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!

The Danger of a Single Story by Chimamanda Adichie

In the wake of much conversation regarding Uganda, it's people, wars, and brokenness, I have found this 2009 TED speech by Chimamanda Adichie to eloquently speak much wisdom to issues raised. 

There is always more to learn. Always more to hear. 

Listen.

from Aunt Cheryl

There is a very important someone celebrating her birthday today around the world from us.  This happens thirteen times throughout the year. We have thirteen amazing nieces and nephews who celebrate birthdays without us. But we mark every one. Because we are thankful for them. Every one. I am reposting a letter I wrote for Presley (the youngest of our siblings' offspring) just after she was born. I mean it for her and I pray it (especially the first two points) for each of the other twelve too. Happy birthday, today, to Presley. Just like every precious one who precedes you, you are a treasure. I am so thrilled to be your Aunt Cheryl.

newborn Presley with her brothers

Dear Presley,

Welcome to the world little girl! Are you aware of the fact that people in Africa were waiting for the news of your arrival?! Eagerly awaiting every tiny detail of You! You have hair! You weigh 7lbs! You are healthy! Every picture that floated over the web was studied and gushed over.

Because, you are our treasure.

And we are so happy you are here.

I have not been able to hold you in my arms yet. I am grieving this, but don't worry your pretty little head over that. Because I am holding you in my heart. And while that may sound a little sappy and weird, it's true. There are no miles, no circumstances and no tomorrow that can change your place in my heart. Your brothers are anchored deep in there too.

If I could whisk myself to your home this evening, I would send your Mommy to sleep, rent your Daddy & brothers their favorite movie and rock you quietly in your room. While you rested, I would speak many wonderful things over your head and catch you up on some important information.

First, God made you. Perfectly. How I wish you could always rest so easily in this, but the truth is, there are many untrue messages out there. Messages and innuendos that boldly insist there is ONE WAY to look and ONE SIZE to wear and anything else is failure. Presley, Love, you are perfectly designed by a Perfect Creator and when you look at yourself through the years you should always remember, it is HIS work you see in that mirror and you should be careful how you speak about it. And how you allow others to speak about it. You are beautiful. Case closed.

Second, Jesus loves you. LOVES YOU. And that will never change. NEVER. He is the most incredible Hero, Protector, Friend and Confidant and He will never let you down. I pray for you and those brothers of yours and all your cousins living here in Africa to know Jesus better than any other. Listen for His voice, my niece. He has a plan and a love for you that is unmatched.

Third, ice cream is awesome. You can call it “mum-mum” and smile sweetly and people will supply it to you by the gallon.

Fourth, organizing and cleaning are fun! (I can keep trying even though this hasn’t worked on any of my own babies yet!)

Fifth, I love your hair and your eyelashes and your perfect fingers and toes!

Sixth, I love you.

Seventh, a prayer: “Holy Father protect this life, protect this heart…soften and nurture and grow this incredible spirit towards You. May nothing hinder or misdirect her gaze from Your Holiness and Your Grace.”

And then I would probably cry. Because my children and husband would be so hungry in Africa without me and I would have to get on an airplane and fly away.

But not without singing first. "Jesus Loves Me." "Who Made the Flowers." And most likely, "Amazing Grace."

Blessings would be spoken over your perfect, tiny head. And your Mommy would be rested. And your brothers would be hugged. And my heart would be at peace.

The final thing I would remind us both of, is that this life rarely gives you EVERYTHING that you want. Sadly, we can’t always have our way. But a quiver lip and pout do nothing but depress. The best plan is to count your blessings, pray with thanksgiving and wait on the Lord. His plan is ALWAYS perfect.

Just look at you.

I love you always. Call me if you need anything.

Aunt Cheryl

Aunt Cheryl and Presley finally meet 

The Rhythm is Gonna Get You

Life establishes a rhythm, doesn’t it?

Whether we are highly disciplined or not (me!), our lives establish rhythms and these provide cadence to our steps.

In our garage/storage room we have a mountain of very nice luggage. Our bag of choice is currently a sturdy duffel with wheels. We have about 17 of them. (I haven’t actually counted, so that is an approximate number.)

My husband has three very nice, waterproof bags. There are two small ones and one large one.  These are awesome. We have black, grey and dark blue canvas bags.  We have one red bag. We own three car top luggage carriers that are folded and stored. And we have a various assortment of carry-on wheelie bags that are shoved in and amongst the larger cases.

We have a remaining stash of old fashioned suitcases—ones we used years ago and still haven’t given away. We never use those and they sit at the bottom of the mountain gathering mold , dust and probably providing a home for a rodent or two.

I do not like the mountain of luggage.

It’s existence, brings me stress.

I want there to be shelves where the mountain stands. And I want the bags to be neatly organized.

But the chasm between my wanting and the actual occurrence is WIDE and may never be crossed, Lord have mercy.

So the mountain stands.

(Mountain building should be left to God. His are much more majestic.)

Every time I walk into the room, the mountain gets a huff from me. I spend some minutes staring at the odd configuration. Wishing for shelves. Then I turn and leave the room.

My scorn quickly morphs into a gratefulness. I’m thankful I don’t have to pack those bags for now and with a resolute decisiveness I thank the Good Lord for that.

