It was the third day of our outdoor adventure, and Robert and I had been walking along the shoreline of Lake Michigan for maybe a mile. I allowed icy waves to splash over my ankles, marveling at the peculiar sensation of chill bumps on my legs, even as the sun beat down on my back. Ivory sand was broken up by patches of ebony, and I recognized a certain beauty in the contrast between black and white—like alternating keys on a piano or spaces on a chess board.
While this kind of hike was familiar to my husband, the landscape was certainly different than any I’d encountered before. Only a stone’s throw away, the forest seemed to grow right up out of the sand dunes. Trees formed an awning thick enough to block out the sun’s rays, even in the heat of late afternoon. No doubt, their development was supported by an extensive root system. In some ways, the topography mirrored the terrain of my soul. Struggling for deeper trust. Only ever satisfied with truth, and digging through sand to get there. Fruit growing up out of places I would’ve called dry, and a trail filled with hills and valleys—some steeper than others—none of them avoidable.
Passing through the forest walls, we soon lost sight of the great lake, trading sand for firmer soil. The way ahead narrowed, nearly swallowed up by yawning ravines on either side. Having traveled north from Texas in October, I had hoped to be mesmerized by the saturated colors of autumn, but it was early yet. In a sea of mostly-green leaves, the rare clump of vibrant orange or fiery red drew my eye. A bright yellow leaf twirled in the breeze, taunting me with a glimpse of fall and the promise of change. Steadily we climbed, and my heart rate rose too.
Just when I’d grown accustomed to hard-packed ground beneath my feet, I began to sink. First ankle deep, then further still. Rising abruptly, the final hill emerged from the treeline until there was nothing but the dune. With labored breaths, I struggled to make headway on a treadmill of shifting sand. Each step was excruciating, carrying me nowhere. I had a mouth full of grit, but stopping for water would mean losing any remaining momentum and slipping further down the incline. Between the near-vertical slope and the unstable turf, the climb felt impossible. I abandoned my shoes, scrambling on all fours, desperate to gain some ground. My lungs and every muscle in my body begged for relief. Head hanging low, my forearms dropped into the sand.
I’m no quitter, but I don’t see how I can possibly make it. I can’t even see the top.
I sensed Robert’s presence from behind before I felt the strength of his arm beneath my shoulder.
“Come on. You can do this.”
Practically carrying me, Robert willed us both to the crest of the dune. I stumbled over the top and collapsed at the foot of a wooden cross.
It was almost a year after A.J. died, and Pastor Tim and I had been discussing the launch of Wise Christian School for maybe a few months. I allowed the possibilities to wash over the dry crevices of my heart, marveling at the peculiar sensation of hope rising, even as old grief and new questions weighed heavy on my shoulders. His fearless optimism jostled against my own cautious practicality, yet I recognized a certain beauty in the contrast between two personalities—weaved with purpose into a God-ordained story that felt bigger than the both of us.
While this kind of pioneering effort was familiar to my pastor, the landscape was certainly different than any I’d encountered before. Only a stone’s throw away, the reality of a thriving school seemed to grow right up out of blueprints and casted vision. His tenacious belief formed an awning thick enough to block out burning rays of doubt, even in the heat of a tumultuous economy. No doubt, that canopy of faith was supported by an extensive root system, and I let my own confidence sink deeper into our common Source—Jesus, the only Way, Truth and Life. It took some digging, down through the shifting sand of uncertainty, to get there, but fruit grew up out of dry places. Still, a road filled with hills and valleys—some steeper than others—loomed ahead.
Toward the middle of last summer, I felt increasingly stressed as unanswerable questions stood between me and the desire to begin the school year with perfectly ordered ducks, all lined up neatly in a row. The way forward seemed frighteningly narrow, its path nearly swallowed up by a gulf of ‘what ifs’ on either side. Having prepared well, I had hoped to witness clear evidence of the coming harvest season, but it was early yet. In a sea of mostly-green leaves, the rare clump of vibrant orange or fiery red drew my eye—an encouraging text, a call from a potential family or an unexpected donation in the mail. Steadily we carried on, but the anxiety in my chest grew with each passing day.
The school experienced a timely enrollment spurt, but just when I’d nearly grown accustomed to the feeling of solid ground beneath my feet, I began to sink into fear. First ankle deep, then further still. Rising abruptly, the first day of school emerged on the horizon until there was nothing but incline in my view. With a mountain of things to do and no time to spare, I struggled to make headway on a treadmill of shifting sand. Thoughts of doubt and insecurity filled my head, and I felt my confidence slipping. Between the scope of the challenge ahead and a personal tendency to allow thoughts to spiral downward, the climb felt impossible. And it was a climb. I scrambled, feeling for a new grip, trying to gain some ground. My faith stretched painfully, begging for a respite. Head hanging low, I headed toward the conference room at the church.
I’m no quitter, but I don’t see how I can possibly make it. I can’t even see the light at the end of the tunnel.
I saw the conviction in his eyes before I heard faith-filled words reaching out to steady my heart.
“Holly, we’re going to build a school.”
Practically carrying me along, Pastor Tim believed for us both until I found the strength to scale the crest of the dune. I stumbled over the top and found all that I needed at the foot of the cross.
In Michigan, with trembling legs and a howling stitch in my side, I wrestled with the juxtaposition of a rugged cross against a sunset backdrop. Purple and pink hues hovered over serene waters. From sixty miles away, the silhouette of the Chicago skyline was visible as the sun dipped into the horizon. I couldn’t have stopped the tears if I’d wanted to. They flowed strong with the realization of all that Jesus suffered and the love that compelled Him to willingly climb Golgotha’s hill. With each desperate gulp of air, I breathed in the truth of what it means to take up our own cross and to share in His suffering.
“Do nothing out of selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility consider others as more important than yourselves. Everyone should look not to his own interests, but rather to the interests of others. Adopt the same attitude as that of Christ Jesus, who, existing in the form of God, did not consider equality with God as something to be exploited. Instead he emptied himself by assuming the form of a servant, taking on the likeness of humanity. And when he had come as a man, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death—even to death on a cross.”–Philippians 2:3-8 (CSB)
Eight months later, I’m still reflecting upon the pain of struggling up that hill and the significance of the cross against a water-color painted sky. As another school year approaches, I cannot help but ponder the daunting challenge of starting a school and the courage that flooded my soul when I watched God accomplish the impossible.
There are still so many hills that I just don’t want to climb. My flesh screams at the thought of continuing to fight the same battles, of giving more than I have, and of bearing with people—with myself—still longer.
But I am encouraged by the example of men like my pastor and my husband—of anyone who would follow in the footsteps of Jesus to freely and sacrificially offer their strength for the sake of another. Lord, may it be so in my life.
Note: The nature of Christian education is that each school year presents a new mountain to climb. Wise Christian School exists to cultivate hearts that seek Christ fervently, minds that think rationally, hands that reach out compassionately and lives that preach the gospel courageously. If you would be willing to lend your strength for the sake of a child at WCS—by praying, giving or volunteering—reach out via email at hchapman@wisechristianschool.com.
Free to Surrender 
0 comments on “Build a school”