If Life is Like a River, then Ministry is Like Rafting

Some say that life is like a river. It makes sense. A river bends and winds its way down to a vast ocean, just like life winds its way through the years and ends in a vast eternity, either with God or without him. You never know what lies around the bend. It could be beauty or devastation, waterfalls or still water.

If life is like a river, then ministry is like rafting.  There are times of still waters where you get to enjoy the beautiful scenery as you float by. Routine and quiet days fill the weeks of ministry. Ordinary milestones like anniversaries, weddings., baby dedications, and birthdays are like the beauty on the banks of river where you see carefully planted gardens, towering trees, and flowers blooming. You float peacefully through those days, reveling in their joyful serenity, appreciating the warm sunshine and relatively cloudless days. Sometimes the quiet can lull you into thinking that life is peaceful and all the hard times are behind you.

Then, suddenly, the current speeds up and you know that difficulty lies ahead. At times in our ministry lives, we have had some warning that ministry was going to get difficult again. Perhaps, it was an undercurrent of unhappiness or a conflict that did not quickly resolve. At other times, it took us completely by surprise. As we rounded the bend, we were able to see the white water ahead and know that it would take all of our energy and all of our skill and strength to avoid the rocks and stay upright through the roiling waves. We knew that we might even be injured in the process, but that at least it would be tough and exhausting. We knew, too, that we needed to lead the raft of people in our ministry in such a way that we would not cause permanent damage to anyone on board.

However, in ministry "rafting," we have a Guide who has been down "our" river ahead of us and knows every unseen danger. If we were to try to navigate on our own, we would put ourselves and those with whom we minister at serious risk, but with our Guide we can rest assured that He will help us navigate around the sharp rocks and through the white water. He will even help us over that massive waterfall that looks impassable.

These days our journey in ministry with IPM often feels like river rafting. We have quiet, peaceful days when we are preparing for our next trip. We spend our days studying, writing, corresponding, making phone calls, connecting with churches, and reaching out to those around us. Then the speed picks up as we buy tickets and start making lists of the things we need to take with us. We stop the mail and the garbage pickup. We alert our neighbors to our upcoming absence and send out emails to relatives and friends asking for prayer. And then we take off - into the white water, speeding through the next days and weeks when we touch down in a new place to teach.  Then almost as suddenly as it began, we end our time there and find ourselves back in relative calm.

We would appreciate prayer that God would use us in each phase of our ministry - on those quiet, calm days and on the exciting, rushed ones. More than anything, when we eventually find our way to the end of our river and enter into the ocean of eternity, we want to hear a shout of "Well Done" from the Captain of our souls.

Uruguay, You Impress Me

Four large numbers on orange cubes marked the gates at Montevideo's airport.  Four gates at this international airport.  Wonderful!  A small airport for a change.  We descended into a modern, clean facility.

At immigration I was immediately impressed by the lack of paperwork.  No forms to fill out and no questions to answer.  The immigration and customs officials were efficient and courteous.  We did not have to open our bags at customs.  They were simply put through a scanner.

At the conference center, the staff was helpful and the meals were excellent.

On our way back from being in Argentina, we needed to cross back into Uruguay by boat since the bridge was under construction.

"Ma'am, may I help you?" a young woman asked as I struggled along the sidewalk with my two suitcases and carry-on in tow.  She took the smaller case from me and we continued on until we got to the boat.  At the boat, a man grabbed my large suitcase and the one she had and carried them both inside.

Wow, I thought.  The people here sure are kind.

When we arrived on the other side, we passed through immigration and customs.  Once again it was quick and efficient.

We walked out into the street.  We were obviously on the outskirts of Salto, the second largest city in Uruguay.  We wondered where we could find a taxi.

"May I help you?" another young woman asked as she saw us looking up and down the streets trying to figure out which way we should go.

"We need a taxi to take us to the bus station," I told her.

She whipped out her cell phone and called a taxi service.  "Just wait here," she said, "and they will be here in about fifteen minutes."  She smiled, tucked her cell phone into her purse and left.  We sat down on a park bench to wait.

