Remembering

“Let all the earth fear the Lord; let all the people of the world revere him.

For he spoke, and it came to be; he commanded, and it stood firm. The Lord foils the plans of the nations; he thwarts the purposes of the peoples. But the plans of the Lord stand firm forever, the purposes of his heart through all generations.

From heaven the Lord looks down and sees all mankind; from his dwelling place he watches all who live on earth—he who forms the hearts of all, who considers everything they do.

No king is saved by the size of his army; no warrior escapes by his great strength. A horse is a vain hope for deliverance; despite all its great strength it cannot save. But the eyes of the Lord are on those who fear him, on those whose hope is in his unfailing love, to deliver them from death and keep them alive in famine.

We wait in hope for the Lord; he is our help and our shield. In him our hearts rejoice, for we trust in his holy name. May your unfailing love rest upon us, O Lord, even as we put our hope in you.”

Psalm 33: 8-11 & 13-22

These last weeks have been full of remembering.

Childhood memories with life long friends.  Delightful reunions over burgers in Kampala. International, world changing events.  Rebecca. Airplane ferry flights. Friends who have relocated.

Some seasons are just like this, aren’t they? Heavy with memory. Deep with meaning.

Psalm 33 and 34 have poured into these deep recollections in my heart. And actively breathed life, repeatedly.

Today, with world news swirling and dear friends grieving and travel logistics pressing I read David’s words, out loud.

And it helps me to remember.

God.

Is.

Delivering.

Keeping.

Shielding.

Purposing.

Planning.

Foiling.

Thwarting.

Watching.

Considering.

Loving.

He is.

We wait in hope. 

We rejoice and trust.

And His unfailing love settles all over us.

On Women and Valor

Her name was Rebecca and I have been given the honor of sharing a part of her story over here. 

Please join me as Rachel Held Evans hosts a week of essays honoring valor in the hearts and lives of women. 

I'm thankful to be a part of honoring the courage of amazing sisters. 

Come join us! 

Eshet chayil!

Veranda Prayers

The transience is pressing in today. We walk alongside others in this international existence knowing change is just around the next corner. But despite the coming and the going a community is formed, through shared experience and treasured moments. A community that does hold. My thoughts this morning are with friends who are hurting many miles from where I sit.  My heart turns to these and other memories as we feel and love and experience, from a distance. 

Our conversation started over lunch. Our annual ladies retreat chattering, ministering around us. There were pictures. Funny stories of the grandkids. I was hearing of their reunion, all together in Kenya. And we were celebrating the miracle of that.

Then the tears.

There had been a loss. And a barrenness. And my heart broke too.

We made our way to a veranda, and tucked ourselves away. To pray.

To battle.

I treasure this. Anointing tears.

As we sat together, we were strengthened from the past experience.

Her first born and I consecrated the lawn of this retreat center one year long past. Annointed with our tears. And our frustrations. And our fears. Two very inward souls, trusting from some of our deepest places on that day. A rarity. And a treasure.

Her second born and I shared some tears too. From laughter. Soul renewing hilarity over mountain climbs and British soldiers and exhilarating exhaustion.

We had all shared a meal, some time later, and sat together in their living room in Nairobi. Broken shards of loss all in the middle of us. Sacred space. Painful space.

We didn’t know the outcome that evening as we sat with the fractured realities. Only faith. And hope. And surrender.

It hurt.

From those memories and many others, birthed communion. And trust. The familiarity of joining our hands and hearts in prayer.

On the retreat veranda, those years later, we could see the expanse of gorgeous rain forest just in front of us. Full of life. Full of renewal. Full of funny monkeys.

We believed and prayed. We asked God for New Life. We asked for Favor and for Grace. On that veranda, through some tears.

Right on the edge of all the glorious beauty.

This morning, some years later still, I sit on a veranda again.  Reading black and white words.

‘Inoperable tumor.’ ‘Aggressive cancer.’

And I am remembering. I am communing.

Many of my memories with these friends were moments when we spoke to each other, “You are not alone.”

Today, I pray That.

This scattered community that we are.  Defying the physical separation of miles and life circumstance and oceans. Reconvening around one Throne.

To be heard.

Tears. And Hope. Feeling all on the edge of the glorious beauty ahead.

Surrender.

It still hurts.

Here on this veranda, I join with the community of other believers in the beseeching and yielding of prayer.

And we are not alone.

