News Trend "Why Are Muslim Men So Mean?"|Actual

The first few Facebook conversations with my newfound Malaysian friends were light and high-spirited, focused on getting to know each other through fun, easy topics.

But once I sensed that we had navigated ourselves to the calm, still waters of friendship, I dove right into a deep and dangerous topic.

"Why are Muslim men so mean?"

* * * * *

It's only fair to say that my Malaysian friends were not my first Islamic rodeo.

The very first Muslim friend I ever made, back in 2000, was a four-year-old boy named Mehdi. Despite his dark hair and Arab skin, Medhi's piercing blue eyes were the color of the palest spring sky. His smile started at the tips of his toes and spread up, lighting every inch of his tiny frame with joy. His family attended the same school-for-homeschoolers as mine, and he often pulled up next to me in the Interactive Project Collaborative Lab, happily coloring or building LEGOs while chatting a mile a minute with me.

I loved Mehdi, and got a huge kick out of his expansive and gloriously happy little being.

^ No one cares about head scarves when you've got hoodies, a hammock, and unlimited camera space.

We were new at the school in those days, and I soon discovered that many Muslim families studied alongside us. Those kids - mostly American-born of Middle Eastern parents - ran around with the rest of the students, every bit as funny and smart and carefree. True, the Muslim girls wore head scarves and kept their arms and legs covered, but we often saw them in the bathroom with their scarves off and their hair down, and we knew they were just like us.

So I was not entirely surprised when one of my daughters chose a Muslim schoolmate as her boyfriend. He was an enjoyably all-American kid, polite and respectful and funny with his hoodies and checkered Vans and skateboard tucked under his arm; every mother's dream of a first boyfriend for her daughter. Over the months of their relationship, he spent many an afternoon at our house, and I kept my fridge stocked with frozen cheese pizzas to work around his halal dietary needs. Other than that, his Islamic-ness was a complete non-issue.

I loved my daughter's boyfriend and welcomed him - as well as his younger sister who spent lots of time with us too - into our family life.

^ My daughter's boyfriend's sister on the left, my fourth-born on the right, and a third friend with great sideways eyes in the middle.

Through the school grapevine, the story of these kids' family life came to light and it wasn't pretty. Suffice to say that not one but two fathers had failed them; the four oldest children were now in the care of a good woman but had suffered far too much violence, abuse and neglect for their young lives.

My fiercely protective heart burned with rage against the men who had hurt these great kids.

^ Now that's what I call shock and awe.

I also learned that little Mehdi was in fact one of three younger siblings who had been adopted away from the four older children. He was my daughter's boyfriend's younger brother. Though Mehdi was now with a wonderful family, my frustration and anger surged even deeper to know that he also had been wounded by these men.

To be honest, as much as I accepted and loved the Muslim women and children in my life, I began to hate Muslim men. Granted, I was generalizing wildly, but anyone who could inflict such cruelty upon their wives, sons and daughters could not be the men of God that they so boldly claimed to be.

* * * * *

Back on Facebook, my first Malaysian friend - a  Muslim man himself - listened patiently as I shared this story and demanded, once again, an answer to my question:

"Why are Muslim men so mean?"

His first response was to ask me a question: "You said these men are from which countries?

The Middle East.

"Well," he thoughtfully continued, "then they are Arabs. Arabs have their own culture, and the Arab men are very strong. But that is not because they are Muslims; it's because they are Arabs. Muslim men come from many different cultures and each culture influences how they behave. We are not all the same."

Oh.

Well.

That made perfect sense.

Today, I still perceive Arab Muslim men as rough - maybe it's the hot desert winds or the political upheaval or the sand constantly blowing up their thawbs, I don't know for sure. But in my personal experience, Arab Muslim men tend to be a serious, commanding, and hot-tempered lot.

But it's also been proven to me countless times that the Malay Muslim men are a totally different breed. Light-hearted and quick to laugh,, they are patient and easy-going as a rule. Rather than dominating family life, my Malay Muslim men friends put their wives' and children's needs first.

I've watched these men carefully feeding rice to their toddlers, or gently soothing a crying babe,

I've listened from the backseat as many a Malay Muslim wife scolds her husband for a wrong turn, and noticed only restrained silence in return.

