In 1970’s Fredericton, where I grew up, there was an annual walk-a-thon that was a rite of passage for a lot of us. It went from the YMCA building in the centre of the city to the Mactaquac dam and back – a distance of about 25 miles.
Walking 25 miles is an epic adventure when you are nine, and that’s how old I was the first year my best friend, Cindy and I were allowed to participate. The walk took us along a road that ran parallel to the St. John River. We met a girl we recognized from school. Her friends had walked on ahead because she was slow, so we invited her to walk with us.
There were many walkers at the beginning of the day, but as the morning wore on the crowds thinned. By the 12.5-mile checkpoint at the dam, the romance of the event had faded. The first aid volunteers rubbed our blistered feet with alcohol and chatted about if we’d be able to complete the walk. Cindy and I were convinced we could. Our new friend was less sure.
A mile or two after the rest stop, our friend gave up. Her feet hurt so much that she sat down beside the road and cried. Cindy and I weren’t too worried at first. There were lots of vehicles patrolling the route. Sure enough, we saw an aid ambulance coming down the road. We waved, but it didn’t stop. After what seemed like forever, we saw a police car approaching. This time Cindy and I waved, jumped up and down and shouted. It drove past, too. Our injured friend was convinced that nobody would find her. Just as I was about to leave for help, a small red car pulled up – and out stepped my piano teacher. She knew I was walking (because she’d sponsored me) and thought it would be fun to see how I was doing.
She gladly picked up our injured friend and drove her home. Cindy and I managed to make it to the 18-mile checkpoint before we gave up. We didn’t quite make the 25 miles that year – but we did the next year.
Both Cindy and I were struck by the parallel between our walk experience and the story of the Good Samaritan. We didn’t blame the ambulance driver or the police – we knew they probably already had tired walkers filling their vehicles – but we were fascinated with the idea of someone unexpected being a rescuer.
Over the years, as I grew older and my faith grew too, I thought of entering the ministry. However, in the end I made other life choices. I decided to get married. I became a teacher to help support a husband whose goal was to enter the ministry. I decided that being a minister’s wife could be just as useful a contribution. Then my marriage ended unexpectedly and I found myself in my late 30s wondering what I’d given up.
I love my job working with child
ren and their parents and I have never regretted becoming a teacher, but I wondered about where my faith life was going.
My answer came slowly, and the one who taught me the most was a nine-year-old child, a student in my class.
Ryan was one of those strong kids who was tall for his age and constantly playing hockey or soccer. He was a delight in the classroom – quick to smile and even quicker to help others. The May he was in my class, Ryan was diagnosed with a brain tumour. He’d only been away from school for about two days with what seemed like the stomach flu. It was a shocking development. Everyone in the community asked, “why him?”
I learned what bravery was that year. Bravery is a grinning nine-year-old boy proudly showing you the brain surgery scars on his head and telling you it makes him a hero.
Almost a year after the diagnosis, Ryan died. We had a school board crisis team in to help students, staff and families. It would be hard not to be affected by the death of any child you teach. However, there was another bond I had with Ryan. His family and mine came from the same small, southwest Ontario town. The funeral was at the same church my oldest cousin was confirmed into. Ryan was buried down the road from the house where I was born.
During those days, the story of the walk-a-thon came back to me. When I was nine, my epic journey was a 25-mile walk. Ryan’s epic journey at the age of nine was battling cancer.
Thoughts of my piano teacher came back, too. Was her role one of ministry perhaps? My piano teacher and I went to the same church and her drive out to see how I was doing on the walk was part of her expression of faith and community. Because of this, she found herself in the right place at the right time.
As I found myself consoling students during that time after Ryan’s death, and later helping to plan a school memorial, I began to see that this too was ministry. Ministry is not about being ordained or having a formal role. It is a willingness to put ourselves in the right place and at the right time in whatever we are doing. It is a willingness to be there with others even when the place and time are harsh.
It’s not really a revolutionary idea. Most post-Reformation churches have emphasized the importance of lay leadership and ministry. However, it’s always an important idea to share. We can engage in ministry no matter who or where we are.
