[ k e l l e e ]

Kingdom Technology

2009-11-24T13:26:00.001-05:00

I once heard a speaker talk about what to look for in another speaker; 'someone who can communicate well' is certainly something I think we would all agree on. I heard yet another speaker who was praised beforehand by 'expert' speakers as a great communicator; but when he spoke, I couldn't tell what he was talking about...just a string of thoughts and one-liners and cliches...I couldn't see where we were going.

But from his message I did hear one thing: that words are being replaced by images in our culture. (Maybe he should have stuck to a pictionary style message!)

I'm not sure I agree with him, and for a message I fidgeted through, enduring til the end, I have been ruminating on this all week. What DOES it mean to communicate well in the new millennium? I am no public speaker, but I do have to communicate daily. And I notice when someone doesn't do it well. They are misunderstood. They are frustrated. Their audience starts to nod off. They sometimes start to yell or cry (like in the case of a three year old I know with a lisp trying to tell me what he got for his birthday, and as I asked him to repeat it for the fifth or sixth time, he got louder and louder, and eventually looked to his interpreter - Mommy).

Now the question at hand: ARE words being replaced by images? Certainly ours is an image-driven society. But I had a thought as he was talking about this in the context of how we do church...God left us the written WORD. And throughout the many centuries since it was written, we've had an oral tradition, again - words. Even Jesus, when using an image, did so with words. So images, of the internet/video/photograph variety, are a relatively recent development, and I think they deserve a little more scrutiny. Just because our culture is demanding them doesn't mean we have to cave. Jesus will draw all men to Himself, if we lift Him up. We don't necessarily have to constantly keep up with the cues the world is giving us.

I appreciate facebook. It's interesting how bold we can be on facebook. It's like Paul said to the Corinthians, "I, Paul, who am "timid" when face to face with you, but "bold" when away!" I feel like I can say all kinds of things in this public platform that I would not have the voice to speak when talking face to face. Firstly, because I can communicate so much better in writing and get tongue tied when I speak, especially to groups. But when I can gather my thoughts, and write them down, I do feel bold.

So I boldly wrote something on my wall yesterday about an observation I made at church, that I saw, for the first time ever (probably not the last) someone browsing the internet during the sermon. Wow. The responses. I deleted most, because I just wanted people to think. But all over the map; in defense of and vehemently against. My friends on remote mission fields were blown away. It was embarrassing, actually.

On the surface, taking notes on a laptop or an iPhone is legit. But the temptation is just so strong to use it otherwise. And the people sitting nearby...they're looking over your shoulder, too, wondering what is going on on your screen. The jury is still out on this. But just like shushing the teens sitting nearby, I am still prone to ask the internet cruiser to shut it down during church please.

It distracts me.
It annoys me.
I think it is disrespectful.

Somewhere along the way of new wineskins, we have lost some of the reverence that for centuries has been a part of corporate worship. I have been to lots of dead cathedrals where the cold stone walls and floors are beautiful, but the warmth of the Spirit is buried with the patriarchs beneath the mosaics.

We attended a church in Rome where if you arrived early, you did your visiting and chatting outside; once you entered the sanctuary, it was quiet prayer time until the service commenced. Then it was a noisy celebration of worship to God amidst vast diversity of culture and language. Our focus was completely on the Lord, having prepared our hearts in prayer beforehand.

I like that idea.

And somehow, courtesy has gone out of fashion. I remember when cell phones made their debut, we called them "electronic leashes" because people felt obligated to answer them every time they rang, as if they had no option. Unfortunately, this is still the case. "Just a second, I HAVE to take this." If I have made the effort to speak with you face to face, do me the courtesy of paying attention to what I am saying, and instead, require the caller to wait for you. It's worse now: emails come blasting in at any moment, interrupting the flow of a good conversation.

So, in this image-driven culture, I am calling for some more scrutiny about the limits and self-control we place on our use of technology.

Can we consider others better than ourselves when it comes to interrupting, distracting and offending?

Is what you have to browse, answer, or respond to more important than setting a good example, being polite, or relating to those around you?

Can we bring respect and reverence back to church with us next Sunday?

Can we leave some of our distractions at home and come into the sanctuary unencumbered by the cares of this world and really focused on worshiping God?

Don't you get tired of your cell phone and computer during the week and look forward to an environment without it on Sunday morning??!!!

I write this inclusively, as I have been known to distract, to offend, to be irreverent, to interrupt a good conversation to take a call, to be rude and selfish.

Let our love for God and for His people be our guide. Philippians 2:3-4 Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves. Each of you should look not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others.

Hope Against Hope

2009-10-30T22:02:00.000-04:00

I was reading through some old journals last night, amazed at the fact that we've been at this marathon of financial hardship for almost 24 months now. I memorized Ps. 27:13-14 (I am still confident of this: that I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living; wait for the Lord, be still and wait for the Lord) LAST October, but it seems so fresh in my mind, like I worked on it yesterday! And I stand in awe of the Lord that we are still intact, in every way. We are so blessed; we are still in the small fraction of a percent of the most:

* wealthy

* healthy

* happily married

* with successful children who love God

* with incredible caring friends

* well-educated

people in the world! Do you realize how rare that is? I know our cup is overflowing, and we have literally nothing to complain about. So we go on praising God as he stretches us from glory to glory.

My latest stretch has been dealing with the idea of hope against hope. I know we've all probably wrestled with the same idea.

When our heart is sick due to deferred hope, what do we do next?
What about the next time the opportunity comes along to hope?
Do we push it down, get cynical, get our hopes up??

I know love hopes all things, so the right thing to do is open our heart again to hoping, but at the same time, that bare heart is

so exposed
so raw

especially if it's recently been disappointed. And perhaps I am still learning what it means to "hope in God" not in the thing I am asking him to accomplish. Seems like such a platitude, but there is a reality there that I still don't think I've grasped.

I have found a peace that plows on through the storm
I have found a joy that jumps over sadness
I have found a love that lights up every room
I have found a trust that teaches how to rest
I have found a grace that guides me by the hand
I have found a strength that stands like a mountain
I have found...I've found You.

You are all I want, You are all I need, everything my heart could HOPE for
We are longing for the glory of the Lord, 'cause we know there's so much more
Only You, fill my soul.

Thank you Kim Walker for recording this amazing song. I have also learned that "only You" really means God in all His fullness, which includes His precious people, my brothers and sisters in Christ who stand with us in all our trials and blessings.

So, if I can just find that sweet spot in the crook of God's arm, where I can snuggle down and rest in Him.

"You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart." Jeremiah 29:13

80 is the new 40

2009-08-05T13:24:00.000-04:00

One of the things Kirk and I have talked about over and over again, is that we want to be like Caleb and Joshua who said they were as strong at 80 as they were at 40. I have no desire to retire at 65. I want to go and work and accomplish and be productive and REALLY LIVE until I die. There are examples all around us...Billy Graham, Mother Teresa, Jimmy Carter.

I have seen this is several less-known people, too. Missionary friends who just keep going, well into their 60s, 70s and beyond. One friend, who is 70, just sold some land so he could buy a facility for his trade school in a developing nation.

