Bonds that build maturity

What kind of relationships have undergirded, or undermined, your journey toward adulthood? According to Dr. James Wilder, there are two competing types, based primarily on either fear or love. Our maturity depends on the relationships we have experienced. "Becoming mature requires bonds between people - these bonds are the foundation on which maturity is built." 

When I asked my team's former leader, Lynette Cottle, for the most important topic she'd addressed with Cambodian teachers in her seminars, she told me to read Wilder's book The Life Model: Living from the Heart Jesus Gave You. There, Wilder outlines a course of emotional maturity that cannot progress faster than our physical maturity, but may lag behind it or even get stuck in an early stage. Many American adults, he claims, still have the emotional maturity appropriate for an infant or child, far into their physical adulthood. The key to getting unstuck? Love bonds.

Fear bonds are based on "avoiding negative feelings and pain," while love bonds "are formed around desire, joy, and seeking to be with people who are important to us." In the former, people's primary motive in the relationship may be the fear of "rejection, shame, humiliation, abandonment, guilt, or even physical abuse." Why do we want to arrive punctually, save money, speak kindly, or eat healthy? Because we're focused on what could go wrong in our relationship if we don't. These fears can inspire positive short-term changes in our actions. But they promote blame-shifting, anxiety, guilt, and hiding that ultimately clog our minds and block our growth. "We become emotionally paralyzed [and] operate far under our potential."

By contrast, loving relationships involve authentic joy at spending time together. Wilder argues that our brains have a "joy center" in the pre-frontal cortex that helps us be resilient and return to joy from painful emotions and stressful experiences. Love bonds build our "joy strength," which in turn "lays the foundation for all other maturity and growth," empowering us to work through our pain and move on. Loving connections inspire people "to remain faithful under pressure, to help others be all they were created to be, to be willing to endure pain in order to be close to those we love, and to tell the truth even when it hurts." Love surpasses fear and banishes it from our focus. "'Perfect love casts out fear' (1 John 4:18)." While love and fear can mingle in a relationship, one will eventually dominate and overshadow the other. Maturing involves abandoning fear bonds and embracing love bonds so that "we are guided by goals we desire, rather than by avoiding the disasters we fear." 

A chart from Chapter 2 of Wilder's book

How do we change our bonds? We need to examine our emotions, the seat of our motivation. What emotions did our parents or guardians use to motivate us as children? If fear was prominent, we'll pursue self-preservation above all else, focusing on avoiding pain even when the pain is not likely to overwhelm us. By contrast, if adults around us primarily showed us love in childhood, we'll have a big head start in the maturity process. 

How can you spot each kind of bond with children? Wilder doesn't spell it out, so I've been trying to think through my own experiences. In a love bond, it's not that parents are saints with infinite patience and wisdom. But they're trying. They take time to play games with their kids without checking their phones, not because the game is great, but because their kid is. They say "Let's clean it up together" when a cup gets knocked over again. They say "I'm sorry I yelled at you" when needed. They look for chances to praise their children when she works hard on homework, or when he uses self-control, or when they are kind to each other. They try to hug their kid just as tightly at the end of a frustrating day as at the end of an easy one, and to value the aspects of their kids that are the parents' opposites. They're happy to talk when their adult kids call, whether it's been a day or a month since last time. I've never been a parent, so I don't know how hard it is in real life, but I'm convinced that 1) it's very hard indeed, and 2) a lot of parents I know are doing a brilliant job. Thank you to everyone who made this paragraph easy to write.

Of course, that's not the only kind of childhood people have. I've heard parents shame their kids using words like, "Your messy room is a disgrace to our family!" or "You're such an erratic driver, your friends won't want to ride in your car." In Cambodia, I've heard, "Don't play sports or you might get an ugly scar!" and even some empty threats to young children like "If you keep doing that, Mom will stop loving you." A lot of times, I think it's more subtle: parents and teachers who criticize more often than they praise, or who don't show delight in spending time with the child. It's easy to use fear and shame to control the behavior of others, especially kids, but these techniques carry a heavy cost.

As a result of too many fear bonds, some people are afraid to make an impact on others. They may "withdraw, placate, entertain, or please others" to avoid shame, confrontation, or rejection. But Wilder points out that if I stop acting like myself, my goal of self-preservation has already failed because I've lost my "self." Conversely, other people fear losing control of or impact on others. They may try to control others using anger, contempt, rejection, and the "silent treatment." Their main impact on others is to create pain and perhaps cripple others' emotional development... not most people's desired legacy.

Wilder proposes that each level of development has a set of tasks we must master regarding our fears in order to change fear-bonds back to love-bonds. We must work through each stage in order, and it's never too late. I'll list one sample task from each level:

1. Infant maturity - recognize the fear (what am I really afraid of?)
2. Child maturity - recognize my part in the fearful situation
3. Adult maturity - stay in relationship while letting others have fears
4. Parent maturity - take some shared responsibility for the fears of younger minds
5. Elder maturity - help "at risk," isolated, and marginalized people with their fears

Three processes work in tandem: belonging, recovery, and maturity. When we belong to a spiritual community, receive specific help to overcome trauma and addictions, and have guidance and encouragement in the maturing process, we can experience long-term healing and growth. 

I've been reflecting on my own relationships. I told my parents the other day, I'm so thankful for their loving presence from childhood to present. Their love bonds have helped me grow and mature with a lot less baggage than some people around me. That's worth celebrating! That doesn't mean that I never act out of fear in my friendships and connections. Since reading The Life Model, I've been trying to spot and reject fear as a motivator, asking myself, "What would love look like here?" That's especially true with friends who seem controlled by fear, since those two forces can battle each other in relationships. I have hope and peace in the knowledge that true love can overcome fear - both mine and my friends'. 

