Equality with Man

The flame was dancing on the table in the early morning light. Our plates were pushed back with nothing on them but pumpkin muffin crumbs, courtesy of Paige, and maybe a greasy stained napkin from the bacon Ellen had brought. It was the time of our weekly Prayer Breakfast when Bibles were opened and we moved toward the goal of our gathering.

Harrison was praying from Philippians 2. And do you know that feeling when you’re listening to someone speak and they start down a familiar phrase, so your brain already tunes in to what you expect to hear? But then the person changes it? I was primed and ready to hear “Thank you that you didn’t consider equality with God something to be grasped,” and instead what Harrison said was, “Thank you that you didn’t consider equality with man something to be avoided.”

My brain stopped. It’s the same thing but totally different, right?

There’s still the acknowledgment that Jesus sacrificed a lot for the incarnation, but the new wording forces my brain to shift view points. There is so much about being human that Jesus probably wanted to avoid: the physical limitation, the imperfection of our bodies, the relational messiness, the pointless political squabbles, the family dramas, the let-downs of close friends, the lack of generosity around resources, the racism and corrupt justice systems, and a broken spirit - to name just a few. If anyone had perfection at his fingertips and could look at humanity from an outside perspective, would he willingly choose it?

Jesus did. What a humbling, magnificent thought this Christmas. His rescue plan involved a level of sacrifice I will never understand until I can see with my own eyes just what he gave up, but I can know a tiny fraction, across time and culture, of what he entered into. And I’m grateful he did.

a mini reenactment of that incarnation moment in MS Chapel last week

Jesus the Shame-Remover

I flung off the poncho and heard one student gasp audibly as all the “sins” I’d been covering suddenly became visible on my black vest. I was pleased that I had actually managed to walk around the last half hour of school with papers pinned all over me and no one knew. But then the funniest thing happened: even though I had been building up my Chapel talk to this moment, talking about my personal struggle with perfection and the need to hide my sins from the world, and even though I knew what was coming next, I suddenly felt that familiar shame. The kids could read all these sins all over me, and they would associate them with me. I had to resist the urge to reach up my hands and cover the vest. Just stick to the script, I told myself.

Forcing myself to read slowly and not rush, I shared the story from Zechariah 3, about Joshua the high priest who also stood before the Lord with filthy clothes. It had been a meaningful discovery in Scripture to me back in college and had become so again this fall as I saw similarities to the story of Edmund in our play (see previous posts). Excitedly, I got to the part where the angel removes Zechariah’s dirty garments and gives him clean, pure ones instead. I unzipped my black vest covered in sins and removed it before pulling out my white one with a single piece of paper pinned to it that read “Jesus.” When I actually put on the Jesus vest, two students clapped, and I laughed. I truthfully felt more free than I had just a moment before.

Then I introduced the idea of diffraction glasses. According to Galatians 3:27, I had actually “put on” Christ and was wearing him as clothes now, and the main idea I wanted my students to take away was that God now sees Jesus when he looks at me. Talk about no longer needing to live in that shame! Just as diffraction glasses are imprinted with some kind of image that then lets you then see that image everywhere you look, so God looks at me with Jesus-imprinted glasses. I am now fully IN Christ. One girl’s forehead actually wrinkled. So there was nothing to do but let them try it out for themselves.

My colleagues helped pass out the glasses, and students looked up at the ceiling where twinkle lights had been hung in preparation for the Christmas banquet. “Whoa, I see hearts everywhere!” a student exclaimed. 

I only hope that when the glasses are long broken and in the trash, the truth of Scripture writes itself deeply on the hearts of these kids whom I love - that to trade garments with Christ not only brings ultimate release from the perfection struggle, but that they can live fully “in Christ,” clean and pure and shining with a Jesus-shaped ring around them.

Diffraction glasses and my Christmas tree

An Offering on the Stage

 The craziness in the room was almost deafening. 36 nervous Middle Schoolers were scattered, some playing patty-cake, some yelling lines at each other, some taking selfies on their phones, and others floating from corner to corner, unable to sit still. The director and I eyed each other across the mayhem, our silent cries for help audible only to each other. The show was supposed to open in 25 minutes, and there was no way we could send the cast backstage in this state.

