The Servant and the Undeserved Gift

As I opened the letter I felt a jolt of disbelief when a check dropped onto my lap. Perplexed, I could not understand why this man would be sending a check. Back then, I did not think of him as a servant, but I realize now that’s exactly what he was.

When we first met he was in his nineties, but there was nothing about him that suggested the feebleness or detachment that so many who reach that decade exhibit. He was in remarkably good health and I don’t remember him mentioning any ailment more than in passing. Whether this was by choice or because he had the fortune to know few illnesses, I don’t know. He was tall and lean, slightly bent with age but his bending forward gave one the impression that you were the sole focus of his attention. And you were. He spoke pleasantly, with the charm of his southern roots- and always about the subjects that interested his company. He looked you in the eye and sought reasons to smile at you. He could disagree with you in a way that made you feel you had been heard and valued, even though his convictions were strong. In the few years I knew him before he passed, he made such a marked impression that to this day I frequently compare my behavior in any given situation- even my Christian walk- with his.

His name was Paul Swope, and he was my husband’s grandfather. Born in Virginia to Mennonite parents, he eventually moved to Ohio where he married, raised a family, was active in the community and church, and worked well into his nineties. He carried himself with a rare grace, humility and kindness. We enjoyed his company so much that my husband and I packed up the kids as often as was practical and drove three hours just to spend a weekend with him. In between visits, he wrote us letters. Some addressed to my husband, some to me. The letters were always encouraging, praising our efforts. He always seemed to think the best of us.

I never saw him join in gossip or sarcasm. But his lack of participation was never cold or self-righteous. When he picked up the conversation, his words were kind. I’ve asked his family and even his own children do not remember hearing him say anything negative about anyone.

My husband tells of a story involving an individual who had been the source of much conflict and grief in the family. This person had once helped my husband transport a vehicle a few hours’ drive to his grandfather’s house. Upon their arrival, Grandpa Swope stepped out of his kitchen door to offer a glass of water to the person who had brought so much offense to his family. He had every right to hide inside and pretend he didn’t see the person- just let the moment pass. Instead he took the opportunity to show kind-hearted forgiveness, not allowing his pain to excuse him from following the example of Jesus. I think of the times I could have laid down my pride for someone whose soul might have benefitted from compassion rather than my sense of justice.

Salvation and forgiveness is free, but true Christianity will cost you something. Earnest followers of Jesus soon learn that they will be letting go of their own pride, plans, and prejudices to become a servant. I have rarely seen this exemplified in another person as well as in Paul Swope. I felt it most when I was the undeserving recipient of that kind of love.

The day had really just been awful. Hugely pregnant, I had waddled uncomfortably through my workday as a school social worker. Driving home I was preoccupied with some of the more desperate cases with which I worked. As well, my husband and I had just bought a house and were trying to prepare it for the arrival of our first baby. Finances were already stretched when we realized that we could not start any additional house projects until we replaced the roof. It was expensive. It was discouraging. But we started scrimping and saving even further. That particular day was one of those “everything-I-touch-goes-wrong” types, and I remember feeling defeated when I pulled the car into the driveway and switched off the ignition.

Too tired to get out of the car, I began flipping through the day’s mail and found the letter from Grandpa Swope addressed to me. Tearing open the envelope, I found the check that dropped out was also made out to me, not my husband. I scanned the letter for an explanation. ”…On our last visit I remember you mentioned that you had hoped to make some improvements on the new house before the baby arrives, but the roof would need to be repaired instead… Please accept this gift so that you may make those improvements sooner rather than later…”

Tears rolled down my face, not just because I had received an undeserved gift from a generous and good-natured man. More than that, his actions had painted a picture of what God is like at a time when I felt beaten down:

God cares about the things that concern us.
God gives gifts that we do not deserve and have no right to receive.
When God adopted me into his family, I was all in. There are no in-law “outlaws” in the family of God.

Paul Swope exemplified humble servanthood in his daily life. I am so grateful to have known him, not only because he was such a remarkable person, but because his Christian walk has given me much to consider. Jesus said, “Freely you have received, freely give.” (Matt. 10:8) When I realize how very undeserving I have received God’s gift, I am motivated to give that much more. Would my willingness to give of myself -to be a servant today -change someone’s life?

