12 minute read
Walking in Your Shoes to Chase Our Creator's Craftsmanship
From the springtime of my childhood when I still wore a onesie and could do nothing but lay on my belly, you would lay me opposite you in front of the chess board. And then when I was old enough to feign greatness in your oversized leather slippers and command my own pieces, you would kindly say something like, "Are you sure you want to make that move? If you do that, then my knight is positioned to capture your pawn, or my rook could move to a stronger position here." I was walking in your shoes and aspiring to Chase the King with you, and I've been doing that ever since in all kinds of different footwear.
When we donned our work boots and built the rabbit hutch together in the garage, you taught me to design a work of art—no matter how practical its purpose—and see it through to its proper finish, recognizing that any job is easy if you have the right tools. You are so often the carpenter's square that helps me know if I'm building it straight. Oh, and don't forget to measure twice, cut once... "just a little bit better than perfect!" We were developing our crafts like the great Master Craftsman.
Each fall when I put on my molded cleats or the screw-in studs on rainy days, you never missed one of my games, even though the coach would sit me on the bench most of the time. You would arrange a substitute for your classes and then work a strange schedule to make it up to the colleague who covered for you. All so that you could be there as my true coach, either to share in the victory of a scored goal or a perfect give-andgo combination with a long cross, or to put your arm around me after the game, strengthening my resolve to rise above my personal defeat and despair. I was learning to have a Long View on Life far beyond today's game, and to appreciate the importance of Whose Team you're on.
Ready for Any Season
With each season's first big snow when we would buckle our ski boots and step into our bindings, I showed the world that you're never too young to brave the steepest black diamond slopes, and I also observed in you that those you admire most are they who never grow old. Because the one who takes on New Adventures when wrinkled and gray proves that age is a Frame of Mind.
When we loosened our laces during the late evening hours to complete our schoolwork—me with my writing assignments and you with your grades and lesson plans—you instilled in me a love for words and beauty and clarity of thought. I remember how you tirelessly edited my essays and poems and challenged me to command my ideas with creativity of expression and the sonorous sequence of semantic precision. You prepared me from a young age to enjoy my Lifelong Vocation in research, linguistics and translation.
At fourteen I started wearing those specialty water sandals long before they became popular and they still had a double Velcro strap. They were ideal for keeping a good footing while scouting a series of whitewater drops along the algae-covered rocks. And it's appropriate that my friends called them my Jesus sandals, since it was in those water shoes that you taught me to serve others, taking turns as either the lead boat or sweep boat—or more often for me—as the rescue boat, darting about the group, looking for others in danger and in need of some coaching or saving. You taught me to sacrifice myself for others, facing death itself without fear, knowing the risks, respecting the power of the water, reading the river and charting our course through eddies and "rock gardens" to arrive safely at the end of a day's stretch. So much like life itself, scattered as it is with obstacles and dangers, navigating this stretch with our group, until we arrive at the dawning of a New Day just around the bend of history.
When we laced up our hiking boots and headed to the trail, you helped me realize that I, too, have mountain blood. I was made for this—to wonder at the beauty of our Creator's craftsmanship. I feel most alive on overcast days when the filtered light reveals all the splendor of Creation's Palette, and my eyes can open to capture it all with a Wide Aperture.
Perhaps my favorite foot gear is the oversized Caribou Sorels we trudge around in through the snow, made to keep our feet warm down to 40 below zero. Though designed for serious outdoor work in the winter, you can't help but feel that any tromping through the snow with these boots is just plain fun. And that's what you've taught me, to enjoy your work. Like heaping huge mounds of snow when shoveling the driveway. Or leading students on wilderness trips. Or training brothers and sisters in Christ to find joy in interpreting and translating the Bible. It's Great Fun doing what we were made to do, isn't it?
Everyday Footwear
But the footwear I wear most these days are a secondhand pair of steel-toed slip-on brown leather work shoes. They're always ready to step into at a moment's notice, they're rugged enough for the tough and dirty jobs, and I'm comfortable to be my authentic self in them, even wearing them to church. And that's the shoe that helps me walk in your footsteps most of all. For you know that the crowning glory of Christ's creation is his people. And this kind of shoe was made for living out who we were made to be, helping other people, no matter what the hour, no matter what they wear. Dad, one of the things I admire most about you—and I'm sure this tops the list for many who know you—is that you're always ready to help. You'll drop everything to come to our rescue. To help with a job. To delight in others, putting our needs and wishes above your own. And I know that the Path of your Footsteps derives from your Love for Our Lord, Loving Others as He Prepared for you to do. I aspire to recognize the Marks you have left on the Trail, as you Follow the Footprints of Our Lord. Thank you for the Shoes.
