A-Z Thanks for this Year's Thanksgiving

Lord, 

I come, amazed at Your blessings that overflow into our lives. I could spend hours just praising You, but to keep my list relatively short, I’ll walk through the alphabet. 

Thank You, Lord, for

• Answered prayer.
• Beautiful days. The beauty around me always points me to Your creative genius. Thank You for giving me eyes to see and appreciate the beauty around me.
• Charlie. He could so easily have died this month, but You gave Him back to me. Thank you.
• Doctors and nurses who made Charlie’s stay in the hospital so much easier. Thank You for the training and wisdom they have to help sick and injured people get well again.
• Electronic devices. Thank You that we were able to reach an ambulance quickly with my cell phone. Thank You that I was able to call family as I drove to the hospital with the blue tooth connection to my phone.
• Friends. Thank You for the way they rallied around us with their support.
• Grace. You have given us Your grace to meet this trial. Every day we need it, and every day it’s there.
• House. It keeps us warm in the winter and cool in the summer and gives us a place to call home.
• Internet. It was so easy to get online and let everyone know what was happening.
• Jogging. Thank You that Charlie has been physically active. We keep hearing that his recovery will be quicker because he paid attention to his health.
• Kia. Thank You for a reliable car that gets us where we need to go for all the appointments Charlie has these days.
• Linwood Baptist Church and the other churches that have prayed for us throughout our ministry, especially in these past few days.
• Mornings. Thank You that Charlie’s energy is pretty good in the morning and that most of his therapy sessions are happening in the morning.
• Nieces, nephews and the rest of our extended family who have been so supportive of us during this time.
• Opportunities. Thank You for every opportunity that comes our way. Help us to make the most of them.
• Peace. Thank You for the peace You give. It has carried me through many uncertain hours and days in the past and especially in recent days.
• Quiet. These days Charlie needs a lot of it. Thank you for quiet days between therapy days.
• Rest and recovery. Thank You that Charlie is able to rest and recover.
• Speech. We don’t think that much of our ability to talk until it’s taken away. Thank You that You are restoring Charlie’s speech.
• Therapists and therapy. What an amazing time in the history of our world that we have people who specialize in helping injured people heal. Thank You for this blessing. The therapists Charlie is seeing have been kind and helpful. Thank You for their attempts to understand what he is experiencing.
• Unknown. Thank You that I didn’t know Charlie’s stroke was coming. I would have been a nervous wreck all day and even the days, weeks and months leading up to it. Thank You that I don’t know the future, but that I trust You, the One who does. Thank You that You hold all my tomorrows in Your hand.
• Vascular doctors. Thank You, Lord, for doctors who are trained in the diagnosis of strokes and the prevention of it happening again. Yet we recognize that You are the One that gave him life, and You are the One that knows how long his life will be. Thank You that the doctors were there, but even more, thank You that You were there.
• Wellness. Thank You for keeping me well while we work through Charlie’s recovery.
• X-rays and other medical tests. Thank You that these medical devices enabled the doctors to see, understand, and treat his stroke relatively quickly.
• Your vast love for us.
• Zest for life. Thank You that even though Charlie could be enjoying heaven instead of being here on this earth, You have given him a zest for life and a desire to use his days for eternity. 

Lord, this list doesn't come close to all the things I have been considering in my list of praises to You for all You have done. With almost every letter, I could have listed multiple other things. But I give You thanks because Your blessings are innumerable.

Amen.


Photo: Charlie has always loved being physically active. 

A Real Christian Man

My dad was my first hero. As a child, I thought he could do anything. Oh, I knew he could not fly like Superman, but he was certainly more capable than Batman. After all, he could preach, teach, ride a motorcycle, fly an airplane, play a ukulele, sing with gusto, build houses, fix almost anything, and teach us cool stuff like how to fish, swim, and ride a bicycle.  He could even read us books and change his voice to sound like the characters in the book.

Dad planing a board for our house.

We learned a lot from his teaching. He taught us how to mow a lawn, plant a garden, wield a hammer, build things, and use power tools. He spent hours with my brothers rebuilding a car engine. He was at home in the kitchen.  On our birthdays, he made a tall stack Norwegian pancakes so that we could eat until we waddled away from the table, holding our bellies and declaring to the others how many pancakes we wolfed down. Now when we make Norwegian pancakes for the next generation, we use Dad's recipe, perfected through years of birthday celebrations.

