Reviving the Blog

I closed down this blog for a while as it had been a long time since I had written. This week I decided to reopen it.

Since I last wrote, some of our circumstances are the same. Some have changed. Let me list some of those.

Many things stay the same. We are still living in Georgia. We are still working with IPM. We are still wanting to grow more in knowing and serving our Lord Jesus Christ.

However, there have been some changes. The biggest change in my life has been my father's passing on August 8 of this year. In the next few days, you may see some posts that I wrote surrounding those circumstances. During the year leading up to his death, Charlie continued to make trips as usual, but I cut back my travel in order to help my mother care for him. Now that he is gone, we are looking at the coming years and trying to determine our course for the future.

Charlie preaching at the closing of the VBS in Peru.

One other change. I have begun a new blog. Since writing is part of my ministry now, I thought it would be good to have a blog where I could write something short each day, (or at least most days). Since prayer is something that I want to encourage in both my own life and in other peoples' lives as well, it is a blog on prayer. In order to link the feeling of the two blogs, I have called it "Sojourning in Prayer."You will find it at https://sojourninginprayer.blogspot.com.


This blog will continue to be used to update people on our trips, but I want to keep it about our ministry. Occasionally, it may still include other insights, but for the most part, it will now focus on our travels.

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.

God Answers Prayer

God answers prayer

Some prayers were spoken in terms of simple desires.  "Lord, it would be nice to go to the Philippines to see the work of MEBSI and participate in that ministry."  We thought the door for us might be closed there, so it was more of a spoken desire than an actual request.  Yet God heard us and answered.

Some prayers barely left our lips before we saw the answers.  When we arrived at the airport, we discovered that our plane was delayed and we would miss our connection.  "Lord," we prayed quietly, "please help us."  A very helpful airline agent found another flight for us.  We got our tickets and then waited in an extremely slow security line.  Once again our prayer was, "Lord, please get us there in time."  We passed through security and ran for the gate, arriving just in time to board.  "Thank you, Lord," we breathed as we walked on.

We prayed that we might be a blessing along the way.  On the very long flight across the Pacific, Charlie sat next to a man who was on his way to reunite with his wife.  Charlie had the opportunity to talk with him about his faith and explain the gospel to him.

Joan teaching.

We prayed that we might be effective in our teaching.  We knew that our students had learned English as a second (or even third) language and there could be a significant language barrier.  For the most part, the students were responsive and enthusiastic about what they were learning.  We have been invited back again, and this time the students and faculty want us to spend some time observing their ministries after the classes are over.  That was another answer to prayer.

After classes and graduation were over, we headed to Manila where we were supposed to bard a bus to Baguio, a popular tourist town up in the mountains where many Filipinos escape the summer heat.  We headed to the bus station but were told they were all full.  "Lord, direct our steps," we prayed, when we saw that our plans were not working.  Within a few hours we received a call from Pastor Livioco who told us he had managed to get us seats on the overnight bus, and we were once again on our way.

Charlie preaching on Easter Sunday.

"Lord, let us be a blessing to Foundation Baptist Church," we prayed.  Charlie participated in a Q&A time and I shared part of my testimony in family camp.  Then on Sunday, Charlie preached in the morning service.  A number of people openly responded to his message.

There were also unexpected blessings.  First there was the blessing of music.  I taught the college students a new song to go along with the VBS curriculum.  When they got to the chorus, they broke out into four-part harmony.  What a surprise and pleasure that was.  Then on Easter Sunday, the church amazed us with their mini-cantata.  Their music ministered deeply to our souls.

Charlie's class - the MEBSI faculty.

Then there was the blessing to getting to know some of God's people in the Philippines.  Our hearts were bound to the Namocs and Liviocos and to others working with them.  We began to understand the unique role each of them has in God's work, and we really appreciate what God is doing in and through them there.

God answers prayers - all kinds of prayers.  We are grateful for the many prayers God's people prayed on our behalf because we know He answered those as well.

Thank you, God, for answering  prayer.

