Voldemort and True Self vs. False Self

The first night of my spiritual retreat last week, Adele gave us a chart contrasting the True Self from the False Self.  I took one look and thought, “Shoot (or some other word)!  I’m completely living in my false self!

The more Adele described the true self, the more I wondered whether I even have a true self.  I worried that I’m actually more like an onion—peel all the layers away and there’s nothing underneath.  But then she said, “The true self is very little, very vulnerable and pink.” 

False Self Voldemort

Ah!  I thought.  Voldemort!!

SPOILER ALERT IF YOU ARE ONE OF THE 300 PEOPLE IN THE WORLD WHO HASN’T READ THE LAST HARRY POTTER BOOK!

Immediately, I pictured the scene in Book 7 at King’s Cross where both Harry and Voldemort may have died.  Harry looks and feels like Harry only with healed wounds and perfect vision.  Voldemort looks like a flayed, pitiful, unloved, ugly baby mewling under a bench where he’s been abandoned. 

To the wizarding world, Voldemort may look powerful, brilliant, and fearsome.  But on the inside, he's an extremely damaged, unloved and undeveloped barely human baby. 

Big Voldemort vs. Little Voldemort.  False self Voldemort vs. True self Voldemort.

Maybe the fact that both Harry and Dumbledore look like themselves at their right ages and right size means their true selves are remarkably similar to what the world sees, despite all their struggles with power, identity, worth and recognition.

Hmmm.  The theology of JK Rowling and Harry Potter.  No wonder I love the books so much!

It seems to me the good news in our Muggle world is that no matter how flayed and ugly our true self may be, how damaged and undeveloped, Jesus always invites us with the question, "Do you want to get well?" 

But maybe when Jesus heals, our true self doesn't get to become grown-up and powerful.  Maybe it stays little and vulnerable and pink.  A well loved, welcomed and cherished baby.   

Anyway, here’s Adele’s list.   Choose who you want to be, Harry or Voldemort.  (Or alternatively, my secret dream, Professor McGonagall.)

TRUE SELF	FALSE SELF
Redeemed self—draws life from within	Divided self—externalized identity
Doesn’t need success/Lives hiddenly	Needs to prove itself/craves recognition
Free—non-needy self	Compulsive—needy self
Doesn’t need a pecking order	Needs to acquire position/Acquired self/Self you can lose
Christ in me self.  Knows God in the silence beyond words	Who I think I am, and who I think I need to be.  Talkative self propped up through words
Gives and receives love	Wants a return on love
Blesses Extravagantly	Comparative and fault finding

Big Kathy/Little Kathy

(This is the first of 6 reflections on True Self/False Self.  Read #2, #3, #4, #5, #6)

My 2^nd ever spiritual vision happened 19 years ago at a student camp in New Jersey.

At the end of the week, we sent everyone out with a bag lunch for what we called a retreat of silence.  Anyone who’s actually spent any time in the disciplines of meditation and solitude would call those three hours a long quiet time, but for students between eighteen and twenty-one, it was challenge enough.

I took my guitar and journal onto the lake’s dock and tried to sing worshipful songs softly, both because I didn’t want to disturb the others, and because my singing can be almost as flat as my chest. Between the singing, journaling and attempts to quiet my soul, I experienced my ever-present companion to spiritual disciplines—drowsiness. 

Lily Tomlin as Edith Ann

So I snoozed off and on between attempted prayers and attempted silence. 

Somewhere in the midst of prayer and dreaming, a picture came into my mind:  I sat in a huge wooden chair.  It was my version of comedienne Lily Tomlin’s Edith Anne, where she plays a little girl, sitting in a gigantic rocking chair and musing (with a stuffed up nose) on life as she sees it. 

Like Edith Anne, I filled only a quarter of the seat.  My head reached only half-way up the back of the chair. 

I was a little Kathy in a very big chair. 

