The Best for Me

Two times to the hospital before I cooperated.

She never told me how much it hurt.

How tiresome and frustrated…

Just the joy was retold. The best for me.

 I cried. I fussed. Colic.

She walked. She cried. Dad walked. They tried.

New formula. This. That.

I got better. The best for me.

Bows in my hair. Songs in my chair.

Celebration over every next step.

Mamma and Grandaddy. Granny and Papa.

The best for me.

Hobbs, then Odessa.

Grandparents just down the street.

A sister!

The best for me.

Life full. Time fast.

Memories. Speed past…

School, a job, church, my Dad.

Parties, sponsor, teacher.

Stitches, friends, slumber parties, movies.

Hair styles, clothes, shopping.

Talks. Boys. Dates. Driving.

College. Heartbreak. Decisions. Marriage.

A missionary.

Africa. Africa?

Passports. Visits. Grandchildren. Furlough.

Packages. Reunions. Plans.

Always. Still.

She wants the best for me.

This inherent gift. Born with conception. Instilled in her from her own Grace. A love so deep it sacrifices and gives. And multiplies.

I made her a mom.

And so did He.

The very best for me.

Happy Mother’s Day Mom. Thank you. For everything.

Believing from the Hard Places

Maci. Ryan. Bentley. Diane.

One fell from a third story balcony.

One has a (dang-blasted) tumor around his spinal cord.

Two are undergoing chemo to fight Non-hodgkins Lymphoma.

They are wearing braces. Using wheelchairs. Limping and in pain.

They are working hard and monitoring everything.

They are losing their hair. Throwing up. Running fevers and very, very tired.

Their people are worn out too.

Nathan. Aleasha. Madi. Jessica. Jones. India. RayeAnne. Larry. 

(Together with amazing grandparents, superior aunts and uncles, incredible children and grandchildren.)

They are dispensing meds and driving to the doctor. They are holding hands and crying tears.

They are missing sleep and missing home. They are cheering on and hoping.

They are discussing death and realizing the imminence. 

They are comforting.

And they are all testifying.

Through blogs and emails and Facebook updates. Through hugs and prayers and blessed face-to-face contact. Through perseverance and authenticity.

Through their love for each other.

They are proclaiming Hope.

Truth.

God.

We can hear such messages in our faith communities each and every week. We can read them in Scripture. We can memorize, study and even believe.

But this testimony shouts loud and convicts deep. It’s VISIBLE.

From defeat. And struggle. And burden. And drought.

From loss.

Our family speaks these precious names each and every night. In prayer. With deep love and esteem.

With renewed faith.

Because we are Seeing Him.

In their words.  In their courage. In their weakened state.

Such vivid contrast that brings clearer focus. Our brokenness. His strength.

We see Him. Standing right there among these. Hurting as they hurt. Engaging them in the midst of frustrations. Handling the pleading prayers. Enabling. Sustaining. 

He is there.

Just like He promised He would be.

We see this. We show it to our children. We proclaim their testimony further.

We believe.

With them.

From the hard places.

.

The Sidebar and Some Other Stuff

1. My husband works hard to keep our websites updated. I finally have links up in the sidebar on this blog. So if you are wondering what in the world we do in this far-off land, click on a link under “How We Serve”.

2. Subscriptions—I’ve added gadgets to the sidebar to help you subscribe to these posts and/or receive them in your email inbox. HANDY!

3. The Agriculture/Small Industries fair has come to our quaint little town. What this means, among many other things, is the thumping rap music can be expected at all hours of the day and night. With increasing volume as the sun goes down. We are just BESIDE ourselves with happiness. (not exactly)

4. I enjoyed the most amazing cappuccino while in Kampala last week.  At Dormans coffee shop in Garden City Mall. (Okay. I enjoyed two.) Dorman’s location is far from peaceful (in the parking garage, overlooking the traffic jams in front of Garden City) but the cappuccino is tops, in my humble opinion.

5. I accompanied my dear friend on a wedding dress shopping excursion in Kampala. I wasn’t sure what to expect but it was a remarkably wonderful experience. We even found some definite contenders in the wedding attire line-up. (clarification: dresses were for her, not me. I’m already married.)

