THE SINGLE GIRL'S TREE

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I have a problem—and I'm recruiting help.  If you know me and would like to be of assistance but don't have the time to read the next few paragraphs, please scroll down to "My Plea," the green text below.  But if you want to know why I'm making such a plea, please read the little bit between here and there.

I briefly visited the Basel Christmas market tonight (too horribly cold to linger long), and as we were walking down one particularly crowded aisle, dodging elbows and the elderly (and some elderly elbows), Mari Ellen asked me, "So what kind of tree ornaments do you like?"  I paused for a moment before answering:

I have a single girl's tree.  It's small.  It's plastic.  It's adorned with matching, brushed-gold ornaments and a fetching red and gold ribbon.  Though it's uniform and balanced, it's about as festive as Tupperware and as meaningful as Paris Hilton's philosophy of life.  Only families with children and years of communal living have the eclectic, whimsical, and chaotic trees that speak of common roots and memories.  My tree is well organized, classilly adorned and...sterile.

I hesitate to mention this topic, particularly at a time of year when cheer takes precedence over honesty.  I don’t want to sound maudlin or ungrateful—I'm neither!  But there's a sense of unrest and lostness we single girls feel at Christmastime.  Being single can truly be a good, profitable status, yet it carries with it distinctive down-sides that are seldom acknowledged.  Those down-sides have never been so evident as in the immaculate Christmas tree standing behind me—1a finicky, tight lipped relative who glares when you put down your glass without first reaching for a coaster.

I love being a single missionary.  I love the freedom and flexibility it allows me.  I love, selfishly, being able to set my own boundaries and do things my way, when I want to and how I want to.  I love being able to have students in my home whenever they call and to keep them here as long as we both have energy (and permission!).    I love loving them with no other ‘drains’ on my affections.

But I am also an aging single missionary.  One who has spent 18 years here in Germany.  I have dug my roots deep into the fulfillment and challenges of this life in a place that is probably among the most beautiful on earth.  But these roots that anchor me, these roots that give me identity—they aren’t family, they aren’t financial security, and they sure aren’t a vibrant, life-adorned Christmas tree.

I want to change the way my tree looks.  I'm not satisfied anymore with the measured distance from perfect bulb to artistically coiled ribbon.  I don't have children. With my last cancer and its treatment, it's safe to state that I will never have them.  I won't have the births and first days of school and all those other bites of life that would, in ornament form, make of a my plastic evergreen a family tree.  No paper stars.  No pop-cycle-stick mangers.

But though I have been barren, my life hasn't been.  I've had YOU in my life--and what an immeasurable gift the accumulation of so many "yous" has been!  I've been blessed with more love and meaning than I could possibly deserve, though it came from a different source than I might have expected when I was younger...

So I'm changing my tree—I'm determined.  And I need your help to do so:

MY PLEA

If you have had even a small part in my life, either as friend, student or relative, and if you'd like to be a part of the messy, off-kilter, lived-in tree I dream of, would you consider this?  I'd love for you to send me an ornament.  I'll even cover the cost of the item and the shipping if it's too much for you (email me if you'd like this assistance).  I don't care what it looks like! I just want it to be a testament to the brushing of our lives.  Funny, graceful, quirky, rustically homemade, polished or traditional in your country...it doesn't matter to me!  As long as you write your name on it somewhere and it means something to you.

Would you consider participating in this?  You've got a whole week before Christmas ornaments begin to be pulled from store shelves!  As for getting it to me—I won't need it until next year, but to ensure that you don't forget, would you consider getting it and shipping it fairly quickly?!  If you're still at BFA, just leave it in my office or my mailbox.  If you're in the States please send it to me c/o  Eastman, 4788 Nichols Road, Mason, MI 48854 .  If you're in Canada, give it to my mom or mail it to: Michele Phoenix 7411 Mud Creek Trail, Port Franks, ON  N0M 2L0.  Or if you'd like to ship it directly here, my address is:  Kirchbergstr. 4, 79400 Riedlingen, Germany.

I know this is weird.  I know it's pretty bold too—and quite out of character for me, I assure you!  (The prideful part of me keeps yelling, "What are you doing, girl? You don't just go asking for things from people!)  But this is the cry of my heart...and I don't want a barren tree anymore.  God has given me so much—SO MUCH—to be grateful for and I want YOU—who have impacted my life in ways you probably don't even realize—to be a part of my Christmas tradition from now on.  Would you consider it?

Thanks so much...

Michele

A HERO LIES IN...ME?

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I watch CNN because there are no alternate news sources over here.  It usually leaves me feeling a little duped and a lot misled, but as long as I get my daily dose of Sean Hannity’s podcast, there’s a sort of “polar balance” to my news consumption.  Every so often, though, Ted Turner’s cable channel comes up with something worth watching, and this morning, that was its Tribute to Heroes.