Over a year ago, I was purchasing some of those bags and loading them up with American goods. Packing in the States is a traumatic event. It is four hundred million decisions in the wee hours of morning. It is a marriage straining,  back breaking, heart wrenching, soul searching exercise. I dread it (as we shop), disdain it (in the process) and adore it (when we unpack at home).

The epitome of ‘mixed bag’ . 

Over one year ago, I unpacked all those bags at home in Uganda and joyfully deposited them into the mounting heap with joy and determination. By the time we have traversed the globe, stayed in a bazillion (could be an exaggeration)  different locations, shopped for two years of supplies, repacked into 50lb disbursements and hauled them and ourselves back to life in Africa---

I am done with bags and travel for a significant period of time. Amen.

With every Home Ministry Assignment (aka ‘furlough’) my eagerness for the unpacking and settling at home seems to increase.

I was beginning to wonder if I had lost my groove. The ever-traveling part of our foreign existence that I had whole heartedly embraced seemed to have grown cold for me. And yet, our job doesn’t appear to be done yet. The mountain sits in imposing silence. 

Last week, as I stored Christmas decorations in the garage, I met a shocking realization.  My glance at the Mountain O' Luggage did not bear disdain.

It held longing.

The longing turned my glance into a stare and the briefest of smiles.

I thought simply, “It’s time.”

And instead of feeling cold— enthusiasm effused warmth and my heart swelled with eagerness.

Time to travel again.

Rhythms of life.

For our family, this means transporting ourselves across an ocean every two years to reconnect with dearest family and supporters and friends. It means hugs and memories and long, lingering conversations with Starbucks in hand.  

I guess Gloria Estefan has always known.

This nomadic existence is a rhythm for us. And after some time in one place, that rhythm has caught me again.

"Raindrops on Roses..."

The Cashlings. J'adore. 

My Starbucks Thermal Coffee Press. Imperative and delightful. 

The cup I use is a very important component to my  'Coffee Experience' every day. Currently these are my two favorites. My Mom gave me the striped one. I bought the black and white one in Kampala.

The Icing of the Christmas Cookies. Wouldn't be Christmas without this!

This is on the cabinet in my kitchen. Love the picture of my cowboys. Love the Texas boot. Love the picture of the ENORMOUS Christmas tree compliments of the Galleria in Houston. Merry Christmas Y'all!

The Generator.

 I. Love. The. Generator.

 Christmas lights, the blender, television/movies, Wii games and the charging of batteries are all made possible by this wonderful machine! 

Gingerbread! Yummy!

Kali (kawlee). She is exuberant, feisty and LOVES attention.

Simba. He is somber, easy going and very loving. A wise old soul. 

Baxter. He loves me and I love him. 

One of my favorite pictures of all time. My Mam-ma and Granddaddy. I miss them.

Mam-ma and me. Some years ago :) I feel loved when I look at this picture.

Kinley, Peace and a Christmas Tree cake :) These girls have known each other all their lives. 

Joy, indeed! This picture of my niece (and all the stories of her escapades that it brings to mind) reminds me to have fun!

Our Santa collection. Jeff's Mom has given us most of these and the Santa/Mrs. Santa mugs are reminiscent of the Cash family egg nog mugs Jeff remembers every year. We miss you, Cash family!!! 

:) This little treat is a rare find. Dairy products (cheese, sour cream, cream cheese etc) are either not available, not affordable or not tasty in Uganda. This product (from South Africa) tastes just like American sour cream. Delightful! We danced a happy dance in the Kampala supermarket when we saw it on the shelf. 

A bag of white sugar! 

Because our sugar (on the right) isn't white. This doesn't matter much until you want to make Christmas candy. We were so happy to find white sugar in our store in Fort Portal! A Christmas miracle! (The Cashlings keep tasting the white sugar because they can't believe it isn't salt.) 

My man. Bring me some mistletoe! 

These are a few of my favorite things!!!! 

To Wait

“But as for me, I watch in hope for the Lord, I wait for God my Savior; my God will hear me.” Micah 7: 7

This week I have waited:

At the grocery store—for tomatoes

At the oven—for food to warm

For the generator—so we could enjoy the Christmas lights

For the thermometer—so I would know if the fever broke

For the tea kettle—so I could make coffee

For the sunshine—so the clothes would dry

For my children—to finish math

For my husband—to feel better

For the parking attendant—so I could pay my parking fees

For the internet—to connect

I. Have. Waited.

Sometimes hopeful. Sometimes with GREAT impatience (I’m looking at you, Mr. Fort Portal parking attendant!)

Most often, with an underlying feeling of irritation.

“Yet the Lord longs to be gracious to you; he rises to show you compassion. For the Lord is a God of justice. Blessed are all who wait for him!” Isaiah 30:18

We have entered the season of Advent.

By it’s common definition, advent is the arrival of a notable person, thing or event.

In Christendom, Advent signifies the arrival of Christ.

The Israelites had been waiting for a long, long time.

(Many struggled to recognize Him when He arrived.)

(He was not what they expected in a Messiah.)

Some knew EXACTLY Who He Was.

“Now there was a man in Jerusalem called Simeon, who was righteous and devout. He was waiting for the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit was upon him. It had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not die before he had seen the Lord’s Christ. Moved by the Spirit, he went into the temple courts. When the parents brought in the child Jesus to do for him what the custom of the Law required, Simeon took him in his arms and praised God, saying: “Sovereign Lord, as you have promised, you now dismiss your servant in peace. For my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the sight of all people, a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel.” Luke 2: 25-32

As we lead our children through the remembrances of the promised Christ and His arrival in Bethlehem—

I am convicted of the ‘waiting’.

