(Originally posted 2013)

Today, after a long week at MTI, Shawn and I went for a hike.  It was beautiful, breath-taking, and rejuvenating.  We had heard that the Reservoir Trail was gorgeous, so we decided to set out on it after lunch.  For me, it was a good hike.  We went from 7200 feet to 8200 feet.  My lungs were protesting.

As we rounded each corner, I would look at the seemingly endless path and sigh.  (OK, sigh isn’t quite the right word when you are already huffing and puffing.)  But after my experience with the beehive this summer, I knew I was going to keep going and get to the destination.  We reached a point where there were some big boulders off to the side and rested to take pictures.  Then we reached the first reservoir, and it was beautiful.  The ice was formed on most of it, and we could walk out on to big boulders that made a bridge across.  The rocks were warm from the sun and the it was relaxing.  I could have stayed there and napped, honestly.  And it was so petty, I figured I had seen the best part.

But Shawn wanted to go on to the second on, so we did.  The climb got more steep, and we had to take more breaks.  My heart was pounding, but it felt good to push myself.  There were a couple of times when I thought, “Why do we keep going?  Let’s turn around and head downhill.”  But we made it.  And wow – was it worth it!

The sun was shining across the water, there were woods with a shore lined in pine needles and clear water.  It was quiet.  Peaceful.  Breath-taking.  I was in awe of the beauty that God had made and soaked it in.

As we headed back down, I kept seeing the places that I had wanted to stop at because they were “pretty enough”, “high enough”, just “enough.”  And though they were still pretty, they didn’t compare to the beauty at the top – the place I had to push myself to.  (The place that will make me sore tonight!)

I was thinking about that in my spiritual life.  We have been pushed this month – especially this last week.  We were stretched, pulled, prodded.  One of my friends here said she felt bruised from all the poking.  Yet we all agree that this week has lead us to a place with God and within ourselves that we hadn’t known before – or at least hadn’t been to in a long time.  I want to remember this as we continue.  I want to push ahead when it feels like I can’t go any farther.  And I want to be able to do that because of the times that I have rested and been revived in the journey.  The Sabbaths I take.  The talks with my Father I have.  The times I simply listen as He sings a long song over me and my soul is satisfied.

(Originally written 2011)

Yesterday Shawn, his dad, RJ, and I went for a walk in the woods behind my in-law’s house.  Shawn was reminiscing about life there growing up, and even commented, “This is where my love of adventure started.”  RJ came along because his other option was jumping on the trampoline with his siblings, and he hates that.  So he decided to trudge along with us.  He was quite a trooper, and ended up enjoying the walk.  We saw a pond full of beavers and their dams, raccoon and deer tracks, turkey feathers that quickly became a treasure and even a brand new baby deer bedded down in the field outside the woods.  It was a wonderful walk through nature!

At one point we were walking through a path that was filled with pricker bushes.  I got stuck on a few and Shawn helped me out, then RJ was feeling intimidated to walk by them.  Shawn started tromping down the path in front of him and told RJ to follow his path.  Whenever he was nervous he would look back at me, and I would simply remind him to follow his dad’s footsteps and he would stay safe and pricker free!  When we got to the clearing and saw that the field was higher than RJ’s height, Shawn put him on his shoulders so that he could see easily and feel  safe again.

It’s an obvious parallel, but when I saw it played out in real life with RJ and his dad I was reminded again of how much my Dad loves me.  How sometimes he allows me to wander off and explore and figure things out, but he is nearby watching.  Other times he is tromping down the path in front, and as long as I am careful those prickers won’t get me – or at least not to the point of destruction.  Then there are those times (often) when I am in over my head and he carries me so I can see clearly and feel safe.  I am thankful for this relationship.  And I am thankful for a God who takes the simple, beautiful things in life to remind me of the things that should be obvious.

