This past week was Vacation Bible School at church. The kids all got a chance to get out of the house every night for a week and do some really fun crafts and games. The church got a chance to pull together and do a project that has lasting meaning in young lives. And parents got a chance to have a break every evening for a week.
Everybody wins. Oh, wait. Everybody, that is, except me. Yeah, I signed up to do Vacation Bible School. I wasn't going to. I get so burned out from teaching. This was a really hard year for behavioral issues, and with added responsibilities on the church praise team I was ready to do nothing for a while once school was out.
However, I did agree to a fairly non-involved job. I was simply to take kids around from one station to the next. Crafts, snacks, games, a short movie, a teaching time. All I had to do was herd the crowd. Right? So I said, if I can have that simple job, I'll do it. I'll be a crew leader.
So began a week of keeping kids from pounding on each other and doing permanent damage to church property. Oh, and there were a few “extra”responsibilities this year. At some stations we actually had to round up the kids afterward and help them process what they learned there. Ask questions. Have group discussions. Help them find ways to apply what they've learned. Sigh. I just wanted an easy job.
Yeah, you know, it's funny. I noticed I'm the only teacher who signed up to help out with VBS. Most of them know their limits. All of this and more came to mind as I was grouching after the first evening.
The second night was pretty rough, too. They've split kids up into multi-age groups this year, so that you might have 5 year olds all the way up to 12 year olds. The idea, I think, was that the older kids wouldn't be jostling into cliques and acting obnoxious and smart-alecky, but would instinctively help with the younger kids. And you wouldn't have a herd of five-year-olds all trying to beat each other up. Nice theory. Here's how it worked out. We had a couple of younger kids in my group, and one of them was always trying to beat up on the other one. We had a couple of older kids, and they jostled around and acted smart-alecky and obnoxious. And we had one kid in the middle who clung to me all week—my oldest daughter. This was my little VBS family of five kids for the week.
Tuesday night they were learning a lesson on helping others. The Bible story was the one where Jesus healed a blind man using mud and spit. When we got to the Bible story station the kids were herded into the room. They were given these athletic headbands to put over their eyes, and the lights were turned off. Once they were “blind” we crew leaders were each given a bowl of oatmeal, which was to be the “mud.” We were supposed to put some mud—not IN their eyes, of course, but ABOVE their eyes. So I was going around smearing a little oatmeal just above each. One girl, not on my crew, was a little freaked out. She did NOT want mud touching her body. Her crew leader let it go. Of course you don't want to traumatize the kids. I know this girl, so I went over to her, leaned over and whispered in her ear, “It's oatmeal.” She heard my voice, realized it wasn't going to be icky mud, and let me smear a little above each eye.
Unexpectedly, something changed inside me during that little exchange of trust. There was a welling up of compassion--caring for these kids, here to have a good time, instead finding themselves blinded with smears of “mud” on their faces. So as we went around the room with wet wipes (hey, we don't have a real pool of Siloam), and washed the “icky mud” off their faces, I found it had become an act of caring help, a kind of compassionate “service.” There was a hush in the room as we moved from child to child with those wipes. I don't know if you realize how unnatural the quiet was, given this rowdy group. One of my crew, a big, burly, clown-around eleven-year-old, was sitting quiet, waiting, his smooth child-brow marked with worried furrows. I wiped his face and whispered, “It's okay,” and watched his wrinkled brow relax and smooth out again. Then we were done, they counted to three, and all the kids took their headbands off, the lights went on, and kids blinked and squinted and laughed with relief.
After that things went back to normal; and yet, things weren't the same at all. Somehow after that the whole week seemed to go better. Kids weren't quite as obnoxious. Little boys weren't pounding on each other QUITE as much. And the older ones started helping out with the younger ones.
AND I got to see that healing at the pool of Siloam from a little bit of Jesus' point of view. And all the other healings He did. Yes, they were “signs” pointing to something important. But they were something else, too. I walked the room, clearing “mud” from eyebrows, whispering encouragement, having compassion on these little furrowed brows that were too young for furrows. Do you realize the depth of God's love for you?
* * *
I remember studying Jesus' miracles in Bible college. We had whole classes on the gospels—I remember Matthew—the class that covered the book. We went through chapter by chapter, discussing the miracles, explaining how they were “signs,” what they pointed to, the theological implications, etc. We knew any theological implication could appear on a test, so he would pause after a point, and you heard a roomful of pens scratching feverishly across paper as you scrambled to write everything down before he dove into the next point.