(Updates and prayer news for the Reppart Family can be found here.)

Extravagantly Affordable

There are things, important things, that money cannot buy. But most everything has a cost anyway. Time. Energy. Control. We ‘pay’ and ‘spend’ something as we choose throughout our days.

I am blessed when I deliberately considering my ‘spending habits’ and how I speak about them.

“I feel like I accomplished NOTHING today.”

“Where did the time go?”

“That (moment, conversation, trip to town) felt like such a WASTE.”

“I wish I had done (fill in the blank) INSTEAD OF (fill in the blank).”

I am defining my circumstances from the standpoint of Me. 

My choices and my strength.

And I realize, I am depleting a shallow fund.

Not only that. 

But I am paying for something already purchased. Spending from a savings that is not mine.

Instead.

“…You are not your own; you were bought at a price….” 1Corinthians 6:19b-20a

I belong to Him.

“For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Jeremiah 29:11

He has PLANS.

“But the plans of the LORD stand firm forever, the purposes of his heart through all generations.” Psalm 33:11

Plans that are not currently, nor will they ever be, failing.

Plans that are good.

And the most amazing thing. The most astounding truth.

His benefits arrive in the PIT. In the MUCK. Where we are DISEASED.

“Praise the Lord, O my Soul, and forget not all his benefits-

who forgives all your sins

and heals all your diseases,

who REDEEMS your life from the pit

and crowns you with love and compassion

who SATISFIES your desires with GOOD things

so that your youth is renewed like the eagles.” Psalm 103: 2-5

He finds us over our heads in the ugly and ridiculous and buys us right back.

To SATISFY.

He affords. So I can too.

I can afford

Time to read aloud to my children

 Stolen kisses in the kitchen

 Lingering cuddles

 Deep, healing breaths

 Quiet

 Memorizing scripture

 Forgiveness

 Writing

 Laughter

 Another cup of coffee

I cannot afford

Fret or worry

 Bitterness

 Self-pity

 What-ifs

 Regrets

Afforded unto Me

Coffee on the veranda in the cool of the morning

 Sweaters and cooling rains

 Time with sister-friend on my porch, in my house, in my world

 Time to write

 the book of Nehemiah

 Ability to read

 Watching the Olympics

 Time to think

 Being Home

 Today’s bread

 Opportunity to ‘not know’ but obey

 Witnessing initiative when (and where) I least expect it

 forgiveness

 Dinner time conversation

 Front row seat to God’s crafting, refining and shaping of the four Cashlings

 Every single hug

 Jeff

 “Praise the Lord, O my Soul, all my inmost being, praise his holy name.” Psalm 103:1

Load Up the Camels

“By faith Abraham, when called to go to a place he would later receive as his inheritance, obeyed and went, even though he did not know where he was going.”

Seventy-five year old Abram. And lovely Sarai.

 Right smack dab in the middle of a predictable, constant life.

Surrounded by family. Familiarity. The security of knowing.

Called to move.

“…to a land I will show you.”

I try to picture the hub-bub created by Abram’s active obedience to this interesting directive.

Packing up their tents and herding animals and loading camels---destination unknown.

They must have been questioned about their journey? Where were they heading?

What exactly was the plan?

How long would it take to get...Where?

The servants would be curious. The community would be interested. The family would need to know where to forward the mail.

I picture Abram overseeing the massive migration that was his household, fielding the questions and wondering himself.

Did he answer, “God knows.”

Or simply, “I don’t know.”

Or perhaps the spiritually astute, “God will provide.”

Responses that could all most simply be boiled down to, “No clue.”

I wonder how his lack of knowledge was received?

Abram was commanded to 'not know'. But obey.

On more than one very difficult occasion.

Desert travel. Barrenness. Attempted murder.

Many years filled with long seconds and minutes and days of not knowing.

This is resonating with me right now.

A recent season of planning and decision making has been thwarted and delayed and remains undecided, leaving me to answer when asked about our plans, 

"God knows."

And “I don’t know.”

And “God will provide.”

Yep.

“No clue.”

It is easier for me to ponder and esteem this type of faith in the setting of a distant desert among tents I’m neither packing nor setting up. Camels I am not smelling.

To keep that kind of not knowing but believing obedience somewhere far away from my ‘need to know’ existence.

When this lack of knowledge settles in my living space and gallops across my daytimer, I become a tad bit grumpy.

With a smidge of pout.

Is my knowing a right?  A necessity?

