We were sent out of Akron Mennonite Church, which sits on a hill and looks south and east over silos, corn, squat houses and trees. The songs we sang were in Spanish and Swahili; we had been stumbling over them all week and finally felt some mastery of the hand motions by the time of the sending service. The IVEPers wore traditional garb from all over the world, and we took communion. Intinction, served by staff and participants. The body of Christ, broken for you. The blood of Christ, shed for you. The early church was instructed to celebrate communion as a full meal together, rich and poor alike, and Helen gave me such a generous helping of bread that the wine dripped off it onto my wrist. I sat chewing for minutes after sitting down.
I like Mennonite sanctuaries; they’re open and under-adorned. Just the lectern and the Christ candle and, off-center, one Rembrandt: the Return of the Prodigal Son, 1666.
Here we are, singing Hillsong in Bosnian, and 350 years ago in Northern European there were painters articulating different facets of this same central mystery. Usually I feel like the indignant older brother in the parable, but there are those sometimes when I’m better at asking for grace. Moj Isus, moj Gospod– look at the lighting, and the posture of the younger son. Going out from here is also a prodigal homecoming.
Should’ve seen it coming, right? But for all my far-off awe I’ve never really been around them until now. And how very Mennonite it is here. A bunch of my fellow SALTers are fresh out of Goshen or Eastern Mennonite University; a couple speak low-German. People will casually bring up historical emigrations that I know nothing about– I guess in some circles it’s common knowledge that Russian Mennonites emigrated to Manitoba after tsarist oppression? It’s like a little cross-cultural warm-up round. I’m loving it.
Have I mentioned that it’s beautiful here? The campus is, for lack of better phrase, a little global village. I’m in the Middle East/Europe house with the other SALTErs headed to that region, plus IVEPers coming from Bosnia, Nepal, Laos, Indonesia, and Cambodia for a year of service-learning in North America. Lots of late-night language sessions so far. There’s been henna and healing touch; euchre and Dutch blitz; dal and angel food cake. On Saturday night we Went Out to the corner store. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little overwhelmed by the amount of people time, but on the whole it’s been a restful week of thinking, being, praying, preparing.
(last hurrah for processed foods!)
(This is Katie. We’re currently bedfellows.)
We’re in countdown mode! and I’ve been all over the map. The other night I dreamed I was already at orientation, which was nice, on the one hand, since it meant I got to skip all the tough family goodbyes… but also kind of awful, since I didn’t have my stuff, and it mostly involved making very forced small talk with my roommate from freshman year. Pretty typical, as far as dreams go these days. Some mornings I wake up achey, with my jaw sore from clenching it all night. But there are other times when I sleep until Midge gets up, yawns, stretches, and paws my face until I notice her. Which is nice, in its way.
Seriously– it’s lucky I’m skipping town, or this blog would be Midge Central.
There are moments when I am genuinely enjoying these summer weeks in Ohio: digging for worms under the pine trees with Molly and Maddie; playing Pictionary Telephone on Linda’s deck as it gets dark; sitting out in the backyard and listening to the tiny footballers practicing over at Clearmount (I do think football is nearly evil, but given the right setting and in small doses it’s also cute).
The other day, though, Kelsey asked me to find her some Excedrin Migraine and as I was rummaging in the medicine cabinet I started thinking about the third act of Our Town: Choose the least important day in your life. It will be important enough. Of course I fell to pieces. It really doesn’t take much.
On days like that there’s no stopping the anxiety snowball, once it starts rolling. There’s all the things left to do before I leave, and all the things I didn’t do this summer: get a good handle on Arabic, take the GRE (because, uh, presumably life goes on next July), learn all the nuances of US involvement in the Middle East (ha). People have been so wonderfully encouraging about this next big adventure, so confident that while yes, I’ll be challenged, I’ll also be entirely up to the challenge… And I wonder if I present as more with-it than I actually feel.
All of which made me go check out that Isaiah passage again– And I heard the voice of The Lord saying, Whom shall I send, and who will go for us? Then I said, Here I am! Send me. They turned it into a hymn, which I think I’ve heard Dad call the Missionary Theme Song. Not sure the context is quite spot-on– Isaiah is sent to his own people, for one– but it’s not even that. It just sounds so noble. How do you know that you’re cut out to be a prophet? or a teacher, or a leader, or even, while we’re at it, a self-proclaimed Christian on a walk around the neighborhood? Who takes a good look at themselves and says– yep, I think I’m a pretty righteous vessel; I trust myself to not totally screw up God’s work?
Not me–I’m feeling pretty well-acquainted with my reluctance to love a lot of human beings lately. And not Isaiah either, as it turns out. The bit of the story that didn’t make it into the song happens just a few verses earlier, when Isaiah first has the vision of The Lord in all his glory in the temple: And I said, Woe is me, for I am lost; for I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips; for my eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts!
Yeah. That feels slightly more my speed at the moment.
Though, in the interest of No Wallowing, this is obviously not where the story ends, or even what it’s principally about. What matters is sin atoned for and guilt removed, which is both mystical and tangible; seems to involve a seraph and a coal in this case; and quite frankly is beyond my plebeian ability to articulate. Suffice it to say that this is the moment of the story that I’m trying to lean into in these last couple of days at home. My inabilities are what they are and will be what they’ll be, and despite whatever exactly that means, at the end of the day all shall be well and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.
So, here’s to another pleasant week with friends, family and the wonder dog. Though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t just ready to get started already.
“Now then, now then,” came the cabby’s voice, a good, firm hardy voice. “Keep cool everyone, that’s what I say. No bones broken anyone? Good. Well there’s something to be thankful for straightaway, and more than anyone could expect after falling all that way. Now, if we’ve fallen down some diggings, as it might be for a new station on the Underground, someone’ll come and get us out presently, see? And if we’re dead, which I don’t deny it might be, well, you’ve got to remember that worse things happen at sea, and a chap’s got to die sometime, and there ain’t nothing to be afraid of if a chap’s led a decent life, and if you ask me, I think the best thing we could do to pass the time would be to sing a hymn.
(Kenneth Branagh is reading me The Magician’s Nephew. He’s marvelous, no surprise.)
sandpiper 