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.

UNDERSTANDING

I can't understand Portuguese, but I love to listen to the conversation, the flow of sounds, the feelings.  It's like listening to music.  When I really want to know what's happening, though, I strain to recognize any Spanish syllables.  When I want to be understood I try out my few Spanish words and I elicit gentle Portuguese corrections and sympathetic smiles.

I might do better without saying anything.  

Larry and I had been here at Central University of Sao Paolo for only two days when we ran out of toilet paper.  I marched down to the main desk of the girls dorm where we're staying, certain that TOY-let had a universal ring to it and pah-PEL or anything similar would finish off the conversation.

One of four wings of the girls' dorm at UNASP. Our room
is on the 2nd floor, third and fourth large window from right.

The round-faced, dark-eyed college girl behind the counter looked at me blankly.

I made a tube in the air and tore off an imaginary piece 
of...toilet paper, of course.

She tipped her head and lowered her eyebrows.  I shrugged.   She didn't move.  Surely there's a better way to understand each other.

No pens on the counter. No paper in my pockets. I scratched my fingernail on the palm of my hand.  Several girls nearby nodded knowingly, clued her in and she went into action, shuffling through the clutter on the counter in front of her and producing a stub of a pencil. Someone slid a piece of paper toward me that they'd torn off of something less important than my need.  

Our conversation had become a social activity in true Brazilian style--get a group and get involved! 

I went into speed-artist mode:  A fat ribbon of flowing tissue coming off an equally chubby cylinder. A commode base like I remember cleaning all my life.  (Do you really know what a toilet looks like below the seat?!)  Then a loop for a lid.  A back to lean against.  It resembled those five-stroke sketches in the first edition of the Living Bible.  With a flourish, I handed it to her.

Her response was electric; her face exploded with delight!    "VAL-lee GAH-ood!"  she declared as she held the little paper up for better inspection.  Those nearby laughed, sighed, approved.  She twirled around the end of the receptionist's desk and motioned me to follow her down a long hall to a locked cupboard.  Obviously delighted with herself, she ceremoniously placed a package of four rolls in my outstretched hands.  Our eyes met.  I don't know what language we had just spoken, but we both knew it and were satisfied.  I laughed all the way back to our room, not because I'd been awarded a week's worth of toilet paper in one grand windfall but because I had been understood!

I've been searching for that electric smile on some round-faced, brown-eyed college girl ever since.  We have ten more days here.  I would love to share that moment again.  With the hundreds of guests who've asked her for help over the last few days, she may have forgotten.  I'd like her to know how thankful I was she could understand and how satisfying it was to be understood.

We had crossed the sturdy bridge that makes friends of strangers.

HIS SHOES

In the days right after my dad died we found an expression of his life on the floor of his closet: Half a dozen pairs of shoes lined up in the order of their age, laces methodically tucked inside. He catered to the same style, with the oldest shoes relegated to leisure wear (does a shopping trip to Brookstone count?) and the newest to preaching appointments.  Travel and office shoes sat neatly in between.  I know, because once when I complained that I felt tacky when I went to pastors' wives meetings he explained how he organized his wardrobe to save his best clothes for the most important occasions.  

He polished all his shoes to a high gloss every Friday afternoon he was home.  When he traveled, he packed an extra pair in a green plaid seersucker bag I handmade for him when I was eight.  A white shoe string closed the bag tightly, safely.  Bumpy, green embroidery thread identified the bag with "DHB"--I guess to make sure no one would mistake his shoes for theirs.  No shoe was safer than when tied in his shoe bag, tucked tightly into the same spot in a suitcase that dangled with tags with his trademark handwriting:   David H. Baasch, 2844 Shanandale Drive, Silver Spring, Maryland, USA.  (Before the days of zip codes...)

I don't know if at his death Mommy sent his shoes to Goodwill, the local community service center or the GC janitor's family he'd befriended.  But I guess after he was gone  it doesn't matter who wore them.  Because he had already walked the paths here at the Central University of Sao Paulo/Engenheiro Coelho, where Larry and I are studying for three weeks in preparation for our move.

Mom & Dad Baasch during our family reunion
Christmas 1985 in Vermont

In 1983, when the university was established, Daddy was an associate secretary for the Inter-American and South American Divisions.  This part of the world was his ministry, his burden.  What an associate secretary does is just a small sliver of all that happens in the network of Adventist institutions and organization, and most of it has to do with paperwork and editing, recruiting and processing.   But his footprints are here with the people and countries he loved.

And now I'm here too, following him.

As part of our journey to Beirut, Larry and I have come here to prepare for our new world.  A new culture.   A new way of living and working and appreciating.  For three weeks we'll take in  lectures, group discussions, reading, field trips--and who knows what else--to help prepare us for the transition.  We are already grateful for the opportunity to set our hearts toward this adventure--and it hasn't even begun!  

