Presume to Teach

Here’s that stack-of-books picture that all us preacher/teacher types like to post from time to time.  

I think we think it makes us look smart or important; or at least we hope it is proof of our invisible work and justifies all the time we’ve sequestered ourselves in our offices (or at the cottage).

I’ve just come off a teaching-intensive kind of summer.  Just measuring Sundays alone, of the nine weeks between June 23 and September 1, I’ve been ‘off’ two Sundays only.  Not all of that involved teaching, but the bulk of it did. 

Every sermon is researched and a thesis statement is constructed, delivery is rehearsed, and then there’s the sermon itself.  Many have Power Points or other visual assists to prepare.  While in Thailand the teaching component becomes a daily thing, with curriculum development, learning objectives, lesson plans, and themed teaching manipulatives.  Coming home from Thailand, I’ve hidden myself away at the cottage in unscheduled seclusion to prepare for the next run of sermons, both in Canada and in Thailand, as well as a month of Bible and ESL lessons, again with the kids at Hot Springs in October.

I checked off the last prep task this morning, and had this sobering realization.

 “Whoa!  That’s a LOT of teaching!” 

Last fall when I dug deep into a Directed Reading and Research credit on Cross Cultural Teaching, I felt like, in the Christian Education bibliography, I found again my ‘tribe’.  Seems all my life I’ve been teaching in some capacity or another.   There’s so much passion and joy in this for me.  But also.

Really, who do I think I am?  What a preposterous presumption!  The seriousness of this weighs heavy sometimes, like the load of books I’ll soon be packing to take back to the city with me.   I know I’m not alone in this.  Any teacher with a conscience understands this sense of weighted audacity.

I am reminded of this around a lively lunch table just a few days ago, which included another lady preacher and so the conversation came around to what constitutes ‘strong’ preaching.   I had a few thoughts to add to the mix, but they were tempered by previous conversations I’ve had earlier this year with another vigorous group to which I belong, who in the course of our discussion had laid out a robust rubric for sermons.  In that conversation, which I appreciated very much, I had felt like I didn’t quite measure up. 

Then, of course, when you put yourself out there, you invite ‘feedback’, or ‘constructive criticism’ or whatever it is you might want to call those often off hand comments just after or even just before you get up to preach.   “Thank you for letting me know your thoughts.  I will take that into consideration.”

And I will.  Deeply, in fact.  Because we’re sensitive like that, us preacher/teacher types, sometimes causing us to stack up  pile of books and take a picture to post if we get the chance.

In his cautions about how we can misuse words, teacher/preacher James takes a direct line to speak to the weight of this matter.

“Not many of your should become teachers, my fellow believers, because you know that we who teach will be judged more strictly.  We all stumble in many ways.  Anyone who is never at fault in what they say is perfect, able to keep their whole body in check.”  James 3:1-2

I think James, who by the way had pretty impressive credentials (besides having written one of the books included in our New Testatment!), has nailed it.  Stay humble.  Be ever mindful.  With many words comes the opportunity for many “stumblings” (in other places in his letter, he’ll outright call this sin). 

It’s a brutal task, but necessary, this self-awareness, honest self-critiquing thing.   Sometimes I wonder if the most responsible thing to do about it is just quit.  Which I will do, if the people I’ve put in my life to keep in check and help me decide these matters agree that it’s time. 

But for now I’m simply packing up to go home.  And like so many teachers preparing classrooms right about now, I’ll presume to move forward, presume I might have something to offer, presume that God might be able to take whatever loaves and fishes I’ve been able to pack, and feed the gathered people somehow.

August Awe

A crisp, still air hangs mist over the water as I push the kayak away from the dock.  It’s 11 C this morning and the sun didn’t rise until almost 6:30 a.m., just forty five minutes ago.  All week the absence of other cottagers has deepened the quiet in our little bay.  Along the shoreline the spring blooms have given way to later beauties.   The jenny wren and other first-of-the-season birds have raised their families by now and are already edging themselves southward.  At least that’s what I’m guessing, because they’re not here anymore.  The forest itself looks rested and mature, unlike the bursting energy of early spring when I first made my way around the island.  

And I am here.

And I think, This is incredible.