As part of his daily show, Larry King (who increasingly looks like a scarecrow hung by his suspenders on a distorted hanger) featured interviews with several celebrities about the heroes in their lives.  They ran the gamut from 18-month old sons to teachers, coaches, family members and strangers.  The topic got me thinking about the heroes in my own life.  There might be some in yours too—those maybe unacknowledged people whose lives have brushed ours if only for a moment and somehow made a difference in who we are today.

My list is populated with brief and lasting encounters that altered me in some way.  There is family, of course.  A mother who at 70 is still dreaming up new forms of ministry.  An aunt who has overcome so much loss and trauma, but chooses to invest in the Kingdom rather than let her past define her.  Close friends who encourage others despite chronic pain or toil endlessly for a brood of 28 dorm boys from sun up to sun down while remaining engaged in parenting their own daughters…  But there are less obvious heroes too.  It’s those I’d like to honor with this post.

I called her Aunt Diane, though we weren’t related.  Our families were close when I was growing up.  I’ll never forget the day I sat at her kitchen table (I don’t know where everyone else was) and she told me I had beautiful eyes.  I knew I wasn’t beautiful in any other way, but that I had eyes that were less than ugly?  I carried her words in my heart for much of my shy, withdrawn, ugly-duckling youth, hoping she had spoken the truth.

Mr. Vivier, my 7^th and 8^th grade teacher, who went against the grain of most French educators by actually caring about his students.  He saw me struggling one day with so many thoughts that I couldn’t begin to write them down.  He waved his hand above my desk and said, “Lay all your ideas down here one by one,” then waited for me to mentally unburden my brain.  Then he pointed at the invisible bits and pieces of thoughts I’d poured onto the desk and said, “Now start picking them up one by one.”  It’s a technique I still use to this day, and his voice is the one I hear when the details of play season or choir tour get out of control.  “Just lay them all out on the desk, Michele, and start picking them up one by one.”

Dr. Diehl, my surgeon and cheerleader through the adventure of breast cancer.  Now a cancer survivor herself, she listened to my heart on my first day in her office (a week after diagnosis) and went out of her way to preserve my wholeness.  She showed genuine sorrow at every setback and genuine joy at every good result.  When I saw her last summer, she greeted me with a victory whoop and a warm hug.  I know—I KNOW—that no other doctor would have gone to such lengths to honor my wishes.  Other medical professionals have shaken their heads when they’ve heard of her steadfast efforts.  She never flinched.  She never gave up.  She persevered…and won.

Beth was a student at the Bible school where my parents taught until I was 14.  The European Bible Institute (pictured above) was housed in the castle that became the location of my latest novel.  I used to linger outside the piano room and listen to Beth singing Diana Ross’s “Do You Know.”   She was easily 10 years older than I was, but she listened to me like I was interesting and spoke without diluting her words.  At a point in my life where insignificance was an intolerable burden, she made me feel visible.

Myrna Grant is a respected author who became my mentor when I attended Wheaton College.  Though I was an undergrad, she invited me to join her graduate-level classes and celebrated the completion of my first screenplay by taking me out to watch “A Cry in the Wild,” cementing my fascination with Merrill Streep movies.  She made me feel like I might actually have writing talent, and she validated my efforts with praise.  Any literary endeavor of mine is rooted in her support so many years ago.

Dalice was another of my parents’ students.  When I was very young (6ish?), I’d go on choir tours and sit next to her in the VW van.  She’d spend hours—or so it seemed—just running her hand up and down my back, soothing my childhood angst (I started young!) with the simplicity of touch.  I think of her every time I catch myself doing the same for one of the students I love.

Aside from Dr. Diehl, none of these heroes of mine saved my life.  They didn’t fight for my honor or slay dragons to protect me.  They probably weren’t even aware of the difference they made as touched my life with softly spoken words, a gentle touch, encouragement and acts of kindness.  Yet each one played a part in making me who I am today.  It’s really that easy—that effortless—to be somebody’s hero.

Having taken the time to contemplate the heroes in my life, there are obvious follow-up questions in my mind:

• What have I done to touch the lives of others?
• How have I contributed to the serenity and growth of those I love?
• Am I so self-absorbed that I’ve failed to see the needs of others and answer them with small acts of comfort and encouragement?
• And those heroes who added their color and texture to some of my darkest years—have I thanked them?  Have I acknowledged their impact on me?

I’ve never wanted to be anyone’s hero—not in the traditional, Hollywoodian sense of the term.  I don’t look good in tights and flying messes up my hair!  But I hope—I PRAY—that somewhere along the way I’ve been able to make a difference in a small way.  After all, isn't the best way to honor the heroes in our lives is to “pay it forward” and do for others what they have done for us?

