asking for help

I have begun listening to podcasts of sermons.  My brother Josh is what inspired me.  He mentioned how is phone is full of them and he plays them in his truck while driving to work, or while working.  I decided to start doing it too - as my car will automatically play it through bluetooth, and I'm wanting more spiritual infusion in my day.

I'm enjoying them, but I was struck today at how formulaic some sermons are - using teaching strategies and techniques that are clever and lessons founded in the Bible - but lacking story.  Lacking personal experience.  Not that pastors or preachers don't have it ... I'm sure they have many.  Maybe they've used all their stories, or maybe their lives have become too open to the public and it's their way of guarding themselves, or maybe it was the sermon I heard today about personal stories and how important they are... it all lead me wishing I could hear more.

It's also my personality.  I love stories.  It's how I learn and what moves me.  So I've decided to start my own sermon series through my own stories - because I know as a teacher, the main student becomes yourself.

So I will begin tagging these posts as sermons and testimonies.  And here's the first.

I have no plan, so bear with me.

I was thinking the other day about an experience I had.  It was in 2006.  My father had been very ill - first with multiple shoulder surgeries that became complicated because of infection.  Then heart problems.  He was born with a bicuspid heart - most people have a tricuspid - but you can survive (obviously) with only two cusps.  Your heart just works harder and ages faster.  He had a leaky valve - which was the least of his problems.  He had several other things going on, and the source or the solution wasn't clear.  His output or ejection rate had dropped to 25% in one test, which was equivalent to heart failure.  He was also having "electrical" problems.  His heart rate would suddenly drop - on at least one occasion he passed out.  And, he seemed to have endocarditis - a bacterial infection of the heart.  Mayo Clinic made a case study of his charts as it wasn't clear how to approach the multiple problems.

In the end, they decided to do heart surgery and replace the leaky valve, in hopes that the heart ejection rate would raise to above 60%.

My father did not want surgery.  He was miserable that year with his health problems, and afraid I think - as much as I can attribute fear to my father - which I can't because he mostly shuts down his communication systems when he's in pain.  However, he was constantly asking for prayer.  When ever someone offered or invited prayer - he was in line with the rest.  He even sought out people to pray for him.

I realized through his experience, that a part of me saw "asking for prayer" as weakness.  It was a horrifying realization, because it implied that I believed prayer was for the weak, and we didn't need prayer.  I'll blame my father and our Peterson/Scandinavian heritage for that - our pride in self-sufficiency, hiding behind this claim that we don't want to "inconvenience" somebody, and so we don't ask for help.

I watched my father ask for prayer again and again, and it took me by surprise - and I realized my mistake in my way of thinking, and I admired his persistence and humility.  And then I had another horrifying realization - my mother asks for prayer all the time for her eye, why didn't I admire this?  She has a lazy eye that impedes her vision and depth perception, as well as makes her self-concious.  But how many times did I find myself annoyed that she was always asking for healing of her eye?

My mother was always doing what my father never did.  I viewed it as dramatic, or vain, or superficial - as if prayer only had a limited window of time and healing power that should be reserved for the big issues.  Whatever those are.

And, somewhere, somehow, I had decided in my conscious or subconscious that her requests weren't that important.  I mean, it was her eye, not her heart.  Petersons only ask for help when they really need it, not for simple reasons.

A chiropractor said to me once: People are walking around with all this pain and they don't have to.

Huh.

Where did I get this idea that we had to walk around with pain.  That I had to grin and bear it?  How ridiculous and proud and totally unnecessary.  And lonely.  Pain is so isolating because you are the only one that knows what you are feeling and suffering - and somewhere along the way I decided or learned in my heart that pain is something you should grin-and-bear because it was about inner strength.

My father, who was normally silent, was vocalizing his pain, and his fear - as best as he could.  Setting aside everything maybe he had learned, and so I had learned, to ask for help.  And not just help from God, but help from people.  Ew!  People are the weakest of weak.  At least asking God for help, it was a noble and Biblical, but people?  People are weird and self-righteous and project their weakness on you and are happy to help for all the wrong reasons, taking strength from your weakness.

One day, I went with my father to get prayer.  He had sought out this person.  Someone known for a "healing ministry".  I went with to support him, and maybe a part of me wanted to protect him too in his vulnerable state.  I mean, I've seen these healers before.  Who was this guy?  Who did he think he was that his prayers would be heard over others?

We went to the ministry's office in the middle of winter.  The doors were locked.  "Perfect," I said, "The church doors are closed."  I was ready to leave, but my father called the number because he had an appointment.  All of which just reinforced my feeling of this persons elitism - because he had a "ministry" and "appointments" and apparently, was a busy guy who we were so lucky to have a meeting with.