However, the lessons I learned by observation were even more special. While I may not have admitted it while I was growing up, he set a standard for me of what it meant to be a real Christian man. When I got married, these were the things I wanted in a husband. I wanted someone who was authentic in his faith and who was a real Christian guy.

1. A real Christian man spends time alone with God.

In the morning when I arose, I usually found him in the living room. His Bible lay open on his lap and when he was done reading, he took out a list, scrawled in his own handwriting. As his prayer list covered the page of his Bible, he closed his eyes and talked to God about his concerns.  Occasionally I watched him, wondering how he could pray for so long.

One morning he was missing at breakfast. Later I asked him where he was. "I so wanted to stay up all night and pray like Jesus did when He was on earth," he told me, "but at about three in the morning I had to go back to sleep. One day I will try again." There were times when he was missing from the dinner table because he was praying and fasting.

2. A real Christian man loves his family.

Many pastors take Mondays off because they find Sundays exhausting. For him, Sundays were filled to the brim with teaching, preaching, counseling, prayer, and hospitality. He must have been tired on Mondays too. Yet because his children were in school on Monday, he chose to take his day off on Saturday so that he could spend more time with us.

His favorite stories to tell and retell were often about his children. Whether it was Steven's exposition of Scriptures, Dan's miraculous recovery, Tim's natural leadership, Joel's cute antics, Andrea's inexhaustible energy, Reza's adoption, or my fear of monsters in the night, his stories remain with us as part of our heritage. They give us a sense of identity and belonging. They tell us we belong to him.

While there was not a lot of money in the house, we knew that he considered us a priority. Birthday and Christmas gifts were simple and practical, but they were part of our celebration and a reminder that our parents cared. Vacations were spent as a family - either camping or visiting relatives. When special events like graduation arose, there was always a celebration and Dad was there, laughing and smiling with us.

3. A real Christian man tells others of Christ. 

My dad was shy, but he was also determined to let his light shine for Christ. At a gas station, he'd ask the attendant, "If you were to die tonight, do you know where you would go?" Depending upon the response, we might be there a while as he continued to share his faith with him. At restaurants, he'd say to the waitress, "We're going to pray in a minute. Is there anything I can pray about for you?" He kept gospel tracts in his pockets when he was traveling so that he would be able to leave information with people he encountered along the way. He was always ready to tell others of the hope he had in God.

I remember the day that he called me to tell me that Marcus, an Indonesian pastor, had died. "Now I know for sure that there will be someone to greet me in heaven when I get there because I introduced him to Jesus," he said with a mixture of sorrow and joy.

4. A real Christian man stands up for what he believes.

It would have been so much easier to keep quiet than to let people know his convictions were different from theirs. He could have kept his mouth shut when he saw people straying instead of encouraging them to go hard after God. He could have preached safe sermons rather than stepping on their toes. How he longed for people to take sanctification seriously and to do what they could to walk as closely to God as possible. So he chose to call sin evil and warn people of choosing the wrong path.

I thought it was normal for Christians to take a stand and to pursue heavenly goals with dogged determination. I thought every Christian tried to put God first in their lives. After all, all of the men I admired were like that, but especially my dad. Now I realize that his commitment is more rare than I realized. While it may be "normal," it is certainly not common.

5. A real Christian man is authentic all the time.

There was no difference between the man we saw at home and the man others saw at church. What he preached from the pulpit, he preached to us at home. If he said he hated sin, we heard him say it first at home. We never had to wonder what mood he was going to be in or how he would react to us. His moods did not affect his behavior. If he was wrong, he admitted it.

Sometimes I meet people who tell of a very different home life from what we see in public, and I grieve with them. It is hard for me to imagine the weight of having to put on a face in public to cover up what is really going on. I am glad that my dad taught me to be genuine at home so that we did not have to be hypocritical.

6. A real Christian man leaves a lasting legacy.

My dad is 91 years old now. He is weak and can no longer climb mountains to find jungle tribes that need the gospel. He tires easily just from daily activity, let alone the stress of juggling the myriad responsibilities of those many years of being a missions director. So I am glad that he spent his strong years doing things that would matter long after he is gone.