6. I found Dr Pepper in Kampala and bought 12 cans. We are rationing them carefully. When we drink them, we feel like we are in Texas. This makes us happy. And makes us want to eat fajitas.

7. I don’t remember preferring Dr Pepper when I lived on American soil. But now that it is not readily available to me, I find it delightful. Interesting.

8. Dear, sweet friends (hey Mark and Jamie!!!) left us a wonderful CD called Seeds of Courage when they visited recently. The CD has scriptures set to music and we are loving it. The package comes with two CD’s (identical). The idea being that you keep one and share one, like planting seeds. Highly recommended! www.seedsfamilyworship.com

9. Hand-washing laundry in the rainy season seems futile. Mildew adds stink to clothes so the process of ‘cleansing’ and ‘refreshing’ is a no-go. But we continue to try anyway.

10. Along the same lines:  Hand washing and line-drying towels is ridiculous. The end.

This has been a public service announcement.

Diligence

                                       “Careful and persistent work and effort”

I watch his labor.

I feel it.

In the set of his shoulders. In his stride. How he opens a drawer or moves down the hall.

I can tell when his burden is heavy.

The mechanics are calling. The churches need tending. The lessons need preparing. The sick need visiting. The oppressed need praying.

And the tires are always going flat.

There is a birthday to make memorable. Websites to update. A NEVERENDING slew of reports for agencies in front of us and those who meet far away.

Emails continue to arrive. Decisions pending must be faced. School.

Assignments to grade. Students to mentor. Counseling to ponder.

And the dreams. The vision. His life blood.

The camp. The retreat center. Our family home.

An aviation ministry.

Prayer and Vision. A council that will not be forgotten.

And the always needful, “Dad?”

Nineteen years ago, I was just beginning to learn his cadence.

His long stride covered ground quickly. Movement was synonymous with him. He hated to turn around and go back. Preferred to find the way forward.

Uphill energized him. The strenuous was a welcome outlet. His exertion breathed life into him. Gave him a story to tell.

He sought the challenge. Tackled it.

And always continued forward.

He still does.

I will never cease to be amazed, thankful and (honestly) exasperated at his determined pace. I’m challenged by it. I’m fatigued by it. I’m trained by it.

And I undeniably depend on it.

So many people do.

When those steps grow heavy, I notice.

I feel it.

And I know.

He will continue on.

The exertion will only serve to strengthen him. To write more of an adventure into his story.

Our story.

Our Father has a plan. We know this. We remind each other.

We step. 

Diligently forward. 

Pews, Perplexities, Ponderings and Persistence

 (Recently I have read online discussions concerning church in America: the institution, the gathering, the purpose, the successes, the pains. Why people stay and why people go. Having been a foreign resident in a completely different culture for most of the last two decades, I read the discussions and listen to my family and friends to learn about this season in my culture of origin.
I (and my husband) have been called to serve the Bride of Christ. His Body. His Church. So this conversation is worthy of our attention and time.

Christ’s  Bride has hurt me. She has taught me. She has shunned me. And she has upheld me in an embrace that is delightfully inexplicable. I have watched her do these exact same things to others.

For better or for worse, we are joined. And we are deeply invested.

Like most relationships, confrontation with integrity is needful alongside unconditional love. Combining the two takes courage and sacrifice but can keep the conversation deep and rich.

I do not offer answers to the many questions raised. But I do have some experiences of my own.  The following memory has played in my mind as I’ve pondered the discussion of church.

For what it is worth, I share it now.)

 We needed sleep. Moving from bed to bed each and every night was wearing us all down.

We were also very cold. It was June, but there was snow on the ground and we were ill prepared. We spent Saturday evening scouring sale racks at department stores for jackets and gloves. We counted our remaining dollars outside a Country Buffet restaurant to be sure we had the money to eat.

It was a low point in furlough.

We had chosen a VERY cheap hotel for our Saturday night abode. The complimentary continental breakfast of dry donuts and fruit loops rattled in our tummies as we made our way to church the next day.

The day stretched long before us and I was counting the hours (already) until we could crawl back into our hard uncomfortable beds that night.

We were greeted by a few friendly faces as we entered the building. Smiles and handshakes, here and there. We began the search for classes for our children. They bravely faced the new and unfamiliar scenarios with courage that amazed me. I just wanted to wait it all out in the car.

