A Job Done

Back in March, I posted about my desire to put together a meal for the carnival workers that staff the midway for our town festival, to thank them for their work and welcome them to our town. (If you haven't read that one, this one will make more sense if you read the March one first.) On the 12th of this month, that desire became reality.

Actually, toward the end of June, I started getting nervous. I had only heard back from one church, and the response from the newspaper notice was . . . insufficient. Donations came in generously, but as far as putting a meal together . . . I was starting to wonder if this whole thing was going to work.

So, back to Facebook I trotted. Created an event. Invited anyone in my friends circle from the area. Waited some more.

And the responses started coming!

The first one I got was from another young mom. We had only met recently, but we ran into each other again at the kiddie pool. She was going to bring a fruit salad and a dessert! I left the pool on a high.

The next few days included some follow-up and some more positive responses. Enough came in that the ones who couldn't come didn't make me nervous anymore.

This was actually going to happen!

The day of, my dear mother and my 91-year-old grandmother came to help N and me with finishing touches. The first thing we had to do was invite our guests of honor! We drove down to the park, printed invitations in hand, piled out of the car, and went in search of our carnival workers. We didn't have to look far.

We found some taking a break near the picnic shelter and handed out invites. Chatted with a middle-aged mom. Met her daughters. My mom reconnected with someone she actually knew who happened to be working the carnival this summer (leave it to Mom to find someone she knows!). Got directions to their trailers. Dropped off some more invites, tucking them under door handles when no one was around. Found a few workers for Mom to practice her Spanish inviting them.

I was a little nervous. I've never met someone who works the carnival circuit before, never had to carry a conversation with them. I hated that an unfamiliar, stereotyped vocation made me protective, suspicious, wary. But the more we talked, the more at ease I felt.

Having successfully dispersed invitations, both paper and word-of-mouth, we headed back for the house. We organized the gifts, finished baking a few dishes, loaded up two cars, and headed back to the park. Unloaded. Shuffled picnic tables at the shelter. Set up the gift area, the serving line, the drinks.

And people started to come!

We had three tables full of salads, main dishes, and desserts: from veggies and mac salad, to spaghetti and smoked pork loin, to chocolate peanut butter brownies and lemon meringue pie! Yummmmm . . .

The workers filtered in, we prayed, and started eating. A neighbor of mine, and an elder at a local church, had agreed to share a devotion, so while we fed our stomachs, he fed souls. He spoke about God sharing our joys, and he thanked the workers for the joy their work brings to us and our kids. He spoke Truth winsomely.

Some of the workers were open to conversation; others huddled together. The language barrier definitely created some, if not most, of that distance.

We found that these were moms and dads, families and individuals like us, just with an entirely disparate way of supporting themselves. Some had grown up in the carnival world - it was as normal to them as a home and an address are to us. One mom asked me if I could recommend someone to watch her one-year-old daughter while the midway operated - she worked a booth and her husband worked a ride. She wanted "a church lady, because there are weird people these days, and I would feel better if it were someone from a church." I turned to ask a friend, one with four kids of her own, and just that easily, we had her answer.

Conversations over delicious food

When no one could eat anymore, we loaded up everyone with the left-overs and with any of the gifts they wanted. Bath towels turned out to be in high demand, and I was excited that a couple Spanish translations of the Bible were taken. Many, many thank-yous were heard.

Picking through the gifts

When everyone had left, Mom and I tucked N and Grandma into the car with the AC running and finished the cleanup. We loaded everything for the last time, drove the half mile home, unloaded, put N down for a very late nap, washed, organized, put away. Took a cold shower.

I collapsed into an easy chair as Mom and Grandma went out the front door. Finished! Exhausted.

Deep breath . . .

And then N woke up.

Sacrifice

I've often wondered if I would be called to give my life for Jesus.

You know, not just live for Him but die for Him. In other words, martyrdom.

I don't want to be dramatic. But really. I don't know if I would have the courage. The will to live is strong. Could my love for God outweigh the flame inside that will do nearly anything for self-preservation?

I've prayed that I would never have to find out. I've prayed for the courage should that day come.

Am I morbid? I don't think so. My willingness to think about something that most people my age won't doesn't say whether it's worthy of my thoughts or not. I feel this is something that serious believers have to at least consider.

In philosophy class, my prof challenged the idea that dying for someone/thing is a greater sacrifice than living for them. We call death "the ultimate sacrifice," but is it? Isn't it more difficult to embody the living sacrifice that Romans calls us to?

So here I am looking four weeks of working at Bible camp in the proverbial eye. No, I don't expect to die in the next month. But I am planning on being hours behind in sleep, cleaning things I'd rather not, coping with strong-willed and high-strung campers, negotiating between people who have been around each other too long. . . . Not to say that camp doesn't have its wonderful moments. They are frequent each week and keep us all coming back every year. Yet, it would be naive to imagine that those moments of eternal victory come cheaply.

I once heard that "sacrifice" actually means to give something up with the expectation of gaining something in return. I feel like the Christian martyrs get that. They give up their lives - a daunting task to be sure - but do so with the hope of glory outweighing every threatening pain and heartache. I'm hoping that, as an Americanized Christian, I haven't put so much of a stake in the pleasures present here and now before me that I miss the possibility of invisible victories that will shake down through the ages and generations yet to come.

So, here's to what God has in store - whatever type of sacrifice He calls me toward - with faith that He will give me the grace to meet each in its time and in His way.

Meanwhile, pray for the Bible camps across the world doing missions this summer with the kids in foreign lands and in your hometowns.