What about your experiences? It's common for fear bonds to dominate, but change is possible! Our "joy center" is in the only part of the brain that never stops developing. There's no shame in finding ourselves at a lower maturity stage than our age, but we don't need to stay there. Who do you know who seems to love you fearlessly? Could you ask them for help in learning to act out of love like they do? (And don't say nobody does. We're all invited into a loving relationship with God, who knows all our secrets and is still absolutely delighted to spend time with His children.) As we embrace loving relationships, both giving and receiving, we'll be on our way to ever-increasing maturity. We all have a choice and an opportunity to keep growing into the heart Jesus gave us, a new heart that says "no" to fear and "yes" to love. 

Recently, I've loved hearing stories from some people who grew up with major fear bonds and are being set free by the love of God and His children. God hasn't yet brought reconciliation in their biological families, but they've received a lot of healing, maturity, and strength through loving relationships in their spiritual families. As a result, they can love others well, even their difficult family members.

I'm still learning how to teach this topic to Cambodian teachers. Honestly, my last training was a bit of a dud. I think there are a lot of reasons: for example, this group didn't know me well, this topic wasn't a high priority for them, I let the training go too long, and I relied too much on discussions instead of varying the activities. Teacher training is a big learning curve for me, and I'm embrace the learning opportunities and acknowledge that I'm still new at this.

Teachers have such a huge impact on the next generation. I want teachers to get excited about the opportunity they have to show love to students, propelling their students toward increased emotional maturity. I want them to reckon with the long-term cost of using fear to produce short-term compliance from students, which is how most of them were taught. I want them to care about their students, including the slow learners, including the disrupters, and use that care as their main motivator for students to do the right thing. Last time, I'm not sure most of them got there. 

I can make my training more interactive, provide more concrete examples, and find snappier ways of explaining things. But if my alterations are driven by my fear of failure, it's all a waste. The most important thing I can do to help Cambodian teachers embrace love bonds is to model love in all our interactions... especially when the training's not going how I'd hoped.

Woman at the Window

Lately I’ve felt a bit too close for comfort to the protagonist of the thriller novel Woman at the Window. The title character, recovering from recent trauma, lives alone and fears going outdoors. She spends her days drinking, watching old Hitchcock movies, and spying on her mysterious new neighbors. I’ll let you guess which of those statements apply to me, but definitely the spying does. Read on, and see if you can blame me.

I live up two flights of stairs in a rowhouse, known in Khmer as a pteah laveng, which my parents like to call a “potato van.” It has five rooms in a row… living room, 2 bedrooms, bathroom, kitchen… connected by a long, thin hallway. Many pteah lavengs have windows only on the far ends, but since I have an end unit, in addition to my south windows in the living room, every room has windows facing west.

In the living room, facing north

My western windows have always overlooked a mostly empty lot with a small, unoccupied, traditional wooden home in the corner below my kitchen. (My teammates around the corner say its owner, an elderly woman, passed away before I moved here in 2017.) This is great for natural light and airflow, though the extra sunlight during peak hours does make it hotter than necessary. The house’s yard was a throwback to a decade ago, when most of this neighborhood still felt like a traditional village. A massive jackfruit tree extends across windows in two rooms, sweet aromas wafting inside when fruits ripen. Several piengs – waist-tall jars of water, ubiquitous among Cambodians without indoor plumbing – dotted the grass and brush that had grown up around the house.

One day in mid-December, I heard a ruckus and looked out to find construction workers starting to demolish the house with their bare hands, so close I could have passed them a cup of water, with their soundtrack notably featuring Ed Sheeran's "Dancing in the Dark." At least the noise should be short-lived, I reasoned. There’s not much house to remove. I forgot to factor in the concrete stairs, though.

Then I realized: if the house is going, something new must be coming. The workers left a lot of the rubble where it lay, but began smoothing out the rest of the lot and trucking in sand. As is common, they lived on site, sleeping in hammocks under the jackfruit tree, which suddenly smelled a lot like cigarettes. (Most are probably from provinces several hours away and move around to each job.) A couple of small kids played in the sand. My horror mingled with intrigue at the flip-flop-shod workers welding and wielding jackhammers. Day by day, the lot was transformed.

Into what? I didn’t know, but my guesses abounded. Cambodia has minimal zoning restrictions except inside gated communities, so other lots on my street contain:

• A bus parking garage
• An ice factory
• Some sort of clinic?
• A motel advertising “3 hours = $5” on gaudy neon signs
• Three apartment buildings for lower- to middle-class residents, one of which boasts a nail salon, a seafood restaurant, and two dry-goods shops
• About 10 upper-class single-family villas ranging from classy to ostentatious
• My building, somewhere in between the other social classes
• And last but not least, the headquarters of the obscure Grassroots Political Party

The latest addition to our street, on the other side of my house, took over a year to build.

Basically, it could have been anything. 

I worried that it would be a big apartment building like the one that now dominates my northern balcony view. I might lose all my natural light and airflow out those western windows. But to my relief, they almost immediately began building two long, thin brick structures. 

Next, I surmised it might be two one-story buildings with small apartment units in a line, like the building just past it (the red roof in the above photos). Those are common in my neighborhood. 

 

Similar apartment buildings seen out my kitchen door 

But then they added a square structure with bricks around the perimeter, centered around a large tree in the middle. A courtyard? Apartment buildings never had one of those. And what were the new smaller buildings off to the right?

Eventually they filled in the bricks with concrete but still didn't add any walls. One new building looked suspiciously like public restrooms... apartments would have their own bathrooms. It didn't bode well.

One day, a truck arrived with bamboo, grass, and woven reeds. Within an hour or two, the brick square had become a hut enclosing the tree. This is 2021, in a quickly developing suburb of the nation's capital. Thatched huts are no more normal here than they are in Washington, DC. Must be something touristy, I told myself.

