Loss

There are some people that I've always envisioned being here, in my life, on this earth. I lost one of them today. Not to sound trivial, but when the first President Bush spoke of "a thousand points of light," Joyce was a torch.

This was a woman whose mark on my life is probably far greater than even she could imagine. She was a fixture in my childhood. Just barely older than my parents, she and her husband were like an aunt and uncle but treated me more like a grandparent would--spoiling me and my friends each time when we were at their lovely and modest home. Joyce had a way of making you feel incredibly special. And it wasn't in a materialistic sense. She was so warm and inviting in her demeanor, you couldn't help but feel like one of the family. I recall many days and nights spent playing tennis at her house or swimming in their backyard, to come inside to the yummiest baked goods afterward. In my older years, she and her husband were enormously supportive of my endeavors, always supporting me as I went on missions trips and expressing tremendous joy when I reached a milestone such as a graduation.

Ironically, I feel much closer to Joyce and her husband than I do to their children. Lisa and Max aren't much older than I am, but I always loved hanging out with their mom. However, I feel a tremendous sense of sympathy and pain for them as they have just lost their beautiful, kind mother, and right before the holidays.

The worst part of this whole ordeal for me personally is never having had the chance to see her when she was ill or to say goodbye before she left us. I know that's terribly selfish of me, but I am pained beyond what I can express because I am so far away and never had that opportunity. I have no doubt that there will probably be well over several thousand people at her memorial. It hurts that I probably won't be one of them.

I know that Joyce fought valiantly and with such class. She's a model for enduring suffering. She was always optimistic and positive. I'm sure she hardly ever complained even behind closed doors. I just don't understand why God would take such a woman from us when this world is so desperately in need of Godly, loving, humble women. Yet I have to trust that He is sovereign and knows exactly what He is doing.

I honestly thought she'd pull through this, that she would beat the tumors and cancer that was so violently attacking her brain. I prayed for and believed for a miracle. And while that didn't happen in the way we all wanted, I am so happy that she is no longer suffering and that she is with the Savior she so adored. Those of us who await a reunion with her will always remember her passion for Jesus and how she so wonderfully bore His image. Now He has her all to himself.

Rest in Jesus, Joyce. Until that glorious day when we will see you again, we will miss you terribly.

Who is Portia and what's a piazza?

About five years ago, I ventured into the blogosphere. "Portia" has always been my pseudonym as she is my favorite Shakespearean character, even one I'd venture to say I'd like to emulate (minus the silly deception of her husband). I thought I'd take a second to explain to those unfamiliar with Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice who Portia is. Also, a piazza is a square, in Italian.

Here's my explanation, written approximately three years ago:

Who is Portia? Portia is quite possibly one of the most brilliant of the Shakespearean heroines. In Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice, Portia is a beautiful young woman in search of a husband. Her father has just passed away and had certain stipulations about the process by which a suitor would become her husband. Being a woman with a deep sense of duty and honor, she abides by her father's rules, but with a certain flair that only she could possess.

In the play, Antonio, a friend of Portia's finds himself in debt to a Jewish money lender named Shylock (you probably know him from his famous "If you prick us, do we not bleed" speech). Shylock is technically entitled to a pound of Antonio's flesh if Antonio cannot come up with the money, which, of course he cannot due to some unforeseen nautical issues. Portia masquerades as an attorney and begins with an argument full of pathos, appealing to the court and Shylock to show mercy. However, when that doesn't go over too well, she bends the law to such an extent that the court has no choice but to forgive the man's debt. Mercy didn't work, so she gave them the law.

In case you hadn't read it, her famed beckon for mercy:

The quality of mercy is not strain'd,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this,
That, in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much
To mitigate the justice of thy plea;
Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice
Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.

This all begs the question, is this site named Portia's Piazza because the site owner fancies herself her modern day archetype? Not one bit. But it's a noble pursuit. I love great writing, brilliant arguments and beautiful things. Portia seemed like a good fit. But you can be the judge of that.

Celebrating Manners

Today is Emily Post's birthday. She has certainly been a social hero of mine, not just because we have the same name, but because she is largely responsible for the popularity of manners in American society. William Wilberforce was responsible for revitalizing British society, and I think it's safe to say that Post had a hand in cultivating it on our soil.

But we've come a long way from those days. I'm continually horrified at the lack of manners in our society. The area I now call home is full of very nice people, so I'm blessed in that regard. But as a whole, and the more I travel, the more I realize how uncivilized much of our society can appear. Just go to any sporting event if you doubt me.

In part, this can be attributed to a positive change in society. Once strict classes were somewhat dissolved, and there was no marked difference between upper middle class and upper class, things became less formal and people behaved by fewer rules. The positive here is that there aren't caste-like social strata in the U.S. like there used to be. Of course there's the rich and the rest of us, but nothing like it was even 60 years ago. We no longer need heavy guide books like Ms. Post's to even communicate with those well above our station. In fact, most wealthy and prominent figures today act about as low class as one could imagine (see: nearly every celebrity).

