January Highlights

Looking back over the month, here are a few highlights:

1. At the beginning of the month. we went to Minneapolis.  When I walked into my brother's living room, four of his five children got up to give me a group hug.  One of them had just flown in from Kuwait and another was getting ready to return to England.  I was able to see the fifth the next day.  It is so seldom that those five people are in the same location at the same time that I knew I was blessed when I got to be there then.
2. I was able to catch up with a few friends in Minneapolis while Charlie attended classes at Central Seminary.

   

   Amazon River, Peru

3. A photographer friend agree to take pictures for our new prayer card.  
4. We are participating in the children's ministry of our church here in Georgia.  
5. Details for Charlie's trip to the Peruvian Amazon came together, and he is now booked and getting ready to go. He will be teaching in a pastors' conference.
6. I attended the funeral of my friend, Char, via live-streaming.  What a godly example she was to me throughout the years that I have known her.
7. I am working on the children's ministry class I will be teaching in the Philippines. 
8. I am almost ready to send the "Lost in the Desert" curriculum to the printers.
9. On this, the last day of January, we walked into a church to give some Spanish materials to them to take on a missions trip to Nicaragua.  When the teacher of the ladies' Sunday school class saw me, she asked to share the Word with a ladies' Sunday school class. I did not go expecting to teach, so I looked back at the things the Lord was teaching me this week in devotions and shared from Psalm 18.
10. Then tonight I got to hear my husband preach.  It was a good end to a good month.   

A Small Slice of Latin America

Coming down a long driveway, a blue sign with white letters welcomed us to “Iglesia Bautista Sublime Gracia”.  We drove around the back of a long brick ranch house to where the other cars were parked under the scattered pines and oak trees.

Almost as soon as we’d parked and gotten out of the car, Ric and Beth Hurd arrived.  They are IPM missionaries who live in Georgia and whose ministry is to reach out to ethnic groups here in the U.S.  We waited for them to park and greeted them.  Charlie and Ric went to meet and pray with the pastor before the services began, and Beth and I went into the main building to find seats.  Our light complexions stood out in the sea of darker skin, so we introduced ourselves as we went.  “Buenos dias,” I greeted as we passed.

“Buenos dias,” they returned.

Inside the house, some of the walls had been removed to create an auditorium that could seat about a hundred people.  We’d been told that Sunday School would start at 9:30 and that Charlie would speak during Sunday School. 

Not long after 9:30, the service began.  We sang a few songs and the younger classes were dismissed.  Teenagers stayed with the adults.  Charlie spoke on “The Four Laws of Communication” from Ephesians 4, a lesson he’s taught throughout the world.  Translation was provided for him by another man who is a former missionary to Latin America. 

As Charlie spoke, it was clear to me that some of the young men in the room were fluent in English.  They laughed at Charlie’s jokes before they were translated and were listening for the accuracy of the translation.  So when “the first hour of Sunday School” was over, I spoke with them and said, “You could have been the translator.” 

“Oh, no,” they said.  “He did a much better job.”  I am hopeful, though, that at some point in the future one of them will take up that challenge when those skills are needed again.

We took a half-hour break out under a large tent where children and adults lined up for a snack.  Two young women were pouring “Atole de Avena” into Styrofoam cups.  Atole de Avena is a Mexican hot oatmeal drink, sweetened with honey and seasoned with cinnamon – a healthy way to keep everyone satisfied until they could eat lunch.

A half hour later, we were back in the auditorium for “the second hour of Sunday School”.  During this hour, the classes that were dismissed included teenagers, a singles class, and a new believers class in addition to the younger classes.  About forty people remained in the room, among them children and teens who could have gone to one of the other classes but chose to stay for “The Pastor’s Class”.  Attendance was taken by calling out a name and that person responded by getting up to say the day’s memory verse or by admitting that they hadn’t learned it.  Of course, this took quite a bit of time.  There were also those who were turning in their worksheets from their daily quiet times as the pastor was trying to encourage them to develop new habits.  The pastor then taught a lesson for the next half hour.

At 1:00 in the afternoon, all of the classes returned to the main auditorium where they sang “Happy birthday” to those who’d had birthdays during the week.  Among them was the pastor’s wife.  The people were reminded of Communion Service that night at 5:00 with the qualifier that it was only for baptized members of the church.  The day’s worship service would be at 6:00 p.m.  Then the Sunday school teachers led in a “Goodbye Song”. 