When I strained and pushed real hard, I could puff out my edges to become a big Kathy that filled the rocking chair.  But it took so much effort to push out to Big Kathy that when I took a breath, I would shrink to Little Kathy again. 

Little Kathy was very real, dense and compact and everything about her was authentically herself, which was why she was so teeny because all the hot air and fluff had been drawn away.  It’s like those theories that if you remove all the space between electrons and protons and just condensed the sheer mass of the world we’d all fit on a pinhead. 

As I drifted in and out of sleep, the image in my mind continuing, Little Kathy pushing out with all her might to become Big Kathy only to deflate back into Little Kathy and start all over again, I sensed God telling me that the little Kathy was the real me, the true Kathy, but that I spent an awful lot of energy trying to project a bigger image of who I am. 

God wanted me to know that He loved the little Kathy.

When I got home from the retreat, my boss and apartment mate Bobby, asked me what God had done at camp.  I gave him all the highlights, and then hesitated before telling him about the Little Kathy version of Edith Ann in a big chair. 

“I don’t know if this is just a dream I made up or if it’s from God,” I said.

Having witnessed my character as only a roommate and boss can, Bobby grinned and said, “Oh yeah, that’s definitely the word of God for you.”

I just spent the past several days on spiritual retreat with my InterVarsity team.  Adele Calhoun who wrote Spiritual Disciplines Handbook (IVP) led us, and the material she gave us to pray and ponder was so rich I will probably blog on it for weeks to come. 

The first night she raised the concept of true self vs. false self, sending me back 19 years to Little Kathy/ Big Kathy.  The questions she raised started me wondering how my parenting impacts my kids' relationship to their true selves.   Have I been helping them worship their false selves with my criticism and desire for good behavior?  How do I help them identify and embrace their true selves, the self God loves?  

I’ll fill you in as I keep thinking and praying along these lines.  But for today, I’m asking for grace to let myself be little Kathy, and let my kids be little and real too, with or without stuffy noses.  

On Food Hoarding and Black Bean Soup

How do you make dinner after a 3 day Chicago work trip followed by a weekend filled with 5 performances of “Sleeping Beauty,” followed by a Monday catching up with work and watching 5 kids after school so there’s been no time to grocery shop?   Be a food hoarder like me.

I get food hoarding from my mother, who grew up poor in China despite her father’s Ph.D. from Harvard.  She stocks every nook and cranny of our home with cans, snacks and condiments so that whenever any of us kids goes home, we spend a day or two emptying the home of expired and rotten food. 

I also grew up feeling poor because my father was a physics professor instead of a doctor or lawyer or Waikiki developer like all my friends at Punahou.  I’m also just a little addicted to good food, so to my shame, like Mama, I have an inordinate need to stash pantry staples and chocolate so I can feel safe and secure.

Here's what they actually look like!  Mmmmm

It used to drive my roommate crazy that my pound of See’s dark chocolate marzipans that can only be bought on the West Coast or Hawaii would take up room in our tiny NYC refrigerator for a year.  And I was selfish—only doling out chocolates if I wanted one.  By the end of the year, the marzipan was all dried out.  I trust that Jesus lives in my heart, but a box of See’s dark marzipans living in the corner of my fridge gives just that extra little boost.

Unfortunately, these days my kids sneak my stash of chocolate no matter where I hide it so that when I finally want a nibble I’ll find only an empty bag where Lindt 60% dark chocolate peppermint truffles used to reside.  Scott gives no sympathy because I’m not supposed to be eating chocolate anyway since we’re on this perpetual diet in our attempt to fight the ‘40s flab.

As an MBA, Scott points out that my Chinese need to have a lot of inventory around is actually poor financial stewrdship.  But that Monday, I felt justified.  Digging around I found:

·      Almost slimy but still edible cilantro and scallions

·      2 lbs of dried black beans

·      3 shriveled but not rotten red peppers

·      almost sprouting onions and garlic

·      whole wheat tortillas (I buy 7 packages at a time from trader joe’s and throw them in the deep freeze)

·      Chicken broth

·      Canned tomatoes and Rotel

·      very old frozen corn that I forgot we had

·      spices

·      3 almost rock hard limes

·      a 2 week old avocado that held up well because it was in the fridge not the counter

Not my soup, but mine looks very similar!