“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God, trust also in me. In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am.” John 14: 1-3

He is coming again.

How will He find me waiting?

“Keep yourselves in God’s love  as you wait for the mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ to bring you to eternal life.” Jude 21

In Every Season

(Grief is a difficult topic to write about. The experience of it is so deeply personal and unique to each individual circumstance and type of loss. I do not know how you approach this reading today. I only know that if you are flesh and blood, you most likely carry grief somewhere in your heart. Grief is not comparative or quantitative. But it does demand acknowledgement. This is my current awareness of what is a part of every person’s story. What happens when we lose?)

“I’ve learned so much about grief in the past few years, and the one thing I know is that it isn’t a linear path. It doesn’t seem to follow any logical pattern and the only thing I know to do is to feel it.” Angie Smith from I Will Carry You

When I was fifteen years old, one of my best friends moved away.

It was one of the earliest goodbyes I can recall laboring through.

My entire family went with me for the final send-off. We all stood, very early in the AM, at the airport gate (WAY before 9/11 and the rules we stride with now) and hugged.

There were tears. Promises of letters and calls. And more hugs.

After the airplane flew, we made our way to pancakes and coffee. Everyone talking, laughing and trying to ignore.

I was ordering and sitting and hearing. But from a very deep well, it seemed.

The voices and clatter of plates seemed to echo down from up above my head somewhere, even though the faces and food were immediately in front of me.

It was the longest breakfast of my young life.

I remember feeling a threatening numbness. I was afraid to talk or even look someone in the eye. I needed the numb to remain until I could risk releasing the torrent churning in me.

Broken Hearted. This friendship I treasured had every opportunity to be lost.

We finally made our way home and I escaped the beckoning ‘regular’ of the day by retreating to my room. Door closed, no eyes watching. I cried.

The ugly cry.

My dear friend had flown and I knew everything had changed.

It was a stark contrast to my comfortable, peaceful, physically abundant, predictable life.

This type of pain was new to me. And I did not like it.

Loss. And change. And goodbyes.

I was done with all three of those things that very day. On the floor of my sage-green bedroom. Done.

I had so much to learn.

It was the same airport eight years later and it was me and my husband boarding the plane. My husband of 6 months was hugging and smiling and watching nervously down the corridor for our freshly visa-ed passports to be delivered to us at the eleventh hour.

I would not go with my family to pancakes and coffee at the end of this round of hugs. Instead they would leave the airport together and I would fly to Africa.

I had never imagined feeling this broken. This jagged. So snotty and blubbery.

In front of people.

It was awful.

There was no sage-green room at the end of this series of goodbyes. No school, friends or even recognizable food.

This was a hard stop on the normality of my life.

Everything would be different.

The plates of my ‘earth’ were shifting. And while there were physical changes such as distance and separation that others could see and feel with me, the seismic shift, the more catastrophic breaks in my deepest places were not physically visible with tremors or tsunami waves.

They were silent. And I could not find the words to shape around them and give them form and acknowledgement.

My tears filled the gap around the jagged edges creating a seemingly impassable moat. A moat that in moments felt protective, but most often simply separated me and my brokenness from those I longed to commune with again.

Honest grief both cushioned and encapsulated my existence.

And would, for a very long time.

The displacement was immense.

Thinking back to that first airport parting, when I was fifteen, and the interminable breakfast that followed, makes me chuckle now. I really had, only just begun. In typical teenage fashion, it was all about right then and my experience. I was overwhelmed by that very normal, non-traumatic change. If only I had known.

Many, many times, in my adult life I would sit over goodbye breakfasts, choking down food that refused digestion. I would spend hours standing at airport check-in counters, tears streaming down my face with a sick, hardened lump in my stomach. Saying goodbye.

Over the last eighteen years, this has been a large part of my story.

“Goodbye” has become common in it’s occurrence but never ‘common’ in it’s effects.

The compelling call that convicts us to be in this venue of service is accompanied in droning voice with grief.

And I continuously resist and writhe underneath it’s tone.

I desire to wrap myself up in all the obvious good I can see and experience. And there are unbelievable moments of miraculous care at His generous Hand.

But, even the experiences that emote positive joy, are continuously accompanied by the companionable grief.

One can never cancel out the other.

This was/is reality.

I can experience a miracle and PRAISE with joy, all the while still feeling the undertone of loss somewhere too.

This dichotomy, is repugnant. I desire to wrestle it into submission.

I want the pain to depart. And the joy to remain.

The‘goodbyes’ of our life choice have not been limited to the excruciating moments at airports, but seem to spew like a geiser from even the most unexpected places.

*Moments and memories—every holiday, birth of a nephew or niece, birthday celebration and school program. We, simply, are not there. We can’t go back and retrieve the years we’ve spent so far from family.
*Esteem—we came to serve in an honorable cause, but have reaped suspicion and accusation more often than my brain can comprehend.
*Death—we live in a world full of HIV Aids and poor health. Most women I walk with here have buried more than one of their children. Parents are dying in droves, leaving parentless children to extended families. We have buried many, many friends and stood beside hundreds more as they buried their dear ones.
*Friends—we have poured our lives into many loved ones in this place. Longing for something better for each of their lives. Longing to be a point of rescue from their brokenness. To point them to Him.
How excruciating it is to watch them walk away. In fact, it has almost become a relief when all they do is walk away. It is much more brutal when they go mocking, disdaining and misrepresenting us.
*Robbery—Living in a land of corruption costs us. We have had so many clothes, tools, shillings, and car parts stolen from our care.