Our Haitian friend, Pastor Val and his sister Yrma, are 70 and 68 respectively. They are still going strong caring for 30 children. I know how impatient I am sometimes with children, even though I have raised four of my own; I can't imagine having 30+ around, and in the conditions they live in!

But I talked to Pastor Val last night, and told him of the great provision God has given him. He was so amazed and praised the Lord, and just began talking about the great VISION he has and how God is providing. You could hear the youth in his voice! He is like a young man with all the energy of a 30 year old! He's not even close to calling it quits, taking it easy or going golfing! He still has lots to accomplish and still looks forward to seeing God work miracles on his behalf.

I want to be like that.

Testimony BEFORE the Victory

2009-07-29T17:45:00.000-04:00

I have often thought that I'd like to see someone get up in church and give a testimony about how they are surviving the trial...not just what happened at the end, when they experienced the victory, but how they sensed God's presence in the midst of the storm. I think this, b/c we have been in one for a while. Sometimes it's even DISCOURAGING to hear about the triumphs people experience, b/c you wonder, why isn't that happening to me? Why isn't God helping me? We even experience spiritual jealousy...how come God is helping that person but not me?

So, although I am not getting up at church and sharing this, I'm posting it up on fb for "all the world" to see.

We are in a storm. We are in a desert. We have been pregnant with a dream that has been a difficult pregnancy and it seems we have been in labor for years. I have written about it before and talked to so many of my friends and acquaintances about it, so it's not news. But it struck me again this morning that God has truly been right there with us through it.

I had the image of a pregnant woman on bed rest. She is unable to do anything, unable to move about, go about her normal activities. It is a terrible trial, waiting. But there is the hope of a new life that keeps her in that bed, taking care of herself and her baby.

This scripture has brought me great comfort through this period: Psalm 27:13-14, "I am still confident of this: that I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord." Boy, that waiting. It's tough. But our hope is in God, that He indeed will bring deliverance. Just like that woman on bed-rest...that baby will come. It is natural law - the baby will be delivered.

So what is our baby? Our hope is for a healthy one, but we never really know what we're going to get when we are expecting a child. And the same with the will of God. We have an idea, dreams and visions of what that child will look like, be like, do, etc.

Already, there have been signs of what is to come. Not what I expected, but better than I could have imagined. Who knew that in the midst of praying through our business trials, God would swoop in and make provision for our Haitian pastor friend? Who knew that I would get to pray for a potential client who is trying to conceive? Who knew that a family from the northeast would find a home here and we would get to speak to them about changing the world? Who knew that our kids would all be gainfully employed and provided for in every way this summer? Who knew that college funds would be made available BECAUSE of our trial?

Our specific prayer list for the things we are believing to happen in our business is still being brought before the Lord daily, but I no longer get disappointed when those prayers aren't answered right away. Or it turns out differently than I thought, and even makes things look worse on the surface.

God is weaving an intricate tapestry of his will on the earth. Over the centuries. Around the world. In different generations, with different people. Through the great and the small; through kings and peasants. He sees it all from the end to the beginning and I know that I am just a small part, but a vital part.

So although the storm isn't over, and much uncertainty remains, I am still confident of this: that I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.

Red-headed Woodpeckers and the Intimacy of the Lord

2009-07-10T07:22:00.000-04:00

Each morning, if I'm not running out the door, I have the privilege of making a cappucino (with my new $20 Craig's List Swiss-made Solis cappucino machine!) and sitting in my porch swing to pray and read the Word of God. I usually spend about an hour there, enjoying the blessing of the morning view out into the woods. I'm a nature-girl, and I love it when a family of deer graze peacefully a few feet from my loggia, or wild turkeys (a treat!) come pecking through the trees. It makes me think of those last chapters of Job, where God asks him where he is when the wild animals birth their young. (Job 39:1,2) There are so many things that we will never witness, just b/c we are human.

I have been hearing a 'noise' in the woods in the mornings, and have briefly wondered what it is. But I hear it a lot and wonder it often. A squirrel in distress? A bird? Some critter I don't know about?

But this morning I saw it! It flew by and made that weird noise simultaneously! It's a beautiful red-headed woodpecker, and there were actually three.

So what's the big deal? I live in the woods, and see stuff like that all the time. But the big deal is that God, in all of His greatness, knew what those silent imaginings were of mine. And He brought those birds calling, right into my morning, just for me. I never told anyone about those fleeting thoughts of wondering what that noise was. I didn't even think about it enough to research it for myself. Just one of those, "I wonder what that is?" thoughts that rolls through curious minds all the time.

With all the wars, famine, economic crises, and heartache in the world this morning, little me and one of my insignificant hankerings caught the Lord's attention, and He gave me an answer.

Just because He loves me.

Faith, not Sight

2009-07-09T13:15:00.000-04:00

My friend Eleatta, an artist, asked several people to write some thoughts on what walking by faith and not by sight means to them. She wants to incorporate those thoughts in a painting on the subject. The exercise of this spiritual principle has manifest itself most recently in praying through the wilderness that our business is in right now.

Of course, Abraham is the ultimate Faith-Man. But I've always been a little jealous of him, b/c he seemed to know that God told him something, and what that something was. Did he walk around in those hours or days between the time God told him to slay Isaac and the walk up that mountain, wondering, "Now, was it really Isaac whom God was talking about? Maybe I misheard him. Was it really God who said that, or just my own thoughts?" The Bible seems to say that Abe knew that he knew that he knew what God said about it.

I'm not always so sure. It has been a rare moment when I know God has said something to me.

There are certain things in my life that I KNOW are God's perfect will, and those things are easy to ask God for: for people to come to know Him, for His presence in my life, for His comfort when things are tough.

But it's those gray areas, where I wonder, "Did God really say that?" I don't usually think it's the enemy speaking, but I do wonder if it's my own thoughts. Things like, "marry that guy" or "start that business" or "go on that missions trip." Then when the going gets tough, we go back to those thoughts and wonder if it was God's leading or my own desire. And it's very easy to justify that it was God when it's something you really want!

That's where the faith comes in, many times without the sight part. We may not 'see' for a long time. But with the seed of a dream, an idea, lots of prayer, and a clean life, I think the Christian can move 'in faith' on a particular idea. 'Going out on a limb' might be another way of saying it, but the Christian does it with much prayerful consideration, believing that God will close doors and open windows along the way to direct us.

So for us in this season of wilderness, our faith and hope is that the desire of our heart will come to pass, that our business will survive, thrive and multiply even in this desert.

When Israel fled from the Egyptians in the time of Moses, they lived in the desert for a long time. And they really lived. It wasn't a vacation, but they always had enough food, drink, their clothes and shoes didn't wear out, they had homes, AND they multiplied. A whole new generation of people were born, and they were the ones to take the Promised Land.

This is my faith right now: that The Tuscan Group will not just survive; but that it will thrive and multiply. I don't see it at all in the natural. In the physical world we live in everyday, not much has tangibly changed. But with my faith eyes, I see homes sold, lots developed, carpenters and masons and plumbers out there working, families finding their dream homes, debts paid, obligations met, people staying in our basement finding rest and refreshment, orphans fed and clothed - overflow flowing!

So how do I walk this out? I keep the meditations of my heart and the words of my mouth pleasing to the Lord, and in accordance with the dream that is within. I won't know til it's over whether or not I really missed it. But it won't be for lack of faith; and the Bible says that it is impossible to please God without faith.