Fifty years from now, when he is celebrating in heaven, his legacy on earth will live on. An orphanage in the Philippines and a Bible school in Indonesia may still remember his part in their inception. Grandchildren may recount stories of his life. But even if they don't, there will be people in heaven who will thank him for his steadfast faithfulness to the God that he worships. I know because I will be one of them.

Joy in Maine, More Joy in Georgia, and Sorrow in Florida

“Rejoice with them that do rejoice, and weep with them that weep.”  Romans 12:15

Unlike many American families, my siblings are spread across the country and my extended family as well.  We can go months and even years before a family gathering happens.  So the past month has been unusual.  For the past three weekends, I have been with extended family.  

 

Joy. 

Three weekends ago, my brother got married in her church in Maine.  Many people came from nearby and a few from far away.  I had the privilege of traveling with my parents back to Maine, where my heart still is.  My dad officiated. 

 

It was a day of great joy as Steven, who has been looking for his match for many years, found it in a beautiful woman in Maine.  She is tall, athletic, intelligent, and a woman of great character who loves the Lord deeply.  

Many of her friends and relatives were there to celebrate with her and her family.  Several of my siblings were there as well as one cousin who drove in from New Hampshire. Some of my friends are also Tara’s friends, so I was able to reconnect with them as well.

More joy.  

The following weekend our family gathered in Georgia to celebrate my parents’ 90^th birthdays.  Dad is six days older than Mom, so both of their birthdays happen later this month.  In order to make it easier for people to attend, we decided to hold the celebration on the Saturday before Labor Day.  Invitations were sent out a while ago.  Their church offered to provide the meeting space, the food, and the flowers.  

All of us took part in making it a success.  My older sister decorated.  My younger sister provided the desserts.  The brothers sang.  (My youngest brother, who is a missionary in Japan, was unable to make it, so Charlie provided the fourth voice in the quartet.)  

We also read through a timeline of each of their lives.  For each of them, it was a demonstration of God's grace and their faith in that great God.

More than one hundred people attended.  Two of Dad’s siblings came up from Florida.  Some of their nieces and nephews came from as far as California.  A granddaughter came from Kuwait and a grandson from England.  Many of their church came as well as former colleagues from AMG.  It was a great day for us to celebrate lives that have been lived by faith in a great God.

 

The following day, Steven and Tara held a reception for those who were not able to attend the wedding.  They played a video of the ceremony and we ate lunch together.  Steven shared some precious words about his bride.  Again, it was a day of great joy.

Sorrow.   

This weekend my parents and I traveled to Florida to spend some time with my dad’s family.  My youngest uncle, Uncle David, was dying of cancer, and we wanted to see him before he died while he could still talk with us.  We drove down on Saturday and spent the night with another uncle.  On Sunday we went to church where my cousin’s husband pastors and they invited us to their house for lunch along with a bunch of others.

It was after 2:00 when we left my cousin’s home.   I called Aunt Edna to ask if it was a good time to come.  She warned us that he was now sleeping a lot.  When we walked in, we hugged her and began talking with her in quiet voices, while Uncle David lay in a hospital bed there in the living room.  I hoped that he would awaken so that we could at least talk with him a little, but he continued to lie there.  After a while I got up to stand by his bed.  He was quiet, almost too quiet.  We asked her about that.  

“He’s been like that for a couple days now,” she said.  "He wakes up long enough to drink a little and then goes back to sleep."

After a while Dad said it was time to leave.  Mom and I got up and went to the hospital bed once more and stood on either side.  He had not moved at all since we had arrived.  I reached out and touched him.  He was cold to the touch.  Mom and I both looked for a pulse.  There was none.  Aunt Edna came over and touched him too and agreed.  He was gone.  He had evidently slipped quietly away while we were there.

Joy in glory for him.  Sorrow for us who remain.  Dad came over and prayed.  Tears fell.  We will miss this great man who touched all of our lives in great ways.  

Thank you, Lord, for the privilege of knowing and loving him.

Fathers

Today I want to give tribute to my dad, a man who blessed me in many ways through the years.

