Human

Istanbul.

We had meandered our way back to the old book market in the shadow of a mosque in Sultan Ahmet. In the very far corner of the bazaar was Mustafa’s tiny shop, brimming with beautiful art prints (whirling dervishes, cityscapes of Istanbul, depictions of the Bosphorus, Orientalist sketches) and prolific collections of old stamps, matchbox lids, pins, and other paraphernalia. Hours passed as we sifted through fantastic collections of old coins and watched the collector rub his fingers over the pieces as he identified their origins. He gave us steaming bardaks of çay, sticky with sugar around the rims. 

I bought some old photographs of Turks from bygone years: solemn family photos of young children in white dresses and stockings, a blurry image of three people playing in the ebb and flow of the ocean, pictures of young men and women with neatly brushed hair posing in gardens for portraits with their lives stretching happily unknown before them, a browned-from-the-sun old man napping on a porch rocker with his hat tipped back jauntily away from his face, a candid and humorous snapshot of two overweight women in shabby swimsuits trying to wash a little boy's hair in the water from a garden hose during the summertime. I loved the photographs I picked out, partly because they reminded me of the eclecticism of Mustafa’s shop, partly because they were fading and stained images of jovial times now forgotten, and partly because through them I had found a new way of feeling connected to the Turkish people. These were their lives as they had been in the 1940’s and 50’s... I could not know them, could not talk to them, but they were not dead faces. 

I wondered if someday a foreign girl would be in a curio shop rifling through old photographs and find one of my family, unnamed but merry, captured in the masquerade of the moment. Would she delight in the happy humanity of the image? If you slice a wafer shape from any period in time and put it on your tongue, something about the flavor will be unidentifiably familiar to you. Perhaps we are all spliced together by this taste, and that’s what binds us to the bits of daily humanness that we can relate to in history and in other cultures. Or maybe this is my imagination, because after all, it is sometimes easier to love the dead than the living. 

Worthy

We were worshipping. Or trying to. From our seats in the balcony of our church back home, I could just make out a tiny triangle of simple stained glass that let in light from the apex of the sanctuary's ceiling. I trained my eyes on it as I sang. Something intrinsic in my soul was flitting around like a sparrow trying to find an appropriate place to land. The sanctuary was painted in drab grays and blues, carpeted with another dull hue...void of much color or light or adornment, save for the American flag in the corner and the arrangements of artificial unpleasant-green leafy plants lining the "stage" where the worship leaders flashed smiles and clapped out of sync with each other as they led us through another vapid song. 

What I am not trying to express is unthankfulness for our worship space, or for the time and financial efforts the congregation poured into building it. I am thankful that we have building permits for churches here, that we don't live with the threat of our neighbors locking us into the sanctuary and setting the building on fire while we're inside, that we are affluent enough to construct a roof over our heads so that we have the opportunity to foster fellowship and community and reach out to our town and beyond without immediate threat of persecution and terror. 

I also realize that God meets with us anywhere and everywhere, whether we're worshipping him from slum, palace, orphanage, monastery, coffee shop, or mountain top. 

There are many places to take off your sandals on holy ground.

But remember that Christmas song Little Drummer Boy?

"Come, they told me, pa rum pum pum pum

A new born King to see, pa rum pum pum pum

Our finest gifts we bring, pa rum pum pum pum

To lay before the King...

So to honor him, pa rum pum pum pum,

When we come..."

God is more than worthy of the finest gifts we can bring Him, the best worship we can give Him. And the best worship spaces.

People in Europe and the Middle East seem to have no problem constructing "contemporary" worship spaces that don't resemble lunch-boxes or warehouses. Americans may not have a modern Da Vinci or Sinan, but that doesn't mean our buildings have to be ugly.

Sometimes, when I've voiced my conviction about this, someone will tell me bluntly that it doesn't matter. God doesn't care.

If God didn't care, I don't think His Creation would be so beautiful. 

Is it a coincidence that the most regal cathedrals mirror the grandeur of ancient forests?

Do you think Heaven is painted in drab grays and blues? That God lines his throne with rubbery shrubbery? 

Did God let the Israelites use second-rate materials in the Tabernacle? 

I don't think so.

In Islam, it is sacrilegious to depict in art Allah, or the Prophet Muhammad, or other images, at the mosque and elsewhere. Shirk, idolatry, is avoided at all costs. When we were abroad, I admired how Muslims often celebrate the beauty of holy places without compromising their ideology. Focus should clearly be on Allah, on prayer. But the Blue Mosque in Istanbul is quilted with cobalt-blue Iznik tiles. Its interior is exquisite. And it inspires worship. 