(Originally written in 2011)

Yesterday the kids and I were talking about scars.  It started when John pointed one out on his arm and said, “I still have this scar.”  I told him it might fade, but the scar would always be there if he looked hard enough.  This got us looking all over our arms and legs and talking about the scars and where they came from.  Some of the stories were cool, in a gross out sort of way – bones sticking through skin, cuts from an Africa adventure, and a weird burn scar on Shawn’s arm from a lawn mower that the nurse thought he had done purposely for me because it looked like a heart!  Others were more silly or embarrassing – the pencil points stuck in Anna’s head and John’s leg, or the numerous shaving scars from when I was a teenager (Seems I was always in a hurry!)  There were a few that were not shown, but talked about – the scars from C-sections or gallbladder surgeries.  Shawn also has a scar from his cleft lip surgeries all through childhood.

Scars are kind of cool how they have a story to tell.  Some are good – life giving or life saving even.  Some changed quality of life.  Some are from the everyday bumps and bruises that we get in this life.  Regardless, they all have a story, and they all are a part of us from that point on.

In the evening we were at church and we were talking about the job of the Holy Spirit.  Pastor Chris was writing on the board and putting people’s answers up to the question of, “What makes a Christ follower different?”  At the top was, “Forgiveness” and underneath was “Love your enemies.”  I was staring at those two things and it clicked in my mind that forgiveness is really the key, because if you forgive, the person is no longer your enemy.  Not if it is something from the past, anyway. (An ongoing forgiveness is a different thing.)  The consequences of the situation may still be there, but like those scars, they will fade.  And like those scars, they each have a story, and that story helps to shape us.

I was thinking about the times in my life when I have had to forgive.  There have been little situations – misunderstandings, hurtful words, etc.  They are like those little scars that we only notice if we look hard.  They are still there and have helped us be molded into who we are today.  Maybe I learned how to be a better friend because of it, or I was reminded that the only perfect in this world is God.  Whatever the outcome, it has become part of me.  The bigger things – abuse, betrayal, etc – those are the big scars that stand out and sometimes make us self conscious.  They might be the ones that we would rather have plastic surgery on and forget.  Yet even if they are covered in makeup or new skin, they are still part of our body and have affected us.  We can try to forget, ignore the repercussions, or look the other way, but ultimately their existence is still very real.  And the consequences are a permanent part of our outlook.

But – just like those scars that people see and we can’t hide – those stories of our lives are ones that need to be told and shared.  They are the ones that are used to affect people, to help them learn their own forgiveness, and to have hope in a real future.  When people with a cleft lip (or someone who has gone though it) see Shawn’s scar, they are instantly a friend-someone who understands and can bond.  When they find out he has made a life of speaking in public, it is an encouragement and hope.  The same happens with those emotional scars.  When people hear about overcoming abuse and see a life lived in freedom and fullness, they gravitate towards the one who is victorious in it and have their own hope.

Not anythings new, by any means,  Not even close to a new analogy.  But one that was sticking in my mind all day yesterday.  Thank you, Lord, for my life – the good and the bad; the scars and the new healing.

(Originally written 2012)

I am kind of a control freak.  Yes, I know – I am sure that comes as a surprise to you.  😉   Well, believe it or not, it still surprises me from time to time!  The tightness that I like to try to hold the reigns in my life is astounding to me at times.  And when things don’t happen the way I envision them, it totally throws me off.

Today was a day that I talked, yelled, cried, prayed, and finally surrendered (again) to God.  But this was a different way.  Today I realized that I had to give up my vision of what the future looks like.  I feel confident that God has a plan, but how that plays out, what it looks like, when, and the little details are things that I have come to accept (at least in this moment) that I don’t know.  And probably won’t until they are happening.  I have had so many paintings  in my head – dreams of how things will look, the time frame, reasons about why those things are “right.”  But today, for the first time, I surrendered those paintings.  My gallery, if you will, is nothing but a white wall right now.

I don’t really like white walls.

I love color – splashes of bright designs.  Patterns and warmth and designs and artsy stuff.  White walls – well, they seem so plain and boring and lifeless to me.  Clean, yes (well, they wouldn’t be in my house), but still still plain.  So to offer up my future, my dreams to God as a white washed canvas is super scary to me.  What if he leaves it that way?