We entered the office and the man apologized, explained how important he and his time was and so on.  He asked my father some questions and began praying . . . and fishing.  "I feel as if you have sin.  Something God wants you to confess."
"I'm sure I do," my father responded in his typical meek style.  The man continued to pray, and stopped again.  "You are angry?"
"I don't think so, but maybe."
He continued to pray.
I was waiting.  Waiting for my chance.
Then, the man flipped.  "I saw this all wrong.  You are a humble man.  I see white snow."
Wow.  Your vision is so mighty.
He prayed some more, moving towards healing prayers.  Then he stopped and turned to me - maybe for the first time since we walked in - and he asked, "What do you think?"

And suddenly, everything just fell away.  All my pride and judgements.  All this man's gloss, glitter, and garbage. All my garbage.  It didn't even matter what he meant by his question, because suddenly, in spite of everything I was feeling and seeing up to that point, it was all replaced unexplainably with faith and trust in God.

"It is done."  Were the words that came to my mind and the words I spoke.  I doubt either the man or my father understood me (frankly, or even cared), but that didn't matter either.  I had faith, and it was a gift, because up to that point I had nothing but snide remarks and self-righteousness.  I wasn't even sure if that meant he would be healed or not, or even that he would survive.  It was just this big package of faith placed in my heart - faith in God or father, in Jesus who died for us, in our prayers being heard and my father being looked after.  IN SPITE OF our posturing, being blatantly prideful or quietly proud - God's work was done, had been decided, and was being done in all of our lives.


Matthew 7:11
11"If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give what is good to those who ask Him! 

new words and routines

Tomris has learned how to ride the scooter.  It has taken some time.  It started with her just working on getting her leg over the three-wheeler.  Then, once sitting on it, she wasn't really able to make it go... or if she did, she could only go backwards.  Then, one day, a few weeks ago, she figured out how to throw herself forward, leaning her little chest over the handlebars with her little feet scampering along.  We would say, "hizli hizli Tomris!"  Fast fast!  And she would bear down and motor along.  She was sweating that first day from her work out.

She is speaking so much these days.  Mostly in commands.  Yapma or Yap (don't do it and do it), ver (give it), yeyicem (I will eat), "teet!" (treat), milk!, wa-wa or su (water), juice, zeytin (olive), winnie-da-pooh, ca ca yaptim (I went poop), awch (ouch), boom! (for an ouch), otur or sit down! And so on.

They both like putting their animals to sleep.  They wrap them in the dish towels or thin blankets and walk around with them saying "shhhhh". Tomris will sometimes sit down and put the baby on her legs and rock her legs like her Babaanne.  

When I sit with them in the play area, Tomris usually sits in my lap and plays from that position.  Sometimes I wrestle with them in the living room. Spinning them or chasing them.  We fall to the ground and they jump on me.  Then Tomris sits on my head.

In the mornings I have breakfast with them.  They wake up - usually from my bed having switched there in the nighttime.  They smile at each other.  Teoman takes my hand and plays with my ring.  Tomris tells me to "dum!" (come) so we can leave the bedroom.  They play and ask to go to their grandparents or uncles room.  I say no, not yet - they are sleeping - to which they accept and go back to playing.  I make oatmeal and coffee.  We sit down and Tomris says oooh ooh sicak  - hot!  Teoman eats his oatmeal, Tomris eats cold cereal and then begins dumping it on the table of floor.  They hear their uncles alarm clock and go and wake him up, or hear their grandparents and go into their rooms to play.

Then I try to leave for work.  Teoman will kiss me and say goodbye.  Tomris will go between not wanting me to put her down, to getting distracted by something.  They usually both follow me to the elevator in their socks to give one last hug and kiss.  This morning Tomris rested her head on her my shoulder, read to come with me - but accepted when I set her down and ran back to the house - a drunken run that involves some hops and wavering from side-to-side.

God bless our dear children.

little hearts

Teoman and Tomris have started watching TV.

Screen time started before this.  With the iPads and iPhones - listening to music, Face-timing their Baba or relatives.  Later, playing some simple games.

Slowly it grows and gets out of control. Now I'm to the point where I would hide all my electronics if I didn't need them to talk to Tolga everyday.  Tomris takes the phone or iPad and presses the home button, then presses all of the app buttons - and because she's one-and-a-half - she presses the home button again, before the app even opens.

I went to school the other day and found she had deleted my grade book from the iPad.  Thankfully it is constantly backed up on iCloud so it didn't cause any problem - but that's the effect of her pudgy little finger incessantly tapping.

