Providing in Real Time

God provides in real time. Recently, I've struggled with uncertainty about where I'll live and work for the next... ever. I am puzzled and sometimes whiny, but God keeps knowledge about the future on a strictly need-to-know basis with me. So, I trust God sometimes, when I'm not freaking out and crying to all my friends about how unfair it is that I don't know everything and have it all figured out, and that my life isn't just already lived-out and decided for me.

A second problem that I've been facing is how to teach this crazy Bible class. I have trouble feeling prepared for it. I can't see very far past the day's lesson, because it's all I can do to keep up with the Bible-reading and study it takes to teach the Bible. I have confessed here before about how I have no degree that is related to God/Jesus/Bible-anything. I find myself burdened with my own questions, let alone those of the students, which overlap often.

Tonight, in the grocery store, God showed up. Actually, it was my friend, K.

I went to the grocery store to pick up essentials (you know, vegetables and chocolate), and I turned and saw K there, saying hey! "Hi, K! What a neat place to meet, so weird, right? I almost never buy groceries..." No. Really.

As we chatted, I realized I had a beautiful opportunity before me; K is trained in theology, and was a professor at M College for a while. So I asked her the burning question inside me this week: how do I make First Samuel interactive for the students... or whatever?

She asked what resources I'd come across so far (nice, K), and I mentioned this book I've been using, and she was all like, "yeah, that was the book I used. The editor is in our theology department." Seriously, K?! Without the exclamation point!?!! This was a big deal for me, because I'm still easily starstruck, perhaps, by people who have written books. But, STILL. I left the grocery store with excitement, feeling affirmed in every which way.

THANKS, K: I hope you still had time tonight to bake for the thingy tomorrow morning.

And NICE one, God!

On This Side

On this side of the Red Sea,
let us lay down our worries.
We do not need to clean
our closets before crossing.

On this side of the Red Sea,
let us look up at eternity
written in the sky with a cloud,
a pillar of fire, blocking our view.

Sing with me, brothers,
dance with me, sisters.

God is with us, and we are breathless.
the seas curl up like living scrolls,
and we walk in unlikely places,
touching ground that living feet have not trod.

Sing with me, brothers,
dance with me, sisters.

If the water or the wilderness consume us,
we will have already
worshiped God
for setting us free.

Sing with me, brothers,
dance with me, sisters.

Elyada: God Knows

On my way home after Christmas, I left my brother's house right before snow began. On the highway, heading south, I supposed I had missed the storm, and I began to praise God. I was so thankful: I hate driving in snow. In my heart, I felt a pressure, and wondered if I would still praise God if it were snowing hard, and the roads were bad. I told God, "Yes. I will praise You then, too!"

Lo, and behold: As my little green Chevy was speeding away down 322 South, just passing Newport, snow began to fall in more than a flurry, in a heavy nonchalance, oblivious to how dangerous it was making the roads. And I began to pray, and praise God for his faithfulness to me at all times, in all things, even if the worst would happen. (I have learned that all people are not as morbid as this. Snow on the road may not cause you to re-evaluate your life purpose, or get right with God. I, however, have never had any illusions of invincibility to which the young are reportedly so prone.) As I prayed and sang, my fear was occasionally uprooted by faith in God, who knows when I will die.

In church last week, I heard voices lifting up his name, voices coming from hearts that have been tested. They have lost children. Their hearts have been stomped in adulterous relationships and divorce. Their bodies have been wasted by diseases and injuries. They have lost jobs, some recently, and been unable to find more work. And they sang out this song:

O death! Where is your sting?
O hell! Where is your victory?
O church! Come stand in the light.
Our God is not dead! He's alive! He's alive!

It's hard to argue with people who know suffering and are still singing about God's love. One friend experienced the loss of his newborn. He said, in the midst of this song, "I can tell you, God is good."

It was a promise that in the worst times, at our weakest, in our fear, God knows.

(Song: Matt Maher. "Christ is Risen." Alive Again. Thankyou Music, 2009 (Admin. by EMI Christian Music Publishing))

A Prayer that is Not Very Serious

Father in Heaven,
You are the great teacher, and holy is your name.
May your classroom come, may your announcements be made, on earth, as they are in heaven.
Give us this day our daily lesson plans, and forgive us our mistakes, as we forgive those of students.
And lead us not into the temptation of giving up, but deliver us from parent emails.
For yours is the classroom, the projector, and the hall passes,
forever and ever,
Amen.

June

It's beautiful: being overcome
by simple exhaustion at the end of a school year.

[Breathe.]

It's beautiful.

Being Thankful and Being Sick

Three weeks ago marked an unusual event in my life: illness. I came down with something Sunday evening. Monday, I went to school and taught, bleary-eyed, the only thought on my mind was my bed. A fever started taking me over. By four o'clock, I had called off for the next day, and by six o'clock, I was calling friends to take me to the hospital. I had a fever of 102, and I couldn't think straight. I was fixating on a message I had sent to a friend the night before.