While we were gathering up our things, one of the women came and asked if we would join them for lunch.  Unknown to the pastor’s wife, the ladies of the church had planned for “dinner on the grounds” to celebrate her birthday.  We agreed to stay.

Another woman came and put her hand in mine.

“Juanita,” she said (in Spanish).  “My sister was named Juanita.  She died a few years ago, and I miss her.  I don’t know if she’s in heaven or not, so I’m so thankful to meet you.  Thank you for learning Spanish.  It’s been so hard for me to be here where no one understands me.  English is so hard to learn.”

My heart went out to her.  I know what it’s like to be in a foreign country where no one speaks your language.  I imagine that church is like a little slice of home to her.

We went outside, fully expecting to stand in line with the rest of the people, when we were told that our plates were waiting for us.  At the head table, next to the pastor’s family, were plates of steaming food: rice, beans, salad and carne guisado (stewed pork, in this case).  Delicious! 

During lunch, I found out that the pastor had five children and that their arrival in the US was “a long story.”  I listened to the shortened version, and then watched as the pastor’s wife teased the children that the very large cake was hers, and she was going to take it home.  But a few minutes later, she began to cut it up and divide it out among the guests.  A child brought me a plate, and it reminded me of the moist birthday cakes I’d had in Guatemala, many years ago.

The children waiting for a piece of cake.

One of the children asked the pastor’s wife if there was going to be a piñata.  Since she wasn’t in charge of the plans, she didn’t know.  But sure enough, a few minutes later one appeared.

With full stomachs and hearts full of praise for the work that God was doing there in Douglasville, GA, we took our leave.  The party was far from over, but we had an evening service to get to in another town.  As we left, excited children were gathering around a piñata, waiting for their turn to try to break it open.

As our car drove down the driveway, I sighed.  For a few hours, I could have believed I was in Latin America again.  Everyone spoke Spanish.  The food was deliciously Latino, and the people were delightfully Hispanic.  I could get used to this, I thought.  It was sort of like biting into a piece of cake and finding hidden flavor.  You were expecting a vanilla sponge cake and found ribbons of chocolate and coffee syrup thrown in.  I could definitely get used to this.  Here in the middle of Georgia I had found a little slice of Latin America.

A Whiff of Wisteria

For he knoweth our frame; he remembereth that we are dust.  As for man, his days are as grass: as a flower of the field, so he flourisheth.  For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more.  Psalm 103:14-16

I smelled them before I saw them - a strong floral scent on the wind.  I looked around and didn't see anything that looked like it could be producing such a beautiful smell.  Then I looked up the road.  More than a block away, wisteria hung like clusters of grapes from a vine, high up in the trees.  The closer I got, the stronger the smell.  It was the first time I remember seeing so many of them growing wild.

I clipped one bunch of flowers and carried it home, placing it in a slender vase.  Within hours, however, the petals had shrivelled and died. 

They were so beautiful that the next day I returned to the tree-clinging wisteria vines to take pictures.  Once again I could smell them before I was even close.  Bumblebees buzzed among them, collecting their sweet nectar. 


I remembered the reminders from Scripture that our lives are temporary and short-lived.  We are like flowers of the field that (hopefully) give off beauty and sweet fragrance for a time and then are no more. 

Although the stem I had cut had withered and died, the scent was still there.  Gathering the petals together in a small bowl, I kept them by my computer so that I could catch a whiff of their sweet smell as I worked.


Lord, let my life be like these wisteria flowers.  Let it be a sweet smell to people around me.  Let it shout your amazing grace to everyone who stops to look at what You have done.  And when my life is over,  let it linger on for a while as a testimony to Your glory, creative wisdom, and power.

Send the Light

A little light from the deepening shadows of the early evening filtered through the closed blinds of the darkened auditorium.  In front of the pulpit on the communion table, a pillar candle with three wicks cast light into the room.  Behind it stood the pastor of the church.  On the platform, the visiting missionary began the second part of his sermon. 

“'Send the light' has been our theme this week,” he went on," “and this candle in the front represents this church right here.  You can see how much light this candle throws into the room.  Indeed, this church has stood for over a century bringing light to this region.”  He gave a history of the church, described the current pastor’s call to lead this flock, and talked about the many ministries that the church has used to reach out to the community around it.

