Show Me The Way

Some people you meet leave an impression on you. By that I mean that you don't simply remember them or listen to them or think about them. They actually carve out a little of your flesh and bone or smooth out a rough spot or leave little indentations in your heart from where they pressed too hard. 

Sometimes you meet those people that become a rudder in the storm. They steer you toward the light and keep you from capsizing. They change your direction—suddenly your life has a different trajectory. So slight, so gentle, with the shift of a conversation or a simple word, your life can change completely.

A week ago I was walking down the Portuguese Way, one of the routes to Santiago in Spain, and a German man made a passing comment about how he hated the rain. Such a small ordinary comment, but it was a doorway moment. 

We struck up conversation which quickly snowballed into the reason why—why the Camino?

He said he had a beautiful problem. He wanted to help people.

But he also wanted to make money.

And so, the Camino. 

He chose The Way so that he could find his way. He was stuck in a place of indecision. Should he quit his job and be a psychiatrist? Or should he stay and enjoy the comforts his job currently offered him?

All of his tumbled out, as we walked along. I heard his story and shared my own. I spoke of the struggle and hardship of living your dream. But I also said, "I have purpose everyday. And so I keep on teaching."

"What is purpose?" He asks.

"A goal, vision, a reason for living." I reply.

At the next town we parted ways, and I never saw him again.

That night I thought about our conversation. Why did I even meet him? Why did we even have that conversation? What was the point? In the span of both of our lives, the words we shared are a tiny blade of grass in a vast field. 

And then I remembered the arrows. 

On the Camino, there are yellow arrows spray painted at every fork and curve in the road. They guide you to Santiago. Without even a single arrow, you would become very lost and discouraged. I realized in that moment that our conversation was a small yellow arrow in our lives. It makes all the difference, but you don't  necessarily remember it in the bigger picture. 

Then I thought about all the people who are yellow arrows to me daily. They remind me who I am. They remind me who God is. They remind me how I want to live my life. Without those people pointing the way, I lose sight of that purpose that keeps me moving forward.

I may never know if this man becomes a psychiatrist, but I do know, that day on the Camino, he was a yellow arrow to me reminding me of the path I have chosen and why I have chosen to walk it. And for that I am very thankful. 

The forest for the trees

They have made my blood boil, my mind reel, my teeth clench, and my tears fall. There have been snide remarks, blank worksheets, empty desks, and raised voices.

Many days I was so tired it was all I could do to tape on a smile and not snap like a brittle twig each time I was interrupted mid sentence.

"You can't see the forest for the trees," someone said the old adage. And they were right.

At the beginning of the year, the Lord helped me to see my relationships with my students as little sprouts in a field. He reminded me that my job was simply to cultivate those relationships and nourish them with encouragement, kindness, generosity, and tenacity.

And at some point those little sprouts became trees grounded in shared experiences, conversations, reading, writing, and trust. My students felt comfortable to be themselves with me and their classmates. And sometimes, I didn't like what I saw, but I got to know who they really were, the good and the bad. I would much rather sit under the shade of a gnarled oak tree in my back yard than gaze at silk flowers in a crystal vase that look beautiful, but have never weathered the change of seasons.

So today I opened a letter I wrote to myself the first week of school to find these words: Hopefully you feel as though you are walking through a forest of trees—sturdy, strong, flourishing—each tree is a relationship. Remember those little sprouts you started with? I hope you guarded them and didn't trample on them. Remember though, they were watered and nourished by the Lord. Also, even if you don't feel like there is a forest of trees, you may be surprised. In the words of Noah Gundersen 'Even in the smallest places, can a garden grow.'

I am in awe of God's faithfulness to me this year. He has fulfilled my hopes, and he hasn't failed me, even when I swore he had. In the midst of tears and heartbreak, he has seen me and never left me. He helped me water the sprouts till I could no longer see the forest for the trees. I don't really mind not seeing the forest, because each tree is so precious to me.

With these words I hold out hope for you. Maybe you have finished a grueling semester, or may your job never quits. Look for the forest. Get lost in it. Wander around in the big picture for a little while. While you do, let yourself fall in love with the living, rustling, growing trees that whisper as the wind blows through. Maybe that whisper will be enough to remind you of something you had long forgotten and given up hope for.

Love letters

Recently I have been buried beneath heartbreak. I bemoan the love letters that never perch in my mailbox with sweet melodies to secret songs only for my ears. I have cried and talked and prayed and raged, "This is not how I thought my story would go," I say.

My feelings have had the upper hand, arm-wrestling the truth down countless times until my insides turn bruised. "Why is God holding out on me?" I cry, angry, confused. "He's not," a tiny whisper says that get's lost in the background of my screaming experiences.

Until today. Because today I found a letter.

I came home to a letter on my desk from a friend reminding me of the sisterhood that we share and how we stand with each other and love each other as hard as we can.

Then I thought of the brown cardboard box on my shelf—filled with letters. Words from deceased grandparents and words from friends who live hours away. Words from 12 years ago and words from 12 days ago. I realize, these words form a chorus. Why would I want a single voice humming, when I have been given the Chicago Mass Choir? I am surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses, witnesses to my stumblings and triumphs. Witnesses cheering me down the path of life.

I hear God whisper "You're right. This isn't how you thought your story would go."

And then I see—I am invited, really we all are. We have a place in the chorus. We are love letter writers.

We can find words, buried in the dirt and speak forth little sprouts of hope. We can write in script or scribbled print. We can leave a post-it or send sentences sealed and stamped. Sometimes our love letters can come in the form of gooey chocolate chip cookies or a butterfly necklace that made me think of you or maybe a long hug or a giant load of clean laundry. However it looks, we are invited to spell out a love letter that arrives on an ordinary day and lets the sunlight shine in the nick of time.