Stories of Earth, Water, Fire and Air

My first week at the new church, Frazer Mennonite Church, was the church retreat.  I was given the challenge of telling four stories at the retreat–one about earth, water, fire and air.  Here they are….

Bloom where you are planted

My grandfather had a saying, “Bloom where you are planted.”  I remember learning about this saying from him when I was in high school.  He had someone make two buttons with the saying on it–one for him and one for my mom.  They both put them in their cars, right next to their visors above, so they would see it when they were driving.  

It only occurred to me recently that my mom and grandfather must have had some sort of significant conversation about Bloom where you are planted.  And it must have meant something to both of them, if they would both post these buttons prominently.

Bloom where you are planted.  

This means that someone plants you somewhere.  You don’t always get to choose. You don’t always have the best view or the best spot.  But, according to this little saying, you have one job–BLOOM. Live. Do the thing you are made to do.

I’ve been thinking about my grandfather, my pop-pop, this week as I’ve settled into the church office.  He would have loved the flowers and the garden on the property. He is the reason I have missed getting my hands in the dirt.  He’s the reason I get excited about gardening. He’s the reason I love Jersey Corn and Jersey tomatoes.

It’s hard to imagine that this man I revered might have needed to be reminded to Bloom where he was planted.  It’s hard to imagine that my strong mama may have needed to be reminded that her job was to bloom. Because, from where I sat, I only saw their blooms.  I didn’t see the doubts and the questions. But given their need for this simple reminder, they may have wondered what God had in store for them, and what God was calling them to do and be.  

This week, as I begin to serve as your pastor, I am also inspired by this motto of my grandfathers:  Bloom where you are planted. Because this week I’ve been transplanted from one place to another. I’m excited for my roots to unravel in this Great Valley soil, and to be nourished by the waters of the rain that falls here.  After the shock of the transplant has given way and the roots dig into the soil, I look forward to the opportunity to bloom here with you all.

The Last Will and Testament of Amy Anne Yoder

When I was 15, I spent a summer on a missions trip in the most indigenous tribal nation in the world–Papua New Guinea.  PNG is made up of thousands of tribes and thousands of languages. Which meant there were a lot of communication issues.

Infrastructure was minimal.  In order for my group of teens to get to the village of Wewak, we had to fly from Australia to PNG, take a small plane  to the other side of the island, flying in some of the worst winds I’ve ever experienced in my life, take a 4 hour ride up a pot holed road in a DUMP truck full of kids and supplies, and then a 12 hour boat ride up the crocodile infested Sepic River.

It was an adventure.  And I was sure I was going to die.  I wrote out my last will and testament while I was there because between the plane ride, the boat ride and the truck ride, I thought, I’m never going to make it home.  

My group of teens had 1 big project and one small one.  The big one was to build a hospital. But in order to do that we actually have to make the blocks.  We had the concrete and sand, but we needed to buy the gravel, which we couldn’t do for the first two weeks of the trip because we had offended the local tribe and they wouldn’t sell it to us.  

So for two weeks, we made concrete blocks without gravel.  I’m sure the hospital is not currently standing.

The other side project we had was to build a swinging rope bridge across the river.  Because….crocodiles. Crocodiles were a big problem in this community. The locals did everything in the river.  Bathe, drink, and other things. And they tried to do it where the current was strong because in still water the crocs could sneak up on you.  

Those of us on the team had our own trouble in the water.  Not only did we have to bathe in the rushing currents, but we also keep shoes on in the water because there were parasitic worms that would enter through the soles of our feet, and give us a lot of intestinal problems when we got home.  

So a bridge was a good idea.  

To build this bridge there were four ropes going across the river already.  Two for the bottom part of the bridge, where we would take wooden slats and attach them to the ropes.  And the top two ropes would be to hold on for your life.

In order to attach the wood slats to the ropes, it was my job to hang out on the bottom ropes with one rope under my knees, and holding on to the other rope with my hands.  Once I was in position, I would squeeze my knees towards my hands, and the people with the wooden slats would secure the slats to the rope. And then I’d scooch out a little further, and it would continue until my arms and legs were numb.  

One day, someone from the team was supposed to be cleaning out a canoe in the rushing water below.  And he lost the canoe in the currents.