“…be imitators of God, as beloved children. And walk in love, as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us, a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God.” Ephesians 5:1-2

Posted on January 14, 2024January 15, 2024 by Sandra Jantzi 1

Led Where You Do Not Want To Go

It just so happened that the day my son started his military deployment, war broke out between Israel and Hamas. In the pre-dawn darkness he waved goodbye, and a few hours later I was watching news coverage of the Hamas attack. Conflict had already been raging between Russia and Ukraine and that situation had become quite desperate. There were perhaps hundreds of other lesser known but no less volatile struggles between tribes, governments, sects, and countries playing out the day he left.

My son was launched into another part of the world where there are threats and points of view I do not understand and where there are people with agendas who are also worried about the futures of their own sons. A place where peace is anemic, wobbly, and often shoved out of the way.

This has caused me to think more carefully about what God gave up in order to reach you and me. I’m guilty of glossing over that part of John 3:16 where it says, “God… sent His only begotten Son into the world” so I can get to the part where He offers everlasting life. But these days when I’m watching the world more closely and praying more fervently, I think about what a risk it was to send His only Son as a defenseless baby into a rough and tumble world to be cared for by faulty humans. My son is an adult who has been trained to be aware of his surroundings and potential dangers, despite my mind’s insistent memory of his panicked five-year-old face on the first day of school. But God sent his Son as a baby even though He knew full well that we were incapable of handling or understanding Him, so that in every way He would face the same trials and temptations that we do. The reason is simple. Because He also loves us with a great, longing tenderness.

If you have ever been a parent, guardian, or mentor then you know parental love. I miss my son in multiple ways, every day. The first few months of his life he cried constantly with a colic I could not seem to soothe. My husband and I walked him through sleeplessness and sickness, birthday parties, pets, and that sweet summer when his baseball team won the championship and he walked with a swagger for weeks. There are few things I wouldn’t endure to ensure his safety. But now, each day I mentally put him in God’s hands for God’s purposes. The outcome of which is up to God. At times, this feels like a place I do not want to go.

Recently, a book came to mind that I had not thought about for many years. “The Hiding Place” by Corrie Ten Boom chronicles her life as a Dutch Christian who, with her family, risked life and livelihood by hiding many Jewish people from the Nazis during World War II. Eventually her family was arrested and sent to a concentration camp. Corrie and her sister experienced unimaginable conditions: hunger, thirst, brutality, dehumanization, ridicule, threats, dangers, and filthy conditions. Ultimately Corrie’s sister and elderly father died during their confinement. Corrie evaded extermination through a clerical error and went on to be a witness for Christ in several countries.

What was striking was that Corrie did not set out to be a hero or an evangelist. She just knew she could not call herself a Christian and turn a blind eye to the discrimination and murder that was happening under Nazi rule in her hometown. The more she assisted, the more was asked of her. She found herself being led where she did not necessarily want to go as the danger of what she was doing increased. By this step by step release of what was important to her in order to embrace what was important to God, she was able to bring hope and accomplish what would seem impossible, even in Ravensbruck concentration camp while she was starving and infested with fleas.

It was Corrie who said, “Hold everything in your hands lightly, otherwise it hurts when God pries your fingers open.”

“You can never learn that Christ is all you need, until Christ is all you have.”

And this, “The measure of a life, after all, is not its duration, but its donation.”

She would know, because she lost everything in this world and still remained faithful to Jesus, even in her humiliation and grief. Because of that faithfulness, she brought rescue, hope, and the message of God’s salvation to thousands throughout her life and after her death.

No matter who you are or how good you are at controlling your circumstances, you will eventually be led where you do not want to go. Maybe it is a loved one’s sickness or disease in your own body. Maybe you have lost someone you love. Maybe something you really wanted, even something good, is not going to happen after all your efforts. Maybe you are saying a long goodbye, or maybe the goodbye did not happen and it’s too late. Maybe all the pieces you were trying to fit together have come crashing down around you in some way and hope seems to be sinking.

It might even seem like the end. But as you look around the landscape of this place where you do not want to be, there is another path. It may not look like a practical answer right now, but it is a path of no regrets. Now is the time to release what you thought you could not bear to lose and take a step toward God.

“The Lord is at hand; be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God; and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus” (Philippians 4:6-7, NKJV).

While He did not promise to make every situation rosy, He did promise His peace- not the world’s fleeting peace, but a lasting peace that is beyond our comprehension or control even in our darkest moments. What are you clinging to that might be keeping you from knowing that peace?

