The Protestant work ethic and the three little pigs

Am I too busy? 

Can I do anything about it?

I don't think I'm the only one asking myself these questions. Nor is this a recent trend for me. But they've been bouncing around my mind since my sociology class studied Max Weber this fall. He's the one who came up with the phrase "Protestant ethic" in the early 20th century, and writing a paper on the topic has gotten my wheels spinning. 

Many, myself included, have beef with some of Weber's points. But other seem spot-on: namely, the tendency of those in historically Protestant nations to overvalue productivity. Weber asserted that being idle was one of the greatest sins in Protestant teachings of the 19^th century: “Not leisure and enjoyment, but only activity serves to increase the glory of God […] Waste of time is thus the first and in principle the deadliest of sins” (The Protestant Ethic, p. 104). Weber says that as Protestants' religious fervor declined over time, their worship of hard work and busyness endured.

I don't know said Protestant teachings enough to judge whether this quotation is a fair summary.  Too often, though, it describes my own attitude. I convince myself that God approves more of me when I get more done. I buy into American culture's view of busyness as a status symbol. I can find it hard to stop and focus on just one thing, especially if it's hard to quantify it or to say when I've "accomplished" it. (cough cough *prayer* cough cough) 

In our Weber unit, my sociology professor had us read an article by Benjamin Snyder, "From Vigilance to Busyness: A Neo-Weberian Approach to Clock Time." Vigilance started with Benedictine monks and involves a regular schedule of activities like contemplation or singing. Busyness came about through Protestant and Renaissance cultures. It emphasizes not just regularity but density - packing more varied activities into a given time period. The article argues that "although we often think of busyness, time pressure, and burnout as contemporary problems, they have long been at the root of clock time culture." Snyder points out that even the word "busy" evolved in meaning around 1500, from “‘concentrating on a particular activity’” to “‘constantly occupied with many things.’”

Time density has its limits. No matter how much we try to cram in, an hour can only hold so much. Believe me, I've tried. Despite the illusion that multi-tasking helps us accomplish more and “get ahead,” psychologists say that reality falls short of expectations:

Managing this constant and mounting demand often involves switching tasks or multi-tasking, and the job never quite feels done. "Multi-tasking is what makes us pressed for time," says Elizabeth Dunn, a psychology professor at the University of British Columbia in Vancouver,Canada. “No matter what people are doing, people feel better when they are focused on that activity,” she adds.

In my own life, here's what I'm realizing. I am busy. Not just this year... not just this chapter... but since probably 8th grade, I've had a pretty full schedule. Why?

1. Because right now I can. I have a fairly high energy level and good health, and I enjoy being active. I've been given opportunities to do a lot of things that I like and find meaningful. Those things are temporary blessings not to be taken lightly. They are not reasons to judge others, nor are they reasons to beat myself up if those ever change. Being less busy - like when I had chronic fatigue or during Cambodia's hot season - doesn't make me less myself. Busyness does not define me. But being busy is not always a bad thing.

2. Because I undervalue margin. I don't leave enough room for the unexpected because I don't like missing out on neat opportunities. I once described a dear friend by saying, "She wouldn't want to bite off LESS than she could chew." Takes one to know one! That friend seems to be learning faster than I am that this approach to life doesn't really pay off. For one, it makes it hard to switch midstream when things come up. For another, when I stop to catch my breath (like over Christmas break), often there's a reckoning to pay in the form of a heart out of whack. I need margin, both to take care of myself, and to be available for others' unforeseen needs.

