ABOUT GRACE

But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”  II Corinthians 12:9

 

 

When my blonde friend Bea was asked by her bishop to go to a Latin American country for a mission project, she did not hesitate.  It didn’t matter that she had limited Spanish or that she’d never traveled to that part of the world.  She had a willing heart.  (And she was ignorant of the possible difficulties.)

The bishop told her to go to a certain place, and she would be told how to proceed.  Bea bought her plane ticket, boarded the plane, and took a taxi to the regional bishop’s office for further directions.  There she understood that the next day the bishop’s secretary would drive her to her destination.

The following morning, Bea once again went to the bishop’s office, and, instead of taking her to the location of the project, the secretary took her to the local bus station.  She handed Bea a ticket for the next leg of the journey and assured her she would be met by her co-worker, a tall, red-haired woman.  And then she left.

All was well until Bea saw the hundreds of people, some in groups and others in lines, waiting for their buses.  She carefully made her way from person to person showing her ticket and indicating that she was looking for her bus.  Eventually, she made it to a long line of people waiting for the bus’s arrival.

Somewhat disconcerted at the unfamiliarity of people carrying caged chickens, food for the journey, and various pieces of household paraphernalia, Bea climbed onto the indicated bus and looked around for a place to sit.  She had no clue as to how long the ride would be, when she would get off, or where she was supposed to sit.  As she peered through the rows of people already packed into place, she saw on the very last seat at the back of the bus a wiry little gentleman who was vigorously waving at her.  He called out, “Señora, señora,” and indicated that he had a seat beside him.

Bea moved gingerly through the aisle to the rear of the bus and gratefully sat down next to the kindly man.  They both began communicating with their few words of Spanish and English and generous waving of hands and arms.  The man looked down at Bea’s gold watch and indicated that she should remove it and put it in her purse, which she did.  And then they compared tickets.  “Oh, no,” she sighed.  It looked like he would be getting off the bus in another place and at a different time.

Through the hot, dusty hours Bea and her new friend continued to talk, and at a certain stop in the road, the man leaned over and said goodbye.  He was leaving.  Even though she’d known him only a short while, Bea suddenly felt bereft.  In a country where she was alone and didn’t speak the language, her only friend was leaving her.  She watched him go down the aisle and move out the door.  She turned her head so as not to see him walking away.  She looked again to see who else might be boarding, and, to her surprise, her little friend was returning.  He had come back to sit with her and gestured that he would go with her to her destination.

After many more stops and another long ride, they reach the place where Bea was to meet her mission contact.  Everyone began to exit, and her friend walked ahead of her signaling that she was to keep close to him.  They departed the bus into the large mass of jostling people coming and going and looking for loved ones.  Bea knew she’d be met by a tall, red-headed woman—in a crowd of glossy black waves.  She and her friend looked and walked through the sea of strange faces, and suddenly the way seemed to open as the tall, red-headed woman walked toward them with open arms.  “You must be Bea,” she said.  “I am Grace.”

Bea turned around to introduce Grace to her friend, but he had disappeared.  He was nowhere to be seen.  Bea will always be convinced that the sweet man was an angel sent by God to watch over a blond gringa who had stepped out by faith not knowing where she was going but trusting God to guide her.  And when she reached her destination, she was met by Grace.

 

Father, your angels are ministering spirits who help us on our way, and we are constantly accompanied by your grace.  Thank you that you give us everything we need to serve you faithfully.  AMEN.

COMFORT ZONES

Comfort ye, comfort ye my people, saith your God.  Isaiah 40:1  (KJV)

 

I’ve just returned from a mission trip to Uganda and am chuckling over the many ways “newbies” confess to being pushed beyond their comfort zones:  eating grasshoppers as a seasonal delicacy; participating in vibrant church services exceeding four hours; navigating treacherous Kampala (the capital) traffic with thousands of vehicles and few road rules; sweating through days of work with no air conditioning; and extravagant demonstrations of Christian faithfulness.  These “comfort zones” are usually defined with possessives: my, mine or our.

Yes, more and more we identify comfort as a state of personal entitlement and are disenchanted with those who make us uncomfortable.  Think of college campuses where students must have safe zones and where topics that trigger angst among fragile students are to be avoided at all costs.  Even in public discourse, we tend to shy away from anything that challenges our status quo or that would cause us to entertain new or unpleasant viewpoints.  Political correctness is the order of the day with the exception that PC goes only one way; dissenters are labeled with phobias or worse.  So much for comfort…

A cursory glance at a Bible concordance listing God’s view of comfort mostly flips our selfish comfort on its head.  God speaks of comfort residing in him (Isa. 61:2), in his forgiveness (Isa. 40:2), in his touch (Luke 8:48), in the ministry of the Holy Spirit (Acts 9:31), in the Word (Romans 15:4), and so on. It’s all about him.   Comfort resides in being surrendered to the lordship of Jesus Christ, his will, and his glory.  It’s not about us.

