First Day of School

The sun comes up on this momentous morning in golden pink rays over the Rockies, and the Spirit whispers in my ear, “This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.” I swallow the lump in my throat and thank him.

Because a second ago I’d been staring at those same Rocky Mountains, thinking how they represented another layer of geographical barriers separating me from where I want to be. Over there. Across an ocean. And in a classroom with a herd of Middle Schoolers as today is the first day of school at BFA.

And I know I’m where I should be as I grab my journal and head into Day 3 of my Debrief Retreat. It’s been good to tell stories and reflect on questions of the heart; I trust the voices of these counselors who have known me for nearly 20 years. I can lay out all the options I’m considering for my future: sunrises in the Forest, birds in flight over the Steppe, or cohorts of school leaders eager to grow. In those places, this too is the day the Lord has made.

I’m grateful that the one who holds the mountains and oceans and rivers in between also holds my placement and timing as well. Pray for me as I make decisions about what is ahead. :-)

Thick Skins, Soft Hearts

I absolutely love a good storm. I’m talking constant lighting, loud thunder, and rain so hard on the roof that all conversation has to cease. I’m sitting in one of those right this very minute. As I watch the sky darken and think about how grateful I am I did not go on my planned 5-mile walk an hour ago, it strikes me how both disruptive and non-disruptive such a storm can be.

You can’t ignore it. People are closing garage doors and kids are summoned, told to grab bikes and skateboards on the way in. Laundry is torn off the lines as quickly as possible, and everyone comments on the storm, from little Sam’s “It raining hard” to my own “Oooh, did you see that lightning bolt!?”

And yet, as twin sister Georgia says, “We come inside. We safe” in her adorable 3-year-old accent, it’s just as true that we can shelter ourselves pretty well from the impact of most kinds of deluge these days. This particular storm can’t touch us, not really. Unless hail damages the borrowed car, the threat will eventually pass, and no one will think of it again.

Insulation from the happenings of “out there” can actually be fairly healthy. If we were to be constantly exposed and vulnerable to every harmful event that came to our lives, we’d collapse from exhaustion pretty quickly. And yet (you knew this was coming), I can’t help but question the extent to which our insulation turns into isolation and we no longer let any chaos in.

There’s a whole gamut between everything and nothing. I’m struggling to learn how to talk wisely and to be informed about injustice in my country. An old friend lost her roof in the Iowa storms this week. I’ve watched with tears the aftermath of the explosion in Beirut where two little girls, who once frolicked around my house, live. The stories just beginning to pour out of Belarus fill me with a sense of foreboding dread. There are nights (like Tuesday) where my mind just won’t stay quiet. And there’s good in that, too. Don't get me wrong; nobody likes sleepless nights. But while I don’t want to get into the habit of justifying all my decisions, declaring what I keep out and what I let in to be the right choices, I do want to be mindful to never veer too far to one side. I strive not to be easily shaken by the disruptions of this world while also acknowledging them as potential life-altering events. Just because it’s not my life doesn’t make it insignificant. Thick skins and soft hearts - that’s a plea I often make to my Middle School students and sometimes need to preach back to myself.

It’s starting to get lighter outside, and the cul-de-sac is filled with puddles that I’m thinking of inviting Thorsen and Eva to go splash in with me. Time to turn off the news for this day and relinquish all the stories - even mine - to God.

an after-rain walk