a Psalm of Gratitude

The MS play has come and gone. A two-month labor of love and tears and endurance reaches its pique in a 72-hour time frame in which adrenaline courses through all their tiny bodies and we perform 3 times for the community audiences. And it all went so much better than I expected at the 73-hour mark. The kids put their offering on the stage, and I’m so grateful that God was pleased to accept it and turn it into something beautiful. Here’s my Psalm 136-esque praise:

Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good. His love endures forever.

Give thanks to the God of gods and Lord of lords. His love endures forever.

To him who alone does great works. His love endures forever.

Who brought us through 3 performances of our show. His love endures forever.

Who helped us remember lines and props. His love endures forever.

Who allowed lights and sounds to work. His love endures forever.

Who gave us audiences that laughed and cried. His love endures forever.

Who blessed our meager offering on the stage. His love endures forever.

Who causes gratitude to well up in our hearts. His love endures forever.

Give thanks to the God of heaven for the success of the MS play. His love endures forever.

Pictures courtesy of BFA's Communications Department

Crying at the Sad Parts

It was only my second time attending play practice for the Middle School’s upcoming production, Anne of Green Gables. Since the announcement, I’ve been thrilled to be part of bringing to life this story that I’ve loved since I was 10. Anne is such an exciting character, and I know the movies almost by heart. I was dutifully sitting at the back of the auditorium with a spreadsheet open, entering props that I would be responsible for procuring over the next six weeks. With script in one hand and an eye on the stage to see if they made any air movements that might hint at a prop, I was struggling to get accurate notes since they were jumping around with scenes in Act 2, according to who was present that day.

That’s how we came to find ourselves suddenly near the end of the play, and as I watched Matthew open up the “air envelope,” I realized with a jolt, “I think he’s about to die.” Sure enough, a moment later the actor clutched his chest and rolled to the floor, and I discovered a lump in my throat. Being surrounded by Middle Schoolers, I quickly busied myself typing notes so that my eyes wouldn’t start leaking.

There have been some sad moments in the last month. Some close friends are carrying heavy stories, and while I count it a privilege to join in the burden-carrying, it's still sad. The news from places that matter to me aren't helping either, and I've been missing particular colleagues who departed this summer, but whose absence is just now being felt. Perhaps it's logical that the emotions were so quick to rise to the surface.

A mere 24 hours after practice, I decided to pop in the Anne of Green Gables movie and return to my childhood for a few hours. It was glorious having lines pop out of my mouth seconds before they were said on the screen, watching Anne find belonging and grow in relationships. Yet suddenly I was nearing Matthew’s death scene again, and I couldn’t say why, but I just knew I was going to cry. Not just tear up, ugly weep. I reached for the tissues, thinking to myself, “This is silly. I’ve seen this movie a hundred times, and I know how it’s going to end.” But (as I read somewhere recently) knowing the end of the story doesn’t mean you can’t cry at the sad parts.

So I did. I sobbed for two minutes until Matthew closed his eyes, Anne cradling his head, and the camera panned out for a glimpse of the pretty October scenery. I recovered quickly enough and enjoyed the rest of my evening, but I’ve been pondering since how to translate this truth to our students - that there’s value in not just skipping over the sad parts. That they don’t only hold beauty and truth of their own, but that they’re necessary to the story. In a few weeks, when our 14-year-old Matthew acts this out on stage for a watching world, will we catch a glimpse of the gospel story within?

"Ann(e) Shirley must learn to control her temper"

Dwell

Every year the Chaplains choose a theme that will guide our spiritual conversations and chapel talks for the first few weeks, and this year the theme is dwell. Our theme verse is John 1:14 "the Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us," and I've been amazed at just how often I come across either "dwell" or "dwelling" in God's word, now that I'm looking for it. Take Psalm 84, for example, where being a doorkeeper in the dwelling place of God (v.1) is contrasted as far lovelier superior than dwelling in the tents of the wicked (v.10). Or how about Colossians 3:16, which prompts us to “let the word of Christ dwell in us richly.”

So far this year, in both HS and MS chapels, we've been seeking to craft a grand narrative for our students. It’s the story of our God, whose love so compels him to want to dwell with us, that he constantly pursues his people, desiring to come near. We see it in the Garden, in the wilderness through the Tabernacle, in the imagery of the prophets, and of course loudest of all in Jesus. I’m just emerging from a deep dive into Exodus and the Tabernacle, amazed that the New Testament would make the comparison from that beautiful and intricately designed structure to our own bodies (1 Corinthians 6). What a crazy idea that the God of the universe would send his Son so that we could be given new hearts (Ezekiel 36) so that he could then move in and dwell with us!?