And I think, This is so weird.

After a lifetime of being expected in the city by August for intensive preparation of the season to come, both as a home schooling Mom and then as the pastor of a local church, this kind of cottage time, the way everything feels here this time of year, is a new and wondrous thing for me.   These days, the kind of fall prep I’m doing does not require that I be sending out schedules and leading meetings and casting vision and cheering on volunteers in anticipation of ‘the first day of school’ or ‘kick off Sunday’.  In fact, right now, the work to which I need to apply myself  is better done in unscheduled seclusion uninterrupted by meetings or emails.

The Shadow

In just five weeks from now I’ll be back on the plane heading for a month of ministry in Thailand representing New Family Foundation and all that entails these new days of life and ministry.   Come September, sure enough, there’ll be meetings and appointments and such.  My calendar is already basically full.  But in these last two weeks of August, so much of the prep work for that work, and for sermons I’m working on for Highview, and for the next course of study for my MDiv, can be done, is probably better done here, away where I can think and write, and fill my soul with kayak therapy and sunshine and lingering blueberries.   It makes perfect sense, and is much smarter work-wise to wait to return to city life after Labour Day.   But.

 It feels new, different, strange.  If I listen more deeply to the self-talk of it, I realize that there is, around the edges, a vague sense of anxiety or guilt, as if I’m neglecting my responsibilities somehow.  That somehow I’m being indulgent or lazy or selfish. 

But this mist of edging-in thoughts is swept away rather suddenly as I press the kayak out from a short narrows called  ‘the Shadow’ into the full sunlight of the wider bay on this cooler, still-summer morning.  

  

The sun hits my face and I welcome it as the warm, quiet-yet-startling voice of God. 

“Ruth Anne.  Be here. 

A gift in the new way of shalom that we’re doing together now.”

And I stop paddling and just float in that for a moment.

Yes. 

A gift. 

And I realize with surprise as I float suspended that I am fulfilled in a way I honestly don’t think I’ve ever known before.  Like, ever.  In my life.  For all the places of goodness and joy in my life up to now, and even contrasted to all the agonies and struggles, this is different.  Deeper.  Forged out of the mix and mire of all that I’ve ever suffered.  Every perseverance.  Every sacrifice.  Every injustice.   Every sadness. 

I am at home in this space.  I belong here right now.  Right here, right now.  In the kayak.  At sunrise.  Out on the water.  At the cottage.  In August.  Being 62.  Being married to Ken for 41 years.  Being Gramma to so many children.  Being exactly me, who I am right now, writing with God these next chapters of my story.

Is it presumptuous of me to think this way?  That these days here at the end of August in some way represent a phase of my life that God is gifting me with?  That somehow there is a reaping now of past labours?

There certainly have been times, in the midst of raising a family and leading a congregation, that I have felt more despair and discouragement than any sense of fulfillment.  I would have identified more with ‘the Servant of the Lord’ described by Isaiah.

“He said to me, ‘You are my servant, Israel, in whom I will display my splendour.’

But I said, ‘I have laboured in vain; I have spent my strength for nothing at all.’  Isaiah 49:3-4a

That’s exactly how it can feel to be a small church pastor in a megachurch world.  Or a female pastor in a man’s world.  Or a spiritual leader of any sort in a world hell-bent on self destruction, taking down people you love without discretion.  Or even more honestly, the exhausted mother of toddlers or who seem to have gotten the better of yet another day. My journals have reflected on these and other insanities over the years.

But there’s a tag line to the Servant’s discouragement that hints of a faith that can see beyond to a better day.

“Yet what is due me is in the LORD’s hand, and my reward is with my God.”  Verse 4b.

And then there’s this reflection of David, looking past his current tribulations.

“Though you have made me see troubles many and bitter, you will restore my honour and comfort me once more.”  Psalm 71:21

And I am reminded of the picture of Naomi, after wondering just how much more she could endure to lose, finding herself at the end of the story with a brand new grandson on her lap.  And the women of the village pronounce this baby’s effect over her.  “He will renew your life and sustain you in your old age.”  Ruth 4:15

I do not mean to paint a picture of my life being utterly miserable up to this point out in the kayak on a misty morning in August.  Far from it.  God has brought blessing upon blessing and an abundance of story with chapters of opportunity and depth and love.  I know it.

