A Good Day in Middle School

 People often ask me why I like teaching Middle Schoolers, and beyond my standard answers of "they're so much fun" or a lengthier explanation of how they still have enthusiasm for games but can finally think beyond the concrete, I like to give examples of the kinds of lessons that bring me joy. Such as the one last Friday.

My 8th grade History class is currently in the unit on the early Americas. So far we have covered the Olmec and Zapotec (with hints of the Maya and Aztec to come), and one of the earliest, consistent archaeological findings we have from all four of these cultures is the Mesoamerican ballgame. If you've seen the 2000 movie The Road to El Dorado, you may remember the scene in which this game was featured. In the past, this is the Olmec/Zapotec achievement my students have found most interesting, so I decided this year to make a whole lesson out of it.

First, they spent 20 minutes completing a Webquest, in which I gave them links to a couple of sites and videos. They had to read or listen to the information and pick out the answers to 10 questions I had for them on a worksheet. Once they had finished gathering information, they spent the rest of the 20 minutes designing their personal version of the Mesoamerican ballgame. 

Next, I shared with them a version I came up with and brought them out into the hallway where I had set up 2 hula hoops and a rubber ball. In teams of 3, they had 30 seconds to try to score as many points as possible without using their hands or forearms. Honestly, I had no idea how it would go, especially as these particular 8th graders have a reputation of being incredibly competitive. But we had a blast! They cheered for one another, and of course celebrated every one of their own goals.

Following those 15 minutes of play, we returned to the classroom and ended with a discussion on the harsher topic of the Mesoamerican ballgame - whether players were actually sacrificed after a game. And whether those sacrificed players were the losing or the winning team. At one point, when I asked for arguments why some historians believe it could be the winners who were sacrificed, a student raised the idea that sacrifices should be perfect, blameless, the best anyone could offer. Another student chimed in, "Like Jesus was." I practically shouted, "Ooh, yes! Let's talk about THAT for a moment." So we did. And while we could all agree that human sacrifice was a horrendous practice, I think they left the lesson with a slighter higher appreciation for what Jesus accomplished, the most perfect and complete sacrifice in history.

I love Middle School.

Memories of KAZ

The car was barreling down the two-lane highway, mostly in the left lane passing trucks and other taxis heading for the border. I distinctly remember feeling the lack of a seat belt hugging my body and using my hand to brace myself on the back of the driver’s seat, knowing full well that it wouldn’t save me or my friend Jamie from being crushed by the full weight of the vehicle when we crashed. I was imagining my mangled body out among the poppy fields when Jamie nudged my shoulder. “He’s taking a picture of the speedometer now; we’re over 200 km/h.” My prayer life doubled. Honestly, I don’t know if I’ve ever exited a vehicle as quickly as I did that taxi when we arrived at our destination, Jamie hot on my heels.

That wasn’t the only adventure I had with her in our overlapping three months in my favorite Central Asian country. We went hiking in the gorgeous Tien Shan mountains with the destination being a wooden Orthodox monastic site. We had to carry skirts with us to pull over our hiking shorts when we got close so that they’d let us in to view the building. But what was far more interesting was the character we met in the middle of nowhere who has been building himself a bonafide castle for the past two decades and thinks he is about ⅔ of the way there. He gave us a proud tour while we followed the stench of his cigarettes from one dark room to the next, his personal lair decorated with pictures of a certain former Soviet despot. 

Of course, I was really in the country to volunteer at a partner school and teach a couple classes, thus lightening the load of some overworked colleagues at that point in the year. One of those classes was 8th grade Geography. In an effort to broaden young minds and help them think beyond their borders, I assigned a country report that had to be given orally in class along with pictures and details about culture, maybe even food. Sweet Darla (name changed to protect the innocent) chose Lebanon, and I’ll never forget in her presentation when she got to the food portion and announced that she would not be subjecting us to their disgusting food. I was a bit confused as I personally adore Middle Eastern delicacies. She quickly put up a picture of hummus on the screen. “This mash,” she said pointing at it and leaning away, “is made from chicken pee.” I generally try very hard never to laugh at students, but the guffaw was across my lips before I could stop it. “I think you mean chickpeas,” I said with as straight of a face as possible; “it’s a type of bean.” Darla’s face scrunched in confusion. After thinking about this new information for about 2 seconds, she pressed the clicker, and we moved on to Lebanese dress.