Black bean & Tortilla soup!!

Epicurious.com had a 4 fork recipe--who cares if I lacked some of the key ingredients?  I made do with what I had.

And the family LOVED the soup!  They raved about the soup!  They made me feel like I was a culinary genius.  Most importantly, NO ONE COMPLAINED!

In the past 2 weeks, I’ve fed that soup to my writing group, the Boston Faculty Fellowship, and the Harvard Mark manuscript Bible study leaders. 

But don’t worry if you're one of those who ate the latest iteration of soup, I bought fresh vegetables before feeding you. . .

Black Bean and Tortilla Soup

Serves about 8-10

2 lbs dried black beans, boiled and softened, or 8 15 oz. cans of black beans

1 Tbs.  oil

2 large onions

10 cloves garlic

3 red peppers, diced

1 jalapeno minced (optional, I didn't have it)

2 Tbs. cumin

1 Tbs. chili powder

1 tsp. cayenne pepper

1 can Rotel tomatoes/chilis or 1 can green chilis and 1 can diced tomatoes

4 cups low-sodium chicken broth

2 cups frozen corn

5 Whole wheat tortillas cut into 1x 2 inch strips

8-16 Tbs. chopped cilantro

Juice of 3-4 limes

Salt to taste

Optional Garnishes:

Diced avocado

Minced scallion or red onion

Sour cream

Cilantro leaves

Shredded jack cheese

Note:  If boiling your own dried black beans, add 1/2 tsp baking soda and 1 tsp. salt to the cooking liquid to keep the beans black and intact

1.     

1.     Saute onions in oil until softened.  Add red peppers, cumin, cayenne, chili powder, garlic, and sauté until peppers are softened. 

2.     Add black beans, Rotel or canned chilis, chicken broth, and bring to a simmer

3.     Remove 1/3 of the soup and puree it in blender or with stick blender, return to soup

4.     Add frozen corn and cilantro

5.      When soup is boiling and several minutes before serving, add tortillas

6.     Add lime juice just before serving

7.     Serve soup and pass around garnishes

A mother-daughter spiritual conversation

“How’re you doing with God?” I asked Ling during our “special time.”

I’ve been a “professional” Christian for 21 years, so you’d think I ask that question often, but we usually talk about school and friends.  

So imagine my guilt when she said, “Terrible!”

“Really?” I said, “What’s going on?  Are you an atheist now?  Are you struggling with believing God exists?  Do you have a lot of big questions?”

She looked at me like I was crazy.  “What?!?” she almost shrieked, “Who do you think I am?”

Well, in all honesty, I don’t know!  New moods or challenges arise by the minute so that I’m not always sure who I’m talking to day by day.  And I wrestled with those very God questions when I was 14.  Frankly, I still wrestle with big questions today.   

“So why are you doing terribly spiritually if you still believe in God?” I asked.

Turns out, it’s because she never “hears” from God.  Apparently our church youth group emphasizes listening to God with one’s intuition, where words or pictures come to your mind.  Other kids “hear” all sorts of things, but Ling says her mind’s just a blank.

Wow!  Like mother, like daughter! 

I spent several years in high school thinking God didn’t really love me because no matter how I asked, I never received the baptism of the Holy Spirit manifest through speaking in tongues.  I joke that I’m the anti-charismatic.  I believe in a supernatural God who works in supernatural ways, but rarely does anything supernatural happen to me.

It was time to hit the basics.

“Ling,” I said, “What’s the #1 foolproof way to hear God?”

“Um, I dunno.”

“Think!  Think!  You know the answer.” 