“But preacher!”  Mark, a man in the congregation stood to his feet and interrupted the missionary.  The missionary paused.  “Preacher,” he exclaimed, “I spent two tours of duty in Iraq.  I didn’t see any churches there.  There were hardly even any Christians in my unit.  The soldiers serving our country and the Iraqi people are lost.  What about them?”  Tears were in his voice, and nearby people began to wipe tears out of their eyes.  He went on.  “Here in Georgia we have churches on almost every corner.  What about them, preacher?  They need Jesus too.  We may be helping our neighborhood, but who is going to care about them?  Who will tell them about Jesus?”  His voice broke.

“Well,” said the missionary.  “I appreciate your concern.  I truly do.  But this church gave $35,000 last year toward missions.  Those missionaries still need your support.  You are already stretching yourselves in order to reach out to the world.  I don’t know if this congregation can raise even more money in order to help send someone to Iraq.”

The pastor jumped in.  “I think we can do it, brother.  I really think we can.”

“Your pastor has a lot of confidence in you, I see,” the missionary said.  “But even if you did manage to raise enough money to send someone to Iraq, someone has to be willing to go.  We don’t have anyone here interested in going there right now.”

“I’ll go, preacher,” Mark said quietly.

Behind me, a gasp went up from several people.  Beside him, his wife started to cry.  Others were stunned.

“Do you mean that?” the missionary questioned. 

“I do.”

“Then I need you to come up here and grab one of these candles that is here in front and go stand in the back corner to represent Iraq.”

As he walked up to the communion table, the pastor handed him a white taper and he lit it.  As he walked back to the corner, a small amount of light came from there as well as the larger light in the front of the room.

The missionary continued with his message.

“Preacher!”  Matt jumped to his feet.  “I’ve been reading lately about all the violence and bloodshed in Colombia because of the drug wars.  Someone needs to go tell them about Jesus.”

The missionary smiled.  “Yes, someone does.  But you see the problem we have?  As a church you’ve already committed to help someone go to Iraq.  How can this church stretch even farther to get someone to go to Colombia?  There isn’t enough money in the budget.”

The pastor spoke quietly.  “I think we can raise it, brother.”

“Okay, then, but we still have the same problem with our brother who is concerned about Iraq.  Who will go?”

“I will, preacher,” Matt responded.

Once again a gasp went up from the congregation.  Someone started crying.  Someone else didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.  Some began to wonder who would be left in the church if this continued.  The two men who had jumped to their feet were leaders.  How would their places be filled?

Matt also took a candle, lit it, and went to stand in another corner in the auditorium.  The room was slowly brightening.

Mary stood to her feet.

“Preacher, you’ve been talking about all the AIDS orphans in Africa.  Someone needs to tell them about Jesus.  If my brother and brother-in-law are willing to go, I’ll go too.”  She, too, took a candle , lit it, and found a spot against the wall.

By this time, the people began to catch on that this was a drama.  After all, Mary would never have stepped forward without her husband.  By the time it was over, six people stood in different parts of the auditorium holding candles.  The missionary’s wife and two families (including us) were in the audience.  We were asked to light small candles and stand on the platform with the preacher. 

“Now for those of you still sitting," the missionary continued.  "If you are willing to support your worldwide missions program with your prayers and financial support, would you come up here, take a small candle and go stand next to one of the representative missionaries.  Light your candle from theirs as a way to show your support.”

The room brightened steadily as, one by one, the candles were lit.  Now the room was filled with light as about sixty candles glowed in the darkness.

The missionary continued.  “Now let’s suppose that problems arose here at home.  Bickering, gossip, discontent, and fighting arose within the church.  New people stopped coming because they didn’t like what was going on here.  People began to leave to get away from the fighting.  Soon there were only a few left and the church had to close its doors.  The support that the missionaries were receiving from this church dried up."

He paused for a moment to let that sink in.  "Now, those of you holding small candles, blow them out and return to your seats.”

When everyone had returned to their seats, the pastor also blew out the three wicks on the big pillar candle in front of the room,  and walked down the aisle and out the back door.  The once bright room was now shrowded in darkness.  Six candles scattered throughout the auditorium still shone brightly.

“Well, now the missionaries are out there without support.  One by one they faced troubles that they could not overcome.  They needed the prayer and support of the people back home, so one by one, they left the field and returned home.”

One by one, the six representative missionaries blew out their candles and left the room. 

“But it doesn’t have to be this way,” the missionary continued.  “You can stay bright in this place.  You can give missions a priority.  You can keep burning bright, both here and abroad.”

