Thursday, June 16, 2016

Thankful Thursday - Never Alone

This coming Saturday, I will sit through the final seven hours of what my seminary professor calls, "Baby Greek." Ten weeks of Biblical Greek will come to an end at 5 pm, just under 48 hours from now. Twenty five or so students laughing, groaning, stumbling, stuttering our way through New Testament Greek. We have had to learn about prepositions, participles, particles, aorist, pluperfect, and case. We have been introduced to terms like nominative, genitive, ablative, vocative, accusative, and dative - words that meant absolutely nothing to me ten weeks ago. Honestly, I'm not sure how much more they mean to me know, but I've had to memorize them and figure out when they apply to the nouns they are related to. For the first time in decades, I have had to create index cards with vocabulary words - in Greek. I have had to learn what a lexicon is and how to use it. Once again, I confess to you, my patient readers, that I am a geek: I have loved this class. 

The professor cracks himself up - bending over in laughter several times during each class. But then he snaps to attention and blows my mind with insights on Scripture and the life of Jesus and what it means to be a follower of Christ. How he ties it all to the vocab lists and new grammatical terms moves me to tears even as I keep my hand tightly gripped around my pen taking copious notes. We do translation work with our classmates. We look over our shoulders at each other with impatient glances when someone in the class asks one too many questions. We huddle over our weekly quizzes and plead with God to remind us of the stacks of cards we have perused all week. We count down the hours until the end of the day - class goes from 8:15 am until 11:45 am. Chapel service at noon, then lunch. Class resumes at 1:30 and ends at 5 pm. Together. 

I am enormously thankful for the hard work, the piles of cards, the new alphabet, the deeper appreciation for the Holy Scripture. 

Two weeks ago, my daughter and I went to the Daniel Stowe Botanical Garden. As we explored the gardens, we stopped and sat down on nearly every bench that was in the shade. I especially liked the rainforest greenhouse - misters keep the plants damp and the visitors as well. 

There weren't many other visitors - it was a very hot day. But there were a few. Children in sun hats. Older couples also scampering from shady bench to shady bench. Empty walkways. Gratefully, I had my daughter. We walked and talked and laughed and sipped water from our thermoses. I am thankful for the simple pleasure of a walk through a garden with my dear, dear daughter.

Last week, I attended the graduation of three dozen preschoolers from the Charlotte Bilingual Preschool here in Charlotte. I think I was the only person in the room who was neither related to a child nor a member of the school staff. Children singing in English and Spanish. Adults taking photos and videos. After they received their diplomas, the new graduates were asked if any of them wanted to say anything to the audience. Several bravely took the microphone and said things like: "I really like this school and I don't want to leave." "I like everything about this school." "I really want to stay here." Could any teacher ask for a better compliment or higher praise?

As I watched and listened and looked around the room at all those proud parents and grandparents, hailing undoubtedly from a dozen Central and South American countries, I wished I could hear their stories - why they left their home countries, how they got to the U.S. and why they chose Charlotte. I wanted to know how many of the people around them they knew before sending their children to that innovative and inspirational school, and what their hopes and dreams are for the precious boys and girls they celebrated that day. I wanted to know who their companions have been on their life journeys. I hope and pray that they have never known what it is to be alone.

I am thankful for how welcoming they were to me - the stranger in the room, the one taking photos from the corner, the one who teared up as their favorite little people marched into the room to the tune of "We Are the World." I hadn't heard that song in more than fifteen years. Those rising kindergarteners had no idea just how relevant that song is to their situation - We are the world. We are the children. Together. Never alone.

On Tuesday night, I attended a support group gathering for family members of people dealing with brain conditions and sensitivity (often called "mental illness"). There is something encouraging, sobering, and heartening about sitting in a room surrounded by others whose loved ones are dealing with bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, anxiety and personality disorders. Some have children as young as eleven years of age. Some have children who are in their late 50s, adult children whose guardianship rests in the hands of these brave older adults. We look into each other's eyes, sharing sorrows and victories, rubbing each other's shoulders and offering tissues to wipe each other's eyes. We hope for the best and prepare ourselves for the worst. We share email addresses, medication compliance tips, and tales of sleepless nights. Together. In our darkest hours, on our scariest days, during our longest nights, these monthly gatherings, these support group sessions remind us that we are never alone.

Recently, I've had coffee and tea dates with friends facing their own challenges - with children, with spouses, with ex-spouses, and also celebrating their new joys - with new friends and lovers, jobs they enjoy, new homes being built and renovated, and upcoming trips. Today I had lunch with a new friend, another mother who is on a similarly heart-breaking parenting journey with her beloved children.  I laugh and cry with my friends. We tell stories. We share tips and suggestions. We sit in silence. We journal. We share food, wine, water, and long, fast paced walks. Together. Even when I'm sitting in my study, writing and editing these blog posts, I know that I am not alone. What a gift friendship is. Companionship. Tenderness. Compassion. Love. Co-traveling along life's journey. Never alone.

The moment in Greek class that I like best is the last one. Not because I want to leave and go home - remember, I'm a geek and I love Greek. But rather because of the benediction that Professor Carson Brisson prays over us each week. He wrote it years ago (I know because I Googled "Carson Brisson benediction" and discovered that it has been quoted many times.) and apparently he prays a version of it at the end of every class he teaches. I have videotaped it twice, taken notes on it twice, and edited it three times in a computer document. I love this prayer. It is a reminder, another fantastic reminder, that we are not alone. Never alone. He prays it. We hear it. We live it out. Together.

May joy and nothing less find you on the way.
May you be blessed, oh may you be a blessing.
And may light, Love’s own crucified risen light
guide you and uncounted others
(I cannot make an ultimate judgment;
I am not in charge of that number.
God’s in charge of that number, thanks be to God)
you and me and uncounted others out of every darkness,
some of which are absolutely beyond imagining,
heartbreaking darknesses that kill us and 
we have to be resurrected,
out of every darkness and then the darkness itself,
all the way home.
I speak of home with trepidation, I admit that, 
perhaps some of you would speak of home with trepidation too.
But I will speak of home.
I tell you, this is what I believe about home:
those most home,
you can see them, you can find them,
those most home, relentlessly,
those most home, most seek the very least home.

Dr Carson Brisson, June 4, 2016.

Benediction after Greek class.

May we seek those least home, those who feel least loved.
May we reassure them, each other, and ourselves, that we are never alone.
Never ever alone.

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