july 2010 newsletter...
the lyre tree...
The symbol of our school is a lyre tree. Our lyre tree stands just outside the Principal's office and I've watched it grow considerably over my lifetime. Its silhouette stands out dramatically from almost anywhere on the mountainside. I know of only two other such trees on this mountain. These trees take their distinctive shape through an odd phenomenon. Lightning strikes a young tree and takes off one of its two primary limbs. The young tree responds to the trauma of brokenness by seeking new directions of growth. The result is exquisite and utterly unique: the branches curve up into the form of a lyre and achieve a remarkable degree of balance. The tree thrives, when it could have become only a charred ruin.
Over this summer break, I had the opportunity to visit Ta Prohm, one of the medieval ruins in the Angkor Wat complex. These twelfth and thirteenth century stone remnants gain beauty from the way that determined trees have 
broken through every possible crevice to swallow the original structures. Roots melt and pour over every wall, allowing silvery trunks to tower over what come to seem like humble attempts by man to tame a wildness we could never conquer. Again, the trees thrive, and in what looks like an impossible soil of stone.
Last semester hit me like lightning. I know it's a strong image, but I had no idea what I was getting into when I took on this new administrative role, with its wild array of challenges that I could not have foreseen (though perhaps I should have). Essentially, I tried to carry two full-time jobs at once, and it proved too much for me. By the end of the semester I had worked myself to exhaustion. I apologize for the long gap in communication, but I felt like that tree with a limb hacked off, and I've been struggling to find a new direction of growth. I spent most of last semester worrying and agonizing over strategies. I thought if I could find the magic organizational tool or the perfect way to approach staff or even simply the right filing system, I would be able to control the encroaching chaos. Instead, I began to unravel, increasingly losing patience with myself and everyone else.
Right at the end of last semester, as I fought to keep at least my forehead above water, I came across a fitting passage from Jeremiah 17: "Cursed is the man who trusts in man and makes flesh his strength, whose heart turns away from the Lord. He is like a shrub in the desert, and shall not see any good come. He shall dwell in the parched places of the wilderness, in an uninhabited salt land. Blessed is the man who trusts in the Lord, whose trust is the Lord. He is like a tree planted by water, that sends out its roots by the stream, and does not fear when heat comes, for its leaves remain green, and is not anxious in the year of drought, for it does not cease to bear fruit."
I don't want to live in parched places. I don't want to shrivel up because I trust only in myself or in the latest "Seven Secrets of Success" book to hit the self-help shelves. Self-help is a myth. If we are to have hope of growth, of rising up through obstacles, our only trust must be God Himself. I've been hoping and praying that some beauty will grow from this recent struggle, that God will receive honor and glory through the way I live my life. The fruit is the object, after all, is it not? To bear fruit is the purpose of a tree, so that more trees can be propagated.
Please pray that my leaves will remain green as I enter this new school year. It promises to be challenging (though, rest assured, after a summer vacation I have lists of hundreds of exciting ideas I want to implement to shore up our culture and teaching practices). I don't know what heat and drought you face, but I pray that your trust will continue to rise higher than the flesh, to God Himself. May He carry you up and through the challenges you face, and may you bear fruit.
Incidentally, I expect that this newsletter, of necessity, will become a quarterly rather than monthly occurrence. As always, I love to hear from any and all of you, and to share in your life even from this distance.
Your fellow pilgrim,
Amy