A privilege?

I need to more carefully distinguish the difference.

“All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance.”

I must remember who I am.

“And they admitted that they were aliens and strangers on earth.”

And who my God is.

“Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them.”

Believing my Father, who knows me and mine so very well, has a definitive plan.

My not knowing is allowing me to exercise a very particular faith muscle.

Building strength where fitness had waned.

Developing brawn I might need in the very near future.

You know.

To load the camels.

(scripture references in italics from Hebrews 11: 8,13,16b and Genesis 12:1b)

A Love Story by Cheryl Money Cash

Once Upon a Time

--I met a guy who was crazy passionate about living in Africa

--I found this mildly intriguing in an amusing sort of way

--when he asked for my number, I gave him the wrong one

--I did not hear from him for the rest of the year

Twice Upon a Time

--I saw the Africa guy from a distance and waved

--I dated other guys

--I wrote about the Africa guy in my journal

--one entry read: “Pray for Jeff Cash—money situation”

Twice Upon a Time Squared

--I traveled the West Coast over Christmas break and had the name “Jeff Cash” said to me (with glowing description to follow) on four different occasions in four different cities

--the last occurrence was in the home of his first cousin (hey Barb!) who showed me family pictures and said Jeff’s mom (hey Phyllis!) wanted to send a care package back to Texas with us if I would take it

Once Upon a Time

--it snowed and I didn’t meet Jeff’s Mom because she was ‘stuck on their mountain’

--I pondered what kind of life these interesting Northwesterners lived that they could actually employ the phrases, “I couldn’t make it. I was stuck on my mountain.”

--I wondered if I would ever hear from Jeff Cash again so I could tell him that I met his cousin

Thrice Upon a Time (or so)

--Jeff ventured to the University I attended to try and locate me

--I prayed for this Africa guy whose name would not leave my head (I figured it was the ‘Cash’ name that resonated)

--I thought about Africa and missions, intrigued and terrified

Once Upon a Time

--I happened to be at my apartment in the middle of the day

--at the exact same moment across town, Jeff ran into a mutual friend of ours who dialed my correct phone number so Jeff could leave me a message

--I answered the phone

--Jeff offered to show me pictures of Africa and tell me about his time there

Once Upon a Time

--we met and talked for hours

--he worked hard to recruit me to join an Africa team

--his ‘recruiting’ may have eventually involved roses, teddy bears and some kissing

--he was one heck of a recruiter

Once Upon a Time

--I got married and moved to Africa

And we lived….

Diligently. Laboriously. Passionately. Lovingly. Strenuously. Blessedly. Uncomfortably. Peacefully. Combatant-ly.  Hilariously. Adoringly. Thankfully.

Happily Ever After.

Going to the Game

It was dark and we were walking through the parking lot toward Barrett Stadium. An old wooden stadium that seemed to creak and sway with every movement of the spectators. The playing field was grass.

In that sort of distinct fogginess of childhood memory, I remember the lights.

Bright lights. Shouted greetings as we climbed through the stands.

The smell of nacho cheese and jalapenos. Hot dogs. Cotton candy and popcorn.

The scent of the wooden bleachers and the sticky of the soda soaked wood.

The breeze was cool, especially towards the top of the stands. I was zipped up in a coat. His hand was bigger than mine and warm.

He was holding my hand and telling me about this thing we were there to see. This,  football.

He was telling me the names of the players he knew. He was commenting on the team. How important it was to work together. And depend.

How debilitating it was to have a showy player. How everyone needed to be moving as one. Strengths and weaknesses accounted for and negotiated.

He pointed out that the players held hands in the huddle. These tough, West Texas boys traditionally proclaimed to everyone watching, that they were standing together. Each member of the team was important.

He spoke of the players who did not see much playing time in games, but worked hard all week at practice anyway. He highlighted their roles behind the scenes. How everyone contributed.

He stood a lot. And cheered loudly, calling the players by name.

He clapped and shouted encouragement loudest when they made a mistake.

“That’s all right boys! Stay with it!!!

He celebrated classy behavior. He would point out the good choices and strong courage shown.

We never left the stadium until the team had prayed and cleared the field. 

We joined with the other remaining faithful and applauded the team to the locker room.

We applauded longer, if they lost.

Being community meant supporting. No matter what the outcome.

They were kids. Working together, sometimes against big odds, to advance and improve. To win. They were often the underdogs. Smaller. Slower. From a dry, hot West Texas town.