I've seen my friends carefully meting out the last bits of a meal, taking care to ensure that everyone at the table gets their fair share.

^ The image is blurry but the sentiment is perfectly clear.

And so, thanks to my wise friend, I have learned my lesson well:

Religion and culture are two different things.

Some cultures are more stern than others.

But Muslim men, as a rule, are most definitely not mean.

News Trend Among Muslims|Actual

My tried-and-trues sending me off at Kuala Lumpur International Airport.

Can you guess which one is me?

Seven years ago, an extraordinary thing happened in my life.

I, an American Christian woman, was befriended by a pack of Malay Muslims.

You can read all the details here, but the short story is this:

What started out as a chance meeting on Facebook with a Malaysian Mob Wars buddy grew to ever-expanding circles of friends, now numbered well over one hundred. Right off the bat, we discovered that we all had very much in common.

We listen to the same movies and music.

We laugh at the same jokes.

We love our families and friends with the same commitment and abandon.

We share the same hopes and dreams for our lives.

Exploring ancient Portuguese forts in Melaka, white legs and all.

In the intervening years, especially during the two visits I've paid to their motherland, our relationships have deepened and grown beyond anything I ever could have dreamed. I've been accepted, adopted and very well loved by people who are quite a bit different from me.

And make no mistake, as much as I share in common with my friends on the other side of the world, there are many differences between us too.

Differences in culture and custom,

Differences in dress and social mores.

Differences in religion.

Especially in the early years, those differences frustrated me and confused me.

During my four months in Malaysia, when my dear friends took me into their homes and cared for me like one of their own, those differences sometimes left me feeling overwhelmed and vulnerable and very much alone.

But that is not where our story ends.

Blurry selfies during rush hour.

My friends and I keep talking.

I've asked literally hundreds of questions which my faithful friends have patiently answered. They have asked a fair share of me. We care about one other enough to trustingly work through our differences rather than letting them come between us. Interestingly, as my Malaysian Muslim friends and I open new doors of understanding, I find that our differences actually make us closer.

Girl talk at the beach.

* * * *  *

In a world today that is torn apart with understandable fear about terrorist attacks, jihadist extremists and suicide bombers, differences between Westerners and Muslims have become an ongoing topic of conversation, often invoking confusion and fear.

But I hope that is not where our world's story ends.

Let's keep asking questions.

Let's listen to one another's answers.

Let's see if maybe, just maybe, we can open new doors of understanding between two remarkable but markedly different cultures. And maybe, in the end, those differences may actually make us grow just a little bit closer

My favorite Malaysian playmate and Malay language instructor.

News Trend Happy Thanksgiving|Actual

sasaran cost plus world market

christmas cactus

an attiude

a fierce determination

that I have to choose every day. Even the crummy days.

Setting aside one special day each year to reflect on our blessings is a genius idea. But really, a daily habit of thankfulness is what we need. That's one more reason I love the practice of sharing highs and lows each day - we can be thankful for our highs, and grateful to have survived our lows.

I'm often tempted to fall into the trap of feeling sorry for myself for things I want but don't have. To snap out of that selfishness, it helps me to think about things that I'm glad I don't have.

Like cancer.

Addictions.

A felony record.

Or cankles.

When my faith was young and I was trying to figure out how to pray, somewhere I read that if, in your prayers, you only said thank you, that would be enough.

Over the years, that advice has helped me a lot.

As in many families, I've tried to instill the ritual of going around the Thanksgiving table and asking each person to share what they are thankful for. But as my daughters have often reminded me, it's always people - family and friends - that we appreciate most and once the kids are older than ten, the exercise sometimes feels redundant.

Still, I need to remind myself to appreciate each and every person who makes a difference in my life, and on this Thanksgiving Day, I'm going to do my best to reach out to them and tell them what they mean to me.

That will be a good project to work on while I'm sprawled across the couch in a food coma.

Wishing all the best to you and yours on this pure and simple day of thanks.

