As I come to the end of the school year, with all its
good-byes and endings, I find myself working through and reworking through this last year.
The Stranger
Sometimes it seem like I live out
of phase with the world. In some place
between hear and eternity, or both at the same time. Biblically that makes sense, I guess, being
in the now and not yet and all, but I do seem to be a little bit different. Recently I was reminded of a comment my
brother Andrew made of me when I was in Jr. High.
We were basketball players, and so, using a basketball reference (of
sorts) he commented, “It’s like you live on another playing surface.”
“You’re a strange one” is another one I’ve heard often
enough. And the classic, “I wasn’t sure what to do with you at first...” Now, that these all come from people who love
me brings me comfort: that where I am isn't so foreign that we can’t see each other and "play" together; that I’m not
so strange that I can’t be known; and that somehow, along the way, they figured
out what to do with me. :)
I love people. I
always have. I crazy, deeply, love human
beings. But, not everyone knows the joy that
people bring me. You may never have guessed
that this painfully shy, soft spoken, uncomfortable girl loves people. Many will never know on account of my poor small talk skills, awkward shyness, and
failed attempts at asking questions that I really DO want to know the answer
to.
For most people (it seems) the small
conversations are an important part of everyday life, and occasionally, the
first step to a friendship. But for me they
are a mountainous hurdle that must be jumped in one go. There is no climbing the small talk mountain slowly. (Don’t get me wrong. I do hope that the people I run into are
good. And sometimes the weather IS
interesting.) But mostly, I want to know how they really are.) What’s the stuff of their life?
What makes you… you?
A Stranger Purpose
When I was a child, there was something that happened more
than regularly. Maybe I would be sitting
on a bench in the park, or waiting for my parents in a store, or (when I was a
little older) waiting for a bus... It happened wherever I was: Someone would wander up beside me, look at me
and I’d smile, and I would ask them how they were…and then they would tell me. Every last detail.
Sometimes it was a story of great joy that they just needed
to tell someone. Something of their son that they were so proud of. A pregnancy that they
were afraid to hope for, and couldn’t share with others yet. Other times it was a sad story: A sick child.
A lost job. An unknown that they
could only wait on. Of course I talk much more with someone I know, but often I felt my purpose was to listen. Unless there was something to say...and there's a big enough silence.
I was not sure why this happened with me so much, or why they shared these stories with me, but I was grateful – deeply thankful – to be able
to hear their story, to glimpse their humanity, and a little deeper, something reflected
of the divine. And God gave me this gift to take with me: some part of their burden was born deep in my
soul. I was drawn to intercede for them:
light or heavy, joy or pain.
Most of them I met only once, but I loved them. How
blessed I was to share in their joys and sufferings, and then to walk right up
to the throne of Jesus, place their burdens at his feet, and ask Jesus to draw
near to them. Take on their sufferings.
That they would meet him – the source of hope - the fullness of joy.
I prayed that they would come to know the
depth and width and height of God’s love in their own heart.
Why would God bring them to me, instead of someone with wise and persuasive words? Who would know just what to say? Maybe someone with the gift of evangelism who
could show them Christ in a way that would open their hearts to him right there? But he picked me.
As I trust that God is at work in each
moment, as I look for his purpose and turn my ear to his voice, he still guides
me quietly through the world. He slows everything down, he
guides, he reveals.
This is how my friendships often start. I wait.
And then one day I get to hear a story.
Stranger At Home
Still, a few years ago, I loved people. All
people. I loved little children, with
their profound faith, bold self-expression, and confident trust. I loved teenagers, who searched shamelessly
for themselves, to be seen…to somehow know their meaning. I loved my fellow moms (and dads, too) who
found the meaning of life quite different this side of parenting. I loved those who were like parents to me –
who walked in places I have not and lived a little more life than I – deeper
riches in their person. I loved the
elderly persons who could not be distinguished from their faith, it was so intrinsic
to their identity. They looked at life
with different eyes than mine. They
could see back over life more clearly than I see mine now. (It is still, in many ways, a mystery).
It was hard to go anywhere and not find these incredible
beings. On an ongoing basis I had to
hold myself back from hugging everyone in the whole world! Usually with success.
Yes, I suppose I am “a strange one” and it’s
no wonder people “don’t know what to do with me,” lol!
So this was me.
Called to ministry when I was 5 years old. On the other side of Bible College and a BA
in Psych. A Master’s of Divinity all but
three courses completed. And God had
created a place for a stranger to be known – with children to love, and friendly moms and dads to
pray with and for, and parents and grandparents to learn from, and boy did I love
them! My task was to help families grow
in their ability to pass their faith on to the next generation. Three children of my own to bring these
things to life, and the call to share them with these people
that I loved.
During my ministry I looked into so many little eyes, each
with their own story – something of life on a broken earth to tell me. And something of Christ. And grandparents – the spiritual grandmothers
and grandfathers who shared their stories, offered encouragements and cautions. Grandparents who saw
all young ones (relative to themselves, of course), as their own. Who taught the truths of scripture by their
way of life.
This was my family.
My home. My place. My people.
My calling.
This is what I lost.
Stranger Lost
With my job, all the dominoes crashed down. I lost it all. They fell under broken circumstances. It was all just gone. Heart crushed. Broken so many times over in one long, giant
crest of a wave that left me in ruin. It hurt
to see people now. I could only look AT
them.
I wondered if I would ever be able to “see” people
again.
I took my children to school each day, and all the kids
swirled around me as the waters were receding, but so much damage was left in
the wake.
Stranger Healing
On the hill outside my backyard I asked God to show me where
I could be his presence in his world.