Yet I know that he is the great artist.  Look at this world – the nature, the people, the colors, the vibrant life that is all around us.  Even in the brokenness that is overflowing all around us, he is there and breaking through in abundance.  And if he applies all that color to the world around me, I have to believe he will apply that to me, my hopes, and my dreams.

One brush stroke at a time.  That’s where this whole surrendering thing will remain hard.  See, I am a person who loves to cast vision and dream.  So when he makes a blue streak and then stops, I will start to jump to every possibility that could mean.  I will imagine and dream,  and then decide which of my scenarios is the most probable and which is the best according to me.  Then I will start filling in the canvas myself.  Then I’ll get angry because God is not having things play out the way I have painted them, and he will have to remind me again that he is the artist.

Don’t get me wrong – dreaming and hoping is ok.  But it is important for us – especially people like me who take an idea and run with it – to make sure that these dreams and ideas are actually coming from God.  And even more important for me to keep communicating with God and not get angry because he is not making my own picture come to fruition my way.

I am not The Artist.

I realized as I was talking with friends tonight about our time in Malawi that there are so many stories from that life that have shaped who we are, what we believe, and why we do what we do, and I have not shared too many of them.  They felt personal and overwhelming sometimes.  And the fact that we are not going back to Malawi, but rather to South Sudan made me decide not to share much about the “previous” life.  But tonight I remembered some of the reasons why we are continuing on this path, and since we have had a lot of questions like, “Why Africa, don’t we have problems here?” I decided it was time to share.

While we were in Malawi we became dear friends with the pastors that we worked with and their families.  There were a few of the wives that I particularly got to know and love, and they were a buffer for me in this new, crazy culture that I had no experience with.  They helped me communicate, understand when to speak and when to accept, and know what my role was expected to be in most situations.  Though my Chichewa was almost nonexistent (save for a few songs and greetings) and their English was rough at best, we made a friendship of sorts.

One of these women had a baby while we were there.  I had walked alongside her as she had bleeding and problems in the pregnancy.  I learned how the Malawians viewed such problems, and took issue with the solutions enough times to step in and take her to a real doctor.  But overall it seemed like things were going well.  When the baby was born 5 weeks early, we worried, but relaxed as he seemed to be tiny but healthy.

When we spent Superbowl Sunday at a friend’s house and stayed up to watch the game live, eat chili, and drink soda at 3 am, we were already awake when the call came to us that the baby had died.  No explanation.  Oh, and the mom was hemorrhaging – which was apparently a totally separate issue.

As we left our kids with our missionary friends and went to the hospital we were in shock.  We had no idea what had happened, we just knew (because we were told) that I needed to help the women in the family collect the baby and bury him and Shawn needed to be with the father.  The mom was not able to leave because she was recovering from sever blood loss, and the father was not allowed to come because it was not culturally appropriate.  We were told that because the baby was only 5 days old, the father (or any male) would not attend the funeral.  In fact, there would not even be a coffin because they did not make them for babies that young because so many died.

What?

We arrived, I checked on the mom, and then we gathered this tiny little bundle in our arms and filled three vehicles with women from the family to go to find a place to bury him.  When we got to the cemetery, my role was to talk with the guard, persuade him to find us a plot, and then pay him.  (Later I realized that this really was culturally appropriate as the “boss” of the father, though not an absolute.  At any rate, it was a few thousand kwacha as long as we did most of the digging, and I consider it one of those times that even if I got taken advantage of, it was ok.)  The guard started the grave, then the women took turns finishing it.

The thing you remember at times like that are strange.  There was line of ants going by.  You know, one of those long lines that you don’t want to step in the middle of because you will be swarmed and bitten.  We carefully avoided it.  I noticed that the women had many kitenges, or the pretty cloth wraps that they tied around their waists and used for everything from tying babies to their backs to laying on the ground for a rest in the shade.  I also had one on that day, since we had come from our friend’s superbowl party and I was not feeling as appropriately dressed as I wanted to be.  The sky was blue and the the guards were standing back respectfully, yet not having a lot of emotion.  Actually, the whole scene was emotionless – not at all what you expect from an African funeral.  But then again, this was just a baby.