To myself:  How did I miss teaching this most simple concept???

“Here’s a hint, it’s a book. . .”

“Oh. . . the Bible?”

“Yes!  Ding!  Ding!  Ding!”   Ling rolled her eyes at my Whole Foods gelato counter dramatics, but I continued, “The Bible tells us 99% of what we should do with our lives—love God, love people, show kindness, mercy, humility, care for the poor, set free the oppressed, etc.” 

Because she still seemed interested, I went on to talk about other ways we hear from God, wise counselors, community, tradition, circumstances, and yes, even the still small voice that whispers in our hearts.

Kai-Kai also doesn't "hear" from God.  But she doesn’t seem to feel bad about it.    At dinner, she said, “Oh, I think ____ is just faking it,” mimicking things this other child “hears” from God, and making us all laugh.

Giving _____ the benefit of the doubt, I pointed out that if this person hears “God loves us” it’s true whether there’s faking going on or not. 

And isn’t that the trouble?  We assume God’s up there judging us for how insufficiently we do our “spiritual thing,” how so often it feels like we're failing or faking, when in reality, God's waiting to run to us like the "prodigal" father when we finally turn towards home.

I hope Ling was encouraged by our conversation.  I hope she won’t struggle as I did with trusting God’s love.  Frankly, as long as she’s willing to keep talking with Jesus and trying to hear His voice albeit imperfectly, I don't think it's possible for her to do “terrible.”  Instead, I bet God thinks she’s doing just fine.

Note:  Ling gave me permission to tell this story and even use her name.  You've probably noticed that I try to keep my kids anonymous when there's questionable behavior happening!  

All you need to know about Barbie Princess Cakes

A friend who reads my blog but skips all recipes said I must re-post this recipe because it's the best thing I've written.  So even if you care nothing about Barbie Princess cakes, I invite you to read and enjoy!  Bon Appetit!

Click here to read the recipe!  (I've moved it to my new blog)

Someone else's Barbie cake

13 years ago today with "How to make a Barbie princess cake" as an added bonus

As of 4:41ish, I have 2 teenage girls.  Today is Kai-Kai’s 13^th birthday, and even though she’s acted like a teenager since age 4—from her awareness of the latest fashion trends to her general outlook on life and her parents—today she finally crosses that line.

13 years ago today, I awoke at 2 a.m. feeling a twinge.  A few minutes later, I felt another twinge so I got up and went to the bathroom, only to have the toilet clog on me.  I woke Scott and said, “I think I’m in labor.” 

We knew the 2^nd child should come faster than the first, but we didn't hurry.  He got out of bed, showered, and called our friends Kent and Patty who were our “on call” baby-sitting service for Ling and shuttle to the hospital.  “Oh, and ask them if they have a toilet plunger,” I reminded Scott. 

When they arrived, I plunged the toilet—Patty says she’ll always remember me doing breathing exercises while plunging.  Once the clog was clear, we decided to get on our way, with Kent all of a sudden realizing that a woman in labor might not be good news for their newly leased Civic.  So we grabbed a garbage bag for me to sit on, and took off for St. Elizabeth’s Hospital.

During the 20 minute ride, the pain increased so that I really had to work on my breathing.  By the time we got to St. E’s and I walked into the birthing center, assuming I was only 3-4 centimeters dilated, I thought, “Wow, this hurts a lot more than I remember,” .

But the nurses exclaimed, “You’re 9 inches dilated!  This baby's on the way!”

“I guess I’m not getting an epidural, am I?”

They shook their heads.  “Nope, no epidural this time.”

I needed to go to the bathroom, but the nurses became very concerned—worried that I was going to deliver my newborn into the toilet, hardly believing me when I said I had to do #1, not #2.  “Are you sure you don’t need to push?”

I shook my head, waddled into the bathroom, did my business without depositing the child in the toilet and came back.  No sooner had I sat back on my bed than that undeniable force of nature called “needing to push” hit me like a ton of bricks. 