Finally, a new building went up just outside my window, on the site of the original wooden house. Akin to a motel, it was likewise a single story and contained a line of rooms too small even to be $50-a-month studio apartments.

And so I wasn't surprised, only gloomy, when my neighbor broke the news to me. "The workers told me it's a beer garden." Well, there goes the neighborhood.

I have visited beer gardens before. Germany had some very nice ones, with tasty bread and sizzling meat, in scenic locations where I could sit and talk peacefully with classmates. Please don't think of that when you hear this term. Cambodian beer gardens are as tasteful as Hooters, and sometimes a good bit less legal. There are probably ten or more of these fine establishments within five blocks of my house. They're only one step less shady than the giant, windowless KTV (karaoke) buildings. At each, girls sit out front, two lines facing each other, in short skirts and high heels. Salons like the one on my street rely on these girls, who need perfect hair and makeup every night. Many vulnerable young women start out as "beer promoters" or "hostesses," accompanying male clients in drinking, flirting, and singing karaoke in return for tips and/or low wages. The job often leads to illegally forced abortions, prostitution with or rape by clients at nearby guesthouses, and a heavy burden of shame. A 2012 Unicef report estimated 35,000 of these "entertainment workers" nationwide, mostly in Phnom Penh. 

That week, nice cars showed up bearing a family in formal clothing, probably the owners. They planted sticks of incense in a line in the dirt and disappeared into the hut, where monks chanted to bless the new business. Day after day, well-dressed people in fancy vehicles kept milling around and laughing together. I couldn't tell if they were clients or owners. 

Around then, a big orange sign appeared, with parking attendants sitting out front to direct people in. Less than a month after the first roof panels were pried off the old wooden house, this beer garden was open for business. Like most gardens, its chosen beer brand (Ganzberg) is a prominent part of the sign. The restaurant's name is literally translated as "Shade rose-apple cool heart," but I think it means something more like "Calm in the shade of the rose-apple tree." But it's a mango tree inside the hut, so I'm not sure where the rose-apple is.

The red arrow shows my apartment

Another Ganzberg beer garden displays typical simple plastic chairs and metal tables - 

I'm guessing this one has similar furniture

The limited parking area remained packed daily with nice cars. From what I could see, the kitchen wasn't getting much traffic. What about this basic hut with no A/C, limited food and hygiene, and ongoing construction appealed enough to draw these big shots for hours of their afternoon? I was baffled why they wouldn't drive five or ten minutes to somewhere more upscale.

I kept bracing myself for nonstop karaoke eight hours a day, like several other places near my house. I might need to move... I've learned to work from home during intermittent karaoke down the street, but nonstop out my window is too much... there's a limit to how often I can visit cafes to get peace and quiet... will it keep me up every night? Will I have to dodge drunk drivers?

Despite the occasional warblers and a constantly full parking lot, singing has been much rarer than raucous laughter and general hanging out. So far, there's actually less karaoke here than at the seafood restaurant just past it. (The video below features one renowned singer.) But the danger's not over yet. All karaoke places were officially closed last spring due to Covid and could reopen in July only as "restaurants," which has reduced but not eliminated karaoke in my neighborhood. Covid might be the last defense protecting my ears and sanity from a constant barrage of noise. Time will tell.

Another encouraging sign is the chairs out front. Though I've seen some girls walking around inside, I'm not sure if they're employees, and I haven't seen any sitting at the entrance. Instead, it's been men like the parking attendants, or conservatively dressed older women. That lends support to the theory that it's an ordinary restaurant. (Basically every restaurant here sells beer.) Furthermore, the posted hours are 10:30 AM to 9 PM - lunch and dinner hours - rather than early evening through the wee hours, like a bar or KTV. (It's still blared some 10:30 PM karaoke and other music, though.) Khmer friends confirmed that this seems to be an ordinary restaurant. One theorized that its appeal lies in the atmosphere inside. 

However, I'm still nervous about that building adjacent to mine with the line of tiny windowless rooms. What's that about? It doesn't seem very family-friendly. 

When they added a tin roof, blocking my view inside, the rooms still had dirt floors and bare concrete walls, lending few hints as to their purpose. We'll see what happens when that building opens. In the meantime, they've installed green plastic netting to keep the parking area cooler, which effectively blocks most of my people-watching. (If only it were sound-proof too!) Thus ends my illustrious career as Woman at the Window.

The other day, it finally dawned on me that while my curiosity may be harmless, my fretting was and is pretty selfish. Shouldn't my heart break more for the women risking their safety, reputation, and hope at places like this all over my neighborhood, than for myself risking my concentration due to noise pollution? Am I praying for Cambodian men to be transformed by Christ into people of integrity, or just for this one business to fail and stop interrupting my life? I conveniently ignore the darkness here, but if I really loved Cambodia, I'd fight for change. Lord, please make me more like C.T. Studd, who wrote:

Some want to live within the sound of a church or chapel bell;

I'd rather run a rescue shop within a yard of hell.

I don't expect any imminent rescues, but maybe driving past my new neighbors can remind me to pray.

2020 20's: A found poem

(To create this found poem, I looked back at all the numbered entries ending in 20 in my gratitude list this year. I reworded many and rearranged them all, but preserved the content, trying to capture moments of gratitude throughout the year.)

2020 brought me

all kinds of surprises, not just the hard kind,

but also the church lady who told me she prays for me daily

(it was our first-ever conversation but I’m on the church’s list)

and the gorgeous tree that arrested me on my run through the park, whose mere photo awakens a sense of longing. 

(Maybe Niggle painted it?)

Thanks to Covid,

My graduation from leadership training was delayed,

giving me extra Skype encouragement from my mentor;

I learned about ancient Rome with my friends’ 4^th grader;

and I pulled off “Cordoba” on guitar, delighting my dad.