Images from Spiritual Emphasis Week

Book-Loving

 

Summer reading plans are a thing, right? I might be the world’s slowest reader, so here’s a recap of some of my favorite books of the year, not just the summer:

Crying in H Mart, by Michelle Zauner
This one had been appearing on people’s reading lists for a couple of years now, so I was excited to have access to it via Amanda’s library card this summer. It’s a memoir written by an artist with a Korean mom and an American dad, and her journey back and forth between her parents’ two worlds while trying to shape her own. I didn’t love it. Maybe I’d been a little ruined because it was the second memoir this year by a Korean-American I’d read, but I preferred the first one (Happy Birthday or Whatever) for its honesty mixed with humility whereas I found Crying in H Mart to be a bit more of a self-absorbed retelling of events. 2/5 stars

Anne of Green Gables, Books 1-3, by L.M. Montgomery
I’m pretty sure I read the first one as a girl, maybe the second, but the third one (Anne of the Island) was definitely new to me. As the Middle School is getting ready to put on the play of Book 1 this fall, it was a wonderful refresher and so easy to read. 4/5 stars

The Things We Leave Behind, by Clare Furniss
This was a somewhat random purchase the last time I was in London. I am not usually drawn to young adult fiction, but one of the characters had the same unique name as one of my small group girls, and I saw it took place partly in Scotland. In the end, this barely dystopian novel, set in such a near future that I eerily saw how possible it could be, was really well written. Furniss dealt with the themes of grief and trauma in such a delicate way that I completely didn’t see the big twist coming, and yet the end, while sad, was distinctly hopeful. 5/5 stars

Gentle and Lowly, by Dane Ortlund
Honestly, I’d heard quite a few ravings about this book from people I trust, that I expected it to be riveting. Hardly. It took me the better part of 20 chapters to find my way into it, but then chapter 22 just blindsided me. This is one I plan to re-read again as soon as I can. 4.5/5 stars

Some new ones that I’m either tackling currently or about to very soon:

• Life on Other Planets (a memoir), by Aomawa Shields

• Practicing the Way, by John Mark Comer

• The Accidental Further Adventures of the Hundred-Year-Old Man, by Jonas Jonasson

Trading Names

 

It was Night 1 of the Worship Team Planning Retreat, and the rousing game of “Postal Worker” -- which I’m pretty sure Lance had made up -- was nearing its end. In this cooperative game, each student had written their first and last name on two separate pieces of paper, mixed them up with everyone else’s, and then picked up two random slips of paper. The postal worker joined the circle with empty hands, and the goal became to pass the papers one neighbor to your left or right (if they had an empty hand) so that your own named papers could return to you. Once everyone had both of their names back in their hands, the group would have won.

Whenever someone managed to get both of their names in their hands, they always asked the same question: “Can I just sit out now?” Lance shook his head every time; this was a group effort. 

During the debrief time, Lance asked only one question, “How was the game ‘Postal Worker’ like worship?” And while the answers about teamwork and communication and compromise were all good, it was Anna’s reply that stood out to me, “Sometimes you have to be willing to trade your name away.”

Isn’t that the heart of worship? To look past our own names and be willing to lay aside any baggage or accolades or expectations that we or others heap on ourselves, and all we do is look to his name. We trade our own names away so that all that matters to us is the glory of his name. How are we representing him to others? How are we holding up a magnifying glass to his name for the increase of his glory? My college class chose Psalm 115:1 as our graduation verse. “Not to us, O LORD, not to us, but to your name give glory.” May that be my anthem this new school year.

Anna at BFA's Opening Ceremonies

Paris 2024

Last week a dream came true. Back in 2001, when I was an RA in college, I chose the Olympics as our hall theme and made everyone watch the 2002 Winter Olympics in Salt Lake City with me. Grandly I announced, “Maybe in 2004 I’ll be in Europe and can go to the Athens Olympics.” Ha! Fast-forward 20 years and throw in a little savings, a free apartment to stay at, a friend willing to be adventurous with you, and the Lord’s personal kindness, and you get three days at the Paris 2024 Olympics. Eek! 

