Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Parallel Paths


Like many people, I used to think that one's life was a single path marked by a series of ups and downs in succession. That is, first a person covers rugged terrain uphill, hits the summit and experiences the mountaintop feelings, followed by a slope onto a plateau,and then perhaps into a valley or ravine, and then back up again.

Not so, I have come to believe, as my pastor reminded the teachers upon the school's closing, something he had heard and come to believe. Rather than this mountain/valley/climb up/ slide down on one path, our lives are lived on parallel paths--railroad tracks. (Since I have a writhing aversion to railroad tracks ever since two people I know were killed there, I choose to visualize a foot path through the hills.)
I guess I think walking this path as right foot, left foot, ("feet, feet, feet") where the right foot experiences joy, and the left foot experiences sorrow. They happen pretty much concurrently.



Examples of late, from my life:



Right foot: Sarah and Stephen just left for two monthsto be camp counselors-- three hours from home where their only internet connection happens on weekends. For them it's the opportunity to serve the Lord by ministering to youth, some of whom come from very rough homes. These now-grown children are the arrows we prayed for: aimed in the direction of God, propelled by God . They are also learning to live their lives independent from their parents (a big yay from them!) with freedoms not known at home.



Left foot: I miss them terribly. I cried more than twice as hard and as long (rather, I'm still crying, and the end is not in sight) while they were packing the Jeep. I would interrupt Stephen to ask if he had extra shoes in case the one pair got wet. He'd say, "Got it." Then I'd head for the corner of the living room and bawl. When I stood with my arm around him at the kitchen sink, and he said, "What, Mom? It's just two months," I felt salty tears drip into my mouth. "I know. And I'm so proud of you. This is what every Christian mom hopes for her children--that they will love Him and share His love with the next generation." I watched as Sarah folded her bright, happy, neon-striped sheets and remembered how we had shopped for them last year for her first bunkbed at camp. Then I slipped away into my bathroom, closed the door, and wept again. My right-hand girl, Joel's best friend, my confidante, Daddy's little girl, is leaving. My son, the one I go to for a laugh, for counsel from scripture, the peacemaker, the one who taps on keyboards and drums and can fix computers and help mend a broken heart--he ,too, is being ripped away from me.

Right foot: The school closed and God has plans for a different form of education for each child there. New plans for faculty and staff. I am confident ,based on God's character and past grace, that what lies ahead will be glorious. Some of the high schoolers who have been raised on the gospel under the shelter of our four walls will be tested in their love for Christ. Wheat and chaff will be separated. Younger students will expand their friendships at other schools, or --as in my case--get to know and be known better by their parents and siblings 40 more hours a week.

Left foot: My school closed. It hit me harder than I expected. Even though God had already been nudging me to homeschool next year anyway, and though I thought that my short two-year stint as a teacher of 5th and 6th graders wouldn't produce an overflow of tears , I was wrong. I knew I loved those kids and co-workers; I just didn't know how much.

When I went to rip the laminated sign "Mrs. Zubrowski" off my mailbox on the desk, my fellow teacher (who teaches the morning subjects) said, "Do it fast, Zo, like a Band-aid." I did. Ouch! That hurt. Good thing I didn't have a hairy mailbox. As I took down my last bulletin board about Greece, I wondered if I had taught my kiddoes enough geography for one year. No, I hadn't. But we had learned a lot together . At least they can tell a peninsula from a peen-cil . (They teased me about the way I pronounce "pencil.") And they will remember the faith of one Amy Carmichael, missionary to India, and Pastor Joel's presentation of his trip there, and our field trip lunch to Sizzling Bombay, and I hope they remember that Amy ("Amma")'s God who loved India is the same God who loves the owners of the Indian restaurant where they tried chicken tandoori for the first time--and liked it! As I packed away unused squares of colored felt from my "ugly cabinet," I felt guilty that I hadn't gotten around to teaching them about Africa. We were going to make a Faith Ringgold quilt. And I thought of my friend and 3rd/4th grade teacher, Bonnie, who is heading that way next week. I might not see her again for a very long time if she goes longterm to Zambia .

There are certainly more parallel life experiences going on in my corner of the globe, as in yours.

I am just not handling the "left foot" on the path very well emotionally. The hormones are out of whack big time, but I know I'm held. I can't see His hands anymore than I can see gravity, but I know they both exist. Even when, like yesterday, I felt like an old jalope at the junkyard looking up at the 21-ton concrete crusher headed for my roof, I know I am held.

I can cry while being held .It's okay.

Right foot, left foot, feet ,feet, feet. Oh, how many feet you meet!

1 comment:

Amy said...

that's a really interesting perspective. I can definitely see it in my own life right now.