YOU KNOW LIFE HAS CHANGED...WHEN

At the end of three weeks of Brazil and warm breezes, unending fruit  and new friends, I'm sitting here at my kitchen table in Berrien Springs, Michigan, surrounded by mounds of mail with more things to add to my list of things to do.  I cringe at the thought of 30 phone messages that I need to hear...and return.


Ordinarily--well, what has been ordinarily extraordinary for 27 years--this would be a quiet Sunday evening, the beginning of a predictably hectic week, but not too much that a little bit of planning and pacing and prayer can't handle.


Instead, it's a quiet Sunday evening, the beginning of an unpredictably chaotic week--a  downhill slide into sorting, packing, selling, throwing and more clutter than my house as ever seen in all its life.  Even my praying places are taken.  Is this the undoing of my world?


Even though I've always considered myself an intentional non-hoarder, this week my whole life is crawling out from under beds, down off shelves, out of drawers.  Stirring memories and dust.  Emptying corners.  

The blanket on top of the entertainment center 
went for $3...until my honest friend went home, 
checked online, & returned with $15 more.

I'll be taking a thousand dusty trips into the past.  When was the last time I used this cookbook?  What era of my life do 48 canning jars remind me of?  Would any of the boys care if I sell Aunt Peggy's crystal stemware--the set we always used at Sabbath dinners?  And is the  Lady Godiva Teddy Bear, boldly embroidered as chocolate PR, a whole lot of use anymore?  The chocolate was eaten 14 years ago.  Will anyone tell the gracious person who gave me the pricey dried-flower wreath with spider webs connecting its  crumbling petals that her appreciation will always be remembered?  It'll never survive storage.  SNEEZE.   Dust always settles on the past.

Nothing I can't get in Lebanon...if I need it!

But 
I'm also staring the blank look of the future in the face.   Will I value my chipped china in ten years?  What will this 15-year-old down comforter look like after it's stored for a decade?  Will I even remember that-I-never-needed-but-once-owned a green flower pot?  If I don't have my own guinea pig cage, will it affect my future  appreciably?  What's Larry's chances of rollerblading at 70?  Will I ever use this LaLanne juicer...ever?  After 40 years of knowing tennis is bad for our relationship, will these rackets be any good for us in the future?  

Is it hard to talk to myself like this?  Not really!  I'm glad to get rid of the unnecessary. I love the feeling of living lighter.  And when our "My Trash, Your Treasure" event is all over....when all this stuff has walked out of my garage door one way or another....when the scuffs on the walls show and my house echoes, nobody will have taken a single memory from me.  








By the way...about those thirty telephone messages.  Well, you know for sure  life has changed when only three of them are from real, living people who actually want to talk to us.  The rest are the same tele-machine's ominous message:

"In the event of death or serious illness..."   DELETE.  "In the event of death or serious illness..."  DELETE.  "In the event of death or serious illness..."  DELETE.   Twenty seven times.

Is it unnerving?   Not at all.  I'm thankful for a past of countless blessings.   I'm at peace with the present.   And the future is safely in God's hands.  

THE SHEEP ARE SAFE

Sometimes the things we do in order to bring a blessing to others are so packed full of blessing for ourselves that it almost feels selfish.

I didn't take my violin to Brazil.  On purpose.  Tribby had just done excellent maintenance on it in preparation for the journey to Beirut.  After dark stories of mean flight attendance, I didn't feel like hassling the airline industry about bringing my instrument on board.  And I thought it would be a relief to spend three weeks with absolutely no responsibilities--answering the phone and playing violin being chief among them.

I know that denies the music teacher, church activist, forever-engaged streak in me.  But it felt good to be where no one knows me, no one wants anything from me, no one is trying to relate and no one is going to expect a performance.  Is that the fantasy cave of a pastor's wife? A grumpy teacher?  A mother-of-many?

But I can't help myself.  

I was just melting into my uncommon comfort zone when the Institute instructors announced that there were four committees that would plan events for the group over the three weeks.  Oh.  No.   I knew they couldn't make me.  I could pretend shy.  I could pretend awkward.  I could pretend...

Searching for the least I could do and knowing Institute couldn't possibly involve concerts or productions like I know so well, I signed onto the music committee.  Three little songs each day before devotions.   Find a couple of good singers.  I don't sing.

But I forgot that we had to introduce ourselves and share our present livelihoods.  Yes, I teach violin.  Oh, for 30 years.  Little guys.  Somewhere around 40 or 50 at a time.   One of the instructors offered to get a violin from a friend on campus whose son plays.  I felt bad--almost as bad as the boy probably felt good--that he would miss his practice for three weeks.  But I don't enjoy my own singing as much as I like playing along with singers.

The violin offered me a blessing all its own...

Friday evening, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the girls' dorm lobby, it felt good to play  along with all the Institute families who'd gathered to open Sabbath.   I love folk playing.  With Marissa, a delightful pre-teen who had proudly brought her violin to Brazil, and Saulo, an exceptional guitarist who served during the week as our Portuguese translator, we had our own "missionary band."  We humored every age level, every style among us for almost two hours.

Sundown, storm and singing

Against the backdrop of a dramatic Brazilian storm and sunset, we moved breathlessly from  "Father Abraham" to "Grin Again Gang" to "This Train Is Bound for Glory" and dozens of other choruses from Australia I'd never heard.  :)  Paul knows every campfire ditty any Pathfinder leader has ever made up.  Big Vanston, the natural Goliath, collapsed impressively in "Only A Boy Named David."  (I'm sure the tile floor was hard.)   Little Megumi danced through most of the evening.  They say the entire three floors of the dorm enjoyed a lively Sabbath serenade. 

