Felicity Wright

Travels

Cranes and Other Heavenly Prophets

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In his marvelous book The Birds of Heaven: Travels with Cranes, Peter Matthiesen chronicles these magnificent creatures, the largest of all flying birds on earth. While reading it several years ago, I took periodic breaks to enjoy an exquisite print of a pair of red-crowned cranes that my daughter Ariel brought back from Korea, where cranes symbolize happiness, good luck, long life, and marital bliss. I also reminisced a trip to the Aransas Wildlife Refuge near Corpus Christi, Texas, to watch the famous whooping cranes in their winter habitat about ten years ago.

Cranes, I mused: magical, magnificent, mysterious, and – to my mind, at least – a tad melancholy. It’s as if they know and see too much, suffering in silence for the misdeeds of others.

Known for their stunning beauty, elaborate dances, unusual calls, and fidelity to their mates, cranes also have amazing flying prowess. Aesop lauds how cranes can “rise above the clouds into endless space, and survey the wonders of the heavens, as well as of the earth beneath, with its seas, lakes, and rivers, as far as the eye can reach.” But living on the wrong side of the world, Aesop didn’t know the half of it! Last year, one group of migrating cranes flew for 97 days and covered 1262 miles. “Whoopers” (whooping cranes)have been known to fly as far as 500 miles in a day, although about 186 miles is the average.

But the highest-flying award goes to the Eurasian cranes, flying over the Himalaya Mountains at altitudes up to 32,800 feet – the same as jetliners. Some pass over the Himalayas, while others fly across the vast Sahara. The lesser sandhill crane wins the distance award, flying from eastern Siberia across the Bering Sea into Alaska and then south to southern California or even northern Mexico.

Cranes have fascinated humankind for millennia, and mythology about cranes can be found in most every culture from the beginning of time. Ancient Egyptian tombs are filled with images of demoiselle cranes, and various other species appear in prehistoric cave drawings in Africa, Australia, and Europe. According to legend, cranes inspired the Greek god Mercury to invent the written alphabet, basing the angular characters on the chevrons of cranes in flight. Since language is the basis of shared knowledge, it wasn’t long before cranes became icons for wisdom.

In Oriental mythology, cranes have occupied a prominent place for millennia. In China, they protect the Emperor’s throne in Beijing’s Forbidden City and are often depicted carrying the souls of the departed to heaven. Crowned cranes are the national birds of Nigeria and Uganda, and blue cranes of South Africa. Coins and stamps of many countries depict cranes.

Crane dances have been recorded in many parts of the world, including the Mediterranean, China, Siberia, and Australia. A “dance of the white cranes” is known from 500 B.C. in China. The Brogla crane was so named by aboriginal Australians after a young woman whose exquisite dancing drew attention from numerous suitors. Among her admirers was an evil magician who, rejected in his offer of marriage, then transformed her into a crane.

But perhaps the best-known and most poignant example of the enduring symbolic significance of cranes emerged from the ashes of World War II. A young Japanese girl who had survived the bombing of Hiroshima – but only barely – resolved to fold a thousand paper cranes in her effort to recover. Although she was unable to complete the task, other children took up the task. Since then, children around the world have annually created paper cranes to symbolize the hope for peace. Worshipping at Sycamore Congregational Church this morning, I was delighted to find their Christmas tree adorned not with the usual lights and ornaments, but with several hundred paper cranes. We add emblems of peace to their many other iconic attributes.

Jumping from prehistory to my lifetime, the near demise of the whooping crane has made them a symbol for environmental preservation. These birds – the largest of all birds in North America – were once familiar sights throughout midwestern parts of the US and Canada. But by 1941, the loss of habitat from human development reduced their numbers to only 21. Through active conservation measures, in 2007 they numbered 240 in the wild and 145 in captivity.

It turns out that cranes are an “umbrella species” in conservation and land use lingo. This is because their survival is dependent on the health of their habitat. As the term implies, a species casts an “umbrella” over the other species by being especially sensitive to habitat changes. Managing land to provide for the needs of the umbrella species results in a high quality habitat for all animals in the area. (For more details, see http://www.eoearth.org/article/Umbrella_species.)

So, in a nutshell: if you see a crane, you can be sure

that all is well with the nearby natural world.

Now this makes me wonder: what about other umbrella species? We know about the northern spotted owls in old-growth forests, the black bear in Florida, and tigers in India. But what about homo sapiens? It seems that, as a whole, we qualify as an anti-umbrella species, for we are the ones primarily responsible for ruining the habitat for umbrella and non-umbrella species, cranes and caterpillars, and most everything else.