The respect for others extends to waiting in line.  For the first time in many years, we saw orderly lines as people waited for buses and taxis.  At the bus station as we were waiting to load our luggage, a teenage girl nearby was obviously perturbed.  "Lots of people, right?" I said to her.

"Lots of people who are not waiting in line," she responded grimly.

The next day we were walking through a park.  An elderly man missed a step, stumbled, and fell. Immediately, people were at his side to check on him and help him up.  In many cities, people would stare but not help,

Unlike in many countries where we travel, we do not stand out as much here.  Everywhere people spoke to us in Spanish instead of assuming that we were North Americans.  In some countries, people talk to us in order to practice their English. Instead, they seemed genuinely concerned about two strangers.  At the bus station, the hotels and even out on the street, people seemed to bend over backwards to be respectful and helpful, even those who were not paid to serve us.

Uruguay, you impressed me.  Or maybe, to put it more correctly, your kind people really impressed me. 

The View from My Office

Normally, my office window looks out on the woods that border our back yard.  I enjoy watching the robins look for food and the blue jays chase each other through the tree branches.  As autumn comes, I can see the changes in the leaves as the woods take on a golden glow.  Now that the day lengths are shorter, I am sometimes already working when the sun rises over the treetops.   It is a peaceful view, and I am grateful for it.

Through the years, however, the view out my “office” window has varied.  Recently it was the view of an airplane wing atop a cushion of clouds on a blue sky since my desk was the tray of the seat in front of me.  

Later that evening, it became the airport as we waited for connections to Uruguay.  Hundreds of people passed by on their way to their gates to fly to places around the world.  Charlie and I sat together working out our presentation for the conference.  After a while, it was time to give up our little table in the "Marketplace" and move to the gate.  There our "office" became a place of rejoicing when Alejandra and Sergio Herrera, our missionaries in Mexico, arrived.  It had been years since I had seen them.

The next day my view changed to that of blue skies, a sandy beach, and a gray-blue bay as I sat at my “desk” in the meeting room of a conference center outside of Montevideo, Uruguay.  What a blessing it was to be surrounded by IPM’s missionaries from all over Latin America as we met for a regional conference.  Some of them we had already met.  Others we were meeting for the first time.  When their voices lifted together in song, it gave me a little glimpse of what a joy heaven will be.

At the end of the conference it changed again. One day it was a panorama of pastoral quietness as we sat in a car for hours driving from Montevideo to the north of Uruguay.  Spring flowers in varying hues of yellow, blue, purple, and peach bordered the roads.  Mile after mile we saw sheep grazing in vast expanses of pastureland.  Then we passed ranches and dairy farms where cattle grazed.  It could have been Wisconsin or Pennsylvania.

Later that week it was the view out a window of a house in a neighborhood of Mercedes, Argentina.  Houses border a dirt road.  Inside the gate, green grass grew and extended outside the gate too.  Dogs barked as they wandered up and down the street.  Inside the living room of this small house more than twenty people gathered to learn about Hermeneutics.  Charlie taught through a translator, a missionary who has been here in Argentina for many years.

Tomorrow it will change again.  Yet in every case, I am grateful.  I have a laptop computer that I can take with me so that I can work from anywhere.  God has given me eyes to see the beauty around me wherever we go in the world, and He has given us opportunities to serve Him in many different places.  What a blessing to have an "office" that changes multiple times throughout the year.  I am blessed.

 

A Day in Iquitos, Peru

We arrived last night at 6:00 p.m.  The sun had just set, but the air was clear.  We picked up our luggage and headed out to the parking lot to find the expected shuttle to the hotel.  Instantly we were swarmed by taxi drivers wanting our fare.  The shuttle was late, but we assured them we would wait for it.  Behind me, a person was so anxious to get to her car that she ran into me with her luggage cart, pushing my feet out from under me so that I landed on her suitcases.  Thankfully, I was not hurt.

