I worried: Would my kids suffer for living in such a place?

Since arriving in Lomalinda, Matt and his little buddies had spent hours upon hours playing softball on the field below our house but, by mid-November, athletes switched to the school’s soccer team and Matt was thrilled—until he heard the crushing news: He couldn’t join them. Only those in fourth grade and older could play on the team. What a sad day!

 

But when Jim Miller, the dad of one of his friends, started a team for first through third graders, Matt’s joy bubbled over.

He also competed on a non-school team with his dad, older boys, teens, and men, often against local Colombians, in temperatures of 104 in the shade. How did they do it?

 

Back then, no one had yet invented sunscreen, and sometimes my fair-skinned boy got so sunburned that his face blistered, but he was having the time of his life.

 

Soccer filled Matt's thoughts and conversations. One week he talked non-stop about soccer shoes—he had to have the shoes with yellow stripes. The next week only white stripes were cool.

 

He wore his Seattle Sounders shirt to every practice and game. And for days on end, he talked on and on about the color and style of other soccer teams’ shirts.

 

One Saturday, Dave and Matt hitched a ride on a truck to Puerto Lleras with our school’s junior high team, and our team won. Matt was thrilled.

 

And then!—And then!—Dave took him to a little store in Puerto Lleras and bought him soccer shoes! He was overjoyed.

 

But it would get even better than that! Matt didn’t yet know about a secret. Mark Steen, one of Dave’s high school students, was soon traveling to a big city and while there, he’d buy a soccer ball for Dave to give Matt for his birthday.

 

One of my all-time favorite snapshots captured Matt after he opened his gift and found that ball.

 

The government allowed us to receive only flat parcels in small manila envelopes and my mom, a busy professional who also volunteered at church and in the community, somehow found time to buy, package, and mail us packets. She must have spent a fortune on the items and postage.

 

Matt got a kick out of the Seattle Seahawks sticker she sent, and when Karen received a picture of my dad at Hurricane Ridge, she squealed, “That’s my Papa Jerry! My Papa Jerry!”

 

My mom also sent books, games, toys, workbooks, and things for us to set aside for the kids’ birthdays and Christmas—and, it turned out, for their friends. One day Matt and Karen came home from school with invitations for a birthday party the next day, and I panicked. I wouldn’t have time to make gifts. What would I do? Then I remembered the stash of items my mother sent—Whew!

 

By mid-October, Miss Wheeler had moved Matt (a first grader) to second-grade readers and Karen (a Kindergartner) to first-grade readers.

 

Within no time, my kids picked up beginning Spanish, and Karen often sang little Spanish tunes.

 

She had trouble pronouncing the “R” sound but another teacher, Mrs. Gross, helped her for a few months until she said it correctly. To this day we are still grateful to Mrs. Gross for that special help.

 

It did take Karen a while to adjust to the way one classmate showed his affection—he placed a line of dead cockroaches across each girl’s desk throughout the school year. Perhaps that had something to do with her lack of interest in boys, but she had lots of sweet little girlfriends.

 

She also enjoyed climbing into our mango tree, sometimes with a friend, other times with her stuffed toys, teaching them to sing in Spanish, and sometimes alone, quietly enjoying worlds her imagination invented. In her own quiet way, she was settling well.

 

Before moving to Lomalinda, I’d worried

about my kids’ wellbeing.

Would they suffer for living in such a place?

The answer: No.

They thrived at school, at play, and at home.

And in their hearts.

I was deeply grateful to God for His care and provision for them.

 

(From Chapters 14 and 15,

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

 

Surprise! Button AND Snoopy

I was heartbroken: I had no gift for my little Karen’s fifth birthday.

 

There in our new home in a missions community named Lomalinda, we had no way to buy her anything—except for something from our little commissary, like powdered milk or canned tuna or a loaf of very stale bread. And that just wouldn’t do.

 

But then—but then!—we heard someone’s dog would soon have puppies, so we spoke for one for Karen.

 

But then—but then!—a week or so before her birthday, we got word the puppy we’d chosen might not be available after all.

 

My heart broke for my girl. We had to give her a birthday gift!

 

But then—but then!—one of Lomalinda’s families called and asked if we would like a kitten.