Choosing to Bless the Lord

2009-06-15T22:20:00.000-04:00

Matt Redmond's music has ministered to me so much since about 2000 when someone gave us a mix cd with some of his worship music on it. We had moved to Verona, Italy, and we were really all alone. We did not know anyone there, let alone have a fellowship of believers to be with, and we were forced to hunker down with each other and Jesus. We lived among so much beauty - the well-preserved antiquity, the language, the food and wine, the art and generalized creativity that seems to seep through everything Italians do. But there was a decided absence of the presence of the Lord. I imagine everything there would be exponentially more beautiful if the Lord walked among the Italians. The glory of the Lord seems to have departed those tremendous cathedrals! There are so few who really know and love God, and the darkness is pretty dark.

But back to Matt Redmond... the song, "Blessed Be Your Name" is Job's song, and is every believer's heartcry when going through adversity. Job is really the sufferer's hero, and Mr. Redmond has so eloquently put that hero's struggle to music. Of course we praise God when streams of abundance flow, but what about in the wilderness? When the darkness closes in? Will we STILL say, "blessed be your glorious name?" Do we really believe God is God and we are the creation? God does still have the power to do as He pleases, right? Though there's pain in the offering... So many times I have worshiped with tears in my eyes, and I cry now as I listen to this song again, worship pours from my heart, but He gives and takes away, and my heart will choose to say, blessed be Your name.

I believe this is when it is a true sacrifice of praise, when it is really the last thing our flesh wants to do...this is a sweet aroma to the Lord. I also think these last several months of painful economic times, when so many are in the same boat as we are, have been when our worship has been the most pure, the most sacrificial, and therefore very precious to God.

Our struggles are not as severe as some, I know things could be so much worse, but everyone suffers in different measure at different times in life, and I assume our suffering days are not over. This is why Heaven and all it's perfection becomes more appealing as the years roll on. I want to learn the lessons of drawing on the power of the Holy Spirit, what a gift, so that when times of drought come again, this lesson is an old familiar friend.

I wrote this to a friend back around the first of March and I am so amazed to read these months old words now:

I better watch what I put up on fb status! I've had so many dear friends wondering the same thing. I was just browsing around fb one night, when Kirk wasn't home (you know he's working in Wilson and only coming home on weekends and Wed. night, right?), and I was listening to that Newsboys song, Blessed Be the Name, and I just wanted to declare it. I had the most amazing worship time that night. I feel like my faith has been shaken down to the absolute basics. Why do I serve God? Why do I pray? Why do I give? Is it to see results? To be blessed? If it all was taken away, which a lot of "it" has, will I still serve/love Him? Everything is very okay. I feel at peace although a storm is raging. There is nothing left in the business. One more month, then it's gone. Who knows? one day at a time, let's see what will happen tomorrow, next week, next month. I wake up every day and say, wow, we made it through another day, I never thought we'd make it to March.

The specter of what we fear is much worse the the thing itself, I think.

There have been many times of pain in our lives. Uncertainty, sadness, disappointment, physical pain, illness, hopelessness, fear, misunderstanding...why should this be so unexpected? Didn't Jesus tell his friends, in this world you will have troubles, but be cheerful, because I have overcome that world. Our hope is fully in His presence with us through these trials. His joy is my strength.

My heart will CHOOSE to say blessed be the name of the Lord.

Overflow

2009-06-10T09:45:00.000-04:00

This month has been full. Provision. Tears and goodbyes. Reunions. Celebrations. God's absolute miraculous provision in our lives, constantly leaves me wondering, "how is it that it is mid-June and we are still standing?" I wish I could say that the breakthrough we've been hoping for has arrived and we are on the other side, but I CAN say that even though it looked like all was lost, and we were going under way back in March....we are still here. The Tuscan Group still exists, and is in business. The Mettys are still functioning and happy. I am thankful for THIS day. And I will face tomorrow when it comes. Thank you Lord for your GREAT provision. So many times, I've said, "not what I was expecting, but better than I could have imagined." I have learned to really pray. To stay focused in prayer, looking to God for His deliverance, in any way He chooses. I am His willing servant, and He, a kind Master.

Saying goodbye (again) to my two oldest children, as they embark on a summer journey has been tougher than I thought. It doesn't help that Abby wrote another incredibly dear and heartfelt note and left it on my pillow the night before they left! But packing them in that little Honda for a cross-country trek, and with some uncertainty ahead, was tearful, to say the least. I realized that it's not about worrying or not wanting them to go. It's about saying goodbye to a very sweet chapter in life. Sending your babies off to be adults. Wishing them the same adventure and more that you enjoyed. Seeing them make their own memories, and finding the 'stuff' of their own lore that they will tell and retell to their children. Moving beyond knowing their every move, to only hearing about some of their every moves, when THEY want to tell. Not being the "mommy" anymore. I think I just miss having little ones around. I loved that so much. Sniff. Sniff.But then another unexpected blessing comes along. It's like taking a walk and turning a corner, and seeing something you didn't know was there. And, oh, isn't that nice? Somehow, I stumbled upon my old Quisqueya friends. That was the name of the school I taught at in Haiti in 1984/85. That Kindergarten class, those missionary families, those fun housemates. All those five-year-olds are now 29 and some are parents, missionaries themselves, grown ups! It's been very fulfilling to hear from them and see what they've accomplished in their lives. Not that Kindergarten has much to do with that...but there is that poster that went around a few years ago, "Everything I Need To Know I Learned In Kindergarten." I think we tuck people away in our memory, and they are frozen in time there. Little Handel with the big hands. Hanneke, who could speak five languages. The Labady's who gave me a beautiful handmade Mennonite quilt when they had me over for dinner. Of course, they all grew and changed and had new experiences, just like me. In one way, we want them to stay the same. But in another, we love to see what has transpired.

Same with some old college friends that I lost track of soon after college. Fun, fun to reconnect. I always look to see if they are still serving God, and then I feel such a sense of joy. Another one made through the marathon of life (so far)! I feel a camaraderie with those fellow followers of Christ. Like we're really in this thing together. Like we really and truly believe what we have read about and heard about, that there is a God in Heaven, that He IS involved in the affairs of men, and that he has a profound love for me and a purpose in my life.

Celebrations. Abby had her 23rd birthday. I was 23 when I went to Haiti and met her Daddy. On the heels of that significant day, we rejoiced with her on her completion of a university education. So much work. So much effort. So much accomplishment and travel and favor and skill. But also so much joy. You go, girl! And then my birthday, or should I say birth-month. It doesn't actually arrive until the 18th, but my loved ones have been so sweet to celebrate me. Several friends have remembered, brought up the possibility of going out for lunch, and my kids have already given me a great gift (see the album titled, "tanti auguri mamma" by Abby.) And my parents always have me over for crab cakes, just me, with as many as I want. :)

I have realized lately how incredibly full my life really is. I cannot keep this overflow to myself. I must let it run out, flow to those who need some moisture in their own lives, bless others who need the extra that I have, let it mingle with the overflow of others to make a rich, colorful ministry to the world around us. Regardless of the lack in some areas, I can't help but be so joyful about what I do have; and what I do have is multiplied thousands what most people have. And I'm not just talking about physical things.