* * * * *

impala trophy, string of lights, side table | target

rug | cost plus world market

christmas cactus | my grandma

banner, dining table | diy

red chair | IKEA

wood chair | been around forever

News Trend Hijab|Actual

Hijab. The covering of the female body from head to toe, with only the face and hands revealed.

Before I met my Malay Muslims, hijab was for me the most irreconcilable of all the differences in Islam.I could not accept that such a restrictive code of dress was reasonable, and honestly, the fact that Muslim women were pressured to dress this way made me angry.

Now, seven years later, I still find hijab to be a bit at odds with my world and my faith. But I'm no longer mad about it. I finally understand why Muslimas dress the way they do, and I can happily accept their way of life

My journey to understanding was not easy or fast, and I did a lot of kicking and screaming along the way. As it turned out, my mind, heart and soul each needed to stretch and grow so that I could accept what hijab truly means.

Headscarf styles vary widely, depending on age, event, and personal sense of style. This bride is rocking a glittery headband over a sheer veil atop a snug lacy headscarf, and the grandmas are totally old school. I personally love them all.

Intellectually, I struggled to understand why Muslim women should spend their lives in shrouds. My heart broke to see the young Muslim girls at our school, wild and free in their childhood, suddenly withdraw from playground games as they grew older and were expected to keep head scarves in place and ankles covered at all times. During our annual trips to the water park, while the Christian girls enjoyed the slides and swimming pools in reasonably modest one-piece swimsuits with board shorts, the Muslim girls either sat around and watched, or jumped into the water, hoodies, jeans, headscarves and all. Emotionally, my heart ached for their loss of freedom and I felt my first pangs of anger at a religion that demands a sacrifice of playfulness for what seemed to me like a never-ending campaign to stamp out their innocent sexuality. And my soul deeply desired that Muslim women could understand the joy and beauty of their own bodies, not hidden away as a secret but confidently shared with the world.

My journey toward understanding began in earnest when I met my Malay Muslims.

I began to ask questions about hijab.

A lot of questions.

And I tried to be tactful but sometimes I was just angry and pestering and persistent.

Why do you wear hijab?

Doesn't it make you angry?

Do you assume western women are all sluts because of how they dress?

Why is it fair that women have to cover from head to toe when men can wear almost anything?

I listened as my new friends patiently explained.

Wearing hijab cuts down on unwanted attention from strange men.

We don't waste as much time and money on our appearance as you Western women do.

Covering up is what we Muslim women do to help our brothers avoid temptation.

Modest dress ensures that rape is not a dilema in our world as it is in yours.

Hijab isn't just for women; men are required to dress modestly and cover their aurat as well.

But my overactive brain picked apart every rationalization offered to me, and my frustration grew.

Until one day, when I was ranting away on the topic to my first and best Malaysian friend, Jurie.

"How would you like it," I demanded, "if you had to wrap yourself from head to toe in cloth every day, never to feel the sun on your arms or the wind in your hair or the waves lapping at your bare legs?"

And he answered in a way I never expected: "If I was a woman, I would be glad to do it because that is what God asks of me."

All my angry push-backs melted away in an instant.

Of course. The Muslim dress code is not an intellectual requirement - it is an act of faith. Muslim women dress as they do for one simple reason - to please God.

And that is a choice that I can truly understand.

The number and variety of headscarves available for sale at Kuala Lumpur's largest pasar malam - night market - will blow your mind. Trust me, I think we looked at each and every one.

When I made my first trip to Malaysia, I couldn't wait to see how hijab habits play out in real life. Do the Muslimas don their headscarves in drudgery, suffering through their public day and yanking them off again in great relief when they return home? Will they be embarrassed and shy to show their hair to me? What will they think of me, with my head brazenly uncovered and my pale American legs bare in the tropical heat?

Now, all Muslim cultures are not the same and that is particularly true when it comes to customs of dress. Malaysian women do not wear the solid black burkas of the Middle East nor the somber tones and heavy fabrics of many American Muslim women.

Like the tropical birds that they are, Malaysian Muslimas cover themselves

in all manner of brilliant colors and bright prints,

intricately folded and ruffled headscarves held in place with bedazzled pins and clips;

high heels flashing under their skirts,

designer handbags on their arms.