 

“Yes!” I said. “Yes!!!”

 

But then—but then!—a couple of days later, we learned we could have the puppy after all.

 

Dave and I talked it over. Should we give Karen the kitten or the puppy?

 

In the end, we decided to give the kitten to Karen and the puppy to her brother Matt.

Karen second from left, back row

We had kept Karen’s kitten a secret, but after her party—sixteen friends, sweet and fun—Dave and I said to her, “We have a surprise for you.”

 

Our new five-year-old looked up at us, curious, eyes twinkling. “We’re giving you a kitten for your birthday.”

 

“A kitten!” she whispered, wonder all over her face.

 

“The kittens aren’t old enough to leave their mommy yet, but we can go to the house where they live and you can choose one.”

 

Karen jumped up and down, laughing. “Let’s go! Right now!” So we set out walking to look over the litter.

 

Karen chose a tiny gray and white striped one with white tummy and paws. “I’ll name him Button.”

 

Strolling away from Button’s home, we sprung another surprise, this time on Matt. “We’re getting a puppy for you—an early birthday gift.”

 

Our rowdy boy hollered, “Awesome!”

 

“Let’s go pick him out,” I said.

 

“What?” Wide-eyed, Matt stopped walking and talking—a rare thing for our son. “Now?”

 

“The puppies are too young to leave their mother, but you get to choose one today.”

 

“Awesome!”

 

We hiked to the puppies’ house, and Matt chose a cute reddish-blonde Welsh Corgi mix that resembled most dogs around our center. “I’ll name him Snoopy.”

 

Wow! What a surprise: Button and Snoopy!

 

I think of the way God showers us with blessings—grace upon grace (John 1:16), “spiritual blessing upon spiritual blessing, favor upon favor, and gift heaped on gift” (Amplified Bible).

 

On the walk home,

Dave and I looked at each other and laughed,

knowing we had two weeks to brace ourselves

for the lively chaos those baby pets

would bring to our home.

(From Chapter 12, Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go:

A Foot-Dragger’s Memoir)

 

What kind of mother would overlook her little girl’s birthday?

We’d lived in Lomalinda for two weeks when we turned the calendar page to September.

 

September?! I silently wailed. Our little girl would turn five at the end of September and it hit me with a start: We didn’t have anything to give Karen for her birthday.

 

I felt like a thoroughly terrible mother.

 

What kind of mother would have overlooked planning ahead so she could give her little girl a birthday gift?

 

We’d had strict limitations on how much luggage we could bring into the country so we had packed only bare necessities—but still, I felt terrible. And desperate.

 

Our only store was the tiny little commissary where we bought food.

 

We had nowhere to buy books, clothes, toys, or shoes.

 

I’d just bought a little used sewing machine from one of my neighbors, but I had no cloth to make a gift for Karen.

 

We’d heard of a small town a few miles away, but we had no motorbike to get there and besides, people warned us we’d find minimal selection and poor quality there.

 

It would take a month or more for us to send a letter home to our parents and get a reply, so any gift they could mail us would arrive too late.

 

We had to do something for our girl!

 

A few days passed and I felt panicked

over what to do for Karen.

My heart was heavy.

 

But then—but then!—we heard someone’s dog would soon have puppies, so we spoke for one for Karen. I was beyond excited. My heart soared. To this day I still remember my joy.

 

Our first-grade son, Matt, must have overheard his dad and me worrying about how to find a birthday gift for his sister—and immediately Matt knew what he  had to do. His own birthday was coming up in a couple of months so he promptly sat down and wrote this to his grandparents:

 

Dear Nana and Papa,

Would you please send me a WW.1 and WW.II ship and plane model for my birthday. I also need model glue. Thanks.

 

A resourceful and bold six-year-old kid, that Matt.

 

But then—but then!—a week or so before her birthday, we got word the puppy we’d chosen might not be available after all.

 

My heart broke for my girl.

 

What could we do? We had to give her a birthday gift!

 

Think, I told myself. Think!

 

But then—but then!—one of Lomalinda’s families called and asked if we would like a kitten.

 

“Yes!” I said. “Yes!!!”