3. Because I'm addicted. I feel good when I get stuff done. When my papers are turned in, when I've made dinner for once, when I'm caught up on e-mail... let's be honest, when I've published a blog post... I want to do a happy dance. Recently, I've been quite busy and also quite happy, and it's because my efforts have generally been fruitful. But there's a danger here. If I tie my happiness to my accomplishments, then I feel a lot of fear, anger, or even depression when my success is jeopardized. I may refuse to take risks. I may get caught in the spin cycle of the comparison game. And quite frequently, I prioritize the task that's easily checked off over the one that's not. I think checking e-mail will just take a few minutes, and I end up late to meet a friend. Or I try to hem pants while watching a movie, only to realize it distracted me and spoiled my enjoyment of the movie. Or I get impatient with people who interrupt my day: "This wasn't on my mental agenda." Short term, being task-oriented feels like I'm winning at life. Long term, that's not who I want to be.

https://www.flickr.com/photos/kevlar/2632549720

4. Because I've hunkered down in a flimsy straw house. My friend Annalisa once led a devotion for Logos staff that talked about the three little pigs. All three thought their houses would guard them from the big bad wolf, but only one house withstood the gales. Sometimes I sense that I need to stop trying, and I just refuse. "If I just stay up one more hour, I'll be able to sort all this out and be ready for tomorrow. Then I can relax." I think the task at hand will be more beneficial than sleep or time with God. Invariably, the next day I don't even need whatever it was that seemed so crucial... but I suffer for what I sacrificed. Jesus Christ is the only secure refuge. I need to change my statements from "I can start resting WHEN I get xyz done" to " I can start resting now BECAUSE of what Christ has done for me." His death and resurrection have secured my reputation and my future. Annalisa pointed out, "A 'well-earned rest' is backward thinking! We begin with Christ's finished work. We start by resting." I need to drop the fragments of straw I've been holding up to shield me, and hoof it to the sturdy brick walls down the lane.

5. Because I think it's my job. Another line Annalisa shared with us: "Christianity is like a day off, not like a day at the office." Imagine the difference, she said, between needing to sand and repaint your house's walls - and being invited to help your best friend do the same for a few hours one Saturday. When I work myself into a frenzy trying to help everyone or do my best at what I believe God has asked of me, I've forgotten the truth that this is God's work. He invites me to join Him - not because He needs my help, but because He loves me and delights in spending time with me. Unlike me, He's never dismayed or stressed out by my limitations. I don't have to join Him - I get to.

So I'm slowly moving beyond seeking to straddle the magical line between "busy enough" and "too busy." (Michael Hyatt points out that tightropes are always wobbly and balancing is more active than static anyway.) Maybe "Am I too busy?" is the wrong question. Instead, I need to ask...

How's my margin?

Should this task be my priority?

Where am I taking refuge?

Whose job is this anyway?

Sometimes I have more control of my schedule than others. Most times, I have more wiggle room than I think. But I *always* have the choice to embrace the right attitudes about how and why I fill... or empty... my time. And though these attitudes go against my grain, I have a God who very patiently and lovingly points me back to the truth: that a "Protestant work ethic" brings Him glory only when I abandon my fear and pride to take refuge in Him.

My homebody hero

I used to pity or look down on people who lived in one place their whole lives. The tedium! The claustrophobia! The sameness of all your friends! Those people don’t know what they’re missing. 

But maybe I was the one missing something. I'm realizing that staying somewhere can have less to do with laziness or fear than with faithfulness. There’s something beautiful about saying to a town and the people in it, “Forget the others - I commit to you. Not because you’re superior to all your counterparts, not because you offer me the most adventure or comfort or opportunity, but simply because I love you.” 

I’m a little bit in awe and a little bit jealous of my grandma, Irene Hoeltje, for how she’s said this with her life for 95 years and counting. Born and raised in Peoria, Illinois, to my knowledge she’s never left for longer than a week or two. And for the past nearly 20 years, she’s been in a retirement community built on the land of her grandfather and father’s farm, where she lived for years as a child. In fact, her apartment stands exactly where the farmhouse once did.

Paintings of the farmhouse and barn are prominently displayed in her living room

Faithfulness describes my grandma in more ways than one. She's technically my step-grandma, having married my mom's dad in 1983 after they were both were widowed. The two couples had been friends for decades and had attended the same Lutheran church that whole time. Although she already had three adult children and a bunch of grandchildren, she welcomed my grandpa's family as her own. Since the day I was born she's been as warm and loving a grandmother to me as anyone could hope for. She played with me, quilted for me, read all my Cambodia newsletters, and goodness knows how many hundreds of times she's prayed for me. When my grandpa had a severe stroke months after they moved in here, she devotedly loved and cared for him for two years until his death, just as she'd poured herself out for her first husband in his illness. 