“No!  No!” the nurses said, “You can’t push.  The doctor isn’t here yet!”  Apparently the doctor who was on call had already delivered a bunch of babies, so they wanted me to wait for my OB to arrive, but she was 20 minutes away.

I spent the next 20 minutes with 2 nurses coaching me through how to keep your body from pushing when every nerve and muscle cries out to do so.  It was miserable.  

When my OB finally arrived, I finally pushed for 20-40 minutes.  A slew of medical students tromped into the room to observe my nether regions.  One bearded young man’s eyes bugged out and I wondered why I didn’t care that all these total strangers were gaping at my most private body parts. 

Kai-Kai was born 2 hours and 41 minutes after my first labor pain, ripping me to shreds in the process, probably because she came so fast.  Dr. Jackson sewed me up for the next 40 minutes and because I hadn’t had an epidural, I could feel every stitch.  

When they put Kai in my arms, my first thought was, “Oh!  She looks like Ling!”  When Ling came out, she looked like a total stranger to me.  With #2 it was nice to realize our kids had a family resemblance.

Kai’s Chinese name means soothing peace that comes after victory.  I don’t know if we’ve had a lot of peace since she was born, but we’re sure happy our curly headed girl came into our lives.

For many years I didn’t get why we celebrated the child on her birthday, why we baked her cakes and plied her with presents.  After all, she didn’t DO anything to get born.  Instead, I felt like the mother should be the one who gets lauded, fed and showered with goodies. I did all the work of carrying the child, pushing the child into the world, and a huge proportion of the raising the child as well.  It’s the same reasoning that it doesn’t make sense that Jesus died on the cross and we get to eat lamb and chocolate bunnies on Easter.

But I guess that’s what the gospel’s about—humankind hasn’t DONE anything to deserve our grace, but God loved and suffered for us so that we could be spiritually born anew. 

Of course, my attitude about birthday celebrations has little sympathy from the kids, so I’ve planned multiple birthday parties, baked about 6 Barbie princess cakes, face-painted galore, and come up with all sorts of creative celebrations.  (Maybe that’s just because throwing terrific birthday parties is one of the only things I know I do well as a parent, so it’s really all about me after all). 

On Friday, 10 girls will descend for pizza, primping before the 7th grade dance, and then a sleepover.  The Barbie princess birthday cake is long gone, with decorating your own cupcake replacing her.   

To Kai-Kai--Happy Birthday!  We love you and are so glad you're our daughter!

To everyone else:  Pray for me--I have 2 official teenagers now!

How to make a Barbie Princess Cake

Someone else's Barbie cake

1.    Swallow hard and buy a Barbie, even if your feminist mores make you morally opposed to Barbies.  A Barbie of any ethnicity will do—I have used every single kind.  

2.     Strip her naked, raise her arms above her head as if in abject surrender, hold her upside down so her hair flops above her head and wrap her head and hair in plastic wrap, making sure her hair is completely covered.  You can put her hair in a top-of-the-head ponytail if you like. She will look like the fantasy object of masochists and all the grown men walking through your kitchen will make comments to that effect, to which your toddler daughters will ask many questions. 

3.     Do not answer the questions.

4.     Buy or find an 8 cup Pyrex bowl, the kind that’s round and looks like a hoop skirt if you turn it upside down.

5.     Buy a cake mix, any cake mix you like, follow it’s directions, pour it in the Pyrex bowl and bake it until a long skewer poked in the middle comes out clean generally between 1.5- 2 hours.  (Use a cake mix because after baking for 2 hours, any homemade cake recipe is hopelessly ruined so you might as well just go for ease)

6.     After the cake is cooled, turn upside down on a platter and spear Barbie’s legs through the top so that she’s now standing in the middle of the cake.  You will see that the cake only comes up to the top of her thighs. 

