Leaves and Death

"Tree is dying!" the young boy remarks as he, his mother, and I explore the woods behind their house. The leaves are mostly crisp, a hunt of crunch beneath our feet after the rain that just fell.

“No, honey” his mother replies gently, “the tree is just losing its leaves. That’s supposed to happen. It’s fall. The leaves turn yellow and red and fall down.”

“Oh. That tree not dying.” The young boy seems content with the answer and quickly runs off in search of the perfect stick.

I smile at the teachable moment my friend has seized upon and ponder anew the symbolism of a tree losing all its leaves in order to prepare itself for winter, and how it can look dead but not be. And then for the first time, I see the leaves. The tree may not be dying, but the leaves sure are.

It may be that I attended a funeral yesterday - the reason that death is on the mind. I didn’t know Lee well, but she was a constant presence when I came back to Grace Church and joined the Women’s Missionary Stewardship group. Having faithfully served in the Philippines for multiple decades, we developed a bond; she knew what it was like as a mom to send your children off to boarding school and entrust them to teachers like me. Her funeral was marked by the gospel message from start to finish! It became evident quickly her final wish was that her death might bring life to those family members who didn’t know Jesus. She had prayed her death would bring about life, that she might be a leaf.

An image floats into my mind of the tree of life. And perhaps I’m taking the analogy too far at this point, but just as a tree’s survival of winter means its leaves have to die, my survival depended on the death of a certain Savior of the world. He is the tree of life, but he is also the leaf that died. He allowed himself to be cut off from the source of true life so that he could die my death and I could survive winter. 1 Peter 2:24 says, “He himself bore our sins in his body on the tree, that we might die to sin and live to righteousness. By his wounds you have been healed.” In a way, I was promoted from being a leaf to a branch. I get to rest, being made a more permanent part of the tree as long as I abide, clinging to the trunk with its roots deeply sunk into the earth.

Have I mentioned how much I love fall? And crunchy leaves and apple crisp and cozy wrap-around sweaters? (I am a stereotypical girl, am I not?) I love my Savior more than all of those things, and I’m grateful for the daily reminders he literally drops in my path.

P.S. Here's a song called Mercy's Tree I just discovered and love.

a hike along Lake Superior last week

Pilgrimaging into His Presence

(I wrote these thoughts for a BFA newsletter last fall, but I'm reflecting on them again in my new surroundings. Enjoy.)

Psalm 84:1-2, 5

“How lovely is your dwelling place, Lord Almighty! My soul yearns, even faints, for the courts of the Lord; my heart and my flesh cry out for the living God. Blessed are those whose strength is in you, whose hearts are set on pilgrimage.”

If you know me semi-well, you know I"m obsessed with pilgrimages. In the summer of 2018, I had the opportunity to go on pilgrimage with a BFA colleague. The trail across northern Spain, the Camino to Santiago de Compostela, is a 800-km (500-mile) medieval path with historical and spiritual significance, even for a Protestant like me who doesn’t believe in the necessity of relics or indulgences. I’ll spare you the stories of blistered feet and mountain highs; instead I want to focus on two words I learned on the very first day of walking: ultreia and suseia.

Immediately when you start walking the Camino, people greet you with the standard “Buen Camino” everywhere you turn. However, back in the 1200’s, when Latin was still wide-spread as the language of the Church, the more common greeting was “Ultreia,” which translates to “onward” or “further” or “beyond.” When said to a pilgrim, it was meant as an encouragement to not give up, but to keep pushing on until one reached the desired destination, whether Santiago or some other goal. Upon hearing this cheerful greeting, the pilgrim response was to answer with “et Suseia,” which means “and upward.” Put together, the greeting becomes “onward and upward,” or - if you prefer the version of Farsight the Eagle, Jewel the Unicorn, and Reepicheep the Mouse - “further up and further in!” (C.S. Lewis, The Last Battle). It was a much richer, deeper encouragement over “Buen Camino,” not the least of which in that it was a call-response; it requires both parties to engage in the greeting.

What Ultreia and Suseia call to mind is that while a pilgrimage may be an external, physical journey, its ultimate purpose is one of internal, spiritual growth. I may have ended my month-long Camino in the city of Santiago, but the true mark of a pilgrim is to end up in the courts of the Lord, God’s dwelling place, as the Psalmist reminds us. According to Adele Ahlberg Calhoun, the author of Spiritual Disciplines Handbook, a pilgrimage should result in the deeper sense of being a stranger on this planet, a sojourner merely passing through.