Fortunately, that very morning I had re-read my favorite scene from the book, The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe and had thrown it into my bag along with my book of liturgies that happened to have a "Prayer before Taking the Stage." It didn't seem like this was really the ideal moment, but I decided to give it a try. Pulling up the high stool, I set myself on it and began to help those nearest to me quiet down. Eventually the calm rippled all the way to the corners, and I had a captive audience that I knew would likely last only 3 minutes. I set up the scene quickly and launched into the chapter where we see the Witch demand the blood that is rightfully hers, and Aslan offer himself in Edmund's place.

"Guys," I said, "we get to tell a really powerful story tonight - THE most powerful story. It's Jesus' story, and I'm so grateful for the hours you've poured in already. Let's lay this production on the stage like an offering to him." And with that I knew my 3 minutes were coming to an end. "Before I pray this liturgical prayer, I just want to open it up to 2-3 of you to pray. You can thank Jesus for what he's done and how far we've made it, or pray for all of us as we tell his story. I'll close us out."

We had barely closed our eyes before the first kid launched into his prayer, heartfelt and sweet, overflowing in gratitude. His "amen" was instantly followed by a second voice, asking Jesus to be pleased by our performance. She paused to take a breath and was cut off by a third student, begging God that everyone would remember lines and cues. That "amen" was picked up by a fourth and then a fifth. Prayer after prayer flowed from the hearts of these Middle Schoolers. Everyone could feel the Spirit was moving; it was a holy moment. The rocks had no need to cry out this night as the children did. Somewhere around the 15th student, I made eye contact with the director again, although this time through somewhat blurry eyes. We smiled but then both checked our watches. It felt wrong to cut them short, but we were supposed to be backstage in 5 minutes at this point. I took a deep breath and prayed the "Prayer before Taking the Stage," meaning every syllable.

And then we did. We took the stage and left an offering. 

And God is still moving.

Just today, an 8th grader launched a Bible study for his class, something he felt compelled to do after the play ended. He wanted to see more of Jesus' story in community with his classmates. Another mom came up to share about how they were singing a worship song on Sunday that said "the king of love had given up his life - the darkest day in history," when her children leaned over and said "Like Aslan?" What a gift to be invited into THE greatest story of all time.

Pic Credits: Yearbook Class

Purposeful Storms

The lightning flashed and was instantly followed by the thunder, confirming what we already knew: that the storm was directly above our heads. The sides of the tent flapped harshly, and suddenly we all gasped as the projector screen tipped in slow motion toward Debbie’s head. By the grace of God, she took a step forward in that moment, and it missed her completely. Still, we decided it was time to take a break. With squeals like little children, half of our group sprinted across the sopping grass toward the safety of the house while the rest of us tiptoed around the tent, unplugging extension cords and trying to lift things away from the ground. It was a comical scene.

Once we were all tightly squeezed into the living room and everyone had found a chair (one doesn’t sit on the floor in Africa if it can be avoided), we passed around towels to dry off heads and feet. “No Internet,” someone sighed, and one by one, everyone put away our phones. Cathy brought in hot water for tea since the temperature had plummeted (by African standards). While Brian restarted routers and plugged his computer into the television for our 3:00 zoom appointment with our boss two continents away, the conversation level in the room steadily grew. At first we were all laughing at the storm’s force and timing, but then we were comparing notes and speaking about all the challenges our program was facing in our countries.

The Internet returned just in time, and Gavin’s picture was surprisingly crisp. He spoke of what it means to be an innovator and maintain the vision of our high calling in our minds. He encouraged hearts and spoke of a future in which children from many nations would transform their worlds because they had received a solid education, and we couldn’t help but nod along with hope.

We ended the call simultaneously with the rain. The sun returned, and people unfolded themselves from their chairs, returned mugs to the kitchen, and meandered back outside. Brian wrapped up the cable from his computer to the television and smiled. “That was such a clear and strong connection! I was worried it wouldn’t work.” Mikki nodded. “It helped that we were inside and everyone was off their devices.” From the other side of the room, Debbie laughed. “Just like God to send a storm right when we needed it.”

Grace and I laughing as we huddle in the middle of the tent,
chairs blown over in the background!

Why does he get to win?