My adult leader looked at me, and said, “Go get it.”  So, I swung my legs over the ropes, and let go. I fell feet first into the Sepic river, swam against currents and finally grabbed the boat, which was, by now, filled with water.  I managed, with the help of a friends, to avoid crocodiles and bring the boat to shore.

I didn’t manage to die that year.  The last will and testament of Amy Anne Yoder was not required.  I didn’t get eaten by a crocodile. I didn’t get parasitic worms. But two weeks after we got home, the bridge fell down.  

 

A Bad Idea

I’m always trying to think of interesting ways to try to explain Pentecost, especially to children.  And one year, I had an especially brilliant idea. I would take a Chinese Lantern, and light it in the sanctuary, and allow it to graciously flow through the window and out into the atmosphere.  

You know what a chinese lantern is, right?  It’s a paper lantern, that requires a wick to be lit in it’s center.  The heat from the lit wick will generate enough hot air to lift it.

I had one lantern, so I didn’t have a spare to test out ahead of time.  But what could go wrong, right? This was a brilliant idea. And how amazing it would be to watch the fire go into the air, sending this fragile, flammable lantern into the sky.

I gathered the children by the open window in the sanctuary for children’s time, and set the wick alight, while carefully holding the lantern out of the window.  

There were a few lighting issues, but then the wick really got going.  And then the fire inside the paper lantern got big–fast. But I was still confident. This will definitely work. What could go wrong.

And then I heard the voice of little Henry behind me.  “Um, Pastor Amy, this seems like a really bad idea.”

And I realized in that moment that it was more than a bad idea.  It was definitely the worst idea I’d had for children’s time. EVER.

So, I let go of the paper lantern as it completely caught on fire.  And it landed–safely–on the sidewalk below. No one was injured, no property was destroyed.  But no one in that church ever felt safe near me with an open flame.

 

You are not Alone

I learned that my friend, Mark, died when I was in the South Hebron Hills of Palestine in 2013.  I was walking into Firing Zone 918 with a delegation from Christian Peacemaker Teams, into land that was taken by the military for training purposes, but was still the home of several thousand rural Palestinian farmers.

Mark’s friends called me in the firing zone, and told me that at his death he was surrounded by friends who loved and held him as he passed to the other side.

Mark was a theatre professor at Eastern University, and a brilliant, albeit quirky man.  Several years ago, he directed a version of the play, “My Name is Rachel Corrie,” based on Corrie’s journals.  Rachel Corrie was a student and member of the International Solidarity Movement, a group that opposed the demolition of Palestinian homes in the West Bank and Gaza strip.  She put her body in front of a bulldozer, acting as a human shield against the destruction of a Palestinian home, and was killed.

After the tears of the news of Mark’s death subsided, I lifted my head up and saw the beautiful desert landscape, I breathed in the dry desert air.  The hills of South Hebron were stunning, especially as the sun was setting. The colors of the sky were transformed from blue to bright pink, orange and yellow.  The distant sun reflected off the rocks, and they sparkled.

All along the bumpy path of the firing zone were Ebeneezers, places where people had stacked rocks to show the way.  Some were regal and solitary, and others were short and seemed to multiply along the side of the path towards the tiny village of Al Fahkeet.

I saw these markers on the way, and thought of Mark’s journey toward shalom, towards wholeness and completeness after a long period of illness.  All was being made clear for Mark now, and he could rest at his journey’s end.

Our journey in life is a journey toward shalom–towards God’s peace and wholeness.  And all along that journey we meet people that show us the way. Sometimes they are landmark people–they are those big markers on our journey.  Sometimes they are among a group of people that leave smaller markers on the path. But everyone we meet has the potential to change us.

So, it seemed appropriate (and I know it would be funny to him) that I heard the news, of Mark’s death when I was walking through a military firing zone in the West Bank of Palestine, a place that Rachel Corrie loved, a place that Mark taught me about in his art.

So, what else could I do in the Firing Zone but place my own Ebeneezer on the trail?  I left a vibrant bracelet in an olive tree, a colorful sign of hope for the next traveler on this rocky path that says, “You are not alone, friend.  You are going the right way. Sometimes the hard way is the most illuminating.”