The rest of the week passed in and out of fever. I taught Wednesday through Friday, each day doing just a bit more. I haven't been sick like this since I was a child. It was strange. I forgot what it was like to take my temperature intermittently; to drink hot tea in tiny sips, then feel too tired to finish; to stay in bed, to have a box of tissues on hand; to take medication on the hour because without it, it feels as though Sousa is marching a band on my optic nerve.

A week of being sick. What have I learned? The summary came in a sermon at church that Sunday: thankfulness is a habit. As I lay in the throes of fever, wishing for water, and actually unable to orient my head and feet in order to get it, I was giving thanks to God for indoor plumbing, for daylight, for a job that could do without me in times of distress, for people all around me, for friends and family I could call, for a phone, for my hair (I recall this prayer: "God, thank you that I'm not going through chemo right now. That would be way worse."), for youth, for a million things. In the sermon, Brock was talking about Paul and Silas singing to God in their chains: their joints were probably stretched beyond the limit and swelling painfully; they were probably covered in their own dirt; they were probably bloody, thirsty, hungry, and feverish. But they prayed and sang hymns to God. You don't just live that kind of gratitude overnight. You have to practice, one trial at a time. Thank you, God, for who you are, in my sickness and in my health.

For a while after being sick, I was way more compassionate to the students who asked to be excused from school for feeling ill. In China, attendance is not a big deal. If you are present for your tests (which occur frequently and have huge bearings on your future), if you make good grades, your parents will certainly allow you a day to rest. Shoot, a day every other week to rest. No problem. But in the United States? Well, we call that truancy, kids. The real problem is that I don't know when a person is "actually" sick. Some tell-tale signs that they're not sick, however, include the following:

• no fever
• no diarrhea
• no throwing up
• no headache
• no blood
• no protruding bones
• no tears
• no cough
• student tells you he has a headache, then coughs... to make the headache more convincing
• student limps up the stairs after telling you he has a headache... to make the headache more convincing
• student refuses medicine
• student refuses to go to the doctor
• after telling the student that he will miss free time after school, he gets better
• student walks to breakfast, jokes with friends, walks back to the dorm, then limps to the office to complain of severe back pain
• student has a big test or paper due that day
• student was up all night playing video games

Hangers

Not long ago, this May, I wrote about the distinct discomfort of uncertainty. I had no plans for after camp. Shortly thereafter, I interviewed at LMH and was offered a job there. This came four days before camp began.

Camp is over, of course; school has begun, of course. Moving is done (for now). I have retained all necessary hangers (refer to May post, "The Twins Across the Street" for clarification). But even if I had not brought a single hanger, I would have discovered a closet full of unclaimed hangers in the storage room. Isn't that nice?

Así Son las Cosas

Señor del universo,

Yo confío todo al cuidado tuyo. Si yo no te pueda confiar, ¿en quién puedo esperar? Ya me ha fallado mí misma. Fine. Take it all.

Voy a tomar el consejo que dí a una hermana esta semana: voy a contarte como me siento a tí. Si me siento que me has equivocado, y me debes a algo, voy a decirlo a tí. Pero, por ahora, sé que lo que me falta es la descansa. Aun todavía, mientras que yo no este bien, puedo descansarme en tus brazos.

Geese and Work

I sat on the steps near the duck pond, reading J.D. Salinger's Nine Stories. Friday was hot, you'll recall, but dry. It reminded me of Arizona, where the wind and the heat hug your body. Class was in session, so the campus was quiet. The benches around the pond were filled with students not earnestly doing work. Peace reigned in this liminal space that marked the start of class, but not the end of summer.

Then goose honking filled the air. Fast-approaching, an air raid of geese swarmed overhead, flying in three close, lopsided V's. They normally inhabit the surface of the pond and surround it with wispy white feathers, causing some commotion which fades into the background. They are the hosts of the pond, really. And yet, I did not even know they were missing until they touched down in the middle of the pond, fully exploiting their rights as both denizens and hosts of the pond.

At first, they clustered in their flying groups and faced each other, West Side Story style. Then they became one large flock once more and faced the fountain on the eastern side of the pond. Little by little, their honking ceased. They were paying obeisance to the great fountain, which kept their water from stagnating and smelling. I half expected the fountain to talk, for it seemed as though they were all waiting for something. The geese held their positions in the turning waters, for a breeze had kicked up, and their own flapping had caused the water to stir.

As slowly as their honking had stopped, they turned to their different poses of life, as if suddenly remembering this was their home and they had housekeeping, after all. They preened and squawked a little, and dived down, and pecked one another, and forgot the fountain and their warlike entrance.

I turned to work. I have two jobs right now: The Cove at Millersville, and College Corner Cafe (fondly known as The Bagel Shop) at Franklin and Marshall College. It will probably get a little complicated to work out my schedule if I keep both jobs all semester... and goodness knows what next semester will hold in the way of work, for I'll be student teaching. I'm praying now. Pray, too, for provision that I might not have to work so much.

Pakistan, Canadian Donations

Oh God, do something for these people.

Flood in Pakistan.

People like me, with nowhere to go.