Sitting with all my muscles tense, I was suddenly aware that I had been holding my breath. I had good reason to be. A skunk had emerged and was squatting near a squirrel, its gaze nervously flitting about. Strangely the two beavers nearby didn’t acknowledge either animal as they stood shoulder to shoulder, not quite holding hands, but with the same worried expression. They were watching as a sudden chill came upon the unicorn and centaur, freezing them in place after being touched by the witch’s wand. Now her attention had moved past the bear toward the beavers, and she was bearing down upon them. At the last minute, however, Edmund Pevensie broke her wand! So while the animals still all fell to the hags and ogres and ghouls, at least they weren’t being turned to stone. Then in all his resurrected glory, the lion entered from Stage Left and brought salvation for his kingdom as he took down the witch and restored life to the animals. Victory!

If you couldn’t tell, the Middle School is hard at work on its production of C.S. Lewis’ The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, set to open on November 3rd (eek!). I’m having a blast helping students rehearse their lines and choreograph battle scenes. Last week we were moving at quarter speed through this particular scene in which 24 Middle School actors will be on stage at the same time - with weapons no less! Precision and placement are vital, so it was necessary to repeat the movements multiple times. 

The young man playing Peter Pevensie was getting a bit dizzy as his sword clashes with the White Witch kept ending in his twirling out of the way so that Aslan could take her out in a manner convincing to the audience, yet safe for the young actress playing her. At one point Peter stumbled out of the way again only to stand up and put his hands on his hips. “It isn’t fair,” he proclaimed.

“What’s not fair?” our director asked.

“I spend this whole time fighting her and am the one memorizing all the moves, but then I just have to get out of the way, and Aslan gets to win.”

There was an awkward pause before the director responded with a chuckle. “He’s Jesus. Of course he gets to win!”

It’s possible the young man rolled his eyes, but there were enough “Oooh, rights” from the animals that made this moment significant. Jesus does get to win. Any victory we imagine to be our own is only made possible because of him. It’s not just that he swoops in at the last moment and deals the final blow; no, he was the lamb slain before the foundation of the world. If his resurrection hadn’t been assured before his death even started, we wouldn’t stand a chance. Our pathetic battles would be pointless. The reality of his ultimate victory heightens the joy of theater for me: that our tiny play would get to echo the grand gospel story. I only pray his “always getting to win” draws the hearts of my students closer to Jesus.

yet another play practice where Aslan wins ;-)

Peter the Disciple

 I got to guest write a blog for WorldVenture. The prompt was, "What if Jesus' disciples wrote newsletters home to their supporters while they were following Jesus?" I got to pretend to be Peter. 

Fishbowl

Yep: a fishbowl. That’s how the BFA community is often described: A bubble which might be easy to swim and out of, but while you’re in it, you’ll be watched constantly. You can’t go anywhere, eat anything, date anyone without everybody knowing. With only two grocery stores in town, every student is likely to know your purchases within an hour, and as my own house is across the river from the doctor’s, I all too often see when my colleagues enter and exit that place. Forget medical privacy rights. Recently it was the actual doctor’s office which, while I was translating for my friend, let slip her pregnancy. Surprise!

Over the years I’ve watched different people handle the fishbowl in different ways, whether by sheltering their private life so very much that regular work hours were honestly the only times I saw them. Others have chosen the opposite route and keep nothing private. Not going to lie - sometimes that is quite awkward. Some have had to leave the community sooner than planned, and others couldn’t even bring themselves to consider moving here. "How do you recharge if you can never escape?" they ask.

Maybe I’m an anomaly, a beta fish who settles too easily for cheap tricks inside my bubble, but I love living the tight-knit community life. It’s comforting to me to see the mother of my student also trying to figure out which yogurt to purchase now that prices have gone up, to run into a visiting alum at the local town festival, to get a ride from my colleague’s husband - who happens to also plays bass at my church and the dad to four former students - to the mechanic three villages over. It’s what so many refer to as “life on life.” The divide between professional and personal, between spiritual and secular, is microscopically thin, and I LOVE it.

To me, it’s a foretaste of heaven - where we are forced to be vulnerable with each other because there’s no hiding it anyway and we can’t remember what the point was to all the secrets. Maybe I've been luckier than most. I have found that I can share the worst of me, and I have still been loved. It keeps me honest, humble, and engaged. My small group girls could appear around the corner at any moment, and what message will I communicate to them? Am I living in an authentic way? I’m not saying the fishbowl is for everyone, but I am saying I’ve made my home in one and I won’t be trading it for a giant tank anytime soon.