At each of these losses (goodbyes), grief not only ensued, but seemed to ignite each past grief burning a fire stronger than each fire before.

We are not forced to walk this trail.

I do not list these losses to derive pity.

I am humbly aware of all the losses we have been saved from.

I only share, to put this version of the story into the mix.

So that maybe in the sharing, we can find some harmony in the shared experience.

One of grief’s deceptions is the feeling that you are alone.

When the Truth is, no one is immune.

Not even Him. (John 11:33-36;Luke 22:41-44)

I mark this grieving as I move through it. With it.

To acknowledge and acquiesce the fact that I’m not really done yet. That the option ‘not to lose’ does not exist.

To attempt, beyond my failing ability, to thrive in thankfulness in the midst of the losing.

In the midst of the tears.

To feel it.

This is courage.

And this is Faith.

He sees and knows our losses. He gathers our tears in a bottle. (Psalm 56:8 KJV)

He always knows what is ahead of us. And that He will be immediately by our side.

Let me Stand. And proclaim. “You are there! In every season of my soul.”

And, Lord, please. Let that make a difference in this world.

For These...

These are the days that disappear too quickly.

Every kid around our table. Funny. Making memories.

They still like us and aren’t embarrassed by us (too much).

We can have actual conversations about meaningful things.

We can laugh. Their jokes have morphed (seemingly overnight) from ridiculous and nonsensical to ironic sarcasm that makes us laugh until tears flow.

We’ve graduated to Star Wars, Lord of the Rings and Indiana Jones for family movie nights.

They help with the dogs, carry in my groceries and remarkably ‘roll with every punch’ this crazy third-world existence throws.

And the praying. Their growing awareness of God’s plan and purpose in their lives.

Staggers me.

Upends me in the most marvelous way.

In this season of celebrating Harvest—I long for the elusive Pause. The Freeze Frame switch.

Because in our home, around our table and reverberating down our hall are fruits of a harvest more bountiful than I could have ever dreamed.

The Cashlings.

I am so thankful for these.

As the Tan Fades

I spent a lot of time in the sun during our beach stay.

Fabulous.

As I soaked in the rays, I was reminded of my junior high years.

‘Laying out’ was a favorite pastime among our middle school crowd and I was an eager participant for a certain season. Usually at Laura’s house. We would lay on her cement sidewalk on towels, with Big Gulps, a radio and a Seventeen magazine. We loved to take the quizzes in the magazine. “How Good of a Friend Are You” , or “Are You Prepared for True Love” or “What Your Hair Style Says About You”
Weighty issues that could clearly be dissected and analyzed through a series of multiple choice questions. We were eager for the results to define us and thus offer some understanding and validity of our very being. We would gasp over “how accurate!” the quiz was. Or discuss all the reasons the quiz was wrong. It was good fun. And so enriching.

We sometimes even got tan.

I abandoned ‘laying out’ in time. Despite the aesthetic benefits of a lovely brown glow, I grew weary of the sweaty, sweatiness lying in the sun produced. It made me grumpy. And let’s face it, at age 13, I didn’t need one more thing to make me grumpy.

My next extended foray with sunshine was the summer of my junior year of high school. I went with dear family friends to the Texas Coast. I spent a lot of time in the sun and got very, very brown. I also was pooped on by a seagull. Funny the things you remember. I enjoyed that trip very much (despite the seagull) and my tan impressed my friends back home. Their admiration almost convinced me to revisit the discipline of ‘laying out’. But the desire faded, as did my tan.

In recent years, our family trips to the beach involved toddlers or young children. So lying around on beach chairs didn’t really happen for me. I will confess that I kind of felt like sitting and lounging (and sleeping) were lost to me forever. Those early years of childcare are not for pansies, y’all. Those years can kick your tail. Kicked mine.

But, GOOD NEWS!!! Kids grow up and learn to swim and can be allowed more freedom and independence. Amen.

Our children are older now, all strong swimmers, and after the establishing of healthy boundaries, didn’t have to be watched at every second. I could lie on the beach chairs and soak in the sun.

I loved the still, quiet times. I loved the time to think.

The book of Hebrews was an anchor during these two weeks. My mind, left to it’s own devices can quickly lead me astray. I’m learning that I must have the boundary and protection of God’s Word planted daily in this head of mine or my thoughts bound in directions that defeat and plague.

Endurance. Eyes fixed on Christ. Faith.

These were guides charting the course of my thoughts.

A few things I came away with:

*Hebrews 2:10—even Christ was perfected thru suffering
*Hebrews 4:12—the word of God is living and active—His words are DOING something in me
*Hebrews 5:14 & 6:1-12—constant taking of ‘solid food’ trains to distinguish good from evil (there IS a distinction—it really isn’t a world of ‘greys’); ‘solid food’ seems to be very tied to the experiencing of the Holy Spirit
*Hebrews 10:38—when we shrink back, God’s soul has no pleasure in us
*Hebrews 13:12-14 Jesus suffered, ‘outside the camp’ bearing disgrace and we are to join him there

And this from John, dominating my prayers in many ways:

John 17: 14-17: especially: “Sanctify them in the truth, Your word is truth.”

