In Celebration of My Parents' Seventieth Anniversary

His blue eyes twinkle when he looks at her. When he smiles, the wrinkles around his eyes crease even deeper.

At their seventieth anniversary celebration

“Do you know what?” he says, with a conspiratorial whisper. “I still love her.”

She laughs. “After seventy years, too! He has an amazing way of overlooking all my faults and only remembering the good things.”

Her statement seems to encapsulate the carefree joy they have in each other.

“I got a good thing when I married her,” he tells me.

I hear this story almost every day now. He does not remember that he told me the same thing yesterday. Every day she’s just as sweet to him as she was the day before.

Sometimes, though, he is sad. He knows that he is weak and cannot do much. “I guess it’s the women who do everything,” he says with a sigh as he watches his wife fold and put away laundry.

“Sure,” she replies, sarcasm underlining her words. “It was the women who built our daughters’ furniture and built our house in Indonesia. It was the women who trekked through the jungle. It must have been the women who started the Bible school and the orphanage too.”

“What are you talking about?” he asks.

“You,” she says. “You did all of that and more.”

“I did?” he asks incredulously. “I can’t remember.”

It’s true. He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t remember the army man who was assigned to the communications division in Italy during WWII or the man who thought he would become a mortician. He doesn’t remember enrolling at Bob Jones College or even meeting his wife. She says that he pursued, but she was cautious. She was following God’s call to be a missionary and thought that meant she would be single all her life. Yet God called him to be a missionary too, so on a hot summer day in August of 1948, they joined their lives together. Four years later, equipped with bachelor's degrees and a couple years of experience in the pastoral ministry, they set off for Dutch New Guinea (now called West Papua, Indonesia) to teach, preach, and establish churches.

It was hard at first, especially when they found out about the brutal murder of the two missionaries who were supposed to meet and train them. But they persevered - learning the language, adjusting to the climate and culture, and being so far from home. By the time they had been there 14 years, they had seen God save many people from their bondage to sin and churches were established. Harold started a Bible college to train pastors and leaders. Then, in a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, he was accused of being a CIA spy and sent to solitary confinement in a prison in Jakarta. It took seven months of negotiations to get him released. Hostage in Jakarta, a book on the table next to his recliner, reminds him of that time.

The years after Indonesia are foggy too. Unable to return to Indonesia, the mission sent them to Trinidad. After three years, they returned to the U.S. where he pastored churches in Illinois and Iowa. Yet the desire to serve abroad was still strong, so when an opportunity arose to work in the Philippines, they went.  Their adopted Filipina daughter is the jewel they brought back when they returned. She is now a constant reminder of his time there. When Harold’s aging mother needed them, he became the Missions Director for AMG International in Chattanooga. He still traveled the globe, balancing a myriad of details and obligations, while his wife stayed home. As his secretary, she was his right hand both at work and at home.

Most people thought his retirement from AMG at 77 years of age ended his ministry career, but retirement did not suit him. He still had more to offer. Was there a church that needed a pastor but could not afford to pay one? With his retirement income, he could do that. He found one in Maine. Many of their contemporaries thought they were crazy to move again, but they loved serving God together. He pastored there for five years before the Maine winters and his arthritis forced him to move south again.

Muriel’s adventuresome spirit is evident when she reflects on the way God led them. Over the years, they have moved at least 30 times. Every time, sadness engulfed her as she left friends behind, but she was ready to embrace the next adventure. She stood behind him, encouraging him to go forward for God. She gave birth to six children, and then they adopted one more and fostered more than 40 others along the way. Harold enjoys telling people that they have one and a half dozen children. “One,” he says with a pause, “and a half dozen.”

Muriel admires him. Sure, he is weak now and his memory is failing, but he has given his all for God. Together, they have followed God’s leading all along the way. Now it is not as easy to pick up and go, though Muriel is still active. She seems to think that it is normal to be teaching Sunday School at 92. And why should she give up on helping with Vacation Bible School? If you were to ask her if she wanted to go on a missions trip to Africa, she would ask, “When are we leaving?” She is still ready to go and do whatever God asks at any time, though right now that is at her husband’s side.

