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

A Passover Poem

 Psalm 118:24, Matthew 26:26-30

Carefully braided candlelight
shadows dusty men
licking breadcrumbs from their fingers
Clueless but celebrating

Four sparkling cups of wine
– To history, legacy, promise, future –

Communion of companions:
  Twelve travelers dreaming
– of money, honor, power, redemption –
Crowning the Chosen One

He who now breaks bread
reciting lines written for him by ancestors
Courageous in his contradiction
Hear him sing: “This is the day –
let us rejoice and be glad in it.”

Maundy Thursday, 2015

Merging Stories

“It won’t stay on my head,” I whisper to Ellen as I try surreptitiously to pull the headscarf back up higher, succeeding only in pushing hair into my face. How had the others all tied it? And how are they sitting so perfectly with their knees tucked under them? I squirm as softly as I can, shifting to a new position. My movement brings the attention of our B____ hostess who gestures at the tablecloth on the floor before us, filled to the edges with tea, naan bread, shredded carrots, pickled roots, Russian candy, wafer cookies, and liver. “She says ‘Eat,’” our friend translates. “I figured,” I smile back, mustering up the gratitude in my heart for getting to be here. I drink a big gulp of tea and hold a chunk of liver and naan in my hand for a while, as I had been coached, only shoving it in my mouth when I am prompted to eat again. It’s a pattern. 

Sitting around the table on the plush mats with the flower designs are four women from a people group with an estimated 4,000 members worldwide. My mind still cannot fully comprehend what that low number means - for a language, a culture, the next generation. Their origin is shrouded in such mystery that they don’t even know for sure where their ancestors came from, but they seem mostly content living here on the edge of a former Soviet city at the foot of the mountains. Out the window we can see the shell of the home one of the women is building with her husband, and her two sons who come in and out of our room are all smiles. These five women are actually more than content, for they have found a hope that will outlast even the extinction of their people group.

Our friend opens the Scriptures to Mark 9 and begins to read at v.14, and the women lean in. The baby girl with the massive eyes starts to fuss a little and is passed around from one lap to the next, but she doesn’t deter their focus from the story they are hearing of Jesus healing a demon-possessed boy. They nod because they know. They have faced oppression of many kinds, legal, physical, communal, spiritual, and they too have found Jesus to be stronger and worth it all. 

The liver in my hand is heavy and cold, and I work to tuck it under the rim of the teacup while I marvel at the faith of these beautiful people. As the discussion of the passage comes to end and we move toward prayer, our hostess points to Ellen and me to start. Following their example, I hold out my hands before me, palms up, while my mind races, “Do I have adequate words?” Thankfully Ellen goes first and in her prayer reminds me that this story we’re living in our vastly separate worlds is not the end. In fact, they will merge. One day I will hug these women again, and we will speak the same language, and they will no longer have dreams that frighten or neighbors who want to stop their building projects or children who cannot get medical treatment. Truly they are my sisters in Christ, the completion of all our stories. 

The men join in for the final prayer of blessing, and I manage to escape having eaten only two bites of liver. I shrug up my headscarf again, searching my pockets for a bobby pin, as we are passed from hug to hug next to the car. One of them holds me close and speaks words I don’t understand. I respond with my own words, a blessing from the Old Testament, and somehow it feels like we may have just said the same thing. What a gift that our stories intertwined in this brief earthly moment.

Two Years Later

I tend to blame this thinking on the fact that I’m a history teacher, but I very often like to reflect back to where I was and what I was doing exactly 1 month ago, 1 year ago, 10 years ago. There’s actually been a lot of that going around this particular weekend as everyone remembers back to 2 years ago and one of the most stressful weekends in BFA history. It was March 13 when we were summoned to an All-School Assembly and told about remote teaching/learning that was about to descend upon us. Dorm kids were instructed to take everything home as Res Life and parents were currently booking planes and trains for all 108 of them. On March 14 and 15 I was scheduled for three train station runs, though in the end I only completed one of them as the others had canceled flights or were informed that they wouldn’t be allowed into their countries. By March 16 we were cleaning out lockers to discard food and hauling books and projects home in our cars, and on March 17 when the doors locked, we stared at our laptops wide-eyed and set our clocks to 18 time zones as our students suddenly spanned from California to Korea.

That spring we hoped a lot in “two week” increments as Lockdown slowly stretched into seven. Even that seems like a short span now. But the sun shines brighter two years later, despite the fact that we still squint at it over our masks. The proof is in the collection of pictures from this recent weekend!

Marking the past and seeing where we are in the present has always been valuable to me, and that’s not just because I’m a history teacher. I think it’s biblical. We see it when Joshua and the Israelites set up stones of remembrance. There's the annual visit Hannah makes to the Temple to thank Yahweh for her son, and that's on top of all the festivals the whole nation was asked to keep - to recall God's goodness to them. So if remembering draws me toward gratitude and worship, then I will constantly look to the past.

Today I praise him for the chance to cheer at soccer games, for students who invite my inner child to play improv games with them in my living room even as I invite them to drink my tea, for the Middle Schooler whose sole aim during laser tag was to keep me alive, for the first in-person recital I've attended in over 26 months, and for the girls currently squealing on my floor and working on my birthday puzzle. Two years later, I recognize the gift it is to experience human touch and resume the intimate living we used to know. Praise God!

7th Grade Laser Tag

First soccer game since 2019

Cast Tea Party

Recital Song "Give Me Jesus"