First of all, I appreciate his dedication to God.  That dedication was demonstrated to me as a child in many different ways.  One of my clearest memories of that commitment was my father's morning ritual.  Every morning I could find him sitting in the living room with a Bible open on his lap.  Then his prayer list would come out and his eyes closed as he prayed for his wife, his children, and so many other people God had placed on his heart.

It also saw his dedication in his willingness to stand for what he believed.  As a young man, it meant giving up a lucrative career as a mortician to go serve God in the jungles of Dutch New Guinea.  Later in life, it often meant standing alone.  Sometimes it meant being misunderstood and rejected.  At home, it meant having definite standards for what we would and would not do as a family.  During difficult times, when God's voice was not clear, I saw him pursue God in late-night prayer and fasting.  At every turn, if you were to ask him why he had made a decision, the answer was the same.  It was what he believed God would have him do.

One of my treasured memories of my father was when he taught me to play softball.  We had arrived home on furlough, and I was playing the game for the first time at a family reunion.  I was eight years old.  While I could play soccer and shoot a bow and arrow, I had never encountered a softball.  No matter how hard I tried, I could not make contact with that ball.  I ended up in tears, feeling like a failure and rejoined my family.  My dad took me aside and taught me to watch the ball.  Under his direction, I made contact.  From that day on, I could hit that ball.  I never did very well as an outfielder, but I could hit and run.

Reading to his two eldest children

Another favorite memory is storytime.  Both my parents read to us, but when my dad read, he took on different voices for the various character in the story.  He roared like a lion or purred like a kitten.  His version of the story was so dramatic that we were immediately pulled into it.

Yet as much as I adore and respect my dad, he does not come close to my heavenly Father.  Dad could not provide eternal salvation for me.  He did not give His Spirit to be with me constantly to guide, convict, and direct me through life.  His advice was not flawless.  He will not be with me here in this life forever.  While there are times when Dad is only as far away as a phone call, my heavenly Father is always by my side.

I am thankful that my dad taught me to trust my Heavenly Father.  I can think of no greater truth that an early father can teach his children, and I can think of no better way to teach it to others than to live those truths each day.

Saying "Goodbye" to Facebook

In 2008 I joined the thousands of older people who joined Facebook.  In the beginning, I found it a helpful tool.  Through it, I:

• regained contact with old friends and caught up on their lives.
• learned of prayer requests and was able to pray with meaning and understanding.
• quickly heard of important news in the lives of friends and family.
• used it to reach out and encourage the hurting.

Over the years, however, I have had increasing difficulties with using Facebook.  These have been some of my concerns:

• I met people who spent way much too much time on Facebook, and I wondered if I was adding to their temptation to misuse their precious time.
• I even wondered if I was encouraging an addiction or participating in their sin by being on Facebook without saying anything.  Yet things written can be so easily misunderstood that I did not want to have that conversation except in person.  And how could I have an "in person" conversation with someone who lives thousands of miles away?
• More and more people are linking articles and videos rather than sharing personal information. I joined Facebook for the personal information.  Today as I scrolled through my news feed, I counted.  The fifteenth item was finally something personal.
• Statistics tell us that heavy social media users are less happy than those who are not.  
• I have different levels of openness with people that I know well compared to people who are just acquaintances.  Yet Facebook links all of them together, so that I find myself sharing at a more superficial level than I would with my close friends.
• I did not join Facebook for the private message function, but I find myself using that more than anything else. Won't email work just as well for that?
• Most of my life is not worth sharing.  When it is worth sharing, I can put in a blog.
• Facebook is finding more and more ways to advertise to me while I am reading the news feed.  

When I first noticed some of these issues, I decided to reduce my usage. I told people that if they wanted to be sure I saw something, they needed to tag me.  Of course, that is not the way most people operate, so I found that people assumed I had seen or read something when I had not.  Even though I have told people that I was reducing my usage, people expected that I would be there frequently.

This week, some of the issues hit home in a new way.