There was a point in our semester when I felt spiritually weary, especially distant from God. The day had drawn out long and hot in Jerusalem. We'd spent hours walking through thronging crowds and uphill in the unmerciful sunshine.

And then we got to the Garden of Gethsemane, with is old old gnarled olive trees and lovely, well-kempt landscape. Ten minutes previously, a gong from within the Old City had signaled the end of Jesus' three hours on the cross. Christ had died. 

I would write in my journal that evening: "For some reason, as we went into Gethsemane Church, a sadness came over me, like a heavy afternoon that makes you wonder what you should live for and what comes next in life. The church was exquisitely beautiful...pale columns with lovely carved capitals, stained glass windows of blue and purple that filtered in tranquil, dim yet rich light...olive tree motifs of skillfully-worked metal that vined around the door to the sanctuary like a man-made thicket...and on the ceiling, a mosaic of blue, speckled with silvery stars. I was deeply moved by a sense of peace, of calm, of God's unfailing and unconditional love. Christ would resurrect. Looking up at the stars on the ceiling of the church high over my head, I remembered what God had told me once, that all my hopes and dreams and things to be achieved were as numerous as the stars, and that God held all of them in His hand, stretched out like the glittering tapestry of the night sky in His palm."

I remember quite vividly how the beauty of this encouragement and the sheer loveliness of the church moved me to tears. It was a worship space that had drawn me closer to the One whom I worshipped.

Recently a design-savvy, Christian friend expressed to me how discouraging it is to her when most of the Christians she knows sharply criticize and disdain her passion for that which is aesthetically pleasing. 

Christians, we should be the forefront champions of that which is aesthetically pleasing. Not so we can worship beauty for beauty, but so that we can worship Him who makes all things beautiful.

God is the ultimate and indefatigable architect, designer, artist. He knows our sparrow souls, how we search for the sliver of stain glass that elevates our minds to something more magnificent, something more like His kingdom, something more like Him. 

Callebaut

Future significant other, beware: I have high standards when it comes to chocolate. Giving me crappy chocolate is no way to my heart. 

Now that I've been raised in a family that has always frequented the shop of our professional chocolatier friend -- who has run a successful business for over twenty years handcrafting truffles and other products from the finest Belgian chocolate (not to mention liquors)-- I will probably forever decry anything but Callebaut. If you don't know what I'm talking about, I recommend looking it up. 

Sweet snobbery aside, working at that friend's chocolate and gelato shop this summer has been teaching me quite a few other tidbits of lifelong wisdom. 

For example, it is impossible to describe what a guava fruit tastes like, so don't even try. 

If you've made the choice not to consume ANY sugar, dairy, gluten, or nuts, a chocolate shop probably isn't the place for you to wander around complaining that your options are severely limited. 

If indecisive people are given too many choices to make, you may be standing there for a very long time.

People like to talk about themselves. And if you give them even the slightest chance, they will. 

Always be nice to salespeople. Berating them to the point of tears for not having your personal favorite variety of chocolate gelato on hand every single time you come into the store will not make you a favorite customer. If you are nice to them, however, they'll serve you generously. And maybe you'll even brighten their long day.

WARM HANDS MELT CHOCOLATE. 

Labeling things doesn't always help people identify what they're looking at. Hence why a customer might point to a tray of gelato designated "LEMON" flavor with a little tab and ask "What flavor is this?" It is best to maintain a neutral facial expression in these scenarios.  

Showing even benign interest in the details of what someone is selling to you makes their job much more pleasurable, and shows them that you care about the product they're preparing for you, which means you'll probably get a richer mocha or more luscious hot chocolate or more delightfully decorated slice of cheesecake out of the deal. 

Smile as much as possible. You have no idea how many people are visibly shocked to be smiled at and greeted warmly. So shocked that they'll leave a generous tip, enthusiastically smile themselves, and thank you profusely for doing a simple job that you would have done anyways. 

Don't let your children, if or when you have them, lick display cases. This is all at once unattractive, unsanitary, and inconsiderate. 

Tactfully sharing something about yourself with strangers will often open up impressively fulfilling conversations. 

Savor good things. Like good chocolate. 

And if you really want to impress a girl, give her the quality stuff. 

Ginger

When I was old enough, but still not old enough to comb all the tangles out of my own hair, my parents would let me go stay at Ginger's house in the Seattle area. There was so much I didn't know about her then, and so much that I didn't think to ask. She was simply, and wonderfully, Ginger. Her black hair with threads of gray framing her dimpled face. Her purple smock-like dresses over her stout figure. Her buttermilk and lavender scent. Her ready chuckle. Ginger was a genuine gem of a kindhearted person. 

