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