What a great time to be alive!

Christmas musings

2008-12-13T11:04:00.002-05:00

It's Christmas time and I've had way more time to think and ponder the season, due to sheer lack of business and activity. No extra money to spend, so it does keep one home more. When gas prices shot up to $4/gallon right after we moved into our house, we felt compelled to stay home, conserve, and learn to stay put and make our own fun here at home. I think it caught on; we all wandered out less, became home bodies of sorts out of necessity and got used to not running around all the time. Living out here in the country made us plan our outings: we're going to town, so what do we need to accomplish in this one day out? I felt like a pioneer. :)

That was back in May and June. As the year wore on, and I mean WORE ON, no sales, no income, no showings...discouragement tried to creep in. We resisted and resisted it. We learned to pray and believe and lean on the Lord for our positive outlook. We learned to speak what we believe by faith and not what we were seeing all around us. We finally had our first closing of the year on September 27, at a profit, and then another around mid November, at a loss. What a time of rejoicing that was.

But the year is almost over. Christmas is upon us. This year of survival is almost over. What will 2009 bring? All the predictions are pretty dire. So what do we take away from this year? What can we carry with us through the next months, years, the rest of our lives.

I drive Jessie to school each morning, about a fifteen-minute trip each way, so I have some great times communing with God during that time. It's quiet, no traffic lights, just me and the Lord. And it's usually beautiful that time of day, so that makes it all the sweeter. And one day, these were my musings:

Today, we walk by faith and not by sight. I was praying about what we can REALLY expect from God. I was thinking about all the faithful who suffer, sometimes even for their faith, like Daniel - who I'm sure did not want to go to Babylon!! And the martyrs, who I'm sure didn't want to be sawn in two. So what did they pray for? Provision? Deliverance? I'm sure they did, but what they also prayed for with expectation and RECEIVED was true peace in the midst of their horrible circumstances. That is what I believe God will do for us, without a shadow of a doubt. No matter what comes down the pike, His PRESENCE and perfect PEACE to handle it will be evident. Since we cannot see the big picture of what God is doing globally, nationally, or within our local area or fellowship, we must TRUST Him that He will provide that peace to handle difficult times. I feel there's been a shift in my prayer life. I will still pray for the other things - sales, provision, blessing - but the presence and peace of God is the most important thing for the long haul, and what we REALLY need. If we have that, then it really doesn't matter what else is going on. Sort of riding above the clouds emotionally; storm and clouds beneath, sunshine above (like when you break through on a plane).

This is what the advent, the coming of Christ, really means. He came to bring life. He breathes life into our situations, our circumstances, our pain, our struggles, our fears, our anxiety, the death that we bring upon ourselves. He saves us from hell, but he has so much more for us in this life. Life.

leftover rice

2008-09-11T21:08:00.008-04:00

I received this email today from our Haitian friend...it's a miracle he can use email. I left it as he sent it, because his mistakes are endearing:

"KMetty

How are you doing ? I hope that you are verry well.Thanks for your help supporting the children and my gospel ministry in Haiti.The money that you sent

for the children came on time .We were money and foodless .Thank you for brother Jone he was a blessing to the church and to the children during one week revivle.We were not able to take good care him but god knows our heart.We love you we pray for the whole fammily .PLease pray for us

,we were suffuring a verry hard time by the storms ;during two weeks .Every body stay home by GUSTAV and many others are on the way .More than one handred people gat kill .Farms and cattles all craps distroy .Now one pound of rice cost ten dollars.Please pray for us we love you may GOD bless you,your fammily and assembly

Salut from the children .

Yours in CHRIST JESUS

Pastor Val Franklin"

I cannot imagine the weight he must feel to care for so many others. I've thought about him and the children he cares for all through this active hurricane season, and wondered how they endure. Then I get this note, and see that they have survived, but have suffered hunger and desperation. I must ask myself, how does the scripture about the righteous' children not begging bread work in a place like that? Maybe the children are not begging, but I know that I have only sent him a meager $100 now and then, and that it obviously only buys ten pounds of rice.

We had three or four tablespoons of rice leftover from dinner the other night; it was tempting to just throw it away, but I told the family someone needed to eat it out of respect for Pastor Val and the kids. Remember when your mom used to chide you about the starving children in China or Africa that would love to have what was left on your dinner plate and you better eat it all? It has taken on a whole new meaning now. We have leftover nights for dinner from time to time. I think every family should schedule one in each week.

There's a story in the Old Testament about David's mighty men bringing him a cup of water from a well in a dangerous place. Instead of drinking it, he poured it out on the ground, as a sacrifice. Those men risked their lives to get that water for him, and he was too moved by their courage and devotion to just drink it. I feel that way about my leftovers. I can't just throw them away. I have to make sure I am honoring the hungry people we know by respecting the food.

In this world we will have trouble, but be happy, God has overcome the world and its troubles.

Neighbors, near and far

2008-07-25T08:08:00.002-04:00

Fast forward 10 years….it’s the summer of 2000 and Kirk’s job has once again taken us to the land of the boot. We are assigned to Verona this time, but make time for a trip to Abruzzo to see our old home and hopefully Ines. We sent her a letter alerting her to our plans and our phone number. We didn’t hear back, but decided to go for it anyway. We stayed in a nasty hotel in Avezzano, and trekked across the barren valley to Celano the next day. After driving around Celano for a while trying to remember exactly where it all was, we found Ines’ house. We parked and knocked on the door. Her daughter, who readily remembered us and hugged us all, asked us to wait in the living room while she went to the neighbor’s house to fetch her mamma. They had gotten our correspondence, and were expecting us.

When Ines came in, there was a bit of a shout and we all jumped up to engage in the requisite hugging and kissing. She looked a little older, was dressed all in black, as was fitting for an Abruzzese widow, but still had that sparkle in her eye. She regaled us with stories of travel, the lottery and family goings-on. She had been to Gardaland, and had indeed ridden the roller coasters. I bet she wasn’t wearing her widow black then! She also told us how she’d won money betting on the races and the lottery. She is an interesting old lady.

Next we all went out to the garage to make pasta. She donned an apron, and deftly mixed raw eggs into a mound of flour. A little olive oil, a pinch of salt and a lot of elbow grease. Then into the pasta machine it goes. Each of us had a go, and fashioned our dinner – fettucine. But of course, that wasn’t the only thing we ate. We ate course after course, meats, vegetables, bread, pasta, fruit, on and on it went. She pulled out all the stops. We were agonizingly full. And just when we thought we would pop, her daughter-in-law proudly brought in a liquor soaked cake, a specialty of this region. Not only could we eat no more, but the cake was revolting. Cooperate (or maybe obey?) we did, however, because time had not tempered Ines’ tendency to be pushy.

Our Italian was much better by then and we were able to communicate with her and her family. One of the bonuses of that day was that we were able to go back into the house next door where had lived. Another neighbor family had moved into it years ago. It was so funny to go in and see it again after 10 years. Everything was the same, except the trees and plants were bigger. It seemed smaller, of course; how did we ever manage in that little house?

