Of hope and turning points

 

“I have found it very important in my own life

to try to let go of my wishes

and instead to live in hope.

 I am finding that

when I choose to let go of my sometimes petty and superficial wishes

and trust that my life is precious and meaningful in the eyes of God

something really new, something beyond my expectations

begins to happen for me.”

(Henri Nouwen, Finding My Way Home)

 

 

I began to notice new, good stuff going on in Lomalinda.

 

For example, Matt, in first grade, and Karen, in Kindergarten, studied Spanish. What a bonus that was! If they’d been enrolled in school back home in Seattle, they’d probably have had to wait until high school to study a foreign language.

 

And they enjoyed using their Spanish.

 

Local Colombians worked alongside us—in the commissary and offices, and as janitors, yard workers, and maids. One worker walked by us every morning on our way to school, and one day Karen piped up, “Buenos días” (hello).

 

That delighted my heart because (a) she wasn’t afraid of someone who spoke a different language than she did, and (b) she was confident enough to use the little bit of Spanish she knew.

 

The Colombians were friendly and patient with those who didn’t speak Spanish well. I had studied Spanish for three years in junior high but was a bit rusty. Soon, though, I began doing better—although I still resorted to hand gestures sometimes. Thank goodness for my Spanish/English dictionary. The maid, Rufina, and I had a good laugh whenever I said, “Un momento” (just a minute) and opened my dictionary. (And I thank God for helping me get accustomed to having a stranger—Rufina—in my home all day once a week. Click on Feeling like a big baby.)

 

And there was more good stuff. Remember how awful the locally made bread smelled and tasted? On one of our first days in Lomalinda, with dreams of making good ol’ homemade sandwiches, I reached for the bread I’d bought at the commissary, but when I untwisted the wrapper, an ugly odor poofed out—rancid lard and something else.

 

I examined the loaf. It looked like bread, but it sure didn’t smell like bread. It was far from fresh, yet I could find no spoilage.

 

I started to slice a piece off the end, but it crumbled apart. I sliced again with the same result.

 

We needed eight pieces for four sandwiches, and every stinking slice fell apart.

 

Well, even that scenario changed: Dave began baking bread on Saturdays. Sometimes we used it for sandwiches, but then one day he tried a Cinnamon Swirl recipe! What a treat!

 

More good stuff: A week or so into the school year, I wrote this in a letter to my parents:

 

Dear Mom and Dad,

 

Karen is reading! I can hardly believe it, and she’s picking it up even faster than Matt did. She has no difficulty with “The girl has a doll. The boy has a bike. Look at the child. He is a boy. She is a girl.” And last night was the first time she’d picked up that book. If we spell a word, she pictures it in her head and sounds it out. And she’s still only four years old.

 

Matt brings home a book each day and reads the whole thing aloud in the evening. Miss Wheeler has trouble finding books challenging enough for him. . . .

 

And, more good stuff: Inspired by Lois Metzger, I took on the challenge of making attractive meals from limited supplies in the commissary. I focused on variety, not just flavor.

 

I made stale bread eater-friendly by dipping sandwiches into an egg-milk mixture and frying them like French toast.

 

Friends sent recipes from home, and I scoured the pages of the cookbook Lomalinda’s women published, Mejores Malocas y Chagras (Better Homes and Gardens). I especially enjoyed Judy Branks’s recipe for Coconut Sweet and Sour Meatballs and Jerri Morgan’s granola, which I still use forty years later.

 

The book included recipes using fruit readily available—mangos, papayas, bananas, and pineapples—and recipes for pickles, relish, mayonnaise, salad dressings, and sauces, those things we really missed.

 

A friend returning to the States sold me her spices and dried herbs, and they added to my fun.

 

Making those foods required resourcefulness and work—we made most everything from scratch—but I thrived on the challenge.

 

And yet more good stuff: After living in Lomalinda for a month, our noses and mouths adjusted—odors smelled less offensive, and our taste buds stopped rebelling. Hooray! (from Chapter 11, Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go: AFoot-Dragger’s Memoir)

 

Looking back now, it’s clear to see that even though my first ten days or so in Lomalinda felt like I was on an out-of-control roller coaster. . .

 

. . . and even though I had kicked and blubbered and rebelled against living there. . .

 

. . . God had good plans for me.

 

He patiently waited for me to calm down.

 

God handed me even more good stuff, though it didn’t seem like it at the time: My sense of failure had exhausted me—physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. (Click on last week’s post, “Without change, there would be no butterflies.”)

 

But that fatigue was a gift: It robbed me of energy that fueled my rebellion against Lomalinda.

 

Only then, in my brokenness, could I “let go of my . . . petty and superficial wishes,” as Henri Nouwen called them, and make much-needed attitude adjustments.

 

That’s what Nouwen meant when he wrote of the way God does “something really new, something beyond my expectations.”