That doesn't mean she never traveled. In the photo next to the barn painting, you can see her with my grandpa on a trip to Italy. My siblings and I loved their annual visits to our house in Vermont. But mostly, she stuck pretty close to home. On my trip to Peoria last month - the first in far too long - I bemoaned the fact that I was flying in and out of Chicago, three hours away, with no time to sight-see. I asked her what her favorite Chicago activities had been. Her response was, in effect, "Who wants to go way up there?" Answer: my grandpa, for the baseball games. (He would've loved seeing the Cubs win the World Series, which started days after I left.) But he was otherwise a lot like her. Another lifelong Peoria resident, he retired from the same paper company where he'd gotten his first job at age 16 to help support his struggling family. They both chose depth over breadth: loving and investing in the people around them for the long haul. 

Grandma's whole family seems to have learned from her. A cousin lives in the same retirement community, one street over. Her three children, and most of her grandchildren and great-grandchildren, live within 15 minutes of her. (There are exceptions: one grandson moved to the Ukraine for a while and married a woman from there, and a few are now in other states.) Many of them gather every Sunday at her apartment for lunch. When Grandpa died in 1999, Irene's granddaughter Alyssa was newlywed and moving into her first purchased home - the house where Grandpa had raised my mom. Irene's daughter Linda visits her daily to help with meals and other tasks, and Irene's sons come by frequently too. Linda and her husband Joe are equally devoted to Joe's large extended family in Peoria, and between family, colleagues, and church, they seem to be friends with the whole town. Although we all really love each other, I've never lived in the same town as any of my extended family - or the same state as most of them, for that matter - and I find that kind of close-knit family impressive.

Aunt Linda, Grandma, and me in October

Grandma remains faithful to my family, even though her own descendants surround her and she can't travel to see us anymore. During our time together, she had limited mobility, low energy, and a fair amount of joint pain. But instead of complaining, she peppered me with questions about my parents, siblings, and nephews. "I miss them," she kept saying. "I hope they can visit soon." 

I asked her about the most important things she'd learned over the years. "Be grateful. Be humble. Love people. Be faithful." She's learned those, all right. Her whole life demonstrates them.

Now that I've lived in multiple locations, and the people I love are scattered, I’m not sure I could ever be that devoted to one place. Unless I want to be heartless and cruel, it’s too late for me. I can say to Doylestown and its residents, “We go way back and you’ve been good to me. I love you and I’m going to fight to be emotionally present as long as I’m here.” I can say to Phnom Penh and its residents, “You’re my adopted home, my srok jing-jeum, and I’m willing to say no to a lot of things and people to say yes to you.” But the truth is, even if I plopped down somewhere tomorrow and never again left it for a moment, pieces of my heart are already strewn across the world. I've been on the move since before I could walk, with stints in Vermont, New York, and Munich by age 3. There's been a lot of richness to my travels, and I wouldn't trade them, but sometimes I have to stop and mourn. With limits of time and geography, there's just no way I can be there for everyone I care about, to nearly the extent that I'd like.

Quote by Miriam Adeney, image by ... Google?

That's why I envy Grandma, despite the losses she's endured. Nearly all her favorite people who are still on earth live practically in her backyard. I'm realizing that like me, she traded some good things for something she valued even more. And her choice is a beautiful one. But even if practical constraints weigh on my friendships, even if my destiny is to be more nomad than homebody, maybe I can still walk in her footsteps of faithfulness to God and to others. Maybe I can still choose to love people the very best I know how, for as long as possible, as often as possible. 

Be grateful. 

Be humble. 

Love people. 

Be faithful. 

Words to live by, whether I'm packing up again or parking for the long haul. 

Life lessons from my fictional best friend

Last month, my mom was chatting with an acquaintance and told her, "Yesterday was my daughter's birthday party. She had friends over for an 'Anne of Green Gables' movie marathon." 