They are a good match. For seventy years, they have put each other’s needs before their own. Choosing to overlook each others’ faults, they have found joy in supporting each other. With hard work and prayer, their dreams and goals have been focused on pleasing God. And although they know it is impossible, they wish they could have seventy more years together.

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I wrote this in the weeks leading up to their seventieth anniversary. God enabled them to have almost seventy-one years together before He took Dad home.

Ministry in the Chin Hills

We flew from Chattanooga to JFK, Frankfort, Singapore, and Yangon, arriving 37 hours later.  In Yangon we were greeted by heat, rising into the high nineties. I removed my wedding band, certain that my hands and feet would swell because of the sharp shift in temperature. I was glad I did. The next day I would not have been able to get it off.

After a day in Yangon, we flew on to Kalemyo, where Brother Kap, IPM’s missionary in Myanmar, met us and took us to a hotel. He was there for a conference, so we attended the last night of the conference meeting. The four-hour service seemed even longer after a long day.

God's beauty surrounded us.

The next day we got into Kap’s Land Cruiser to make the journey through the hills to Tedim where we would be teaching for the next two weeks. Rain, road construction, and the twists and turns on a narrow road meant that the 57-mile journey took almost three hours.  We were relieved to finally arrive at our destination where we were shown to an ample guest room with a private bath, and luxury of luxuries, the bath had hot water in the shower! We were now in the hills, where temperatures dipped into the fifties at night and hovered around seventy in the daytime, and the hot water was appreciated.

Crowing roosters and beating drums announced the coming of each new day. After a breakfast of scrambled eggs, bread, and coffee or tea, we prepared for our day of classes.

Our teaching day started at 8:45 when we joined the students for fifteen minutes of prayer and singing and then headed to class. Charlie taught the 3^rd and 4^th years students on Biblical counseling for an hour and a half while I taught the children English. We each had a break and then went to the chapel where Charlie spoke. After chapel we enjoyed lunch. Our afternoon classes lasted 45 minutes. I taught the 3^rd and 4^th year students on the teaching ministry of the church while Charlie taught the 1^st and 2^nd year students on Christian stewardship. Then we had some free time which we usually spent getting ready for the next classes.

At 5:00 in the evening, I headed off to teach the children again. This time it was more of a translated Bible club. I had a phenomenal translator who is also musically gifted. He could really get those children to sing. After teaching several songs, I told a simple Bible story which he translated. Some of the older students knew more English and were following me in English. We finished off with a review game and sent the children home at about 6:00.

The children of my evening class.

Charlie started his evening class at 6:00 with the graduate students, teaching Baptist Distinctives. When they finished at 7:30, we headed down for supper. Our meals always included an assortment of locally grown vegetables. Other things like chicken or noodles were often on the menu as well. We could not have asked for better food while we were there.

By the time we finished, the children were singing several songs and choruses without the help of the words. When I split them into two groups to sing “Rejoice in the Lord Always” as a round, they tried to out-sing each other. As they walked home at night, I could hear them singing along the way. Thongpi, my translator, requested the words to all the songs we used so that he could continue to teach them to the children. Toward the end, the children began bringing little gifts to me before and after class. My real regret was that I could not communicate with them in their language.  

Because it was the dry season, the hydro-electricity was limited and rolling blackouts were part of life. One night you would have power all night. The next night there was none. Some days there would be power, but not on others. So our evenings ended relatively early and the mornings were early as well. It was important to get the most use of the daylight.

As we came to the end of our two weeks, we both felt that we could have stayed much longer. Maybe next time.

Almost Missing Christmas

After we booked our trip to Peru, I realized that we would be gone most of December. I knew I did not want to walk into the house a few days before Christmas to find Thanksgiving decorations still up, so I put those away. Now what do I do? I decided I would get out the few things that mattered the most - the Nativity set, the advent wreath, a picture frame with the words, "Jesus, the reason for the season." I put those up, added a few candles and a red tablecloth to the dining room table and stood back. That was enough.