 

Moving to Lomalinda was the last thing 

I’d ever have chosen to do.

But God interrupted my life.

So, I let go of my own plans and surrendered to His,

and He pointed me toward Lomalinda.

 

And there, He was offering me new opportunities.

He was offering me a new perspective,

a new way to do Life.

A new attitude. New goals.

 

New joys.

 

The part that lacerated my heart and crushed my soul

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.

And that was before I’d learned about Marxist guerrillas and kidnappings

What’s a comfortable—and cowardly—young suburbanite to do when her husband wants to move their young family to the middle of nowhere in South America?

I was that comfortable, cowardly, young suburbanite, and moving to the wilds of South America was the last way I wanted to live my life. At age twenty-six, I was in the early stages of chasing the American Dream.

Besides, adventure didn’t appeal to me—unless fixing up our recently purchased house could be called an adventure.

Let me tell you how I first got wind of my husband Dave’s outrageous idea:

One evening he had burst through the front door of our Seattle home and, with a boyish grin and outstretched arms, announced, “We’re moving to Lomalinda! I’m going to teach there!”

A few seconds passed before I could wheeze in enough air to speak. “Where is Lomalinda?”

“Colombia, South America!”

I collapsed to the floor.

I’d always expected we’d live a normal, predictable, all-American life but, without warning, my husband declared he had other ideas.

“We all like things to be predictable, don’t we?” writes author Steve Voake. “We expect things to . . . keep on happening just the way they always have. We expect the sun to rise in the morning. We expect to get up, survive the day and finish up in bed back at the end of it, ready to start it all over again the next day. . . . The fact of the matter is that nothing is ever certain. But most people never find that out until the ground suddenly disappears from beneath their feet.”

That described me: At Dave’s declaration, the ground began disappearing from beneath my feet.

As youth director for our church, Dave had taken college kids to a Wycliffe Bible Translators’ event hoping some would consider missions work. The meeting failed to persuade any of his young people but, when Dave learned Wycliffe needed teachers for their missionaries’ kids in Lomalinda, he was hooked. He wanted to move the four of us, including our preschoolers, Matt and Karen, to a dinky outpost in the middle of nowhere.

After a sleepless night, I hurried to the library and looked up Colombia’s people, geography, climate, wild critters—all strange to me.

Forty years later, I can still picture National Geographic’s close-up photo of a man. Everything about him appeared alien—his jungle surroundings, his face like dark leather, his hair coal-black.

He glared into the camera lens,

the whites of his eyes blood-red.

The thought of living in Colombia scared me out of my wits. And that was before I’d learned about Marxist guerrillas and kidnappings.

But, like Abraham, Dave had heard God’s voice, “Leave your homeland.”

My husband longed to hear me say, “Sure, let’s go!” But I didn’t like his idea. Not at all. The plans I’d made for my life and for my kids did not include living in Lomalinda. The thought of moving to a patch of grassland in South America made me choke. Uttering the word “yes” was unthinkable.

I understood Dave’s desire to serve God—I wanted to serve Him, too—but did he think real ministry happened only on the mission field? If so, he was mistaken. I said to him, a man with degrees in teaching and counseling, “You can minister by using your degrees in Seattle, you know.”

He gave me a blank stare, so I tried again. “God doesn’t need you in Lomalinda. He can find a dozen other teachers to fill that position.” But Dave had nothing to say, signaling he had made up his mind.

This was becoming a personal disaster for me, an emergency. I wished so much it was just a nightmare and that I’d soon wake up.

But I wasn’t sleeping. It was real life. And it had turned into a slippery chaos.

In coming days and weeks and months, Dave’s announcement and its implications would prove to be traumatic for me.

Even before I picked myself up off the floor,

I had begun praying, “Please, God, don’t make me go!”

(from Chapter 1, Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go: A Foot-Dragger’s Memoir)

“Shushing up and slowing down”

“Shushing up and slowing down,” writes Kelly Balarie, “is paramount to God working in us—and strengthening us. . . . God is ready to hit us with unfathomable new perspectives—ones that redefine our past, present, and problems if we will only stop, receive, and consider. Will we? Will we walk unafraid into His presence? Into God’s rhythms? Not cowering from mysteries?” (Fear Fighting: Awakening Courage to Overcome Your Fears)

Sometimes God urges us to come closer. It’s almost as if we hear Him calling us by name, inviting us to quiet ourselves and deliberately listen to Him.

He summons us to a thin place where we mortals experience a sacred intimacy with Him.

That’s what happened to Samuel one night while he was lying down, perhaps trying to fall asleep. We picture a scene without noise or hustle or bustle. And out of the hush, God called his name, “Samuel!”

And in that thin place, alone with God, Samuel answered, “Speak, Lord, I’m listening.”