Now I grant that it isn’t possible for us to daily leave our desks, classrooms, or dorms and walk pilgrimages. And yet, since finishing one, I’ve become more mindful of the connection that does exist between physically setting myself up well and sitting in God’s presence regularly. My ultreia might be the trek to Ikea to purchase a TV tray so that my Bible, candle, and coffee coaster are within easier reach of my favorite gray chair every morning. Ultreia could be the mindful journey from my office to the classroom knowing I will encounter 15 8th graders who all bear the image of God. Ultreia is evident when someone goes out of his or her way to speak about Jesus to a fellow pilgrim so as to encourage both hearts upward. What is your “further in” so that you will be more prone to look “further up” as well?

The last thing I want to do is promote legalism or a works-based theology, saying we need to do anything to earn access into God’s presence. Never! But if I took away anything from my Camino, it’s that setting physical reminders to draw my attention heavenward and to remind me that I’m always in God’s presence … works. The yearning of my soul for the living God, whether I stop to recognize that’s what it is or not, finds its fulfillment in suseia, in recalling that with him is my home. He is the goal of our earthly pilgrimage, and in his graciousness, he gives us abundantly of himself even now. No wonder the psalmist calls the pilgrim blessed.

Matt Gilman has a song based on Psalms 42 and 84. Click here to hear it.

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

Death for the sake of Life

It’s been 6 years since my last post, but amazingly I’m right where I left off in 2014: at the start of a year-long Home Assignment in the states. A major transition, such as a move to another continent, can’t help but disrupt all semblance of normal life. Add to that a global pandemic and a 14-day quarantine upon arrival, and I’ve layered the feeling of lonely staleness on top of the chaos of a trans-Atlantic move. Instead of diving into family life and an instant schedule to keep me busy, I’ve been forced to sit still and deal with the rawness.

Stale and raw are both words I’ve used with God in the past two weeks as I try to work through my emotions. But really what I’m feeling is saturated. I had planned to use quarantine to read and write a ton, listen to podcasts, and accomplish a pile of work-related projects, and while a fair amount of that has happened, I’ve felt rather robotic. Nothing I hear or read sticks, almost as if I don’t have the capacity to take in new information right now. It remains on the surface of my brain, and all too often I’m turning back pages or starting podcasts over while asking: What is wrong with me?

Oh right. Transition. The capital-T word of the missions world. The thing that encompasses so very much death. I just said farewell to a season of life with certain groupings of friends that can never be recreated. My heart knows some good-byes were spoken that will end up being final, but my head doesn't know yet which ones. Not a single student will be where I left him or her when I return - if I return. Uncertainty reigns, and I haven’t even touched on the deaths inside me: to the confident, capable teacher in her own classroom; the rhythms of work, Tuesday night Small Group, Sunday morning crepes, and walks on Black Forest trails; to the calling and oversea-living I’ve come to cherish and love. With so much dying, it’s no wonder I can’t absorb anything. Dead things don’t take in living things.

Yet I believe in a sovereign God who uses death to pave the way for new life. In fact, sometimes he kills off some old habits, the pride of control, the obsessions with things I love, precisely because he wants to make room for new growth. Perhaps reaching the end of what I can take in is exactly where he wants me so that I’ll surrender some of what fills me too full. Surrender. The capital-S word of the missions world?

In her book Looming Transitions, Amy Young writes “I want a fertile soul. I want to be the kind of person who is able to let roles or locations or seasons of life die so there is space for the new to grow” (p. 11-12). She’s singing my song! There’s a healthy pruning that needs to take place so that fruit can grow - fruit that is needed and appropriate for the new place and season. What I’m learning is that the saturation by itself isn’t bad because it’s marking something important, but I cannot cling to what’s dead. If I ever want to feel vivacity again and enjoy learning and growth, I need to let some of the old things be siphoned off. And those deaths, for Jesus’ sake, can lead to life (2 Corinthians 4:11).

So, here I am: stale and raw, ending my quarantine and about to launch into Home Assignment, palms up and open in a posture of surrender, hoping my heart will follow my body soon. I need the pruning. I want the fruit. Have mercy on me Jesus, I am yours.

We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body. For we who are alive are always being given over to death for Jesus' sake, so that his life may also be revealed in our mortal body. So then, death is at work in us, but life is at work in you.