But could it be that some small groups of people are indicative of the overall health of the larger human family? Are politicians, lawyers, doctors, teachers an umbrella species, in that the presence of one type indicates overall human well-being? (Maybe yes, maybe no. I dare not diss my friends by singling them out for approval or condemnation…)

And then the words from last Sunday’s gospel message come to mind: In those days John the Baptist appeared in the wilderness of Judea, proclaiming, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.” This is the one of whom the prophet Isaiah spoke when he said, “The voice of one crying out in the wilderness: ‘Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight.’” [Matthew 3: 1-3]

Does not John the Baptist sound like those high-flying cranes with their strident shrieks? Listening to the Biblical messages of John the Baptist and the impending birth of Jesus during these first weeks of Advent, it seems to me that the presence of prophets and protestors is a sure sign of a healthy community. Totalitarian states don’t have either.

In the Hebrew Bible, we find Nathan calling King David to account for his adulterous relationship with Bathsheba and his shenanigans in arranging for her husband Uriah to be killed in battle. And there was Elijah who scourged Ahab and Jezebel by crying foul as they cavorted with the gods of Ba’al. Jeremiah was so virulent in his verbal attacks against the power elite that he gave birth to the term jeremiad, meaning a bitter lament or righteous prophecy of doom.

And then there was John, prophet extraordinaire. The historical record is clear on the large numbers of people who flocked to hear him as well as his cruel death at the hands of King Herod. He must have had very special powers, for Luke gives him an infancy birth narrative filled with miracles – the visitation of the angel Gabriel, the pregnancy of a childless woman late in life, and the fact that his father was struck dumb upon hearing the angel’s words.  John the Baptist sits at the fulcrum between the great prophets of Israel and the new prophet Jesus. Like Advent itself, John represents the in-between time of what is and what is to come. He represents the in-between space between heaven and earth. He challenges the world to clean up its act, to become healthy, while he also offers hope that we may fly as high as our hearts may lift us. Truly, prophets like John – and Martin Luther King, Jr, and Mahatma Gandhi and Dorothy Day and so many others – are the scourge of our consciences and the hope of the world.

Just like cranes.

During this Advent season, I encourage you to consider how we can protect all umbrella species – these prophets of doom and gloom – these harbingers of hope. Thank you.

On Butterflies in Nepal

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Note to readers: I’m beginning work on a collection of whimsical and serious essays about nature and spirituality and will be offering little snippets in the coming blogs. I hope that you will consider subscribing and commenting. (I appreciate your “take” on my opinions, plus my literary agent tells me that the popularity of one’s blog is very important to would-be publishers.)

So thanks for reading — and for commenting!

This butterfly was one of the enchantments of our trek, putting the leeches into perspective. And here are the thoughts that emerged from the molting of my consciousness after returning home:

A good friend told me that the flap of a butterfly’s wing in Nepal could cause a typhoon in California. His reference (though misquoted) was Edward Lorenz, a meteorologist who, in explaining the challenges of forecasting weather forecasts, wound up changing how we think about cause and effect. A professor at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Lorenz was one of the fathers of “chaos theory,” showing how small differences in a dynamic system such as the atmosphere could trigger unexpected and possibly outrageous results.

Now, it turns out that Lorenz’ actual quote had to do with a butterfly in Brazil causing a typhoon in Texas, but I am sure that Lorenz would have used Nepal if he had known that it sports nearly 650 varieties of butterflies (compared to about half that many in Brazil). He would have chosen Nepal if he had reflected on the fact that, in geographical size, Brazil is ranked 5th with 3,287,612 square miles (just behind the United States) while Nepal is 93rd with 56,827 square miles (about the size of Iowa).

Tiny though it is, Nepal has more diversity – in geography, plants, animals, and people – than just about anywhere else on earth. Eight of the ten tallest mountains in the world (including Mt. Everest at 8,848 meters or 29029 feet) are completely or partially in Nepal. At the other extreme is the Terai region, a tropical mosquito-infested rainforest that is less than 100 meters above sea level. The topography ranges from sub-tropical to alpine, with everything in between. As a result, it is a haven for flora and fauna of all varieties.

Including butterflies.

Including people.

With a population of over 26 million, Nepal is home to more than 40 different races and tribes. The main groups are the Mongoloids from the north and Indo-Aryans from the south, but within that broad division are Thakali, Newars, Gurungs, Magars, Kirantis, Brahmin, Sherpas, Dolpa, Larke, Manag Bas, Satars, and on and on – and each of these subgroups includes numerous sub-subgroups (Here’s a link to a good article: http://www.himalayanmart.com/ethnic_group_nepal/ethnic_group_nepal.php.) So, for those of us who value diversity and multiculturalism – and believe that God created variety to bring eternal enchantment – Nepal is heaven on earth!