I'm personally relieved for the chance to get away from the lists of things to do, the appointments, and the goodbyes so we can take time to consider what we're undertaking. This journey is both exciting and sobering for our entire family; we need the best support through the process.  I feel I'll be reaping during these three weeks  the benefits of what concerned Daddy the most about his work:  The precious families he sent out.

I heard him worry about workers who had to leave their teenagers stateside; he knew what his invitation was costing "his" families.  I saw him cry for the family of the bush pilot who flew a plane into a foggy mountainside; he'd recruited and assigned a worker to a high-risk mission.  He told us the story, his voice choking, of the mother who died in childbirth because she couldn't get proper medical care in time; there should've been funds available for her to be airlifted.

In 1966, the year  Daddy began his work as an associate secretary of the General Conference, the Institute of World Missions was formed at Andrews University in Berrien Springs.  Even at that time, I knew the Institute was to help prepare families for life in a different culture far away from home.  I was proud of what Daddy did.

I remember him coming to Berrien while we were in the seminary and spending time with the families he'd recruited.  I remember attending a service with him at PMC where he challenged the group attending one of the institutes.  I mostly remember, though, that he always left us his per-diem.  He usually hid the cash in a book from our little library, with clues left on the kitchen table,  "Look on page 129 of your Sears Catalog."   

If he generously invested himself in us, he also invested himself in the very experience Larry and I are enjoying here in Brazil.  He never knew what our family would need.  He never knew we would benefit.  He never knew we would follow the focus of his life.  But he gave...and we're receiving!

Today is the 26th anniversary of his memorial service.  Sixty-three is too young to die.  But it's not too short to be a powerful influence for a long, long time.  His footprints are still pressed into the red soil of Brazil and countless other countries of the Americas.  

His life is still my blessing.

GEMS

I don't own a single jewel or gem.  But I've experienced one. Like anyone who has held a precious stone, I want to handle it carefully, remember every small detail.  That's the beauty of a GOOD 'bye!  

Last Sabbath evening, at the end of a day overwhelmed with hugs and memories, Larry and I celebrated gems of our journey together with our Village family.  It's good to remember that  every good journey includes all kinds of experiences.  (We never expected to be bored, did we?)   There's gentle, sweet times together to remember.  Prayer experiences.  A few cliff hangers.  Sobering valleys.   Some sheer rock rappelling.  A few silent caves.  Soaring mountaintops.  And many gems along the way...the relationships and experiences I want to hold in my hand carefully and enjoy.

The bulletin announcement, an insert featuring one of my
blogs, and the evening's program.

Laura and the hard-working group around her gave us a clutch full in "Gems of Your Journey" on Sabbath evening, our last at Village!  

The tables were set like a wedding.  We laughed like a party.  I got to try on Julia's 5” heels--an extreme fashion next to my trademark flats.  Larry invited "the other dinosaur" to transfer his membership to Village.  (You'd really love Village, Dwight.)  We all sympathized with Livia, the “beginner” violinist doing the impossible for Lauren, her "teacher."  (Being a quick learner, "Lover's Waltz" was obviously a no-brainer for Livia and a tear-squeezer for me.)   If someone hadn't brought my violin, I would've probably grabbed one of theirs so I could join some of my favorite violinists one....more....time.  They were wise by inviting me up!  I'm not a good spectator.

Julia's heels

Of course the food was delicious.  Chili in bread bowls.  Crackers and dip.  Ice cream cake.  And Elizabeth's extravagant touch of egg rolls, wontons, and a fruit bouquet just for our table.  She had Steaven and Evan wishing they'd come earlier!  

What a treat to have them share the evening with us.  They multiplied the meaning.  I wish all the boys could've been with us.  Village was their family too.   They've watched the journey from the inside of our lives.  They need to enjoy the gems as well.  As Evan woofed down another egg roll with his arm around me, he mumbled, "I'm impressed."

A handful of our staff and some of the elders who were
supposed to be helping in the kitchen. 

To me, a farewell is something like wedding, a funeral, a birthday party and a worship service all in one.  Friends bring memories with them, endings meet beginnings, celebration and sadness exist together.  Each face carries all that we have shared.  Each hug expresses what we want to 
remember.  

Always God stands over it all...

Any tears I have are an overflow of awe at what He does with 27 years.  He hears prayers.  He accompanies long morning walks.  He gives convictions and words.  He sits in  late night committees and gives energy on long Sabbaths.  He crumbles daunting hurdles and clears the path.  He allows us to see His fingerprints just often enough to know everything is in His hands...especially the sheep.