The six representatives and the pastor returned with candles burning bright, singing “Send the Light, the blessed gospel light.”  The second time through, the congregation joined their song. 

When the drama was over and the lights were turned back on, people began to stand to their feet and give testimony to God for what He had done in their lives during the week of missions conference.  Later, the faith promise commitments were taken.  People were reminded that a "faith promise" commitment is not based on what you can do, but what you believe God will allow to pass through your hands for missions.  When the commitments were tallied, almost $40,000 was pledged through faith that God would provide the money to His people for use around the world!

* * * * *
Note:  All the "M" names are pseudonymns.  Since we are in many churches, and I love what the various churches are doing for God, I would love to name them all.  However, I realize that not all people like their actions to be this public, so I try to give them annonymity.  Those who were there at the time will know who is who, and for the rest of us, it doesn't really matter.  All that really matters is that God saw what happened and sees into each of our hearts to know the whole truth.

The Soldier's Half-Marathon

On Saturday morning at 5:00 a.m., the alarm sounded, reminding me why I don’t really like early morning runs.  We got up, ate an apple, yogurt, and cheese, and drank some juice.  My groggy stomach insisted that it was not ready for food at that hour, so I ate only a little.  After breakfast, I settled down with my Bible for a while to read and pray.  Then I dressed in a pair of wind pants and a sleeveless running shirt under a turtleneck.   Just before 6:00, Charlie ducked out of our hotel room to start the car and scrape the ice off the windshield. When I joined him a few minutes later, we headed toward Fort Benning.

At the Infantry Museum, the dark, cloudless sky slowly began brightening, assuring the frozen runners that the sun’s warm rays were just below the horizon.  Under the lights of the street lamps and a full white moon that floated slowly toward earth, couples hugged each other, receiving warmth from one another’s bodies.  People bounced up and down and stretched out eager limbs as they waited for the crowd to gather.  Soldiers in uniform lined the walkway where the race would begin.

Then the wait was over.  The cannon’s burst caught me by surprise, and we were off.  Well, sort of.  The people at the front of the line, elite runners and those qualifying for the Boston Marathon, were off.  The rest of us began shuffling toward the starting line as row upon row of runners cleared the starting line and headed down the street.

At the first hill, I heard them before I saw them.  One drill sergeant shouted words of encouragement from the left sidewalk.  “Good work, ma’am.  Keep going.  You’re going to make it.”  On the other side, another drill sergeant used negative reinforcement.  “Why are you walking up this hill?  This hill is nothing!  You call that a five-hour marathon pace?  At that rate, you won’t make it.  You might as well give up now.”  I smiled, trying to discern which one was motivating me to pick up my pace.  Perhaps it was just the humor of it all.

At every bend in the course, soldiers in uniform stood to keep the runners on the path.  At the top of another hill, they shouted, “It’s all downhill from here.”  Well, it was, for a while. 

Mile after mile crept by.  I noticed a young woman in green.  She passed me.  Then I passed her.  She passed me.  I realized that she would be a good pace keeper for me.  I kept my eye on her, not letting her get too far ahead of me.  Then I noticed a black glove fall from her side.  She didn’t notice.  I stopped to pick it up and ran after her, but her pace was fast enough that I didn’t think I would ever catch her again.  When she slowed to a fast walk, I caught up and handed her the glove.  We exchanged names and found out about each other’s fallen heroes for whom we were running.  Then she was off again, and I was once again following.

At mile 12, two full-marathon runners sped by me, headed for their mile 25.  I wasn’t even to the half-marathon mark, and here they were about to finish their full marathon!

When I finally crossed the line, I melted into Charlie’s arms.  It was so good to be done.  I felt like I had accomplished something, even though I knew it was just a race that won’t matter much one hundred years from now.  So I looked for the woman in green.

“Thank you for being an encouragement to me today,” I said when I found her.  I went on, “Since you were ahead of me most of the way, I was praying for you.  Is there anything special you would like prayer for?”  She mentioned a couple generic things.  We hugged and parted. 

It was a good day.  It taught me things I hope I don’t forget:

• There is joy in the journey.  
• It’s easy to get lost if you don’t follow instructions.  
• I am not a marathon runner.   
• Running is a blessing many people don’t have, so I’m grateful for legs and health and time that has allowed me to do this in this season of my life.  
• Running has benefits, the most important for me is that it bonds me to my running-loving husband. 
• I can bless others with my prayers when I run.  
• But most important of all, God runs with me.  His voice and companionship during a run are the best part of it all.