While the shift in America's social economy is nice, it is too bad we threw the baby out with the bathwater and rid ourselves of most formal rules of etiquette. Rather than viewing manners as posh and only for the fabulously wealthy, it should have been taught to the masses to promote a more civil and classy society, regardless of economic standing. But that's just my humble opinion.

Read more about Ms. Post and how truly classy she was here. And for an entertaining read on manners, its history and present status, I highly recommend Lynne Truss' Talk to the Hand: The Utter Bloody Rudeness of the World Today, or Six Good Reasons to Stay Home and Bolt the Door. It's a marvelous book, and probably funnier in audio book format. I've "heard" both her books and found them all the more engaging with her snobby English accent.

Spiritual ADD

Authors throughout antiquity have wrote of their pension for wandering from the fold. I am certainly less articulate and not the last writer to put pen to paper on the subject...

"I am astonished that you are so quickly deserting the one who called you by the grace of Christ" Galatians 1:6a

Paul was astonished, and so am I. Countless times, God has explicitly given me direction and often has physically moved me to limit distractions from that direction. And I am still able to find ways to veer from the path He's set before me. My friends and I call this "The Shiny Syndrome." If you've ever put something shiny in front of a fishbowl, it's amusing to watch certain fish stop what they are doing to chase the shimmer. The same with laser pointers and dogs, or cats. Not only are they fascinated by this light, they must catch it. And the same can be said of my nature. I can be hot pursuit of God and His will for my life, and then this little devil on the side of the road flashes some shiny, cheap object in my peripheral vision, and bam! I'm caught in wonder of this elusive object and must chase it.

I do not anticipate this ever letting up. Sometimes, I am impressed with my focus. I simply bat away the shiny distractor and keep moving. Other times, and more recently, I can't resist it. And I wander, leaving my Savior behind me while I chase low grade, temporary experiences.

Again, to defer to an author far superior to myself, C.S. Lewis (my favorite Christian thinker) said in The Weight of Glory,

Indeed, if we consider the unblushing promises of reward and the staggering nature of the rewards promised in the Gospels, it would seem that Our Lord finds our desires, not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased.

All I can do once I realize the pathetic nature of the distraction is simply run back to the path I was on, plead for my Savior to forgive me and set my gaze upon Him. If only He'd give me permanent spiritual blinders. Life would be all the easier for that, yet probably not nearly as rewarding that He was receiving the love of followers who loved Him in a passively forced manner. What a God we serve--He trusts us enough to walk along the path with all manner of billboard distractions and lies vying desperately for our attention. And He trusts the Word He's implanted in our hearts. That, in the end, we will not depart from it. And when we don't, how much sweeter is our love for Him. It is a choice made, knowing the counterfeits offered to us by the spiritual con men at the side of the road.

I'm back on the road, determined to keep my eyes affixed on the One who sacrificed far more than my little mind could ever imagine, so that I may have a life more abundant than the one presented by the shrill, unceasing voices off the road less traveled.

Though I fall, I know He's there to catch me. Though I wander, He's faithful to pursue me and woo me back to the life He's intended. And I am in utter awe of His faithfulness and patience with His attention deficit riddled little girl. What a God we serve.

Dangerous Prayers

You know those days that start off beautifully...literally beginning the morning exclaiming, "Good morning, Jesus!" followed by a whole laundry list of things you're thankful for, most of all who God is and always has been? And isn't it amazing how a matter of hours can shatter that whole mood and grateful heart?

Yeah.

This morning was that morning; and this afternoon was just that very afternoon. The day began with the above scenario. I prayed my whole commute, thanking God for loads of things, people, opportunities. I prayed scripture verses, thanked Him for who He is and that his plan is to prosper me and not to harm me, etc, etc, etc. I prayed for pastors, friends both saved and not yet saved, countries, and the list goes on. Then I get a phone call that just does me in. And the downward spiral of events continued from then on out.

I told the Lord this morning that my faith in Him was based on who He is, not what he does or can do for me.

Big mistake. :)

I should have anticipated that only hours after that a whole onslaught of events would transpire to test that very statement, that very truth in my life--testing to see if it was another empty utterance. And maybe it was. Because right now I'm not super happy with the One whom I was praising not that long ago.

The worst thing about being human is the inability to foresee events. At least, that's my opinion. Abraham had to lead his only son up a hill to sacrifice him not knowing if there would be any provision in place of Isaac. He couldn't see the ram on the other side of his circumstance. And neither can we. Or at least I can't. I have faith enough for my friends' lives, but when it comes to my own life and whether or not God truly has it out for me or will work things out for my best, it's questionable.

When it comes down to it, this is all my fault. If I hadn't prayed that silly prayer, this would never have happened. :)

But in all seriousness, dangerous prayers are exactly what we need to pray if our desire is to truly and more deeply know the character of God for who He is, not what we perceive or desire him to be. And that is what I really want, though I flinch when he begins the process of letting me in on all of it.

So while most of the time my faith does rest in his works, his providence, that is not what I want. I want my faith to be based in "God is God and I am not," and all the other attributes that are so far beyond my understanding that, in moments of revelation, put to rest any and all possible fears that He has my best in mind. Of course He does; he gave His only son so that he could be with me. What else do I need to know?

Unfortunately, more.