It hurt my heart in the last week to watch streets I once traversed empty but for the trucks with men and guns, to see the President’s palace abandoned and charred, to not be able to get through to the friends I still have because power lines had been severed. I knew it as a place of free-flying eagles, of caring old mommas who helped me buy fruit when I couldn’t communicate with the seller, of students eager to clean up their communities, of goats that regularly blocked our drive home but made me laugh every time, and a country God loves very much. Well, at least that part is still true. 

Works of Art

 I received a surprise this Christmas when I flew to Colorado to be with family: my brother Andi has become an artist. Admittedly, he has only completed paint-by-number masterpieces so far, but they are stunning. The vibrant colors of the sunset or the lonely boat moored on a remote lake both make me wish I could climb into the canvas. My favorite one, however, is this one:

It could be any number of places I wish I could be at right now. The scene looks serene and peaceful, a far cry from the last couple of years we have had. I've been a part of multiple conversations of late in which someone has expressed the wish for such a calm moment away from the mayhem of fires, depression, cancer, and COVID. But I think sometimes we fall into the trap of thinking a remote mountain scene like the one in the picture comes about without cost.

Andi says it took him somewhere in the range of 60 hours to complete the first painting, and even this one is probably upwards of 40 hours. That is a lot of time to be bent over a piece of fabric, trying to distinguish greens and spot the right numbers. And then there's the setting itself - really, if you think about it, you're looking at cold waterfalls over jagged rocks, which are probably a result of snowstorms in harsh mountain conditions. To have been present when this scene was being formed could have meant hypothermia or worse.

Yet, isn't that precisely when hope comes in? As I reflect on 2021 and how it did not see the end of a global pandemic nor the end of my neighbor's cancer while it did hold the death of a beloved grandmother, it could be easy to see only the harshness. Hope rests in the knowledge that beautiful things are never rushed. Psalm 103 says, "The Lord knows how we are formed; he remembers that we are dust. But from everlasting to everlasting, the Lord's love is with those who fear him, and his righteousness with their children's children" (v. 13, 17). 2021 may have been awful. Or it may have been wonderful. Either way, we are being shaped by a patient God who uses time (even more than 60 hours) and all kinds of conditions, both violent and serene, to shape us into beautiful works of art. I dare to call it love.

Rights or Gratitude

In the past month, restrictions have tightened across Germany, so it was with finger-gnawing trepidation that we approached this last weekend of basketball games and the annual Christmas concert. Would they be cancelled last-minute? Would all that hard work never be showcased? But the school needn't have worried; while strict measures had to be observed (only vaccinated and recovered family members WITH a rapid self-test no older than 24 hours), both events were able to happen. The school posted pictures under the caption "with times like these, we are choosing to be grateful."

I've been encountering a lot of war metaphor lately with regard to a loss of rights or maintaining of freedoms. Whether it's the colleague who believes "war is happening on our rights as parents and citizens, so we need to fight back vociferously" or the sweet friend who takes the stance "war is happening on our rights as Christians, and I need to prepare myself well for the coming persecution," the sentiment is similar: don't merely stand by on the sidelines with your head in the sand.