God provided, not just enough food, but tasty food:

Luscious pastries before we watched “Mulan,”

chicken marinated in Italian dressing,

homemade pizzas providing much laughter and invitations to creativity with Cambodians when the oven broke midstream.

He provided learning resources:

Khmer picture books to share with my coachees,

rich, clear resources on assessment from someone who left his heart with Cambodian teachers,

strategies for introverted teammates to courageously plunge into community time,

quality English books to help kids (including my favorite ones) learn about Himself.

God loved me through people:

my parents offering wise suggestions in a sticky situation,

considerate fellow campers driving me safely up the mountain on their motos and limiting my load to hold,

a friend who spent hours helping me process one morning.

What am I grateful for in 2020?

Plenty.

Leaf by Niggle, leftover art, and the pursuit of mediocrity

I didn't expect to become obsessed with a short story about a middle-aged male painter. I read it reluctantly. I'm not even into visual arts. 

My last post discussed Hutchmoot: Homebound's online conference on creativity and faith, but I left out the part that most deeply impacted me: J.R.R. Tolkien's autobiographical, allegorical short story "Leaf by Niggle." Hutchmoot organizers encouraged all participants to download it and some related nonfiction, read them, and participate in the discussion forum. At first I grumbled that I couldn't make time before the conference, but I'm glad I did.

I first skimmed the introduction and learned that readers often find it confusing and unremarkable at the first read-through, but that it's profoundly impacted many. Of course I wanted to be one of the star-studded few who instantly grasped its weight, and of course I wasn't. I tracked pretty well at first, but got stuck trying to decipher the allegory about 2/3 of the way in. (Later I read an interview with Tolkien saying to treat it more as a myth - it came to him one night and he didn't try too hard to make everything correspond.) But once I read comments from other readers, re-read it myself, and watched a Hutchmoot lecture on it by Matthew Dickerson, it consumed my thoughts. 

Tolkien put himself and his Lord of the Rings writing into Niggle, an aging painter, more eccentric than gifted. Despite all our differences, I can relate to Niggle. Like him, I struggle to focus, seethe at other people interrupting to request help, and worry whether others think my work is any good. Like him, my talents are ordinary, barely enough for a decent attempt at painting a leaf. Like him, I watch in dread as time melts away, trying to forget that I am mortal. And though I can't say I have a vision for my life's greatest work like an epic trilogy or the great tree Niggle scrambled to complete, I too can glimpse aching beauty in distant forests and glimmering mountains, far beyond my ability to capture. 

I'm also like his neighbor Parish, a no-nonsense gardener who finds it easier to notice Niggle's weeds out front than his lush landscapes in the studio. I can struggle to say something kind about others' deficiencies and completely miss their gifts. I can focus on my pain and be blinded to theirs. I can convince myself that their time, wood, and canvas would be better served patching my leaky roof than fulfilling an artistic vision. 

Like both of them, how I use my life matters more than I know. And it's not too late for good to come of it. Tolkien follows Niggle's story through his "long journey" away from home and into the afterlife. Despite some gloomy bits it's a hopeful story: not necessarily hopeful that things will all work out just in time, but hopeful that all is not lost when they don't. Readers watch Niggle grow in ways somehow akin to the Velveteen Rabbit.

I coerced my three fellow Hutchmoot participants into reading it with me, and we had a follow-up discussion focusing on it. We talked about art and community, how they feed off each other, and how to find our place in both. We talked about holding onto vision and being generous with our time amid a frenzy of demands and requests. We talked about savoring the form of art instead of trying to reduce it to a point and move on. We talked about the power we hold to encourage and support those around us who share their creations. 

I asked my friends, "Is it worth trying to do something when I know I'll be mediocre at best for quite a while, possibly forever? Let's say I attempt songwriting. If the first 100+ songs I write are bad to middling, and I may never make it past those to anything decent, is there still value in my effort?" For Niggle, there was. He was a painter. Even if his best work never surpassed mediocrity, painting is what he was made for. What am I made for? Have I even found it yet? 

My grandma just moved into the nursing home in her retirement community, and my parents and her other kids have been cleaning out her cluttered apartment. Recently I went through 169 photos to sign up for items in her home: silver from her parents' wedding, quilts she stitched, figurines she collected, baskets she wove, paintings by her and her Uncle Ed. Fresh from reading Niggle, my eyes brimmed up looking at the list.

Mamaw always told me she wasn't artistic, not like Uncle Ed, the professional. I never met Ed and knew him only by his oil paintings in Mamaw and Papaw's house: rundown farms and European cityscapes and abstract shapes and lifelike portraits. But a few years ago, I heard he was also such a good cartoonist that a young Walt Disney had tried and failed to recruit him. 

As a child, I asked Mamaw for help drawing a girl's feet wearing tights. She grudgingly attempted it while decrying her efforts, which I thought were perfect. Mamaw grew up with her widowed mother, grandparents, and an adolescent Uncle Ed (much her mother's junior), who later drifted in and out between travels. I wonder how often her childhood drawings and paintings were compared to Ed's. Intimidating!

Mamaw's in the middle, with one of her Uncle Ed's paintings behind her

An Uncle Ed painting that my sister claimed

Unlike Niggle and Uncle Ed, Mamaw's never been "a painter." Sewing probably best defined her creativity, along with crafting, dancing, and cooking. But in her 70's, she started taking painting lessons with other retirees, I think mostly copying pieces by more prominent artists. Her work eventually brightened her walls next to Uncle Ed's paintings, tangible examples of pushing through insecurity toward creativity. 

A painting by Mamaw 

I was one of the last grandchildren to peruse the list of items and make my requests. Unlike Mamaw's hand-woven baskets, colorful quilts, and award-winning smocked baby clothes, none of her art had been claimed. Dismayed, I sat pondering. On one hand, though I signed up for a painting, getting things to Cambodia poses a hurdle. On the other hand, I love Mamaw, and her artwork is way better than mine. 