I await the day when my fickle, finite nature is exchanged for one of faithfulness and understanding. In the meantime, I'll keep inching my way toward the One in whom I know deep down I can always trust, who does indeed have the best for my life, which often looks nothing like what I had planned. Probably why it's the best.

Over the water

I have just returned from a solo beach trip. I was unable to secure any companions for my mandatory beach trip (and by mandatory, I mean that there was absolutely nothing else I wanted to do today but find one of my more favorite secluded beaches and just park it). So, I went by myself.

The beach I settled on is not nearly as popular as its neighboring, huge state beaches, which makes for a more relaxing time. This particular beach has huge rock formations, caves and really beautiful nooks and crannies, if beaches can have such things. The weather was fantastic and the water was actually warm.

There is almost nothing like sitting in the sand and staring out at the water, its character so much like God's--unending, beautiful, terrifying and inspiring.

I was born near the water and have always been drawn to it. The ocean is a permanent fixture in my life. And yet, as familiar as it can seem, it never ceases to amaze me. I can gaze for hours at it, play in it, and stand in awe of it. I can run in with abandon and in an instant, when something foreign brushes my leg, be reminded that there is so much I don't know of it.

Today the weather changed quite often. One minute the haunting presence of a cloud would settle over the water, the next it would burn off and the sun would warm me as I read. It is on days such as these that I am reminded of why I've never really had any desire to leave Los Angeles. The siren call of the waves gets me every time.

Rebecca, and Twenty-seven other reasons why I refuse to pick up romantic novels

I used to blog. A lot. It lost its appeal somewhere between February of 2004 when '08 hopefuls started announcing their intent to run for president and the movement of the blogosphere as a whole to facilitate premature predictions as to who would win. Political blogging is so one-dimensional and all-consuming and I just couldn't take it anymore. Plus, it's really no good for one's blood pressure. Mine is now safely back at 88/58.

While I was a blogger, I frequently interrupted my usual, brief political commentary with something personal. One such entry referred to my remedy for road rage. After much experimentation, I found that one of the most effective cures was an audio book. Losing oneself in classic prose seemed to be the perfect escape whilst sitting on the never moving 10 freeway hoping to dodge the accident demons running amuck at 7 a.m. PST.

In my quest for new material, I decided that catching up on classic books I had never read would be a smashing idea. I took French Literature in high school and had my fair share of Descartes, Hugo, Voltaire, Dumas, Rousseau and the other men who shaped literature, philosophy and ethics as we know them today. However, my foray into French literature meant that I missed out on many the Anglo or American authors that most of my peers have known and loved, or loathed.

My future sister-in-law chides me endlessly for never having read any of Charlotte or Emily Bronte and other such authors. The women, sometimes men, who penned classic romance novels, the Bronte women tragic romance novels.

I actually hate these types of books, to be quite honest, with the exception of Austen, whose books I do enjoy. I hate Gone with the Wind. I absolutely loathe Rebecca, so much so I couldn't even finish it, I felt it such a waste of my time. And I am generally not a fan of any story that ends with infidelity or the untimely death of a beloved. No thanks. Life is hard enough; I don't need to be wrapped up in grief over fictional characters.

I wholeheartedly believe that God made women to love romance and mystery and beauty. I know that as sure as I know I am a woman. It's a deep and profound part of our make up. However, novels that exploit such desires and/or ruin them with tales of woe are of no interest to me, as I believe they "pull a fast one" on our psyche. It's hard enough being a Christian female in Los Angeles, where chivalry died the minute Reagan left office. And possibly even before that. (There is something unusual and telling about a midwestern, turned California cowboy leaving office to be succeeded by a Berkeley man.) I don't need to be flittering about town wondering why none of the eligible bachelors approach me with such lines as, "I will have to tell you: you have bewitched me, body and soul." And to be fair, that line is a Hollywood adaptation of Austen.

I am comfortable enough in my femininity to admit my love of overtly masculine novels and their authors. These novels are not without their love stories. Male authors generally incorporate three main thematic elements: adventure, battle and love. This I enjoy. Gossipy, pining love stories make me physically nauseous. (This also might be why I enjoy Austen more than others. She had strong female archetypes who tended to fall hard due to their stubborn resistance toward their love-sick counterparts' vain pursuit of male attention.)

So, what's next on the list of to-be-heard novels, you ask?

The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky and Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy.

It's the Soviet invasion of my Japanese car. Who knows. I might go crazy and even get Boris Pasternak's Doctor Zhivago or Nicholai Gogol's Dead Souls.

Apparently I'm still avoiding American and British literature.

It might seem somewhat contradictory to delve into Russian literature, which is almost always tragic. However, I find it far less cloying than du Maurier's depiction of a spineless, obsequious young wife tormented by the memory of her husband's late (somewhat mythical) wife. Or the self-centered brat Scarlet O'Hara who, at the end of all her trials, vows to set looking after herself as her number one priority.

Give me real tragedy; the stuff I should cry about. Give me thought provoking, inspiring premises, not something that makes me want to throw my car over an embankment.

So, here's to the Ruskies. I'll make my way west after the 60 logged hours of listening time it will take to get through the aforementioned novels.