But how is that that a butterfly in Nepal might cause a typhoon in California, either literally or figuratively?

— Well, other than emphasizing the importance of systems thinking in families, churches, countries, culture, and climate, I will let the scientists and mathematicians explain the chaos theory part. Solipsism is untenable, both for individuals and science. Even if I don’t know you, my actions will affect your life and vice versa. If you dispute that notion, just think about the consequences of addiction on the family level, economic decisions on the national level, and global warming on the universal level. We are dependent upon each other, for better and for worse, whether we like it or not.

This wisdom is beautifully illustrated in the parable of the good Samaritan, where a Jewish traveler is walking along a path when he assaulted by bandits and left for dead. “Good” Jewish people (including a priest) ignore the injured man and walk away. But a traveler from Samaria (who are despised by the Israelites) stops, binds the wounds, loads him on his donkey, takes him to an inn, and pays for his care. It is as shocking as if Lou Dobbs were brutally mugged and now lies bleeding on the sidewalk. Newt Gingrich and Pat Robinson notice him but avert their eyes and walk to the other side of the street. But when an undocumented migrant worker sees the half-dead Dobbs, the “illegal alien” tends Dobbs’ wounds and saves his life.

The point of the parable is not only that non-Jews (and non-Christians and even non-believers) can be more charitable than “so-called” religious people, but also that we are dependent upon those to whom we would rather not be dependent. We are vulnerable and we need help, even from those whom we would otherwise consider unworthy.

Yes, our interconnectedness is probably the most important life lesson we will ever learn. Yes, the flap of a butterfly’s wing in Nepal can cause a typhoon in California.

But wait – there’s more! Call 1-800-THANK-GOD in the next ten minutes, and we will send you two life lessons for the price of one!

What is so special about butterflies anyway? — Well, they can flit in and out of our lives like sparkles of fairy dust that delight us with a grander world of possibility and enchantment. But they weren’t always that way. They started life as ugly worms, dragged down in dust and dirt, nearsighted and vulnerable, unable to flap wings that might cause a drizzle within six inches, let alone a typhoon halfway around the world. With the exception of hungry birds and small rodents, nobody much cares about caterpillars.

— Which reminds me of the early lives of some of the children in the two orphanages we met. One spent her early years with her mother foraging for food in the open-sewer-cum-river that runs through the center of Katmandu. After her mother died, she was found by a social service group and eventually came to New Life Children’s Home. Another remembers nothing of his early years other than begging and stealing, running from the police who would beat him if he stumbled.

Caterpillars foraging for food in the filth….

And now they are in the process of spreading their wings and becoming butterflies. Soon they will dance among the flowers, fertilizing the world with beauty and nourishment. Ama Ghar and New Life are not just orphanages or children’s homes; they are chrysalides* that provide a place for human caterpillars to find nourishment and safety until their spirits strengthen enough for them to emerge from their cocoons.

But wait – there’s more…

People ask what the trip to Nepal meant to me. I ponder: certainly it was enchanting (especially the beauty and diversity of land and people), sometimes hard (especially urban poverty, leeches, and landslides), and always humbling (especially in the orphanages).

But perhaps the most important word is transformation. For Easter children’s sermons, I have sometimes used the image of the earth-trapped caterpillar’s molting into an airy butterfly as one way of thinking of Jesus’ crucifixion and resurrection. At Ama Ghar and New Life, I was privileged to witness some of this in person – I saw children who began life hungry (for food and often for love) but emerged happy, playful, tender, and enthusiastic. I saw adults who had chosen to give up a comfortable life and live as saints instead.

Thankfully, there were times when my colleagues and I were able to be agents of grace if only by virtue of being in the right place at the right time with a hug or a listening heart (or, in one case, a bottle of Jack Daniels). There were times when we were able to honor the immediacy, spirituality, and let-go-let-God thinking of the Eastern mind while also encouraging the children to consider the advantages of planning and pushing for a quality life for themselves and others. The benefits of “Eastern” thinking (spirituality, connection, respect for elders, and a sense of acceptance and integration) can sometimes erode into fatalism, ennui, and tolerance for injustice and abuse. On the other hand, the benefits of “Western” thinking (diligence, individualism, and analytic thinking) can often erode into egocentrism, superiority, and aggression. It seems to me that the children of Ama Ghar and New Life Children’s Home are among the few who are truly multicultural in their ability to recognize the gifts and hazards of both the Eastern and Western mindsets. I pray that, as adults, they will neither “buy into” the materialism and triviality of the worst of Western culture nor tolerate the social stratification and fatalism of the Eastern mindset. I trust that, growing up where they can see the best of both cultures, they will become the hope of both worlds, holding mirrors to those who think that their way of thinking is necessarily superior to another’s.