The Instructions of the Lord are Perfect, Reviving the Soul
I've been longing to get home and be with family. One of the great legacies my dad has been leaving for me is a life instructed by the Lord no matter where your temporary home may be. He instilled in me from a young age—whether it was at home or in a tent, or spending a snowy night in a quinzhee (I always called it a quingee)—he taught me that our true home and place of shelter is only to be found in relationship with the One who created us through daily interaction with him in his Word and prayer.
Even when packing light for a backpacking trip, one essential was always a pocket-sized Bible. To this day, if I am not following another Bible reading plan, I always fall back on the simple method my dad taught me--to read a psalm and/or chapter from Proverbs that corresponds with the day of the month.
God's Word has sustained me in the uncertain days of the COVID-19 global health crisis. A friend has asked me each week how my stress levels are going, and I've usually been saying, "Stress? What stress? I'm not feeling any stress." I usually do handle stressful situations with patience and resolve. Perhaps that's why I keep asking my daughter to make me a personalized metal bracelet with the words “indefatigable” and “unflappable” artfully stamped on it.
But this last week was different. I had already gone through much timely research and decision making to secure all the travel arrangements for the six of us to move back to the States for the next six months. I had completed that way back in February, thinking I was ahead of schedule. It's a tricky endeavor even without a global health crisis. But airlines keep cancelling flights, countries have tightened their borders, and our dates keep changing on us. We really have no idea how long we're stuck here. Two different international itineraries had already been cancelled and re-booked and we were on our third set of bookings, hopeful that the airlines had already settled into a new normal with their reduced schedule during the crisis.
I was already dealing with 33 different bookings with nine different airlines, four online travel agencies, six places of accommodation, two car rental companies, and two travel insurance policies. The total cost of bookings that had been cancelled was just shy of $11,000, and refunds were being refused for more than half of that. It's a bit nerve-wracking to make new bookings when the last bookings haven't been refunded. I even sent a plea to the U.S. consular in PNG and our ambassador in Australia, pleading with them to urge their superiors in the federal government to do something about the way that travel companies were treating their customers during this crazy time.
After struggling to get hold of one online travel agency whose automated phone message was telling me that the average wait time for an operator was five hours— and they could only offer me a call back if I had a U.S.-based phone number—my dad came to the rescue. He waited for an operator, and called back numerous times, securing full reimbursement on two car rentals that we had previously been told were not eligible for a refund. The last things to work out were to secure the unrefunded $3,700 for other cancelled flights, and to complete the complex and detailed applications for transit visas for each of us to travel through Australia and New Zealand along with separate state and country exemptions to transit through Australia during this state of emergency. I was still feeling quite indefatigable and unflappable.
Then Thursday night hit me like a ton of bricks. I got an email that the major cross-Pacific leg of our international flights had been moved back a day, and the itinerary now had us spending a grueling layover in the Auckland airport for 46 1/2 hours, well beyond the 24-hour transit limit that is allowable for us during the current state of emergency. We wouldn't even be allowed on the plane.
But what made me really come to the end of my rope was the thought that I had been taken by a fraudulent online travel agency. None of their automated online self-service options applied to our situation. After waiting over an hour to speak to an agent at three in the morning, the call dropped shortly after I was informed that there wasn't much they could do. The next minute I was hearing an automated message saying that my number had been blocked, and if I thought this was in error to email them. But no email could be found anywhere on their website or in their correspondence with me. They were making it impossible to receive any kind of customer service. And this from the company that touts, "Our team of travel agents is ready to assist you on the phone you can rest assured we’re with you every step of the way to make sure your vacation is flawless."
Mandy came out in the middle of the night and found me on the verge of tears, unable to keep going. At this point, all I could do was go to sleep.
A few hours later, Mandy woke me up, suggesting that I should probably keep working on this soon since it was Friday and the weekend was upon us. Before I started again to deal with companies that claim to be "something special in the air," to be "a symbol of freedom," that promise to "get you there," and that tantalize me to "fly the friendly skies," I first turned to the one place that always provides flawless promises, and a true destinaAnd turning my mind from the false assurances of flighty human institutions who feign to rule the skies and my itinerary, I was reminded that the skies actually communicate the greatness of our God, and he commands the movements of the sun from one horizon to another. So, too, he is a trustworthy commander of my soul
It was the 19th of June, so I read Psalm 19:
Editor’s note: We’re happy to report that the Pehrsons arrived safely in the U.S. on July 9 and came to the Wheaton area on July 20, beginning a six-month remote assignment.
About the Author | Ben Pehrson
Ben and Mandy are College Church missionaries, working with Wycliffe Bible Translators in Papua New Guinea. Those footsteps Ben follows? They are his father’s, Bill Pehrson, a member of College Church.