"Oh, fun!" the other woman replied. "How old is your daughter?" 

My mom cracked up, because the answer is not "eleven." (Note: The original birthday plan was to spend the weekend camping, but the weather had other ideas.) 

Some might say I'm a little old to be watching a children's movie. Wikipedia and I beg to differ: L.M. Montgomery's 1908 novel Anne of Green Gables was "written for all ages." And that marathon was the most fun I've had in months. 20 years into my fandom, I'm proof that Anne ages well. 

It helps that in the eight-book series... which many fans of the 1980s miniseries have sadly never read... she grows up from an 11-year-old to eventually a grandmother. We see her mellow out, learn from others, endure suffering and loss. At 30, I can relate to her in ways that eluded me at age 10 or 15. She's a more versatile companion than heroines stuck in shorter time frames. Maybe that's why Anne has influenced me more than any other fictional character. 

Here are five of my personal values I owe in part to the winsome Anne Shirley (Blythe).

1. Everyday nature is a source of endless wonder.

L.M. Montgomery's enchanting descriptions of landscapes helped Prince Edward Island become a popular tourist destination; it's certainly on my bucket list. But Anne reminds me to look for beauty right where I am. Rolling hills. Rice fields. Rainstorms. It's there, if I only have eyes to see.

"'I want to explore all those fields and lonely places anyhow. I have a conviction that there are scores of beautiful nooks that have never really been seen although they may have been looked at. We'll make friends with wind and sky and rain, and bring home the spring in our hearts.'" (Anne of Avonlea, Ch. 13)

And a scene I've known by heart for years and years: When Gilbert and Anne finally marry, he goes house hunting in a new village without her. He reports to her on the many charms of the home he's chosen. 

"'So far, good," said Anne, nodding cautious approval. 'But Gilbert... you haven't yet mentioned one very important thing. Are there trees about this house?'

'Heaps of them, oh, dryad!'

'Oh, I'm so glad! I couldn't live where there were no trees - something vital in me would starve.'" (Anne's House of Dreams, Ch. 2)

I've always felt the same way about trees. Fans debate whether Gilbert is enough of a kindred spirit to merit Anne's heart, but in my book (no pun intended), his "heaps-oh-dryad" response sets the bar pretty high. 

2. Don’t be afraid to make mistakes. Or to laugh at them.

"'Marilla, isn't it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?'

'I'll warrant you'll make plenty in it," said Marilla. "I never saw your beat for making mistakes, Anne.'

'Yes, and well I know it," admitted Anne mournfully. "But have you ever noticed one encouraging thing about me, Marilla? I never make the same mistake twice.'

'I don't know as that's much benefit when you're always making new ones.'

'Oh, don't you see, Marilla? There must be a limit to the mistakes one person can make, and when I get to the end of them, then I'll be through with them. That's a very comforting thought.'" (Anne of Green Gables, Ch. 21)

A classic ENFP, Anne is infamous for making flighty mistakes and getting herself into "scrapes." At my party, my dear friend Adrianne had a surprise: she'd recreated the pudding where the mouse drowned when Anne forgot to cover it. We all about died laughing! 

My INFJ personality may be more subdued and cautious than Anne's, but I'm every bit as absent-minded, and it's nice having permission just to laugh and move on. After all, what's the alternative: being no-nonsense? 

"'That doesn't sound very attractive," laughed Anne. "I like people to have a little nonsense about them.'" (Anne of the Island, Ch. 28)

3. Every kid deserves love and belonging.

Anne is an orphan who has bounced around many homes and asylums before landing at Green Gables. The books definitely gloss over the psychological harm of Anne's affection-starved, tumultuous childhood. I once had an adopted friend who cringed at the way Marilla keeps Anne "on trial" for a while, contingent on good behavior. (It seems to be a cultural norm of the time.) I get her criticism. It's a terrible way to treat a child. But Marilla soon learns, as Matthew has always done, to love Anne unconditionally - quirks, flaws, and all. 