Without a family to inherit his paintings, Niggle's work is soon scattered and discarded. One charming leaf on a corner of the canvas makes it into a local museum... which later burns down. What about Mamaw? If her paintings end up in thrift stores, even during her lifetime, does that mean they didn't matter? How can I celebrate this prolific, feisty woman who no longer has any use for her paintbrushes, sewing machine, tap and ballet shoes, or gigantic stash of knitting needles? As her memory and daily life shrink ever smaller, I want her legacy in my life to stay far bigger. 

One of Mamaw's intricately smocked dresses, passed down from my cousin to her daughter

So I started writing music. I've long appreciated great songs and enjoyed making up new lyrics or arranging hymns and carols for guitar, but I've never attempted anything original. The past few weeks, I've been playing around with lyrics and a few guitar riffs. (Mine aren't nearly as rock'n'roll as "riffs" would suggest!) It's been tricky trying to merge together music and words, since they tend to come to me separately and resist each other. But after multiple spurts that went nowhere, something is starting to gel toward a song. I keep making changes to both lyrics and music, trying to wrangle it into expressing my heart and satisfying my ears, but it's felt cathartic starting to get it out. 

I shared my newborn song with the other Hutchmooters, a much more supportive audience than Niggle's neighbor Parish. I was nervous, but performing it felt less risky because I'd invested only a couple weeks into it, not years or decades. I don't think I missed my destiny as a singer-songwriter, but I do think I'll keep experimenting. Whether we're teachers or painters or basket weavers or organizers or personal trainers or a little bit of everything, we're God's image-bearers who are meant to create boldly and wholeheartedly.

The lyrics are based on a story that's not mine to tell, at least not in a public forum like this. So instead, here's a scrap of guitar music that's been rolling around in my head, waiting to be fleshed out with vocals and more guitar. I'm kinda stuck on where to take it from here, but it feels like it has more life in it than this. 

It's far from an opus, but Niggle taught me that even fragments can spark imagination and gleam joy. If you have ideas for ways to nudge it forward, I'm all ears! Art and community are meant to interact and nurture each other. This is my way to carry on Mamaw's legacy of courageously creating, of hanging imperfect pieces on the wall. (FYI: Several of Mamaw's paintings are now on her grandchildren's walls, including this one below, which my sister just put up.) Like Niggle's, maybe the value of Mamaw's endeavors... and mine... isn't limited to the prominence they receive. 

Hutchmoot: Homebound

 What is Hutchmoot? 

“Unexpected. Curiously delicious.” 

"A conference about the intersection of faith and creativity." 

“I’m going to hang out with my nerd friends. Stop asking questions while I’m reading.” 

 “A gathering of Christians who try to tell the story of Jesus in all art forms.” 

“Hutchmoot is like a man who traveled east to see the dawn, and saw it — its first beams piercing furtively through the trees, its advancing golden fingers stealing away the silver mists; its light dancing in resolute, hopeful eyes, and playing in limbs and fingers not its own. And the man, having seen it, traveled west, back to his home, to announce: ‘Dawn is coming!’ But his face betrayed him, so that even before he could draw breath to proclaim the news, a little girl walked up to him and asked: ‘Mr. Man, what is the morning light like?'”

- Previous Hutchmoot participants 

The infamous difficulty of describing Hutchmoot made me put off sending invitations for weeks. But eventually I did. Even better, some friends responded by coming to join me. 

I've been intrigued by Hutchmoot for years, ever since growing from an Andrew Peterson fan to a Rabbit Room fan (which is almost by definition also an Andrew Peterson fan, since he and his brother founded this community to foster art and gathered artists to foster community). Rabbit Room blogs, music, book discussion groups, liturgies, and children's books have resonated with me. But Nashville in October never seemed very accessible given the fact that I was either in Cambodia or a broke and busy grad student.  

This year, courtesy of COVID, Hutchmoot became Hutchmoot: Homebound, conveniently located in my living room and those of a few thousand friends. A solid weekend of content, often with 4 simultaneous sessions, was livestreamed and then posted. I knew I wanted to participate, but staring at a computer alone occupies too much of my time and defies everything that Hutchmoot stands for. Though I missed the livestream, I listened compulsively the following week during workouts, meals, bus rides, cleaning, baking, and occasionally even sitting still. The website is based on the idea of a home. Content is organized into "rooms" including the sound booth, backyard, porch, art studio, and kitchen, where the ukulele-playing chef demonstrates recipes and recites original spoken-word poetry. There's even a secret tunnel to the "Field of Glory," featuring challenges ranging from a collaborative quilting project, to leaving a mysterious note for a stranger, to reenacting a favorite movie scene, to playing "Ode to Joy" on kazoos. 

The next Sunday morning, three friends and I gave Hutchmoot five hours of undivided attention. We read a liturgy aloud, watched several speakers and a one-act play, listened to music, discussed a short story, drank tea, and ate food I made following Hutchmoot recipes. Scones are a fixture of Hutchmoot conferences, so I made my first-ever scones, cranberry orange. Am I the only one who grew up reading the Redwall series, children's fantasy novels about forest animals who engage in epic battles? Their lavish victory feasts always made my mouth water, and until college they were my only exposure to scones, which sounded simply divine. So scones seemed superbly well-suited for a conference that revels in fantasy literature. 

My invitation cast a wide net, and I wasn't sure who would bite, but we had an interesting combination of participants. None of these three friends really knew each other. None were from the same country. None were into quite the same form of creativity. None had ever heard of Hutchmoot or most of the presenters or artists. At least we all shared a love for Jesus, C.S. Lewis, and J.R.R. Tolkien, all of whom have deeply inspired Hutchmooters. Part of me was wistful that I couldn't join with fellow Peterson fans (I know several in America and one in Africa), but I'm glad these three were willing to take the plunge. My take on Hutchmoot was enriched through their perspectives: what resonated, what confused them, what parallels they saw in their own lives and work. Our time passed far too quickly for my liking, leaving me hungry for more.