For me, the delights of Nepal are that caterpillar children born there can enchant, redirect, and yes – transform – the adult caterpillars born in the United States. And vice versa.

Butterflies teach us that diversity and transformation are both gifts from God. We begin with an outward push into individuality and separation; we age into transformation, which is the inward pull to community and connection with God and each other. As we move from solipcism to connection, we create emotional, intellectual, and spiritual wind gusts that travel around the world, changing who we are, what we know, and how we affect each other. A typhoon is birthed.

And when that happens, we molt into butterflies, bringing beauty and joy throughout the world.

* Chrysalides is the plural of chrysalis.

Spooks and Saints

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Yesterday was Halloween, a favorite holiday for those of us who resonate more with spooks than saints. In fact, the only saints that many of us can recognize are the New Orleans’ Saints, who with a record of 6-0 seem to be flaunting their holy powers.

I recall too many Halloweens as a day of hyperactivity followed by a week of horror. In particular, today – the day after Halloween (All Saints’ Day or All Hallows’ Day) was often the beginning of a week where my children became uncommonly secretive about what was sneaked away under their beds or hidden in the dark crevices of their closets. After climbing the walls for a day, they closed the week with fierce stomach indigestion, or worse…. While Halloween was a delightful way of gladdening the darkening days of autumn, All Saints’ Day was a downer.

Originally, Halloween was a Celtic ceremony from pre-Christian times. The festival, called Souwen, somehow got combined with the festival of All Hallows’ Day; it then became the eve of All Hallows’, thence Hallowe’en. Unfortunately, according to tradition, Halloween was the night when the souls of the dead were released to wander abroad to scare the wits out of the rest of us before finally returning to heaven or hell the next day. I say this is unfortunate because, much as I enjoy Halloween, the combination of spooks on All Hallows’ Eve and saints on All Hallows’ Day has encouraged many of us to think of both saints and spooks as other-worldly beings. In the process, we have degraded the essence of the Christian faith.

Think of the word hallow as in “hallowed be thy name.” It means, literally, to “make holy.” More generally it means to honor and respect. There was much clamoring for saints, especially in medieval times, because having bones and relics from a disciple or well-known miracle worker translated into money with which to serve the poor and build cathedrals. Sainthood was a valuable commodity – so much so, that there weren’t enough days in the year to designate one day for each person deemed worthy of sainthood. So, All Saints’ Day was designed to honor those saints who couldn’t have their own day.

So what do you think of when you hear the word “saints”? I see three possibilities: the simplistic, the standard, and the enlightened.

In the simplistic view, saints are special people who lived in history, did miracles, and only Roman Catholics and Orthodox take them seriously. In fact, some Catholics pray to saints to intercede on their behalf before God – a notion rather distasteful to Protestants who believe that God is gracious enough to listen to us directly. In this view, saints are: 1) superhuman; 2) dead; 3) probably poppycock. This is a satisfying explanation, for we Protestants get to feel superior to those still-in-the-dark-ages Catholics. In our smugness, we dismiss Catholics and saints simultaneously. And, because saints, spooks, goblins, ghosts, and their ilk all represent the outer-worldly, we discount their importance.

The second possibility – the standard view – is an improvement. In the Bible, “saints” simply means “the faithful.” I found 63 references to saints in the New Testament, most of which referred to people very normal and very much alive. Paul routinely addresses the loyal members of the church as saints, as does Luke in Acts and John in Revelation. So also do Protestant churches proclaim their understanding of the term. For example, the Book of Common Prayer defines the “communion of saints” in the Nicene Creed as “the whole family of God, the living and the dead, those whom we love and those whom we hurt, bound together in Christ by sacrament, prayer, and praise.”

Sounds good, except for one problem: despite the epistles and despite the church’s teachings, most of us don’t think of ourselves as saints. I’ll bet that each of us has said, at least once, “I’m no saint, but…” So the standard view is that the saints are: 1) a whole lot better than us, but not necessarily superhuman; 2) mostly but not always dead; 3) not poppycock … but not quite normal either.

There’s a third possibility – what I’ll call the enlightened view – in which we see the saints as living realities in our lives – as personal role models, if you will. In this model, the saints are: 1) very much alive, even if their bodies are no longer part of this earth; 2) fully human; 3) the vision that transforms the gospel from historical artifact to living truth.

