I had a
long list of reasons I opposed moving to a mission center named Lomalinda at
the end of the road in the middle of nowhere in Colombia, South America.
The
biggest reason, the worst part of moving to Lomalinda, the part I couldn’t bear
to put into words, was separating my kids from their grandparents, aunts, and
uncles. The thought of that lacerated my heart and crushed my soul.
Matt and
Karen were part of those folks. And they were part of Matt and Karen, and of
me, too. We defined ourselves within our family circle. Children thrive when
surrounded by relatives who nurture, love, and shape them.
Matt had
just turned five and Karen was three. When I imagined my kids in Lomalinda, I
was struck with how vulnerable they’d be, and the unknown for the four of us
shook me to the core.
With all
my heart I believed yanking out our roots and moving to Lomalinda would hinder
my children’s well-being, and that conviction made me the most obstinate.
But my
husband Dave had his mind made up, and he subtly persisted.
And so did I: Please,
God, don’t make me go!
In
the months that followed, I asked myself “What urgency is pulsing through
Dave’s veins? And where is it coming from?”
And
I prayed thousands of times, asking God the same questions—and dozens more—and pleading
with Him not to send us to Lomalinda.
And
I listened for God’s still small voice in reply.
Months
passed and eventually I sensed God saying, “I know you don’t like separating
your kids from their extended family, but they’ll be fine. Better than fine.”
“Yeah,
right,” I groaned.
“I’m
asking you to trust Me,” He seemed to say.
My world had turned topsy-turvy.
As Beth Moore said, “At some of the
hardest times of my life, I have been able to make the more difficult choice
out of pure, blind-eyed, bent-kneed acceptance that it was somehow part of a
greater plan.” (Esther)
I could only fall on shaky knees
and offer Him—as an act of worship—an imperfect heart, a flawed faith, and the
four of us.
And
so it was that on an August Monday, we boarded an Aerocondor jet and lifted off
the Miami tarmac. For months I had put on a brave face for everyone—friends,
family, my kids sitting next to me on the plane—but now, now. . . .
Before
long, both kids fell asleep, Karen cuddling with her Benjamin Bunny and Matt
holding Winnie the Pooh close to his heart. I asked myself, What are we doing
to our kids? The future that awaited us remained a distant, foggy mystery. Dear
God, please, please take good care of my precious kids.
And
that brings us back to where I left you dangling in my February 27 post, The best part of that meal—of the whole day, of the whole year!
Our new friend and co-worker, David Hockett, had just picked us up at Lomalinda’s
airstrip and loaded us into a Nissan, a Jeep-type vehicle. In low gear, the
Nissan strained up a long, steep hill in the middle of the mission center.
Once
on top, David pulled to a stop in front of a low, white building with screened
windows. “Here’s the dining hall,” he said.
 |
| The dining hall; Howie Bowman photo |
He
led us inside where people sat eating at long tables covered with white grease cloth.
The staff had expected us, thanks to someone’s foresight, so we found places
set for us. Lunch included spaghetti (we’d tasted better), fruit, plain white
bread with margarine, and a sugary drink. We were thankful for it—we were hungry.
The
best part of that meal, the best part of the whole day, of the whole year,
happened when David Hockett introduced us to families in the dining hall, explaining
to us, “Here, young people call adults Aunt and Uncle rather than Mr. or Mrs.”
And
then he said Lomalinda even had a grandmother, Jim Miller’s mom, a gray-haired,
always-smiling lady, and everyone called her “Grandma Miller.”
When
David told us that,
my
heart did a wobble and a loop-de-loop.
I
had left Seattle grief-stricken
over
separating Matt and Karen
from their grandparents, aunts,
and uncles,
but
even on our first day in Lomalinda,
God
provided substitute aunts, uncles,
and
a grandma for my kids.
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