That contrast - whether to be ready to fight or to say Thank you - has struck me again and again in these weeks. I think whichever philosophy we lean toward can end up shaping much more than just our fight for rights or our willingness to surrender them. I see it in my classroom, for instance. One student is mad at me for not giving him his seat preference or for forgetting that he needs his notes printed in a certain way to best suit his learning style; the other thanks for me for the quick turn-around of feedback on his essay or for the Christmas chocolate that he figured out came from me. In one view, every good thing needs to be claimed and comes about through the efforts of us in tandem with the Spirit; in the other every good thing is an undeserved gift from heaven that came about entirely because of God's goodness.

And I'm certain the way I just phrased that last sentence reveals which end of the scale I want to live on. The thing is, while I believe in times of righteous anger and that (at least in the West) we have the privilege of being granted many rights which we shouldn't just hand over, I find the "gratitude" stance to be more Biblical. James 1:17 says "every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights." In 1 Cor 8-10, Paul speaks of a willingness to lay aside rights for the sake of the gospel. E.g. "Nevertheless, we have not made use of this right, but we endure anything rather than put an obstacle in the way of the gospel of Christ" (9:12). He speaks of a willingness to be wronged if it means the gospel can advance, and of course I can't help but see the image of the bloodied Savior on the cross undergoing a total loss of rights because he could see the bigger picture.

Naturally, I can find verses to support the "war" stance as well. Galatians 5:1 says "For freedom Christ has set us free; stand firm therefore, and do not submit again to a yoke of slavery." And of course all of Ephesians 6 supports the imagery that we are engaged in a battle. Here's the thing though: the war that Scripture shows us fighting is never about preservation of our rights. It depicts our struggle being against "the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places." It's a war over souls! And for those souls that already belong to God, it's a war on that relationship with the Father, an attempt to remove our joy of salvation or trust in his sovereignty. 

I have zero doubt that my friends who are living in the war narrative are strong believers. They love Jesus with their whole hearts and daily seek his face in prayer, probably more consistently than I do. There is so much I can and should learn from them, and I want to listen diligently. For myself, however, I can think of no greater weapon against the enemy than to respond in gratitude. As demonstrated in my students, gratitude fosters joy, an open relationship with others, and an attitude in line with Christ, who made the ultimate sacrifice of rights. "For the joy set before him" (Heb 12:2), "he did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant. ... He humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross" (Phil 2:6-8). I want to be like HIM: fighting the war in sacrifice and joy.

Vorfreude

 It's no secret to anyone who knows me even a little bit that I love Christmas. I mean LOVE. Truly, I enjoy (almost) all parts of it from the music to the lights to the food to the candles to Advent to chocolate to snow to trees to presents to movies to so much more. I've always attributed this adoration of the holiday to my Papa, who seems to have picked it up from his Mom, my Nana. The same Nana who entered glory on November 19.

There was an idiom I grew up with in Austria: "Vorfreude ist die schönste Freude." Translated, it loosely means that the joy that comes with anticipation is the best kind of joy. To that I say yes and no. In many ways, I get more joy out of the Advent season leading up to the 24th than I do the morning of the 25th when all that's left are presents. The anticipation of my coffee this morning was better than the actual cup of remnant grounds. So yes, Vorfreude can often be more beautiful than the actual event. On the other hand, I strongly believe it is still the thing itself which you're looking forward to that gives the Vorfreude any value at all. When I was on the Camino in 2018 (a month-long pilgrimage trail in Spain), many people would say how they wished we'd never arrive in Santiago because "the journey is the true goal." But without Santiago, without an actual goal or finish line, the pilgrimage was just a long hike. If there was no Christmas marking the birth of the Savior at the end of Advent, all that anticipatory joy would be pointless. 

When I think about it from Jesus' perspective, his birth was just the start of a 30-something-year-long odyssey to the cross. Hebrews 12 tells us it was "for the joy set before him" that he endured the cross, and I have to wonder what his joy was anticipating. His birth and life seem to be merely the Vorfreude part, but how in the world can there be joy in horrendous suffering?

