrial city. The biggest city (it seemed to me) that our tour visited. Downtown a few of us went on a tour of the Cadbury factory. Our tour guide was dressed a bit like an Oompa Loopma.

We hiked over a mile around the factory (which took up an entire city block), but up every flight of stairs and around every steaming hot chocolatey corner we were rewarded with more chocolate. Actually, after an hour of smelling chocolate, I had zero desire to eat any (sad, huh?)

The Dunedin area was not without the beauty that seems to come standard in New Zealand. We stopped off at Larnach Castle, where I made it up the very narrow turret to take pictures from the top (another triumph for me and my acrophobic knees).

The “castle” was really a manor estate with a stunning garden. Someone else now owns the estate and has been working hard to renovate and maintain the original air of the grounds.

From there we had morning tea at Glenfalloch Woodland Gardens, enjoying the grounds briefly before moving on.

Then we were off to Oamaru, a town famous for its limestone buildings and Victorian costumed dwellers and its Steampunk HQ.

Our journey for that day ended in Twizel, a small place in the middle of nowhere with lovely views of the mountains

and a display case with some Lord of the Rings items and a description of which scenes were shot nearby.

An Elvish Helmet

Sauron’s glove with the Ring.

Middle Earth never seemed too far away, no matter how far we traveled in a day. Sir Peter Jackson is really New Zealand’s favorite son; and so far, New Zealanders don’t seem to mind all the fans who flock there to glimpse Middle Earth for themselves.

Arrowtown/Milford Sound/ Te Anau (travel blog part 10)

We left Queenstown and briefly stopped in Arrowtown. Arrowtown was a holdover from the gold mining days of New Zealand. Similar to such places in the US, there is a little museum collection of the sights and sounds of yesteryear. Among its treasures were a lavatory sign that led to a dummy sitting down on the toilet with a voice activated, “Hey! I’m busy here!” when you open the door.

There were vertebrae and sketches of the now extinct Moa, showing how huge it was in relation to a human. If that makes you marvel, imagine what the now-extinct Haast Eagle was, as the only predator that could take down the Moa (other than man). It was big enough to swoop down and scoop one up in its talons. Yikes. But when the Maori hunted the Moa into extinction, the Haast Eagle soon followed.

There was even a miniature model of the TSS Earnslaw that we had ridden on the night before.

The rest of the day involved driving to Te Anau. The next day we awoke to a dreary, rainy day; and despite warnings that the road leading to Milford Sound was closed (the driver explained that there were frequent landslides on that road) we made the 2 hour drive to the Sound. While the road did end up being open, the rain never paused, and our ferry tour of Milford Sound was cold, with little visibility. There were lots of waterfalls to be seen, behind the sheets of rain.

We returned to Te Anau, where some went off to see a scenic movie of the area, and a few of us went to find the rare Takahe. While these were in a preserve, I did manage to see one in the wild a few days later, hanging out with some cows on the coast.

The long days of driving were starting to wear on everyone. I don’t know how those who had already toured the Northern Island were doing it. It’s amazing how exhausting just sitting all day can be. Many of us took naps on the bus, once we were satisfied that we had captured all the pictures the scenery would provide. I think the gloominess of the day didn’t help. The enthusiasm that we would carry through equally long days of sunshine seemed a much better match to fight the fatigue of the daily grind on the bus. Although in the vein of “The worst day fishing is better than the best day ______”; I was still happier to be there than having my nose to the grindstone back home.

Queenstown/Walter Peak (travel blog pt 9)

The next day was a free day. My new Aussie friend, Donna, and I headed back up the steep cliff near the gondola ride to visit the Kiwi Birdlife Park. The bulk of that experience is already discussed under the Birds of NZ part of my travel blog, so I will spare you the repeat.

After the bird park, Donna and I walked down into Queenstown for lunch at FergBurger, a place with every kind of burger imaginable and a line out the door. They impressed me with their gluten free hamburger buns that were every bit as huge as their hamburger patties. Fries were extra, but $4.50 gives you more than enough for two people to share.

From there we went back to our hotels for a nap because we knew it would be a late night. Before dinner we boarded the TSS Earnslaw (TSS stands for Turn Screw Steamship). Thankfully we could open the windows on the ship because the smell from the coal furnace was pervasive.

The scenery, as always, was stunning.

Soon we arrived at Walter Peak station where we had an amazing meal (with lots of gluten free options among the main courses).

After dinner we were treated to a sheepdog demonstration as well as a sheering demonstration (again, sorry for the blurs, apparently the low light was not a good combo with the way my camera was set, live and learn).

