“Happiness, not in another place but in this place, not for another hour but this hour.”

 

And so it was that after those first few days, I told myself to embrace the present, settle into a routine, and live within my new normal.

 

That meant I accepted that lemons were warty and green, colored orange inside—that was normal.

 

Rufina, a stranger, worked in my house for ten hours one day a week—that, too, was the norm; cockroaches lived in our house and weevils lived in our flour.

 

We’d sweat, a lot, and get sunburned, a lot—all those were my new normal.

 

Embracing my new normal did not mean I’d have no more challenges and stresses. No, they’d continue to pop up, but perhaps I’d cooperate with God and adjust my attitude and do better than I had in the past.

 

One of those new challenges would be my future job in Lomalinda.

 

Now, I’d always been first a wife and mother, and if—if—I had time to spare, I accepted outside duties. But I also knew Lomalinda mothers worked half-days because visas were hard to get and personnel needs went unmet.

 

Before leaving the States, I’d had a phone conversation with a man at the California headquarters about moms working outside the home. He assured me Wycliffe understood a mother’s need to focus on her kids’ well-being and that gave me a huge dose of peace.

 

So, I expected to work part-time, but school wouldn’t begin until two weeks after we arrived, and I wanted to stay with my kids until they settled in school. They had a few jitters—everything was new to them and they were so little, Matt starting first grade and Karen starting Kindergarten.

 

But then one day a woman came up to me, introduced herself as Karis Mansen, and told me I’d be working as her husband’s new secretary.

 

She stood there waiting for my response.

 

I asked for his name.

 

“Rich Mansen.”

 

I could hardly wait to find my “Big Sister,” Karen Mac, and ask her about him. “Oh, he’s the number one man here.” She went on to explain that the director of the overall work lived in Bogotá, but Rich was the top administrator at our Lomalinda center of operations.

 

Yikes! I was to work for the top administrator? I had pictured working in a quiet little back office somewhere.

 

On my application I’d written I had secretarial experience—jobs during high school and college—but when I heard I’d work for such an important person, reality hit. I hadn’t worked in an office for seven years and my skills were sure to be rusty.

 

As the days passed, I noted, with relief, that no one in administration contacted me. I kept quiet, hoping they’d overlook me until school began.

 

That gave me time to take deep breaths, pray, and adjust my attitude.

 

It gave me time to embrace Walt Whitman’s wisdom—to choose “Happiness, not in another place but in this place, not for another hour but this hour.”

 

“Father . . . may I live today . . . knowing

You have chosen me and called me

to receive Your love and to serve You. . . .

May Your peace flow through me,

calming my agitated spirit, conditioning my disposition

and controlling all that I say and do. . . .

Help me to experience the peace

of a forgiven, forgiving heart,

the peace of heart completely open to You,

and the peace of a pure heart filled with Your Spirit.

You are the sole source of perfect peace.”

(Lloyd John Ogilvie, Quiet Moments with God)

 

A few days passed and then one day the phone rang and the Director of Personnel, Harold Beaty, asked me to come for an appointment, so I hiked the one-lane roads of red clay and arecife (red lava gravel), preparing to tackle steep comm hill, as everyone called it—the big, main hill of Lomalinda where the commissary was, and thus the hill’s nickname.

 

The road swooped up and wound left and then right, like a grand curving staircase. I was accustomed to hiking that far because that’s where the dining hall and comm were, but then I hiked up another level and stepped into the administration office, perspiring and winded, my heart racing.

 

Someone ushered me into an office and Harold Beaty offered me a seat. I looked at him and silently hollered, Please, don’t say “Rich Mansen.” Please!

 

Harold asked if we were adjusting to the heat and our new surroundings. I lied. I assured him everything was fine. Only Dave knew of my meltdown and I planned to keep it that way.

 

Besides, I wanted to get on with the real reason for the appointment.

 

Harold said, “We’d like you to be secretary to the ADLA—Associate Director of Language Affairs—Rich Mansen.”

 

So, it was true. I groaned. (I think—I hope—it was a mute groan.)

 

Describing Rich as kind and quiet, Harold said the arrangement would work well for both of us.

 

And, best of all, Harold said I could begin after Matt and Karen started school. What a relief! I was so thankful he gave me those extra days for my kids’ sake, and for my heart’s sake, too.

 

I left Harold’s office feeling deeply blessed. (From Chapter 10, Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go: A  Foot-Dragger’s Memoir)