My beautiful Nana worked hard for a pain-free, instant-gratification kind of life. She didn't like to wait for things to happen, and she freely admitted it. There was a small sign in her kitchen that declared how she'd been absent the day God handed out patience. But when it came to Christmas, somehow she was able to take delight in the waiting. Her eyes sparkled whenever someone discovered that her little automated Santa Claus could read stories. The light-up reindeer on her balcony made her smile every time she noticed it. Really, the sooner all the decorations could be up, the better, even if it made the wait longer. It heightened the Vorfreude in her heart.

I don't think Jesus took delight in the suffering itself, but I do trust that he fully knew its worth, not just in saving me from my sins, but in the grander vision of God's story being fulfilled. "The joy set before him" had to be looking forward to that day when all things will be restored to their true beauty and ultimate good, when God would be worshiped as he was always meant to be. Nana is getting to live that reality even now, and as I wait to join her someday, I choose to live in the Vorfreude of the Ever-Advent. 

Nana's COVID-Birthday in 2020

Aaron

 I once won third place in a writing contest for the following. Enjoy (as I have no time this week to write something fresh.)

My chest heaves as my lungs gasp for air, the latest cough attack wracking my body. My younger brother’s strong arms support me while I catch my breath, and with the courage and tenderness only a family member can give, he wipes some of the blood from my beard.

“Are you well?” he asks, and I nod, though my eyes are fixed on the bloody fingers he’s retracting and wiping on the front of his tunic.

Slowly, my breathing normalizes, but my mind has drifted back to another time and place. I remember my mother’s fingers, as nimble and graceful as butterfly wings, weaving together the fresh papyrus basket when one of the sharp ends stabbed the tip of her index finger. A bright red bubble of blood formed quickly before she jabbed it in her mouth.

“Are you bleeding, Mama?” I asked, worry lines marking the edges of my eyes, I’m sure.

“Just a tiny bit, sweetheart. Not to worry.”

But as she continued her work, a labor of love that would offer my baby brother escape from the terror of a man intent on killing newborns, she left the tiniest streak of crimson on a green background. I was afraid that Moses would touch it and get it all over himself when she put him inside, but even though he fussed and cried, his little hands couldn’t begin to reach it. Still, when she left the house in the late afternoon in timing with the princess’ routines, my heart went with them and that little ribbon of red. I feared I would never see my brother again. 

The vision shifts, and I remember the criss-cross patterns on slaves’ backs as my caring wife tended to their wounds. Life seeped between rags that failed to hold it in. Each rivulet seemed to etch itself deeper into my wife’s face until one day just before our freedom came, it sapped all her strength, and she too breathed her last.

I see that first day of our freedom again, sharp as a blade in my mind. My father’s sleeve dappled with blood as the flimsy hyssop branch he was holding dripped lamb’s blood down his arm.

“What is Grandfather doing?” my son Eleazar asked me. And for the first of many, many times, I explained to him what the Passover lamb was for.

“This blood will be our escape, son,” I patted him on the head and led him into the house beneath the blood-stained lintel where my mother was furiously chopping parsley to go over the lamb. I looked over at the fresh meat, just about to go into the boiling pot of water and oil. Strange that this poor, perfect animal’s blood would be able to protect us from the coming promised doom. I was only just beginning to understand the cost of a life, especially one bathed in sweat and tears. And to have an innocent lamb pay for it was incomprehensible.

I blink away the memories and re-focus on my brother, Moses, God’s favored one. He sees the clarity return to my eyes and smiles with relief.

“One more cough, and I was sure your lungs were going to come right out of your mouth.”

Daring to inhale deeply, I force a small smile and then push myself up to a standing position. We still have a ways to go to the top of this mountain.

Eleazar, who had run ahead with a pack on his shoulders, comes back into view. “There you two are! Is everything all right, Uncle?” I know he’s addressing Moses and yet wondering about me. It’s been over four months now that the disease has slowly taken over my breathing. Two months ago was the first time I found blood on my arm after a particularly heavy cough, and it has only gotten worse – that red liquid that has marked my journey from small child to senile old fool.

