Yes
indeed, God had wheedled me out of my comfort zone and, it seemed, He enjoyed introducing
me to altogether new ways of living.
Me—the
protected and comfortable suburbanite, the straitlaced and genteel young lady.
The
one who had stayed far away from wildlife and slimy-slippery stuff and anything
that even hinted at danger. (Click on If you see red eyes above the waterline
. . .)
And
yet God was succeeding in introducing me to new and good things that were far
from all I was accustomed to in suburban Seattle—partly through the exciting and
diverse natural environment my son Matt was discovering with his new friends (see recent posts), and partly through Lomalinda’s good people.
Yes,
I was gradually becoming more accepting of Lomalinda’s lifestyle, but I still
faced a handful of challenges.
One
of them was how to feed my family well from what was—or what was not—available
at the commissary.
It
was a low-lying building painted sky blue. The first time I stepped inside, I
was struck by how dark and cramped it was, the size of two rooms in a small
house. It smelled of laundry detergent, bleach, insect spray, powdered juice
drink, burlap, and bread.
Hand-crafted wooden shelves housed
canned food—things like tuna and vegetables—but limited supplies shocked me. I
found one loaf of bread, a small tin of rolled oats, and coffee, rice, flour,
and powdered milk in small plastic bags.
That first day, I found no produce or
fresh meat, and I despaired. How could I feed my kids well enough? How did
people make decent meals?
On
other days, in the future, I found a few more items, including chunks of local
meat, and little by little my refrigerator and kitchen cupboards began to look a
little less bare.
I’d
never been a fancy cook—we came from humble middle-class families and were
accustomed to eating humble middle-class food. I wasn’t hoping to provide epicurean
meals—I just longed to feed my family nutritious meals. But the items on the
commissary shelves didn’t give me much hope.
But
then. . . . But then. . . . !
Ron
and Lois Metzger invited us to their home for dinner. Stepping into their red
brick house, I could not believe what I saw on the dinner table—it looked like
a Thanksgiving feast.
But
I’d seen the skimpy supplies in the commissary.
Dumbfounded,
I asked Lois, “Where did you find all this food?”
“At the commissary,” she said, smiling.
Bless her heart, she had learned to be
creative, and I was impressed. (from Chapter 10, Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go:A Foot-Dragger’s Memoir.)
I’ve
always remembered that meal and the inspiration Lois offered me.
She
was one of those dear ones I told you about before: In Lomalinda, I was like a
baby bird learning to fly. God blessed me with a number of “mama birds,” lovely
people who gently showed me how to do life there in that out-of-the-way place—and
Lois was one of them.
The
day would soon come when, inspired by Lois, I would take on the challenge of
making attractive, tasty meals from limited supplies in the commissary.
It
would require resourcefulness and work, but I would thrive on the challenge.
But
in the beginning, only a few days into Lomalinda life, I was still in
transition, and transition can be messy—stumbling through unknowns and waiting for
elusive answers. It’s a vulnerable time, a time of letting go and rethinking and
stretching.
I
was slogging through one of those proverbial “one step forward and two steps
back” stages of my life.
Hooray
for one-step-forward days!
Even
baby steps in the right direction
can
make a big difference.
“You do not need to know precisely
what is happening, or exactly where it is all going.
What you need is to recognize the possibilities and
challenges
offered by the present moment,
and to embrace them with courage, faith and hope.”