But I do think of Ines occasionally...do I welcome foreigners like she did? The whole idea of small town community fascinates me; I think we have missed it in our lives, except for the times we have lived in Italy. Trying to maintain a private life is all but impossible there, as they expect you to visit and become fairly intimate friends if you live next door. I like the Italian model, and I hope to replicate that in my new home. Already we've had some interesting neighbor experiences and are becoming fast friends, for better or for worse, with our new neighbors.

Ines, 1989 Part II

2008-07-24T07:38:00.002-04:00

...As our time there came to a close, Ines and I mourned our coming separation. We spent more and more time together. One day in March, she invited me to the Festa della Donne, the Festival of Women. It was the original Girls Night Out. I wasn’t sure what I was getting into as a van full of neighborhood ladies pulled up in my driveway one evening around 7. They were already loud, and dressed to the nines. Ines introduced me all around; of course, she knew everyone. On this night, the men held the fort down while the women went out en masse and cut loose. Every restaurant in Abruzzo was filled that night with grandmothers, single women and young moms. I felt a little like I was being initiated into some secret sorority. It was like we were all running away from home, from our duties, and doing something naughty.

The restaurant was set up like a banquet. The waiters and cooks were all men, the band as well, and the women ruled the night. A long table stretched one length of the room with an open dance floor on the other. The band played at one end. There was music, laughter and conversation. A few women were dancing. This was going to be a night to remember. Each table had a bottle of red, a bottle of white (thank you, Billy Joel) and a bottle of aqua minerale. I had my biggest language faux pas of my life that night, trying to ask for tap water and saying toilet water instead. My friends at the table roared in slightly drunken laughter.

Each course was brought out – eight or nine of them eventually – and between each one a 15 or 20 minute delay for more dancing. We danced everything from polka and the twist to the popular decadent dance of the year, the lambada. All of this revelry didn’t begin until 8, so by 11 we were just starting the main course and I was exhausted! (My baby was still getting up at night and I was chronically sleep deprived.) I hung on til the end, though and truly did enjoy an evening that was so culturally rich, it was an epic moment in my European experience. Ines was beaming, like she had let me in on their little regional secret. I could see that my joy was her joy. We all went home to our sleeping families sometime after 1 am. And looked forward to next year.

Our time in that little village came to a close a few months later. Ines and I said our tearful goodbyes and promised to stay in touch as best we could. We reluctantly packed up our household items and our three small children and took one last ride into Rome in our very small BMW 325. (how did we do that we three kids under 4...how did we do anything with three kids under 4??)

I wrote to Ines for a while and she to me, each of us having the letters translated for more clarification. She lost Augusto to a heart attack and had a grandson born after we left. I wrote to her of our move across country and another baby a few years later. Her friendship was more of a highlight to me than all the castles, cathedrals and antiquity Italy has to offer, and I wished someday I could knock on her door and feel her brutal bear hug once more. Little did I know...

Ines, 1989

2008-07-23T12:11:00.002-04:00

My Italian neighbor, Ines, made a lasting impression upon me...

When we pulled up in the driveway, I knew this was it. I didn’t even have to go inside. After 6 months cooped up in a Roman apartment with 2 toddlers and now a colicky newborn, with no yard and no porch or balcony, I was ready to move on. The white stucco house was surrounded by a small yard with fencing and a gate at the foot of the driveway. There were well-maintained vegetable and flower gardens on one side of the yard and a great view of a 12^th century castle up above us on the hillside that made up this little Italian village we would call home for the next 9 months. The inside of the house was almost inconsequential at this point – I was sold – although all our excitement was confirmed upon entry. Three distinct bedrooms, two baths, all the necessities. It even had a garage with a fireplace!

One of the amenities of this particular house was unexpected and certainly not in the listing. Her name was Ines, and she was the best part of living in that house. Within hours of our move-in, she appeared at the door bearing some token of greeting. She lived next door, was about 55 years old and fully the stereotypical Italian housewife. Not yet a grandmother, but ripe for the job as she oogled over our blonde-haired, blue-eyed children, she was curious about why we were there. For a short time, I wondered if her overture of friendship was solely based on the fact that her adult son, Cesare, needed a job and my husband was an important engineer working on the new Texas Instruments factory in town. (She even offered him $5,000 once as a personal bonus!)

But my suspicions were unfounded. She was such a faithful friend to me. When I returned to the US and encountered foreigners living in my neighborhood, I realized just how extraordinary she was. I have never poured as much time and energy into anyone as Ines did me. Not even close.

Nearly every day at first, she was at the door with treats for the kids. She always required un baccetto before they were allowed to have the candy though. Only 2-year-old Jonathan was bold enough at first to give the “little kiss” – he knew the power of a bargain. She and her husband Augusto owned a “bar,” a little snack shop/soda fountain/coffee and alcohol bar. Their house was a three-story structure with the bar and their kitchen/living room on the first floor, their sleeping quarters on the second and an apartment being prepared for their son and his wife-to-be on the third floor.

Her home was a source of entertainment for the children. There was a garage/barn behind the house and a garden and pigsty behind that. Two huge ugly pigs lived there. The pigs’ blue eyes and big fat noses fascinated them. There were chickens and rabbits housed in the garage-barn. We ended up with one lucky rabbit that we promptly named “Weber.” I have no idea where that name came from! But he was spared, at least for 9 months, the fate of his garage-mates and was our family pet. There was always a fire in Ines’ kitchen fireplace through that cold winter, and the heat it provided was only embellished by the warmth of Ines’ winsome personality and friendship. She insisted I prende il caffe with her as often as possible, even though I was breastfeeding and shouldn’t have the level of caffeine an Italian espresso provided. Besides that, I didn’t even really like coffee back then. We put lots of sugar and milk in and I only sipped it. She mixed a little coffee with chocolate and warm milk as a swimming pool for the little animal crackers that the children loved as a treat. A trip to the bar was always necessary as well for the candy – in exchange for a little kiss, of course.

The language barrier didn’t hinder Ines’ efforts. My Italian hadn’t progressed much beyond buon giorno and ciao in the 6 months we’d lived in Rome. Everyone there spoke English. But out here in the country, I needed to move on. Ines was a patient tutor, although she probably had no idea I viewed her as such. She would never allow me to get out my dictionary to look up an unfamiliar word. She would gesture in a sign language or explain using different vocabulary. Little by little, we began to communicate using words although other forms of communication were going on all the time. Of course, as everyone knows, Italians are experts at sign language. She was becoming a dear friend.

Her gifts continued throughout that time – fresh homemade fettucine, eggs, vegetables, wine from their vineyard. In the spring they butchered one of the pigs. Poor thing, hanging there in the garage by its hind hooves, draining. Even Jonathan piped in with his sole Italian word, schiffo, “gross,” the sentiment we all felt. Ines used every bit of that animal and was soon at our door with pork chops, soap, and headcheese…I think.

I learned so much of that culture from Ines. She talked with me about village life, her church, friendships, loud arguments, farming, her travels, raising children. She was a knowledgeable woman, highly intelligent, and well known and liked in the community. She greeted my parents warmly when they came from the States for a visit, took them into her kitchen and fed them. We all still talk about her and her loathsome homemade wine.