The grave was dug about 3-4 feet deep, then another foot or two under the solid ground so that the body could be placed in a cave like area where animals could not dig it up easily.  The women started taking off the extra kitenges they had worn and handed them to the person holding the baby.  It became clear to me that they were wrapping this tiny little body in a soft bundle of bright, beautiful cloth.  The contradiction was absurd to me in my state of shock.  I also took mine off and realized that my last minute grab of this cloth was a gift  from God, as the women rewarded me with sad smiles.  Then the grandmother herself climbed in and placed her grandson into the hole. I had to keep reminding myself that this was her grandson, a real baby boy, a child.  The whole scene was too much for me to process. After a few handful of dirt were thrown in and I was asked to pray (which I had to do in English, and was thankful that most people could not understand because I have never felt more at a loss for words) the guards came and finished filling it in.

Grandma cried for the first time at that point.  It was a silent cry, but as I reached out and held her hand tears came freely for both of us.  We walked back to the cars and went to the hospital.  The women were abnormally silent, and it grated on my nerves.  I had never gone anywhere in Malawi with a group of women where there was silence!  There were songs for every occasion – weddings, engagements, birthdays, special feasts, bible studies – even riding in a car together!  Yet there was no song for his baby and his family, no outpouring of grief.  In some ways I longed for the typical wails and ululations that one expected from this culture.

A few days later the mother still had not been released because her paperwork had gotten lost.  The parents had been told that the reason for their baby’s death was that while the mother was in surgery the nurses had tried to feed the child.  He had thrown up and was left by himself and suffocated.  That’s what we were told.  The truth is, everything in these situations becomes so blurry and the communication is so bad that we may never know what really happened.  We don’t even know what surgery the mother had, since her paperwork was lost – though to my knowledge she has not had another child.  Now the hospital would not release her, and she was stuck in a room with 7 other mothers who were in various stages of labor and delivery.  She had text me earlier in the day to say that her eyes were swollen shut from grief, even though she “knew” she should not be so upset because he “became late” – it happened all the time.

I didn’t often use my status as a white person to my advantage in Malawi – we usually attracted enough attention wherever we went without trying.  However that day I marched into the office, demanded her charts (which they suddenly and miraculously found-though they were not complete), threw some money on the table, got a “paid in full receipt,” and took her home.  This was torture.  This was unthinkable to me in my western mind.  Yet this was not the only baby that “became late” while I was there.  And this was not the last time I dealt with corrupt people in places of influence, or the hopelessness of the common people who accepted that this was their plight.

My experience may be different from other people’s in Africa – even in Malawi.  We were basically on our own there – learning in the day by day and making a lot of mistakes in the process.  I have realized that our experiences were often different from other missionaries.  That was one of the the biggest draws we had to World Harvest Mission and their amazing team mentality, because we didn’t want to do this alone again.  But whether it is different or not, it is still real – it is still my experience.  And it is a very tangible, raw thing that made my heart African.  It is one of those things that made me know I had to be there.  South Sudan is very different from Malawi in many ways. However, there is a saying I have heard ex-pats all over the continent say:  “This is Africa.”  Some things are the same all over.    Read my teammates blogs (on the side of this page) or the Myhre’s blog about being doctors in Uganda.  The things that people on this continent face, accept as normal, and deal with each day are things that should shock us.

I have been given much indeed.  If you are reading this, then you have too – even if (like me) you do not always feel that way.  We have been blessed in ways that really make no sense to me when I compare it to so many people in other countries.  And this is just one of my answers to “Why Africa.”

(Originally written 2011)

Before starting this trip south I had a lot of emotions happening – anger, frustration, excitement, grief, anxiety.  I felt overwhelmed with all of that, and so I focused on what I could control – the packing, organizing of school, getting the schedule straight, and so forth.  The problem is, that while I really did enjoy the first couple of weeks on this trip, I knew something was wrong inside.  It was as if instead of facing many of those feelings that had been hitting me like a constant barrage, I just didn’t feel at all.   No low points.  No high points.  But not in a good “I’m not being swayed by my emotions and totally focusing on God” way.  Just a void.