I am humbled at how much He loves our Village people and how carefully He walks the journey with each one.   He's presided over all that we have experienced together.   He has protected, blessed, loved us all.  He will do nothing less, even more, in the future.

He is the Gem I treasure the most.  He is priceless to me.

A VILLAGE JOURNEY

To go anywhere, you have to leave somewhere.  In between the two points is that poignant place of parting.  The goodbye.

But I have to be honest;  I don’t mind goodbyes.  I’ve learned they can be celebrations of friendship and shared memories, landmarks of blessings past.  There is such a thing as a good bye!

I’ve come to that conclusion living in a university town and watching the community around me come and go, come and go for 27 years.    It can be bruising, as if people are disposable and friendships are brief relief.   But what is hardest is not the constant movement of friends studying and graduating, getting jobs and leaving them, growing up and moving on.  What hurts is the leavings that offer no goodbyes.

Is that a badbye, then?    When people I’ve valued move on without even a hint.   When a friend I’ve invested in doesn’t stop to recognize the parting.  When people I care about leave my life and don’t offer any ‘bye.

So I’m savoring these last precious weeks with our Village Church family.  We are saying a good ‘bye.  Remembering together. Laughing at the past.  Reminding each other of the blessings God has given us.   This is the tie that binds:  That He has seen fit to let us share so much.  That He has given us the distinct privilege of honoring Him...together. 

Regardless of how long any account would be that records our 27 years together, the last chapter is a heart-warming read!   Yes, there are sad chapters:  We’ve helplessly watched faith wither and die.  We’ve stood alongside heart-breaking defeats.  We’ve seen those we love become encased in pain and debilitated by unforgiven hurt. 

But at the same time we’ve watched God drain pain away.  Heal wounds.  Bind up the brokenhearted.   We’ve watched while He’s formed giants of faith around us, turned  lives right side up, polished and refined saints right in front of our eyes.  And, when we’ve felt less than God needed, we have seen how He has provided more of Himself.  A good ‘bye is a landmark of all the GOOD He has done for us!

Sharing the Ten Days of Prayer with our Village family

Last week we shared communion together for the last time.  It came at the close of another Ten Days of Prayer, a tradition that has been a spiritual well for our Village family for  years.   I can’t quite remember how it all began, but I will always associate each new year  with a time of spiritual feasting and encouragement.  To be perfectly honest, at times--as we closed each night and shared and prayed--I know I was breathing heaven’s air and that  our hearts were beating together with the same heavenly heartbeat.

A view from the foot of the cross, and our Village
family gathered 'round

But one of the most meaningful moments with our Village family took place  some weeks ago--a good 'bye before we were even certain we were moving.  The possibility was already dawning on us for sure, though.   Larry’s sermon was about the uniting power of Jesus’ cross in a world of relentless and unforgiving rivalry and dissension.   He made a call at the end as we sang “On a hill...far away...stood an old...rugged cross.”  I joined him, facing the front of the sanctuary along with those who came forward.  With the congregation behind me, I was embraced with surround-sound singing.  I could also cry without being seen.

There I stood with precious people we’ve lived alongside for so long.  Some closer to us than family.  Some lifelong friends.  Some overburdened with needs.  Some struggling with everyone around them.   Some difficult to understand.  All of them deeply loved by God.

I’ve never considered “The Old Rugged Cross” to be a decision song, but  that morning “I-will-cling-to-the-old-rugged-cross” expressed a deeply personal desire I could share with my church family.   Together we could have a mind like Jesus.  Together we could long for what He’s done for us.   There, at the foot of the cross, we could accept His full and free forgiveness.  Together.

Oh, God, You have been so good!  If burning pain has been handed to me...  If I’ve been given misunderstanding or injustice or even malice...  If I’ve met struggles and  disappointments in my journey with Your people, You’ve provided forgiveness enough to cover it all!    And, by the same amazing grace, when I’ve been inadequate or impatient, unloving and unChristlike, You’ve freely forgiven me too!

In a wash of cleansing and relief, I felt the peace of a good 'bye.  No regrets.  No woundings.  No residual pain.  At the foot of the cross, everything human and inadequate, hurtful and debilitating can be laid down.   Everything hard to understand can be left with Him.  Every memory can be framed by His grace.   I cried, overwhelmed by such a precious gift!  

Any journey that brings us to the foot of the cross together is good.  Every experience that ends at His feet is good.   That’s where we meet the promise of even richer fellowship:  That’s where we begin praying together for the same needs, working for the same purposes, giving ourselves to be used by the same God.  No change or distance can break that fellowship!

If our paths part for a while, we will certainly meet together again, if not at another crossroads doing His work here on earth, in the sweet ‘bye and ‘bye--the fulfillment of the promise that every GOOD ‘bye claims!