The prodigal son stays home

Downsizing is the name of the ghost that continues to haunt our apartment. His nickname is Books. But he has a twin sister named Keepers. I frankly play favorites and I like Keepers better than Downsizing.

I am making progress. Really, I am. And along with deciding which books to recycle, I decide which books are beloved enough to keep around a while longer. This are books I will likely reread. Right now I’m rereading Cry, The Beloved Country, the wonderful novel about a changing Africa by Alan Paton. Stephen Kumalo, beloved pastor of the village of Ndotsheni in South Africa, is one of my favorite literary old men, and one day I will write about him.

But today I want to reflect on another keeper, The Return of the Prodigal Son. This is my favorite Henri Nouwen book. It details Nouwen’s discovery of Rembrandt’s painting of the same name, a depiction of Jesus’ well-known parable.

Many years ago, Nouwen saw a poster of Rembrandt’s painting and he became entranced. Then he had the opportunity to visit the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg, Russia, where the original painting is housed. The museum curator provided Nouwen with a chair and he spent hours in front of the painting, in wonder and meditation. His reflections resulted in the book that so affected me and that still sits on my shelf. One of my keepers.

I was (and am) especially moved by Nouwen’s reflections on the love of the Father and how Rembrandt had captured this in the expression on the old man’s face and in the position of his hands. Nouwen observed that one of the Father’s hands was clearly masculine, the other feminine, two aspects of love, acceptance, and nurturing. He also reflected on how we can see ourselves in each of the three main characters. I saw myself in the wayward and repentant son, in the resentful and entitled older brother, and then in the Father himself reaching out in compassion. That book fed me and I frequently gazed at its cover, a reproduction of the painting.

A few years after first reading the book, I had the opportunity to visit Russia. This was not a tourist trip but a pastoral ministry assignment sponsored by the Friends Board of Missions. We spent time with our friends who were living in the country as “Friends Serving Abroad,” Johan and Judy Maurer. Johan and Judy knew Russia and loved Russians, so our time with them was rich and educational, much more than “seeing the sights.”

A few free days were an intentional part of our schedule, and Johan and Judy gave us some options and asked us what we wanted to do. I instantly spoke up. I suggested we go to St. Petersburg and visit the Hermitage. The others readily agreed, so one morning we boarded a speed-train from Moscow to St. Petersburg, a trip that gave us a taste of the Russian country-side. On arrival we found our hostel, enjoyed some of the local cuisine, and went to bed. I could hardly contain my excitement for the next day to begin.

My time in the Hermitage was outstanding on many levels, including the huge palace itself with its winding staircases, intricate furnishings, lush drapes, and beautiful floors—each room distinct. It was thrilling to come face to face with original paintings by Renoir, Cezanne, Goya, Picasso, and many others.

But as soon as I entered the palace, I was on the look-out for Rembrandt. A guidebook directed us to the right section, but even then, the multiple passages and creative arrangement of rooms made the search challenging. I was the one who spied it first (why is that factoid important?), in the distance, at the end of a long corridor. I walked as fast as seemed appropriate in that august place.

I was not disappointed. Quite the opposite. I knew the painting was large, but I wasn’t prepared for the reality. The only painting in that particular room, it covered the wall at 8 ½ feet tall and almost 7 feet wide. The figures were larger than life and very much alive.

The Father, hands on the shoulders of his runaway son; the son in his ragged clothes, bowing in sorrow and repentance before his Father; the older son off to the side, with a look on his face that expressed the complexities of anger, frustration, resentment, and suppressed longing—all this brought to life the story Jesus told the crowds over 2000 years ago.

It brought home to me the incredible love of God and his forgiveness of any human failure we can conjure up.

I stood before the painting transfixed for just under an hour, at moments in tears. I guess that’s what great art does. It touches us at a deep level and reminds us of what it means to be human. And what it means, in this case, to be forgiven.