(from Chapter 12, Please, God, Don't Make Me Go: A Foot-Dragger's Memoir)

 

Noticing the good stuff, finding the joy

I began to notice more good stuff going on in Lomalinda.  

 

God was offering me new opportunities. He was offering me a new perspective, a new way to do Life. A new attitude. New goals.

It took me a few weeks to figure that out, but God patiently waited for me to notice. 

 

As Rachel Marie Martin said:

 

“Sometimes you have to let go of the picture

of what you thought life would be like

and learn to find joy in the story you are actually living.”

 

Rachel nailed it.

 

Finding the joy: During our first few days, I had longed for familiar faces, familiar voices, and especially familiar smells. But instead, only a strange odor had wafted through our windows—a thick, pungent, sweet, moist stink. Was it decay?

 

That sticky, moldering smell radiated out of the earth and crawled in the air and forced its way into our house and our noses and clung to our clothes and bedding and furniture. For days it had made my stomach sick and left me light-headed.

 

The dense, damp reeking of the place threatened to overpower me.

 

But then, a few weeks later, my nose adjusted—odors smelled less offensive. Hooray! (See my earlier post, I could only gasp, “Please, God, get me out of here!”)

 

Finding the joy: One of the blessings I noticed right away was that carrots and tomatoes tasted like real carrots and tomatoes, genuine flavors I recalled from childhood when people grew their own produce. What a welcome contrast they were compared to the carrots and tomatoes from grocery stores back in the States, which had little taste.

 

Finding the joy: Lomalinda was a place of brilliant flowers, shrubs, and trees. In our yard, we had a papaya tree, an avocado tree, a mango tree, and a lemon tree. Growing such trees back home in Seattle was unheard of. (Don’t miss my earlier post, Blooming where you’re planted.)

 

Finding the joy: Our first-grader, Matt, and our Kindergartener, Karen, loved school—their teachers and their classmates—and were excelling in their studies.

 

Finding the joy: Soon the teens (missionaries’ kids) got acquainted with Dave and his goofy humor. He taught them English, Psychology, History, and P.E.

 

But his most welcome contribution for the forty-two junior high and senior high students was new programs: drama, student newspaper, student council, and yearbook. Students and parents were delighted.

 

Right away Dave started work on three one-act plays and, after he gave out parts, the cast’s excitement was palpable.

 

By the middle of September, the school’s newspaper staff published their first issue. We weren’t sure what to expect but it turned out better than we imagined, and everyone’s pleasure showed.

 

Dave played soccer and softball with the teens on weekends, and they and their parents appreciated the energy and humor he brought to academics and athletics.

 

Still today, his former students reminisce about his teaching style and the way he related with them.

 

Yes, good stuff was happening in Lomalinda.

I was finding the joy.

What a welcome change that was for me.

 

The best part of that meal—of the whole day, of the whole year!

Our new friend David Hockett told us, “Lunch is ready for you in the dining hall. I’ll drive you up.”

He loaded us into the Nissan and drove up and down and around the grassy hills of Lomalinda. Loma means hill, and linda means pretty—“pretty hill” in Spanish. For a reason only God knows, when He created the earth He raised up clusters of rounded masses on that parcel of land surrounded by the llanos—open expanses of steamy rolling grasslands, an infinite emerald green capped with an unbounded royal blue sky.

Low hollows between hills held swampy jungle—palms and other trees, and, in their shadows, ferns, philodendrons, vines, shrubs, and grasses. Our new home sat nestled in a blue and green world.

In low gear, the Nissan strained up a long, winding, steep hill in the middle of the mission center. Once on top, David pointed out the features of Loma One. “That’s the Children’s Home, where Bible translators’ children live for a few weeks at a time when their parents work in tribal locations.

“And over there,” he pointed to a small blue building across from the Children’s Home, “is the commissary, our store.”

David turned toward a building beside the commissary. “Here’s the dining hall,” he said, pulling to a stop in front of a low, white building with screened windows.

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. . . .

But wait! Before I can tell you the rest, I need to backtrack to the beginning of this new phase in our lives and tell you how my heart broke into a million pieces when Dave and I left Seattle with our kids, separating them from their grandparents and aunts and uncles.