Community eating together at local town festival (pic credit: BFA's Facebook account)

Neighbors

Every so often the neighbor to my north comes home on a Saturday from her family farm with a trunk full of produce. Admittedly this is one of the few positive things about summer. When my timing is just right, and she thrusts a giant zucchini or 17 ripe tomatoes or a bushel of carrots at me, I get just a little bit giddy envisioning time in my kitchen. With my new blender, I can make salsa, and while most of the zucchini will end up in bread, there’s still plenty to make a delicious veggie stir fry with the 5 funky shaped carrots. My neighbor to the north is truly a lovely human being who delights me with her gifts.

Every so often the neighbor to my south has a really bad cancer day. I felt gut-punched this weekend when I could see her through the opaque glass of her bathroom, her head clearly leaned back and resting on the window. That in itself wasn’t the hard part; it was the fact that when I happened to glance over half an hour later, she was still there. And another hour after that as well. Her battle has been long fought, and she has kept high spirits for as long as she can, but some days are exhausting.

Every so often the northern zucchini bread needs to go to one’s southern neighbors.

Memorializing

Halfway into the 3-minute Introduction video, I already had tears rolling down my cheek. “Great,” I thought, “Why am I doing this?!” The screen went black, and before I could bolt, the lady from the front desk was opening the sliding door to the gardens, pointing me to a big #1 sign, and showing me how to start the Audio Guide hanging limply around my neck. A somber voice came on, “Welcome to the Kigali Genocide Memorial.”

In 1994, when the 100-day Rwandan genocide took place, I was 13 - old enough grasp that something significant was occurring, but young enough to not really comprehend the scale of this global atrocity. With my barely adolescent mind, the person I remember identifying with the most was a fellow MK who, I overheard, had been sitting in the front seat of the car when her parents high-tailed it for the border, and she saw everything. I didn’t know what that word meant when it was said in such hushed tones, but it sounded bad.

The Audio Guide directed me into the museum portion of the Memorial where I learned precisely what the everything was. I willed myself to go slowly, to read the posters about Hutus, Tutsis, and colonizers, to listen to the recordings on politics and propaganda, to watch the interviews of survivors asking “why” over and over, to absorb the reality that the bodies in the pictures had been real humans. And I grieved for what my fellow TCK had witnessed. I walked past remnants of clothes and toys that are still being retrieved from muddy fields. The humor of the flamboyant 90’s style was overshadowed by the memory that, unlike the Holocaust in my own beloved land, this genocide had happened in my lifetime. Truly it could happen again.

When I reached the Children’s Room, the unraveling began more fully. Through blinking tears, I read about the personalities of 2- and 5-year-olds as well as how they died until I felt an overwhelming need for fresh air. I practically ran out and straight into the gardens where I sat and sobbed for a moment. I spotted a number and somewhat mechanically typed it into the Audio Guide, and the heaviness on my chest began to lift slightly as I listened to the beautiful intentionality behind some of the garden designs. The rose garden with the jagged paths, the forest where baby trees were planted in the hopes that they will still be around for multiple generations, the garden that is the resting place of more than 250,000 victims. My favorites were the three layered ones on the hillside that allowed a river to flow through the Garden of Unity to the Garden of Disunity to the Garden of Reconciliation.

Later that night as my gracious hosts and I ate dinner on their rooftop, watching the sky fade from yellow to dark blue, they listened to me debrief and make comparisons to my visit of a Holocaust concentration camp back home. It would be so much easier to remain in ignorant innocence, but I’m grateful for the times when harsh reality crashes into my fairly easy life, calling me to empathize and to memorialize. Reminding me of the frailty of the gift we call life and the eternity of the gift we call the gospel.

Garden of Disunity

Before and after sunset

The Delight of Seeing

Several of you might know that this summer I walked my 3rd Camino. It wasn’t necessarily the primary goal to walk it again, but when Karen and I decided to spend part of summer hiking, and when we both picked Portugal as our top destination of the ones available to us, it only made sense to select 400 km of the Portuguese Camino from Coimbra, Portugal to Santiago, Spain. :-) To me, it was actually flatter, easier, and overall more comfortable of a walk than the previous two in northern Spain, barring the fact that Europe is breaking heat records everywhere. (Sleep tends to elude me on hot nights.) But the highlight was once again in the people.