It’s just that when you look back over a lifetime of ministry and count the overall cost – Well, it’s just a strange and different and deeply contented feeling to be here in this August awe.

As I make my way around the island again, the mist gives way to the rising sun and a new day begins its cycle.  I round the corner on the Freddy Channel to reveal our cottage, perfectly reflected in the still water.   The deck awaits the ritual of setting up the ‘work station’.  Invigorated , I will begin.

One more week of August left. 

Every One of Them

Though you were ruined and made desolate and your land laid waste,

now you will be too small for your people,

and those who devoured you will be far away.

The children born during your bereavement will yet say in your hearing,

"This place is too small for us;

give us more space to live in."

Then you will say in your heart, "Who bore me these?'

I was bereaved and barren;

I was exiled and rejected.

Who brought these up?

I was left all alone,

but these -- 

where have they come from?"

Isaiah 49:19-21

What a mothering God we have.

He gets it.

And while I personally can't go so far as to change the pronoun, it's clear that the Bible has our Creator speaking with a mother's heart in so many instances.  Like here, in this part of Isaiah's prophecy describing God's intentions to restore all things to 'better than before'.  And the imagery used is that of an overflow of family, of children, lots of them, filling up the aching empty spaces, spilling out and over onto the grass outside, asking for more room to grow.

I ask this same question often, when I am at the cottage, or at Hot Springs.  This question on the lips of the metaphoric mom, "Where did all these kids come from?"  I pick up the wet towels after a swim, or I follow them around on the playground at the Dinosaur Park, and I wonder too.  Like Israel, once confused and exiled but looking toward the fullness of a promise, I have aching empty spaces that God has filled in delightful, surprising ways.

I have thirty-six grandchildren, give or take.  That's a lot, and it's abundant and lavish and way, way more than I could have ever imagined for myself.  This is a better story than I would have written for myself, no question.  And I am overwhelmed with wonder and gratitude and overflow of family that spills around to the other side of the world, literally.

 And here's the next level of application that happens for me.  The abundance isn't just in the number of grandchildren I so shamelessly brag about.  It's in the spectular-ness of each one of them, every single one of them.  The intrinsic value, immeasurably precious value of every one of them to my heart. And to make my point, even insufficiently, let me name them all.

Saiy, Somchai, Nuch, Thim, Miki, Entorn, Fruk, Bell, Apple, Porn, Wara, Kratae, Da, Amy, Any, Im, Min, Me-na, Mee-o, Eak, May, Gam, A-tom, Jabez, Praweet, Beeyung, Rompo, Boy, Chun, On-Ooey, and Bee.

And Abby, Zachary, Harvest, Jayden and Evelyn.

And Evelyn.  Did I mention her already?

Her particular value came to be quite weighty for me this past trip to Thailand when we visited the markets.  In anticipating my time there this summer I had already planned out the kinds of things I wanted to get for her.  Sweet Thai baby shoes and a dress in traditional style.  But I didn't, because she's not in need of them where she is now.  In fact I quite expect her yellow dress is made of sunshine itself, by far a better swish of cloth than ever I could purchase at even the most exotic of market stalls.  And selfishly, standing there in the humid air of Chiang Mai, I wanted her not to be where she is, but here with her Mama who aches for her so anguished, and with me, a Gramma who is empty and aching even in the abundance.

I wonder if that's not exactly the picture Isaiah is painting with his prophetic brush.  The here and now contrasted against the one day of God's 'better than before' ultimate promise, but both somehow melted and molded together if time could be removed, as if there could be nothing in between the knowing and the holding of.

This shouts loudly to me of the sanctity of each life.  How else could I be so lavished with grandchildren, yet ache for the one I can't hold?

And Bee.  I would be remiss not to render a moment to say how three years makes no difference whatsoever to the weight of his absence, even as the pain becomes more functional.  Here and now, in contrast to one day.

And that will be the day when we look up and realize that today's abundance of children spilling over onto the grass, is just the tiniest of glimpses of the beauty and bliss of the wild joy being fully present with each and every one of them.

