So, I'm a bit behind on posting my end-of-the-month blog, and I have nothing written. April has been a bit crazy ....
Thus, I present to you a highly fancy link to a blog I was privileged to write for my Sending Agency. The topic was "How to Create Authentically Christian Schools." Sub-title: "One Teacher's Opinion."
Enjoy
https://worldventure.com/how-to-create-authentically-christian-schools/
My arms feel naked without the weight of a niece in them or the touch of their hair. Over the two months I was with them, I got used to our ritual of me braiding their curly locks and them massaging my shoulders. They’d race by me in their Hawaiian slippers, and I’d snag them out of a dead bolt, wrap them up completely, and say “Guess what?” And they’d roll their eyes and reply, “I already know: you love me” before escaping my grasp. The sticky cards of well-loved games are a little harder to miss, but I would take their sweaty foreheads resting on my shoulder again any day.
Instead of girls, my fingers are now wrapped around the steering wheel. In 4 days, I've pounded out roughly 1,500 miles of West Coast states peppered with stops at friends’ homes and my new favorite National Park. Initial hand waves after not seeing each other in years usually gives way to a tentative pandemic hug, and I’m grateful every time someone shoves a steaming mug of coffee into my hands. In Yosemite I grip the rocks as I haul myself up the 30%-grade hiking trail, let the frigid glacier water run over my fingertips, and play with a unique pine cone, little wisps of scales decorating its sides like a crown and poking me ever so gently.
The beauty around me is staggering at times. How unworthy and spoiled of a recipient am I? My hands are full of his gifts, none of which I earned, but all of which I’ll accept and say “I get it, Jesus: you love me.”
When I was 6 years old, we moved into a new rental in Villach, Austria. I was mainly concerned with the lack of pink in my room and the huge backyard to be too concerned with the context of where we had moved. But it wasn’t very long before one of the new neighbor ladies, Frau Borovznik, came knocking. She had seen my brothers and me playing in the back and walking our new paths to new schools, and for some reason she was inviting me over to her house for games and a tea party. Looking back now, I’m somewhat shocked my mom said yes. Who lets their 6-year-old daughter inside a stranger’s house anymore these days?
One invite turned into multiple, and tea parties grew into regular dinners. Thus it was that over the next three years of living in that house, I spent roughly an evening a week in her small Austrian kitchen with the wood-burning stove, playing games. Frau Borovznik loved games: card games, word games, art games, board games, made-up games, all games. She’d ask me about school while we sipped our hot soup in the winter or cool elderflower juice in the summer, and I would secretly wonder if she was really this bad at Uno or letting me win. One time, she said the winner of Scattergories would get 10 Schillings, the equivalent of about 75 cents. When I won, my little 7-year-old self was suddenly afraid I had gambled, so I left the coin in the corner of my seat, but she found it and returned it to me the next day with a big grin on her face.
Every now and then Gabriel, her gardner, would join us for supper and games. He cultivated the most stunning array of flowers in the beds in front of the house, something I couldn’t really appreciate at that young age yet. Ahead of special holidays, Frau Borovznik and I would hunt through Gabriel’s masterpieces and create a bouquet of our own favorite selections. Then I’d accompany her on the 15-minute walk to the wooded cemetery up the road, where we would locate the plot with the headstone “Joseph Borovznik.” She would let me set our fresh bouquet into the vase while she lit a candle and said her Catholic prayers.
She was a very devout woman. The first time she showed up on November 25 with a present for me, I was baffled. “Happy Name Day!” “But my birthday is in February,” I insisted. “Right, but it’s your patron saint name day, silly.” And who was I to complain about extra presents. I was a bit too self-preoccupied to ask her what her first name was and when her name day was. But then again I was 8.
That house ended up being the shortest one we would live in, barely three years, and right or wrong, I wasn’t too interested in riding a bus an hour across town to visit an old lady and her gardner. So last summer was the first time in a while I spent a large chunk of time in Villach, and I decided to walk the streets of the old neighborhood. There was a family playing in Frau Borovznik’s yard, mom hanging laundry on the line while her kids ran through the old flower beds, now mostly dried earth. I entered the cemetery, sure that I would never find the exact path she and I had walked 30 years earlier. But somehow, call it the guidance of the Spirit, I made all the correct turns and was suddenly standing in front of the amended marble: “Joseph & Maria Borovznik.” Her first name was Maria. I don’t know what kind of a marriage they had, but I do know she was a kind lady with a generous heart to take the foreign family’s little girl under her wing for a few years. And sometimes I miss her.