We waited for about a half an hour for our ride.  The hotel van eventually drove in, but the driver was unaware that we were waiting, so he pulled into the departures section of the airport rather than the arrivals.  We took our luggage to him and we pulled out into traffic a few minutes later.

On all sides we were surrounded by motorcycles and motorcycle-cabs.   Palm trees lined the main road.  We passed a plaza, and I thought we might be getting close since our hotel is near the plaza.  However, it was only the first of four plazas that we passed on our way to the hotel.

We settled into the second floor of the hotel.  Our room overlooks the main road, so traffic noise is fairly constant.  We could not see much in the darkness, so we decided to head out and find some supper.  Our colleagues at IPM had suggested a restaurant, and it did not take long for us to find it.  Obviously a popular place, it was filled with customers.  Judging from their appearance, almost all were tourists.

Charlie ordered roasted garlic chicken with a side of plantain chips.  I ordered a burger with a side of french fries.  I love the freshly squeezed lemonade they have here, so I ordered that to go with my meal.

When we were finishing our meal, I noticed that one of my earrings was missing.  Oh well.  It had fallen off once before, so it was to be expected that I would eventually lose it. Then Charlie noticed a little girl trying to reach something under my chair.  It was the missing earring.

We thanked her in Spanish.  Then her parents spoke up.

"Where are you from?" they asked in English accented with German flair. 

"The U.S." we replied.

"We were trying to guess," they replied, "and we both guessed wrong.  He thought you might be German and I thought you might be French or maybe French Canadian."

On our way back to the hotel, we walked through the central plaza.  Children played.  Couples held hands and talked softly.  Tourists gawked and took pictures of the fountains.  I think I could get used to living here, I thought.

This morning we woke to cloudy skies, but I could see the water of the Amazon River from our room.  We have to get out there, I thought.  A few minutes later, the phone rang.  Aladino, was one of the men who will be in the classes next week was here to greet us.  Charlie went down to meet him.  They walked down the road a while, taking in the view of the bustling city - the boardwalk along the river, the fish market, and people hurrying off to do their business of the day.  Later they returned, and we told him we would meet around 11:00 andto take a walk through town.

At breakfast, there were four choices of juice - papaya, cocona, camu-camu, and chirimoya.  I knew what papaya was, so I tried a couple of the others.  A buffet of scrambled eggs, fresh bread, various meats such as sausage and bacon, and fresh fruit gave me plenty of food to choose.  I savored the excellent coffee.  We may be in a coffee producing country, but often instant coffee is served, so I really appreciated the brewed, flavorful coffee.

At 11:00, we headed out together.  We continued our walk down the boardwalk in the opposite direction from which Charlie had gone that morning.  I stopped to take a few pictures of the river.  Eventually we found the main market.  Teeming with people and produce, I was glad that we had a guide to maneuver through the stalls.  I saw fruits I had never seen before.  Aladino gave us the names of those we had not seen before.

Charlie also needed a hat to keep the sun off his bald head.  We found one that could work in a small department store, but the price was higher than he wanted to pay, so we kept looking.  A few blocks later, on a stand at the side of the intersection, a woman had a rack full of men's hats.  He asked her price.  Satisfied with her prices, he began to look.  A little while later, he had his hat.  He offered five soles less than she requested.  She accepted his offer, and he walked away with a new hat.

"May we take you to lunch?" we asked Aladino.  "Perhaps you know of a place nearby?"

We walked some more and eventually came to the place he had in mind.   We ordered a plate of fried chicken with rice and beans, and a side of fresh fruit.  The meal came with a drink.  One of the drinks was "Cebada" which we had not had before, so we ordered that.  We were unsure what it was when we tasted it.  Later we found out that it was a drink made from roasted barley with added lemon and sugar.  Tasty!

When we finally returned to the hotel, we said goodbye to Aladino.  "We'll see you tomorrow," we told him.  I headed upstairs for a nap.  After the busy weeks we have had, I needed some rest.  Today was a day for rest.  Tomorrow the work starts.