So rich. SO nourishing.

And while I was pondering, I even got tan.

As the brown glow inevitably fades, I pray my soul lessons don’t.

The color and warmth of His Spirit’s shine deepens and intensifies.

The radiance that doesn’t fade…

That’s the glow I’m really looking for.

The Gift of October 8th

The suitcase made a tap-tapping sound as I bounced on it’s hard case. I stood on my tip-toes on the wobbly case, peering out the bedroom window. Mam-ma had just announced their arrival and I was eager for a glimpse.

I could see the car. And Daddy. But Mom was still sitting in the car, and she was in her pajamas and robe.

My hair was combed and tidied in barrettes. My clothes were clean and fresh. This moment was important and the joy of the impending introduction was reverberating through my tiny frame and making me jump and wriggle and hop.

I bounced down the hall and out the front door, with Mam-ma holding my hand. Warnings to be careful and quiet played in my ears.

Mom was just sitting and holding and I was curious about that. I pulled up on Daddy’s car door as he unloaded things from the trunk.

Mom smiled at me as I strained to see the bundle everyone was making such a fuss over.

“Come around over here, Cheryl. Quietly.”

I stood at the opened passenger door, relieved that Mom seemed to be just fine.

She pushed back the blanket with these words, “It’s YOUR baby, Cheryl! She’s here!”

It was... A Sister!

From moment one, I was enthralled.

She wriggled and stretched. I gasped, wide eyed.

My VERY OWN baby?!?!

I could hardly contain my joy.

I was called back to Mam-ma’s hand as Dad helped Mom inside. Everyone paraded down the hall to Mom and Dad’s room where Mom lay the tiny baby in the middle of their bed.

I was bounding with excitement.

Mom nodded at me and I (oh so carefully) climbed up beside the waking bundle.

The blanket was falling back and her legs and arms were squirming. She was tiny. And she didn’t have ANY hair. I smiled down at her and our eyes met for the first time.

She reached out towards me and grabbed a handful of my hair. And tugged. I startled with the sudden pain of a hair pull. Everyone laughed and calmed me, assuring me Sweet Sister meant no harm.

Despite the adult take on the situation, I was pretty sure I had seen the first smirk pass across that sweet baby face. (smile) I , to this day, adore that smirk.

It was the first of many moments that would be for us alone. Instantaneously, an understanding. We would know each other in a way no one else ever would.

Sisters.

My world changed forever on that day.

And I am so glad it did.

Happy Birthday, Cherise.

I am forever thankful for you.

Glorious

Songs often get stuck in my head.

As if someone has scanned the music library of my brain and hit repeat on a long forgotten melody.

I’ve noticed lately, for instance, that every time I drive into town for groceries the song “Please Don’t Wait Until Dark” plays in my mind.

Remember that song?

“Please don’t wait until dark.
Don’t wait for a rainy day just to pray.
Find time to pray when the sun’s in your life,
And the skies are all blue.”

It’s an old song, that I never hear anymore. But when I drive into Fort Portal town, that song flows through my mind and out my mouth.

After shopping, as I drive home the song changes to “Lord you are more precious than silver…”

Also, an older song that we rarely sing or listen to.

But it streams in my mind automatically at some stimulus or nudging from somewhere I’m not conscious of.

I sing these songs and feel moved by the memories evoked. Poignant memories of my childhood, my Dad's quartet concerts, college and crazy-talented friends.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to be learning from those songs right now, but when a church song sticks in my mind, I always feel like it might be a message. A way God is directing or reminding me of something important. Something I need to recall.

For three days prior to our beach vacation, ‘Everything Glorious’ by the David Crowder Band locked on repeat in my brain and poured out at all times of the day. When I woke up, as I fell asleep, driving, walking, packing…the chorus replayed over and over and over.

(chorus)
You make everything glorious
You make everything glorious
You make everything glorious
And I am Yours
What does that make me?

The words and melody settled pleasantly into my subconscious providing a steady background soundtrack for every amazing memory we were making.

Such hope in those words.

We had one very long day of travel from Uganda to the Kenya Coast, but we safely reached our ocean cottage and immediately donned swimwear. With only a few hours of sunshine left, we had to put our feet in the sand and the ocean.

As I made my way towards the roar of the waves, tears welled up. The Cashlings were diving into the waves with their Dad. Their shouts, smiles and laughter filled my own heart with such emotion.

I stood on the beach, taking in the moment and tears flowed. Grateful.

We so needed this.

We spent fourteen amazing days with no agenda, schedule or plan. Just being together with the lull of the ocean waves soothing and nurturing our tired souls.

We walked the beach, played in the sand, explored the coral at low tide, swam, read, played games, talked, napped, snorkeled, sailed in a dhow, ate amazing seafood and Italian ice cream…

Divine.

And, indeed, Glorious.

It wasn’t a stretch to sing that song as we lived life in cadence with the tides. Glorious, fit. The waves, the sounds, the breezes, the walks.

It was amazing and sublime.

But it spoke more deeply to me than just the fabulous moments we were experiencing.

Life’s circumstances aren’t always so obviously glorious.

Brokenness, pain, betrayal and loss are jagged and difficult.

Will I sing of His glory in the midst of all that? Will I celebrate His amazing splendor when the view isn’t so easy to bear or cope with? Will I hold confidently to hope and faith that He is at work and in control?