Christmas Card Blessings

I took the Christmas cards down today.  I decided to leave them out longer this year than usual.  We were gone for the first two weeks of January, and when we returned, there were some Christmas cards in the mail.  I just could not bring myself to let go of them when I had only just received them.  So they have continued to decorate our house long after the other decorations came down.

We received a fraction of the number of Christmas cards we received in previous years.  I understand some of the reasons for this.  Postage rates have climbed so high at the same time that gasoline prices drop that I feel I should visit people rather than send them a card.  Okay, that is not practical.  I would have to drive the entire country and even to other parts of the world.  Still, it is expensive and social media greetings are so much easier and quicker.  After all, with one "Merry Christmas" on Facebook I can reach out to hundreds of friends.  Or can I?

When I read a "Merry Christmas" on Facebook, I do not assume that someone is thinking about me when they posted it, but when I receive a card in the mail, I know that a friend took the time to think about me and send me a card.  I received a tangible expression of that person's care for me when I picked up my mail that day.  Then, when they took the time to add a note or include a newsletter, I also get caught up on their news.  That, too, is a blessing.

As I pulled the cards down off the door frames where they were hanging, I reread them.  Here are some of the special blessings I found in them:

• Memories we shared during the year.
• A desire to get together in the new year.
• Photos of children who are growing and friends whom I have not seen in years.
• Expressions of commitment to pray for us.
• A couple cards included gifts for our ministry which we submitted to IPM for our overseas travel expenses.
• A reminder that we are privileged to be a part of a huge body of Christ.

One card stands out.  It read, "We are sorry that we cannot commit to your ongoing ministry.  We have more than 100 ministries which we support which makes it hard to give a lot to anyone, but sometime in the new year, you will receive a gift from us."  One hundred ministries!  Wow!  And this dear couple included us in that 100.  What a blessing it is to me to know them, especially since I know they pray for us as well.

The Christmas card tradition may not last.  Hopefully, it will be replaced with something even  more meaningful.  But I, for one, have been glad this year to enjoy the gift of Christmas cards once again.

Children of the Amazon

We wandered through the streets of the town, marveling at the beauty of dark thatched roofs against clear blue skies.  Flowers abounded and palm trees swayed elegantly in the warm breeze.  It was, from what we could gather, a typical Sunday afternoon here.

Children scattered down the road in front of us, laughing as they chased each other between the houses and back on to the street.  As we walked further, we heard laughter coming from the river's edge.  There children splashed each other in the shallows.  One boy dived into the murky water and emerged a few seconds later within inches of his friend, startling him.  They both squealed in delight.

We walked on.  The front yard had been converted into a soccer field.  At first I thought it was sand, but on closer inspection I realized they had made good use of the sawdust from the nearby lumber mill.  

"Goal!" one small boy shouted.  He spun, his fist beating the air, and his friend slapped him on the back.  Another chased the wayward ball down the narrow street.  When he returned, they took their positions again and the game resumed.  We walked on, careful to not get hit by a stray ball.

There certainly was no lack in the number of children here, I thought.  They seemed to be everywhere:  children carried wood home in small bundles for cooking fires; others played happily at their mothers' feet while they tended the small stores in front of their houses.  I smiled at the joy and blessing they were bringing their families.

The next day we visited Pastor M.'s family. His eldest daughter was staying with them after the birth of her baby who slept peacefully in the tattered hammock in the kitchen.

"What is her name?" I asked.

"She doesn't have one yet," her mother told me.

"How old is she?"

"Ten days old."

Ten days old and not yet named.  How different things are here, I thought.  Is it because you do not want to name a child that might not survive?  I decided I would leave that question for another time, but here was another example of a beautiful child in this beautiful town.

On Tuesday I wandered into the market.  A round-faced girl with shining eyes, no more than four years old, ran up to me and grabbed my hand in her little one.

"Why are your legs so white?" she asked me.  Reaching down with her other hand, she stroked my leg from ankle to calf.

"God made them that way," I told her.  I smiled at her.