Two Perspectives on Travel

After the sunset faded from the sky and darkness descended, I sat in the passenger seat wondering how much longer it would be before we stopped for the night.  Ten hours had passed since we started driving that morning, and it was still several hours before bedtime.  We talked, listened to the radio and I dozed a little.  I was bored.  There was not much to do except watch the cars pass us on the highway as mile after mile of darkness passed.  

It was my first experience of realizing that Charlie’s goal is to get to our destination.  He does not really enjoy himself until we get there.  Then he is ready to enter full vacation mode, or whatever else is the purpose of the trip.  His motto for travel is “Conquer the trip!”  It is not that he does not appreciate seeing the flowers as we fly by them on the highway.  He just does not want to stop long enough to smell them.

“Enjoy the journey!” is my motto.  Every day is an adventure, whether at home, on the road, or in another country.  So I enjoy making plans to stop along the way and see the sights that we would otherwise pass.  So yes, let’s stop and take pictures of scenic vistas, smell the honeysuckle, and run across the sand to dip my feet in the ocean.  I enjoy seeing what the day will hold, especially when the routine of being at home is gone.  

Over the years, Charlie has made many concessions to my desire to stop and enjoy the scenery, stretch my legs, or stop at historic places.  I am more willing to go the distance of putting in 15-hour days in order to please him.

Air travel is different.  Once we buy our tickets, we have very little control over what happens.  However, our perspectives still emerge.

Long layovers in airports?  I use the time to watch the parade of people as they cross paths briefly in a location where they do not plan to stay.  I wonder who they are and where they are headed.  I write or read books and enjoy the layover.  Sometimes I strike up a conversation with strangers, especially if they have children or if they look like they would appreciate a chat.  Charlie uses the time well too, but it is grueling for him.  He just wants to get there.

Delayed planes and missed connections?  For me, it’s part of the adventure.  After all, we never would have stayed overnight in an expensive hotel in Japan if there had not been a problem on our return from India. While Charlie appreciated that particular perk, he generally sees these as disruptions to the goal of arriving at our destination on time.  “Conquer the trip!” is still his motto.

It is, perhaps, one of the reasons God put us together.  I need more of his goal-oriented punctuality.  He needs more of my enjoyment of life.  Together we get a little bit of both perspectives.

Dangerous Comparisons

Recently, I caught an unexpected glimpse of myself from a side view in a long mirror.  Since it was not the way I usually see myself, I was startled by the imperfect posture and the profile that "only a mother would love."  A beauty I am not, and no amount of beauty products or makeup will make me one.  At times, I even pity my husband who is the one who has to look at me the most. In the midst of my reverie, however, I realized the danger of what I was doing.  I took the world's standard of beauty and elevated it above God's.  Without realizing it, I had just told God that He did not do a very good job when He gave me this face, even though I know well that God does everything correctly and perfectly.

All so different

While sin and death mar God's creation, God never intended that everyone have the same high cheekbones, long neck, perfect features, and hourglass figures.  Just as flowers, with all their varying beauty, give honor to God in their uniqueness, God also wants us to reflect His creative power in the very different ways we were made.

Comparing myself to someone else is dangerous for two reasons.  First, it uses the wrong standard for our inspection.  Just as our standard for physical beauty should be God's Word and not what society tells us, we also tend to use the wrong criteria for how well we have done in our activities.  As a student, I depended more on what my grades said than whether I had worked "heartily, as to the Lord, and not unto men."  Secondly, it puts us in danger of two serious character flaws - pride and insecurity.  If we surpass man's approval, we can become proud.  If we do not measure up, we can become insecure.  Whenever these two things exist in our lives, it will point to using the wrong standard in our lives.

Let us look at housekeeping, for example.  Unwittingly, we adopt our standard from the picture perfect homes of magazines.  Sometimes we almost apologize for the fact that people live in our home.  Instead of looking to God and His ideas for how our house should be kept clean, we live in fear that our house does not measure up to other people's neat homes.  It is the Lord who judges His children on how well something is done.  After all, he is the Only one who looks beyond the outside and sees our heart attitudes.  He knows if we have done our best with a humble spirit or if we are out to get praise from people.  What matters in our housekeeping is whether or not we have pleased Him.  If we shut our eyes at the end of a long day, all we need to do is say to the Lord, "I did my best today.  I know I did not get everything done and the house is still not as clean as I want it, but I really did do my best."