7.     If this distresses you, you could also bake a whole other sheet cake, cut it to the circumference of the bowl and give her skirt a little more height.  Or you can just fill in a lot of frosting around her thighs and butt—a visual metaphor for the saying, "I might as well paste this donut straight to my thighs." 

8.     Buy a Wilton cake decorating set along with at least 4-5 Wilton cake icing food coloring canisters.  Read directions on how to pipe cake frosting.

9.     Either make or buy frosting (I used a buttercream recipe I found).  Make different pots of differently colored frosting.

10. Frost Barbie’s skirt with one color, adding large lumps around her butt and hips so it looks like a skirt

11. Pipe little stars all over her breasts and waist and back to create a bodice.  You will once again get all sorts of comments from the older male contingent about licking, frosting and breasts.  Do what you will with those comments.

12. Pipe decorations and designs over the hoop skirt

13. Let Barbie dry for awhile

14. Carefully lower her arms so she doesn’t knock off her top

15. Unwrap her head and hair.  Hopefully you let her dry long enough that her hair doesn’t stick to her clothing

16. Put candles wherever you think are appropriate, light them,

Present the cake to your little princess while everyone sings “Happy Birthday” and bask in the glory of what you’ll lower yourself to do in this adventure called parenting.

The Coolification Theory of Marriage and Family

I don’t get why my kids think they can barge into my room during a weekend retreat to complain about the others’ behavior when I’m standing dripping in a towel. Between 7 a.m. and 7:15 a.m. on Saturday morning, that literally happened 3 times.  Our whole family was at Toah Nipi at a Cana marriage retreat on the topic “Trusting God in Changing Circumstances,” and these circumstances were just too much for me to do any actual trusting of God.  

And the complaint the kids were leveling against one another?  Barging into one anothers’ rooms without permission.

I was not happy, not just because my privacy had been invaded and my early morning peace was being destroyed by screeches, yells and whining, but also because the main “barger” lied about it.  So I did some chewing out—so much for the criticism fast—but when you’re standing in a towel, and your kids barge in on you, AND lie to boot, it’s just several changing circumstances too many.

15 minutes later, when I was dressed but still not in my right mind, Caleb, a 4 year old on the retreat said to me, “You sounded just like my mommy when she’s grumpy.”

“Is that so?” I said.

He nodded.  “Yes, when my mom’s grumpy she uses that voice you were using.”

Knowing his mom, who’s one of the most positive people I know, I said, “But I bet your mom isn’t grumpy very often, is she?”

He agreed.

“That’s where I’m different from your mom,” I said.  “I’m grumpy a lot of the time, and I use that grumpy voice A LOT.”

If you ask my kids, I think they would say “grumpy” is my main emotional state. There’s just too much clashing between the wants and likes and personal agendas of everyone in the family, and all that noise makes me grumpy. 

e.g.  An equation:

(I need to shower and dress in peace) + (kids need to screech at me about the others) =  Grumpiness

Before marriage, as I examined the male population, I kept noticing that all the cool guys were married.  As a trained social scientist, I wondered whether this was a case of correlation (all the cool guys get snatched up, hence they’re the ones who get married), or whether it was a case of causation (the process of marriage “coolifies” the guys).  The more I thought about it and the more I talked about it, the more I thought the primary factor was causation—and hence my theory “The Coolification of Marriage.”

Before marriage, I also often touted Proverbs 27:17 “Iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another,” for how we need one another to grow and improve.  After marriage and kids, I’ve come to realize that metal on metal is painful. . .and it makes a screeching sound that makes everyone’s skin crawl.  But there’s nothing like banging two iron rods together to hammer out unseemly bumps, and there’s nothing like a big metal rasp to file off rough edges. 

So perhaps we’re just going to have to live with my grumpiness while the four other human beings in my house stomp and file all my bumps, jagged ends and rough spots--my own coolification process.

Too bad that despite it all, the last thing my kids will think is that I’m cool. . .