I didn’t even realize it.  I mean, I knew something was wrong – but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was.  I didn’t even know how to pray.  My prayers have consisted of, “Protect my kids, guard their hearts and minds,” “Please, please, please provide the funding we need to go to Africa,” and “Protect us in our journeys.”  None of these are bad things – I know God desires all those things and he loves us to ask.  But the joy, the relationship, the thankfulness has been missing.

Yesterday it was almost 80 and absolutely gorgeous outside here!  (Don’t be hating!) We went to what we affectionately call “the Alligator Place,” also known to most people as “Savannah Wildlife Center.” It is a 5 mile drive through a beautiful wildlife area filled with birds of all sorts, crabs, fish, snakes, turtles, armadillos, deer – you name it.  Our favorite is the alligators.  And there have been times that we have seen as many as 50+ in a trip.  However, being January, we didn’t really expect to see any.  It was amazing weather, though, and so at the first stop I got out and decided to walk.  It’s a great time of year for birds that have migrated south, and the place was swarming with them.  Occasionally one of the kids would hop out and walk with me, but usually Shawn just drove really slow (with the van door open – the kids thought it was great) and I tagged along behind.

I love the water.  I love the sun.  I love being in a place where His creation is so alive and abundant.  And suddenly, my heart was stirring.  I started praying and thanking and thinking of scripture and praying some more.  I was in awe of the nature and I thought, “You are an artist!”  And I knew, in a heartbeat, that he did this for me.

I’m not arrogant to think he did it only for me.  But I knew that he would have done it only for me.  You always hear that about the work on the cross, and I am not downplaying that.  But this – this majesty, this splendor, the warmth and beauty – this is the work of an artist who took great joy in making it for me to see at that moment in that time.  I could feel his pleasure in my pleasure.  I burst out with, “I love you,” and was surprised to see how much I meant it.  God and I have a lot of honest talks, and in that I don’t always feel as though I love and trust him.  He allows me to say those things, and loves and and works all things for my good anyway.  But right that moment I knew, and I wanted to tell him over and over again – so I did.

“I love you, Daddy!  You are amazing!  Look at this!  I love you!”

Today as we went to the ocean there was a storm coming in, and I could once again feel his presence.  This time it wasn’t that warm, giddy feeling.  I was very aware of his power – his deep, incomprehensible nature and love, his foreverness.  The ocean is such a symbol of that to me, and today with the storm coming, it was beautiful and drew me to it’s edge.  Yet is is dangerous in that you don’t always know what to expect with it.  Things will not always go according to your plan with the ocean – there are undercurrents and tides that can take you and turn everything upside down in a matter of seconds.  You can’t see the depth, and if you want a glimpse of it, you have to be willing to risk dive in deep.  And then it can be so murky sometimes that you have to go by faith.  That is relationship with God.  Sometimes scary and unclear, but always powerful. Always real.

In both of these days he showed himself to me with feelings that were clear and strong.  He also answered every little prayer.  When I asked to see gators close enough to take pictures (but far enough away to be safe) he provided 6 of them!  6!  In January!  One even had a dead dear and was rolling it and feeding!  What a neat thing to see!  When I asked for something cool today, He showed me pelicans perched in the waves bobbing up and down, dry sand blowing across the wet sand looking like a mysterious haze, shells and fossils, and skies brilliant blue one day and dark and foreboding the next.

Wow.

My Dad is GOOD!

How amazing is that?