Sometimes I hear the wrong standard being used in the way we criticize others.  We might not say it aloud, but our attitude reveals that we have applied our own standard instead of God's to the situation.  We need to remember God's words:  "Who art though that judgest another man's servant? to his own master he standeth or falleth."  (Romans 14:4)  We have no idea of what was going on in that person's life that day.  We do not know what her attitude was.  We do not know if he worked to the best of his ability.  We do not know if she did it as an offering to God instead of getting approval from people.  We just do not know the whole story.

The plague of comparing ourselves to others dominates our culture.  It results in a lack of what we all so desperately need:  joy, peace, patience, and love.  As a Christian woman, I need to be different.  If I find joy in doing my work for the Lord nd in seeking His "Well done!" at the end of the day, I will be more likely to radiate His peace instead of being anxious.  If I do my work to the best of my ability, I will not bear the burden of guilt for laziness or carelessness.  If I leave the final judgement of others' work to the Lord, I will more likely radiate love and patience when I deal with them.

So the next time I find myself being cricitcal of myself or another, I need to ask myself, "Am I using God's standard, society's standard, or my own?"  Then I need to find out what God's standard is and remember that He is the only one who can truly judge correctly.

Counting to Ten on Thanksgiving Day

 

On this beautiful day of Thanksgiving, I stop to count some of the sweet blessings that God has given through the years.  These are broad, sweeping statements.  Perhaps later I will add some more specific ones, but these are huge blessings in my life that I never want to forget.

1. God saved me.  On a hot, sunny day in Indonesia as a five-year-old child, God showed me the enormity of my sin and my need of a Savior.  My mother led me in a simple prayer and my life forever changed.  Today my heart overflows with the joy of knowing I am loved and safe with God.
2. Sixteen years ago God gave me a wonderful, godly husband.  I had to wait a long time to find him.  I let other opportunities for marriage go by as I waited for this man that I hoped existed and who was the other half of me.  Today I give thanks for his godly leadership, his thoughtful intelligence, and his Christ-like love for me.
3. God gave me godly parents.  Throughout my life, I have witnessed firsthand their faith and commitment to God.  They have been faithful witnesses to me of what it means to trust and follow God.  Today I give thanks that at 89 years of age, they are still part of my life.   
4. The Bible.  What a precious book.  Everyday when I open its pages, I marvel again how it speaks to me afresh.  Today I found plenty of passages that gave me words of thanksgiving to fill my heart with praise.
5. Church.  Whether I am talking about our church in Georgia, the church my husband pastored in Maine, or the many other churches where I worshiped and worked through the years, I am so grateful for the role of the church in my life.  The teaching I have received there and the fellowship of the believers have been a help in hard times and a way to celebrate the good times.  Church has helped me grow and made me of more service to God than I ever would have been alone.
6. Health.  I know of so many people my age who are struggling with physical issues.  How thankful I am for good health. As I get older, I am getting glimpses of the fact that my body may not always be healthy, so I am doubly thankful for health today.
7. Beauty.  We live in a beautiful world.  I sometimes wonder how heaven could possibly be any better than this, but I am convinced that it is.
8. The gift of sight.  Every time I stop of admire the color of a fresh flower, the sparkling of dew on the grass, the arch of a double rainbow in the sky, or the glow of autumn leaves in the morning sunlight, I marvel that God would give me eyes to see such beauty.  Along with that gift, I am also giving thanks today for eyeglasses.  I see more clearly with them and appreciate God’s beauty more with them.
9. Music.  Right now the sound of a professional choir singing “We Gather Together” is filtering up the stairs and into the room where I write.  My heart soars in praise when I hear beautiful music, whether it is the sound of a pipe organ that leads a congregation in song, a cello playing “It Is Well” or a child’s voice singing “Jesus loves me.”  Today music helps me lift my heart in praise in a way that a world without music could not.
10. The gift of hearing.  As I get older, my hearing is not nearly as good as it used to be.  I notice it when a mosquito has to get close to me for me to hear it rather than hearing it across the room the way I did when I was younger.  Still, I am amazed that God would let me hear the beautiful and no-so-beautiful sounds around me.  Our hearing helps protect us from danger as well as letting us enjoy so much – the singing of birds, the patter of rain, and the thundering of the waterfall.
    
