Sacred radical

I don't want to forget. That's what I'm thinking to myself on this spring morning, warmed by the sun at my kitchen table, listening to the birds while a neighbour rolls in his rubbish bin next door. I don't want to forget. 

***

For the past several weeks, I have been working on my teaching CV and keeping a nervous eye on the Education Gazette. It is almost job-hunting time - a season relished by none, I'm sure, but particularly dreaded by me. My classmates have been tittering about CVs and which schools to apply to for weeks, and I have been logging into Canva to fit my accomplishments neatly into boxes, all the while playing out worst-case-scenarios in my mind. This is how I manage stress: I imagine the worst thing that could happen in any given situation and figure out how I would deal with it. Having satisfied my ability to cope with said scenario, I can then proceed with whatever I'm doing. 

The absolute worst case here, I decided, would be not finding any teaching job in Auckland, nor one anywhere else in New Zealand, and having to return to Christchurch and live with my parents while I waited for someone to hire me. Although I shuddered at this prospect, knowing that I would be able to cope should it arise steeled me, and I kept moving forward. 

Jobs had only just started cropping up on the Gazette, and I was sifting through the listings with scrutiny, weeding out any that would place me in an MLE or which required more than a half-hour drive each way. I had been told that the busy season for jobs would be October, so although I was keeping an eye out for  good listings, I wasn't yet at the point of desperation. That would surely come later, I thought, and it was best not to enter the manic phase too early. 

***

On Monday evening, I received an email from the Deputy Principal at the school where I completed my first two practicums. She hoped that my job hunt was going well, and was there any chance that I would be interested in applying for a position at the school next year? If so, she'd be more than happy to tell the Principal to keep an eye out for my CV. Taken aback, but pleased, I replied saying that I was considering a few different options for next year, but would likely be interested in applying and would let her know when I had done so. I took it as a compliment that she had reached out, and went to bed thinking little more of it. 

Imagine my surprise, then, upon receiving a further email from her on Tuesday morning saying it was fantastic that I would be open to applying and would I perhaps be interested in a casual chat with the Principal next week? Panicking, I called my mum. This wasn't supposed to be happening! I had barely put my application in anywhere else and a school was already potentially calling me in for an informal interview! (Yes, you read that correctly; I was actually anxious about a school wanting me too much. *sigh*) Thankfully, my mum talked me down from my panicked state, pointing out again that it was actually a huge compliment that they were reaching out with such determination, and that there would be no harm in arranging a meeting for the following week. Placated, I replied saying that I would be happy to come in the following Friday and the Principal booked me in.

On Wednesday morning I drove to my first day of my final practicum at a school in Kohimarama. Google Maps was leading me there via some convoluted route, so I was keeping a careful eye on my phone as I drove, when a text from an unknown number popped up. Stopped at a traffic light, I opened the notification to find that it was from the Principal, saying that he couldn't do our meeting the following Friday, but would I have a few minutes for a call sometime that day? I called my mum for a dose of fortitude, hung up, said a prayer, and then spoke to the Principal. 

He offered me a job with no hesitation. Not just a job, but a job with a choice of year level and the guarantee of a great mentor teacher. A job at a school that I already knew, with the opportunity to impact a community that I deeply cared about. A job that would mean I would not have to spend a single second longer worrying about applications for next year. 

Dazed, I thanked him for his generous offer and let him know that I would get back to him within the time period he had specified. I was present in body only on that first day of practicum. I could see the (lovely) Deputy Principal's mouth moving, but took in almost nothing of what she said, being jolted from my rumination once every few minutes when she asked a question. I spent the day introducing myself to the sweet kids while mentally running through a million pros and cons to taking the job. I left school and talked it through with my mum and my friend, S, as I was driving. I went home and thought and prayed about it some more.  

I had a moment of breakthrough when, quietly, in the midst of all my mental churning, I realised: I want this job. I wanted it. I wanted to be in Year 4, with those gorgeous kids, in a school that I knew and a community I felt connected to. I wanted all of it. And God was offering it to me.

I rang the Principal back the next morning (Thursday), and told him I would take the job. Within a whirlwind 36 hours, I had returned a signed offer letter to him. The God-given dream job was mine. 

***

To go from a casual email on Monday to a signed job offer on Friday is enough to leave me weak-kneed and weepy. In fact, it did leave me weak-kneed and weepy. I felt so seen this week. God knew my frailty; He knew my anxiety and nervousness about leaving Auckland. He knew my desire to stay and build something with my church community and choose rootedness over wandering. Every single event I experienced this week made me want to turn to Him and say "You are the God who sees me" (Genesis 16). 

As if getting a job in such a fashion wasn't enough, celebrating the news with friends has only added to my joy. Each of my friends has been thrilled for me, and I have delighted in squealing down telephone lines and going out for celebratory crêpes. What's that saying about a burden shared being a burden halved? I have now learned that the inverse is true: a joy shared is a joy doubled. Joy upon joy upon joy has been my story this week. 

***

We have been going through a series at church on "Wholly Following Christ" and we had a guest speaker a few weeks ago who spoke on the role of the Holy Spirit in our lives. The Spirit, he said, operated in both the sacred ordinary (daily disciplines and faithfulness, the mundane) and the sacred radical (miracles, visions, unexpected outcomes). 

I admitted to my small group that while I had seen God at work in my life in beautiful ways through the sacred ordinary, I had less faith in recent years for the sacred radical, and I wanted to build that up again. My friends nodded sympathetically across the room and we prayed together that God would introduce me once again to the sacred radical. 

I can still hear my friend S's laugh over the phone as I relayed this to her on Thursday. It appears that God delights in answering my prayers in extravagant way, perhaps even with a cheeky grin on His face. 

If this is what the sacred radical is, all I can say is, more, please, God - more.