At times she could be annoying, to be sure. She was pushy and opinionated. She dominated conversations, taking them where she wanted them to go and avoiding subjects that were too close for comfort. She went on for weeks about the fact that we had not baptized our newborn son, as was not our belief. I am sure she was quite worried about Nathan’s place in heaven, and she probably secretly had the priest over while she was babysitting! But all good friends have their problems and all good friends work them out...

More tomorrow....

haitian safari

2008-07-21T16:46:00.004-04:00

The alarm went off and shattered the pre-dawn silence that enveloped the sleeping stucco house. My room was away from the others, down in the lower level, tucked into the back part of the lush, tropical lot. I swung my legs out of the loose covers and as my feet touched the sea-grass rug that covered the cold, tile floor, the bed squeaked loudly. I quickly showered, dressed, and tried to quietly open the iron gate that protected the big house where the five American women lived. I was unsuccessful, and again the squeaky gate broke the early morning stillness of 4 am. The roosters and dogs weren’t even awake yet. I was the only thing making noise.

My feet stepped out into the dark, dusty road that led up, up, up to the little house where the Morency family lived. The walk was a pleasant one, and as I began to wake from my slumbering, I picked up the pace. The air was wet with dew, and cool, a pleasure I didn’t want to miss, for I knew with the rising of the sun, the temperature would soar, and the humidity would be a curse. Carrying only a small lunch satchel and no camera this time, I crossed over the dirty puddles, sidestepped the large rocks I could see, and tripped over the ones hidden in the shadows. I knew my feet were already getting dirty in my loose sandals, walking the half-mile or so on the back street that I had become so familiar with walking to school every morning. I trekked this path on my way a little farther up the road to Quisqueya Christian School, where I taught an eclectic mix of international kindergarteners the basics of reading, writing and ‘rithmetic.

The Morency’s home was a little before the school and off a side road. Handel Morency was one of my favorite students, and certainly the biggest five year old I’d ever met, with hands as big as mine, dark black skin and a few missing teeth when he smiled his shy smile. He once brought a “zaboca,” an avocado, to school for Show and Tell, and shyly revealed, “I don’t know how to say in English.” His parents were full of giving and totally emptied of themselves. Well-educated, a nurse and a doctor of sorts, they served their beloved Haiti in a remote village clinic. My thirst for experiences and learning had led me to ask if they would take me to see their work sometime, and they had asked me to join them this particular Saturday. It was only about 50 miles from Port-au-Prince, but a long morning’s journey that had to begin by 4:30.

Their home was modest, but not the poor, dirty shacks most people lived in around here. The walls and floor were concrete, the roof tile. Inside there was little furniture or decoration, but lots of light, lots of sleepy children and lots of love. Rhoda and the young woman who lived with them and helped around the house were busy in the kitchen preparing breakfast and lunch. In my preparations, I had forgotten to eat any breakfast. Actually, it was too early for anything to plummet into my stomach. Rhoda welcomed me into her home and offered me coffee, some bread, “anything?” Their simple surroundings humbled me. Handel came out of the bedroom rubbing his sleepy, big round eyes. He was taken aback at my presence and shyly went running to his mamma. The Creole chatter from the kitchen and the sounds of roosters, dogs, frying bacon, crying children all mingled into a warm lullaby that threatened to send me back to sleep. Now Rhoda and Gerard were ready to go and we said our goodbyes to the children. We were back on the dusty road, just as the sky was starting to turn pink and the colors along the road were coming to life. Red hibiscus, pink and purple bougainvillea, the greens of banana trees and palms, the deep greens of ivy covered with layers of dust from the dry season. I don’t think it had rained now for over a month. We passed a dead cat, no, a rat!, and crossed to the other side. Quisqueya came into view and dirt quickly changed to broken asphalt and soon we were on the Delmas, the main road. We caught a tap-tap with a sleepy driver and bounded down, down the Delmas on our way to the market to catch a bus.

The ocean in the distance was gray in the early morning light, surrounded by craggy, barren mountains on three sides. The Delmas looked from the top like it just ended in the sea. We arrived into a congested area full of the sights and smells of the Saturday morning market. People and animals mixed into a press of life all moving in different directions. Some would meet their death today, to be someone’s supper. Two chickens dangled by their feet in a maid’s hand, oblivious to their fate. We found our van, technically another version of the tap-tap, but not painted in the typical way of most public transportation. A hundred colors were normally splashed on every imaginable surface of tap-taps, decorated in scenes from the Bible, “Bon Dieu” “Jesus is Love” “Love Baby” splashed on the front, sides, back. Virtual mobile art galleries!

Rhoda and I slid into the bench seat of a 15-passenger van. The odor of stale sweat hung inside. Body odors were still an annoyance to me, the pristine clean American girl. As I slid in next to the maid with the live chickens, more and more people (many more than the 15 it was designed for) entered the crowded van. Just when I thought no more could use this vehicle for transportation, five or six men climbed on top and a few more hung from the sides! Surely the tires were flattening from the weight.

It was a quiet ride – everyone took the opportunity to nap – except for the occasional “cluck.” We traveled this way for an hour, dropping off and picking up passengers along the way. By the time we arrived at our stop, the capacity had decreased to about 15. It was now about 6 o’clock. It felt like a full day already.

We were deposited at a sugarcane field, next to a dirt road, the tops of the canes high above us. Rhoda said we’d have to wait a bit for the next transport…not sure what that meant. The sky was a bright morning blue, and the sun was just rising. We saw the dust cloud long before the truck arrived. As it settled, the large dump truck emerged from the dirty cloud and I wondered how all 10 of us would fit in the cab. Silly me, the cab was for the driver and his friends! We were riding in the back, standing and holding on for dear life as we rode this carnival ride to rival anything at the State Fair. The “road” was little more than a rutted goat path through dense undergrowth. As we bounced along, I wondered what my parents would think if they knew where I was at that moment. Although the distance we covered in that truck couldn’t have been more than 5 miles, I’m sure the odometer recorded at least 6 or 7 with all the driving in and out of the holes! We could only move along as fast as the road would allow so this leg of the journey took close to half an hour.

“We’re almost there,” Rhoda muttered to me as we gingerly stepped down off the tail gate. Only one more wait for the river taxi. Indeed we were at the edge of a river, needing to cross. Soon a little dugout canoe arrived to ferry us across the brown water. Who knew what lurked beneath the surface? This really was becoming the National Geographic safari I always dreamed of.

On the other side we began to see huts and fences, signs of a village. As we floated along with the river’s gentle current, Rhoda pointed out to me the homes of village leaders or witch doctors, marked by a black and red flag, the colors of voodoo. Although Haiti is a Catholic nation, vestiges of pagan religion remain; out here in remote areas, it was widespread and brought fear to many people. This was the driving factor for the Morencys – bring physical healing with a spiritual message – Jesus is alive and is greater than the devil and voodoo gods whom they fear so tremendously.

The canoe stopped at a little stairway up to the foot path that, took us to our final destination. I felt like such a stranger with my white skin and American clothes. I tried to be plain but even my most humble wardrobe items were finery to these poor peasants. The initial stares were followed by cheesy grins and friendly greetings of “bonjou!” although most smiles lacked a few teeth. I was struck by the absence of the request I had come to expect from children – “Blanc! Blanc! Give me one dollar mister!” In Port-au-Prince, this was the common greeting we all had come to expect. But out here, no one expected such a thing. “Blancs” didn’t come to their village. I was an honored guest and the people I met seemed happy to have me visit.