Since it was dark as we made our way back across the lake on the steamer, they had an old-fashioned piano sing-a-long. Thankfully they provided the words as there was a mix of favorites from the UK, Australia, New Zealand, and the US. It was thoroughly enjoyable and definitely one of the best parts of the trip.

Fox Glacier/Knight’s Point/Queenstown(travel blog pt 8)

We awoke in Franz Josepf to a beautiful, clear morning and once again hit the road. It was a grueling day on the road, but with several beauty breaks that made it all worthwhile.

Fox Glacier

Our first stop was Fox Glacier. While this glacier was less spectacular than the Franz Josepf (in my opinion), I did have an experience there I won’t soon forget. As I was walking with my group up toward the glacier, a man coming the opposite way passed me, then came up behind me, grabbing my shoulder. He got in front of me and touched my tiny name-tag with both his hands. I would have been freaking out if I hadn’t been with by the ladies from my tour bus, who immediately noticed and surrounded us. The man, with a French accent said, “This name, it is French.” I replied, “Oui.” He asked, “Parlez-vous Francais?” I replied, “Oui, un peu.” He stared at me for a few seconds, then decided that I wasn’t French and rolled his eyes, threw up his hands, and stormed off. One of the Aussie ladies I was with immediately asked, “What was that?!” I repeated what happened in English and the ladies all agreed he had been completely inappropriate in grabbing me and handling my name-tag. After the ladies all informed their husbands of what had happened they came back to let me know they would be on watch to make sure nothing like that happened to me again. We were all able to laugh about it; but I know I would have been pretty uncomfortable had it happened and I was completely alone. Traveling with the tour group was definitely a safer idea.

From Fox Glacier we traveled to Knight’s Point, with a gorgeous view of the Tasmin sea. The color of the water was simply insane. Turquoise just seems insufficient.

The Tasmin Sea as seen from Knight’s Point.

At this point moving from a glacier to the beach and then the rainforest was beginning to seem normal. We stopped at Thunder Creek Falls for a quick stretch of our legs to see the cascading water and walk through dense rainforest.

New Zealand has a crazy number of ferns for being a colder climate. They grow very tall and seem almost alien at times.

After one more “comfort stop” at the beautiful Lake Wanaka, we were back on the bus until we reached Queenstown.

We had just enough time to throw our bags in our rooms (see the view from my hotel room?)

and we were off to catch the gondola to the top of the mountain

where we caught a Maori Haka (sorry for the blurry pics, no flashes were allowed and they kept moving!)

and a ridiculously overpriced dinner for the options if you are gluten free. The view was gorgeous, though, and we even saw parachuters coming down in front of us.

It was days like this where I think the beauty of the country kept me going. Having 10 minutes at a comfort stop (potty break) that was surrounded by snow-capped mountains and shimmering lakes goes a long way in restoring you. I wish I could have bottled the air to bring home. Unfortunately I did not remain immune to the local allergens as long as I would have liked, so I had to add a trip to a chemist (pharmacist) for a different anti-histamine in order to continue enjoying that fresh air. I would gladly trade in itchy eyes and the sniffles for such an amazing experience.

Tranzalpine rail and Franz Josepf (travel blog part 7)

Our tour got an early start the next morning, and we boarded the Tranzalpine railway. It was my first time on a “real” train, much to the shock of my travel companions. Once we cleared the industrial center of Christchurch and the Canterbury plains (full of sheep), the scenery transformed into rolling green foothills, flowing rivers, and those wonderful snow-capped alpine peaks. The joke amongst the travelers was, “I don’t know. I think I need another picture of another snowy mountain.” I’m sure we each took hundreds.

Arthur’s Pass

We disembarked at Arthur’s Pass and rejoined our coach tour guide. After snapping several pictures of the local Kea (see Birds of NZ travel blog part 4) we enjoyed the rainy drive through windy mountain roads until we reached the coastline. We stopped in a little town called Hikitika for lunch and a mandatory tour of a greenstone (jade) workshop. In contrast to the just above freezing weather at Arthur’s Pass, we enjoyed the beach weather that warmed up to the 80s.

Leaving the warmth behind us we were back up into the mountains to see Franz Josepf glacier. It’s really hard to take a bad picture in this country. I didn’t even walk to the base of the glacier, on our tour guide’s recommendation the first bend offered just as good of a photo opportunity as the base of the glacier was dirty.

We arrived back in the town of Franz Josepf in time to check into our hotel just before sunset.

It was a long day of ups and downs: up mountainsides, down to beaches, and back into the mountains; the temperature going down, up, and down in opposition to the elevation; but it was a day of exquisite beauty. It was our first full day on the bus and it would set the pace for the entire trip. Long days of drives, but scenery that simply is without equal.