While Anne never goes on to adopt children*, she helps raise two young orphaned relatives (Davy and Dora) whom she fiercely loves. And Gilbert urges their daughter Rilla to rise to the occasion and raise the "war orphan" baby she finds until the baby's father returns from World War I. Though not a baby person, Rilla grows attached to little Jims, and matures quite a bit in the process. 

Anne and her family are part of the reason why I have always been drawn to kids whose families have been disrupted or unavailable, and why I am passionate about supporting adoption.

*I know Anne adopts a baby in the third movie, "Anne of Green Gables: The Continuing Story." Don't get me started on that movie and how much it departs from the books. Suffice it to say, it was not included in my birthday party.

4. Kindred spirits are worth hunting for, maybe even right in front of you.

"'Miss Barry was a kindred spirit after all,' Anne confided to Marilla, 'You wouldn't think so to look at her, but she is. . . Kindred spirits are not so scarce as I used to think. It's splendid to find out there are so many of them in the world.'" (Anne of Green Gables, Ch. 19) 

Anne has immortalized the phrase "kindred spirit," which I use all the time with friends. (Many of my friends are avid Anne fans too. Coincidence? I think not.) She also describes people like her best friend Diana Barry as "bosom friends," and in later books adopts the phrase "of the race that knows Joseph." They all refer to people who make something resound in your heart, someone with whom you connect at a deeper level. An ongoing motif with Anne is the discovery of kindred spirits in disguise. 

“Anne found it hard to believe that [Leslie Moore] was the cold, unresponsive woman she had met on the shore – this animated girl who talked and listened with the eagerness of a starved soul.” (Anne’s House of Dreams, Ch. 12)

5. Wherever you are, embrace it.

Anne ignores the small-town busybodies who tell her she's a fool to attend university and doom herself to spinsterhood. She bids farewell to friends and family and rejects the advances of Gilbert and others to spend years single, in faraway towns, teaching at various schools, fighting to have her writing published. All this in a culture where women didn't generally make those choices. 

When Marilla needs her back at the farm, Anne uncomplainingly returns from college and rolls up her sleeves, continuing her studies by late-night candlelight. Her delight in Green Gables and Marilla is sweeter than ever for all her far-flung adventures, which resume once the farm is in better shape. 

Later, when she's convinced that Gilbert really is the man for her, she pours herself into her marriage and family the way she has into all her earlier endeavors. 

In each stage, Anne has wistfulness and melodramatic moments and blue days, but her pity parties don't last long. She continues cultivating friendships, serving others, and growing as a person. 

"'Miss Stacy told me long ago that by the time I was twenty my character would be formed, for good or evil. I don't feel that it's what it should be. It's full of flaws.'

'So's everybody's," said Aunt Jamesina cheerfully. 'Mine's cracked in a hundred places. Your Miss Stacy likely meant that when you are twenty your character would have got its permanent bent in one direction or 'tother, and would go on developing in that line.'" (Anne of the Island, Ch. 10)

Anne's many influences on me are one reason she's like a dear friend. The other is that whenever I go more than a year or two without her, I just miss her. I've read all 8 books three or four times each, some closer to 10. She's always there when I need her - right there on my bookshelf, offering me whimsy and wisdom. 108 years after she first captivated readers, Anne remains a "kindred spirit" to millions, and I for one don't plan to outgrow her anytime soon.

Hidden in my heart

For over two and a half years, these words have been the soundtrack to my life. I've recited them on motor scooters and bicycles, in planes and in cars. They've saturated my mind as I've proctored exams and stood in line and pushed my nephews in their strollers. They've been my faithful companions as I've moved from Phnom Penh to Doylestown, as I've traveled to Kuala Lumpur and Orlando and Siem Reap and Ottawa. Isaiah 53-66 have seen me through a lot.

My history with Bible memory goes way back. In elementary school, my pastor urged the other kids and me to memorize Psalms 23 and 91, as well as various weekly memory verses. Those words still echo in my mind today:

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.

For he will command his angels concerning you, to guard you in all your ways.

For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith...