Affordable tickets included a water polo match, a volleyball game, and entry to some Track & Field events. Specifically, we saw women’s pole vaulting, hurdles, men’s discus, 200m semi-finals, triple jump, men’s final steeplechase, and 400m final races (yay Quincy Hall). The atmosphere, especially in the Athletics stadium and at the volleyball arena, were absolutely enjoyable. When we entered the warm-up area for volleyball, you could immediately tell which teams were on which court by the mass of flags fluttering around the cage and the cheers that erupted for every spike. At each event we attended, people clapped for every point and performance, hooting extra loudly if it was their country’s team, but I loved the sportsmanship I got to see and the many, many conversations with the people around us. Whether from Ireland, France, Australia, Turkey, the Netherlands, a fellow American, or an occasional Austrian, one of my favorite things about this experience was the international flavor that permeated Paris. As we walked around the city, we saw people from every corner of the world, proudly draped in their flags with colorful stripes on their cheeks. This TCK felt right at home. 

It was fun to see both super-natural human feats that I could never achieve (hello, Katie Moon of the pole vault) as well as human flaws I could definitely have accomplished (I’m talking of you, scoring debacle in the Turkey-Italy volleyball match). There was the usual volatile bustle of mass transportation in a big city that irked at times, and then there was the kindness of strangers who sold ice-cold bottles of water for a Euro and let you take it for even less when you didn’t quite have the change.

I know full well the Olympics are deeply, deeply flawed in many ways, but I can’t help but glimpse a bit of gospel in the coming together of the nations, the unified task each team faces, and the fight for something bigger than ourselves. How we react to success or failure is extremely telling, and the motivation of why we do anything we do is an opportunity for truth-telling (a nod to you, Sydney McLaughlin-Levrone). I’m beyond grateful for my own dream-come-true to witness this.

Custer Travel Curse

The Custer Travel Curse isn’t really a thing, but it lives in family lore, so much so that even friends know about it. And boy did it strike hard this month.

It was July 20. The girl in front of me nervously shifted her weight from foot to foot every twenty seconds, her eyes glued to the phone in her hand. First-time flier? I wondered internally as I watched her shuffle her bags up to the ticket counter. I glanced at my own phone again. Colorado Springs to Minneapolis: On Time. I don’t know what possessed me to hit refresh at the very moment the nervous girl turned around from the counter to shout back at her friend, “Liv, it’s canceled!” Surely that’s a different flight than mine, I told myself before looking back at the device in my hands. Colorado Springs to Minneapolis: Canceled. And thus began a 72-hour saga.

By now the Global IT Tech Outage of July 19 was pretty common news, but I had thought, even believed, that I was safe a whole day later. I’d checked and rechecked my email and flightaware a thousand times before leaving the house and even during the drive. Yet here I was. And honestly, I realized I didn’t have it so bad. It wasn’t like this was my flight back to Europe, nor did I have any major commitments over the weekend. Everyone I was supposed to meet up with would graciously understand and reschedule, and Colorado Springs held family. What a gift to have another day with them, I thought.

I left the airport a short while later with a rebooking for 48 hours later, July 22, out of Denver. Perfect. All I had to do was enjoy a lovely Sunday with the family, which included visiting nieces from Hawaii as well as a whole bunch of WorldVenture friends, so I did. 

July 22 rolled around bright and early, and this time the airline was more on top of it. I opened up my email. Denver to Minneapolis: Canceled. Fighting the urge to groan loudly, I bounded up the stairs to borrow a US phone, so that Dad and I could spend the entire drive to the Denver airport listening to the hold music. Since I never got a hold of anyone, I sought out an airline agent instead and surprisingly only waited in line for an hour, making friends in the process. The couple in line behind me were real estate agents from upstate New York who’d been trying to get home since July 19. “Oh well,” the wife smiled, “it’s part of the price we pay for convenience.”

All flights to Minneapolis were already overbooked for the day, so I left the airport with a ticket in hand for the next morning, July 23, and Dad helped book me into a really nice airport hotel running a Monday deal. After a nice long walk to Walmart and back, I relaxed with a Bill Bryson book and watched some TV before an early bedtime.

July 23 started even earlier than the previous day, probably because my body was starting to show signs of stress. I yanked the phone toward me and blinked to see an email from the airline. My heart sank, but then felt immediate relief: it was NOT canceled, just delayed. Which is a praise because when I went downstairs just before 7:00 to catch the shuttle, parking myself directly next to it, the driver came out, jumped in, and drove away without asking me a single question. Apparently you check in for the shuttle inside the hotel.

I did make it to the airport eventually, and 2 more delays plus 1 gate change later, I found myself suddenly face to face with Kelly, a former BFA colleague! She had also gone through two flight cancellations, an airport change, and a slew of restless nights to be scheduled not just on my flight, but seated in the row behind me. What a small, crazy world. Exactly 72 hours later than when I was initially supposed to arrive in Minneapolis, we landed. Several people on the plane cheered, myself included. Take that, Custer Travel Curse.

Waiting on a jet plane