October 2015 – walkwithme413

On Equilibrium

So I was subbing in a biology classroom this week.

First, let me offer how grateful I am to have a job, a steady job, in my field (sort of), that pays reasonably well, keeps my mind animated, and gets me out of the house so that I may interact with other people besides my cats. I’m blessed and I know it.

One of the wonderful things about substitute teaching is that every day is different. (This can also be its curse, but let’s not go there today.) A sub can be coloring zoo-phonic animals with chatty kindergarteners one day (G-Gordo-Gorilla! Guh-Guh-Guh!), or solving algebraic equations with squirrelly sophomores the next.

Quickly one discovers the culture of each school, which is, unfortunately, disproportionately dependent upon Those In Power – the principal, the deans, anyone responsible for maintaining order: The Ones Who Have Your Back. This is important for a sub, for as every student knows, it is open season to misbehave when Mrs. Peterson is out sick. It is a lot more fun to sub at a place where discipline is not a naughty word and Those In Power have firmed established a culture of kindness, trust, and earnest expectation.

The particular high school where I found myself subbing in this bio class was one of those coveted kind places. I’m happy when I get called to go there, and I was happy when, after handing out the reading on volcanos, the students were immediately productive, each finding a quiet place in the lab or hallway to digest the information.

This left me with nothing to do. Typically, I might catch up on the news, check my email, or subversively snack, periodically taking a tour around to make sure students are on task. Anything more invasive is seen as hovering, and teenagers are not huge fans of hovering.

I also like to learn. Since these students were being quiet – in a non-suspicious way – I grabbed the volcano handout and started to read.

The first paragraph transported me back to August 27, 1883, to the island of Krakatau where, at 10:02 AM, an explosion likened to the force of a nuclear bomb blew the tiny island to smithereens, producing 135 foot tsumanis, a column of ash and debris 3 miles high, and an airborne sound that traveled half way across the globe, the longest distance ever in recorded history. All that was left of poor Krakatau were two small, denuded humps they had to rename Anak Krakatau and Rakata.

For a moment, let’s not focus on the enormity of the cataclysmic event, the 40,000 people who died, or the geological re-ordering that occurred when the displaced sea flooded back into the newly formed subterranean caldera. Let’s just say it was big.

What truly amazed me was reading about the re-colonization of Rakata. Nine months after Krakatau blew herself apart, French scientists were combing the sterile surface of Rakata for evidence of life when they discovered one microscopic spider. It was the first living organism to appear, so they were puzzled. How had it come to be on the now-naked island?

As childhood readers of Charlotte’s Web may remember, newly hatched spiders spin a thread of silk from their tiny posteriors; when this filament catches a passing wind, the baby spider soars up and away, joining (and here’s the amazing part) an entire microscopic universe of creatures called aeolian plankton. I was familiar with your garden variety sea plankton, the huge masses of algae and protozoa that course through the ocean on currents, like a mobile delicatessen for the more ambulatory critters of the deep; but AIR plankton? Who knew?

Do we breathe in these planktonic bacteria, these fungus spores, these small seeds and aphids and insects and the myriad other invisible creatures that blow around us waiting for their BIG CHANCE to land somewhere hospitable and begin terrestrial life? Apparently, we do.

More incredible facts about the re-life-ing of Rakata emerged as I kept one eye on my students and the other on Southeast Asia. As the invasion of the aeolian plankton began to green the barren surface of Rakata, other players began to arrive. Lizards negotiated the straight between Rakata and the nearby islands of Java and Sumatra, dining on sea crabs along the way. Birds flew over, and bats, butterflies, and dragonflies. One reticulated python, a serpentine version of Michael Phelps, took to the water and slithered up one day. Lazier species hitched rides on log rafts or buoyant pumice stones, so that decades after the eruption, frogs, rodents, and other small animals once again began to hop and crawl and glide over the island, defecating and dying and decaying, leaving a trail of rich soil behind them for more flora to take root.

Species surged and waned, advanced and retreated, checked in and checked out, until at last, after about a century, the island ecosystem reached an equilibrium.

It made me wonder.

Do we ever reach anything like equilibrium in our own lives? And what would that look like?

I know for a fact that there are times when we ourselves are scoured clean, Krakatau-style, by what the apostle James calls “trials of various kinds” (James 1:2). I don’t think James was talking about the I-didn’t-get-a-parking-spot-at-the-mall or there’s-no-milk-for-my-muesli trials, annoying though they be, but the BIG ONES. The death of a loved one. Job termination. Loss of relationship. The inability to conceive. Sickness. These kinds of trials grab us by the throat, cut off the oxygen, force us blue-faced to the throne of grace where we plead and rant and demand that God TAKE IT AWAY.

