Last week, when I turned down the candy aisle, I was elated to see the candy cane Hershey kisses, one of my seasonal favorites. Immediately, my excitement turned to indignation at premature holiday stocking. And just as quickly, I switched back to relieved excitement when I remembered that it is November and holiday treats are acceptable.
Last week also marked the opening exercises for the apocalypse of holiday shopping. I watched my first holiday commercial of the season—a heart-warming Wal-mart commercial celebrating the competitive greed of the gift-giving season. Hours later I sat in a meeting at work learning this year’s strategy for a successful Black Friday event. They never out-right say it, but I usually leave these meetings thinking that the measure of success on Black Friday is whether or not the final score is Corporate America: gobs of money; Humanity: zero. I used to enjoy the magic of planning how to make someone else’s day special, hours hand-crafting gifts in the closet (because in a house full of people, it was the safest place to hide), and secret pow-wows about how to sneak gifts into the house or how to deceptively wrap the gifts. I would savor the treats of November and December—the edible treats of almond bark pretzels and chocolate-covered Danish cookies and the inedible treats of eating pumpkin pie for breakfast with Dad’s defense of “It’s a breakfast pastry!” when Mom would look at us aghast (to clarify, the inedible treats were Mom’s look when she said, “Honey!” and Dad’s grin when he defended his/our breakfast choice). But since I started working retail, each year, I approach Thanksgiving and Christmas with the same level of delight as I would approach the apocalypse. And after January’s inventory, I breathe a sigh of relief and say, “I survived.” I survived? After realizing that was becoming my response to my formerly favorite season, I have been trying to reclaim the humanity and magic of the season. It isn’t easy. But I have picked retail employees as my targets because they are the season’s biggest victims. I enjoy leaving them surprise anonymous treats (the edible and inedible kind). Even in the summer, my friends will remind me when I’m in the middle of folding a stack of shirts in a clothing store, “You know you don’t work here, right?” But especially in November and December, I find it especially hard to leave product on the wrong shelf or a dress half-hanging off a hanger. The harried employee (“team member”) will never notice half of the things that I reshelf for them, but it makes me feel that Humanity’s score at the end of the season won’t be zero.
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Last summer I went to Asia to teach English in a summer camp, a goal I've had for years. With years to form my expectations about the trip, naturally, it wasn't what I thought it would be, but this trip was exactly what I needed it to be. And because of that, I’ve been so overwhelmed by the experience that I has taken me quite a while to be able to write about it.
A word that captures this experience for me is perspective. Being separated from everything familiar gave me eyes to see truth. It's easy at home to say that I am dependent on my heavenly Father's care, but this trip allowed me to experience what dependence and trust in His care really are. I couldn’t speak the language: when I tried, one lady answered me by saying that she couldn’t speak English (apparently my attempt sounds like English). I’m used to taking care of everything on my own, and suddenly, I couldn't even order a cup of coffee. Yet, from God’s perspective, the truth is that I am dependent on Him for everything whether I am in Asia or America. Another area of perspective that this trip gave me was what being salt and light is. Overlooking my classroom was a large statue. At first, I thought it was just decoration, but each day people left offerings of fruit or water at the feet of this idol. I was struck with the irony of teaching Christ in the shadow of an idol. And yet, I am always living Christ in the shadow of the idols of the lost around me. Seeing that idol as a visible reminder of their need made me more aware of my need for Christ in my own life so that I could truly be His light. I am very much a high school teacher; working with elementary children and even middle school is a stretch for me. And yet, there I was in Asia surrounding by fifteen elementary children, patting me and saying repeatedly, “Teacher, teacher!” I could never have patience for that situation on my own, but seeing that idol outside my door reminded me why I needed His patience. I couldn’t really share the gospel with those children; all I could do was live it. In spite of knowing that God was working in me there, I felt like I was doing nothing of value for anyone else there and felt very isolated. I was staying in a hostel halfway up a mountain. And once I turned out the light, only a mosquito net separated me from such intense darkness that I felt completely cut from the rest of the world. One of the first nights there, I called my friend Joy back home and asked her to talk with me and pray for me until I could fall asleep. Because I felt my need so much more, I also felt so much more the power that comes from two being gathered together in His name, even though we were a world apart. The second Sunday there, we gathered with maybe twenty other believers, and it made me feel like our work was even more insignificant. Then, in the opening prayer, the pastor prayed for the four thousand other churches that were gathered together just in that city. I needed that changed perspective. Suddenly, I wasn’t alone, not in that city, or in that country, or even in ministry. I was connected to thousands of believers united by the same goal so that whether teaching English to children, praying for a friend in need, or actually preaching the Word, we are all part of the same ministry. These are familiar ideas, but experiencing them in a different context helps us understand things more clearly. And that’s what Asia gave me—perspective. |
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