    Thanksgiving Day sounds are all around me.  I hear a knife on wood as someone cuts vegetables in the kitchen.  A full choir sings through computer speakers.  Footsteps sound in the hallway.  Muted conversations drift through the open door.  Dishes clatter.  The oven door squeaks open and then closed.  A door shuts.  The clock ticks.  A cell phone announces an incoming message.  Cars whisper by on the road outside.  All in all, they remind me that a family has gathered to feast and thank the Lord for His blessings.
    
    Thank you, Lord, for hearing.

And so I have counted to ten.  To be honest, this is only a start.  My blessings, should I count them all, would number in the thousands.

Guatemala, I miss you.

 
I miss the everyday sights

• Early in the morning, the mountains slowly appeared through the mist and stood like powerful sentries around the village, announcing to anyone who paid attention that our Creator God was bestowing bountiful blessings on this little country of Guatemala.
• Flowers cascaded down front gates, lined window boxes and pathways to homes, and sold for pennies in the marketplace..
• The market in San Juan Sacatepéquez was teeming with the vibrant color or produce for sale and lively bargaining between vendors and buyers at 7:00 in the morning.
• Children played outside.  A soccer game, marbles, or simple tag might take place in the village streets or in the alleys.  
• Vendors and housewives carried their wares on their heads.
• Dogs roamed freely and without the territorial viciousness I often see back home.

I miss many of the things I smelled there.

• Freshly washed clothes hung on the line, wafting their scent of lavender in my direction when I walked by.
• A jasmine bush grew by the driveway, and Barbara picked a few flowers for our desk just before we arrived.  For days, I smelled their fragrant aroma whenever I walked into our room.
• Walking up the driveway, I’d stop to smell the jasmine and the roses that grew there.
• Before a rain, you could smell it coming.  After it left, the natural smells of earth and grass were more prominent than before.
• Tortillas or tacos for sale at a roadside stand tempted us as we walked by.
• The fragrant aromas filtered out of the kitchen several times as day, awaking our senses and making us ready to enjoy the next meal.
• Of course, there were some not-so-nice smells that I sometimes smelled, but even those were a reminder to me that I was not at home.  Bus fumes, garbage, and manure could not overcome the positives things I smelled there.

I miss the sounds I heard there.

• Firecrackers at midnight announced the beginning of someone’s birthday.
• Dogs barked, and roosters crowed their way-too-early greeting of the new day.
• Buses blared their horns, as early as 4:30 in the morning, to announce their departure for the capital city.
• A lonely cat let everyone know of her presence as she sat outside mewing for attention. 
• Children played on the patio, their laughter and imaginative conversations drifting in to where I quietly worked on my lesson plans for the day.
• The gentle rain pinged off the metal roof, quieting the other noises outside and lulling me to sleep.
• Children called out “Gringos!” to each other whenever we were out on the street.

Barbara teaching the children.

But mostly, I miss the people.

• Giovanni and Barbara Avendaño and their wonderful family. Our house seemed way too quiet when we returned. 
• The indigenous women in their colorful dress celebrated their distinctive culture.  Their shyness made it obvious to me that they had different cultural values from the ladinos in their midst. 
• The church people sang enthusiastically when they gathered for worship.
• Hosts and hostesses warmly welcomed us into their homes for a typical Guatemalan meal.
• At prayer meeting, their prayers were fervent as they lifted their voices to God, asking Him to do impossible things in their lives and in the lives of those they loved.  
• Passersby greeted us pleasantly as we walked down the village streets, sometimes stopping to talk or walk with us for a while. 
• Children called out their few English words when we passed and giggled when we stopped to talk to them.
• The people of Guatemala were friendly and welcoming to us.  Wherever we went, they greeted us with a smile.