So I allow them Paw Patrol - an innocent ten minute show about pups that do rescue missions.  Teoman has also found Dora, which I'm not as fond of ... Dora has to get away from semi-scary things sometimes: snakes in the cactus, alligators in the river, Swiper the fox ... I'm not sure these are so healthy.  But when one of them saws Paw Patrol, they both run to the couch, sit back on the cushions and wait expectantly.  Tomris used to call it "Double", but now she says something like Paw Patrol - aw rol, I think.

They are such good friends, and it is so precious to see.  It has been hard, and Tomris still needs me too much for me to manage them both sometimes, but it is getting easier already too - just because of the fact they can play together, and Tomris will even play on her own too.

Our dear children.

I talked to my parents on Face Time.  Teoman now always says, "Hi Gramps! How are you!"  and Tomris said "dar-ful damp!"  Careful Gramps.  It's her new line when somebody is driving.  I think Teoman learned it from me, and now they both tell me when I drive too fast - its like they can sense when I'm driving mad, pulling out too fast because of how another person was driving.  They are like my conscious reminding me of the cargo in the vehicle.

I took them to church today.  There is a chapel on the American Base.  The chapel - technically is for any religion because its lead by the Navy's chaplain - a spiritual guide for the soldiers of any faith.  But their services are generally non-denominational, and the congregation is American.  The chapel is inside the American Base, which is inside a Turkish military base.  I have to go through to checkpoints in order to go to church.  The first is the Turkish one - they check my ID and my license plate to see whether I'm approved, then under my car, hood, and in my trunk.  I drive into the base to another checkpoint that has cement barriers raised from the ground that are hydraulically lowered once I pass the "100% ID check".  Inside the base is the chapel, a school, a grocery store and a mini-Walmart.  Okay, it's not Walmart, but that's the closest I can get to describing it.  The stores have American goods at discounted prices - but you need a special ID/pass to shop at these places so I can only look longingly at their maple syrup and Reeses Pieces and cheap electronics.  The grounds are clean, with a park, a playing field, and a track.  It's empty on Saturdays and the luxury of the grounds feels like America.

I went to church early today so the kids could play in the park. The playground is well made which can't be said for most Turkish playgrounds.  The weather was beautiful - 60 degrees and sunny - and we were the only ones playing on the playground.  My mother or brother-in-law would have come with me, but ironically, they can't come to church.  I have to get their name on the list to enter the base, and I haven't done it.  They would come for the park, but not for the church.  It's so American ... which I'm pretty sure is NOT what church is supposed to be.  But that's another topic.

When Tolga comes with me, he was the one who pointed out to me that he was the only Turkish person there.  Except the nursery - they have one hired Turkish woman who helps out.  Teoman and Tomris were so happy to be outside, running in the sun.  They weren't as excited to go to church, but once I got them in, and think they were curious about the singing and the people.  They also enjoyed the crackers and peas I brought for them to snack on.

After the worship, I brought them to the nursery for children's church.  I've only been there three times in the past month - maybe six times over the years, but they are already eager to get me in the rotation for children's church.  I only recently began dropping the kids off at children's church because I want to see the kids in a different environment, see if I can leave them and how they will manage.  Teoman does really well - according to those watching.  He listens, drives his cars, and participates.  Tomris follows.  The first time, she was happy the whole time.  The last two times, they have had to bring her back to me.  She was sucking air from sobbing so much.  My dear girl.  I told them to ring me today if she cries.  I think they wait some, and try to get her past whatever it is that sets her off -- but she's pretty stubborn and when she wants her mama, there's no changing her mind.  They rang me today, and I stepped out of the chapel right away.  The kids were playing outside and Teoman was leading Tomris away, holding her hand.  She was sucking air from sobbing.  The helpers told me how sweet Teoman was with his sister - telling her not to cry, that he was there, giving her a flower and patting her.  My dear boy.  I picked her up and she stayed with me.  I couldn't go back into the church because she wanted "Milk!"  Her comfort these days.

I took them out to eat after church and went to the market.  I fed them M&Ms to keep them sitting in the cart while I got the few things we needed.  Tomris fell asleep at one point, but by the time we got home, neither wanted to sleep.  We played and Tomris got more and more fussy, so I had to put her to sleep.  I had bought stuff for borek and my mother-in-law offered to make it.  Teoman went to the table and said, "I want to eat borek!"  It wasn't ready yet, but he heard and knew what it was, and apparently his little heart had a craving for it.

I put them both to bed early.  We watched an episode of Paw Patrol on the iPad.  They fought over holding the iPad until I was able to set it up on a pillow and convince them both to leave it be.  Teoman fell right asleep after the show, Tomris wasn't ready - she tossed and turned and tried to get up.  I was close to giving up with her, but she eventually settled in a slept on me.

My heart is so full.