To explain how I began with the simplistic “poppycock” view and ended with the living truth version is the story of my faith journey. I realized that a new understanding of how saints operate in our lives is also a new understanding of how God operates in our lives. For me, enlightenment came in an offbeat way. About fifteen years ago, I went with a friend to a metaphysical chapel where I learned many things from the medium who was there. He told me, first, that the reason I don’t like tight things around my neck is because, in an earlier life, I was a Crusader who was beheaded by the Saracens. (It is true that I generally wear open collars, but I thought it was for more feminine reasons…)

Then he told me that I would rather be too hot than too cold because, in another of my past lives, I was one of the Russian submariners who disappeared under the Arctic circle. Now, this could be, but I vaguely recall that the incident happened when I was a teenager, so I found it a problematic to reconcile the fact that I was alive then and alive now, but that I was two different people… The science of cloning has not progressed quite that far, I thought…

Then he told me that Joan of Arc was my patron saint. It seems that everyone has a patron saint, but most people get the gentle ones like St. Francis of Assisi or Teresa of Avila. My patron saint was a marauding military heroine, martyr, and (probably) a madwoman. Aarghhh – this is not good… But it didn’t matter because I didn’t take him seriously.

And yet, and yet … my fascination with Joan was such that I couldn’t get her out of my mind. And clearly, I wasn’t alone. The first efforts to have Joan canonized began after her mother’s death in 1458, but the church waited until 1903 to begin the formal process, and she was not officially sainted until 1920. Despite almost 600 years of contentiousness surrounding her canonization, she is one of a handful of truly important women – way up there with the mother of Jesus, Queen Elizabeth I of England, Cleopatra, Rosa Parks, and … not many others. Her influence was such – even among non-believers – that the greatest artists (and a good many of lesser quality, including some recently Hollywood directors) saw fit to study her.

Mark Twain, the notorious skeptic who panned God in his Letters from the Earth, noted that she was the only person, of either sex, who has ever held supreme command of a nation’s military forces at the age of seventeen. Joan enthralled Twain, who penned a historical novel about her from the viewpoint of her squire. In closing the novel, the imaginary page wrote that he could finally “recognize her at last for what she was – the most noble life that was ever born into this world save only One [Christ].” She may have been a madwoman, but she was the most noble madwoman ever to grace this earth.

Then I learned that there were not one, but two, Saint Felicity’s in the early church. Horrifically mauled by wild animals, both of them were among the few mothers who were martyred. The faith and influence of the first St. Felicity, a widow, was so compelling that she not only marched herself to death, but was joined by all seven of her grown sons. The martyrdom of the second Felicity, a slave, was overshadowed by the accompanying death of her owner Perpetua.

So what does it mean to have the same name as these two early martyrs and be under the shadow of the ever-formidable Joan? On the one hand, not much. The fact that two women suffered brutal deaths nearly two thousand years ago had no bearing on the fact that my parents chose a wonderful name for me. (Being non-believers, they did not know about the saints.) Neither am I made of the same “stuff” as St. Joan: I have no desire to die a martyr’s death, and I lack both the faith and the courage to live a martyr’s life. So while there many be no divine influence at work here, I freely admit that I stand in awe at the faith and fearlessness shown by these three women.

But even with all that historical baggage, the saints – even those who share my name – seem so distant. Was it easier to be a saint in Roman times, or during the Middle Ages? It seems so hard to be a saint now… Do I really need to search back in time to find appropriate role models?

Not at all! I once learned about a committee of lay and ordained ministers who were asked to recommend twentieth-century saints to be honored in ten heretofore-empty niches of Westminster Abbey. The obvious names came to mind: Martin Luther King, Jr., Mother Teresa, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, and Oscar Romero. But, here’s the kicker: the committee reported that they identified more saints and martyrs in the 20th century than in all of the previous 19 centuries combined. They considered the religious persecutions in Africa, Asia, in Germany under Hitler, in the Soviet Union under the Communists, and they could not find another century – no, not the 2nd and 3rd centuries under Rome, and not even the bloody 16th century of the Reformation – in which so many Christians died for their faith.

This made me sit up and take notice. Those millions upon millions of martyrs may not been canonized through the formal process of the Roman Catholic Church, but they were recognized as saints nonetheless.

It also made me want to learn more. I found a charming book of saints, prophets, and martyrs called All Saints. It is intended to be read as daily reflections with one saint for each day. What is intriguing about this book is that author Robert Ellsberg struggled with the same questions that plague us – what is it that makes a “saint” a saint? Can only Roman Catholics be saints? Can only Christians be saints?

