Tag: Lessons and Musings Page 2 of 21

Is My Life Just Getting Started? Thoughts on Fulfillment

2010

Back in the summer of 2005, when Gil and I were making plans to return to Tanzania, I got a phone call from the man who had been hired as the new director at Haven of Peace Academy. The elementary school principal had just stepped down, and the director wanted to know if I would be interested in the position. I thought about it a couple of days, sent a few emails back and forth, but never really seriously considered it. We had plans to start our family. I wanted to be a mom.

Now that I actually am a principal at HOPAC, I’ve thought about that phone call a number of times this year.

These days, I pinch myself because I can’t believe that I get to do what I am doing. In some ways, it feels like my life has just gotten started. So this is what fulfillment feels like. I could have been doing this for the last thirteen years. Why did I wait so long?

I think over the previous ten years when I spent the majority of my time with my kids, and how restless I felt during those years. I wasn’t the kind of mom who delighted in coming up with crafts and treasure hunts for my little ones. The days often felt like they would never end, and I would count the minutes until nap time so that I could write a blog or work on an on-line class. Being patient and attentive was a deliberate, moment-by-moment, conscious decision. It usually didn’t come naturally and I often failed. And to be honest, it didn’t feel particularly fulfilling. A lot of the time, it just felt long and boring.

This isn’t about the whole debate between working moms and stay-at-home-moms, because I fully understand that it’s a nuanced discussion, and for many women, they don’t have a choice. But I do wonder–how hard should we run after fulfillment? It’s amazing to get there, but is it everything? Should I have said yes to being principal thirteen years ago? Would I have been happier those thirteen years?

Maybe I would have. Adult conversations and building up a school is a lot more fun than wiping spit-up and listening to Dora the Explorer or wrangling a two-year-old while trying to grocery shop. It’s a lot more satisfying to tell people I’m a principal than trying to explain that my profession is “mom” or “I help my husband with his job.”

But is it everything? Should I have put a greater value on seeking my own fulfillment? That’s the question. Was there value in being relatively insignificant and invisible all those years? Was there significance to what I was doing even if it didn’t feel that way?

I look back and I think there was. Bringing my kids home was practically a part-time job in itself during those years. In those days, my labor pains happened through hours of Dar es Salaam traffic as I made weekly trips to social welfare offices. It was arduous, but it was worth it. And once they did come home, giving my kids the stability that they craved, spending hours, days, months bonding–all of it was worth it.

And I did do more than just stay home with my kids. I baked endless cupcakes for teenagers, I had the time to help new missionaries get settled, I helped to build up HOPAC–even if it was just behind the scenes. And in those years of restlessness, I learned that wrestling with contentment can be more valuable than years of fulfillment. That in dying to my own desires, I learned to live.

I want to remember that, because I also know that fulfillment is fleeting. Our future in Tanzania is uncertain, and despite how much I love what I am doing, I don’t know how long I’ll get to do it. It’s quite possible that someday in the near future, I’ll end up as a stay-at-home-mom again, needing to homeschool my kids. And if that happens, I don’t want the thirst for fulfillment to cloud my vision of what is more important.

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When the Gate Fell

It was Sunday afternoon, and we had gathered together for our monthly mission team meeting. The adults were talking on the second-floor balcony of our friends’ house, and the kids were running around in the yard below us.

In the background, we heard the gate slide open, and a car entered the property–a taxi ready to pick up some teammates. A few moments later, we heard the ghastly sound of metal crashing and children screaming.

I had a feeling run through me that is usually reserved for nightmares. We rushed downstairs.

Four kids–Josiah, Johnny, and two others–had been pushing the gate together. The force of all four of them pushing at the same time had made the heavy metal gate jump its runners and crash to the ground. The other kids managed to jump out of the way, but Josiah’s friend put up his arm to stop the gate, and it fell on top of him, breaking his arm.

Thankfully, the boy’s dad is a doctor, and he immediately took over and got his son to a hospital. He is okay now. Our kids were stunned and a bit traumatized, as each of them felt responsible that the gate fell. But everyone was okay.

Funny how something as serious as a broken arm suddenly becomes “only” a broken arm. It took six strong adults to pick up the gate and put it back on it’s runners. It was totally and completely an accident–nothing anyone could have predicted, and no one’s fault. We all looked at each other grimly as we contemplated the What If”s. What if it had fallen on a smaller child? What if it had landed on someone’s head? Everyone remembered a similar scenario a couple of years ago when a falling gate had killed the four-year-old sister of a HOPAC student.