He showed me my community.
Then he said, “Look. The school.”
And as I looked my heart was filled with
gratefulness for the people there, especially the people spending day after day
with my kids, pouring into their little lives.
But I couldn’t bring myself to open my heart to another child. It hurt too much.
I was thankful for this new vision. God opened my eyes to
see so many people that were serving him in the ordinary moments of life. Obeying
God doesn’t always make sense in the practical sense. The actions that followed were counter-intuitive while
living on a halved income, but God continued to provide for us over and over
again. We had to ration our food
sometimes, but we ate every meal!
I took great joy in trying to find little things that I
hoped would bless them, and I wrote notes about how I saw God at work through
them. Looking back over the year my
gratefulness has only increased:
For Mme
Rachelle, who has loved all three of my kids, treasured over the gifts they have
made for her, encouraged them as they tried new things, and enjoyed their very
different personalities in a way that helped them know they were loved by
God.
For Mr. Leclerc, who helped my
Isaac feel like a leader, who helped my Oliver feel like he had a place and got
him to dream, and for my Claire, who he always took a moment for.
For Mme Robin, who took my Isaac into her class
this year right when he had lost his church family, when he was confused about church, when he felt
rejected by me for sending him to school, and when he was wondering if he
should question his leadership ability because his old friends didn't even look at him.
She encouraged him in his progress and constant effort, and she accepted
his notes and gifts with gentle thankfulness that made him know inside that he’d
done something special for her, and she encouraged him to lead his classmates in group work.
And God had a gift hidden in all this for me. The daily little conversations with Mme
Jacinthe, as we waited outside the Kindergarten class for Isaac to get out of school. I’m sure she had somewhere to
be, but she always took a moment to tell me about her kids, and her
life, the hockey game she watched, how sick she had been, how her daughter was
graduating. I am thankful.
I am thankful for how God provided this place
where I could in some way serve him. I don’t
know how people usually bless their teachers (I am new to having kids in school),
but I hope they felt valued. I hope they
felt affirmed in their gifts. I really have no idea if I succeeded in
that, but I hope and trust that God can/did/will use it for his purpose.
And as I went about all this, something started to
happen to me. My hard, hurt heart started to
melt. It was Isaiah’s daily, “Hey, I
know you, you’re Oliver’s mom.” It was the
trail of excited kids that waved as they walked by Claire and I on the way to
the gym on Tuesdays. It was all the kids
who got their jacket arms inside out and came to me with a plea for help. Then there was Jayden’s “ I was reeeeeeealy
hoping I’d be in your group” on Isaac’s field trip, and the visits from the
grade 2’s when they came out for recess, and the new siblings and cousins they
were excited to tell me about, and the regular after school stories about the awesome
things the kindergarteners were going to do that weekend that they were looking
forward to. How could I not fall in love
with those kids!
There was a gift in this new vision for my children, too. They were thrilled to think of things they
could make or do for their teachers. They
love writing notes to them (usually partly in their own hand, and in mine when
theirs got tired). I am glad they were able to experience that joy.
Stranger Failing
These last few days, so unfortunately, were not my
finest. I was not thinking
straight. So much so that when it came
time for Isaac to write his letter to his teacher, instead of giving him a few
minutes to reflect, I pushed him and rushed him to write it before his teacher
left school (when I could see that he was stressed that he would not find the right
words that would touch Mme Robin’s heart).
Not to mention, I failed to remember that, while Oliver’s last day of
school was Thursday, he still had school the next morning.
And then, on the ACTUAL last day, when I had a chance to
chat with Mme Rachelle, and ask about her summer, my mind was not focused
enough, and I missed my chance. What’s
worse, as I WAS talking to her, Isaac got out of class and walked up to me and
asked, “Aren’t you gonna say hi to your grade 3 boy?” Which would normally commence the
celebration. I was still trying too hard
to focus on Mme Rachelle. I didn’t hear
him. I hurt his feelings.
Normally when I am with my kids I see them and hear them and
treasure my time with them. As a rule I
don’t double task them with work, or surfing on the computer. But these last few weeks I’ve been working on
my last two major papers, due Friday.
When the last two days hit, so did the height of the pressure.
Partially I was weighed down by the topics. Especially the one I was writing on Sexual
Identity Development. It’s at the center
of challenges and changes in the church and in the world right now, with people
losing jobs over it, and readings of scripture being substantially revised, and
many churches making changes to their beliefs that have enormous implications
for how we interpret other things. And
then there are all the people feeling deep hurt and anger over these
things.
No matter what decision one
comes to, it must be scripturally faithful, and it cannot be made lightly, and it
needs to be lived out in love. And I needed to come to a decision. My mind
was crammed full of 5 heavy books and well over 100 articles, and my heart was
being wrenched by it all, and my stress levels were soaring at having to put it
all into a concise paper that reflected all this.
But I let my kids down.
All I could do was ask for forgiveness from them, and pray that
I now return to the mom I know I am.
Stranger Hoping
And now I find myself helping at VBS at the Catholic parish
next door. I am a little nervous, as
always, to be meeting so many new people.
At the meeting I was trembling, partly because it was so obvious that I’m
not Catholic. I’d be happy to cross
myself (as I also pray in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy
Spirit), but by the time I realize it’s happening its over (and I’d probably do
it wrong, anyway). No hiding this
protestant, lol. But they were such kind
people, and they made space for me to work alongside them. I’m thankful for that. For the first time, in a very long time,
I feel cautiously excited to be able to care for God’s children through
ministry, and I have hope that my heart will open to these kids, too.
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