After class, we collected our children and made our way to the auditorium for worship. Our contact person was busy with the program that morning so we were left to fend for ourselves during the morning service.

We hurriedly slipped into a back pew marked conveniently, “For Visitors.”

We settled into our seat and began to observe around us.

An elderly woman made her way into our pew with no few sidelong glances at our family.

She placed her purse, smiled at passers-by and eventually leaned over to quietly say to me,

“You are in the wrong place, sweetie.”

Feeling the brunt of the corrective, I searched her eyes for a teasing glint.

But, instead, I found admonishment.

“The families with young children sit all along the outside wall. Not here in the middle where the noise disturbs.”

I smiled at her and pointed to the ‘for visitors” sign on the pew.

She looked a bit chagrined at the sign and brushed it off saying, “That was put there years ago. I completely forgot it was there.”

She then began to strain her neck to see if there was a pew big enough for our family in the noisy section.

I made no move to relocate, so with a huff she resigned herself to an interminable hour with our clamoring clan.

Silas offered her cheerios and Isaac showed her his coloring page. Jeff and I shared quiet words over the heads of our children.

Eventually, she leaned over to say:

“Are you from around here?”

I shared our names and current address and she was appropriately responsive.

Missionaries. No wonder we were weird and misplaced.

She began to engage me with her full knowledge of God’s people around us.

“That is Mabel So-and-So*. And that is her son with her. High time he showed up! He doesn’t come here very often.”

“That is Mildred Pumpernickel and she lost all her hair decades ago. She must be one hundred and she has had that wig forever. Wears it every Sunday! I wish she would just go ahead and buy a new one.”

Interspersed in her ramblings were directives for where everyone should sit. Including families with children.

“They should really put some signs up so that people can get to the proper places.”

I smiled and nodded and became increasingly amused.

Ms. Sassafrass was warming to us, despite herself.

Services began and we all went through the customary motions. Old hymns. Old order. Predictable. Stoic. At once, poignantly familiar and completely foreign.

I silently applauded our children’s behavior. Despite their exhaustion, they were behaving beautifully and I was so very relieved. Church moves quickly in the States and when wrestling preschoolers that is very helpful.

As we closed the assembly and gathered belongings to leave, Ms Sassafrass reached over to gently pat my hand.

“You’re a good momma, “ she smiled, “I’m happy you were here today.”

I really can’t remember that woman’s name. But I vividly recall how she made me feel.

Judged, corrected, unwelcome, entertained, endeared, won-over, embraced.

When she first spoke to me, I wanted to leave. I felt, embarrassed.

Was I in the wrong place?

As I quietly maintained my own position despite the uncomfortable awareness that I was outside of Sassy’s status quo, I inevitably forced a further conversation. That improved.

At the very least, it warmed.

As she chattered from her own world, I engaged her into mine. I heard a woman who needed the predictable and felt secure in things being the same.

At it’s baseline, I can not only respect that, I can completely understand NEEDING that.

For whatever reason, she chose to end our interchange with one of the most positive and needful affirmations known to womankind.

“You are a good momma.”

Golden words, indeed.

I learned something that day.

Our greatest strengths and our greatest weaknesses are often born from the exact same place.

This older woman was not afraid to speak her mind. In one instance I was both blessed and hurt by this quality.

In the end, we parted friends. But it could have gone another way.

What if I had been brand spanking new to any church atmosphere and found myself in conversation with this outspoken woman?

I’m pretty sure I would have left.

Instead I stayed and felt both annoyed and amused.

My amusement was born from years of dealing with sometimes vexing but often times endearing church members who want things done ‘the right way.’

I labeled Ms Sassafrass into that endearing chorus of voices and endured.

That worked this time.

But it doesn’t work every time.

Having been in the church for my entire life, there are other choruses that play in my head. Many of them are painful and soul piercing.

When that chorus plays loudly, I want to quit.

I felt both of those things in this one hour interaction with a complete stranger.

Who was also my sister.

Ms Sassafrass and I managed to maintain an honest conversation. Perhaps that is the point. Allowing folks to say what they think. To sit where they want to sit. To expect what they want to expect. And having the courage, anchored to a Father Who welcomes and accepts, to say, sit and expect  (carefully) myself.