The last day of our vacation was terribly sad. We reluctantly packed our bags and began our long journey home. So thankful that we were given the time to renew and reconnect with each other.

But even as we drove away, still longing for more of the same.

We are back home now and well into our routines & the responsibilities of work and school. I am reminded daily of the simple lyrics and confident truth that He makes everything glorious.

Simply because, He, is involved. He is here. And He. Is. Glory.

What amazing mercy! That He would not only endure the likes of us but so graciously pour that Glory into our broken, wounded weakness.

“And I am YOURS!!!!”

“What does that make me?”

“Everything Glorious”
David Crowder Band
The day is brighter here with You
The night is lighter than its hue
Would lead me to believe
Which leads me to believe

(chorus)
You make everything glorious
You make everything glorious
You make everything glorious
And I am Yours
What does that make me?

My eyes are small but they have seen
the beauty of enormous things
Which leads me to believe
there's light enough to see that

(chorus)
You make everything glorious
You make everything glorious
You make everything glorious
And I am Yours

From glory to glory
You are glorious You are glorious
From glory to glory
You are glorious. You are glorious
Which leads me to believe
why I can believe

You make everything glorious
You make everything glorious
You make everything glorious
And I am Yours

On Resources, Reserves, and Cool Accents

One of our first friends in Fort Portal was a young lady from England named Kate. (shout out to you, Kate, if you ever happen to read this!)

Kate was working at a village school near Fort Portal. She often talked about how difficult it was to motivate learning among her pupils when they were so “under resourced”.

I wish at this point in the post for a sound button so that the term ‘under-resourced’ could be heard with a British accent.

It’s quite lovely to hear actually.

(for discussion purposes: American English pronounces 'resource' with the stress on the ‘re’, whereas British English would stress ‘source’ and the ‘s’ has more of a ‘z’ component to it in British English. Clear as mud? Excellent! )

Kate had trouble gathering enough pencils and paper in those days to ‘resource’ (British accent) the children she was loving and serving. This limitation was a weighty burden that wearied Kate and hindered many of her generous goals for those kiddos.

This was a discouraging problem that we discussed at length over dinner in our non furnished concrete house. Kate left many years ago, but every time I say or hear the word resource, it sounds British in my head. Because it is simply more lovely in the lilt of the United Kingdom.

Over the last 11 months our family has sacrificed a very wonderful resource. Electricity.

If you are new here at Gently Led, I’ll catch you up by saying that the electricity company and I are no longer friends. We never have been. And this is because they are not so very nice. Or honest. The end.

So, instead of laboring on in the dysfunctional relationship with the providers of electricity, our family has chosen to go off the grid.

And as noble as that sounds—well, it’s not.

And we are not.

But we have done it successfully for 11 solid months.

My husband, who is the more able to survive in extreme conditions (like no hair dryer, have mercy!) has diligently worked to provide us with the resources he can.

We have solar lights and enough batteries to charge our computer once a day. He has spent countless hours on generator repair and wiring which left us poorer and without a working generator for several months. (Not my husbands fault by the way. Mechanics in the third world most often break more than they fix. It’s kind of an unwritten corruption rule that supposedly keeps the repairmen in a job.) An angel of mercy gifted us with a generator that we can use once a week to enjoy delights such as Wii, the coffee grinder and occasionally the blender. But still no blow dryer. (deep sigh)

As we neared a break from this off the grid existence, I pondered the toll this change has taken. We sacrificed one resource, which then affected many others.

Laundry I waited a long, LONG time to have electric appliances to aid in the eternal mountainous task that is the washing of dirty clothes. I CELEBRATED the acquisition of a new washing machine and a new dryer. I have never taken them for granted.

We thought they died once (in a power spike—hats off to you again, dear electric company!) but we prayed them back to life and joyfully danced at their resurrection party.

I miss them now. They sit, silent and unused in our laundry room.

Handwashing clothes for a family of six is overwhelming. Especially in the rainy weather. In the rains, nothing gets completely dry, so the stench of mildew permeates everything.

I do hire help for this task. But that bears a cost as well. Not just the salary I owe, but the wear on our clothes. They are stretched and wrung and will soon be too misshapen to wear.

Food Storage For years, I have purchased our meat in Kampala, the capital city. I would buy meat to last us 8 weeks in Fort Portal and then store the meat in a deep freeze.

We bought a full size American refrigerator from a departing missionary just last year. I used it for exactly three weeks. I loved those three weeks. Our food storage capability increased and all was joyful in the Cash Kitchen!

Losing electricity, meant losing the deep freeze and the refrigerator.

We are back to a propane fridge that is small in size. I cannot buy such a large amount of meat in Kampala. I can fit enough meat in our small propane freezer to last our family a week or so. With visitors sharing our food, the meat doesn’t last even that long.

This cost has been most pronounced in our health. We have had to buy our meat locally. Our family has been battling stomach illness for this entire term. We do not have as much control over the healthy storage of our meat before it gets to our table. This can lead to issues that are manageable but create a sort of lingering blecky feeling that weighs us down and won’t go away.


Cooking Our food preparation has always been ‘from scratch’ here. This takes a long time, but I have grown used to the process. I have enjoyed the blessings of mixers and food processors that greatly aid in the baking process and in chopping vegetables especially.
The absence of these tools has drastically slowed an already slow process. I’ve been surprised at this but am adjusting to even more time in the kitchen to keep our family fed.