I loved what the author gave as his criteria for sainthood, namely “to live in such a way that one’s life would not make sense if God did not exist.” As a result, not all of Ellsberg’s saints were Christian – he includes Mahatma Gandhi, the prophet Amos, Galileo, Chief Seattle of the Suquamish nation, and Anne Frank, among others. Of the more modern surprises, he also includes Cesar Chavez, Flannery O’Connor, Oskar Schindler (of Schindler’s List fame), Albert Schweizer, and probably a hundred people I had never heard of before in my life. They may or may not have died for their faith, but they lived for God.

Reading further, I noticed two very interesting facts. First, fully 122 of them – or one-third – lived during the last 100 years. Second, there’s no saint for February 29. Mr. Ellsberg leapt over Leap Day. This got me to wondering, “Whom would I include?”

Certainly, I would add Bishop Desmond Tutu, Nelson Mandela, and probably even Jimmy Carter, but – thankfully – they are still alive, so perhaps that’s why they are not yet included. So I’m inclined to add Eleanor Roosevelt and Woodrow Wilson, both of whom dedicated their lives to the cause of peace and justice.

And there are several people that I know absolutely that I would include. Last month, I met Shrawan Nepali and Bonnie Ellison, the founder and manager of Ama Ghar Children’s Home, and Kent and Shovha Rogers and Rajendra Budhathoki and Nadine Rogers, the two sets of parents who manage New Life Children’s Home. All of them have given up much personal comfort in order to provide a loving home and a quality life for the orphans in their care. My colleagues and I came away humbled and inspired by their wisdom, courage, and love.

Another two would be my grandparents. Although he died before I was born, my mother’s father was reportedly one of the people who pushed the Episcopal church away from the country clubs and into the slums. As a result, he was hated. His job as a seminary dean was always in peril and he was officially investigated as a Communist by the Federal government. But nothing stopped him from doing what he thought was God’s will.

Thankfully, I remember my father’s mother very well. Although she has been dead for forty years, I can still hear her explaining why she took a stance on an issue that was likely to lose her some good friends. Her explanation was simple: “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

Years ago, Jesse Jackson made a statement that went something like this: “Never underestimate the importance of grandparents. Spend a lot of time with them. Get to know their stories, their dreams, their hurts, their passions. For it is through our grandparents that we learn our history. And it is by learning our history that we are able to shape our future.” The same is true of saints, who are there to tell us about our religious history, just as grandparents can teach us about our family history.

Saints are not spooks, devils, ghosts, or angels. When we lump them in with imaginary Halloween-type creatures, we are doing them, and ourselves, a huge disserve. Most saints aren’t even heroes, in the common understanding of that term. They are typically tormented by insecurities, doubts, fears, heartaches – all of the anxieties that we also face. But their love of God and of God’s children is like a beacon that carries them through. The lives are a testament, fully as powerful as the Bible itself.

So let us enjoy the spooks for a day and celebrate the saints for the rest of the year!

On Being “Aunt Happy”

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Justinian the Great, emperor of Byzantium in the sixth century, reportedly identified himself as “Emperor Caesar Flavius, Justinianus, Alamanicus, Francicus, Germanicus, Anticus, Vandalicus, Africanus, Pious, Happy, Renowned, Conqueror and Triumpher, ever Augustus.”

Whew – now there’s a mouthful! Clearly he did not suffer from a negative self-image!

But I wonder: were his titles an indication of arrogance and hunger for power? Or did they instead remind him of his purpose in life as ruler (and thus caretaker) of the French, Germans, Africans, and others – as well as to be pious, happy, renowned?

Certainly Justinian took his role (if not also his names) seriously, for it was he who brought peace to most of the Mediterranean region and created the code that became the foundation of Roman law. So perhaps his names were not merely egregious and egotistical claims of hoped-for importance but rather statements of commitment to act as leader of all the nations and an awareness of the different personality characteristics required to do so.

Who knows? What’s in a name?

A lot! If you live in the wrong part of the world, you may be killed simply by virtue of having the wrong name. Consider Romeo and Juliet, the Hatfields and McCoys, and tribal conflicts throughout the world. Names are identities, far more powerful than mere words.

I am one of the privileged ones who entered this world with many advantages, of which the first and best is my name. Many people have horrific names that stick with them like a curse; but mine is a talisman, a peace offering, a blessing, both within me and to those around me. I can take no credit for it except to try to live up to the challenge it offers. But it is hard to be churlish when one has a name like Felicity. And so I’ve always been curious about how we choose names and whether the name creates the identity, or vice versa.