In middle and high school, I did lots of Bible reading and study, but little memorization. I got too annoyed trying to memorize all the references (book, chapter, verse) for separate one-off verses learned out of context. However, as a college freshman, having loved a Navigators study on Ephesians, I decided with a close friend to memorize all six chapters over the summer. I'd never done more than a chapter at a time. By the start of sophomore year in fall 2005, I had crammed the whole book into my brain, though it soon began to slip out again. In the process, Ephesians became dearer than ever to my heart.

Having believed, you were marked in him with a seal, the promised Holy Spirit...

For he himself is our peace, who has made the two one and has destroyed the barrier, the dividing wall of hostility...

Sadly, despite that positive experience and the benefits I've reaped to this day, I made almost no effort to memorize Scripture for the next 7+ years. Then I read an Ann Voskamp blog post challenging readers to tackle Jesus' Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5-7) over the course of a year. She included a free PDF of weekly cards with 1-2 new verses plus a review of the previous verses in the chapter. That way, it wasn't too much of a cognitive burden each week, and it consistently reinforced the previous verses. I found it a far more doable approach than I'd used with Ephesians. If I started learning the week's verses on Sunday, I could spend a minute or two reviewing on Monday and Tuesday and then remember it the rest of the week. That way, I could mostly practice it on my 15-minute commute to work instead of lengthening my morning routine.

At its worst, my commute looked a little like this...

Thankfully, other parts looked like this.

Everyone loves to hate Phnom Penh traffic. Between the potholes, the hot exhaust fumes spewing from trucks toward your face, the Important Rich People cutting you off, and the unpredictable veering of motos and bicycles, 15 minutes can be more than enough to make you lose your cool. So it was quite helpful for me to have something to focus on, a mental "screen-saver" to return to between close calls. It also helped me avoid worrying about everything I needed to accomplish at school that day. Before 7:30 every morning, I had truth running through my brain, centering my heart.

Blessed are the poor, 
   for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, 
   and all these things will be given to you as well.

Now, let's be honest. It's not like I always went into it with the best attitude. Sometimes it was a chore to check off, sometimes it became a reason for pride, and sometimes I ran through the entire thing automatically without even thinking about it. Still, the verses often resounded in my mind throughout the day, shaping my thoughts. They'd challenge me to yearn for a pure heart, to reject anxiety, to pray as Jesus prayed. In spite of my sub-par motives, I could tell I was growing through the memorization process.

At the end of the year, I knew I wanted to keep this habit going. But Ann's next challenge was the book of Romans in a year, quite a daunting task. Anyway, having memorized an epistle and a chunk of a gospel, I was ready for some Old Testament.

In January 2014, I began learning the passage about the Suffering Servant, starting in Isaiah 52:13 and continuing through Isaiah 53. It's always been a favorite, along with subsequent passages in Isaiah 55 and 58. I didn't know how far I'd take it, or whether I'd skip some unsavory chunks, but I knew I wanted to meditate on this vivid poetry with its piercing insights into humankind, its shocking promises about the coming Savior, and its heated arguments between God and his children.

Last month, I finished reviewing all the way from there through Isaiah 66 - the end of the book. (The last verse is a downer - about worms and fire devouring those who rebel against God. Not how I'd choose to end such a moving book.) It's not word-perfect, but it's close enough.

I never expected to make it this far, or to keep up with reviews well enough to recite it all at once. But I did, and I've grown to appreciate even the parts that didn't initially appeal to me. They've confronted me. They've comforted me. They've compelled me. Sitting with these chapters, day in and day out, has revealed some of the meaning and beauty that I missed the first few dozen times through. As my dear friend Emily Cieslinski says, "When I want to understand a Bible passage, I start by memorizing it."

Most of all, I think they've reminded me that God cares. He cares about our pain. He cares about our choices to be faithful or unfaithful to Him. He cares about His reputation among those who have never heard His name. He cares about justice. He cares enough to do something extraordinary. God is not a vending machine or an abstract force; He is a personal, relational Being whose passion is but dimly reflected in our paltry feelings.

...the punishment that brought us peace was on him,
      and by his wounds we are healed.

Sing, barren woman, you who never bore a child...