So, God spoke. He told Samuel to pay attention, because “I am about to do something in Israel that will make the ears of everyone who hears about it tingle” (1 Samuel 3:11, NIV). Samuel was going to receive an important message from God, and, because of his readiness to listen, Samuel didn’t miss it.

How easy it would be for us, in our cluttered, clanging lifestyles, to miss hearing God’s voice. That’s what Kelly Balarie meant when she wrote of the importance of “shushing up and slowing down.”

Sometimes God catches our attention on busy days, within complicated chapters of our lives. Unlike Samuel, Moses was at work, doing his everyday duties—herding his flock on Mt. Sinai (Exodus 3:1-5)—when God called to him, “Moses, Moses!”

“I’m here,” he answered.

Then God said, “Take off your sandals—you’re standing on holy ground.”

And in that thin place, God revealed His identity to Moses (the mighty “I am who I am” in verse 14) and gave him life-changing information for not only himself but for all Israelites.

When God invites us to focus on Him, He longs for us to respond the way Moses did when He called him—but He gives us a choice. (Our loss if we turn Him down!)

God wants us to experience an intimacy with Him, a quiet space where we’re aware we are standing on holy ground. He invites us to worship, pray, reflect, enjoy Him, and pay attention to Him—because like with Samuel and Abraham, He has important information for us.

If God calls our names in the midst of our busy duties, like he did with Moses, what are we to do if we simply can’t drop everything and walk away?

One option is to schedule time to meet with Him every day, such as setting the alarm clock 45 minutes earlier than usual. Another option would be getting out of town for a weekend in-depth personal retreat.

But even if we can’t change our schedules, we can change our mindsets and deep inner thoughts. We can be conscious of God’s presence throughout the day, hear His words, and carry out conversations with Him.

In his daily devotional, Bread for the Journey, Henri Nouwen ponders Psalm 46:10, “Be still and acknowledge that I am God.” 

He writes, “These are words to take with us 

in our busy lives. 

We may think about stillness 

in contrast to our noisy world. 

But perhaps we can go further 

and keep an inner stillness 

even while we carry on business, 

teach, work construction, make music, 

or organize meetings. . . . 

This still place is where God can dwell 

and speak to us. . . . 

Within that stillness 

God can be our gentle guide 

in everything we think, say, or do.”

God wants us to be sensitive to His nudges and whisperings, to ponder His Word in light of our own situations. He welcomes our thoughts and questions, He hopes we’ll be open and transparent, and He wants to give us insight and encouragement and direction.

He can do that best when we set ourselves apart with Him and listen.

Let’s remember what Kelly Balarie said:

“God is ready to hit us with unfathomable new perspectives

—ones that redefine our past, present, and problems

if we will only stop, receive, and consider.

Will we?

Will we walk unafraid into His presence?

Into God’s rhythms?

Not cowering from mysteries?”

(from Fear Fighting: Awakening Courage to Overcome Your Fears)

Not “ding-a-lings by nature, but by choice”

My most passionate goal in life was raising top-notch kids, creating for them a stable home filled with love for God, their family, and others.

And while that was a noble goal (and one I’d still choose if I had it to do over again), otherwise I just let life happen around me. I paid attention to things like fashion styles, home decorating styles, and newer model cars—and craved better fashions, home, and cars than I already had. Dave and I were just getting started in adult life and I just knew someday I’d wear better clothes, fix up the house, and drive a newer car.

What I didn’t fully grasp or appreciate then was that my husband, Dave, took deep looks into life and spiritual matters. He was an analyzer, a questioner, a free spirit. Dave thought big and dreamed big dreams, but I thought small and dreamed lesser dreams.

I lived a shallow life.

I wasn’t thinking about life’s real meaning.

Or life’s real purpose.

It never occurred to me that God

was offering me a life

better than what I’d planned.

He wanted to plop me into what would become

the three most vibrant, rich, 

adventuresome years of my life.

But I was blind to that. Instead, I was clinging to the conduct, patterns, practices, and expectations of this world as described in Romans 12:2. “Don’t become so well-adjusted to your culture that you fit into it without even thinking” (The Message).

Chuck Swindoll writes about people like me, those who “look but don’t really ‘see’ . . . they observe the surface but omit the underneath . . . they focus on images but not issues . . . vision is present but perception is absent.” (from Growing Strong in the Seasons of Life by Charles R. Swindoll)

He went on to say, “Those without insight dwell mainly in the realm of the obvious . . . the expected . . . the essentials. The dimensions that interest them are length and width, not depth.”

Chuck calls such people “blunt-brained.” Ouch.

He says people like that are not “ding-a-lings by nature, but by choice.” Ouch.

He wrote of people in Hebrews 5 who’d had lots of training in spiritual matters. They’d had opportunities to put those teachings into practice but, instead, they became “‘dull of hearing’—thick, lazy, sluggish, lacking insight.”

