I Want to Break Free

Homemade coleslaw flew in every direction. Little Johnny had some on his shirt, Sarah's shoe was covered, the aisle seemed to have a new color to it. I sat mortified, looking around in shock. What was supposed to be a discrete mission, became an absolute disaster. I had my blue Winnie-the-Pooh lunch box steady on my lap, but the tupperware container inside was harder to open then I imagined. When the lid wouldn't budge, I had to take it out and use all the force of my second grade self to open it. Snap! The noise alerted the entire classroom that I had indeed spilled my lunch. "What is that?" "That looks so gross!" "Ugh! It smells and it’s all over my clothes!" When I was a young boy, I attended public school, and for the most part the environment was not disagreeable. I made friends, played games on the playground, and maybe even learned a bit in class. However, I was always aware that I was different. As I remember it, there was not a vegetarian within one-hundred miles of that school. Except one family, my family. So there I was sitting in class, mortified at bringing my strange food to school and tremendously humiliated when my strange food became my classmates clothing.

I was always self-conscious about bringing food to school, but especially after that day. Years past and I grew older, but bringing homemade food to school did not become easier. Fast forward seventeen some years, life was radically different. I graduated college, married and started a new job. My first day of work was great, and even though a moderate amount of nervousness was present, what caused the most anxiety that day was pulling out my lunch. Still? Yes, sitting there twenty-three years of age I realized some things do not really change. Well, perhaps it was maturity, or the kindness of my coworkers, but eventually I started to find peace, even when I took food out of my lunch box.

I like to think of my struggle with people seeing my lunch as a metaphor or lesson to something deeper. We all have a "lunch box" experience that has radically impacted the course of our lives. As far as traumatic events go, my second grade lunch experience is fairly miniscule. Yet fear implored me to eat cafe food, buy pre-made lunches, anything but bring my own homemade food. I wonder why I so easily let fear control my life, especially when fear is wanting to keep me from living fully. I realized at the heart of this issue was a fear of what people think of me, a fear of not being accepted. I find myself striving to be molded into a routine so as not to incite the negative perceptions of those around. It's as though I am hungry for acceptance and love. I spend my life painting the picture of me I think people will accept best, and I want to break free.

The Bible says God died for us because He loves us (even though inherently we really do hate him). The Bible says in-spite of our decrepit human nature, He has made us His children and recipients of eternal purpose. This means someone cares for us regardless of what we fear people will see in us. Yes we spend a lot of time thinking of what people might think of us, but in a sense God does too. God cares so deeply about what humanity thinks of Him, that he gave up his life to paint the perfect picture of love for us to see. God knows what it's like to want acceptance and love, He is on a life mission to receive our acceptance and love of and for Him. This made me see that in the struggle to find acceptance, to be free from the fear of what people think of me, there is hope. There is hope because God can understand a part of that struggle too. Every step of the way, it’s like he is saying, "You are my child, you are loved, keep moving forward, take another step, I am with you, do not be afraid. I know your struggle to find acceptance, because I long for your acceptance too. I know your struggle for love, because I long for your love too."

I will always struggle with this, fearing what people think of me, striving for acceptance, but knowing who I am allows me to struggle in the right direction. I am a child of God, and I know that He has accepted me. The other day my coworker asked me to bring dinner roast for a thanksgiving lunch. Was I okay? Sure a bit anxious perhaps. Did I bring it? Definitely. The other day God came to show us who he is. He was a bit anxious perhaps, but He definitely made it abundantly clear, He loves us, his children, regardless of what we fear people see in us.

Immigrant Song

As the dust settles, white fluffy feathers float about the large building. A suffocating heat and stench make breathing almost unbearable. Low hanging lights illuminate the vast room, the house of many chickens. The noise was consuming, but this was their home. Stepping outside, the bright sun hurt the eyes. There was Opa, he had a way with these chickens as no one did, this was his life, his profession, his work. The work was hard, never ending, demanding every ounce of energy, yet his tenacious spirit was not easily broken. Persistence was his strong work-ethics best friend. After all, not only did he have thousands of chickens to take care of, he had seven children to feed, support and educate. Life was hard. (Isn’t it usually hard for someone in a new country.) A new language, culture, the whole way of life was radically different. He had immigrated to Canada, met my grandmother (Oma) and settled in a small southern Ontario town. Though life was not ideal and far from easy, they had each other, they had family. I fondly remember the simple times, driving several hours to see Oma and Opa. The old house, a large pond, Mennonites lived all around. We would make almond butter and applesauce, collect eggs and eat lots of food. Then curled up on Oma's lap, Opa would tell us stories. Stories of the far country that have since become legend in my mind. He would tell stories of the war, adventure, work and his pursuit of love. If I had not fallen asleep by this time, Oma would dust of her mandolin, tune the strings and we would sing some songs. These were songs in their mother tongue, old hymns, folk songs, songs that told stories. I could see in their eyes, memories being re-lived. These were songs of life, immigrant songs. Life had been hard, but now, they had a new one, a large family and a place to settle down and call home.

About two months ago, I was sitting down for lunch. I had some friends around, we were laughing and deep in conversation.  A text alert went off on my phone. The message was from my uncle, "Opa has unexpectedly died this morning." I put my fork down. I stared motionless at the wall ahead. "Moses, hey, Moses, you okay?" Brittney asked from her corner of the table. "Yeah. Just heard my grandpa died. Don't mean to be a mood kill, but thats what happened." I left lunch, went to my office and shut the door. For ten minutes I cried. Drying off my tears, I reflected on Opa's life, on the things he had learned and what he had taught me. In the end, while it was sad, he had lived a full life, full of memories, successes, defeats, triumphs and years. He taught me that with determination I can achieve my dreams. His hard work and persistent effort to succeed was inspirational. He inspired loyalty and a family that was always by his side. At the end of his life, he planted a garden, met with his children, told stories and rode a bike around the neighborhood without a helmet.

Wherever life takes me, I hope I can be a bit like Opa. Regardless of what life determines to be successful, will I take time to empower the community around me, work with abandon to drive the success of those I care about; will I find fulfillment in the things that matter most? Though Opa is gone, I know that his legacy will live on in my life. For two months I have struggled to process what his death means. I have found that there is joy in reliving the legacy of one I love. There is no more chicken barn, old story or immigrant song, just an allegory, a memory, a legacy worth reliving.