Rhoda led me through rows of benches that held, even at this early hour, an array of patients waiting to see the doctor. We stepped up two wooden stairs and unlocked the door to the pharmacy. A mediciney smell, maybe alcohol, greeted us in the tiny dark room. Through another door and we were in an examining room. This was a simple clinic but life giving and preserving to those in surrounding villages.

The men, women and children outside quietly and patiently waited their turn with the Morencys. I just observed and tried to stay out of the way. Rhoda just worked around me, showed me how she dispensed medication, introduced me to the patients, talked me through what she was doing, taught me. She was so gentle, so respectful of each and every person. She examined the weepy eyes of an old man and told him to continue using the salve. She re-bandaged a stubborn wound on a little girl’s leg, cleaning it tenderly. A young mother beamed at the grandmother-like affection Rhoda lavished on her 2-month-old baby. While checking all the newborn’s vitals, Rhoda asked the mother why the baby had a belt of yarn with a tuft of wool under his diaper. After a kind exchange in Creole, she explained to me that the baby’s father was the village witch doctor and he required this “preventative” measure to discourage evil spirits from bothering the child. The mother listened attentively as Rhoda gently shared the gospel with the young woman and how we need not fear evil when in the care of a loving and powerful God. This was all the preaching these missionaries did and the people lined up at 7:00 am to hear it.

I had my first listen to a fetal heartbeat that day. A very young woman, swollen with child, reclined on the table. Rhoda lifted her gown carefully, an guided my white hands across her brown belly to feel the buttocks, the head, the elbows of that little baby. We listened to the rapid heartbeat with a stethoscope and felt the trust this woman extended. She probably thought I was another nurse coming in to help. Rhoda encouraged her to eat, and rest and maybe by next week or so the baby would come.

The day wore on and the benches emptied patient by patient. Eyeglasses were dispensed, medications refilled and wounds bandaged. By 4:00, it was time to head home. A long and satisfying day. We began our journey back to Port-au-Prince, all of it blending into a dreamy warm memory.

As we arrived at the dump truck stop, Rhoda and I were invited to ride in the cab this time. Weary Rhoda dozed almost immediately. The driver decided to try out his English. “So, you American?” “You from New York?” “Why you in Haiti?” “Do you like Haiti?” When I answered his last question affirmatively, he pulled the truck to an abrupt halt. The driver jumped out, ran to the back and returned. Simultaneously, his friend, from the back, opened the passenger side door and climbed in, forcing Rhoda closer to me, and me closer to the driver. I wasn’t quite sure what was going on, until his next question. “So, you like Haiti? Would you like to marry me? I make you good babies!” I was shocked! And as I searched for the appropriate response, I glanced at Rhoda for help. She still had her eyes closed but she was smiling and the driver and his friend were laughing. I just said, “No, thank you, I don’t think so, I don’t even know you!”

This would not be the only proposal I would get that year in Haiti, but the other one, I took seriously and answered affirmatively.

But that’s another story…

How can you hide a birthday cake?

2008-07-19T12:30:00.005-04:00

Another story from the past...although not too far back. This is a current photo of the children mentioned in this story. They've grown up some since these events, but are still the same little cherubs I love so much!

Birthdays #37 & 38

I have been thrilled to make each of my four children’s birthdays over the years as special and memorable as I can. Each year, I slather chocolate frosting over a lopsided cake, bedeck it with sprinkles or M & M’s or matchbox trucks. I'd buy their current favorite cartoon character napkins and cups and invite all the little neighborhood darlin’s in for pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey and just pour a lot of love into celebrating their special day. Occasionally, I’d wish someone would do the same for me on my birthday, sans the cartoon character napkins. A young mother goes through several years of selfless birthday giving without a lot of return on hers.

However, I cashed in on my 37^th. The kids’ creativity far out-weighed my own, and it would be a birthday to remember. By the time June 18^th rolls around, school’s been out for a few weeks. Everyone is busting with excitement about the possibilities of summer. New ideas and fresh excitement for the coming idle hours. This spilled over into making my birthday special. My friend Ana had invited me out to lunch and the nail salon. My kids were old enough to stay home alone for a few hours since the oldest, Abby, was 12. When I came home from my girlfriend time, the house smelled extra clean, like Pine Sol. Wow, I thought, the kids have cleaned the floors! What a great gift! I went about the afternoon busy about my various and sundry housekeeping duties. My husband would be home soon, and we’d head out to dinner, another birthday goody. I passed Abby as I entered the children’s bath, to put some soap away. As I reached to open the cabinet under the sink, Abby yelped! But it was too late – I saw it. The cake atop a lovely cake stand, pecan and coconut frosting dribbling down the sides of a German chocolate cake, decorated while it was still too warm.

“We baked it while you were gone and then we mopped the floor with Pine Sol to mask the smell,” my disappointed daughter said flatly. I was so surprised by the cake in the bathroom I missed her disappointment. The other three cherubs stumbled up the stairs at the sound of all the excitement and I hugged each one in turn. We sat around the kitchen table and for the first time, enjoyed my birthday cake together. I felt like I had arrived.

The following year, on my 38^th, these same four kids found a new way to surprise me. Again, I managed to get out for a little while with my husband. This time the kids took all they needed to bake a cake – pans, bowls, mixer, spoons, mix, eggs, oil – to a neighbor’s house and knocked on her door.

“Could we use your oven to bake our mom’s birthday cake? She’s not home, but we don’t want her to smell it when she gets home and figure out what we’ve done!” Giselle was so shocked by the request of these four little urchins! She invited them in and just stood by while they peacefully assembled the ingredients, politely conversed with her family while it baked, took it out with the potholders they had brought and gingerly walked it home. I was sent on a scavenger hunt when I returned home that took me to the laundry room, the garage, the frig, the pantry, the bathroom cabinet (of course!), and finally the tree fort! There my cake awaited and once again I was queen for the day, celebrated by four of the most important and creative people I know and love!

a peek into my past

2008-07-17T10:26:00.004-04:00

Mom and I were talking the other day about things we like to write about and how cathartic it is for us. I have been writing down some stories from my life that are a little out of the realm of mundane experiences; things maybe others have not experienced. I mostly did it for my kids and grandkids someday, so they would know a little more about me, about what shaped me. Some they've heard, and some they've heard about on the surface, but maybe not the deep layers of feeling and emotion. This first one is a bit heavy. I'm not proud of all my attitudes and actions. Here goes.

My sister’s accident, Feb. 1980

The pink Post-It note was nothing extraordinary among the 10 or so others on the message board in the lobby of Pearce Hall. It was always a thrill to have one tacked up with your name scrawled across the top…someone was thinking of me and made the effort to call. Who could it be? Mom? Dad? That boy from Young Hall I liked?

“My brother, Jim?” I read with surprise. That’s odd. Although we were only 18 months apart, he viewed me as an annoying older sister. He seemed happy to have me 300 miles away at college while he ruled the roost at home. I don’t know if he had ever contacted me since I left 5 months earlier for Geneva College. This was indeed unusual, but intriguing. I was anxious to see what he wanted; I didn’t take the time to worry about anything, although that would have been warranted.