They need everything.

I groan with them.

Oh God, do something for these people.

__________________________

Here's some of what BBC has to say about it:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-south-asia-11105165

Here's what Mennonite Central Committee has going on:

http://mcc.org/stories/news/race-against-time-pakistan

In Canada, the federal government is matching private donations on behalf of Pakistan. Whoa. You can donate at the bottom of the page.

20 Miles Later

I have a few blisters on my left foot from the last part of the hike. But the first 17 miles went really well! Becky coordinated a backpacking trip with Katie and Mindy (professionals compared to me!) and myself this weekend. On Friday afternoon we were just getting our bags packed, and my Friday evening we were still crawling along in traffic making our way to Port Clinton. We did not start hiking until 8:30pm! A thunderstorm had just finished, and the sky was clear as could be as we made an ascent up switchbacks to inaugurate our fresh beginning. Two miles later, headlamps illuminated and sweat pouring from...everywhere, we set up camp at the top of the ridge, a mile before the next spring. Becky managed to get a modest fire going after struggles. Later, we packed the food in the bear bag, only then realizing that we had far more than enough food for four people and three days. We needed two bear bags. And we were too tired to actually hoist them. So we set them far off, and laid down beneath the stars. Becky and I hastily set up the tent beside our tarp, just in case someone might chicken out through the night, and seek more secure lodgings.

Saturday was beautiful. The breeze blew as we made our way out around 9:30. It was a good thing we got moving that early, because we had a pretty strenuous hike ahead: at least 10 miles (we never were quite sure), and lots of it uphill. The trail grew rockier and rockier. We stopped at Pulpit Rock. I thought it was the Pinnacle at first, not sure how anything could be grander, but no: the Pinnacle and our lunch stop still lay 2.4 miles ahead, according to the other hikers about. And there were plenty of other hikers around on Saturday and Sunday. I don't know if ya'll have noticed, but it's been raining nonstop this June! This was the first suitable weekend for backpacking, and everyone and their dog was taking advantage of it. Having reached the Pinnacle, we stopped for an hour's rest to eat lunch. I pulled out George MacDonald for the first time on the trip. What a lovely hour. Hawks soared at my feet in a blue sky that reached the whole way to another range of mountains. The sun warmed my back after the breeze had chilled it, and I guarded my peeling (no longer red) legs in the shade of the protruding maze of rocks, trying not to think much about the rattlesnake spotted just down the trail. After the Pinnacle, Saturday ended in a beautiful three miles of spacious trail with few rocks. Katie was relieved most, having only brought trail runners. Her feet were howling and we were ready to eat again. That night we ate as much of our supply as we could: rice and beans, mashed potatoes, hot dogs, s'mores, I'm not even kidding.

Sunday, we had little idea what the trail looked like ahead. The guidebook became somewhat more vague, and the mileage ahead was also questionable. Even so, we did not leave our campsite before we had consumed a multi-course brunch: oranges, muffins (baked in the orange rinds), oatmeal, pudding (made with french vanilla creamer and water), granola, this is not a joke.

Sunday's first miles were smooth. Then we climbed steeply, not descending often, but coming to ridges only to ascend again. Soon my right knee started to be painful during descents, a dull aching at first. I am mostly convinced that it was just tired. But we were not simply going to set up camp; we were going to keep going, and so was my knee. It only grew angrier, though, apparently deaf to all inner pleading, so I began to plead outwardly. I'm sorry to say that I started to cry during our last descent. We took a break, and my companions all took various objects from my pack, and the pack itself. During this interlude, a fellow about our age was climbing up the same trail, a guitar visible from his pack. We all had enough time to joke about him playing me a song to make me feel better before he was within hearing range. Upon seeing our distress, he offered whatever help he could, his hand down the mountain, reassurance that our goal was not too far; even his mobile number, in case we should suddenly have need of it; he offered everything, that is, except to play a song. In the end, Mindy and I headed down the mountain arm in arm, Becky and Katie gerryrigged my pack to Becky's pack, and the mountain minstrel continued on his kind way up the mountain. He had lifted our spirits; just what we needed. The way up the River of Rocks trail was arduous, I daresay a good deal more arduous for my companions with the added weight. I limped blithely along, admiring the river bed that was made of nothing but large rocks. I kept thinking about what it would be like to encounter a "river" actually made of moving, flowing rocks. Painful, probably. We played the word association game. We counted steps. We counted rocks. We drank water. And more water. And still we had more up to go. When we saw cars above us, we took heart. With more water and one last, steep push upward we arrived at a third lookout (not rivaling the Pinnacle, but probably worth the seven bucks they charge at the entrance, through which we left, and so were not charged.) Our elation was visible. It may have scared the little children, actually, with their kind parents, out to enjoy the Sunday afternoon, to be set upon by four boisterous, unshowered hikers who had never been more satisfied to reach their destination.

A few minutes later, our packs safely smelly in Mindy's trunk, rain began in a short, earnest burst. Thank you, Lord, for holding onto the rain's tail just long enough not to endanger our adventure!