• I have limited time.  I want to see if my time benefits from not being on Facebook.
• I have limited roaming data.  This week my roaming data maxed out while I slept.  I believe that it was because Facebook was busy downloading photos that I did not request and did not even view.
• I have a limited capacity to interact with people.  Sociologists tell us that we have a capacity to keep about 600 people active in our lives. If I am on Facebook with my 400+ friends there (and it could easily be more than that), will I neglect the needs of the people who are right outside my door?  
• I miss the old ways of sharing information.  This week a friend asked me, "Did you hear about what happened to ______?"  I had because I had seen it on Facebook.  But when she said that, I thought, "I would have rather have heard it from you first."  Maybe if everyone knows I am not on Facebook, they will think to call me when they have important news to share.  Then again, maybe not, and maybe that is fine too.  I never used to think there was a problem with catching up after years of being apart.

So Facebook and I are going our separate ways, at least for a while.  It will give me time to listen to the sweet voice of God and see whether HE wants me to be on Facebook.  If He does not, I will not be back.  If He does, I will, though I will need His guidance on how to make it work better in the future.
 
I still want to stay in touch with people, but I am hoping that telephones, email, and mail will be enough to get the job done right.

When I Grow Up . . . .

 I still remember the childhood dreams, the convoluted streams of desire to be someone important and someone loved.  They usually revolved around people I admired.

“When I grow up, I want to be a nurse like Aunt Pat,” I’d announce with doll in hand, tenderly wrapping a 'broken' leg or applying a bandage.  Aunt Pat was a single woman who lived alone and worked in the highlands of Irian Jaya (now called Papua), the island where I grew up.  I saw her only occasionally, but I was enthralled.  I watched her clean and treat wounds with the caring efficiency of a nurse who loved her patients.  I saw her gather children around her and teach them songs about Jesus.  I’d seen her sit in a circle of native highlanders, talking about the day and eating roasted sweet potatoes.  She let me help her write down weather data, checking the rain gauge and thermometer and carefully recording them in her weather book. Yes, I thought, I want to be a nurse like Aunt Pat and work with people who don’t have doctors and hospitals.

“When I grow up, I want to be a pilot like Miss Greene,” I said later when I saw her touch the Cessna seaplane down on the water and climb from the cockpit onto the floats of the plane and nimbly jump onto the pier.  She was the only woman pilot I had ever seen.  I had heard the stories of her flying planes over the Burmese pass during the war.  I learned much later that she had helped start Missionary Aviation Fellowship, the group that flew all of us missionaries around the country.  Yes, I thought, it would be great to be able to take missionaries from their remote stations to mission conferences, just like Miss Betty Greene.

Most of the time, though, my main thought was, “When I grow up, I want to be just like Mom.”  Missionary, home-school teacher, Bible storyteller extraordinaire, devoted mother to me and my siblings, and loving wife to my dad.  With a song on her lips and tenderness in her touch, she made my ever-changing world a secure place to live.  She had five (and then six) children, so I would have five or six children.^*  She sang while she worked, so I sang while I played.  She worked hard from morning till night, so I learned that adulthood meant hard work. I ‘helped’ make bread, and she gave me permission to try out my own cooking skills by making ‘mixtures’.  (These were usually never baked since they tasted so good as a mixture of ingredients.)  She let my little brothers and I draw chalk roads on the concrete floors as we drove our toy cars from room to room.  She even warned us when floor washing day was coming up so that we knew that all the roads would disappear.  She taught me to set a correct table and how to properly clean the kitchen.  She taught me the basics of running a household – how to cook, bake bread, clean, manage money, and sew, skills I knew I would need to be the very best mother I could be.

I learned much about appreciating beauty from her.  “Come look at the sky!” she called on many evenings when afternoon sun lengthened the shadows and transformed the sky into dazzling colors.  It was as though the earth had draped a bright Mexican blanket around herself before the cool night air whispered through the trees.  Together we’d talk about the varying shades of pink, orange and purple and the amazing God we serve who was not only powerful but who loved beauty.  Or we’d drive down the road and turn the corner and she would exclaim, “Oh, how beautiful!” as we caught a glimpse of the swiftly changing vista before us.
One day while they were on furlough in New York, after years of working in the crowded, grey cement jungles of metro Manila, I found her sitting on the back porch of my uncle’s house. 