Is this not the kind of fasting I have chosen: 
   to loose the chains of injustice 
   and untie the cords of the yoke... ?

From the west they will fear the name of the Lord, 
   and from the rising of the sun they will revere his glory.

What's up next? I'm not yet sure. So far, I've just gone back to revisit Ephesians and Matthew 5-7. But with a new school year starting, it seems as good a time as any to start a new passage. In some ways, I'm not sure it matters which one I pick next, whether I learn it perfectly, or how long I remember it. Paraphrasing Beth Moore (I think), I've never heard of anyone saying, "I wish I hadn't memorized that passage." Even when words fade and translations get mixed up... even when deadlines are missed and memory plans are derailed... even when our minds feel like sieves... the Bible still does its work of washing and cleansing us, as it says in Ephesians 5. After all, it's God's Word, and when it enters someone's heart, it always accomplishes its purposes.

Scripture memory isn't a common topic of conversation. I'd love to hear your stories. What passages or sets of verses have you loved learning? What obstacles have you faced, and what strategies have you found helpful? I'm open to recommendations on what I should tackle next!

Happiness is...

Borrowing your neighbor's motorboat (and your other neighbor's canoe) for a week...

Rounding up your family...

Heading to a lake...

We Cooper kids continued our waterskiing lessons from last summer -
this time we could really have fun with it

My dad, by contrast, has been skiing with aplomb since high school

Cooking together...

 (using a drill to whip the egg whites, as you do when you're an engineer)

Having your ultra-talented aunt and uncle stop through in their travels from a distant land... 

Most photo credits to Uncle Joe, pictured far right with his wife Linda

Coercing your dad and uncle into helping you arrange a guitar piece for a dear friend who gave you 9 days' notice that you'd be playing in her wedding...

I could have said no, but she's worth it!

Welcoming another dear friend, from Cambodia by way of Wisconsin...

I love it when worlds collide

And most of all, watching three nephews compete for most endearing. These guys totally stole the show all week!

L to R: identical twins Carson and Evan (19 months), their "Opa" (many months), and Cole (17 months)

"Yup, there are 3 of us and life is pretty great!"

 

  

Cole was fascinated by the old-fashioned water pump by the driveway

I declare, Little Blue Truck is the wisest vehicle I know.

They've always been cute individually, but as they get older and start interacting more with each other, it's become exponentially more fun to watch them together. 

Here they are mesmerized by the construction vehicles at the house next door.

Can't you feel the brotherly love?

Evan sure can.

In exchange for Cole teaching them new sounds, Carson and Evan instructed him in their favorite workout, couch-jumping. Cole's version is a bit more cautious, but he made some good progress. 

Cole much prefers a lively conversation with them to eating his lunch. Can you blame him?

While I've always loved spending time with my family, these tiny people have really kicked it up a notch. I've come to the conclusion that aunting can be just as fun as grandparenting, minus the prerequisite of slogging through long decades of child-rearing. 

Happiness can be fleeting and frail. It pales beside the deep God-inspired joy that endures in suffering and mundane moments. But it's still a precious gift worth savoring.

Growing downward

When I mentioned to my internship coordinator this spring that I dream of training Cambodian teachers someday, her eyes lit up. “Maybe we could get you doing some of that this summer!” She consulted with someone on the ground here, and they decided I’d work with four English teachers (all native Cambodians) in a middle school and a high school within Caring for Cambodia.

I was really grateful and excited. What a perfect opportunity to get my feet wet and learn more about Cambodian teachers and schools. And surely my six years at Logos had to be an asset, given all I learned there about teaching foreign languages, low-tech lessons, communicating with Cambodians, etc. But I was also a little apprehensive. Eight weeks in Siem Reap. How much could I do in eight weeks?

As much as possible, I concluded. So I jumped into observing them, teaching alongside them, chatting with them, and assembling handouts and presentations for them. I tried to balance proactivity and flexibility, and hoped for the best.