During my long visits, I always slept in the tiny room off the kitchen. I was enchanted with the petite steps leading up to the hobbit-sized door, and I loved that there was just enough space for a little-person sized bed on the floor of the Harry-Potter-cupboard room. Greg (Ginger's longtime partner) would always clear the space of stored, yellowed magazines and ubiquitous spiders before my visit. Ginger would tuck me inside the layers of slightly-musty blankets when bedtime surreptitiously arrived.

Apparently I talked and sang incessantly during those visits. Often times I didn't understand why Ginger would chortle for minutes on end after something I'd said, but I didn't mind because I adored her. We would sit on the edge of the damp picnic table in the treed courtyard and feed the squirrels peanuts, and I marveled at the sheer number of peanut shells that carpeted the ground beneath our feet. 

Greg spent years collecting and recording Shirley Temple flicks for me (I was convinced I would be a charming actress and talented tap-dancer myself). Ginger and I would pop new videos into the VCR like thick slices of toast into the toaster, and we would cuddle up to enjoy the old films. Ginger would tell me how my golden curls were just like Shirley's. 

Ginger and I donned aprons in the kitchen to make bagels from scratch. I fondly remember how she would spin the dough around her finger, how I exclaimed "Hole-y bagel!" and made her face animate into laughter, how she taught me to dunk the bagels into hot water and sprinkle them with a dusting of sea salt. 

Then I grew up, like Peter Pan's Wendy or C.S. Lewis' Lucy, like all little girls are bound to do sooner or later. I rarely saw Ginger. "She has an important job at the University," my mom would say. "Ginger is extremely bright. And you don't need to be babysat any more." 

But Ginger would sometimes drive to Canada to see us perform in our annual Christmas concerts. On rare occasions we would go out to dinner together. She always smelled the same, looked the same -- albeit with more gray strands in her hair. I didn't make her laugh as much anymore, but she would keep me and mom in stitches with her old stories. I loved the way her face reddened and shone with mirth during her storytelling. 

She was still my beloved Ginger, and still the Ginger that I knew loved me. 

Ginger never divulged many personal details. I still remember the afternoon when as a little girl I asked, "Ginger, why aren't you and Greg married?" She looked taken aback by the question, but I stood before her blinking with unflinching naiveté. When she spoke, it was softly. "It's been so long...I think that we are, Emilie. Greg and I know that we love each other."

Over the years I picked up bits and pieces of Ginger's story from my mother. Ginger had once been a great beauty. But some experiences with men in her past damaged and haunted her. She deliberately overate, tried to make herself unattractive in acts of self-neglect. Age did the rest. 

But the Ginger I knew seemed so far removed from these experiences, and she never even breathed of them to me. Maybe she thought I was too young to know. I probably was.

When I graduated from high school, I wrote her a note and tucked a senior picture into an envelope that we never sent. We couldn't find her address, or phone number, or email. I went to college. It had been years since we'd exchanged our last postcards. But I wasn't worried. Ginger would always be there, always loving. I imagined how she would be at my future wedding, regaling the guests during the toasts with heartwarming stories. Of course she would be there at every stage of my life, because she had watched me grow up, and because I wanted to make her proud of me. 

And I wanted her to know that I was old enough to be her confidante, too. That I wished to understand more about her, her pains and her joys. 

I assumed I would get a shot at this, because Ginger, a living, breathing, factual Ginger, was like a foundational pillar in my memories of life and relationships. 

I was at college, States away from home, when I got the call from Mom. We had been invited to Ginger's funeral. Greg had left several months before. Ginger had been found at home. If she'd taken care of herself, the doctors had said, she would have lived nearly twice as long. 

It was midway through the semester, and I would miss the funeral. Mom called me afterwards. "Ginger was such an amazing person, Emilie," she said. "She poured herself into other people's lives. She was incredibly intelligent and incredibly loving." I nodded even though I knew Mom couldn't see me. I tried to dam up my reeling mind against the floodwaters of guilt and regret. If only I'd made the effort to reach her, tell her how much I cared about her, before she'd gone. 

Mom knew. "There was a display of the photographs that Ginger had framed on a table in her house at the time she passed away," she said. "There was a picture of you. You brought her so much joy. She always loved you so much." Over the phone I could hear the tears stretching Mom's voice taut.

"I wish I had the chance to tell her that." My own tears, my own strained voice.

"She knew, Emilie. I think she always knew that."