Waves are amazing. I've had opportunity to observe a lot lately, from the scary high ones that only surfers and experienced Hawaiians dare enter to the soft lapping kind that kiss my toes. I'm learning about surf break and which waves are best for body surfing - exhausting work, by the way. There's something glorious about watching the shifting light dance on the surface of the waves, the consistent rhythm with which they make their way to the shore, the rush of sound when the break extends from one end of my view down to the other, and the silent humility when a finished wave slips underneath the oncoming one. Kids moan in agony as sand castles are stolen from them or squeal in delight as a powerful wave reaches the "pool" they've been digging for hours in the hopes it will fill with water. Twinkling eyes reflect the expanse before them. I see beauty and symmetry and fulfillment of dreams as shoulders relax as both those in need of a thrill and those in need of rest sit in the sand and contemplate the power before them.
So many analogies come to mind as I stare at the ocean: the consistent work of the Holy Spirit in my life that is faithful yet can shift from gentle whisper to volatile pounding as needed. Or how about the idea that I can take my place in a line-up of faithful witnesses, leave my mark, and then recede out again in the humility of a life well lived. Perhaps the waves are the deceptive, sparkle of the evil one that comes ashore and wipes out distinctions or sand castles in an attempt to dull everything, and it's my job to build up defenses. Or there's the truth that God knows exactly what each person needs, whether a wake-up call to adventure or a soothing hour in his presence removing the weight from one's shoulders. A searching mind can find comparisons galore.
However, in this moment, the greatest contentment I find is in the non-meaning-making. A deep satisfaction overcomes me as I sit, watch, enjoy, and praise. What a creative mind our God has to think up something as simple as waves.
While reflection is happening, there hasn't been much time to write, so please enjoy these 1,000-word pictures: Valentine's Day, hiking with the nieces, Scott preaching, cake, hammock time, beach time with Lizzie, outside eating with her and Amanda, a Japanese temple, a tree on a peninsula, my HE>I bag, and beach with the family.
I was comfortably ensconced in the hammock on the deck. The sun was setting behind the dramatic Koolaus on Oahu's windward side, and a cool breeze whispered of the night about the fall. Next to me, two nieces were taking turns running at the wall that hid the staircase behind it, grabbing the rail, and hanging on while I counted to see who could keep their feet off the ground longer. Their infectious giggles made it hard to keep the pace while I counted.
At one point, the game shifted from how long they could hold on to how high off the ground their feet dangled. Megan jumped, dropped, and sadly stated, “That was just an inch, wasn’t it.” So she tried again, launching herself with all her might and looking at me expectantly from her dangling position.
“Sorry, 1 inch again,” I told her.
She dropped back further this time, squared her shoulders, and gave it another running leap with all her might.
“1 inch or 1 foot?” she asked.
I laughed. Those were her only options: 1 inch or 1 foot. There was no room for anything in between.
Don’t we all wish growth happened that way? Suddenly and in giant spurts, from one leap to the next without the painful process of having to develop muscles first or practice over and over again? We want to be better without having to become better. At least I do.
But of course, there are all the benefits of slow growth: the adjustment our arms need to make to pull us up higher, the learning our brains need to hold more information, the development of our emotions to be more empathetic, the stretching of our faith to trust God will prove himself faithful over and over again. We aren’t wired to jump over the in-between stuff, as much as we want to, and in the end we wouldn’t be who we are. It takes time to go from 1 inch to 2 to 3 to 4 all the way to 12.
And that’s a good thing. It reminds us of God’s patience in expectations, of his confidence and desire even in our struggle and misstep. May I never grow weary in the slow process, as long as I’m persevering. ½ inch at a time.
I was standing in the food aisle of World Market with a childish grin on my face, I’m sure. In front of me were two shelves of Milka bars in various flavors and sizes. I had to resist the urge to reach out and caress each one while I decided if the price (three times that of back home) was worth it (which it was) and which ones to choose. After another several minutes, I finally made my selection and lovingly placed five bars in my basket, only to turn and find a short, masked lady watching me.
“Those must be really good,” she said with a chuckle.
Embarrassed at the realization that I’d been blocking the aisle, I quickly moved aside, laughing nervously in response. “They remind me of home,” I explained. “In fact, the place I work is only 20 minutes from one of the Milka factories.”
“So, they are good?” She stepped forward and reached for my favorite flavor, the Noisette.
“Yes,” I said adamantly.
“Thanks!” she placed three bars into her basket, and we parted ways, both eager to savor the lovely soft chocolate.
The encounter stuck with me though. Someone had seen me staring with joy at a product and had been intrigued enough to want to purchase the same item and try it out. And of course I believe she won’t be disappointed. In last week’s sermon, we were challenged to be the kind of believers who would live in such a way that those who don’t yet know Jesus would grow so curious at our obsession and our joy that they would want to come a step closer and find out for themselves what makes him so great. We are walking advertisements, in a way.
So I have to ask myself the question: Do I stare at Jesus as intently and lovingly as at a Milka bar from my home country? He's definitely more beautiful and more important. It’s something to strive for.