What an excellent opportunity we have during the holidays to enjoy the comfort of our Father as he guides us through the minefields of difficult relations, command performances, mandatory attendance, last-minute shopping, and all the other aspects of Western Christmas traditions.  Will we retreat to the need for safe spaces rather than moving into God’s grace as we encounter people and events that are not of our choosing?  Will we avoid those annoyances that typically ruffle our feathers or will we see how God’s comfort can stretch us to move in his love and Spirit and out of our egocentricity?

May God’s Spirit constantly provoke us each time we begin to say, “I’m not comfortable with…” or “I’m only comfortable when…”   Seems like a great gift this Christmas time would be to get us all out of our comfort zones and into God’s comfort.

 

Father, thank you for your infinite patience with us.  Grace us to trust you in all circumstances.  In Jesus’ name.  AMEN.

REJOICING ALMOST ALWAYS

 

Rejoice in the Lord always.  Philippians 4:4

 

Paul tells the church at Philippi that they should rejoice in Christ.  No excuse.  No exceptions.  He repeats himself and says that they should always rejoice in the Lord.  Paul was in prison when he wrote this to the Philippians, and he said that he’d learned the secret of contentment in every circumstance:  he could do all things through [Jesus] who gave him strength. Everything that he couldn’t do, God could do through him.

 

I was working in Uganda and heading north from Kampala for a huge celebration and time of thanksgiving.  I invited Jennifer, a missionary friend, and Bea, a clergy wife.  And Bea invited a friend.  Four of us prepared to leave early in the morning in order to complete the eight-hour trip before dark.

 

I arrived at the meeting place to load up and leave.  No one was ready.  The van arrived, and we discovered that the back door for loading stacks of equipment wouldn’t open – it has just broken, according to the driver.  So we lifted everything over three rows of seats and got off an hour or so after our scheduled departure.

 

Finally, we were moving.  I led the group in a series of praise songs.  I remember that we were singing This is the Day That the Lord Hath Made when the inside of the van began to fill with smoke.  Eventually, our driver decided we should stop and see what might be wrong.  Bea said to me, pointedly, Why did you stop singing?  Woops.  We tried another half-hearted song as our driver checked the engine with a puzzled expression.  And then we sat.

 

There in the middle of a banana plantation, villagers gathered to sympathize and to teach us how to play one of their games.  After all, it looked like we might be there for a while, and they wanted us to be entertained.  Jennifer pulled out her cell phone and called everyone she knew to see if they could send another van.  After numerous calls, she was successful and joined me in playing corro.  Then Bea’s friend asked Jennifer why she hadn’t called so and so because she knew they were nearby and would help.  You can understand why Jennifer didn’t respond at that moment.  Should we have begun singing again?

 

An hour and a half later, the second van arrived; we carried all the equipment back over the three seats and loaded up for our drive north.  By then we were friends with the neighbors and thanked them for their hospitality.  On the road again, we began singing.  This is the day…  Perhaps we had gone ten miles.  Perhaps.  The second van began sputtering and came to an abrupt stop.  Whatever could be wrong this time?

 

Our driver politely told us that when we called, we said we were in a hurry, so he hadn’t bothered to stop for fuel.  I forked over the 100,000 shillings necessary to fill the gerry can with fuel once he found someone willing to part with the precious liquid.  Our driver headed down the red dirt road, hoping to find someone who could help.  Jennifer quoted her oft-stated phrase:  TIA, This is Africa.  And we laughed.  And then we prayed, thanking God for safety and for his provisions of friendship, fuel, and funds.

 

Rejoicing is so much easier among friends.  And the trip north?  A smashing success and another opportunity to experience God’s faithfulness.

 

Lord, we can always rejoice when we remember who you are and whose we are.  We embrace your call to find our joy in you as we ask that you be glorified in us.  AMEN.

SAM IN GOLI

…a little child shall lead them. Isaiah 11:6

I was assigned to serve in Uganda for about seven months. For years, Grandson Sam had accompanied me to work in a church community center, so it wasn’t unusual for him to accept my invitation to spend the summer in Goli. Sam was about to turn eighteen, and I’d gotten a placement for him in the village clinic with Sister Kim.

That summer Sam worked in the tiny lab peering at slides of native bacteria and local diseases, learning more than he would have from a text. He worked in the pharmacy dispensing drugs, and he accompanied doctors on their routes around the district and watched them perform surgeries. (He even picked up some of the local “bugs” on his visits.)