Let me take you back to Chapter 1, and tell you how it all started:

My husband, Dave, had burst through the front door of our Seattle-area 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.

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

C’mon back next week because I have so much more to tell you.

Two extreme (perhaps life-changing) opportunities for you!

I’m so excited to tell you about this fantastic opportunity!

To many readers of my memoir and blog, Bible translation is a mysterious job and, frankly, it might seem pretty weird. Certainly, the task can be daunting—the lifestyle, the long years of work.

But here’s an easy (and relatively painless) way to learn more about the big picture of translation—as well as the smaller nitty-gritty details, too.

And you can do it right here on U.S. soil.

This five-day event is called Explore Bible Translation Extreme and it takes place near Charlotte, North Carolina, October 28 through November 2.

Participants will spend five days in a simulated village setting with up to 25 others. They’ll sleep in hammocks and live in typical huts (champas) five feet above the ground.

They’ll have a fire to cook meals and gather around at night to hear veteran translators explain their work.

Morning and evening sessions around the campfire will offer interactive learning opportunities.

And I guarantee they’ll also hear stories of some amazing, even mindboggling adventures. Unforgettable stuff.

Participants will learn about:

• Wycliffe’s history and vision for the future,
• why people need Scriptures in their own languages (rather than languages foreign to them),
• how that changes lives,
• and of the many roles individuals play in carrying out the Bible translation task.

Like Wycliffe’s website says, 

“It all adds up to a memorable week of learning, 

exploration and fellowship!”

Keep in mind that my husband Dave and I did not carry out translation itself and did not live in remote settings such as participants of Explore Bible Translation Extreme will experience.

Instead, as support personnel, we lived at a missions center with lots of other Wycliffe workers and filled behind-the-scenes roles which enabled translators to do their jobs. For example, Dave taught those missionaries’ kids, and I worked in the administration office helping oversee the translators’ projects and progress.

Other support positions include pilots, doctors, nurses, accountants, mechanics, radio operators, maintenance staff, secretaries, technicians, administrators—the list goes on and on.

So if YOU are thinking of working with Wycliffe, keep in mind the two types of workers: (1) translators, and (2) support personnel. Both fill crucial roles in Bible translation. The Explore Bible Translation Extreme will introduce the first type, translators, but would also be significant for those interested in working in a support role.

Does Explore Bible Translation Extreme seem too adventurous for you?

If so, here’s an alternate (and really easy) opportunity for you. And you can stay in the comfort of your own home.

Wycliffe has compiled a list of documentaries introducing you to different cultures and people groups. 

They’ll open your eyes and touch your heart and, 

if you’re like I used to be, 

they'll help you inch closer to saying, 

“Yes, I think I could do that.”

To learn more about the reason Dave and I worked with Wycliffe, and to explore whether God might like you to work with them, look into these two resources:

Explore Bible Translation Extreme

Documentaries

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!

What would you have done?

My new memoir, Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go: A Foot-Dragger’s Memoir, begins this way:

My husband, Dave, 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.  

It was February 1975 and, as youth director for our church, Dave had taken college kids to a Wycliffe BibleTranslators’ 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. . . .  

The thought of living in Colombia scared me out of my wits. And that was before I’d learned about guerrillas and kidnappings. But, like Abraham, Dave had heard God’s voice, “Leave your homeland.”  

I begged in prayer, “Please, God, don’t make me go!”  

Dave 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 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.

If you’d been in my place, what would you have done?

Dave’s new plan interrupted the dreams and plans I had for myself as his wife and as the mother of his children.

I don’t appreciate interruptions in general—but this interruption was a doozie . . . . Moving to rural South America?!

And this was not just an interruption, it was a surprise—shocking, traumatic. Dave had given no hints that he’d been thinking along those lines. His desire to teach missionaries’ kids in Colombia left me stunned—as evidenced by my reaction: collapsing to the floor.

What would you have done? 

Feel free to leave a comment or send a private message.

Come on back and we’ll talk more about this.

Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go: A Foot-Dragger's Memoir is on special right now at Barnes and Noble for $14.84! That’s an 18% savings! The memoir will be published on June 4, but you can pre-order it now.

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