Some themes that ran through multiple sessions were the need for excellent art and the power of fiction, particularly fantasy and poetry. (One conversation was inspired by Tolkien's essay "On Fairy Stories." Another is available free in this podcast on "The Integrated Imagination," republished from Hutchmoot.) Story can lower our defenses by removing us from the reality we think we know so well. It presents us with a world in which anything is possible and nothing is taken for granted. It can gnaw on our thoughts and emotions and imagination, illuminate our relationships and struggles, make us ache for something we didn't know existed, until it seeps into our very way of being. The best fiction reorients us to something truer than mere "reality" as shown in the daily news or HGTV. 

I've been trying to appreciate and enjoy more nonfiction, and while the nonfiction I've read has generally shaped me in positive ways, Hutchmoot made me desperate to plunge into good stories. You too? Join me in choosing original new fiction from The Rabbit Room. I think a top contender for me is Helena Sorenson's The Door on Half-Bald Hill, which Amazon lists under the unlikely combination of "Christian allegorical fiction" and "dark fantasy horror." Prior to Hutchmoot, her name sounded vaguely familiar from Rabbit Room posts, but this month I find myself arrested by her speaking and writing. 

But it wasn't all about fiction. Andrew Peterson read a chapter from his forthcoming book on trees. Trees? I went in skeptical, but it made me cry. I enjoyed seeing artists and musicians peel back the curtain and show their crafting, reflecting, and revising process. I was moved by Andy Gullahorn's song "I Will," stirred by Ruth Naomi Floyd's commentary (and demonstration) of the blues as modern-day lament, and captivated by a discussion on the Holy Spirit being breath. And what lingered perhaps most of all, what's made my fingers itch and my brain scramble unbidden to untangle melody lines and piece together lyrics, is the Arcadian Wild's 4-song EP. Please go watch their two music videos, tell me what you think, and wait impatiently with me for the next two to be released. 

Truth. Beauty. Light. Darkness. Love. Sorrow. Hope. Hutchmoot was a kaleidescope refracting goodness in ever-shifting shapes and hues. Not every session was my cup of tea, but their cumulative effect on me was significant. Unlike entertainment that numbs and distracts, this seemed to heighten my emotions and plunge me into big questions. 

I'm inspired by A.S. "Pete" Peterson's words on the main page:

I think it’s safe to say that one of the central, yet unspoken, tenets of the Rabbit Room is a belief in the virtue of paying attention.

The world is full of distraction, and each of us are full of the tendency to read lightly, just the headlines, and jump to conclusions, to look quickly and come to quick judgements, to listen to samples and claim we understand the whole, to see a social media update and assign a neighbor to a stereotype. We do it all the time.

One of the things I’ve most appreciated about Hutchmoot over the years is that for one weekend a year, we get to overturn those habits and tendencies. We pay our attention to good things, and in return our attention rewards us with deeper empathy for those around us, and a deeper understanding of art, music, story, and ultimately of our God and the inevitable coming of his Kingdom on earth. (emphasis added)

Touchée, Pete. You exposed my chronic distraction. For a few talks when I wasn't sitting still, I needed several listens before I could recall even the gist. I still fall for the lies that I can multi-task well, that slowing down to focus isn't realistic, that peace of mind beckons like a pot of leprechaun gold at the end of my to-do list rainbow. My addiction to busyness and efficiency threaten my ability to be fully present to unexpected joys, to think deeply, to connect. No wonder I'm left brittle and ill-equipped for life's challenges.

Hutchmoot and its many gifted contributors have renewed my reflections on how I spend my time (and why), and my desire to choose more intentionally what gets my attention. Creativity and community are inextricably intertwined, and I want to cultivate both in my life - not just in October, but all year long.

Five myths I've heard from Cambodian teachers

How flexible is your schema? 

I'm in the middle of a training series with Cambodian teachers, and next time we'll be talking about Jean Piaget's theory of cognitive development. A constructivist, Piaget argued that rather than passively receiving and regurgitating new knowledge, people organize information and experiences into a series of schemata (kinda like mind maps) on various topics. We have a schema for how to act and what will happen. (Dentist: bright lights, open mouth, bad news, that little vacuum that sucks out excess liquid.) We have a schema for everyone we know, including ourselves. (Colleague: neat freak, vegetarian, chatty, tech phobic.) 

As we approach each new data point or situation, we interpret it based on an existing schema, trying to assimilate the new into what we already know. If we can't, we need to accommodate the new by revising or refining our schema. Young kids have very flexible schemata that they're constantly adapting. (Not every four-legged animal is a doggie? Okay, got it.) In adulthood, it's tempting to let our schemata fossilize, especially the well-established ones. We often reject new data that doesn't easily fit into our preconceptions. A kind word from a new neighbor might balance out or negate a nasty first impression, but a kind word from a boss with whom you have a long history of conflict may be ignored or viewed with cynicism. Constructivism helps explain why people who experience the same situation, like a mass shooting or a pandemic, can interpret it in sharply contrasting ways to confirm their prior beliefs.

I've hesitated to blog much about teacher training, even though it's a big passion, because I still have so much to learn. Between my language limitations, the cultural barriers, and our widely divergent prior experiences, I feel clueless a lot of the time. It's like trying to negotiate a peace treaty with only one-syllable words; to make my points, I have to rely a lot on pictures and hands-on activities that may be very unfamiliar to teachers, and I don't always understand their points during discussions. 