There were Roberto and Enrico, my two Italian dads who watched over me the first week until Karen could join. The albergue host Carlos Rios, who talked a mile a minute and had 24 years’ worth of stories on the Camino. David, whose skills as a physical therapist were called on nearly every night to deal with aching feet or sore shoulders. Viki, to whom the waters of the Atlantic were never too cold for a quick afternoon swim. And of course dear, sweet Ildiko, who became our steadfast companion and shared our room, meal, and life beyond just the walking.

It was she who brought to life the chapter on “Seeing” I had read by Annie Dillard in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. Dillard’s challenge is to be more mindful at noticing the small things that pass you in life and could so easily go unnoticed. Actually, it’s more than just seeing them; it’s about taking joy in them. I’m not sure of Dillard’s faith in the slightest, but her chapter resonated with the Spirit inside of me, whispering of how God is glorified when I enjoy his creation. This practice came naturally to Ildeko. We’d walk around the corner, and you could hear her breath catch as she sighted an iguana sun-bathing on a rock or relished the sound of the waves. Regularly she’d reach to the ground, crush something green like mint or rosemary between her fingers, and then hold her fingers up to her nose for the next kilometer. Once she stopped in a small pine forest to take in the stillness of no cars or beachy tourists and to perceive all manner of bird calls and squirrels. There is so much I would’ve missed without her.

I’ve only just started reading Cold Tangerines by Shauna Niequist, but after spending two weeks being shown how to “see,” I was arrested by Niequist’s back cover blurb: I want my everyday to make God … glad that he gave life to someone who loves the gift.” That’s exactly it! Why it mattered that my new friend, Ildeko, was calling attention to beauty. She was creating in me a gratitude at getting to witness that beauty, an appreciation for being present on the Camino. And I couldn’t help but see God’s fingerprints all over, which in turn caused me to delight in him. Worship. Perhaps this is the real reason why this third trek to Santiago felt easier than the other two. How can I be the kind of person who uses ordinary, everyday beauties to call forth worship? I'm still learning.

free oranges a lady gave me

my two Italian dads

pretty door

with Karen in Porto

lovely flowers

church chandelier

Ildiko makes us laugh with her fake mustache

from Ildiko's camera lens (used with permission)

We made it!

The Power of Place (and People)

 In my last entry, the picture I shared from our 8th grade trip to Nuremberg was actually taken in the middle of Hitler's unfinished Kongresshalle, the location intended to be the heart of Nazi Party legislation for his Third Reich. The outside is massively impressive and the inside an unfinished mess. I'll spare you that obvious analogy because I instead want to talk about the power of place.

In addition to the Kongresshalle and Documentation Center, we took the kids to the Zeppelin Field, where the massive seats and podium still stand and you can actually stand in the same spot where Hitler gave his speeches during the Nazi Party Rallies of 1937 and 1938. 

     

Zeppelin Field - then and now

Most of our kids were eager to stand on that dais, either with a triumphal arrogance over Hitler's failure in history or mere bragging rights when they got home to their parents. But my heart went out to the lone student who stayed away. Having lived in Germany all his life, he felt the power of the place we were standing in.

Because places do have power. We see its origin in Genesis with the Garden of Eden. Then Abraham is led to the Promised Land, to which Yahweh has to lead his descendants again through Moses after the Exodus. We can read as God sets ups his own dwelling place in a chosen spot, from the Tabernacle to the Temple in Jerusalem - a city that itself becomes a location beloved by many psalmists. Even Jesus weeps over this place. And in a way I'm jealous! I want to stand in a spot and to be able to declare: here is where God lives! To join the Psalmist of 84 "setting my heart on a pilgrimage" or rejoicing with the people in Psalm 122 who said "let's go to the house of the Lord."

Today, June 15, we end another year at Black Forest Academy, a place where 65 school years have passed before us and - we certainly hope - more are yet to come. I was sitting in the Auditorium a few weeks ago and reflecting on how that particular room held so many memories for me:

• the first graduation I witnessed in 2000 when we picked up Andi after his freshman year
• passing the microphone in a huge staff circle my first year teaching in 2009
• hiding backstage for 10 drama productions, mostly trying to keep 25 Middle Schoolers quiet
• crying with my friends, the Crooks, has they mourned the passing of their 1-month-old Jacalyn
• praying earnestly with a student for God's healing in his life only to witness it happening
• worshiping God as my brother spoke at Spiritual Emphasis Week
• and so many more

The Auditorium might not hold the same meaning for everyone, and that's when it began to dawn on me: places become significant because of who is in them.