Sandra Jantzi

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Posted on November 13, 2023November 13, 2023 by Sandra Jantzi 1

Drowning In Freedom

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Standing indecisively at the edge of the pond, I twisted my bare toes in the warm, fragrant mud. The summer heat had so invigorated our northern town that even the mud had a warm, moist and mushroom-y smell. The humid sultriness meandered over the rolling hills and valleys, radiating ever outward until it collapsed on us like a distressed animal, unable to rise.

The pond at which I stood was fed by cool underground springs and lay glinting with promise in the afternoon stickiness. I watched my older brother and cousins as they plunked, dove, and belly-flopped into the refreshing water. There were nine cousins- plus my brother- all having rushed together to the pond in a mass of bare feet and broken-down sneakers. I lingered alone on the bank because I could not yet swim and my mother had left emphatic instructions when she dropped us off that I not go into the water without an adult. My aunt reiterated those instructions as the group headed to the pond, but because I balked at having to stay next to her she let me stand near the water to watch. I circled the pond feeling that a great injustice had been handed to me.

That pond seemed to sparkle and gleam in the summer heat with an incandescence that was hard to resist. The burden of being the only one who couldn’t slip freely into its cool, refreshing depths was very heavy on my five year old shoulders. My cousins called, “Watch this!” and I ran around the perimeter while they entertained me with their amphibious feats. The splashing and shouting was exhilarating. Sometimes the spray from a particularly impressive stunt would spritz across my flushed cheeks. As the youngest cousin in the group, it seemed there were so many interesting and fun activities from which I was barred. I convinced myself that no one was watching and lulled by the cool shimmer, I sat down and began swinging my legs in the water. Encouraged, and with a great sense of freedom, I began lowering myself further down into the pond from the safety of the bank.

“You do you” has been a resounding anthem in the last few years. It seems like a great idea, that we can all give each other permission to do what we want and just… chill. There is tremendous pressure to leave others alone or even encourage them when there are some serious pitfalls looming. To do otherwise would make you a judge, a nag, even a hater. And I agree that there can be a fine line between throwing a lifeline and being vocally opinionated. Nevertheless I am grateful, not bitter, when I think of some individuals who stepped up in my life and let me know that there were potential dangers in the course I was taking. In my teens, there was the pastor who told me to careful who I was hanging around with when I dated a young man who lacked direction. Later, a trusted co-worker warned me against sharing an office with a contentious person. A relative observed that my “side hustle” could keep me away from my growing children for more hours than was beneficial. These were gentle words delivered only once, quietly and privately, like a whisper against the shouting and foot-stomping of my own self-will. In every one of those situations, the people who cared enough to graciously say something hard proved to be right. That’s not Hollywood, where we celebrate the maverick who does things her way and proves the rest of the world is overly restrained, blind, and outdated.

On the day that I slipped into the pond despite the advice of my mother and aunt, there was something I didn’t know. Something other than how to swim.

On a similar sticky, sultry day years earlier, my mother was a recent high school graduate, working for a neighbor woman who needed assistance with some household projects and childcare. They painted, cleaned, and hung wallpaper around the house. In the midst, the woman’s children were fed, cared for and entertained. My mother remembers the youngest, a boy who was constantly in motion, would sit still while she read to him on busy mornings. This particular day the children went swimming in a neighbor’s pond and the unthinkable happened- the little boy was lost in the water. Sharply my mother remembers the phone call she answered from the sobbing neighbor and the awkwardness of trying to convey to her employer the seriousness of the situation in front of a visitor. She was there when they pulled his lifeless body from the water and saw helplessness and regret spinning agonizing webs around the child’s grief-stricken family and neighbors.

Even if my mother had told me about her experience with the little boy that drowned, I’m sure my 5 year old self, intent on my own desire, would not have believed that it could happen to me. And so it is, as we navigate our way through life…. Somehow we think we will buck the odds.

Until we don’t. Until we realize too late that the “you do you” world we all know and love is also full of addiction, brokenness, rage, and darkness.

The day I tried to slip furtively into the water that I would not have been able to navigate, my aunt assisted me out before I got into real trouble. I wasn’t grateful then, but I am now. Maybe you know someone who is about to get in over their head. Maybe someday in the future they would be grateful for your kind and gentle words now.