Studying Piaget and creating this handout for next week clarified more deeply to me that the most important part of my job as a teacher trainer may not be to present data, but to uncover schemata. Teachers are far from blank slates. They show up filled with views about the nature of education, about individual students, about themselves, about American and Cambodian culture. Some of these views make them receptive to me and the content I share; some do not. Some views help them engage their students; some do not. Some overlap with American perspectives; some do not. Teachers are a diverse group whose attitudes have been shaped to varying degrees by Cambodian traditional values, international voices, and their own experiences. Understanding these attitudes is critical to my ability to resonate with them and provide helpful resources. Here are five statements I've heard from teachers that could impact our trainings:

1. If parents don't value education, neither will their children. 

In one session, I asked participants to step into the middle of the circle if they agreed. Everyone moved forward for the above statement, with just one adding a qualifier: "It's possible their children will be different, but 90% of the time they're not." Certainly this belief has supporters in the US too, and many factors other than the teacher contribute to a child's motivation and achievement. However, automatically blaming the child and parents makes teachers feel that it's out of their hands. In fact, there's a lot teachers can do to improve or adapt their approach to better serve students. (Especially that group of private school teachers, of whom only about 1/4 have received any formal training as teachers. But even graduates of the government teacher training school have room for growth.)

Many teachers here face immense pressure to march on through a packed and challenging national curriculum, with their pace dictated not by students' comprehension but by the standardized tests. Many schools give teachers no planning time, so they literally show up to class having barely looked at the lesson. In one or two of the lessons I observed, the teacher spent the first 15 minutes copying the lesson from the sole textbook onto the board. He spent the next 15 minutes telling students to copy it into their notebooks, and they spent the last 15 minutes trying to answer the textbook's question about said lesson. No wonder many students struggle to understand or stay motivated!

2. Every class has two main groups: students who understand the lesson, and "slow" or "weak" learners. 

Several teachers have asked me what to do about these weak learners, as if the same students are always weak in every lesson. I'm glad they're concerned and trying to address those who don't instantly grasp the content. In that same internship, I met a teacher who had simply given up on them. When I guest taught for his 10th grade English class, he told me, "The kids in the back don't know anything and don't care. I focus on the front two rows." I don't think he's alone. And he was right: after four years of English teachers with low expectations, some of these kids hadn't even brought their notebooks along and seemed shocked that I expected them to pay attention when they were completely lost. 

I've often heard a similar attitude from parents: "My child is good at Khmer but bad at math," or "My daughter is smart but my son is slow," as if academic achievement is a fixed state that nobody can influence. This belief has major ramifications since dropping out is so common, especially in rural areas; I heard that about half of Cambodian children leave school by the end of grade 6. If your kid isn't smart and can't keep up in class, why would you continue sacrificing to send all those school fees when the child could stay home and help on the farm? 

3. If kids are not writing, they're not learning. 

OK, to be fair, I'm not sure I've heard teachers say this. But many have seemed hesitant to depart too far from the "teacher lectures - students write notes or answer questions" lesson format, for fear of both wasted time and behavior issues. Teachers enjoy participating in creative activities during seminars, like projects, discussions, games, and skits, but don't promise to use them in their own classes. And I've seen it in other ways. For example, I recently observed a grade 1 class recently with this lesson format:

1. Teacher writes key words on the board for students to copy into their notebooks 

2. Students copy a paragraph using these key words into their notebooks (I missed the beginning of the lesson - the teacher or a student may have first read the story aloud)

3. Teacher gives students a spelling quiz on these key words

I asked the teacher, "Do students know the meaning of these words? Would they recognize them in a conversation?" "Um, I'm not sure. Do you think they should understand them?" The words were grouped thematically, not by spelling rules: the paragraph was entitled "Things I like about my town," and contained key words like peaceful, market, and river. But the teacher didn't attempt to engage the students in discussing or reflecting on its ideas, let alone creating their own list of their town's advantages. 

I know a foreigner who started a bilingual preschool and fights hard to battle this "writing = learning" myth among teachers and parents. Many parents are convinced their 3-year-old should be writing English letters and numbers daily. Otherwise, their tuition is wasted. She has to educate them on the value of age-appropriate play as a crucial foundation for many subsequent skills. She also has a chart that reads "Listening - Speaking - Reading - Writing" with an arrow from left to right. She explains that skills develop in this order in our native language for a good reason. Especially for young children, they should develop in the same order in a second language. Children don't need their first exposure to English to focus on writing; play can incorporate lots of songs and speech, building children's listening and speaking skills. 

I also saw this struggle among my colleagues when I was a classroom teacher. The Khmer curriculum focused heavily on reading and writing, which made a lot of sense for the nearly half of the student body who spoke Khmer at home. For the other half, learning how to spell "tomato" in the world's longest alphabet before they knew how to pronounce it or ask for it at the market was not exactly motivating. Eventually native and non-native speakers were split into different Khmer classes, but difficulties persisted. It seemed that every year of elementary school, students were spending months trying to relearn the alphabet while often lacking confidence to speak any Khmer in daily life. Foreign parents often requested a greater emphasis on listening and speaking, but this was so far from teachers' experiences as learners  that several teachers never successfully switched. 

4. Fear is a necessary component in classroom management. 

I always start my presentation on classroom management by saying it needs to be founded on love. We love students, therefore we want them to be safe in our classroom and to be equipped with positive habits for a bright future, therefore we correct. We shouldn't discipline students out of anger, impatience, a need for control, or fear that they'll make us look bad. No participant has ever disagreed with me on this. (Not that Cambodians are prone to openly disagree with someone teaching them!) 

Their real attitudes are more complex, though. The American who initially created this classroom management presentation says he often saw Cambodian teachers overly focused on consequences for misbehavior. "How far can we go to make students behave?" They underestimated the value of classroom structures, guided practice, encouragement, etc. to promote positive behaviors. Correction should be a last resort, and the goal is to use the gentlest possible means that brings about change, not the heaviest punishment allowed under school policy. 