Names play an important part in the Bible, and people change names when they change identities. Abram becomes Abraham; Sarai becomes Sarah; Jacob becomes Israel; Simon becomes Peter; Saul becomes Paul. Whenever someone has a radical transformation in identity or mission, he or she has a name change. Biblical name changes indicate a new covenant between that individual and God. Something fundamental is altered in the promise between God and that man or woman (as in the three Hebrew Bible characters), or the promise between him and Jesus (as in the case of Peter and Paul). The new name symbolizes commitment. Baptism, as the first sacrament in the life of a Christian, is in fact a naming ceremony.

In Nepal last month, I was intrigued that one of the children changed his name from “Vishnu” to “Nick” shortly after coming to live at New Life Children’s Home. Was it because being “Vishnu” (the “all-pervasive” Hindu god who is expected to recognize and counteract evil influences in all its guises) was too burdensome? Or did he change his name along with his cultural identity when he acknowledged his new American father? Was “Nick” just cute (I affectionately called him “slick Nick” because of his theatrical flair) or was it connected with St. Nicholas?

I never asked his reasons for changing his name. (It seemed too personal.) But as I heard the story of his life before and after coming to New Life, it was clear that there were two children: Vishnu (who could remember nothing of his early childhood other than filth, stench, hunger, and homelessness) and Nick (who was happy, sensitive, playful, enthusiastic, and tender.)

And he isn’t the only one with a name change. Within an hour of coming to New Life, the children had given me a new name. Like the others, I would be called “Auntie” or “Uncle,” for this is the Nepali way for showing respect for elders while also acknowledging us as close enough to be extended family. In our case, there was “Auntie Carla,” “Auntie Kymri,” “Auntie Kalar,” and “Uncle Brett.”  But “Felicity” had too many syllables and was too unfamiliar. So, without thinking, I simply explained that “felicity” means “happiness.”

Aarghhh. Without a pause, I was named “Auntie Happy.” Then, concerned that “Auntie” would be misunderstood as “anti,” it was modified to “Aunt Happy.” Vishnu became Nick; Felicity became Aunt Happy.

Honored, I did my best to life up to my name.

But it was a challenge.

What would Justinian say? What would Jesus say?

Is being “Aunt Happy” within my power? Or is it a gift from God?

In Nepal, there were occasions when I was happy as well as times when I was an agent of grace. But my happiness was a gift from others – it was their happiness that enveloped me rather than the result of anything I had done. Further, it was clear that my ability to be an accidental agent of grace was a gift from God – and the children also.


It was they who believed in me. And, as a result, I was changed, transformed. Though inadequate, I was baptized by their love.

I am humbled. I am happy.

Leeches, Landslides, and Live Music

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Carla was the first to notice the blood that seemed to come from nowhere. She, Kymri, and I had already scoured legs and arms for signs of the pesky creatures, but none were to be found. Yet the large red spots on the bedspread were proof: one had escaped our careful searching. Where was it?

Tiny though they are (typically 1/4th to 1/3rd of an inch and as thick as a .007 mm pencil lead), the leeches of the Nepali forests are ferociously clever. Mostly, they sneak their way in through the cuffs and mesh of hiking shoes, slinking under and through heavy trekking socks. Some of them wait on misty leaves, leaping onto hats, outer garments, and exposed hair.

Suffering the humiliation of being bested by these tiny mites and mindful of the furious bleeding and painful itching that accompany their affection for us, we had become quite adept at spotting them on ourselves and each other, usually finding them before much damage had been done. And on this day – after many hours of slogging through swollen creeks and soggy mud piles – we were especially vigilant. But one got through and found its way to the tiny crevice between the ring and little finger on my left hand. Though I attacked it instantly with salt and then stanched the bleeding with sugar (to counteract the anti-clotting agent left by the leech), I am still scratching the spot five days later. Give me a mosquito bite anytime.

As it happens, I was one of the lucky ones, for I tucked my pant bottoms into silk sock liners, which were themselves inside heavy wool socks, which were well cushioned by heavy hiking boots. I also had tight cuffs on my jacket and kept my head protected with both a hat and hood. And maybe – who knows – I smelled bad. (Certainly I sweated enough!) So my leech infestation usually was less than three a day.

Poor Kymri had it much harder – she usually discovered three or four of them every time we stopped for tea or a meal. There was even one especially large one (about 3/4ths of an inch) that did a cobra-type dance on her tea saucer, apparently trying to hypnotize her into submission.

But leeches, we soon found, were a trivial nuisance compared to the real challenge of the trek. Aftereffects of the Pacific typhoons included freak weather in parts of India and Nepal, specifically four days of torrential downpours that caused major flooding, treacherously slippery downhill treks, and sudden landslides. On Tuesday, we barely made four miles of a planned six-mile trek, opting to spend the night in a small teahouse without running water or electricity rather than continue in the dark through driving rain to our planned destination. We huddled round the small fire, searching for leeches and trying to dry boots and clothes while the winds howled and the waters rose.

