Wednesday, July 9, 2014

Leaving Safe, Going to China

Over the past three years, I’ve been asked about my post-college plans 257,398 times (give or take). For the most part, my answer’s been simple and elusive: “I’m open to the adventure of whatever comes my way.” Loosely translated: I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to do, but I’ll take whatever entry-level job I need to get started and work it with a positive attitude.

This was my answer even up to graduation.

Never did I imagine that my “adventure” might be quite so literal.

After a great deal of encouragement from profs, I tossed in a last-minute application as an alternate in a teach-abroad program, thinking, “It’s a nice thought, but there’s no way it could work out.” But they accepted me. And not as an alternate but as a teacher. In China. For a year. Paid.

Adventure much?

China was never on my radar. Grad school in the UK? Yes. Live with a host in France? Why not! ‘Splore Guatemala? Natalia, here I come! Visit my Norwegian homeland? Please! Putter about Germany and Austria? Still hoping for 2017. Teach high schoolers English China? What?

But here it is, and the decision was difficult. I’ve never been big on opportunity cost. Risk is risky. Fear’s my friend. Going to China necessitates leaving home. Leaving my language. Leaving my familiar, comfortable medical care system. Leaving Western culture. Leaving my sense of safe. But if not now, then when? I can’t live life in safety; there’s no life there. Lewis tried to teach me that a long time ago—Aslan’s not tame, he’s not safe—but I didn’t want to listen. 

As I was applying, I pleaded with God to make his will clear. Absolutely and irrevocably clear. After all, he’d never mentioned China before, so how was I supposed to respond? Then my late, scrambled, not-quite-finished application was accepted. I was given the go-ahead immediately after the interview. The job is paid, allowing me to pay back loans.  Travel costs there and back will be covered. Not a single roadblock appeared. Suddenly it was uncomfortably clear. For a few moments, I was angry that it was so clear, because it meant the uncomfortable and the unfamiliar loom ahead.

But for once in my life, I’m going to take the risk. It’s terrifying. It’ll be hard. Tears will happen, but memories will happen too. Life-changing ones. I’ll gain experience I can’t get anywhere else. I’ll teach—trial by fire, but I’ll teach. I’ll adapt to a wondrous and ancient culture. I’ll be challenged, and I’ll learn, and I’ll grow.

In a very real sense, “I shall go on and take the adventure that shall fall to me.”


Obedience
by George MacDonald


I said: “I shall miss the light,
And friends will miss me, they say.”
He answered: “Choose tonight
If I am to miss you or they.”

I pleaded for time to be given.
He said: “Is it hard to decide?
It will not seem so hard in heaven
To have followed the steps of your Guide.”

I cast one look at the fields,
Then set my face to the town;
He said, “My child, do you yield?
Will you leave the flowers for the crown?”

Then into His hand went mine;
And into my heart came He;
And I walk in a light divine,
The path I had feared to see.


Trip Details
Where: the city of Changle in the Shandong province.
When: August 2014 - June/July 2015.
Alone? Nope. With several other teachers selected by Northwest University.
Contact info: I'll let you know when I get it sorted.
Job description: teaching an elective English speech/writing course to high school students.
Living arrangements: on-campus apartment. 

Sunday, March 30, 2014

Carpe Diem, I Suppose

Nearly three years ago I wrote of the fear that accompanies embarking on the grand collegiate adventure. Now I’m surrounded by graduation announcements, addresses, and books of stamps. The adventure hasn’t been so bad. In fact, most of my undergrad experience has been delightful.

But the fear hasn’t subsided. Actually, it seems to have morphed.

Aside from the wonderful friends and the professors who have so graciously mentored me—the memories made and knowledge attained—I also encountered that moment when life got real. For as long as I can remember, there’s been a plan. The details were hazy at times, but the structure was always there. Kindergarten. Elementary school. Middle school. High school. College. Graduation. And there it ends. For twenty-one years, I’ve assumed that I would make it to this point. What comes next, God only knows.

The life becoming real part comes with the shattering of that assumption.

Tomorrow is not guaranteed. Cliché, yes, but I had a hard time fully grasping it when I thought we were all invincible. My world couldn’t possibly be touched.

Then a good friend earns her degree while warding off a brain tumor. A professor teaches through cancer. A friend’s mother undergoes major heart surgery. Doctors diagnose my aunt with a rare cancer.  My dad suffers a mild but wholly unexpected heart attack. My mom finds herself looking for another position after thirty-plus years with the same hospital. A friend’s mom suffers a stroke.

My plan (what little there is left in it) may be broken at any moment, and that realization left me with a fear that that moment must be near at hand. Vague, “call me when you get a moment” texts accelerate my heartbeat, and my thoughts of the future are inclined to assume that I will always be in one area, clinging to what I’ve always known in the hopes that I can keep everyone and everything secure through sheer willpower. In my lawyerlike wrestlings with God, I adopt the stance that as soon as I let concern over all I hold dear go, He will take them all away; that I know this logic to be entirely illogical is of no consequence. I cling to everyone, and I will make all things well. My fear will hold life together.

Lies.

Joy Davidman won’t let me forget it. She challenges me: “Our life is based on fear; if we should ever grow brave, what on earth would become of us?” Grrar. She’s right. But if I let go, then I’ve let go. I don’t control it anymore. Sorry for the cynicism, Elsa, but it’s not easy.

But that’s out of my hands. Yes, everything I know that’s safe and ordered might be obliterated in ten minutes’ time—it was for families in Oso and China and Crimea. It’s the most terrifying thought my mind entertains at the moment, and I can’t do anything about. I can’t make all things well. Yet Julian of Norwich wrote that “all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”

So…what will happen if I make my goal bravery? What if I attempt to put aside what Davidman calls “the sin of fear”? What if I accept that whatever happens now, someday all things will indeed be “well”—whatever that means? What if I let go?

I haven’t the foggiest. I guess I’ll find out soon enough. 

For the moment, I’m merely working to accept that my God is neither a tame God nor a safe God. He is simply and complexly a good God. “Christ never offered us security,” Davidman tells me. I hate it, but I revel it in it—one of the great paradoxes His nature elicits. Sigh. And all shall be well…

And all shall be well and
All manner of things shall be well
By the purification of the motive
In the ground of our beseeching.
     T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets: Little Gidding, III