Instead, we are met with silence. Or worse, His unmistakable answer: wait. What advice does James have for us then?

The answer may be as surprising as aeolian plankton: “Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything” (James 1:2-5).

Perhaps for God to repopulate the weedy islands of our hearts with all of the good, fertile things that should be growing there – “love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, faithfulness, self-control” (Galatians 5:22) – He must first create an environment of disorder, even chaos: a soul-slate wiped clean of hatred, pride, jealousy, unforgiveness, lust, bitterness – all the uglies that take root and try to choke out the “Christ-in” us.

When the volcano blows, instead of hiding under the dust, perhaps we need to be open to all of the re-ordering God must do in us and through us. Instead of heading back to the mainland of our old comfort zone, we must, like the reticulated python, persevere to the new landscape of hope up ahead, even when we can’t see anything that looks even remotely hopeful. Instead of desperately trying to squirm out of the discomfort and pain, or try manipulate and scheme it away, we can, like the baby spider, abandon all notion of control. Trust in the One With All The Power, who is always good all the time because He is only one who can see the big picture and because He has our backs.

Maybe there isn’t any such thing as true equilibrium. Looking back on my own life, there have been seasons of violent erasure followed by seasons of slow but gentle growth. Much as I wish God could teach me some other way, He knows my stubborn heart. Knows I can only be truly His when complete surrender to His hand is my default setting, when my desire to be “mature and complete, not lacking anything” overrides my desire to have my own way.

Yep. It’s a battle every day.

This side of heaven, we will never completely be all that we were created to be. I’d like to think, however, that the more we cooperate with the Father, the more we will come to resemble Him. We are His beloved children, after all.

May I ever be able to declare like my big brother Jesus: “Father, if you are willing, take this cup away from me. Yet not my will but yours be done.”

On Walking 2,000 Miles with a 10-Year-Old: Part One

The Appalachian Trail is a footpath that traverses the spine of the ancient mountain humps of the eastern United States. Due to land acquisitions, changes in rights-of-way, and relocations, its length fluctuates to within a few miles from any given year to the next. In 2010, the year my then 10-year-old son and I became part of the eclectic band of travelers known as “thru-hikers” – those who walk the entire AT in one shot – the trail measured 2,179.1 miles.

There is a lot one can learn about a child in that distance.

In an age when many 10-year-old boys might be found glued to their video monitors chasing nazi zombies or being furiously driven from after-school care to play date to soccer practice, my little 80-pound rascal believed he could walk alongside me across 14 states, forgoing nearly all modern conveniences and luxuries to become not even the youngest somebody to attempt such a thing. (The governing body of the AT, the Appalachian Trail Conservancy, discourages such age-related record-setting, but it is widely known that, in 2013, a 5-year-old named “Buddy Backpacker”completed a thru-hike with his parents, earning him the “youngest person ever” distinction. You can read about him here: http://www.backpacker.com/special-features/kindergarten-can-wait/.)

Thru-hiking the AT had been a dream of mine since high school, and I had introduced all of my four children to the mountains – with varying degrees of success – as soon as their little legs could propel them up a steep slope with minimal complaining.

But for Scooter (the trail name he would choose for himself on our hike), walking the Appalachian Trail would have to become HIS endeavor. Although many a youth hockey parent might disagree, prodding from without is a poor substitute for desire from within. The good news was that Scooter was the Borek child my neighbors called whenever they wanted rocks moved, logs stacked, or snakes relocated. He had climbed 3,165-foot Mt. Monadnock at the age of six, prompting some teenagers from an urban high school also hiking the mountain that day to point at him and exclaim, “C’mon fellas! If he can do it, we can do it!”

I felt that if he was willing to own his own hike, then there was an excellent chance that he just might be able to finish the entire trail.

The thing is, I couldn’t have asked for a better traveling companion than my low maintenance, long-fused, open-hearted, single-minded, rugged, reliable little boy. He had a way of diffusing the most awful, ridiculous situations with his simple perspective or optimistic outlook.

One night, Mom decided it would be a good idea to tent atop one of the beautiful southern balds. These curious mountains – some as high as 5,000 feet – lack the trees you might typically find at their elevations further north. Scientists disagree as to why these gentle giants are covered only in wild, blowing grasses, but I had been eagerly anticipating this section of trail ever since hearing about the balds, had wanted to pitch our tent at one of their summits and lie under the stars with nothing but atmosphere pressing down.