"Come dance with me Gramma!"

An Underwear Story

The laundry is a thing here.

First, with 23 people living under one roof, not a day goes by, rain or shine, that all three machines aren't running.  So it's a thing.  And not just for them, but for the Highview Team.

By that I mean, it's next to impossible to convince Yupa that we should help do our own laundry.  For a gentle Thai lady, she can be so stubborn about this!  It's all part of the culture of service and honour and love, and an erasing of the lines between helper and helped.

The other day, though, I saw a golden opportunity and, when I thought no one was looking, I snuck out to the bamboo pole on which the last load of Highview Team's laundry was drying, and started to bring it in.   This was the underwear load.  Sorry if that's TMI but it's important to the story.

Also important to know is the fact that we are quite aware of the extra domestics required when we're here.  We've been a team of five (now four with Sheldon's earlier departure) and you can just imagine if five people came and stayed at your house for two weeks.  So we do our best to politely work around Thai culture to help lighten the load by clearing our own table, being conscientious about our garbage and recycling, and sneaking out to bring in the laundry when we think we can get away with it.

But no.

Wara intercepted me. 

 
Wara is one of the older girls who help out with the domestics when we have a Team stay.  She saw me taking in the laundry and hurried over with a cry of dismay.  Oh Ahjahn Ruth, mai chai (no)!   But I insisted, thanking her just the same.

Then she asked, "Don't you want me to iron those?"  I paused, confused.  Looking down at the collection of briefs belonging to four different women, I wondered if I had actually heard her correctly.  Iron our underwear?  But she held her hand on an imaginary iron and swiped it back and forth in an ironing motion. 

And then a dawning. 

They iron our underwear?!!

I had known that he took a quick iron to any of our cotton shirts and sometimes our pants if things came out of the machine a little bedragggled.  There's no dryer here to set to "permanent press" and often as not, no breeze to help blow out the wrinkles.  It's not necessary, as far as I'm concerned, and it's always been done 'in secret' so to speak, so I haven't really been able to stop them from doing it.  But I did know about it.  But.....underwear?

I'm dismayed.  Truly.  I tell Wara, no!  Please don't iron our underwear!  She smiles broadly, bends low and wraps her arms around my waist (a way of showing gratitude and honour to someone older) and says repeatedly in English, "Oh thank you, thank you."  She's so happy she has been released from some of her task. 

I come in to distribute our underthings and report my discovery to the Team.  They iron our underwear!!!

The very next moment I see Yupa I express my concern.  There's already so much you do for us.
Please, don't iron our underwear.  It's totally not necessary!

It was Yupa's turn to look confused.  "No-o", she says, in her elongated way.  No underwear gets pressed around here.   

Oh.  So?  What is Wara talking about?

Then it dawns on us both.  She's playing a trick on Ahjahn Ruth!  Yanking my chain!  Yes, that sweet little Wara is playing with me.  And I totally bought it.  We laugh so hard we almost need to do an underwear load again.  Who irons underwear?  Come on!

The thing is, it could have been true.

So that's one thing about this story.
The bazillion ways we are loved here is a very powerful thing.  Much more than a laundry thing.  It's totally a love thing.  And so many of us, having stayed with this family, go home realizing we've been loved at a molecular level, at a practical level, at an 'everything level', in ways we can hardly explain when we try.  Like ironed underwear.

And like play.  Which is the other thing.
Because the truth is I'm not that much fun, just me.  And mostly I'm okay with this, but God knows I need happy, playful people in my life.  So He sent me a whole extra family that includes Wara who makes me imagine a hilarious picture involving underwear and an ironing board.  And who's humour and joy is a testimony to the life she's now living.  And somehow, somehow -- and this is such a mystery to me -- I get to be part of this.

Tomorrow we get on the plane and come back to Canada.  All our underwear is packed and ready to go.  But our hearts, not so much.  Can two weeks really go by this fast?  Yup.

Personally, I'm encouraged by the fact that I'll be here again in just six weeks.  Shortest turn around ever (and I thought two months was quick last time!).  So I'm already preparing for that visit, with Ken and our long time friends Bill and Celine.  Already thinking about being here again. 

Maybe they'll let me help with the laundry eventually.