Right before this happened, we had all been discussing some serious issues our organization is facing. We are getting advice, we are doing everything we can, and we are praying–but ultimately the outcome will be out of our hands. We think that by worrying we can somehow gain some control over a situation, but then something terrible happens that we never would have thought to worry about.

We are but microscopic organisms on the head of a pin in a vast universe. Are we subject to the whims of chaos, or is there an infinite God who is orchestrating billions of events every moment of every day, whether it be presidents or armies or the forces of gravity on a metal gate?

How we answer that question determines how then we shall live.

Be All There.

Last summer at my parents’ house–handprints in cement.

Last night at bath time Johnny said, Mommy, I have an owie on my knee. He stood there with his big mournful eyes, and I noticed how tall he is now. He is almost to the end of kindergarten. And I thought about how it’s not going to be much longer that a child of mine shows me his owie.

Today was the annual garage sale at HOPAC, so yesterday we went through the house to find what we could get rid of. We loaded the car up with the booster seat and the foam blocks and the Ikea train set. You are taking away all of my memories! I whined to Gil. And he just rolled his eyes.

When you’re in the midst of it, every season of life feels like it will last forever. You can’t imagine yourself ever being old enough to get married and then suddenly you are; it feels like the babies will never be out of diapers and then one day you realize that everyone’s pee has made it into the toilet (mostly) for quite some time now. The years at home with toddlers feel like eternity and then one night you think you could be looking at your last owie.

The passage of time here in Tanzania has surprised me. Living as overseas as a foreigner feels like it should be temporary. But days have a way of blending into years, which have eventually become Grace’s entire childhood. And me? I was 23 when we moved to Tanzania. I’m 41 now. Enough time has gone by that we have replaced our wedding towels and watched trees grow from seedlings to towers and seen first teeth grow in and later get covered by braces.

So much of life is sullied by longing for the next thing. But then you get to 41 years old and realize that the next thing always comes, no matter how far away it seems.

I like Now. I want to live in Now. As Jim Elliot exhorted, I want to be All there. Until that Day, the Day when all will be made new, all I have is Now.

I’m listening to Grace and her best friend in the backyard while I write this. They are supposed to be working on a science project, but judging from the hysterical laughter, I’m not sure how much is being accomplished.

I sit here, and I listen to them laugh.

When Did the Church Decide that the Best Way to Attract People is By Looking Perfect?

Am I the only one paranoid and cynical these days? Is every man an abuser? Is every church hiding something?

I think about my upbringing and I realize that I was one of the fortunate ones. My parents were emotionally and economically stable. They disciplined me (I was not an easy kid), but loved me and never went too far. They sheltered me but weren’t afraid to talk about hard things.

The various Christian communities I grew up in were full of warmth and affection. Hypocrisy was rare; I was never asked to keep secrets; I was never abused–not even close.

And I took it all for granted. I assumed that was the norm. Shocking stories were, well, shocking. In general, I believed that Christians and churches and mission organizations were morally upstanding and safe. Why shouldn’t I?

But like I said, I was one of the fortunate ones. The older I’ve gotten, the more I realize that the wholesome and moral picture-perfect life was just a veneer. That lurking beneath the surface of Good American Christianity was far more cancer than I ever understood.

For too many, this realization has caused them to abandon not just the Church, but Jesus as well. Should we be surprised? After the talks about purity rings and modest skirts, church leaders were grooming little girls. Families were taught to pull their children in tighter and tighter, shielding them from the evil out there, while failing to acknowledge the evil within. Bruised men and women were told to forgive and forget. And wickedness was covered up by manicured grass and hearty welcoming handshakes. Why are we surprised so many have left?

When did the Church decide that the best way to attract people is by looking perfect? It certainly didn’t come from Jesus, who got down in the dust with the adulteress, and chose the tax collector and the fisherman (not the rabbis) to be his disciples.

Some churches have tried to be more down-to-earth. The pastor ditches his suit for jeans and the music team brings in drums and huge “Come As You Are” signs are splashed across the entrance. But maybe the watching world isn’t so concerned about jeans and slick music and modern-looking buildings as much as they are about authenticity.