Hours pass, and the sun has nearly set by the time the three of us reach the sacred spot the Lord has whispered into Moses’ ear. Eleazar drops the pack to the dirt, and I exert great effort to suppress a cough closing in upon the edges of my lungs. My son supports me as I sink onto a nearby boulder and close my eyes while I focus on the single task of inhaling and exhaling. My end is near, I know.

“Aaron, are you ready?” Moses asks ever so gently. It’s a little surprising as our relationship hasn’t exactly been a gentle one over the years. But I trust him. We hardly knew each other when God brought us together in order to confront Pharaoh. And when he turned the Nile River into blood, it took every ounce of my willpower not to turn and run the other way away from him. But in his bold forcefulness, I trusted him.

He touches my shoulder, and I open my eyes and nod. With Eleazar’s support, I stand so Moses can remove my garments as the Lord has commanded. I most grieve the first item, the breastpiece with the 12 stones and the names of all the tribes of Israel. I feel both weightless and heavy when it no longer rests against my chest. This is followed by the frontlet and headdress, the ephod, the sash and the blue robe, made most audible by the tinkling of the little pomegranate bells around its hem. I watch as in reverse order, he places each item ceremoniously onto my son. It’s the sharp red sard stone of Reuben that most catches my eye as it shimmers in the setting sun.

It seems like yesterday I was receiving those priestly garments for the first time. Each piece had that new-fabric smell and had been specially consecrated. It almost felt wrong when Moses sacrificed that very first animal on the new altar, dipped his thumb into the mess, and drew a line across my forehead. I tilted my head back, not wanting the blood to stain the new clothes, and still, one tiny droplet managed to find its way onto the collar of the tunic.

I find that dot even now, brown and mostly faded over the years. It stands as that reminder of the promise now etched in stone – that forgiveness must and will come through the shedding of blood. 

Eleazar looks handsome in my clothes, and I smile with joy even as a breeze sends chills down my spine in my light tunic here on Mount Hor. 

Suddenly I feel it well up within me, the final attack. My lungs heave, and I hold my hand up to my mouth as I cough and cough, only to discover it covered in blood when I withdraw it. My head feels heavy, and I fall to the ground. Gently. My brother and son are holding me after all. My life’s journey feels complete, and I trust that the blood of the many lambs I have sacrificed will be my salvation, even as I escape the gravity of this earth.

Color the Seasons

 I was staring out at the orange-mottled scene in front of me, the top edge of the Black Forest reflecting in the Nonnenmattweiher Lake down below us. (What a fun name!) It was a gray drizzly day to be out hiking with 5 friends, but despite the chill in the air, we were responding to the call of the outdoors and the company of lovely people. The last time I had been out this far into the Black Forest was during the Spring of 2020, when the only way to get outside, according to the government, was in the name of "doing sports." Everyone suddenly became a hiker.

I closed my eyes and recalled the vibrant bright green from that time, the tips of trees showing off their new growth. I remembered how brilliant the whites of the apple tree blossoms had been, and the blue of the sky without contrails breaking it up. With another minute, I could've remembered the feel of that spring sun and the cacophony of birds. Today the colors were much more muted and animals were beginning to hide away. Krista pointed out that the oranges and yellows and even reds of our glorious fall were definitely fading away to brown here at the end of October, and soon they would descend to the ground, leaving only the darkest of green conifers. As I tried to picture what the forest will look like in just two weeks' time without the orange, I caught a whiff of Christmas, all pine wrapped up in cinnamon and firewood. It was fleeting, but it struck me how much the colors of the forest are tied to seasons for me. The brown and white crunicheness of winter, the neon green growth of spring, the lush overhead branches with their thick greens of summer, and these muted warm tones of fall. If you can't tell by now, I love the forest!

Nonnenmattweiher Lake and Belchen Mountain to the right