Remembering a hero

November 10th was the day Ataturk died.  The day the founder of the country who is credited with what Turkey is today: widespread education, western alphabet, socialism and democracy combined, civil freedoms, and so on.  He is commemorated everywhere.  His picture and statues are saluted as much as the flag itself.  

I don't really get it.  I love it, but I don't fully understand the pride and sorrow and commeration in the midst of so much corruption and political turmoil.  But there's hope and fortitude that is renewed in this memory of Ataturk.

Turks are so proud.  From a young age they learn to stand at attention during the anthem.  A dramatic minor-key militaristic sounding march.  Everyone stops at the sound of the anthem.  Hands hang dutifully at the sides, chins are held high, and my students sing whole-heartedly the words of their anthem.  Their faces full of drama and earnestness.  

On Ataturk's Day - the day he died - everyone wears a picture of him pinned to their clothing.  His birth year and death year included.  He died in 1938, and the 8 is laid down on its side to express his death, and the infinite effect he had on the country.  

At 9:05, the country stops.  Students wait in the courtyards of their schools.  A lone horn plays and then sirens blare.  No one could tell my why the sirens blare in the midst of the silence, but the effect is electric.  

Even traffic stops.  Cars pull over, and then honk their horns.  "Ataturk is dead!" they blare.  "Don't forget what he's done!  Don't forget who we are!  Honor his memory!"  I could here the horns from the highway in the midst of our own "silence" and sirens.

My students tell me it's a sad day.  They lay flowers at the foot of his statue.  We have three large bronze statues of Ataturk and they are adorned before the ceremony and even more so by the end. 

Two fighter jets flew over our campus.  They shot overhead so low, their sound coming slowly after them ripping the sky open.  I followed their trail and over Ataturk's mausoleum they shot up vertical into the sky then split - one going left, one going right.  A cloud of condensed air in their wake.  They split and came back down creating a heart in the sky.

Fighter jets making a heart in the sky.

It's kind of awesome.

all kinds of connections

This was a posting on my classroom site:

Student A: I'm so excited to read this book.  I wanna solve the mystery.

Student B: Mee too.

Student C: Me three! Just kidding.  There is no such word as that.

Student B: I wish there was.
Student B: I hope somebody says "me four";

Student C: Yeah.  That would be cool.

Student B: No it would be extremely cool.


I was thinking the other day about social media.  How I used to write letters and put them in the MAIL.  How I had a pager at one point - when they were already NOT cool.  Pay phones.  Post cards.

What if I didn't have technology today - I would not be able to communicate with my family.  I would be very alone here in Turkey.  Then again, I'm not sure I would have travelled in the first place, let alone developed a relationship with Tolga.

So what has social media, podcasts, the Internet... done with our relationships?  With my relationships?

On the one hand, my relationships are too many, too casual, and too superficial.  I can choose to "catch up" with someone passively by simply looking at their Facebook page and never engaging with that person.

On the other hand, the relationships and connections I have made in the different stages of my life or over an increasing span have time - never get lost.  I can reminisce, drop a word of encouragement, be "there" when needed.

I imagined my life here without video phone calls, email, or social media ... I imagined my trip to States having had little contact or update with people.  Would our conversations be more meaningful? More filled with purpose?  Would I take our time less for granted?

Media filters out the personal stories - it highlights the beautiful - births, weddings, accomplishments - and hides the struggles.  Someone fighting an illness - mental or emotional.  Struggles.  Obstacles.  Occasionally a person will shout out to the world frustrations at work or personal, and the public reply can be encouraging or nasty - but it's always limited.

Would I meet my family and ask better questions than, "How's it going?"  Would I get deeper answers?  Would I know how to have these kinds of conversations.  Could I give a better answer?  Where do you begin?

At one point we did this.  My oldest brother, Seth, and I had a strong relationship at one point - because we saw each other almost everyday.  And when we asked each other "How's it going?" we set aside time for long answers and overtime we knew "fine" wasn't enough of an answer.  So, maybe it was the practice, or our commitment.

I hear of people's struggles sometimes, and I regret that I can't hear these first hand.  Could I do this with my family - bypass the superficial and get to our heart's longings?  With some people, I suppose I still can -- these are my close relationships - so what to do with all these passive relationships?

My students are kids.  Their attempts to communicate in English are sweet and innocent.  Not so loaded with ideas other than innocent exploration of language and relationships.  But we all want something deeper and more meaningful.  I don't want to miss out on all the life that happens in between posts.

I used to push my parents.  Hard.  To answer my questions in detail.  They were not very good at it, but I clung to their stories because for a time, I would feel like I was there ... living things with them. Maybe this is what I want from media these days.  To use it to connect, not passively, but to show that while I may not be physically there, I still care about the daily dramas and the larger struggles.  And it doesn't have to be meaningless.