And almost as soon as we made the decision to stay, we began to regret it. We were now trapped in a tiny glen, feeling the shakes of both land and air. Was that a landslide forming just over the bluff or the sound of a gentle brook suddenly morphing into a furious waterfall? We tried to distract ourselves with games, masala tea, and hot chocolate laced with rum. That, prayers, and bravado were all we had.

At night, gentle snores were punctuated with muffled tears. When our sherpas checked the situation in the early morning, they asked us to get packed and moving pronto. Hastily dressing in still-wet clothes and armed with headlamps and trekking poles, we looked out to find a brand new waterfall just twenty feet from the inn. A quarter mile down the road, a fierce torrent about two-three feet deep and eight-feet wide blocked our way. Three sherpas were able to move a heavy boulder (about two by four by two feet) into the stream. Then, working together like a fireman’s line, they planted themselves thigh-deep in water and carried us across what was likely to become a treacherous waterfall or landslide that would effectively close off the glen for the next few days.

When we finally arrived at the next teahouse after eight hours of miserable slogging through muddy streams, we learned that four trekkers had lost their lives in a slide not four miles from where we had been.

What does one learn after being cheek-to-jowl with the possibility of imminent death? Fear is, I believe, the default emotion that governs most of our lives; we hope to make decisions grounded in love rather than fear, but it’s counter-cultural and it’s hard work. Many of us held our fears at bay by carrying the love of our families (both dead and alive) with us as we trekked quietly through the crud. I know that a major part of what kept me going was the awareness that – cold and miserable as I was, it was a trivial nuisance compared to the daily hunger and lack of shelter experienced by many of the orphaned children we had come to love.

For most of us on this trek, it was faith in God, faith in our sherpas, and a quiet determination that kept us walking. And, in the process, I believe that – whether we can identify it or not – we came into a new kind of power, a willingness to take ourselves more seriously for having triumphed over this little piece of hell. There were no words or overt signs, but in conquering our fear we also claimed our power. Though we missed many of the gorgeous Himalayan vistas we had hoped for, we climbed up our personal mountains and emerged both stronger and gentler than when we started. Humbled by their courage, my own was bolstered.

… Or perhaps I wax grandiose when a much simpler explanation will suffice.  Perhaps what really helped us contain the horrors of leeches and the terrors of landslides was nothing more than … live music.

The first sign of something special was a surprise encounter with a young Nepali boy who happily sang the Nepali national anthem. Later the same day, we came across a small band that was celebrating Dashain by parading around the village. The most unlikely musician was a small mutt that barked in time with the music!

Then there were the wonderful evenings with Brett Holland (the professional musician in our group) who worked with the children at Loving Arms to create special musical events. Then there was the chance encounter with John Kelly Gill, an American guitarist heading to Pokhara who entertained us with a twenty-minute concert while having a rest break en route to Ghorepani.  And finally, it was an Nepali guitarist staying at our teahouse in Panthana – the final night of our trek which followed a grueling ten-hour day of ascending nearly 2,000 feet in the morning and early afternoon, only to have to find our way down wet stone stairways in the darkening afternoon and evening. Our friendly guitarist and Brett spent the evening sharing songs and instrumental pieces with us and the other guests.

How often have you been visiting friends or gone out walking in a strange neighborhood when suddenly someone is giving you a personal concert – and a multi-cultural one at that? – For us, it happened not just once but every other day.

Live music. It brought us together as an appreciative family, enjoying each other and our shared gifts and terrors. Like the salt that killed the leaches and the sugar that restored the blood’s natural coagulants, it was live music that countered the poison of fear with the power of hope.  And so we shared a love song which, for a time, infused sudden harmonies into our mournful episodes of blood-and-fear letting.

… Now I understand why music has so many grace notes!

Here is a picture of the memorable tea house where we spent such a terrifying evening:

Cold wet clothes - scared trekkers
Cold wet clothes - scared trekkers

The sudden waterfall that greeted us in the morning. It wasn’t there when we arrived. (We decided to leave pronto!)

The reason we left in a hurry
The reason we left in a hurry

And here’s a link to a news story about the horrible flooding and landslides: http://www.reliefweb.int/rw/rwb.nsf/db900SID/SNAA-7WN4XX?OpenDocument&RSS20=03

Note to readers: I have just returned from Nepal to Los Angeles and have to drive myself home and get myself and all of my possessions washed. But give me a few days and you’ll see lots of great photos on my Facebook page.