This conversation reminded me of the battle I used to have with student trash. Each period, a new group of students entered my classroom, and as they emptied their water bottles or received old homeworks back, they'd put them on the shelf under each desk. Once there, the trash was out of sight, out of mind for them and me, as hard as I tried to remind them to check desks on their way out. Every few days, I'd make a class empty the desks, and they'd comply but protest that it wasn't their trash. One day, the principal announced that since many desks were old and in poor condition, he was replacing them all... with shelf-free desks. One simple change in classroom materials eliminated the trash problem instantly without nagging or punishment. 

With my current group, we read an article on cultivating emotional maturity. It emphasized the power of "love bonds" over "fear bonds" to motivate and sustain an individual's healing and growth. I was hoping it would motivate my teachers to choose love bonds with students, affirming and acting on their care for students while seeking freedom from selfish motives. Instead, they surprised me by commenting that they thought fear was critical. "Yes, we love our students, but fear is the best motivator for them to behave." They told me that in the decade or so since corporal punishment was banned in schools, student behavior and achievement have declined noticeably. I've heard similar statements from several other Cambodians. Some participants even said they've given students a small whack on the hand on occasion, which they distinguished from the harsher beatings that used to be acceptable in school. I suggested a couple alternatives, but having taught mostly upper-class high school students, my experiences are sooo far removed from theirs as they work with low-income children in grades 1-9. (These trainees admitted they hadn't yet finished reading the article, so I'm hoping it will nudge them to reconsider some of their assumptions.) 

Their statements mirrored the #1 comment I hear from parents and guardians toward naughty kids: "[I'm going to] hit you now." Last week, I even heard a grandma threaten a 2-year-old that I would hit him if he didn't stop his tantrum! Actual hitting is rare, so I'm skeptical about the efficacy of this empty threat. But I think for parents and teachers who grew up with corporal punishment as an ever-present possibility, it's scary losing the main behavior tool you know. 

5. Classroom management is easy in America because American children are well-behaved. 

(Funny, some Americans have told me the opposite stereotype about Asian children!) I think this belief is an extension of the perception that everyone in America is as healthy, wealthy, and happy as they look in Hollywood movies. During my internship in 2016, teachers were tempted to dismiss a video clip on classroom management in an American school with a largely low-income, minority student body. They told me that US strategies weren't adequate for the behavioral challenges among their Cambodian students. I had to explain to the teachers that far from their assumptions, some US schools have resorted to metal detectors to keep students' weapons out! Students who arrive at school with excellent home support, motivation, self-discipline, and social skills are the exception, not the norm, in every country. But I'm not surprised that if they hold this view and try a new technique, they'd get discouraged and give up on the technique before it's had a chance to make a difference. 

I've spent so little time thus far observing Cambodian teachers' classes and listening to them talk about school. I hope I can change that in the coming year as schools slowly resume. I'd like more data points and experiences to challenge and refine my own schemata of how Cambodian teachers think and act. But the little bit I've heard has reminded me that we come at this shared topic, education, from widely divergent angles. I'm not sure teachers are applying much from my trainings yet. It's not because they lack intelligence, and in most cases I don't think they lack motivation either. (Or time, while they await approval to reopen the school.) I think it's more that our schemata don't align enough for my trainings to motivate a change in their behavior. I'm hopeful that as I grow to better understand each participant and his/her felt needs, I can tailor my instruction and help motivate them to try new things. 

My goal is not to make them American teachers who think and act just like I do. My goal is to help them become the teachers they were created to be, teachers who will resonate with their students far better than I could as an outsider. Where they're already doing well, I don't want to get in the way. But where their beliefs are hindering growth among teachers and students, I want to challenge assumptions. Until I figure out how to do that, all these teacher training presentations are more beneficial to me (practice makes progress!) than to the participants. While I may not have changed anyone's mind yet, at least I'm getting somewhere with discovering their current views.

A needed shake-up

Since my roommate moved out in July, I’ve done some deep cleaning, including under the oven for the first time in my three years here. While it was moved, I was puzzled and then disgusted to find an opening in the oven’s back, filled with egg shells, mango peels, bell pepper stems, and other things that didn’t get there by themselves. Maybe this explains all the nasty smells that used to linger in the kitchen even after I’d taken out the trash! Here’s photo evidence of its contents, on the shelf and then shaken out onto the floor. You’re welcome. 😉

Sometimes it takes a shake-up to expose nastiness. Though my life has been less disrupted by COVID-10 than many of yours, with few cases in Cambodia and minimal restrictions on daily life, I’ve still had to respond to the change, ambiguity, and suffering prevalent worldwide these days. When will borders reopen so my team can reunite? What do I do about the fraying relationships in my life, my community, my world? How will economic decline affect already-vulnerable Cambodians? What’s my identity when I feel alone and my dreams for life and ministry seem elusive? Rarely has my first response been to bring these legitimate questions before God. Instead? Anxiety. Cynicism. Pride. Not what I was hoping to find lurking in my heart and mind.

I don’t have a self-cleaning oven, or a self-cleaning heart. The decaying trash didn’t go away until I tilted the oven back and scrubbed it out. Likewise, God has used COVID’s shake-up not just to reveal my foul attitudes, but to invite me into an unequal trade. His peace for my anxiety. His joy for my cynicism. His humility for my pride. Though I still resist, it’s always a relief when I say yes. I’m learning to lament these broken places with God, waiting and trusting that he will weave them into his story of hope and redemption. And in several areas, I've spotted encouraging developments outside of me as well as inside.

I don’t pretend to know why 2020 has unfolded this way. But I do know that God doesn’t waste opportunities to pull us closer into his embrace… even when he knows we stink.

Create in me a pure heart, O God, 

   and renew a right spirit within me.
Cast me not away from your presence, 

   and take not your Holy Spirit from me.
Restore to me the joy of your salvation, 

  and uphold me with a willing spirit.
-Psalm 51:10-12