I’ve had exhilarating moments of success reminding me why I love being in the classroom. I’m a natural! I’ve got this down! This is what I was made to do! I’m totally going into this after I graduate! A flash of intuition pans out. Students are angelic. The lesson clicks with everyone. A teacher says, “Wow, can you tell me more about that?” I’ve thrived on chances to replace an irrelevant, teacher-centered lesson from the textbook with something more engaging and student-centered.

And I’ve had moments that brought my ego crashing down. The couple times I’ve been observed, I couldn’t believe how nervous I felt. The handout I’d worked so hard on suddenly seemed impossibly complicated for my audience, a waste of their time. The rapport I was starting to achieve with teachers seemed to vanish, replaced by miscommunications and hemming and hawing. Other times, I haven’t needed an outsider observing me. All it’s taken is a group of students who pay no heed to my attempts to quiet them, or a teacher who greets my sample lesson with apathy and criticism, or my own reflections on a meeting, for me to feel about as competent as your average 4-year-old, and as culturally sensitive as the White Savior Barbie.

I’m realizing that the latter moments, while uncomfortable, have been far more necessary for me than the former. First of all, they’re a good reality check. Being a new teacher was hard and my lessons often tanked. Why would I expect anything different from mentoring teachers? Secondly, my self-consciousness is a good reminder of what I’m putting teachers through as I observe and mentor them. (Even more so as they try to teach a foreign language in front of a native speaker!)

Finally, they remind me of what I learned all year in grad school: Contextualization is vital. I don’t like it when the teachers sometimes blame students for not grasping English lessons that don’t address their needs and interests. But I’ve made the same error (actually worse) when I’ve made minimal tweaks to US-based teaching tips that are a poor fit for these teachers, and then inwardly faulted them for not recognizing the superiority of American education to their methods. That’s not showing them a better alternative to shaming; that’s just shifting the blame up a level. There’s a huge gulf between their educational experiences and mine, and it’s not fair of me to ask them to do the work to bridge it. If I want to partner with them, I need to wrangle with the question of how they can teach well in their context.

A few weeks ago, I saw a great article entitled, “Upward or downward first?” It has two lists: the results of pursuing fruit versus pursuing roots. 

A tree growing out of Ta Prohm temple 

One list reads….

When our greatest desire is to grow upward:

                We think a lot about our reputation, so often swing between pride and insecurity.

                We’re likely known for talking a lot.

                We’re elated when we’re praised and frustrated when ignored.

                We often say, "I need to do more faster."

And so the list continues.  Honestly, a lot of it has described me this summer more often than I'd like to admit.

The parallel and inverse list describes when we long to grow downward:

                We may track outcomes, but we define success most of all by the quality of things that are hard to see at first: hearts, faith, well-being, character.

                We feel the light yoke of self-forgetfulness.

                We’re known especially for listening well.

                We’re grateful when praised and content when ignored.

I want the second list to define me. And not just so I’ll eventually become the most awesome teacher trainer ever, though that motivation has occurred to me a few times. (Argh, pride is so sneaky!) I feel like Eustace when he becomes a dragon in C.S. Lewis' Voyage of the Dawn Treader, feeling self-satisfied because I’ve scratched off my dragon skin, only to realize what I discarded was a paper-thin shell, and the human is stuck hopelessly deep inside all the dragony self that remains. 

But Eustace finally meets Aslan. “You will have to let me undress you,” Aslan tells Eustace, and Eustace decides his desperation to become human again outweighs his fear of Aslan’s claws.

"'The very first tear he made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart. And when he began pulling the skin off, it hurt worse than anything I've ever felt. The only thing that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the stuff peel off. You know - if you've ever picked the scab off a sore place. It hurts like billy-oh but it is such fun to see it coming away.’"

I’m near the end of my summer in Cambodia, and little wiser than before about how to partner well with teachers here. But maybe that’s OK. While I’d love to see some upward growth – some teachers applying what I’ve taught, some students getting more out of English class, some materials being put to use – that’s no longer my top priority. This girl needs to grow downward into self-forgetfulness, and sometimes that means holding still long enough for God to strip off layers of pride. If nobody else learns a thing from my teacher training endeavors this summer, that lesson will already be well worth it.