Hair Care Utter vanity, tis true. But, dearest blog patrons, a girl needs a good hair day every now and then. It changes her life. And my good hair days this term have equaled exactly One. The day Sunel (God bless Sunel!) cut and styled my hair in Kampala. It was a glorious day. I could conquer the world that day. I was a terrific mother. A beautiful wife. A willing missionary. It was truly a golden moment.

All because of the hair.

I’m not even embarrassed to say this.

I miss my blow dryer. And I’m pretty confident that tucked away in the mildew-y cupboard, my blow dryer misses me too.

There are other costs. No fans at night which renders our amazing boy loft bedroom totally useless because of heat. Cold baths. Less computer time. More obstacles to office work.

Feeling successful for me, is all tied up in the completion of a thing. Each of the changes listed above leaves me with a feeling of ‘incomplete'.

Over time, this burden of the incomplete begins to paralyze me. In each task or area of responsibility, I can endure and cope with being under-resourced. But, eventually, the combined incompleteness has emptied my reserves at a much faster rate than normal.

When our generator runs out of fuel, it stops making energy. We must pay something to get more fuel to operate the machine.

Unfortunately, we humans can hide our empty tanks for awhile. Sometimes without recognizing it, I find myself trying to generate energy from a completely dry reserve. I’m coughing and spewing and even causing more damage, when what I need to do is pay a price and refill my tank.

One very effective way to ‘refill’ is, simply, to rest. We typically do this resting thing better if we can be physically removed from our work and responsibility for a time.

So recently, we paid a price and flew away.

From Mountains to Coast.

We settled for some days on the shore of the Indian Ocean.

I wasn’t sure what to expect from our time away. But, I was hoping for stillness, rest, laughter, memories and God willing, electricity.

Of all the renewal God had waiting for us, I hoped His plan included a working blow dryer and a good hair day or two.

Under-resourced. (British accent)

Spoken with a lovely accent or not, the effect is eventually debilitating.

And must be addressed.

What empties your tank, blog friends?

What practical things renew you?

A Time to Write

I love to write.

Ever notice, in the whirl of life and responsibility, that the fun things can get squished of their life? Suffocated, if you will. Ignored. Left out.

I do this all too often. Choose not to engage in the fun stuff because I’m too busy being responsible.

This system fails me. Fails everyone, actually.

Because….drumroll please…..

I cannot be responsible for everything.

(ahem)

I know!

I keep trying. But, I am unable.

I am learning to accept this truth. And face the consequences of it.

One day at a time.

So, today. A time to write.

Delight!

We Walked Through Fire

I couldn’t sleep Sunday night. I was at the end of a fabulous read and continued turning pages to find the conclusion. My head ached a bit and I could not stop thinking about the candle in the kids’ bathroom. Had they blown it out?

I would dismiss the concern and go back to my book, but the flame of the candle was very present in my mind.

Finally around 2:45AM, I put the completed book down and went to double check the candle. The children had obediently blown it out as directed. I was thankful and headed back to my pillow to find sleep. Jeff had been resting for about 45 minutes and I could tell by his breathing that deep sleep had found him. I closed my eyes in the stillness but could not drift off.

Just after 3AM, my phone beeped that a text message had come through. I did not get up immediately, wondering what meandering text was finding me at so early an hour. I was still wide awake though, and Jeff asked about the noise, so I got up to check the message.

My heart began to race as I saw the Johnson’s name (missionaries with World Harvest Mission in Bundibugyo) on the message and not the Sports Report on soccer scores I expected to quickly delete and go back to bed.

It seemed to take forever for the message to display. The first sentence read,
“The Chedester’s house in on fire….”

I called Jeff’s name and read the alarming words. My husband stood up immediately from the bed and said, “I’m going.”

He was in gear and out the door before I could find a sweater and shoes.

I handed him Kinley’s phone and kissed him goodbye, then began to pray.

My heart was pounding, but there was silence and stillness around me. The house, vacated by the Chedester family two years ago was to be the new home for their teammate and our dear friend, Pat Abbott. I was not aware of anyone sleeping in the home currently, but did not know for sure.

I knew Jeff would not be able to call me, but I longed for information and prayed for the safety of everyone on the scene.

After two and half hours, my phone rang and Jeff’s voice told me everyone was safe, but the house had been destroyed.

He was winded as he talked and heartbroken that he couldn’t save the house. He said that as he drove up to the house several hours ago, every room already glowed red.

He had arrived at the same time as the fire truck from town. (The fire truck is a new addition to the Ft Portal community. Jeff has petitioned for fire services, gathered fire gear and taught fire safety for many years. We currently await funds to ship a donated fire truck from the States.) There were two men with the truck who eagerly accepted Jeff’s offer of help. They entered the house with a hose and fought the fire, working to quiet the hot spots as the flames died down.

Jeff said that he was coming home to refresh, call Bundibugyo and that we could return at daybreak to begin salvaging what we could.

His call to the Johnson’s was short. We were all shocked and sad.

Jeff’s adrenaline was still pumping full as he relived the firefight and I made him tea. How many times we’ve played this scenario. He paces the kitchen telling me every detail he can recall from the latest happening. I stand over the kettle, praying and praising and beseeching our Father who never fails.