The business director of the diocese was a regular morning visitor in our little cinder block house and loved to share our hot tea and chapatti (local flat bread). When Rev. Martin discovered that Sam played an unusual instrument, a violin, he asked if he would play for Sunday service in the cathedral. Sam was thrilled and practiced a lovely Beethoven selection. He was already a local favorite, so when everyone learned that he would be playing a “western” instrument for church, there was great anticipation. That Sunday, the music stand was set up, Sam tuned his instrument, and began to play. Not a sound was heard other than the beautiful notes from Sam’s gifted fingers. And then the giggling began to ripple through the congregation. No one had ever heard such an instrument. Sam played on and on and finally ended to great applause and laughter.

Sam’s popularity grew, and he was often assaulted by the children who loved to pull him into their games. He hung out with the bishop’s children, and they all became fast friends. When he came down with malaria, despite taking his preventive meds and lathering himself with Deet, the whole diocesan compound was alarmed. Malaria was not something muzungus handled well. Sam was confined to his bed with fever, weakness, and all the dangerous symptoms brought about by the bite of an Anopheles mosquito. Nurses from the clinic came to treat him, and Sister Kim directed her cook to make special broths for Sam. Villagers made enquiries about him. But two of my Ugandan friends did even more. Evaline and Esther sat up all night praying for him. No fanfare. No big deal. They prayed until they sensed Sam would get better. No one was surprised when he made a full recovery.

The time passed too quickly as we worked throughout the warm days and read to each other late into the night. One day we sat together in our little cinder block house sharing a companionable meal in silence. The doors were left open to catch any passing breeze, and our dogs and an occasional goat wandered in and out. I had given up on teaching our sweet cook how to prepare some of our familiar dishes, so we learned to take advantage of the fresh fruits and vegetables growing all around us.

In the middle of this idyllic situation, Sam spoke up. “Grandma, these people have nothing.” I waited. “But they’re happy,” Sam added. I had to agree. Did Sam recognize that the faith they had was worth more than any material blessing we Westerners value so much? “I’m so happy,” Sam went on. “I’m glad I’ve learned this at my age.”

How soon that summer was gone, and Sam left, taking with him the treasures he had gathered in Goli.

Father, you told us a little child would lead us. Sam saw and lived with God’s joy evidenced through the lives and love of our Goli friends. May he never forget, and may we always cherish those eternal things that can never be taken away. In Jesus’ name. AMEN.

HELLO, GOLI

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 (NIV)
I was sitting in my living room with my mom and pastor. We were completing the arrangements for my husband’s memorial service. I’d selected Scripture passages, hymns, and friends to read. There was one final thing that was most significant to me.

“I want my friend Debbie who’s chair of the University music department to sing I Know That My Redeemer Liveth from Messiah. It’s a beautiful statement of faith, and I know Peter would have liked it,” I told Momo and my pastor. With that settled, my pastor prepared to leave.

And then Helen came in. “Marthe, the bishop has a conflict for our upcoming trip to Uganda, and he’d like to know if you can go?”

Without pausing for breath, Momo said, “She can go.” Just like that. Without asking me or without thinking twice. And that’s how I made my first diocesan mission trip.

Goli, our mission base, is a beautiful little village stuck off in a remote corner of northwestern Uganda. One does not accidentally arrive in Goli. It is too far off the beaten track. Standing on Prayer Mountain and looking north, the mountains of Sudan are visible. Looking west, the jungles of Congo are within a few short miles. The Nile is not far from Goli and offered protection from the Lord’s Resistance Army in past years.

On that first visit I noticed that electricity hadn’t yet reached this remote outpost nor had indoor plumbing. Most of the floors were dirt, and the houses had beautifully thatched roofs. Community buildings were constructed of cinder block with concrete floors. Although the people of Goli lived far below the international standard of poverty, they were some of the richest people I had ever met.

Our small team of six traveled up and down the Nebbi Diocese for three weeks over red dirt roads pitted with holes large enough to swallow small animals or do serious damage to vehicles. We saw school children in lively memory verse contests, spoke at countless village churches, conducted Bible studies, visited women’s groups, met local missionaries, and made friends.

The Sunday before we left was Easter. It was not lost on me that my first Easter without Peter found me on the mission field among scores of new friends who loved Jesus as much as we did. After the first service at the village “cathedral” the Korean missionary, Sister Kim, invited us to brunch at her house. We stood in a circle, holding hands for the blessing. As soon as we finished, Sister Kim reached over to a shelf and pushed the button on a battery-powered tape recorder. Out of the small plastic machine rolled the words, “I know that my redeemer liveth…”

Coincidence? British composition on a recorder played by a Korean missionary in a modest unelectrified home for American missioners in a tiny African village. Hardly a coincidence. Instantly, I knew God had a plan for me, to give me, a newly minted widow, a future and a hope. What the future held, I had no idea, but I knew God was already there opening the door. Peter’s death was not the end of my life. One era had ended; a new one through Christ had begun.

Hello, Goli.

Sweet Lord, you do walk with us through the valley of the shadow to take us through to the other side. And I know that your plans are beyond anything we can think of or imagine. THANK YOU. AMEN.