Old Testament prophet Ezekiel is often connected with the Temple because of his many chapters of measurements. He's the same guy who also spoke on behalf of Yahweh when he recorded, "I will give you a new heart, and a new spirit I will put within you. ... You shall dwell in the land that I gave to your fathers, and you shall be my people, and I will be your God" (Ezekiel 36:26-28). It's the start of the promise that God's presence will move beyond the location of the Temple, fulfilled in John 1:14 when "the Word became flesh and dwelt (= tabernacled) among us." First among us, and then, after Acts 2, inside of us. I've referenced this term before, too, but it's as if we became Little Mobile Temples.

I love that. I reminds me that when I'm face to face with a brother or sister in Christ, I'm also in the presence of Yahweh, dwelling both in me and them. I'm not sure if it's okay to refer to fellow Christians as sacred places, but Peter seems to do it in 1 Peter 2:5 when he calls us "living stones being built up as a spiritual house." It teaches me that while it's okay to love certain places, I'm called, even commanded, to love people, especially my siblings in Christ. They are habitations of God's Spirit, the fulfillment of promises made to Abraham and Ezekiel, living stones with hearts of flesh. Together, we are made significant because of who is in us! The fulfillment of my desire to say "Here is where God lives!"

Unity in the Slide

The noise was deafening, but I could hear our student giggles over it all. Boys were yelling “The blue one! The blue one! Miss Custer, get up here to the front!” I hoisted the inner tube above my head, swallowed my pride, and shoved my swimsuit-clad self down the center of the four lines. Since it was a holiday, everyone in Karlsruhe had apparently had the idea to come to the swimming pool. 

The entire 8th grade class stood at the wide entrance of the biggest slide, several with inner tubes in hand. One of them took charge. “Miss Custer and her tube up front, three of you grab her hand and make a chain. Then quick, Miss Kubanek, you’re next; then three more kids.” Germans stared as we did our best to make a train chain with our entire group, completely thrilled at the awesomeness of our idea. A sudden lurch, and the crush of 15 people behind me tipped my inner tube over the edge; with a squeal of anticipation, we were off.

I swirled and spun, four 8th grade hands all gripping my tube or hand or foot as I clung to one of theirs. We passed through a dark section that took us on a sharp left turn, and I lost Sam’s grip as he floated away ahead of the rest of us. “Nooooooo,” a student shouted dramatically and attempted to push off the wall, hurling us into a free spin just as we passed under the strobe lights. Everything looked eerily like a disco dance party, the music our laughter. We caught Sam again, and he clutched at the tube. Glancing over my shoulder, I could see the chain had come apart in several sections, but still I could make out the whole group, and my heart swelled.

After two years of cancellations, this was the first 8th grade trip we had been able to have, and even so it had to change from its original destination to be much closer to home. Several colleagues had given up part of their Easter break to scout some sites and options and figure out the right balance of learning and fun. Then there was the anxiety of heading out with this particular class, not exactly a united group of friends - not that any class is ever perfect, but this one seemed to have more clashes than I was used to seeing. And yet the week had gone so much better than I could’ve anticipated: respectful listening to tour guides, a giant game of 4-on-the-couch, even a somber bonfire sing-along. This frozen moment, 12 students and 4 teachers suspended in a giant water slide, all reaching for one another with wide grins on their faces, it was a scene I wanted to imprint.

The darkness gave way to light and we were all unceremoniously spit out into the reception pool at the bottom, a crowd of locals vying for our inner tubes. We relinquished them and turned to each other, spluttering and laughing. “That was fantastic!” “I lost Luke!” “Did you make faces under the strobe lights like me?” Some headed off to repeat the blue slide while others split up to try the green and yellow ones. The shared moment dissipated, but the point was never that it lasted forever, rather that it happened at all.

2 days earlier at the Documentation Center in Nuremberg

Grandpa

 

Apparently, when I drive, I check my rearview mirror a lot. I don’t know what “a lot” is. I just know that when I was learning to drive, my driving instructor - Grandpa - taught me to look up to that little mirror often, and it stuck.