I loved going to the games with him.

Loved the sound of his voice. The way his hands looked and sounded when he clapped.

The funny, characteristic banter between him and those who shared our bleacher.

The enduring principles I saw and absorbed through his engagement of the game.

How proud I always felt to be sitting next to him.

Dad.

It seems like yesterday.

Shivering in the West Texas fall winds.  Enjoying the game. Laughing with friends. Staying until the final prayer.

Holding my hand.

We watched many, many games from the stands in our good town. I live a fair distance from that world now, but the feeling of those Friday nights is nestled deep and real.  

The same feeling treasured from countless other childhood memories.

The belonging of community. The value of people and integrity.

The security of having a hand to hold and a supportive voice cheering.

I have been incredibly blessed. 

Happy Father’s Day to my Dad. 

I am so thankful for you. 

Can’t wait to watch some football with you again. And soon.

Pushing Through Doors

They were the very first smiles I saw when we pushed through the Entebbe airport doors.  Two very white faces in a sea of Ugandan community. October 1995.

Their hugs were warm and their welcome was enthusiastic. Friends.

Together we tugged and pushed our baggage towards vehicles they had secured. We loaded and hauled our treasures and eventually settled into their guest room.

We’ve loaded and unloaded many things since then. (Literally, but mostly figuratively.)

We are marking those shared experiences as we pray for their impending departure.

We are remembering. We are thanking.

For these:

*sharing your home for three whole months (and still loving each other at the end!)

*delivering food to Iki Iki church

*sleeping in a sweltering, mosquito infested tiny mud-hut room

*mental health food at Quality Cuts

*conversations late into the night

*navigating Kampala’s traffic with Cheryl as driver and Jana as navigator

*debriefing and decompressing with those who truly understand

*house sitting

*bike-a-thon

*movie marathons

*sleeping until noon (ha!)

*car repairs

*UP

*Indian food

*birthdays

*calling Jana from restaurants so she could tell us what to order

*the blessing of each child added to our families

*book titles for our memoirs

*soul healing laughter

In a few short hours their hauling will recommence. Across an ocean. Again.

We won’t be physically present when you push your luggage through customs and the Rwandan airport doors shut behind you.

But from this distance, we honor the treasures you’ve tucked away. Memories. The overcoming. The gifts.

Especially those riches known only to you. The hidden, sacred gifts given by a Father Who knows you so very well.

Each treasure matters. Because they are yours. (Just like a tin of blue band in a child’s grasp--smile)

He has given (and taken) from the deepest love we will ever know.

Shared history. We are thankful for this.

We won’t belabor that difficult, weighty word we all despise. (goodbye)

Instead, we pray with joy. Confident.

That the doors you push through next will bring you to spacious, blessed places.

God promises this.

His abundant provision awaits those who trust in His Name.

It is an honor to serve around His throne with you.

Our God is Faithful.

We are witnesses to that redemptive truth in our shared journey these two decades.

Travel safely, Jenkins family.

Until we meet…

Gadgets and Gizmos

We love technology. But we live very far from it’s thriving epicenter.

In fact. Our domicile has gone many a day with absolutely no connection to anything remotely resembling technology.

And that is not all bad.

We are forced, by our life circumstance, to find something else to do. To be creative. To be outside. To have conversations with actual people.

And sometimes. To be bored.

But, despite what our circumstance affords us, once we have ready access to all things technological we are thrilled to engage the gadgetry.

On the eve of re-entry to a highly technological world, we begin to dip our toes into the inviting water.

Exciting. And intimidating.

In the last 24 hours I have read about Kindles, Ipods, DSi gaming systems and IPads.

I’m a little bit dizzy from all the information.

Dizzy from the choices.

I thought I knew exactly what we wanted. But soon discovered that there was MORE and BETTER and NEW!

And so we begin. The consumerism of our Homeland.

I love it!

And I hate it.

My navigation skills need honing, in this sea of options and improvements.

I’ve read websites and reviews. I’ve questioned friends and family. I’ve decided and changed my mind.

But in the end. I’m back to that moment I’ve often bemoaned.

I’m switching off my internet and computer, escaping to my unplugged porch, staring at the silent mountains and deliberately laying aside the deciding of things.

I’m sure we will engage the technological, but only at the pace I’m most acquainted with now.

Slow and steady.

Funny. I did not see that advertised even one time.

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!

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.