But when everyone disbanded in exhaustion, Saulo and his family stayed by.  I know the kind of people who forget meals, lose sleep, never stop playing music.  Those are the real musicians.  And they never require an audience.

For the Shepherd

That's Saulo.  And he plays anybody's choice of folk, contemporary, and the classics--all with a master's touch.  We just continued right on playing without the singers.   In a lull, he began the delicate introduction to Bach's, "Sheep May Safely Graze."  Years away from working the music with a struggling student, I eared through it.  With no audience, incredible acoustics, and nothing pressing to do on a quiet Sabbath evening, my heart centered.  

I felt like a helpless sheep, safe alongside a dependable, kind Shepherd, well cared for and loved.   It was a place of peace, of comfort in a chaotic passage of my life.  It was God singing to me.

The last Sabbath morning of Institute I had the opportunity--the blessing--of playing "Sheep May Safely Graze"  during our dedication service at the campus church.  With tears streaming down my face, I sang back to God.  Safety is not exactly a given in cross-cultural service.  It's not guaranteed for my young men left at home, making their way in life far out of my reach.  Or for all our families and friends stretched across the miles.  The future is not a blank check--for anybody.  

But I don't have to worry about the unknown.  The wolves.  The rocky cliffs.  The thickets of challenges ahead.  I don't have to build my own fortress, hide behind walls, jostle with the rest of the herd or hide in a cave.  All I need to do is press close to my Shepherd, knowing He will tend me with extreme care.  I can trust Him.  He is very, very good.

Best of all, He promises to gather my lambs in His arms and carry them close to His heart.  He will gently lead us as we leave our young in His care.  The sheep are safe.

AIR CULTURE

I observed an ingenious exercise in cultural adaptation these past three weeks.  It was a creative part of the curriculum at Institute--like the personality test, the ethnographic study, the stress analysis, the chanting and incense, and the four-culture game.  Unfortunately, I think if our class didn't blow the learning step altogether, we definitely revealed some questionable adaptation skills.

Dentists & their families
always have beautiful smiles

Our new friends from Korea
who work in Chile

Take a few theology professors, a dentist, several school teachers, a couple of managers, a division president, quite a few pastors and the inevitable pastors’ wives that come with them, a nurse or two, a medical doctor, a music teacher, a number of double-tasking mothers with helpful fathers.  Put all 36 of us, several instructors, plus a few observers into the same room for 90 hours.   It was a cultural immersion of its own.

Our new friends from Norway

 I’m sure we all came prepared for summer in Brazil, in spite of the fact that we came from Fiji, Michigan, Norway, Papua New Guinea, Chile, Colombia, St. Kits Island, Maryland, England, Georgia, French Guyana, Washington State and a few other exotic places.

We met in a lovely room--part of the newest addition to the School of Education complex at UNASP (Adventist University of Sao Paolo / Engenheiro Coelho campus in Brazil).  Tinted plate glass windows covered one entire wall, a small carpeted stage and white board were along another.  Nicely arranged discussion tables filled the room, each equipped with nothing but a small Kleenex box.  In one corner sat the essential computer/projection technology of an up-to-date classroom.  And on the back wall, high above our heads, two large air-conditioning units loomed like...well, like jet engines.  They were there to condition our air.  At least that's what we thought. 

They also blew papers around, drowned out important lectures, took turns disrupting communication, created stiff necks and runny noses, and created the atmosphere for the most creative of all assignments. 

The classroom & the air units

Now, we spent more than just the 90 hours of class time together.  We also shared two or three amazing meals each day (depending on how much extra weight you wanted to carry home), an evening get-acquainted party, a cultural afternoon on the streets of a small Brazilian town, a shopping trip, a banquet spread, a talent line-up called “Mission’s Got Talent,” a family communion service, and a tearful dedication.  That's a lot of time together.

The Chief 

No matter how you look at it, the Institute presented us with a culture all of its own, along with the accompanying adjustments:  Getting to class on time when you’re used to being the one taking attendance.  Not talking when you usually have the pulpit.   Focusing when you’re accustomed to engaging others’ attention.   Listening instead of emailing.  (Chief?)  Cooperating instead of disrupting.  Journaling.  Turning in assignments.  On time.  Simple.  If the learning curve was a little sharp for some, the instructors were patient.

But we never quite mastered climate adaptation.  I think it was the hidden chapter of the Mission Institute curriculum:  Thinking atmospherically.  I wish I’d tracked what I came to call the “air behaviors.”   These are unique, invariable, individual responses to humidity levels, gnat quotients, fly populations, wind speeds, air temperatures and general atmospheric distractions.

Now that my passing grade has already been turned in to Andrews University, let me share a few observations:  

Those sitting in the back tables thought the room temperature was a test in contextualizing northern cultures and brought scarves, sweaters, jackets and hoodies to class.  Those sitting near the windows thought that they were being presented a lesson in living wholistically and felt we needed fresh air coming through the entire wall all the time.  On days they were trying to be accommodating, they sneaked a single window open a thin six inches as if nobody would notice they were still letting in fresh air and gnats. Those who sat near the classroom door thought every class was a test of their cultural openness to other air "conditions", and during break would graciously empty the entire atmosphere of our classroom out into the humid hallways of the School of Education.  Occasionally someone in the back of the room where the remote control resided, thinking we were there to learn something about the tropics, shut off the air units altogether.  

Everyone’s air culture is different.  I think that’s why the Kleenex box sat at each table.  One tissue can squish a fly, keep gnats at bay, wipe sweat, book mark your reading, rub cold arms, blow an icy nose, fan steamy air in circles,  and—if you simply can’t adjust to the culture of Mission Institute—wipe a few overwhelming tears away.

Thank you, Institute instructors, for predicting the hardest part of meeting a new culture.  I'm going to pack a box of Kleenex for Lebanon.