Chuck also described it as “unnecessary blindness.”

He was describing the twenty-something me—even though throughout my life, our family’s activities had centered around our church. I had enjoyed a very active youth group, Sunday School, and summer camps. I’d participated in Bible studies, women’s groups, and had multiple fellowship and ministry opportunities.

But I was lazy—I wasn’t thinking deeply about what I was hearing. I was not applying it to my everyday living, goal-making, or the dreams I had for myself and my family.

I’d have been content to live on the distracting, trifling surface, decade after decade, chasing the American Dream.

I wish I’d had access to Chuck’s wise words back in 1975 when Dave got the idea to move to South America. Perhaps then I wouldn’t have begged God not to make me go—or, at least, not beg Him as urgently as I did.

“Open your eyes!” Chuck Swindoll hollers.

“Think! Apply! Dig! Listen!”

Romans 12:2 goes on to say, “. . . let God transform you

into a new person by changing the way you think” (NLT).

That’s what I needed to do—let God change me

into a new, thinking person.

Have you recently evaluated how you are living?

Is there something you need to ponder?

Explore more deeply?

Do you sense God urging you to push beyond the trivial, superficial stuff?

If so, let Him transform you and the way you think.

Ask God to give you a holy discontent

with things that are not right in your life,

and a holy discontent with the ways of the world.

Ask Him to create in you a spiritual hunger and thirst

that nothing else can satisfy.

Grab hold of the abundant life He offers you.

I’m quite sure it will be

wonderful beyond what you can imagine right now.

Whose idea was this? God’s? Or was it that of a dangerous dreamer of the day?

Since before I spoke my wedding vows, I knew Dave was a think-outside-the-box guy.

While in most ways he was a traditional husband, father, churchgoer, and American citizen, he also had an independent streak that sometimes sent him down a road less traveled, marching along to the beat of a different drummer.

So, perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised when he told me he wanted to move our young family to the middle of nowhere in South America so he could teach missionaries’ kids.

But let me back up.

Here’s an excerpt from Chapter 1 of Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go: A Foot-Dragger’s Memoir:

We’d met when I was fourteen and he was sixteen. His charm and humor captured my heart. A witty guy, he entertained people with jokes, puns, songs, and stories. But there was more to him than that, much more. He had a sharp mind and a reputation for being honest and dependable. His quiet confidence and leadership skills impressed me. Tall and strong, he played football, basketball, baseball, tennis, and golf. He introduced me to good literature and classical music. Dave had a nice voice and accompanied himself on the guitar and, later, after high school, he sang in university choirs. He also introduced me to new ways of thinking. He looked at everything—life, faith, politics—from unique angles that often left me surprised and challenged.

Shy, I’d always lingered close to the sidelines and watched life from there, but Dave gave me glimpses into new ideas and worlds and opportunities. I couldn’t have found the words at the time but, looking back, I now realize I wanted to be like him.

A few years later, I married that think-outside-the-box guy. He posed questions few people would ask, and the answers gave him a holy discontent that led him to make choices most people avoided. I was proud of my husband, proud that he was a scholar and philosopher—until he also wanted to be a doer and his goals ran contrary to mine.

Dave couldn’t drift through life without wondering about his higher purposes. He shunned going along with the crowd, especially in spiritual matters, and grew impatient with the prevalent assumption that Christianity embraced the American dream. He resisted focusing his life on buying houses and cars, and then buying bigger houses and better cars. And yet, Dave sensed our young family heading toward just such a safe, suburban American Christianity, and he longed to direct us away from that.

Since before we married, I had known he opposed settling for a watered-down life. He wanted to keep growing and learning and stretching. He longed to chase after deeper, higher, wider dreams—to make a difference in God’s broader scheme. Dave thought big and dreamed big dreams. I thought small and dreamed lesser dreams.

“All men dream: but not equally,” said T. E. Lawrence (Lawrence of Arabia). “Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds, wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men,” he said, “for they may act on their dreams with open eyes, to make them possible.”

My husband, one of those dangerous daytime dreamers, planned to sign on the dotted line with Wycliffe, known as the world’s leader in Bible translation.

Let me say it again: 

I was proud of my husband, 

proud that he was a scholar and philosopher—

until he also wanted to be a doer 

and his goals ran contrary to mine.

Moving to rural South America was

the last thing I would ever want to do.

But what if the idea was not only Dave’s,

but God’s, too?

Had God given Dave that lightning-bolt of inspiration?

That longing in his heart?

To my way of thinking,

moving to Lomalinda was such a bizarre idea,

so outrageous,

that all I could do was pray,

“Please, God, don’t make me go!”

But if moving to Lomalinda was also God’s idea

—if He said, “Go”—

I knew I was in for a wild ride!