I still remember the oppressive heat of that Nebraska summer. I was 15 and hadn’t really wanted to come back to America for three months, not when all my friends would be swimming at Millstätter Lake and my best friend was going to be at camp without me. Perhaps I didn’t show it much on the outside, but my heart was resentful as we started off that summer. I complained to my Mom that the extended family just didn’t get me or our life. In her practical way, she replied “Then get to know them and their life.” The only consolation of the summer seemed to be that I would get to learn how to drive. So here we were, the Grandpa I felt I didn’t know very well and me, sitting in the minivan in the vacant Anselmo-Merna High School parking lot with the air conditioning blasting our faces. 

“All right, ease her into drive with your foot on the brake.”

I followed his instructions and was elated to feel the car roll into motion as I slowly released the brake. Excitedly I pushed down on the accelerator, which caused us to jump, then of course quickly removed my foot again which caused us to jerk back to a near standstill. Grandpa’s whole frame and lurched back, then forward, and he braced himself on the dashboard.

“Sorry.” I muttered.

He laughed. “It’s what I expected.”

Proving himself to be a patient coach, he worked me up to multiple smooth circles around the gravel lot. Finally he declared I was ready for the open road and directed me out onto the road.

“Check your rearview mirror,” he said, and I chuckled. There was no one else at the parking lot but us. “You’ll be surprised how often someone sneaks up behind you, and it’s your job to be aware of your surroundings.”

I thought we’d drive for about 20 minutes, but he led me on a trek all over Custer county, calling out turns, sometimes with lots of time to plan and sometimes last minute to see how I’d respond. At one point, he turned off the A/C and rolled down the windows so we could take in the dusty summer air and smell all that “money” (which my brother insisted was poop). I ventured to ask him about some of the towns we drove through, and he had a story for each and every one, and together they started to paint a picture of a Grandpa who loved adventure and nature. Perhaps we had more in common than I thought. And don’t you know he told me to check my rear view so much until it became rote. 

When we rolled back into the driveway of the Merna home he lived in for over 40 years, I turned off the ignition, pulled out the keys, and handed them to him. “Thanks for the lesson, Grandpa,” I said. He reached over and put a hand on my shoulder. “I love you, sweetie.” I’m sure he had said those words before, but it’s my first definite memory of him verbalizing them.

The summer I was 17 we were all in Oregon for a while. My driving had become smoother, and I remember one day the family let me take the wheel for the excursion to the coast. Grandpa regaled us with stories of his logging days, so much so that I was enthralled at one point and missed the giant semi that had pulled all the way up on my rear and clearly wanted me to go faster. When he laid on the horn, I nearly jumped out of my skin. "Ah, forgot to check your rearview mirror, didn't you," Grandpa chuckled, before sticking his arm out the open window and breathing in the fresh Oregon sea air. "I love me a good road trip," he sighed.

10 days ago, I facetimed with him for the last time before his passing on May 6th. He was in a hospital bed with tubes coming every which way out of his chest, hands, and even face. Breathing was difficult, so our conversation was kept to a minimum, but I was able to tell him how much I loved him and thanked him for being my Grandpa. As my aunt got ready to move the phone away, he whispered something that I didn’t catch. “What?” I asked, wanting to catch his last words to me. Aunt Janet held the phone closer and prompted him to repeat himself. He took a deep breath: “See you down the road.”

last in-person visit, summer 2021

Sufficiency of Singleness

 

“Where are your kids?” the little girl with the bouncy blond curls asked from her brother’s back.

“I don’t have any.” I replied with a smile.

“Why not?” her brow furrowed in confusion.

“Well, I’m not married, for one.”

Her jaw dropped. “Why ever not?!”

Her brother, sensing this was generally an inappropriate line of questioning, quickened his pace to get away from me, which left one of my friends to make eye contact with me. “No husband? What’s wrong with you!” she kidded, and I laughed.

It felt good to be able to laugh about my singleness. My experience is that it is such a tricky topic, even in the time I wasn’t actively “struggling” with it, I still didn’t broach the subject often. I certainly didn’t laugh about it. It makes people too uncomfortable. If they’re married, they generally don’t know how to process it well with me, and if they’re single, it too often turned into either a vent fest (Woe is me!) or a bash party (Why won’t people leave me alone?).