We left on December 1, heading to Pennsylvania for our mission's annual meeting. Then on December 7, we left the cold of Pennsylvania and flew to the Peruvian Amazon, where we spent the next ten days teaching.

The temperature change was so drastic that on the second day in the village, my feet started to swell. Every day they got a little worse. I started sitting down during our teaching breaks so that I could put my feet up. Then one of the pastors brought chairs and I was able to sit down part of the time while I translated for Charlie. That helped. On our last morning, as I struggled to fit my swollen feet into my loose sandals, I wondered if I would pick up hookworm if I went barefoot. I tugged at the straps until I could get my feet inside.  While the skin was tight and uncomfortable, at least I knew it was not permanent. My feet would return to normal when we got out of the heat. Once we got back to the city where I was not standing all day and we were sleeping in an air-conditioned room, my sandals were comfortable again.

From Iquitos, we flew to Arequipa in the southern highlands. Since we were just stopping in to see IPM's missionaries, the Araujos, and not to minister, we stayed in a hotel in the center of the city and spent most of the two days enjoying their company.

Life-sized nativity in Peru

Arequipa was decorated for Christmas. In front of the Catholic Church, people gathered to see the life-size nativity set. A two-story Christmas tree, surrounded by gifts the size of appliance boxes, dominated the central square. One night a children's choir sang there. Decorated artificial pine trees seemed like anatopisms, and I wondered what their traditions might have included before the Christmas tree became so universal.

We were privileged to be able to participate in one Peruvian Christmas tradition - a chocolatada. We attended church on Tuesday night at a new church plant. Since it was the last time they would meet before Christmas, they held a chocolatada after the service. Thick hot chocolate was served with slices of Panetone, a sweet bread with raisins and candied fruit.

We returned to the U.S. on the 22nd. When we got off the plane, I heard someone call out "Merry Christmas!" My first thought was, "What are they talking about?" Then I realized what day it was. Of course, people were greeting each other with "Happy Holidays" and "Merry Christmas!" Secular Christmas music even played over the intercom in the airport terminal.

We returned to the office to get our car and then began driving back home to Georgia. I was very glad that I had changed the Thanksgiving decorations for Christmas ones before I left.

On Christmas Eve we went to a worshipful Christmas Eve service together, and on Sunday we gathered with family and friends to enjoy a turkey and ham feast. Those two very important parts were central to our Christmas celebration this year.

There was lots of joy and celebration, yet it still felt strange. It almost felt like I had missed Christmas. Why, I wondered, when the things I valued were present? I had even spent the month of December reading Christmas passages in my Bible. So why did it feel so different?  And does it matter? As I thought of these things, I realized two very important things.

First, the cues that tell me Christmas is around the corner were missing. There were no Salvation Army bell ringers at the fronts of stores. No Christmas music played over the intercoms in malls, stores, and restaurants. No Christmas cards arrived in the mail and I did not send any. No Christmas decorations were present in the Peruvian churches. I did not bake Christmas cookies for parties or friends. I did not light an advent wreath during my morning devotions. No Christmas carols were sung. We did not attend any Christmas parties or programs. December was much like any other month of the year.

We North Americans celebrate Christmas on December 25 and extend it into an avalanche of activities for a whole month. Even though Charlie and I were busy throughout December, our activity was not based on things surrounding a traditional North American holiday. Instead it was normal ministry. When I realized that it was the cues that were missing, I realized a second, more important truth. It was good to have a different Christmas where much of the tradition was missing. Sometimes the things we use to point our hearts toward Christmas Day become so important that the  real message of Christmas gets lost in the trimmings. My heart needs to celebrate the central message of Christmas - that Christ came into the world to save sinners. It is not the gifts, the parties, and the decorations that make something feel like Christmas. In fact, all those things can lead us away from its truths.

Maybe our ministry focus during the month was exactly what God wanted. Maybe it was the best gift we could have given Him this year. In that case, I did not miss Christmas at all. In fact, it was better than usual.

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The days since Christmas whizzed by like a tractor trailer on the Interstate. I fully intended to write this as soon as the first days of January began. Instead, I find myself playing catch-up on this last day of the month.