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SOME PICTURES OF LAST NIGHT'S CHRISTMAS BANQUET AT BFA!

Middle schoolers waiting to serve the high school guests...

My DEAR friend, Mari Ellen...

THE FEAR FACTOR

I’m scared.  That’s what I want you to know.  I’m scared because I’ve been dizzy for nearly two months and no one can figure out why.  I’m scared because I’m so tired that I sometimes find it hard to get out of bed and too easy to crawl back to it well before my normal bedtime.  I’m scared because the dizziness got so bad a couple weeks ago that I felt the floor tilt violently under my feet, fell against the wall of my shower and couldn’t seem to get the world to settle for a few seconds.  I’m scared because there’s nothing wrong with my blood sugar or blood pressure.  I’m scared because the ENT found nothing wrong with my inner ear/brain connection either.  I’m scared because a doctor yesterday told me “breast goes to brain” (i.e. breast cancer often metastasizes to the brain), because the MRI I might need to have will cost a horrendous amount and have to be paid for out of pocket (given my sky-high deductibles), and because I don’t want to have a German physician tell me I have brain cancer too.

I’m scared.  I’m not ashamed of the fear, but I’m not proud of it either.  And yes, I’ve been combating the fear with my usual weapons of gratitude, focus on others and trust in a God who has carried me and will carry me.  I choose to apply my mind to those, though the fear—that nagging, “what if” oppressor—still exists in the far recesses of my mind.  I don’t want anyone to consider me immune to normal human emotions.  I want to be as real in my fear as I am in my faith.  The two are not mutually exclusive…

There are women in my life who give me perspective.  One of them is Mona, recently diagnosed with a nasty abdominal cancer and just two weeks into chemo.  She had her head shaved yesterday, a prospect that filled me with horror when I was first diagnosed...

To read the rest of this post, click here!  http://michelephoenix.com/2009/11/the-fear-factor/

LESSON FROM "THE SWINE"

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I'm an idealist at heart. If I had any control over this planet, teenagers would have a "mute" button, cheesecake would be calorie-free, and garbage would walk itself to the curb. Sadly, if I've learned anything in the past week, it's that my control over circumstances only extends so far. The last days before a major play performance are supposed to smooth-sailing: the lines are learned, the blocking is second-nature, the set is built, the lights are adjusted, and all a director like me has to worry about is keeping the troops fed, focused and just fearful enough to still invest effort.

On our dress rehearsal day, one of our lead actors was throwing up. We had 20 people in the audience, a brand new actor trying to learn lines and movements, and a cast destabilized by all the upheaval. "At least it happened now and not next week," I kept telling myself. The official performances are more important than rehearsals, after all. Two days later, Reece was still throwing up.

Enter The Swine Flu. Rachel was coughing on Monday. Her temperature spiked on Tuesday. On Wednesday, with two days to go before performance #1, five BFA students had been tested for "The Swine" and I started to hear rumors about shutting down the school to prevent contamination. On Thursday, the day before opening night, Rachel was still out, Reece was still iffy, and tests had come back positive. More talk of closing our doors. More rumors of postponing the play until the end of the epidemic.

Friday morning: Opening Day. More positive test results. An announcement is made in chapel that the school is going into Swine Flu Mode. Students confined to their dorms until Wednesday. No school until then. No extra-curricular activities. But the school play will happen on Friday and Saturday evenings as planned, albeit with one fairly comical caveat: the audience will have to wear masks.

It wasn’t until 3 pm on Friday—a handful of hours before the curtain went up—that we knew Rachel would be able to act. Needless to say, my usually dormant ulcers were wide awake and twitching by then!

THE PROBLEM WITH PRAYER

(NOTE:  This site will soon be permanently replaced by my newly redesigned website.  Please click on the following link to be taken there. Bookmark it for future perusal or subscribe by clicking the "syndication feeds" button to the right.   http://michelephoenix.com/blog .)

It's a topic I both love and hate to discuss, mostly because it's so nebulous.  And yet…it’s also powerful and life-altering and sanity-preserving.  Corrie ten Boom said, “Prayer is the slender thread that moves the hand of God,” yet she watched her sister die a horrible death in a concentration camp.  How could she believe so firmly in prayer when her own pleas had failed to save someone she loved so fiercely?

Some of you might remember Dotsy, a friend I met over the Internet when her daughter Googled microcystic adnexal carcinoma (MAC) and discovered my blog.   After months of correspondence, we met for the first time last summer, both post-op, both with scarred faces, both so grateful to be past the hardest part of our MacJourneys.

