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

  

A sense of “place is significant—significant physically, emotionally, and spiritually,’ writes Marilyn Gardner at A Life Overseas.

 

“As humans, at our core is a need for ‘place.’ Call it ‘belonging,’ call it ‘home,’ call it anything you like. But all of us are integrally connected to place,” she says.

During my first months in Lomalinda, I often found myself picturing what would have been happening at my “place” back home in Seattle. I compared Seattle’s weather to Lomalinda’s weather. The tastes of Seattle’s food to Lomalinda’s. The way Seattle’s smells compared to Lomalinda’s. Seattle’s ease of living compared to Lomalinda’s.

 

I wrote in my memoir that Lomalinda’s odors made me long for familiar smells—the perfume of fir trees in the rain, the aromas of Puget Sound and seaweed drying on the beach.

 

I wrote: “I compared Lomalinda to everything back home—red-orange soil instead of my dark foresty earth in Seattle; heavy, humid air and triple-digit temperatures pressing down on us instead of cool, fresh Pacific Northwest air.

 

“I wished for a North American grocery store, well-known flavors, paved roads, and a warm shower. While our temps soared, I missed the anticipation of autumn’s chilly, crisp days back in Seattle. Folks back home would soon pull out wool sweaters and scarves and socks but, in Lomalinda, we were shedding shoes and as many clothes as was decent. (From Chapter 9, Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go: A Foot-Dragger’s Memoir)

 

Later, I wrote:

 

“September turned to October. Back in Seattle, people would be inhaling familiar scents of gold-emblazoned maple leaves and hints of smoke from fireplace fires, and they’d be bundling up in sweaters and jackets to ward off autumn’s cool temperatures.

 

“But in Lomalinda, summer didn’t turn into fall into winter into spring. We had only two seasons, hot and humid, and hotter and arid.

 

“And so it was that in October, the annual five-month rainy season ended after dumping a hundred and fifty inches. Temperatures rose and muddy roads dried. (From Chapter 14, Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go: AFoot-Dragger’s Memoir)

 

I wrote this about turning the next calendar page:

 

“November turned to December. Back home, Seattle would be a place of swollen clouds and rain, and frost once in a while. People would be wearing rain boots and raincoats and stocking caps and gloves.

 

“Family and friends would have recently gathered for Thanksgiving, a squally season when tempests stirred up wild seas and sent ferry boats bobbing and careening, when wind storms downed trees throughout the Puget Sound region, caused widespread power outages, left half-baked turkeys and pumpkin pies in cold ovens, and drew people together around fireplaces in homes perfumed by wood smoke.

 

“But Lomalinda was into the dry season with clean cerulean skies and hardly a wisp of a cloud. Daytime temperatures rose to over a hundred degrees in the shade—cruel, withering.

 

“The green scent of rainy season had given way to the spicy fragrance of sun-dried grasses. Immense stretches of emerald disappeared, leaving grasslands stiff and simmering under unrelenting sun.

 

“Muddy paths and single-lane tracks turned rock-hard and, with use, changed to dust. Yards and airstrips and open fields turned to dust, too.

 

“From sunrise to sundown, a strong wind blew across the llanos, a gift from God because it offered a little relief from the heat. On the other hand, we had to use rocks and paperweights and other heavy objects to keep papers from blowing away.

 

“Dust blew through slatted windows and into homes and offices and settled on our counters and furniture and in cracks and crannies and on our necks and in our armpits and up our noses.  (From Chapter 16, Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go: A Foot-Dragger’s Memoir)

 

Yes, for the first few months, I compared my Seattle home with my new home in Lomalinda.

 

Looking back on that time,

I feel guilt over my too-slow struggle

to transition out of my Seattle life

and into my Lomalinda life.

 

But, given what Marilyn Gardner says next,

maybe I should extend a bit of grace to myself.

 

“When those places are taken away, we suffer from a ‘disruption’ of place,” Marilyn continues.

 

She gave words to what I was going through—

a ‘disruption’ of place. My battle had a name.

 

“The late Paul Tournier, a gifted Swiss psychologist . . . says that to be human is to need a place, to be rooted and attached to that place,” Marilyn says. “Many of us downplay this connection to place by over spiritualizing it or underestimating its importance.

 

“We need not dismiss it,” Marilyn says, “we need not idolize it; we must only acknowledge it and recognize it as valid.”

 

Oh, how I appreciate Marilyn’s perspective.

 

 

If you plan to move to the mission field,

read Marilyn’s words again.

I hope and pray her message

and what you find here at my blog

will prepare you for a good experience.

 

I wish my family and I had had a better pre-field orientation than we did, and I wish we’d had a better orientation than we did upon arriving in Lomalinda.

 

As a newcomer, I wish I’d known it was okay to still feel an attachment to my Seattle home. I wish I’d known it was a valid feeling and experience.

 

But since I didn’t, I felt guilty and defective, and I blindly stumbled through culture shock and transition out of it.

 

Reading Marilyn’s words lifts a burden. It sets me free.

 

And now, looking back, I recognize

God was literally doing what

Romans 8:28 says He does:

“God is able to orchestrate everything

to work toward something good and beautiful

when we love Him and accept His invitation

to live according to His plan” (The Voice).

 

He was helping me survive the ‘disruption’ of place—helping me gently separate from my most significant ‘place,’ my Seattle home—and He was making a way for me to find that sense of ‘belonging’ in Lomalinda.

 

Though hardly perceptible at the time, God was helping me become “rooted and attached” to Lomalinda.

 

He was helping me feel more comfortable in my new home.

 

God was leading me into new opportunities, offering me new perspectives, helping me grasp that there were other ways to do Life than I thought. He was offering me a new attitude. New goals, new joys.

 

God was gently, subtly doing a remarkable work

within and around me

during my initial weeks on the mission field.

A lot of good things were happening

that would eventually help me discover

Lomalinda was a good place to live.

 

God was helping me find “Happiness, not in another place but this place, not for another hour, but this hour.” (Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass)

 

“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)