2 Corinthians 4:10-12

the new digs for the year

The End of an Era

"It's the end of an era," I say dramatically, holding the back of my hand to my forehead. The 6th graders chuckle, and after a final prayer of blessing, they rush out of the room down to the gym, yearbooks firmly clutched in their hands. The 8th graders emerge from their final exams more slowly. Some are high giving their classmates; others silently lay their heads on a friend's shoulder, the grief of the upcoming good-byes too much for words right now. The gym and courtyard are both abuzz with activity, from a game of Knock Out to the colored pens flying across the table for yearbook signatures, everyone is outside. Everyone is looking for closure on this, our last day of school.

I may have been joking about the end of the an era, but the end of every year at BFA sort of feels that way. As I watch the camaraderie and the hugs upon hugs, I remember the good times - the Annie Jr. play, the fun debates in class when EL finally found her voice, the success in Paris and Rome with the History team, DF's baptism just one month ago. Not that there were no struggles along the way either. Having to play peacekeeper between two feuding students, trying to get a new addition up to speed in the social studies when he didn't even want to be here, and walking through the receiving of bad news with friends are never easy tasks. But looking at the 8th graders today warms a little fuzzy spot in my heart.

IK isn't the same person he was three years ago. He even smiles at me when I hand him his popsicle. HG approaches her studies with a much cooler head. KP has grown into his own skin, and HK is still a quirky character but with a maturity that would have been hard to imagine 20 months ago. They change so much, and I mourn the loss of them as my students when things are just getting to be so good (as every year). This is the day when I have to face the fact that my time with them really is at an end. They will move on to high school, and it's good. It's time. But they definitely take a piece of my heart with them.

History Competition Part 2: Rome Edition

The day had finally arrived. The garlic coated the Italian air, my students' bellies were full of pasta and gelato from the night before, JS's Bee semi-finalist medal hung proudly around his neck from the day before, and we were all sitting in the chapel of St. Stephen's eyeing our competition. The teams who had done this before were obvious. They were laughing lightly, waving to old friends across the room, and hoisting their mascot lemon high on each other's shoulders. It was clear we were an odd phenomenon to many of these international schools. A favorite memory has to be overhearing MS (not a missionary kid) trying to explain to a new friend how BFA operated. "They still have missionaries?!" the kid asked incredulously.

At that moment, the founder of the IHBB (International History Bee & Bowl) came out to greet us and review the rules once again. I glanced down the aisle at my 6 students who had heard this quite a few times by now, but they still sat enraptured and focused. The signal to start came very suddenly, and we were off to our first of five preliminary rounds.

Round 1 was read by the British-accented Richard whom we remembered from our time in Paris. With questions and categories such as "Medieval terms," "World War 1," and "Rome's enemies," we owned that round and breathed a sigh of relief that at least we wouldn't go home complete losers - every Middle Schooler's worst nightmare, right? Round 2 was interesting because the buzzers didn't work, and we had to rely on knocking. Things were a little fishy when one of our opponents kept answering aloud before waiting to see if he truly had knocked first, and I sat in the back of the room with my blood pumping harder than I care to admit. The game ended in a tie, but fortunately we won the tie breaker. Relieved, we moved on to Round 3, our strongest, and in a room where the buzzers were working! Round 4 saw our one defeat of the preliminaries. The opponents were an average of 1-2 years older than us, though they were extremely kind and gracious toward us. Round 5 was solid as we swept the other team for another win. Our 4-1 record set us up well for the afternoon as we were seated third out of eight Junior Varsity teams.

After some gelato for strength, we returned to St. Stephen's for the Semi-Finals. It took us a while to find our room, which frazzled some of my students and made me sweat. The heat hid my nervousness nicely. Another one of our contacts from Switzerland read the competition for this round, and it's the most nerve-racking thing to know that your students know the answers and hear the other team buzz in first time and time again. It was an extremely close match, but in the end we lost by merely 30 points. Heads held high, the students collected their bronze Semi-Finalist plaque, marking our third place.

In our last few hours in Rome, we were able to take in a few sights, particularly the Colloseum, and eat some more pizza and gelato while collected the sun on our skin. The kids were great, and I along with my colleague Brittany Mann couldn't be more proud of their accomplishments and the humility with which they pulled it off. Perhaps next year, that gold plaque will be ours, and if not, then at least I hope our witness will leave an indelible mark.