She happily chatted on, tugging at my hand the entire time.  Eventually she asked, "May I go to your house?"

"I don't live here," I told her.  "My house is very far away."

"Oh," she said. "I really wanted to go to your house."  Eventually, she let go of my hand and ran off to play again.

The next day when I headed out for a walk, a makeshift barricade prevented moto-taxis from using that road.  I carefully stepped around the barricade, wondering why it was there.  A few moments later, I got my answer.  Outside the school, dozens of children stood in groups with their teachers, lining up in neat lines.  Independence day was coming, and they were rehearsing for their part in the parade.

"Now let's march," called the teacher.  "Left, right, left, right."  The children followed their teacher, marching down the road.  Some looked my way as they passed, smiling for my camera.

Later that evening the seven of us sat in a restaurant, discussing the events of the day.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw four teenagers walking quickly down the street carrying something between them.  It was a stretcher with someone on it.  The figure under the sheet was quite small.

"What is that?" I asked.

"It looks like they are carrying someone to the hospital," one of the men said.

"But his face is covered," I said.  "Is he dead?"

By this time the restaurant owner had joined us. 

"A ten-year-old boy died this morning,"  he said.  "You should have heard the father wail."

"Who was it?" Pastor M. asked.

When the owner told him, a look of deep sadness spread across the pastor's face.

"I know the family," he said.  "The children occasionally come to special children's events.  I talked to that boy about his need of a savior, but I do not think he ever made a decision to follow Christ."

"That's the second child to die this week," the owner elaborated.  "The first one, also a ten-year-old boy, drowned on Monday."

My heart sank.  Two children dead in this short span of time while we were here.  Thousands of children in this town who need a Savior, yet so little gospel witness here.  Who will tell them?

"Lord," I prayed.  "Help Pastor M. to reach these children.  Raise up more workers who will reach these precious souls before it is too late."
 

God’s Sweet Voice

I love it when God speaks clearly.  It’s scary if it’s been too long since I’ve heard that clear voice of His.  Whether His voice speaks comfort, conviction, direction, or wisdom, I need to know He’s speaking clearly.  I want to know it’s His voice and not my own selfish desires directing the choices I’m making.

We went to Mississippi to participate in a missions conference.  There was wonderful fellowship with other missionaries and pastors.  The music and the speakers were tremendous.  But the best part of those three days was God’s clear voice speaking to my heart.

His Sweet Voice in Scripture

On Tuesday morning, I took Charlie to the conference and returned to the hotel room to read and pray.  I prayed about our deputation.  I prayed for Charlie and the contacts he was making.  I prayed about my ministry.  I asked, “Lord, what exactly is my role in this whole deputation process?”   I heard Him speak to my heart and say, “Read Ephesians 4:1.”

I opened my Bible and read,

I therefore, the prisoner of the Lord, beseech you that ye walk worthy of the vocation wherewith ye are called.

Wow!  Walk worthy of the vocation wherewith I am called.  That’s a tall order.  I have been called to be a wife to my dear husband, a missionary with IPM, a representative of the King of Kings, and a fellow traveller on my way to heaven with many other fellow travellers. 

“Okay,” I responded to the Lord.  “I get it.  I’m to walk in a way that is worthy of the calling on my life.  But HOW?  How am I supposed to fulfill such a tall order?

So I read on,

With all lowliness and meekness, with longsuffering, forbearing one another in love; endeavouring to keep the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace. 

So it’s not so much WHAT I do as HOW I do it.  My role is to have an attitude of humility, meekness, patience, forgiveness and unity.  In my calling as a wife, those are necessary.  In my calling as a fellow missionary, those are necessary.  In my calling as a fellow Christian, those are necessary.  Whether I’m alone with Charlie or out in the public eye, I need these qualities.  When I relate to others, I need these.  When I’m tempted to get discouraged or complain, I need these.  I have been so focused on the WHAT, that I’d forgotten that God looks at the heart and sees everything based on that.  I need to develop His attitudes in me.

