I wish I could tell you I was super excited about leaving home for three weeks and teaching twelve lessons on
Christian Womanhood at Maranatha Bible School and that I didn't, sometimes
after I was there, count down the days until I could go back home and fry eggs
instead of my brain.
But that wouldn't be all the way
true.
I wish I could tell you that I
remembered to bring along my Warning: Slowest Eater at the Table sign
for personal use in the dining area of the MBS gym.
But I didn't.
I wish I could tell you that
forgetting the sign didn't matter because I have made great strides (since I
was a student in the same facility 40 years ago) in my ability to finish a meal
at the same time as other normal human beings around me.
But I haven't. (Can't decide if
it's due to savoring my food too much or talking too much – probably both)
I wish I could tell you I was
model of righteousness at Maranatha; that I didn't go back to our apartment
following the class wherein I had taught Stewardship of Time and promptly flop
on the couch and start scrolling through my social media accounts when there
were students' papers to grade, laundry items to fold, and the next days' lessons to prepare.
But I wouldn't be honest in
saying so.
I wish I could tell you that I
didn't worry a smidgen when Ken got pale-n-sweatin' sick the middle week we
were out there; that I wasn't dealing with my own case of inner wobblies as I
drove my husband to a walk-in clinic at noon one day and then again to an ER several
hours later to get the severe pain in his side checked out; that I didn’t have
to keep tamping down rising fear when he later developed a cough that sounded
like it came from somewhere deep as his socks.
But my journal entries from that
time would tell quite a different story.
I wish I could tell you that the
weekend we went to visit Ken’s sister Laurel and her family close to the one-year
anniversary of Verlynn’s death, we brought our robust, cheery selves to their household instead of
our sick and weary ones; that I didn’t question God’s ways again when
interacting with a beautiful family bereft of husband, dad, and
(first-time)grandpa; that my emotional strength caused blessing and comfort to ooze
out my pores instead of having my longings drip out and puddle into a soggy
mess in front of the Yoders as we circled up for a farewell prayer.
They could tell you otherwise.
I also wish I could tell you…
…how fun it was to return to Maranatha
Bible School, to frequent the building in which I was a student for parts of seven
consecutive winters so long ago, to walk the same tiled halls and enter the same
rooms such as The Library and Rm. 103, to smell the same particular scent combination
of laundry detergent and hairspray and snack boxes when approaching the dryers down
by the girls’ dorm, to see the sign on the prayer room door and remember the
awe-some feeling of meeting God while closeted there, to catch a glimpse of the
Yearbook Staff corner and reminisce the moment when Ken came over there and
asked me to go with him on a ten-minute walk along the lanes of little Lansing (don’t
laugh, that was the extent of romantic beginnings we were allowed as MBS students
back then)
…how interesting it was to make
connections with the present-day students, to say to them, “I went to Bible
School with both of your parents” or “Actually, we’re related to each other –
your Grandpa Kauffman is my first cousin” or “Nine years ago when Ken and I
were instructors here, your sister was a student in my class.”
…how beautiful it was to get to
know my fourteen students – young women who listened carefully and respectfully
in class, laughed at my jokes and cried with me when I told them about our tiny
babies in heaven, turned in thoughtful homework assignments, entered
wholeheartedly into group activities (my, were they ever good at volleyball!),
served others willingly, interacted well with the staff children, and were profuse with their appreciation for my
teaching.
…how enlightening it was to sit at
my desk in the teachers’ room, listening to the male instructors’ conversations
going on around me and hearing their robust discussions generated by chapel messages
or questions from students in class, and how empowering it was to have these
godly men invite my participation in the staff teamwork and sometimes ask for
my input on a topic they were teaching.
…how exciting it was to watch God
answer prayer during our time at MBS – for wisdom in class preparation, for relief
from pain (thankfully, Ken’s bout was due to a muscular injury and not some
gall bladder issue or another even scarier cause), for safety in travel and for
event-free border crossings when both the principal and the assistant principal
needed to return to their respective home communities for funerals within the
same week.
…how healing it was to
intermingle with Laurel & Co. in their home, to share meals and games and
laughter together, to meet sweet baby Adalynn for the first time and to watch
her mama’s family dote on her, to see the effect Laurel’s tonic had on Ken –
both the home remedies and the in-depth conversation opportunities she offered
her sibling.
…how enriching it was to spend
three weeks of concentrated study in God’s Word, to learn more of His ways while
fellowshipping among His people, to hunger more deeply for God and to find Him
so satisfying.
I wish I could tell you…
So I did.