(Originally written 2012)

Recently I was walking from our house to the grocery store.  To do that, I have to cross a bridge over the Hudson River.  I had been to the post office and library and was thinking how nice it was to be able to walk to everything, because it gave me some serious prayer time.  I had been praising God because earlier in the day a friend had called and asked for prayer, and just before my walk had told me that God had met her in that.  It had also been a great week of fund raising, and on top of it all, we heard from a friend that they wanted to give us their van.  In other words, it was a time of great thanksgiving and praise in my talking with God.  I was not depressed or coming to him and pouring my frustrations and anger out (as I have done many times!)  This was simply a time of joy with my Father.  Then, as I was crossing the bridge, it was as if I physically bumped into a wall.  I almost “bounced back” and in that moment – what was probably just a second or two, but felt like a long time – I heard very clearly voice tell me to kill myself.  I actually looked over the side of the bridge.

I was stunned.  In the same amount of time that it came to me, it left.  There was no fear, no wall anymore.  The voice was gone.  Yet I was changed completely in that moment.

I have seen and participated in spiritual warfare in many different areas of life.  I have heard demons before; seen miraculous healing in people when illnesses were rebuked; I have even seen them in front of me.  Yet this incident took me completely off guard.  I have never felt it in such an intense way so suddenly.  I usually have some sort of warning when it is me personally.

A few years ago our then 7 year old son dealt with these same things – even having voices telling him to kill himself by jumping off the bridge.  He suffered from these voices and this torment for several months before finally opening up to Shawn and learning who he was in Jesus.  We had been worried about him, but even though we were helping people to learn to walk in freedom themselves, it hadn’t occurred to us that Andrew could be dealing with the same things. When he finally shared with Shawn about an imaginary friend swearing at him and telling him to kill himself, his behavior and lack of emotions made sense.  Teaching him to rebuke these things in the name of Jesus Christ, because he believes that Jesus is his savior was a powerful, emotional time for us as his parents.

And here I was, hearing almost the same thing.  It broke my heart to think that my son had been tormented by this for so long before experiencing freedom.  And it made me realize that all the “senseless acts” that we see in this world are really not senseless at all in the minds of people doing them.  If they are being told and learning to believe something, it will eventually play out in their lives.

Hear me, friends – I am not saying that everything evil in this world is attributed to demons.  There is the fact that we live in a broken world.  There is sin, darkness, brokeness, and the flesh that we fight each day.  Though the events that happened in the last few days are obvious examples of evil in this world, I am not going to get into an argument of gun control, mental illness treatment, spiritual warfare, and the moral state of this world.  (I believe there is some part of all of that – and more.  It is not a simple matter)  But I have to ask from my experience on the bridge, if I didn’t have the Holy Spirit living in me; if Andrew hadn’t had parents praying with and for him, and people teaching him about who he is in Christ- if these things hadn’t been factors in my life up to that point (or in Andrew’s life) what would have stopped me from jumping?  The urge was so strong momentarily, if I did not have that hope that only those in Jesus have – then what?  What would have stopped Andrew from killing himself – or being one of those horrific stories that we were reading about this weekend?

My heart aches for this world.  I have been crying all weekend as I think about those families and the children that were victims of such cruelty.  I think about some of the stories of the kids that my friends doing ministry in downtown Troy interact with and the heaviness is so thick that it seems hopeless.  My thoughts go to stories of people all over the world – friends, family, people I don’t know.  Refugees, people killed by their own government, unwanted babies, orphanages filled with unloved children, hospitals brimming with sickness and death, hatred, violence, and greed.  And I repeat the words that I have seen on Facebook so often this week and been singing in my head.  “And in despair I bowed my head.  ‘There is no peace on earth,’ I said. For hate is strong and mocks the song of peace on earth good will to men,”

But that’s not the end of the story.  My story isn’t over, and didn’t end that day in death.  Andrew’s story continues, and I watch him grow and shine and love Jesus and really understand freedom and how to be a warrior.  That song doesn’t end with that verse.  The next verse says, “Then rang the bells more loud and deep, ‘God is not dead nor does He sleep.  The wrong shall fail, the right prevail, of peace on earth goodwill to men.'”  I don’t understand the failings, the sorrow, and the death of this world.  But I do know that this story isn’t over.  And I am thankful for that – and for all the lessons that he teaches me in those unexpected moments.