I returned his call immediately; he had called an hour earlier. Our younger sister, Sharon, was crossing a busy intersection on her way home from school when she was struck by a car moving at about 35 mph. She left her shoes on the ground and shattered the windshield of the car but suffered no major physical injuries except the worst kind - a serious closed head injury, severe brain trauma. She was airlifted to the Shock Trauma unit of University of Maryland hospital, her life precariously balanced on the edge of death. It was surreal. I was so incredibly caught up in my life at college and this news smacked me hard in the face.

WAIT! Just an hour ago, it was all football games, late night cinnamon rolls and coffee at Perkins, all night cramming, new friends, music, dorm life…an idyllic college experience with not a care in the world. I wanted it to just be a practical joke or a bad dream or something. The reality of it was too harsh and it just didn’t fit into the lifestyle I was thriving in right now. Everything was perfect and this was so un-perfect. It was indeed like waking from a good dream, and not wanting to believe it was over, wanting it to continue.

Over the next several hours, I found myself telling everyone about it, and by that evening, I was taking calls from both students and staff at Geneva. Some were even trying to help me arrange a way home, as I didn’t have a car. I found myself avoiding the thoughts of my sister, unconscious in a hospital, tubes doing everything to her and for her, perhaps dying, perhaps never to function again. The 300 miles served as a buffer between the harsh realities and my collegiate utopia. Then I would flagellate myself for being so selfish; so what if this rocked my world? Especially when friends asked…then I somehow contemplated her serious condition and felt miserable.

I busied myself with finding a ride home. Not many folks were from the Baltimore area, and finding a ride from western Pennsylvania was tricky. None of us had a lot of extra money then either, so trips home were an added financial burden not many students could take without good reason. Ironically, the young man that eventually gave me a lift was named Rich King. He was a lifter of spirits as well, and we found things to talk about to keep the subject off my family’s difficult situation. We laughed and told stories on that journey down I-70 in the middle of February, two full weeks after the accident.

My brother met us at the standard rendezvous point, and drove me directly to the hospital. He briefed me on the details of the accident, her current condition and he prepped me for actually seeing her.

“She doesn’t look like herself at all,” he said somberly. “She doesn’t have any hair and there are tubes sticking out of her everywhere. She doesn’t recognize anyone and is just staring most of the time. It’s hard to see.” He choked up then, and I saw a new side of my brother for the first time.

We arrived at the hall outside her room. My parents were there and we all hugged and cried together a little. My folks were absolutely worn out – they looked tired, depressed and disoriented. Jim and I went in together to see her. It was shocking. She was propped up into a sitting position and her eyes were open but she was not there. Her right arm and leg were pulled up tight against her body like someone had drawn back an invisible bowstring that attached her hand to her shoulder and her knee to her chest. An ugly tracheotomy tube protruded from her neck. She had about a week’s worth of growth on her head – it had been completely shaved. Another bandaged tube ran out the back of her head where a shunt had been placed to drain excess fluid from her brain. There was music playing somewhere. My mom told me to just talk to her like she could understand.

There was someone moaning and grunting on the other side of the ward. It was a sickening pot of emotional stew and yet I couldn’t express my disgust or fear or sadness. I was the big sister, the oldest daughter, the levelheaded one with all of it together. I began to say all the ‘right’ things – I asked her how she was, I was great and school’s going well. I’ve been praying a lot for you and you’re going to recover and the hospital is doing a good job of taking care of you. We’re going home now and we’ll be back tomorrow. All with no response. The blank stare. The empty expression. The hollow, glassy eyes. The raspy hiss of the tracheotomy.

I couldn’t wait to leave and recoil from the reality. The visit at home is a blur – trips to the hospital all weekend, eating meals other people prepared, giving reports and updates on the phone, being strong for everyone and constantly expressing my faith that God would take care of her.

I wish it had all never happened. I wish it could have happened when I was more mature. My inner struggle was a deep one and much soul searching went on during that time. I found myself constantly feeling guilty about having a good time, being a college co-ed while my sister suffered. I struggled with not having enough compassion for her. I wanted to cry sometimes and it wouldn’t come. I wondered if my emotions were normal, or if I was somehow numb to it. Did I care enough? Was I concerned enough? Did I really love my sister?

When Sharon finally did leave the comatose state she was in, it was not as we all expected. Like a withered, weak hand reaching out of a dark, dense fog, she barely touched the edge of reality. It wasn’t an awakening like I thought it would be. “Oh, hi Kell, where have I been? What happened to me, when can I go home?” None of that. In fact it would be many months before a single intelligible word would be spoken. Months before she could feed herself. A year before her second first steps. And never the same again. The struggles – physical, emotional, spiritual – would continue for all of us for many years.

But struggle is not all bad. This terrible catastrophe had its place in the making of a family. We all failed and won on many different fronts. Learning and not learning the life lessons God wanted. It was the shaping of us and we’d have to travel similar roads in the future if we failed to learn those lessons at that time.

God was gracious to answer our prayers and give my sister back to us. I had my victories and defeats in my struggle to be a better sister, a better person. It’s been a marathon. She has been victorious in so many areas, truly a walking miracle, overcoming myriad obstacles to become a wife and homemaker, and my sister.

contentment

2008-07-09T10:18:00.003-04:00

i was thinking that maybe i should call my blog "joy complete." that's totally how i feel. complete. full. satisfied. even in the midst of difficulty and uncertainty there is a sense that all is right with the world. like being a little girl, with daddy in control, never letting on that there is any problem. plenty of food in the frig, gas in the tank, roof over my head, fun and birthdays and christmas presents and beach trips. the ability and privilege of resting in the contentment of being cared for. being watched out for. being protected. i know that in that sense, i have led a privileged life.

not that things have always been privileged in the material sense of the word. i have lived in want (though i didn't know it) and in plenty and mostly in between. i have survived on just enough and had times of not knowing what was next. those have been the times of the most intimacy with god. he has always provided - both materially and spiritually, food, clothing, shelter, and peace.

i am naturally wired this way, to trust. it's not hard for me to do so, to believe there is a god in heaven who is intimately acquainted with all my ways and has my best interest at heart. so this walk of faith is not really a "battle" per se.

but i remember making choices to live this way also. to leave my life in the hands of someone else. to not constantly be trying to wrangle control away from the one who holds it. i am not a terribly "driven" sort of woman. that has it's positives and negatives and has made some people mad at me in the past.

but time after time, i find myself alone with my thoughts and they are ones of peace. i am content at this moment, with whatever is happening. i remember sitting at my desk in haiti, before school started one day, and ruminating on this thought - "i am making $400 a month, and i have more than enough. i can be content on such a little amount. i always want to be this way. and be willing to share what little i have. i want to be like my granny in this way; she had so little, but she was always giving."

it has been tested time and time again - how tightly will i hold on? what good is fretting and scheming anyway? it doesn't change the circumstance, and only causes negative physical and emotional symptoms.

so today, i have all i need and many things that i want. my children are all walking in truth and in right relationship with god. what more could a woman want? today is good, today is taken care of. i will not be concerned with tomorrow, by choice.

content.