Except that Dotsy's journey is still ongoing and it has just taken an unexpected turn.  She went in this week for some pre-op exams before further reconstructive surgery and the doctors discovered something suspicious in the area of her initial tumor.  A biopsy was taken and results should be in soon.  When I heard Dotsy's news, my first impulse was to pray.  Drop everything and pray.  My second impulse was to get others praying too—first among them, my choir.  She's been our prayer project since last year and we're committed to "our Dotsy."  In the days before her check-up, we'd put this short video together for her as a cyber-send-off.  Needless to say, our prayers have redoubled since Dotsy's disconcerting news reached us.  (Click on this link to view the short video we made for Dotsy.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xhvcbRRTpe8

"Prayer is not overcoming God's reluctance, but laying hold of His willingness."  Martin Luther

Opinions about prayer seem to be as strong as they are varied.  Some call it a hoax.  Others call it wishful thinking.  I even had a student who considered it tantamount to mass hysteria.  To be honest, there were many years in my own life when I doubted that prayer had any effect on the concerns that mattered most to me.  My misgivings hardly made me unique.  There is something so mysterious and unpredictable about prayer and God that I'm sure there are few believers who haven't, at one point or another, wondered whether it really "worked" or not.

Several years ago, I read a book by Dutch Sheets called “Intercessory Prayer.”  (If you're a student or former student and would like a copy, let me know...I'll be happy to buy one for you.)  I don't agree with everything he writes, particularly in the latter portion of his work, but his definition of prayer as it relates to God's partnership with us is brilliant, Biblically sound and absolutely logical—mystery, inscrutability and all.  Prayer doesn't bounce off the ears of a deaf God.  Prayer doesn't temporarily distract us from the pain of real life in the real world.  Prayer isn't the invention of overwhelmed humans faced with challenges larger than they could tackle alone and seeking, through intercession, to "pass the buck" to a fictitious higher power.  No—prayer is His endowment in us of the ability to effect the course of life in this world.  He is still the sole ruler of Heavens and earth, His plans for us beautiful and redemptive (and more often than not derailed by the free will we so carelessly use to hobble His best for us).  But He also gave us the supreme responsibility and honor of releasing some of His power in this world through our prayers.  Some of them won't get answered in a way we recognize, some of them will go unanswered for years, and some of them will leave us baffled, angry or confused, but every prayer we say is counted and important--another opportunity for us to partner with God in promoting His plans for this agonizing planet.

"We must begin to believe that God, in the mystery of prayer, has entrusted us with a force that can move the Heavenly world,and can bring its power down to earth." Andrew Murray

My favorite prayer image is from Revelations 5: bowls of incense, which are the prayers of the saints.  Our prayers don't float up into a void and dissipate.  They're collected in golden bowls.  They amass.  They build in power.  And then they are released.

Some of Dotsy's prayer warriors.

But what about Dotsy, you might ask.  She has been bathed in prayer since the beginning of this ordeal and now is facing another interminable wait for results that might shake the foundations of her world.  What about another friend of mine who, after years of trying to survive a debilitating illness, now is waiting to find out if she has breast cancer too?  What about the lost children whose parents pray day and night to be reunited with them?  What about the woman who is about to be assaulted and screams for God to protect and spare her?  I wish I had answers for every circumstance that is painfully incomprehensible.

"Prayer is weakness leaning on omnipotence."  W. S. Bowd

When things get muddied, I always choose to focus on what I know, and this I DO know without a doubt: prayer didn't spare me (we must all bear life in this broken world and the consequences of the sin others inflict on us as well as our own).  Prayer didn't built a magical wall around me that shielded me from hurt.  Given my history, I can attest that strangers can inflict the kind of pain that cripples in invisible ways, that those who are supposed to protect you can do more harm than good, and that cancer doesn't spare people devoted to God and sometimes even strikes twice.  But prayer—your prayers—steady and full of faith—made the unthinkable bearable.  They were a stronghold in the quicksand.  A sliver of light in the most oppressive darkness.  A shred of companionship in the loneliest of ordeals.  We don't know yet if they yielded long-term, recurrence-free health and they certainly didn't dissolve the scars of my youth, but they gave me that undefinable surge of hope and strength and emotional healing that can only come from something as simple, powerful and unfathomable as prayer.

Whatever your frustrations with the mechanics and outcomes of prayer, K.E.E.P  P.R.A.Y.I.N.G!  We'll never understand it all, and there may be times when we want to throw in the towel, but as someone who has received the kind of peace that can only have come through the prayers of believers who cared enough to intercede without guarantees or manuals, I can only urge you to pray.  As Jesus urged His disciples, “Pray and don’t give up.”

“Prayer can never be in excess.” C. H. Spurgeon

And if your prayers, in the next few days, include Dotsy and my other friend (unnamed by request), I'd be even more grateful.

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Some photos of the past couple of weeks: choir, the first costuming day for the school play (Nov. 13, 14), and a dinner at my place.