But to never stop doing those things, humbly together.

Maybe Ms Sassafrass had more figured out than I would have at first surmised.

However misguided, she did speak up and from that I learned an awful lot.

I learned some things not to do.

And I learned one thing that I would continue to do.

Keep trying.

*Names changed to protect the precious.

For Dolly

Recently the Cashlings and I read the biography of William Carey.

William Carey is known as the father of modern missions.

He was a visionary and a very hard worker. He and his family moved from England to India in 1778. On a ship. They took the LONG way around the world. Indeed. 

 (This is an interesting travel route to study in the same weeks I reserve plane tickets to take us halfway around the world  in less than 24 hours. The Carey family traveled by ship for 7 months to reach India. We’ve come a long way, baby.)

Mr. Carey has listed among his vast accomplishments in India the translation of the entire Bible from English into Bengali. He preached, studied, taught in Universities, ran indigo dye plantations, translated many words and advocated for the practice of sati to be made illegal. His story is in many, many ways inspiring and directly influential to my adult life choices.

But one part of his biography has troubled me so very much.

Her name was Dolly.

William met Dolly at church in England. Dolly’s father was the leader of a dissenter church that William attended. Dolly was the middle child of three girls. Shy and quiet, she did not know how to read or write. (William would later teach her these skills.) William was six years younger than Dolly. 

Dolly fell in love with William Carey, a shoemaker.

They married and settled into life in a tiny cramped cottage.  They were thrilled to soon welcome a baby girl to their family. Her name was Ann.

Dolly loved and cared for Ann in a their damp, cold home. William made very little money. It is documented that Dolly, William and Ann lived on oatmeal and water for many days at a time. They did not even have proper bed covers to keep them warm.

William continued making shoes and took many opportunities to preach at dissenter churches. He was not paid for his preaching but was highly praised for it.

No one in their families knew how poor William and Dolly were.

When Ann was eighteen months old, she became extremely sick. William fell ill at the same time. Dolly did her best to care for them both.

Ann would not recover. She left the world and Dolly buried her alone. William was too ill to attend the funeral.

Dolly plunged into a deep grief. William’s mother came to help them for a time and William did recover from his illness. Dolly would eventually participate in caring for her home again, but life seemed to have evaporated from her and the depression, though sometimes concealed by the activities of life, was ever present.

God gave the Careys three more children. All boys. Dolly welcomed each one and cared for them while William pursued a life in ministry.

William pastored churches, taught school and began to develop a strong passion for

sharing the gospel on foreign soil.

Dolly lived her life, now as a pastor’s wife, with little say in William’s growing passion. He met with others interested in missionary work, wrote books and started committees. But this did not change much for Dolly. She lived in the poor, crowded pastor’s cottage and cared for their children. 

Dolly bore another child for their family, a girl. They named her Lucy. She was a delight, and reminded them poignantly of Ann.

When Lucy was eighteen months old, she fell ill and did not recover. Dolly buried another baby girl.

Dolly tumbled headlong into a deeper grief that paralyzed her.  William grieved deeply as well but jumped back into work to cope with the oppressive weight of loss. Dolly’s sister, Kitty, joined their family to care for the boys. Dolly was often unable to work or move.

Some time passed and Dolly became pregnant again. (The woman was broken and grieving but continued to get pregnant. I believe that is notable.)

As her abdomen swelled, William’s dreams did too.  His professional pursuits encroached dramatically on Dolly’s shattered world.

William wanted to move to India. In fact in a room full of other men of like mind, he had already committed to the move and service in India before speaking to Dolly.

Maybe he wondered what she would think. Or maybe he was in denial of what he already knew.

Dolly was cautious and fearful. Nervous. Grieving and broken. And had never lived more than 30 miles from her birthplace.

And yet, William had agreed that he and his family would make this gigantic step across the continent.

From Dolly’s broken and tattered state, she spoke up.  And refused.

“No!”  Dolly would say to her husband.

“I do not want to go! I will not go!”

 She is described as difficult, stubborn and unwilling.

I wish the biographers had just called her, Honest.

Honest was, perhaps, the most courageous thing this broken woman had.

Dolly was afraid of sickness. (Standing over the graves of two children lost to sickness will do that to a person.)