Authenticity is a popular word these days, so I am careful how I use it. I don’t believe that we should be saying, This is the real me, so deal with it. But I do believe we should be communicating, This is the real me, and that’s why I need Jesus. There’s a big difference.

What happens when the Church preaches forgiveness at the expense of justice? What happens when a church claims love and unity as values but all the faces and ages look the same? What happens when the vast majority of the church’s energy is expended only for the people inside its own walls? We can smile, offer free coffee in the foyer, and parade around our well-behaved children, but will we really be living out the gospel to a broken world?

We don’t want to recognize our wretchedness because of pride. We cover up sin to protect our reputations because of pride. And pride is the antithesis of the gospel! 

Why do we so often try to look perfect? Understanding the gospel must start by recognizing our depravity. If we’re already pretty good people, then what’s the purpose of grace? And why on earth then did Jesus need to suffer and die for us?

I’ve lived long enough now that scandals, even within the Church, no longer shock me. But I am consistently discouraged by the stories of churches covering them up. As Rachel Denhollander brilliantly said, “The gospel of Jesus Christ does not need your protection.”

You can lock up a few evil people, but you can’t lock up everyone. As the cancer in our churches continues to rise to the surface, let us not simply pull it out, but look at where it’s rooted in our own hearts.

The Wounds of a Friend

Several weeks ago, Alyssa came over on my darkest day.  I was physically, emotionally, and mentally at my lowest point.  I had stayed home from work.  I felt like a failure–helpless and hopeless.  I was completely overwhelmed to the point where even picking up a sock on the floor felt beyond my capability.

She cried with me.  She listened.  And listened.  And listened some more.  She asked lots of questions. 

Over the next couple of days, Alyssa continued to come over for several hours a time.  Sometimes she just sat with me.  Sometimes she made me laugh.  Sometimes she nagged me to eat. 

Towards the end of that particularly low week, we were in my kitchen, and I was fretting about the various ways I was trying to fix myself.  Should I try [this particular method]?  I asked her. 

She paused for a moment.  Then she looked me straight in the eye and said, Amy, before you try anything else, I think you need to stop believing lies.  About yourself.  About God.  Then she listed them for me.  You know what is true, and you need to start believing it. 

She was direct.  And firm.  And it was exactly what I needed to hear. 

Two years ago, I wrote a blog called When I Am Not Sane.  At the end I wrote, If I ever get to Ground Zero again, I will get help a lot sooner than I did the first time.  But my first line of offense would be to get others in my life to help me fight the battle for what is True.

Emotions can be untamed horses.  They can define our universe.  They can overwhelm us with lies and conquer rational thought.  And sometimes, it’s not a battle we can fight on our own.  We need those friends who will battle it with us, and pound the Truth into our heads.  Even if it hurts.

This goes against our instincts in friendship.  We want to make each other feel good.  Oh, of course that dress doesn’t make you look fat!  Of course you’re not a terrible mother.  Of course you had every right to say that to your husband.  We fish for compliments and vindication and our friends happily oblige.  That’s what makes a good friend….right?



Except, sometimes what we want to hear is not what we need to hear.  If I had a brain tumor, I wouldn’t want the surgeon to tell me, Oh don’t worry, you look great!  Just ignore those pesky headaches.  I’m sure you will be just fine! 

No, no!  I would want him to shave my head and cut me open and remove the alien mass from my head.  I wouldn’t care if it left a scar, or if it made me feel miserable, or if I was in pain for days.  I would want it out

Proverbs says, Faithful are the wounds of a friend.  Sometimes, we need friends who will be that surgeon.  Not just someone to hold our hand or whisper soothing words, but someone who will confront the tumor and battle with us to destroy it.

I say this carefully.  Many have been unnecessarily wounded by well-meaning people who make the problem worse, not better.  Quoting Bible verses glibly to a person in pain or grief is certainly not helpful.  There is a time for prayers, physical presence, and silence.  But Alyssa did it right:  She already knew me very well, she gave me her time, her compassion, her help, and when the time was right, she told me the Truth. 

She wasn’t the only one.  Gil has been a faithful speaker of Truth into my life (and incredibly patient with me) these past few months.  There are many others–I started to list them, then was afraid I would miss someone–but they know who they are. 

It’s hard to know for sure, but I think I’m on the upward slope of this season in the desert.  And I owe so much to the friends who were willing to walk with me, encourage me…and wound me.  I want to keep friends like that in my life.  I want to be that kind of friend. 

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