My Story - Your race, not mine

‘Your race, not mine, that is what I desire to run; to finish off the work that others have begun.’

No, not the lament of  a frustrated mother trying to persuade her teenager to tidy their  bedroom. We used this song in church recently and as we sang, I recalled a hot summer’s day in France.

We were several weeks into ‘les grandes vacances’ and had reached that stage of the holidays when the novelty of all that lovely free time is wearing thin and poor Mum is tearing her hair out in the face of cries of ‘Mu-um. I’m boored!’ Why I’d also chosen to spring-clean in a heatwave remains a mystery. So, when the telephone rang it was a hot, cross, Mum that answered!

‘Bonjour , Mme Sigrist.  C’est Mme. G.’

‘ Ah, Mme G -  Bonjour! Ça va bien?

[Cold sweat]

Mme G was my child’s reception teacher. We got on well but contact between home and school was formal. Teachers here taught - their place was in the classroom and yours at the school gates. Brave was the parent who dared venture beyond that metaphorical white line.

I panicked.  What had I forgotten to do? Or, maybe (horrors!) my ‘petit ange’ had been caught in the playground teaching his friends rude words in English! I searched desperately for soothing pleasantries with which to placate an irate Mme G. 

But she cut straight to the chase: She’d heard I was Christian, yes?  A member of the English Church?

‘Yes?’

Did we have…what’s the word.? Did we have …services?

‘Yes!’ Phew! It was an enquiry. I plunged into ex-pat communications mode.

‘No, no, Mme S! A friend said you have books of prayers?’

By now I was back in meltdown. When normal conversation focuses on offspring’s spelling or whether the supermarket stocks the correct size of exercise book, it’s a bit of a leap to be talking about prayer.

So what was she saying? There was a particular prayer her friend wanted. La prière de Siegneur? Ah, yes! Could I dictate it over the phone please?

‘Of course. Ahem! Hold the line while I fetch my daughter’s bible’

‘Don’t worry, Mme S. She understands English.’

So on we went - slowly and clearly: ‘Our Father, who art in Heaven…Am I going too fast? No? Hallowed be thy name… That’s H-A-L-L-…’

Just then something strange happened. The flat was quiet. My son had lost interest and gone away to play. I sensed that this encounter was not as it seemed. It was as if something (or someone) was shifting gears and moving the encounter onto a far deeper level.

The pauses grew less, and I stopped spelling out the words to Mme G. She didn’t seem to need them. We were no longer doing dictation; we were praying.

Afterwards, we exchanged a few polite words, and Mme G hung up.

So, what was really happening? Who was the friend? Mme G herself maybe? I never found out. Although in September came news. Mme G was pregnant. And sadly we learned of the death from cancer of the other reception teacher. Did any of this have links with our surprise conversation on that summer morning? Had I let a golden chance to evangelise pass me by? Since then I’ve come to realise that it was really none of my business.

To return to that worship song: ‘Your race, not mine..’  Trying to impose my own agenda (or that of the latest speaker, spiritual craze or author) on events, rather than attempting to discern what God’s might be, isn’t the best way to go about bringing in The Kingdom. It’s taken me many years, and a number of incidents like that phone call to accept being one of many, very ordinary pieces in a much bigger picture. And to restrain myself from going off on a guilt trip every five minutes because I’m not dashing around doing Great Things.

I love those words of St Francis: ‘I have done what was mine to do; may Christ teach you what you are to do.’

Jane Sigrist worships at St Nicolas Newbury

MY STORY
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