I wonder how Jesus felt about that? I mean, He was there in that room, wasn't He? We were given lectures on His miracles, His artwork, but all the compassion seemed drained out like liquid from a sieve, leaving a dry pile of theology--did He long for us to understand His heart, His motives? And all the while we were feverishly scratching out facts on blank notebook paper. Later, over supper, the hardcore theology students would debate facts for our entertainment, batting around God's love like a toy ball. I wonder how God felt as His heart was tossed back and forth casually over soup and salad.
* * *
People give and receive love in all kinds of ways. It's amazing how different we are. Some people go out of their way to show others they care by doing stuff they know somebody will like. Other people give gifts. There are people who love to hear the words, “I love you.” For others, it's touch. For a few, time spent together means everything. For me, it's always been appreciation.
When school ended we teachers were given a gift certificate for a trip to a day spa. A little pampering, they thought, would be just the thing for a hard-working bunch of teachers.
You can't imagine how grossed out I was. The thought of being touched by a stranger does NOT equal an afternoon of relaxation for me. A sentiment, I find, that few share or understand. And yet I would not be touched.
I whispered my heresy to a fellow teacher I trusted, who assured me that a manicure or pedicure would be nice. Or I could get a nice facial massage. Are you KIDDING? Don't TOUCH my FACE! But...the school board really appreciated us as teachers. I knew they did. And for the sake of being appreciated I went for a morning with the rest of the ladies and got my hands and feet buffed, dipped in paraffin wax, and a sissy pink shade of polish was applied to each finger and toe.
For me, see, appreciation is almost the same as caring. I really care about those farmers on the school board, trying to figure out how to appreciate a bunch of women teachers. I appreciate them. So I let them send me to a spa to get “purtied up,” showed my nails around everywhere, then a few days later I discreetly took polish remover to my fingernails.
* * *
When I first sent my oldest daughter to school, she would come home at night singing these nifty Bible songs to the rhythm of the backyard swing. I really appreciated that. I appreciated the fact that Bible was her first lesson of the day, and she was telling me Bible stories I hadn't gotten around to telling her yet. I know Christian school isn't for everybody but it was for us, and I saw great value in what they were giving my daughter.
So the next year on parent orientation night I found out my school was going to have to end its music program. The music teacher was retiring. I prayed and thought about it a few days and then offered my services. I would teach my daughter's class music every day. I don't think they heard the part about me offering it for just her class, because before I knew it I was swept into the entire music program, kindergarten through 8th grade. They seemed a little apologetic when they asked if I could organize a couple of musicals a year. Well, why not? I said. I've done dance recitals and stuff like that. All righty then. And so I've been at it, now, just finishing up my fourth year. See, for me it's not that I really dig serving. It's that I really appreciate the school that teaches my kids the Bible, and helping with music is pretty much the least I could do. When you care about my kids you care about me. And I appreciate that, and I've come to care deeply about these people and their kids.
* * *
Have you ever been broken? We come to Christ broken, hurting and helpless to save ourselves. He cleans us up, sets us on the right path, because He already did what was necessary to save us. He wipes the mud from our eyes, whispers, “It's okay,” and then the light comes on and we blink, look around with delight, the spell of darkness broken. Then we spend the rest of our lives learning what He's given us.
I prefer to remain broken. I don't mean the pain, or the sin that caused it. I like the remembrance, because in the remembrance there's thankfulness and for me, thankfulness is love. It's why my eyes tear up sometimes at communion. It's why I'm at my best when I stay close to the fountain filled with blood, drawn from Emmanuel's veins. It's what makes my writing, music and art such an enjoyment to me. It's because my life, when it's at its best, has become a thank you note to God.
So today, miraculously, my daughter's eyes are almost matched up. It's happened quickly in the last couple of days. It's a wonder to me, like living in the best kind of dream, and not wanting to wake up. I know what God is doing in my family is not just a sterile “sign,” although it may well point to something. When I first started this journey I thought of the faraway Lakeland miracles, and how God was doing some kind of strategic thing, and I thought it could never be for us. Or I thought of the long ago signs of the Gospels, and how they were a strategic thing that could never be for today.
What I didn't know was the compassion, the caring that went into each miracle. “Do you want to be healed?” He would say. Then, “Get up! Pick up your mat. Walk! That's right. Walk!” And people would do it, because He cared. A burdened sigh as He said, “Be opened.” Wept tears for their pain as He healed their dead.
I cry as I write this, partly because I was up late in the night, keyed up about the miracle that's happening in my daughter's eyes. I'm sleep deprived now, you see. But partly I cry because He is gently wiping the mud from my eyes, healing my daughter, saying, “It's okay,” and He cares. And I appreciate that.
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