I bought a canvas reproduction of the painting in the museum shop, and today it occupies a space on our living room wall. It reminds me of who I am, and how loved I am, as a child of God.

Thank you, Henri Nouwen.

Thank you, Rembrandt.

Thank you, Father.

Tea party people

 Last Friday I attended the ladies’ tea party, an annual event sponsored by the Residents Association in our retirement community. This was a first for me. In the past I’ve not gone, reasoning that I am not a “tea party person.” I’m not. I’m more at home walking a trail in the forest or staying inside reading a good book. My idea of a successful social occasion is conversation among a few close friends. Something you don’t have to dress up for.

But I had heard so many positive comments about last year’s tea party, I thought I’d give it a try. Good publicity helped. Plus, I had a new outfit (that wasn’t jeans) and I needed an occasion to wear it. That’s probably not a good reason—but there you have it. I was concerned that I didn’t have any matching white sandals, but then again, my black sandals would be way down at the bottom of my outfit, so who would even notice?

To assure some ease in what might be an uncomfortable situation, I invited myself to go with two friends I normally enjoy spending time with. That was a good decision.

We were told to bring our own tea cup and to wear a hat—both optional. I chose a flowery cup and saucer from my mother’s wedding china. Most of the pieces from this set have been broken over the years, but I’m sentimental about the pieces that are left, even though I never use them. This would be a good chance to put the cup and saucer to use.

I didn’t bother with a hat. All hats make me look like an idiot. But I enjoyed the hats some of the other ladies wore. Some were lovely, others silly, but all worn with a sense of stylish fun.

The party’s theme was “Butterflies and Lilacs” (very tea-party-ish) because this is the time of year when lilacs bloom. The only problem, no one had sent the lilacs an invitation, so out of spite they bloomed early, leaving the decorations committee with a dilemma. Which they cleverly solved by tucking some realistic fake lilacs into the folded napkins.

All in all, the tea party was fine. The decorations, the food and its beautiful presentation, the musical entertainment, and the handsome tuxedoed waiters (resident volunteers)—well done!

And yet, for reasons mysterious to me, I was never able to ease into the tea partyness of it all. I felt awkward and out of place, like a young girl in a room of grown-ups, wondering which fork to use, thinking I might be inappropriately dressed, wishing it would get over so I could go home. My adolescent self seemed to take over. I thought I had outgrown that kind of reaction, so it surprised me.

At the conclusion of the event, I said my goodbyes, gracefully exited and went up the five floors to our apartment, only to realize I had left my mom’s tea cup behind. So down five floors, into the auditorium, pick up the cup, back up five floors to my door, only to realize I had left my purse. So down five floors, into the auditorium…and so on. By the time I was finally able to shut my door, change into my jeans and sit down, I was ready for a good laugh. Which helped clear out the fog in my spirit.

The thought, “I guess I really am not a tea party person!” made me smile. And it occurred to me that there is probably no such thing as a “tea party person.” To divide the feminine half of the human race into two categories—tea party people and non-tea party people—is categorically ridiculous. What were you thinking, Nancy? I imagine many of the women who enjoyed the event also enjoy walking in the forest, reading books, and talking with close friends. And there were probably a few others like me on the fringes of comfort.

I admire people who are so comfortable with who they are they are at ease in many different situations. Adaptable. Flexible. Women who can wear a hat to a tea party, no matter how silly it might make them look. I’m reminded of the Apostle Paul who said he had learned to be equally content whether he was living in poverty or in plenty. That’s the context of his famous testimony, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me” (Philippians 4:13).

I’m obviously not there yet. But just because I’m “of a certain age” doesn’t mean I can’t change. Maybe I’ll try the tea party again next year. And maybe I won’t. Probably doesn’t matter much. What matters is growing into who I am in Christ and being at ease (it’s called peace) with whatever he wants me to do, wherever he wants me to go.

Even if it’s a tea party.