Posted on July 24, 2022July 24, 2022 by Sandra Jantzi 2

When Trust Isn’t Broken

Every Wednesday afternoon beginning in sixth grade, I stepped out of my mother’s car and crossed the sidewalk into a wondrous world. Climbing the front steps into the vestibule of a big, old house, I could peek into the doorway that opened into many other rooms full of stillness, heavy decor, and a pleasant woody aroma. Behind one of these doorways was a lovely grand piano, but each week I settled myself onto the bench of the white student upright situated on a converted front porch. It was here that I, shy and acutely awkward, spent years learning piano (and indeed, life) lessons from one of my most memorable teachers, Louis Myers.

He was tall, gregarious, quick-witted, and had perfect pitch. When I knew him, he was probably in his sixties and seventies but still actively playing in bands and for events. In his youth he resembled George Gershwin, whom we both admired, and he frequently recounted the tragic tale of George’s untimely death- an event that occurred in his lifetime. It seemed to me that he was a link to a past that was more sophisticated and urbane. He was a devoted fan of his hometown baseball team, the Cleveland Indians. As I grew older, I often wondered how this Jewish man ended up in my small, predominantly Catholic, northern New York town.

What he may not have known was that I had begged my parents for piano lessons for years. My parents were careful with their spending, so my mother gave up her lessons so I could go. Week in and out he pulled up a chair next to the piano bench and we pushed on through drills, scales, music primers, Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, Cole Porter, Paul Simon, Mozart, Carole King, Rogers & Hammerstein, and Gershwin himself. Some days were laborious, and others were lilting. No one had to tell me to practice because I loved everything about it. I loved the instrument with its dark chambers inside the weighty wood, hammers striking strings, ivory and ebony under my moist fingertips. I loved the music, the tones, the trills, the emotion it evoked. And the music became a voice for my quiet, anxious, unpolished youth. Mr. Myers taught me to play the notes with my soul as well as my hands. He told me that I played with emotion, something that could not be easily taught.

That would have been enough, but it’s not all that I learned from from him. We covered the history of music and composers and as I blundered through adolescence he tossed in some practical advice. Sit up straight. Don’t pick at the blemishes on your face. Carry yourself like a young lady. Have confidence in yourself. And when I started driving myself to piano lessons he counseled, “A car is a weapon.” Most memorable was the constant reminder to treat others with respect. “Good and bad people come from every race, religion and color,” he would tell me. “People shouldn’t be picked on for their race or religious beliefs.” By high school, I realized that he had been alive during World War II and had lived in the reality of a world where 6 million other Jews were put to death.

It was his elegant wife, Nimi who caused Louis to spend most of his adult life in rural New York. With his talent and love for music, I’m sure he could have ended up in a metropolitan environment where there were more opportunities. Her family was Lebanese. Louis never told his mother that he converted to Catholicism to be with Nimi. Pictures of the young couple revealed a striking pair; both of them tall and dark-haired. I learned years later that Nimi used to sit quietly in their living room during my lesson so she could hear me play. I wasn’t that great, but I loved the music and it was flattering to think that this polished woman set aside time to listen to my progress.

When high school ended and I was getting ready to move on, the time came for lessons to end.

For weeks afterward, I cried quietly every time I sat down at the piano. I missed this man who had taught me so much about music and life. For 30 minutes almost every week, year after year, his example, encouragement, admonishment, and experience spoke into my life and added to who I am. I practically grew up at his piano.

In a time when we are hearing almost daily about people who abuse others’ trust- adults and children, teachers and students, spiritual leaders and followers, I cling to this example of someone who gave so much more than what he was paid for and did not violate faith. His encouragement to be a good citizen, to work hard, to be respectful, to laugh once in a while, and to play music with emotion are qualities he assisted my parents in imparting to me.

In this current world of selfies and social media rants where everyone wants to be heard and seen, I think about my teacher, long since passed away, and how he quietly changed my life.

He consistently showed up, every week. He held me to a standard, but took the time to show me how to reach it. He expected good things from me and treated me respectfully- even at my most awkward times. He did not violate trust.

I wonder how I’m doing at showing those qualities to the people in my life. Am I adding something positive to the family, friends, and coworkers in my path, or just trying to be heard above the clamor of life?

Even now, decades later, when I hear certain songs- especially Gershwin’s “Rhapsody In Blue”, I remember the legacy passed to me by my teacher. What will people remember about me? Whose trust will I keep intact? To whom will I impart a legacy of goodness?