Initially, they decided that William would take one of their sons and go without Dolly and the others.

This decision was heartbreaking for William and for Dolly. They did not want to be apart. They also did not agree on where to live together.

William and their young son, Felix, depart and while they journey, Dolly delivers another baby (their sixth) and names him Jabez (sorrow).

The ship carrying William and young Felix is docked quickly after their official departure, which ultimately leads them back home to beg Dolly to reconsider, again. 

When Dolly’s sister Kitty acceded to William’s pleas for help, Dolly is coerced by every person in her little world to accompany her husband on his mission.

She did get on board the ship. But things were going to become more difficult, not less.

She would face storm at sea, poverty, the death of another child, horrible sickness, the birth of another child and a completely foreign culture full of unknowns that incapacitated her.

 One description of Dolly on a boat in India affected me deeply.

Dolly, along with several other members of the Carey family, developed horrible dysentery as their bodies tried to adjust to the new culture and cuisine of India. During one of their relocations within India, the Carey’s were suffering through a long boat ride in India’s terribly hot climate. Dolly and Felix were so sick with stomach ailments, they lay under the only shade in the middle of the boat for the several day trip.

Where were the toilets?

Dysentery is an awful sickness and accompanied by it’s constant companion, dehydration, can be completely debilitating. It is also, humiliating. Especially on a small boat that you cannot disembark, surrounded by all your family and the Indian boatmen who are moving you along the water.

Humiliating illness. Hunger. Depression. Massive culture shock. Alienation and loneliness.

Her ‘experience’ of foreign missionary work was oppressive and took many things from her, including her very mind.

But she would stay.

She really didn’t have any other choice.

William did have a choice. It is documented that Dolly was a “problem” to him and that he was encouraged by many to have her committed.

He outright refused.

Dolly and William lived in India, together, her confined to her bedroom and William working very hard to serve and to teach until Dolly died in December of 1807.

Each description of Dolly’s mental state feels like a personal blow to me.

I feel the often one-sided approach to this story very deep in my own psyche.

Is there room in our production focused/ results oriented reckoning to allow the broken to be heroes too?

I long for mercy, for this woman who paid an exorbitant price for her husband’s calling.

So here.

In this tiny corner of writing space that I have.

I will join my voice with others who may offer an understanding empathy to the suffering of Dolly Carey.

I acknowledge what she endured and was subjected to. 

With kind regard, I esteem her for feeling alone. For enduring sickness. And insanity. For burying her children time and time again. For leaving and never seeing again the place of her birth.

For being forced to do what she didn’t feel called to do.

In recognizing her suffering and loss, I openly value her very important part of this missionary story.

I humbly suggest, that despite her documented weakness, she could be a hero too.

This venue of service bears high cost in many hidden ways.

Dolly Carey, I will honor your life when I speak of you.

*William Carey Obliged to Go by Janet & Geoff Benge; YWAM Publishing 1998.

*Life of William Carey, Shoemaker & Missionary by George Smith C.I.E., LL. D.; First issue of this edition 1909 Reprinted...1913, 1922

When I Was Fourteen:

I ended eighth grade and went all the way through ninth grade.

I played the flute.

I was elected and served as the woodwind lieutenant for the Nimitz band.

I experienced a difficult event at summer camp that completely changed my faith and relationship with God, for the better.

I served as president of the National Junior Honor Society.

I asked a guy out and got turned down. 

I spent a lot of time with Dena and Mary.

I studied French.

I made A’s.

I loved Three Musketeers chocolate bars.

I knew all the lines from The Karate Kid and the Outsiders.

I still listened to records on my record player/stereo.

I also listened to many cassette tapes.

I danced with Chris V. at the band Christmas party. It was a ‘spotlight’ dance because we were chosen by the band as Mr. & Mrs. Claus. 

I went on my first date. (If a Cashling is reading this—I was actually 25 yrs old, give or take, just like I’ve always told you!)

I fell in love.

I was very active and involved in church youth group. They were like family.

I really liked my parents. (true!)

Fourteen was a good year for me.

Praying it’s a fabulous number for my baby girl, too. (But you’re not dating until your 25. Give or take.)

Happy birthday sweetest first born! Can’t wait to see what this year holds for you!