Their headscarves are just one more element of their stylish ensembles and honestly, just one more fun reason to go shopping.

And while it's true that my Muslim women friends do usually pull off their headscarves as soon as they walk in the door at the end of the day, they are no more or less eager than I am to kick off my shoes and put on yoga pants. Shaking off their scarves and straightening their pony tails, my friends did not seem to wonder for one moment about what I thought of all this - headscarves are just a part of life, unworthy of comment or consideration.

Did the Malaysians judge or shame me for my code of dress? Well, that's a complicated answer. My friends didn't blink an eye at what I wore, but some members of the older generations did look a bit uncomfortable. Jurie came to my rescue once again, suggesting that I certainly was welcome to wear whatever I wanted, but I might avoid some stares by covering my legs.

That did not offend me. We all respond emotionally to how others dress, and if a woman from the Amazon showed up topless at my house, I would probably offer her a tank top to wear around town.

Sure enough, a pair of leggings worn under my skirt seemed to calm everyone down and that was an emotional response I can truly understand.

My favorite Malaysian playmate sporting her favorite fashion look.

One of the great joys of my visits to Malaysia has been getting to know Jurie's daughter. Aleesya was three when I first met her, sassy and playful and full of high spirits. I silently mourned to see her heading off the preschool dressed in her proper little Muslima uniform complete with a chin-choking headscarf, and I felt sad for what I assumed to be the burden of hijab that her little soul must bear.

One of my happy privileges during my visits has been giving Aleesya her baths. Just as with my own baby girls, this simple task grew into great rituals:

making gravity-defying shampoo hairdos,

playfully dumping buckets of water onto the waterproof floor,

wrapping her up in her towel like a little burrito and singing Rockabye Baby,

powdering every little wrinkle and fold of her sturdy brown body,

and brushing out her tangled hair.

But Aleesya added a special twist of her own. Each time, as I attempted to wrangle her into her fresh clothes, she would put her underwear on top of her head, adjusting it so her face was looking out one of the leg holes, and proudly exclaim, "Tudung!"

Tudung means headscarf.

Oh my gosh. Just as my little girls pulled white socks over their hands and up their arms, pretending they were wearing fancy long gloves, Aleesya was play-acting at being a beautiful woman by donning her underwear tudung.

She did not see the headscarf as an object of oppression. To this little girl, the tudung represents womanly beauty, and she was already itching for a piece of the action.

And that is a sweet dream that I can truly understand.

They don't look too oppressed to me.

Now make no mistake, I am still not quite completely on board with the concept of hijab.

As a westerner, I consider my arms and legs to be fit for public display and will always cringe at the idea of giving up the personal freedom to dress as I like.

And as a Christian, I struggle to wrap my head around the idea that my God is one and the same as the Muslim God, Allah, yet He asks such extraordinarily different things from us.

Those ideas are not likely to change any time soon.

But now, thanks to my Malay friends, I totally understand that Muslim men and women alike view hijab as an obedient response to God's will, and to them, that manner of dress seems acceptable and normal and downright fun.

I'm not mad about hijab any more.

I love and accept my friends' differences without fear or frustration.

And I might just be a fan of the underwear tudung.

News Trend Sacred Traditions|Actual

 Back in the day, we took normal photos of our just-decorated Christmas tree,

but now we're all about the blur-on-purpose.

Christmas at my house has changed a lot in the past couple decades.

Take for example, our traditions around decorating the tree.

This used to be an all-day extravaganza that began with a morning tree-hunt, featured an afternoon intermission in which I put everyone down for naps while my husband wrestled the tree into its stand and lights, then an evening finale in which all six of us chaotically decorated the tree, ate a ritual pizza dinner, and then drank cups of hot cocoa around our lovely finished masterpiece before bed.

That was a lot. I find myself exhausted just thinking about it.

Nowadays, my twenty-something daughters are way chill about the process and we have been able to let go of some of those old, rigid traditions.

We're good with fetching the tree home from the farm and then letting it sit in the garage for a day or two before lugging it into the house to decorate. Gives the spiders more time to crawl away.