As I found clothes and thick soled boots, Jeff showered, changed into new gear and found gloves and tools we might need. My heart weighed so heavy.

With every prayer a plea for us to find that which would matter to Pat Abbott. Her belongings filled the home in preparation for a new life and ministry in Ft Portal. She has lived in Uganda 17 years and so her history had awaited her home-leave return in plastic trunks, suitcases and boxes.

I knew we needed to talk to the Chedesters too. And my heart broke for them. We watched them plan and birth this home from the grading of the land to the foundation to every detail Bob meticulously toiled through. This would be an emotional loss and I hated that pain for them already.

The house felt like an oven when we entered. The ground was charcoal and ashes. Some places even glowed red where heat smoldered. The walls could not be touched and standing within the walls had the effect of a sauna.

We started in the office. Jeff quickly uncovered, beneath the ashes, some melted stacks of pictures. We were encouraged to find something. I put on my gloves and began to gingerly sort through the charcoal and ashes at my feet.

Cards, letters, the charred remains of books. We made stacks of what we might salvage and laid aside that which was unidentifiable.

With every sifting a prayer. ‘Lord show us what matters to Pat and help us know what to keep. Protect the precious things from looters. Help us, here.’ As we dug, I pictured the room as it was when the Cheds lived here. We wrote emails at the desk in the alcove when our computer broke or phone was down, Bob and Jen served their team with countless administrative tasks in this space, and once during a dinner party I found one of our baby boys (Alex?) swallowing Uncle Bob’s pills on the floor of this room. Alex was fine, but we spent some tense minutes assessing the situation here.

Jeff found more and more letters and cards. Our stack of salvageable grew. We uncovered a few clay pots and some cast iron pans.

People were walking into the home now. We had a constant audience. Everyone expressed sadness, but there was hunger in their eyes. I was disheartened by this; this trait of taking from those who have already lost so much. Jeff and I started announcing as we worked that we were saving these things for the owner. We spoke warnings about the hot coals and encouraged people to wait outside. Children from the school walked in bare feet around the house. I pointed out all the shattered glass and asked them to please return to school. A teacher finally took up my cause and shooed the children away.

We dug. And I remembered.

So many celebrations took place in these walls. So many conversations. So many memories. Bob and Jennifer welcomed into their name, heart and family six children here in this space. They housed and nurtured many more.

I remembered the decisions, choices, hard labor spent on each detail of this home. It was used well. To the glory of the Lord.

We have dutifully recorded many of those moments with cameras through the years. But on this morning, when I pulled out my camera, I recorded a loss and it felt very opposing to me.

Picture taking is most often a celebratory practice. Christmas, birthdays, baptisms, marking the growth of family.

This moment was quite the opposite emotion. Each snap felt heavily somber. But I reminded myself that the pictures would be helpful and continued to record the scene.

In yet another irony of life in this place, I hated this moment, and felt equally grateful to be there for our friends. To mark this passing with tears of remembrance. Of honor.

We worked for a couple of hours. Jeff continued putting out flames that would emerge from the coals at our feet. We dug, we salvaged, we prayed.

I was loading a scarred load of Pat’s history into the car when Jeff came out carrying two books. They looked almost clean compared to the soot that now covered everything else. Jim Elliots journals and a book titled “He Has Made Me Glad”. We smiled and chuckled amazement at God’s hand clearly redeeming this moment. Jeff flipped through the books and pulled an unsinged postcard from the inside pages. Bwamba Road. An aerial shot of the road to Bundibugyo, where Pat and a World Harvest Mission team have worked for many years.

It would not be the only thing unsinged, but it would be one of few.

After lengthy discussions with Pastor Sam, and a phone call with Bob Chedester we headed back home, our bodies, awake all night, now hungering for sleep.

We shared the news with our children and the Goodes and then succumbed to slumber. After resting, we spent the evening spreading out the documents and pictures we had found. Carefully cleaning and separating, praying that the few things would be a comfort to Pat.

We peeled pictures away from stacks, spread and dried papers. The next morning, Jeff was out early to remove the solar panels from the roof so they could be stored. Just as I left our home to join him at the house, I received an email from Pat. There was one document she asked us to look for.

When I reached the house, I could see Jeff had been uncovering more papers and had a large stack in the back of the car. I quickly described the document she needed and he told me he hadn’t found it. This was now two days after the fire.

We went into the office, and I asked God, out loud, to please take us to the document if it was still there. Jeff bent down, explaining to the Goodes, “it will be similar in color to (pause) this,” and pulled out the document! Praise the Lord. It was badly damaged but some marks were legible enough for her to use the form for what she needed.

It has been a week now. Our living room, full of papers and pictures still drying, smells like fire. Pat and the Chedesters are all doing well, full of God provided faith and coping with the loss.

Pat wrote on her blog of beauty from ashes. Only time will tell the losses Pat will number as she resettles here. But it moves me to look at what God mercifully allowed us to find:
pictures and letters from Pat’s Mom, pictures and cards from Pat’s team, documents for Kim and Lydia, an aerial shot of the road to Bundibugyo, three books: Jim Elliot’s journals, “He Has Made me Glad”, and The Art of Christian Healing.

A solid representation of some of the richest beauty of Pat’s life: family, team, daughters, mission, ministry, Christ.

This world is not our home. I am honored to serve alongside others who can celebrate that truth even from the ashes of loss.

Blessed be the name of the Lord!