His Sweet Voice during Preaching

On Wednesday morning, I sat listening to the preacher talk about the need of the world to hear the gospel.  I cannot give you his three points because the Holy Spirit was using that time to speak deeply to my heart.  When the altar call came, I knew I needed to respond.  Yes, I could have responded in my seat, but it was important that I publicly acknowledge that God was working on me.  I went to the altar with deep sorrow and repentance. He convicted me of sin and reminded me once again of things that I had forgotten.  He helped me regain my focus on Him and on the need to stay focused on eternity. God is far more patient with me than I usually am with others.

His Sweet Voice in Consensus

When the conference was over, we loaded up our display and headed to the car.  Travelling down the road, I told Charlie of the Holy Spirit’s conviction and why I had gone forward.  He then told me that the Lord had addressed an area of need in his life too – the same one for which I had come under conviction.  We realized it was the Lord’s way of directing us as a couple  .It was like a light went on right in front of us directing us in the choice of a home base.

By speaking to us individually about the same thing, we walked away from the conference saying, “We really need to be part of a church that has soul winning as a major part of its makeup.”  It was suddenly so clear to me that I needed a church like that, and then I found out Charlie came to the same conclusion.  We knew God had spoken clear direction into our lives to help us find a home church.

I Need His Voice

We know God can use circumstances to guide as well, but it is the clear sweet voice of the Holy Spirit that I crave.  I need to hear HIm speak clearly in every aspect of my life.  As Moses said to the Lord,

“If thy presence go not with me, carry us not up hence.  For wherein shall it be known here that I and thy people have found grace in thy sight?  Is it not in that thou goest with us?”   

I agree.

Shannon

I wish I had taken a photo of her.  Her straight brown hair streamed down to the middle of her back, and her big brown eyes smiled as I talked with her.  Her skin was the color of carmels.  As a seven-year-old, her black velvet and red taffeta dress and shiny dress shoes seemed perfectly suited for "Sunday-go-to-meeting" clothes.

I wish I had recorded her when she spoke.  Her eyes lit up when she talked to me, especially when she said, "I'm going to be a missionary when I grow up.  I'm going to tell Muslims about Jesus. "  You would have seen the intensity of her desire to serve her Lord and heard her compassion for those who do not know the joys of having Jesus as their Savior.

She knows all the missionaries in their church by name and where they serve.  She prays for them.  She prays for us.  When we go back to her church, I look forward to seeing how she has matured in the Lord and what God is teaching her to prepare her for her future.

I'm encouraged by children like her who love us and pray for us.  It is the joy of my heart to hear someone say, "We pray for you every day."

Planting Seeds

As Spring arrives, I start to think in gardening terms. I was thinking the other day of some of the contacts I have made with pastors and churches. They are like seeds in the garden. 

Some will not sprout.  The pastor or church will not choose to have us for a meeting and  will not support us in prayer.

Some will be early crops, like radishes or lettuce. The pastor schedules a meeting right away and we have an immediate opportunity to present our burden.

Some are late crops, like cucumbers or potatoes. We plant the seed and it will yield an opportunity, months later. Some may not bear fruit for years.

Some are “everbearing”.  Some vegetables like zucchini or hot peppers will keep producing as long as the plant lives. Some churches will catch a vision for our ministry and support us in prayer and finances for years to come.

The difference between deputation and a garden is I never know which seeds are of what type. When I plant a radish, I know it will spring up quickly and produce a tasty reward soon after. When I plant a cucumber (in Maine), I know it may not produce before the first frost of Fall. When I contact a church, I never know what the outcome will be. But I do know I need all kinds of plants in my “garden”.  When I plant a garden, I intentionally do not restrict myself to only early crops, or only late crops. I plant a variety of crops so that if some fail my garden is not a total loss. I intentionally plant a variety of crops so the harvest is spread out over a longer season.  I intentionally plant vegetables that must be eaten right away and others that keep well over the winter.  On deputation I trust the Lord will meet my need in the present, as well as the future if I plant the seeds and trust the harvest to Him.

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.