Sandra Jantzi

Posted on June 3, 2021June 8, 2021 by Sandra Jantzi 7

The Lady in the Window Seat

Have you ever found yourself in a place you did not want to be, but there was no way around it and no escape button? You knew you had to go through it. You knew that when you got through it your life would not be the same. You knew that it was not going to be easy.

Maybe you’re feeling that way right now.

I think we’ve all been there at one time or another, and perhaps, like me, you’ve been there more than once. A particular time that stands out for me occurred when when my son graduated from Air Force basic training. Having dropped out of college, he had enlisted and was off to Basic Training in a matter of months. There was some discord in the family about his choice. At times it seemed like we were failing him as parents. I was fiercely proud of him and terrified at the same time. Only another military parent will understand how much greater is the sacrifice in sending your son or daughter to the military than sending them to college. When he left, all I could see was his 5 year old face in the school bus window on the first day of Kindergarten. I was reminded of that song by Matt Redman that says, “Blessed by Your name/ on the road marked with suffering/ though there’s pain in the offering…. You give and take away/ my heart will choose to say/ Lord, blessed be your name.”

After the long weeks of training finally came to an end, we flew to Lackland Air Force Base to watch him graduate. The intense pride and relief we felt in seeing him march with almost 800 other graduates, and to discover that he had graduated in the top 10%, cannot be adequately described. But this story isn’t about that happy ending, or even about how my quiet, easy-going son had found his place and excellence in the military.

My story starts when we got on the jet to come home.

On top of the sadness of leaving him (he was getting ready to leave for Tech School), I was feeling particularly low because he had earned leave time that Sunday, and we had to leave early to tend to our family business back in New York. So he basically had nowhere to go except to hang out on base or try to tag along with someone else.

As a rule, I don’t usually talk much to strangers while I’m traveling. I’m an introvert and I have this theory (which my husband thinks is nuts) that if I start a conversation with someone and they are a non-stop talker or it is just awkward, then I am stuck with that situation until I reach my destination. But on this day, in the middle seat of the row, near the back of the jet, feeling again like I had failed my son, I welcomed the kind question from the lady in the window seat. She wanted to know if my son’s girlfriend, who was seated in the aisle seat, was OK.

“She’s a little upset,” I began. “My son is her boyfriend. We just saw him graduate from Basic Training at the Air Force Base and now we’re leaving….” At that point, the tears came. Unexpectedly. Betraying my attempt to remain calm and in control. Like a little child I babbled something about how he had earned leave to spend the day with us, and we had to leave early.

Turns out, the kind lady in the window seat was a retired college career counselor, whose husband had been in the Air Force for over 20 years. I don’t remember every word she said to me that day, but I remember that she reflected on what a great experience the Air Force had been for her family, and that with Basic Training behind him, my son would also be moving on to some great experiences. She reassured me that leaving him, although difficult, was OK. He was going to be OK. From Dallas to Chicago, we talked about books we liked, genealogy, and traveling. When we parted in Chicago, I thanked her for making what could have been a very difficult journey pleasant. My last memory of her was the smile and wave we exchanged in the terminal before I turned to find the rest of my family. I don’t think she ever realized how very much her conversation meant to me.

Before the day was over, I received a text from the mother of one of my son’s best friends in Basic Training. Their family had taken my son with them for some rest and relaxation at their Air BnB house. Another unexpected blessing.

So this very week, on a much grander scale, we have all found ourselves in a place we do not want to be. We’re trying to figure it out. It’s confusing and it’s hard. Some of us are having a harder time adapting than others. While we’re still reeling a bit from all that has changed, I would encourage you to take a few minutes and think about the ways that you have been blessed in the midst of your trouble. Where in your life, this week, did God send the equivalent of the lady in the window seat? When was there unexpected comfort? When did you have something you needed that you didn’t think was going to be there? Were you safe? And even if you weren’t safe, were there moments when you knew that God sent something into your life that helped you or made a bad moment bearable? Now is a good time to thank Him.

No matter how difficult things may seem, there are people all around you who need you to be the lady in the window seat. Even though we are physically distant from one another, it might be a time to speak up when you normally wouldn’t have. I think we’re all feeling a little on edge. Maybe now the people around you would be happy for a comforting word. If you have been comforted, even a little, by your Father in Heaven, maybe now, when hearts are in pain, would be a good time to share that comfort. “Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.” 2 Corinthians 1: 3-4

Posted on March 25, 2020 by Sandra Jantzi 0

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