I probably should have noticed the pattern. For the week leading up to our entry into the Great Smokey Mountain National Park, although we walked each day in pleasant sunshine, every night like clockwork we had been assaulted with violent thunderstorms, forcing us to sleep either in the many 3-walled shelters along the way or set up camp under the protective canopy of forest.

Ignoring the heavenly signs, I timed our long day to end on Snowbird Bald. Standing on its flat peak, Scooter and I could look down a mile in every direction to where the safe treelike began.

Yes, let’s tent here.

I cannot begin to describe the horror of the situation as it unfolded. A few harmless-looking dark clouds skimming across the distant rim of the Smokies became an manic deluge punctuated by sky-splitting, eardrum-blasting rages of light that exploded all around us. As tent stakes were ripped from the ground, I clung to the nylon tent wall to prevent us from being sucked into the maelstrom. Nothing remained dry. Trying to reach the treeline would have been – if possible – an even more egregious error than my initial one, the mile in between an exposed minefield of electricity.

Cowering on top of my foam sleeping pad, praying that the lightning strikes would either kill me instantly so I wouldn’t have to explain my folly to his daddy, or disperse through the ground and not fry both our brains, over and over I cried out to my trembling son, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

I was the adult. He had trusted me. How would he ever follow me again?

When at last the storm passed, its cold indifference more heart-rending than a breakup, Scooter and I sagged out of our ruined tent to take stock. And what did he do, this son of mine, who had every right to wail and accuse and condemn?

He laughed! Grabbing the soggy tent fly, he ran around shrieking and whooping in a youthful display of ebullient bravado.

I loved that kid.

Later, as we lay, spent, in puddles of rain and tears, he quietly thanked God for sparing us, tenderly offered me his forgiveness, graciously never brought it up again.

Was this what Jesus meant when he said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these”? Matthew 19:14

Surely my little one seemed to get it. Got that finger-pointing and blame-gaming are not the passkeys to the kingdom, that kindness, forgiveness, and awestruck joy are what swing wide the door to Jesus’s crazy, radical, upside-down kingdom. Why do we, as adults, feel that judgment and effort and exclusion gain us entry, when all God really ever requires is worship?

From his ash-heap of suffering, even Job was able to glory, “But ask the animals, and they will teach you, or the birds in the sky, and they will tell you; or speak to the earth, and it will teach you, or let the fish in the sea inform you. Which of all these does not know that the hand of the LORD has done this? In his hand is the life of every creature and the breath of all mankind.” Job 12:7-10

Scooter was pretty good at glorying, too.

Toads the size of softballs. Brilliant orange salamanders. Petting-zoo friendly deer barricading the footpath in Shenandoah National Park. Wild-maned ponies. A mushroom masquerading as a tee’d up golf ball, begging to be hit.

All evoked a sacred wonder from my son, a response to pause, contemplate, adore.

Once, in a frenzy to get to the next shelter before nightfall, and somewhat annoyed at my dawdling son caboosing behind me, I hiked right over a coiled-up rattlesnake, eliciting a “MOM!” from his horrified lips.

I had missed it. He had not.

Hiking with a 10-year-old was frequently nerve-wracking, often frustrating, and occasionally downright terrifying. One thing it never was, however, was boring.

Scooter could make the dullest of days a party simply by humming a tuneless ditty about why Mom was mean for not allowing Little Debbie oatmeal snack cakes to be breakfast. He could talk for hours about carnivorous plants, the Everest ride at Disney, or the composition of bear poop. He could laud town food, a found machete, or the attributes of the most comfortable rock to plop down upon. He made me laugh at silly signs, encouraged me when I felt I couldn’t go on, and was polite and generous to everyone we met. He alternated between exasperating and heroic, lived every day like it was a miracle, and made my time on the trail one of richest experiences of my life.

I probably could have hiked the 2,179.1 miles by myself.

But why in the world would I have wanted to?

On Identity

Saint Luke – physician, author, fearless traveling companion of the apostle Paul – begins his gospel in the following way:

Many people have set out to write accounts about the events that have been fulfilled among us. They used the eyewitness reports circulating among us from the early disciples. Having carefully investigated everything from the beginning, I also have decided to write a careful account for you, most honorable Theophilus, so you can be certain of the truth of everything you were taught. Luke 1:1-4

From there, Luke launches into the incredible drama of Jesus’s birth, boyhood, and explosion into His earthly ministry.