Years ago, in a period of longing, I asked the Lord that if I was going to stay single for life, or even just for a very lengthy time, that he would give me contentment. And truly, I believe he has. My singleness rarely feels like a burden, and on those 5 days in the year when it does, He shows up for me in a different way. (If I’m able to perceive it.) I’ve been able to experience a joyous intimacy with friends over the years, even without a sexual component, and I’ve been gifted with a ministry that satisfies. Whenever someone has said, “I’d love for you to be happily married” (usually Grandma), my standard response has been “ I am happy, but that’s not my ultimate aim anyway.” Ultimately, I am not missing out on anything of lasting value by being single. The gospel says so.

Sam Allberry’s book 7 Myths about Singleness (which I recommend to everyone, regardless of marital status) has the tagline “If marriage shows us the shape of the gospel, singleness shows us its sufficiency.” Oh man, do I love that. The more I’ve reflected on the sufficiency of the gospel, the more I recognize I need it in every area of my life, not just my singleness. I need the gospel's “enoughness” in my teaching, my finances, my play time, my writing, my relationships, my pain, my prayer life, even my sleep. I want the gospel to become infused into every part of my life. And truly, it’s a gift that my singleness not only highlighted my need, but became the doorway to seeing it over and over again: I need Jesus.

Solo Hike last week

A Passover Poem

 Psalm 118:24, Matthew 26:26-30

Carefully braided candlelight
shadows dusty men
licking breadcrumbs from their fingers
Clueless but celebrating

Four sparkling cups of wine
– To history, legacy, promise, future –

Communion of companions:
  Twelve travelers dreaming
– of money, honor, power, redemption –
Crowning the Chosen One

He who now breaks bread
reciting lines written for him by ancestors
Courageous in his contradiction
Hear him sing: “This is the day –
let us rejoice and be glad in it.”

Maundy Thursday, 2015

Merging Stories

“It won’t stay on my head,” I whisper to Ellen as I try surreptitiously to pull the headscarf back up higher, succeeding only in pushing hair into my face. How had the others all tied it? And how are they sitting so perfectly with their knees tucked under them? I squirm as softly as I can, shifting to a new position. My movement brings the attention of our B____ hostess who gestures at the tablecloth on the floor before us, filled to the edges with tea, naan bread, shredded carrots, pickled roots, Russian candy, wafer cookies, and liver. “She says ‘Eat,’” our friend translates. “I figured,” I smile back, mustering up the gratitude in my heart for getting to be here. I drink a big gulp of tea and hold a chunk of liver and naan in my hand for a while, as I had been coached, only shoving it in my mouth when I am prompted to eat again. It’s a pattern. 

Sitting around the table on the plush mats with the flower designs are four women from a people group with an estimated 4,000 members worldwide. My mind still cannot fully comprehend what that low number means - for a language, a culture, the next generation. Their origin is shrouded in such mystery that they don’t even know for sure where their ancestors came from, but they seem mostly content living here on the edge of a former Soviet city at the foot of the mountains. Out the window we can see the shell of the home one of the women is building with her husband, and her two sons who come in and out of our room are all smiles. These five women are actually more than content, for they have found a hope that will outlast even the extinction of their people group.

Our friend opens the Scriptures to Mark 9 and begins to read at v.14, and the women lean in. The baby girl with the massive eyes starts to fuss a little and is passed around from one lap to the next, but she doesn’t deter their focus from the story they are hearing of Jesus healing a demon-possessed boy. They nod because they know. They have faced oppression of many kinds, legal, physical, communal, spiritual, and they too have found Jesus to be stronger and worth it all. 

The liver in my hand is heavy and cold, and I work to tuck it under the rim of the teacup while I marvel at the faith of these beautiful people. As the discussion of the passage comes to end and we move toward prayer, our hostess points to Ellen and me to start. Following their example, I hold out my hands before me, palms up, while my mind races, “Do I have adequate words?” Thankfully Ellen goes first and in her prayer reminds me that this story we’re living in our vastly separate worlds is not the end. In fact, they will merge. One day I will hug these women again, and we will speak the same language, and they will no longer have dreams that frighten or neighbors who want to stop their building projects or children who cannot get medical treatment. Truly they are my sisters in Christ, the completion of all our stories. 

The men join in for the final prayer of blessing, and I manage to escape having eaten only two bites of liver. I shrug up my headscarf again, searching my pockets for a bobby pin, as we are passed from hug to hug next to the car. One of them holds me close and speaks words I don’t understand. I respond with my own words, a blessing from the Old Testament, and somehow it feels like we may have just said the same thing. What a gift that our stories intertwined in this brief earthly moment.