So, Guatemala, we do not know exactly when we will be back, but we are looking forward to our return.

A Walk through the Village

This afternoon Charlie and I took a walk through the village.  Along the way we greeted the people we met and stopped and talked with a few.  When they asked why we were here, we told them we were teaching at the local Baptist church, gave them a tract and invited them to attend one of the services.  Join us on our walk through the village.

As we leave the house, at the top of the driveway we can see the mountains across the valley from this village.



Flowers abound.



We pass the catholic church.  Every town in Latin America seems to have one, usually in the center of town.  A strong majority of people here will claim Catholicism as their religion.



Children peer out open doorways to watch the “gringos” pass by.  Others call out to us.  Some even try to use the one or two words they know in English.  “Buenas tardes,” I call to a couple girls who respond in kind, and then go running away, giggling.



Anyone need a Laundromat?



Wheelbarrows are put to good use here.  Doesn’t this look like fun?



Eventually we arrive at the church, about a half mile from where we are staying.  No one is here today, but tonight it will be bustling with activity.

On our way back, we walk through the main intersection in town.  In reality, it is the only intersection, though many small roads, wide enough for only one car at a time, are like fingers off the main roads.



We pass dozens of little stores like this one.  This one is larger than most.  Besides the actual stores, many houses have baskets of produce in front of their homes ready to sell to passers by.



The white picket fence, the only one in town, lets us know that we are back at our hosts’ home.



Thank you for taking this walk with us.

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.”

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

On My Soapbox about the "Dove Commercial"

Yesterday I intended to take my normal short visit to Facebook.  Usually I check my page, answer messages and look at recent items on the newsfeed.  That generally takes me about ten minutes.  People who know me know that if they want to be sure I’ll see something, they have to message or tag me.  I don’t want to spend too much time there.  I’d rather spend real time with real people.

Yesterday on my short visit, I saw a number of people posting a link to the “Dove Commercial,” the one where the artist compares peoples own description of themselves with someone else’s.  I decided to take the time to see it as it was obviously making an impression on some of my friends.  So I watched it and found it troubling, but I couldn’t put my thoughts into words immediately.  I needed time.

My first reaction when I saw it was “Why does it matter?”  Why does it matter what I think I look like?  Why does it matter what other people think I look like?  Does it make any difference to the way I live my life?  Shouldn’t I, as an adult, have gotten beyond the need for an affirmation of beauty?  Isn’t life much more than looks?  Are we, as a society, so self absorbed that our own physical beauty matters that much? 

Secondly, beautiful women are not just the ones with flawless skin, thin faces, and straight noses.  I know women whose radiance makes them stand out in a crowd.  Everyone who knows them tends to talk about how beautiful they are, but they do not fit a narrow standard of beauty.  There is an inner quality that shines through their eyes and demeanor that makes people take notice and call them beautiful.

Two of God's beautiful women

Third, beauty is so much more than physical appearance.  The most beautiful women I know are not those who would win a beauty pageant.  They are the ones who are daring and bold and whose beauty shines through actions more than well-placed makeup.  I would rather see a woman covered in mud helping to rescue victims after a flood than a beautifully dressed woman on a red carpet.  A woman willing to welcome the seventh child into an already busy home is more beautiful to me than a perfectly dressed one who walks out of a lawyer’s office in a power suit. 

When we read about the most amazing women of history, their physical appearance is not generally mentioned.  Was Florence Nightingale pretty?  What about Clara Barton, founder of the Red Cross?  Or Harriet Beecher Stowe or Harriet Tubman, who brought the plight of slaves into the forefront of American thinking?  Do you think Margaret Thatcher sat and worried about her physical appearance while she made decisions on behalf of her nation?  Does it really matter what any of them looked like?


