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.

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