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m drinking in the beauty,” she replied as she stared at the expanse of green yard dipping down to the trickling creek.  I sat down beside her and let my eyes relax with the view of bright green fading into the dark green of the trees and listened to the birds calling to each other.  I don’t know how long we sat there, but our spirits were revived by the beauty around us.  “I feel like my soul is starved for beauty,” she told me.  At the time, I didn't understand it, until I too began years of working in a grey cement jungle.

Most importantly, she taught me what it was to follow the Savior.  One morning very early, I was the first to rise, or so I thought.  I found her kneeling at the rattan couch in our little living room.  I walked up next to her and knelt beside her.  She wrapped her arm around me, finished her prayer time and gave me a kiss and a squeeze. “Let’s go get breakfast on the table, shall we?” she said, as we arose together and headed into the kitchen where I set the table while she cooked.

I learned from her that following Jesus was a life of peace and joy.  Even during the hard times, when tears cruised their way down her soft cheeks, the peace was still there.  After the tears were gone, a smile broke forth and once again she started singing songs of praise to the Savior.  When Dad was suddenly taken from us and accused of being a CIA spy and thrown into an Indonesian prison cell, everyone around her remarked on her peacefulness.  I still saw her smile.  I still heard her sing.  I still saw her pray and praise God for His faithfulness.

The years have passed.  Time has a way of compressing the passing years into important memories.  For me, some of the sweetest memories of my life are those of my mom.  She has continued, throughout the years, to be an example to me.  So even though I’m pushing 60 now, I still look at my mother and say, “Mom, when I grow up, I want to be just like you.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
*Child #7 was adopted after I became an adult, so that number did not enter into my childhood dreams.

The Best Sounds of Christmas

I love Christmas, its tastes, sounds, sights, and touch.  I love the wonder and beauty that accompanies it.  But this year I kept coming back to the sounds that I loved this particular year.

Mail call. Almost every day, cards have arrived from people who remember us. Going through the notes from people, seeing their photos, and putting out the cards made Christmas special.

Children’s laughter.  My brother Joel, a missionary in Japan, is home on furlough this year with his two young children.  For the first time in a long time, the squeals and giggles of children were part of this year's celebration.  


Waves on the beach.  My brother Steven rented a house in Gulf Shores, Alabama, where our family spent Christmas week together.  I was often on the beach, especially at sunset, listening to the rhythm of the waves, the call of the seagulls, and the whisper of the wind. 


Christmas carols.  I have a fairly musical family.  One of the things we most enjoy when we gather is singing.  From "Silent Night" to "Joy to the World" rang out when we gathered together.  On Christmas Eve, with all my brothers and sisters and their spouses present, and some nieces and nephew too, we almost sounded like a choir.  Then, through the modern convenience of Skype, we were able to sing to (with?) my nephew in Cameroon on Christmas afternoon.  

Silence.  Perhaps the best sound was no sound at all, when I sat in wonder at the feet of Jesus, amazed once again by His supreme sacrifice in becoming one of His creatures - a helpless baby dependent upon a young mother to survive.  If that were all, it would be truly amazing.  But the rest of the story of His life, all the way to the cross, leaves me speechless.  Thank you, God!

Flowers for Mom

The Dutch have a tradition: buy flowers for your mother on your birthday.  After all, she is the one who did all the work the day I was born.  She is the one who deserves my honor, especially today. 

Since we are not Dutch, I have never done this before, but this year it seemed like a good idea.  We are currently living with my parents, so it was easy to get them to her and a treat to be able to enjoy them with her.

I like flowers as a symbols of my love and affection for my mother.  Their beauty tells me that she is the most beautiful of women to me. 

Like a rose, my mom has a sweet fragrance about her - the fragrance of Christ.  To those that know and love Christ, it is a sweet smell and a reminder of even better things to come. 

These beautiful roses will only last a few days, and then they will be gone.  My parents are in their eighties now.  Life is short, so I will enjoy them while I can.

Their petals are soft, fragile, and easily bruised.  My mom, the woman who was a tower of strength to me throughout my growing years, is also soft, fragile, and easily bruised. 

Beauty.  Flowers.  Mom.  They go together.  And today, I celebrate my mom.

For we are unto God a sweet savour of Christ, in them that are saved, and in them that perish.  II Cor. 2:15