The Advent of Hope

One of the most beautiful things about spending two weeks of November in the Philippines is experiencing their Christmas season.  Some people tell me they begin putting up decorations in September!  But that doesn’t mean they stop!  Filipino people LOVE Christmas, and they apparently continue to decorate all the way up to Christmas Day!

My favorite Filipino decoration, by far, is the paról.

Carina REALLY wants an orange one, as seen on the left.

A paról is an ornamental, star-shaped Christmas lantern. It is traditionally made out of bamboo and paper and comes in various sizes and shapes.  They were strung up all over outside, and often lit up.  In bright or neon colors, they were not the typical “American” version of what a Christmas decoration should look like.  They looked like they belonged at a Cinco de Mayo party instead.  But Christmas in 90 degree weather deserves an attitude adjustment, and they seemed entirely appropriate.  I desperately wanted to take some home with me, but they were far too delicate for international transportation.

Once I returned home, I desired to learn more about this enigmatic decoration.  As usual, the All-Knowing Wikipedia provided me with this excellent description:  “The design of the paról evokes the Star of Bethlehem that guided the Three Kings to the manger. It also symbolizes the victory of light over darkness and the Filipinos' hope and goodwill during the Christmas season.”

Wow.  That’s a lot of symbolism for a cute little star, eh?  And perfect for the first week of Advent; the week of Hope.

But I would say it embodies the spirit of the Filipino people themselves.  People who have a life expectancy which is ten years less than that of the average American, despite a diet and lifestyle which is much healthier.  There is an average of one doctor for about every 800 or so Filipinos.  So in the less developed areas, a doctor visit is completely unheard of.  They die from the simplest of diseases.  

Yet the people hope.

This is actually larger than the average home.
 Most are made from woven bamboo mats.

They hope for the future.  They don’t give up.  They work three or four jobs so their children can go to school, because even public schools cost money, and you cannot attend if you haven't paid.  But if you want your children to attend college, you want them to attend a private school.  So you work and work and work.  Because you know a better future is possible.  You don’t give up. 

And one day, you will probably stand in line at the U.S. Embassy with your child.  I saw the lines.  The people begin long before dawn, bringing their plastic chairs with them, the lines pouring down the stairs and far past the building itself; just to apply for a Visa.  Just for the hope of a chance of coming to America.  And they wait years to be approved.  Or not.  But they know that some are approved, so why not them?  

When was the last time I thought, “Sure, why not me?”

I sat there, in my hired car.  Which we paid for with our American money.  (The exchange rate is ridiculous there.  You can get someone to drive you wherever you want to go for mere dollars.  We hired a guy to take us out of town for three days.  Like a six hour drive out of town. It cost $100, and he slept in his van.  We invited him to go along on all our excursions, and he seemed to have a good time.  But I still felt like a slimeball, even though that was “normal procedure”.)  

Anyway, I thought about my status as an American.

Thatched roof.  Tangled power lines.
 Fire hazard?  You betcha.
And how many fire stations did I see
 while touring?  None.

We, as Americans, like to talk about our “rights”.  We like to fuss about illegal immigrants messing up our system.  But I felt guilty.  I receive so many benefits just because I happened to be born in a country that protects me.  Hey, in the Philippines, only 25% of the roads are even paved.  Remember that the next time road construction irritates you.  And even when they repair roads, they don’t put up caution signs.  We drove at break-neck speed up and down mountains, to find our side of the road suddenly blocked without warning.  Think about that the next time you are going around hairpin curves in Tennessee.  

And where were the police?  Without a taxation system in place, they funded themselves.  Now that’s a frightening prospect.  

Makes me glad for taxes.  Actually, when looking at many of the advantages Americans have, the reason we have them is because we are taxed.  Nothing made that more clear than when questioning Filipino people about certain things like medical care, education, electricity, and road construction.

And Lawyers?  Want to fuss about them in America?  The lack of safety in the Philippines is so completely frightening; it is amazing I survived mentally.  There is no concept at all of the need to regulate how many people get onto a mode of public transportation.  They just pile on, hang on, ride on the roof, hang onto the back…the drivers don't care.  They can fall off and nobody will sue them!

I personally witnessed an accident where a truck ran over a motorcyclist.  We were in an accident ourselves.

Yet, we were the only ones who even seemed bothered by it all.  This was their normal.

Normal day at the beach?  Nope.  Manila's homeless population,
packing up their stuff in the early morning before they get booted
from their evening resting place.  Every evening, the shoreline becomes
a small city and every morning it disappears.

American “normal” is so far away from what is “normal” for the rest of the world.  I recently read an article in Forbes, which gave statistics that showed even the poorest of Americans are richer than 70% of the world's population. (http://www.forbes.com/sites/timworstall/2013/06/01/astonishing-numbers-americas-poor-still-live-better-than-most-of-the-rest-of-humanity/) Even those living in poverty in America are rich compared to the rest of the world.  Yet our Philippine friends still hope. They still hope.  

So why am I  so quick to give up?  I must need a dose of Filipino optimism!

 

Carina.  Being...Carina.

