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