the struggle

As I was cleaning out some things on my computer this week, I found this half-written blog from over two years ago. I don’t like to waste things—especially my own efforts—and it surprised me how fresh some of the memories and emotions came back to me. So, if you can imagine yourself back in April of 2015…

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There are a lot of things that perplex me, but one is how often struggles and joy walk hand in hand and how seldom we recognize their partnership. 

The students are not listening. Big surprise. On a hot Wednesday afternoon, after a nearly full day of school and a big lunch, who wants to sit in the sun and practice an Easter skit time and time again? I scold Vanessa for sneaking crumbs of the biscuit that serves the purposes for our Last Supper, then hound the disciples for being too loud while the chief priests are talking. Looking to my right, I catch a glimpse of Hananja dipping a long piece of grass into my water bottle. These are P.5 students, I think to myself as I toss Teacher Prossy my water bottle for safekeeping. Can they not focus for even one hour? 

I did not sign up for this. Quite literally, I did nothing to sign up for preparing Easter carols. I did not even express interest. The task was assigned to me without question by a head teacher who left little, if any, room for personal opinion or declination. We had been rehearsing for three weeks, with two still to go before the performance, and in that time I had yet to discover whether I was in charge of the whole thing or only two songs. Sometimes we are slaves to ambiguity. 

After several long and frustrating meetings, I had finally resigned myself to sitting back and doing as little as possible in the way of carols… until the head teacher left the school and suddenly I knew that if the program was a disaster, fingers would point to me. I in no way recommend this as a method of motivation because it is undeniably based in pride, but it was the push I needed to step up and start making things happen as best as I knew how.

So here I am trying to offer direction to thirty P.5 students as they pick biscuits and talk incessantly. After shouting a little and clapping so loud my hands sting to get them to pay attention, they politely listen to my direction. For some reason, however, no matter how many times I physically pull Richard off to the side of the priests for his line, he still stands directly in front of them.

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That was where my previous writing ended, with Richard standing directly in front of the priests. At the time, what I knew was that at eight in the morning I had to pack up my guitar, my school things, and a small speaker because between normal library work and practice for carols I would not reach home again before five in the evening. I knew I was busy and I knew I had to find someone to help the students change into their costumes and I knew I had to find a room where they could do that and I knew I was so excited for Easter weekend because that meant carols were over. That was what I knew then. 

Here is what I remember: 

I remember being surprised at how smoothly the whole event went, from the classes being ready on time to everyone having the correct costume to the Easter story being acted out and told in the correct order. 

I remember Sarah, a student from secondary, being willing to spend hours in a tiny concrete room in the church changing a dozen P.2 girls into ballet costumes and all other classes into soldiers, disciples, and Jesus-es. 

I remember our P.1 Jesus almost falling off the P.1 donkey as he tried to ride it up the steps onto the stage, and Teacher Lindah laughing and enjoying her class’s performance.

I remember being proud of the teachers and students. 

I remember working with secondary students after school every day. One group was learning a song and one group a dance/skit/thing. Some days they became weary of practice, but I wanted to get it just right. I remember the song went fairly well. 

And I remember the dance was one of the most powerful things I have seen. I loved that I had the privilege of being involved in it. And I loved that even though I was not onstage with them, my job was to squat in front of the stage and give cues at two different points because the person playing Jesus kept getting confused. I could have watched that one over and over again. (Unfortunately, to this day I have never seen the video.)

I remember after the whole event was over, walking down the road toward school with several students and feeling like I was walking on air. Everything was light, the performance was over, and one or two people told me they had really enjoyed it. 

I also remember that that was the first time Christian and I played music together, and how much I looked forward to our rehearsals at school. Sometimes I hoped the children would come late because then he and I could play on our own—he on keyboard, me on guitar—until they showed up. It was in those weeks I started to see him differently. Guess that worked out okay.

I remember the struggle, but I also remember the joy. We need both ends of the spectrum. What would we have to be happy about if there was nothing to compare it to? I look back on our three cantatas in much the same way—remembering the struggles and emotional pain of trying to put it all together, but in the end being supremely proud of my dancers and actors and appreciative of the ones who worked tirelessly behind the scenes to pull it off. 

There are struggles here. Currently, one of my biggest struggles is staying positive, which is hard for me to handle because in the past that always came naturally for me. I am trying to learn how to cope with that struggle. I struggle with the auntie who says I am sending the children on a path to hell because we have a disco at the end of the holiday. I struggle with people who say they are going to do something and then don’t. I struggle when I say I am going to do something and then forget. I struggle to make time for the children and to make time for myself because it seems to be an ever-elusive balance. Every night Christian and I ask each other, “What was the best part of your day?” and on those days where I get to spend an hour or more just being with the children without an agenda, that is always my answer. 

Yesterday I learned how to make chocolate cake from scratch. Turns out it’s not so hard. Though I probably shouldn’t have told you that because now it sounds less impressive. Anyway, I made the chocolate cake and chocolate frosting with things I already had in my kitchen (including sprinkles, because my mother-in-law makes sure we are equipped with staples like that), and I tell you, that cake tasted better than if someone had given me a huge slice of fancy chocolate cake from a restaurant. Why? I put effort into it. I couldn’t take it for granted. I struggled. And it was worth it. 

Don’t shy away from the hard things. If you have ever seen the movie Home, you know in the end Oh and the other Boovs learn there is more to be gained by running to the danger than by running away from it. (If you haven’t seen the movie, watch it. And forget I said anything about the end.) When we avoid the hard thing, we also avoid the good thing. And the good thing is what you will remember. 

Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. (James 1:2-4)