My husband has been relieved of his wrestling duties; our fourth-born has infinitely more time and patience for that tedious project and, other than a few times when an extra pair of hands from me when necessary, she likes to single-handedly take on everyone's least favorite part of the job.

Ceremonial pizza dinners are nice but no longer mandatory. Tonight, my homemade macaroni and cheese casserole got the job done very well.

The process of tree decorating involves far less squealing, running, and flinging of tissue paper. I'm not entirely sure that is a good thing. But we do have time to tell each other the old stories behind the ornaments and to breathe, so that's a nice trade-off.

When the next generation of babies rolls in, I'm sure our family tree-trimming traditions will change again, and a more regimented process will likely be reinstated. For now, I must say that I am enjoying the freedom to let our holiday moments drift in whatever direction feels right in the moment.

However, hot cocoa at the end of the evening is still mandatory. Some traditions, it seems, are sacred.

News Trend My Thanksgiving Dinner Plate|Actual

Apple stuffing

flaky biscuit

green bean casserole

turkey

macaroni and cheese

and a dollop of cranberry sauce in the middle

with a toasting flute of sparkling apple cider

served on my grandmother's hand-crocheted tablecloth.

Cheers! Thanksgiving dinner is finally here.

I don't know why I feel compelled to take a photo of my heavily laden Thanksgiving plate each year,

But I do.

Maybe that urge is driven by the many hours were spent preparing the food.

Or the many hands that helped to get it ready.

Or perhaps I'm trying to capture and preserve this food as the symbolic blessings of all the good stuff in my life.

Could be any or all of those things.

The fact remains that I cannot help but pause, after praying and filling my plate, to take that photograph. And I'm talking about a rearrange-the-setting, eliminate-the-weird-shadows, stand-up-on-my-chair kind of photograph.

Clearly, I am not messing around.

So let's raise a toast to my dinner plate and yours, and all the many blessings for which we give thanks.

* * * * *

More Thanksgiving stories!

Festive Garlands: Part One

Pumpkins, Acorns, And A Leaf

Teaching My Own: Talking Turkey

I Will Be Thankful When It's Done

Giving Thanks For Thanksgiving

Giving Thanks For Sly And Soul Train

It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Thanksgiving

Thankful For The Forest

"T" Is For Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving Dinner

Looking Up: Thanksgiving Edition

News Trend Electrifyingly Impactful|Actual

Ninety-nine percent of the time, I hate when people put Christmas lights up before Thanksgiving.

Up until a few days ago, I would have griped about any and all folks who dared to rush past my favorite holiday. We will get to Christmas soon enough, people. No need to take things out of order.

But I have graciously granted an exception to my good neighbors at Electroimpact, who proudly plugged in their nativity display well before Thanksgiving weekend.

^ A hulking, cavernous industrial building is lurking in the shadows, its white rectangular sign barely visible at the base of the shimmering star. The nativity characters - more or less life-size - line up along a sidewalk that runs downhill, which is why they look all tilted.

It's all part of the Electroimpact-y charm, and this is just one scene on a street full of their decorations.

                                                                       * * * * *

Wait a minute, you're thinking. Electro-whatty-did-you-say?

Two miles from my house, on a street of light industrial businesses, stands the main campus of Electroimpact. Jam packed with delightfully geeky design engineers, this is a business that makes tools for building things. Big things. Like, say, airplanes. And considering that Boeing's final assembly plant, where wide-body 747s, 767s, 777s and 787s come together, is also in my back yard, this all makes plenty of sense.

Now why, you might ask, is a class of tech nerds so pumped up about getting their Christmas on?

I don't honestly know but therein lies my fascination. Finding myself drawn to their perplexingly eager holiday spirit - not to mention that impressively towering star - I can't help but love what the guys have done to the place.

[Side note: I'm sure Electroimpact is a equal-opportunity employer, offering jobs to both genders and all races. But my empirical observation (I drive through the campus at least two times a day) is the company employs a never-ending stream of tall, skinny white guys with bad beards and fleece jackets.]

So carry on, my brothers; I applaud your sincere if a tad early efforts to ring in the Christmas spirit.

Your impact on my holiday mood is, umm, electrifying.