But those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.  Isaiah 40:31

Frenemies

My eyes were opened this weekend.  I had the privilege of being involved in a prayer walk against sex trafficking in my town.  We went to different pivotal places downtown and prayed for God’s dominion over the activities and the people in those places—City Hall, the county jail, a local motel known for their hourly rates, several ministries dedicated to healing people from addictions, prostitution, homelessness, and abuse—and ended the walk with a powerful educational presentation about sex trafficking in our area.

So although I learned a great deal about the complex issues revolving around sex trafficking, that’s not the area where my eyes were opened.

It was while we were standing in the motel parking lot.  A certain lady was praying; I’ve only recently met her, and I hope to know her better because her heart is at least as big as our city.  She was praying that the motel would no longer be known as a place for men to get illicit sex.  But then she prayed for the owner of the motel.  She didn’t pray destruction on his business.  She prayed prosperity instead.  She prayed he would come to know True Love, and understand what damaging things were occurring at his business, and that he would willingly change his business practices.  That with his change of heart, God would bless his business.  That God would also convict the men who came to the motel for sex—for them to see the “women” as scared little girls, underage girls, somebody’s child, and they would no longer hurt themselves and the girls.  That they would work on repairing their own lives.  And that God would bless them for it.

Whoa.

Suddenly, I thought, “Is Jesus praying here, or what?”  Because it sounded so New Testament.  And I wondered why in the world I’d never heard people pray like that before.

I am accustomed to Old Testament, Psalms-type prayers.  You know, “smite my enemies” prayers, where you ask God to bless you and your friends and other Christians, but tell him to destroy those evil pagans.  Conveniently forgetting that you were once a pagan and an enemy of God yourself.

Yeah, I was convicted. I’ve come to see her perspective in a small scale over the past few years.  Mostly, because when I think about people who have severely injured me, I have realized what would be best for everyone involved would be for them to repent and for me to forgive.  It’s best for them to repent, because it removes the barrier in their relationship with God; and it’s best for me to forgive because it allows me to fully heal from my injury.  Retribution or sustained anger against another person only fuels the trauma of their sin against you.  So when I’ve sat and contemplated the “ideal resolution” in personal situations, I’ve realized grace is infinitely better than punishment.

For some idiotic reason, I never globalized that perspective.

It is amazing how freeing it is, because it truly multiplies the love within your own heart.  I could burst.

Memorial Day

One of the most moving memorials I have ever experienced happened this week.  I don’t recall ever being near enough to fully observe the interaction of an Honor Guard with the family of deceased military.  It was truly amazing. 

John Gross

My Uncle John had served in the Army during the Korean War, and during the viewing his veteran’s flag was by his casket.  This flag draped his coffin as it was moved from funeral home to gravesite, where two Army Honor Guard soldiers stood at attention.  As one saluted the casket, the other—a short distance away—played “taps” with perfection.  Then, in synchronicity, they gathered up the flag, and with short, precise movements they began the process of folding Uncle John’s flag.  The soldier in charge used slight finger motions to indicate when and where to move; necessary for the crisp folds they created.  The subordinate soldier began the triangulation, and caressed each fold with her gloved hand.  The final section was neatly tucked in, each point was sharpened, and the folded flag was held to the body of the subordinate soldier before she handed it over to the soldier in charge.  He, in turn, held the flag to his body before formally and respectfully walking to my aunt, kneeling before her, and addressing her with a voice of deep compassion.  Sitting directly behind her, I heard every soft-spoken word and saw the look on his face.  This young soldier, certainly still in his twenties, bore a heavy responsibility as he spoke these words:

“Ma’am, I am so sorry for your loss.  On behalf of the President of the United States and the people of a grateful nation, may I present this flag as a token of appreciation for the honorable and faithful service your loved one rendered this nation.”

The complete reverence and respect given to my uncle, from this young man who may not have even seen his face, was shocking.  He took his job seriously, knowing the deep significance this ceremony played in the grieving process of veterans’ families.

Uncle John and Aunt Roxie; so sweet!

But he wasn’t the only stranger paying his final respects to my uncle that morning.  As the procession wound its way from the funeral home to the cemetery, it appeared as if the entire town was on pause for us, in respect for the deceased.  In this fast-paced society, it is not common for the oncoming cars to completely stop, but there was not a single car which did not stop for us, going in either direction.  And an even greater shock—city employees stopped their roadwork, stood at attention facing the procession, helmets off, bowing their heads in respect as we passed by.  I waved to show my gratitude and a slight nod from several of them showed me that they were actually paying attention to each individual person who passed by.

I'm the one with the Raggedy Ann.

It touches my heart that, in so many ways, from the fond recollections written and spoken about an amazing husband, father, and grandfather; to the respect shown by complete strangers, my uncle was honored in a way which was fitting to his gentle and loving soul.

I will miss the man who rarely called me by name; who instead addressed me as “Pretty Girl”, and I pay homage to him on this Memorial Day.  He was a son, a brother, a soldier, a husband, a father, an uncle, a firefighter, a worker, a craftsman, a grandfather, a gardener, an encourager, a neighbor, and so many other things.  I loved him, and he was worth loving.