God's beautiful women in Guatemala.



 Would Mary, the mother of Jesus, have been called beautiful by her peers? I have my doubts. What about Abigail, Ruth, Priscilla, or Dorcas? Yet all of these women are highlighted in Scripture, not for their looks, but for who they were.

For those of us who claim to be Christian, it should be very clear that the world’s standard of beauty is not ours.  God created each of us unique.  Since His hand of creativity is on each woman, all of us are beautiful in His eyes.  Would we say to a daisy, “You’re not pretty because you are not a rose!”  Of course not.  We need to be very careful before we lightly criticize the creative hand of God in our lives.  While we know genetics plays a part, it is still amazing the way God puts those genes together to create a uniquely beautiful person.

Are any of us alike?  Yet all of us were created by God.

So instead of celebrating our world’s standard of physical beauty, let’s celebrate the work of God evident in each others’ lives.  Let's clap each other on the back and celebrate obvious acts of kindness.  Let's rejoice when someone returns evil with good.  Let's encourage industry, generosity, joyfulness, and patience.  Let us stop commending each other on how beautiful we look and instead commend each other for how beautiful you ARE.  Let's turn our eyes away from Hollywood's standards and remember God's standards.  After all, He's the One who created beauty.  I think He should be the final judge.

When Things are Quiet

It's been quiet over here in our little corner, hasn't it?  Not a blog has been written in almost a month.

Sometimes quiet is a good thing.  A sleeping baby is quiet.  A car that runs smoothly is quiet.  Golden sunsets are quiet.  Twinkling stars are quiet.

But while things are quiet here, there are still small ruffles at the edge of the quiet.  A phone call that encourages us.  A Christmas card with a check in it for Charlie's trip to Ghana.  A pastor who tells us that Charlie's ministry to him on a dark night several weeks ago was just what he needed to keep going.

So just because it's been quiet, it does not mean things are not happening.  It's just that the small things that ripple through our lives are hard to write about in a way that makes sense to a general public.

And in the wake of much disaster, heartache, and turmoil, I am blessed by the quietness.

Back in Maine!

If I were to have designed a first week back in Maine after being gone for nine months, I don’t think I could have thought of a better week.  These are some of the highlights. 


The view from our bedroom window.

An absolutely gorgeous place to stay with very gracious hosts.  Rick and Kathie Ramsdell have a beautiful home on Holmes Bay.  The location itself would have been enough to soothe and cheer my heart, but I also cannot say enough about how gracious they were.  All of the people who have hosted us over the past year have been gracious, but the Ramsdells have definitely stood out as having a God-given gift of hospitality.  We are so grateful for their generosity and genuine love for us and for the work of the ministry.




Craft time

Game time.

Vacation Bible School with the Downeast Baptist Church in Machias, Maine.  My days were spent studying, writing, walking, meditating and praying.  But every night culminated in the best part – VBS.  The children were eager to learn and were enthusiastic about the week, asking at the end of it if it could go on.  The adults fully participated by helping with games, snacks, decorations, registrations, and providing meals for us.

The beautiful bride

A wedding at West Hampden Baptist Church on Saturday.  A young woman we have known for the last twelve years was married on Saturday, and we got to be there!  Seeing so many of our friends from West Hampden made it extra special. 














On Sunday Charlie shared our ministry with the people there, and then our hosts treated us to a lobster dinner.  What says “Maine” more than a lobster dinner?  Whoopie pies?  Well, we had those too!

Eastport, ME

Yesterday we travelled to Eastport, ME. We visited Raye’s Mustard factory, a place that Charlie wanted to see since we arrived in Maine and spent a couple hours enjoying the beauty of the place.  When we returned to Machiasport, the fog had settled in again, but I still spent more than an hour walking the beach.  It was a much needed and relaxing day off for me.



God is good – all the time.  Even when I don’t feel blessed, I know He is blessing.  But it is also a blessing (though not a greater blessing) to feel so blessed, and I thank and praise Him today for these special blessings.