The climax of Luke’s early account is the heaven-ripping, dove-descending, water-washing baptism of Jesus when the very voice of Father God booms down from above, “You are MY SON, whom I love; with You I am well pleased.” Luke 3:22

Whoa.

God has been speaking to me recently about my identity. And before you think to yourself, “Gee, that girl is bold, thinking that God would speak to the likes of her, the likes of us, being mere humans and not, therefore, GOD,” let me say that this was not always the case with me. The sad fact is, that for many years – most of my childhood, much of my rash young college years, and in disparate decades throughout my “older” adulthood, I couldn’t be bothered to listen to what God was saying to me.

What a shame! How many mistakes, heartaches, disappointments, and pain could have been averted, had I only unstuffed my stubborn ears and truly sought the voice the One who spoke the cosmos into existence with just His word.

But I’m listening now. And the way God speaks to me is intimate and exciting and personal; any doubt cruelly lingering in my mind as to if I truly hear Him or even what I hear is execrated from my consciousness by His insistent, still – small – holy voice. It comes at all hours of the day and night, in scripture, in the secular, in echoes from blogs and emails and websites, in prayer, in dreams, in worship, in tears, in the advice of friends, in spin class, in song, in the turning of a leaf, the fall of snow, a penny on the ground.

You’d have to work hard not to hear Him.

And apparently our identity has been on His heart lately.

It might be easy to examine how we identify ourselves by our actions and accomplishments. This is the United States of “I can do it myself”; I live in Yankee “pull up your bootstraps” New England, in the state of “live free or die” New Hampshire. And certainly what we do is an integral part of who we are. Looking back, I could call myself many things based on what I have done throughout the course of my life.

Student. College athlete. Appalachian Trail thru-hiker. Runner. Ironman. English teacher. Hockey player. Writer.

We also tend to identify ourselves in relation to the important “others” in our life.

Daughter. Sister. Wife. Mother. Friend.

Contratrarily, we could even tell ourselves who we are is what we could not do, or with whom we can no longer enjoy sweet companionship.

Non-olympian. Non-Boston qualifier. Unemployed. Empty nester. Ex-wife.

What God has been whispering to me lately, however, is that although what we do and our relationships with others is important to Him – He cares about it ALL – that who we are IN HIM is really the only measure He wants us to use in identifying ourselves.

Luke addresses his gospel to someone he calls “most honorable Theophilus” or, in other versions, “most excellent Theophilus.” Scholars disagree on who this Theophilus was. “Most excellent” denotes rank and honor, so he could have been a high-ranking official in the Roman government. Or he could have been a man of wealth and influence, perhaps even Luke’s benefactor, to whom he was reporting back all the mysteries and miracles, shipwrecks and beatings, he had witnessed and endured in creating an account of Jesus’s life. Or he could have been a Jewish high priest or a Roman lawyer.

But here’s the thing. Whoever Theophilus may or may not have been, in an “only-God” moment this morning when I was pondering my identity, I discovered that his name means friend of God, loved by God.

Whoa.

John was perhaps Jesus’s closest human friend. As He hung on the cross, beaten and bloody, Jesus “saw His mother there, and the disciple whom He loved (John) standing nearby, and said to His mother, ‘Dear woman, here is your son,’ and to the disciple, ‘Here is your mother.’ From that time on, this disciple took her into his house.” John 19:26-27

Talk about identity!

Later, after Jesus has returned to the Father, John writes, “See what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are!” 1 John 3:1

As an English teacher, I am supposed to discourage the extraneous use of exclamation points, but who can blame John for his grammatical excess? God spoke to him about his identity, and he was – as I am – forever changed.

I am not defined by what I do or not do, or who chooses to be or not to be a part of my life!

I am a child of God, His precious daughter, an heir of the MOST HIGH KING, God’s trusted friend, the bride of Christ, a warrior in His army, a sheep that knows His voice and follows Him, a son and not a slave, His Beloved, a new creature, His ambassador, the dwelling place of His Spirit, not my own but His, a more-than-conqueror, can-do-all-things, race-running child of the light!!

And it is knowing who we are that gives us the ability, the strength, the endurance to walk this hard, beautiful, tragic, joyful thing called life with hope and love and courage.

“You are my daughter, whom I love; with you I am well pleased.”

No matter how many times I mess up, how many times I act in unforgiveness, how many times I allow myself to step out of love, how many times I allow discontent to rob me of my peace, how many times I doubt or fear or fret, I can be certain of one awesome, miraculous, unchangeable truth: I am His.

It changes everything.

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