PROVERBS 26:20

As I grow deeper and deeper into the heart of my Lord, I desire more and more to become a non-whisperer, a non-source of contention.

That is my hope.

DAVE

My husband is on my heart more and more, because he is so helpful and kind to me.  When I fell early yesterday morning and hit the floor, hurt and screaming, he immediately rushed through the house to help me any possible way. He's a truly caring and loving man.

I am sure I posted this poem before, but it touched me again today.

Originally, I wrote it during the first week of October, 2001, when I was on a depression stage of life after 9/11 and camping at the North Shore to come to God's emotional healing, which, miraculously, did occur. 

So sharing it with you, again.

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  "You hug your husband, and

Tell him you appreciate him,"

Steve, the wise one, said.

I did -- and I do.

"I'm sending you my representative,"

Abba said to me,

Those years ago.

And in the season of robins and lilacs,

He bounced through my door --

One of a group.

For some reason, I noticed.

And weeks later, we noticed --

And then we got married.

[Just about that fast -- 

and that shocking --

and scary!!]

[Because the world would never have put us together,

but Abba did.]

He was not who I expected --

I was a surprise to him.

[I still am sometimes, I think.]

But if I know nothing else in this life

to be true,

I know my Abba sent His representative.

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A bit of extra info.  The "Steve" is my son, and, as I was preparing to head 600 miles away from home to deal with fear and depression, he wanted me to consider Dave's heartache when I would be gone.  My son was realistic.  Dave, however, knew this was a trip God was sending me on, so he wasn't breaking down or afraid.  He knew I needed healing and that that location would be a good one for it. 

While up there without him, talking to him once a day on a public phone in the Tettagouche Camp center, he continued to encourage me.

This poem poured into my heart as a result.

It truly is my Dave.

SHAWL GIFT

The 30-hour labor that Dumbari was going through was tough, to say the least.  Her husband, Laxman, was consistent and did whatever he could to help, as long as it didn't go too far over what was acceptable in their Bhutanese culture.  I was the "anytime, everytime, anything" person, however, and had very little sleep, for a total of about 44 hours.  I was worn out when this little boy arrived. He was born at 2:42 AM.  From about 4:00 AM until nearly noon, I was home and sleeping. Then, I popped back to see the little one and check on his parents.  Laxman took this picture us us that afternoon; Bisant was about 12 hours old.

This past Sunday evening, the 17th, I received a call from Dumbari, who doesn't speak English very well, and indicated she wanted to come to our house.  They live a couple blocks away.  When she arrived, she came in with 3 bags.  Cereal boxes in one [they have to choose some at WIC, but can't eat them], loafs of wheat bread in another [same reason passing them along], and then, in bag number 3,

a shawl.  She said it was brought a couple weeks ago from Nepal.  More relatives had arrived and, before leaving Nepal, had been told to find a shawl that would be beautiful for me.  Laxman and Dumbari had told them purple [would that be a surprise?], but that wasn't the color they could find.  This is lovely, whether purple or not, and a blessing, and I was just big-eyed and joyful when I opened it widely and saw the colors and the patterns.

When I thanked her ... forced her to let me hug her ... and she was leaving, she handed me some folded up money.  And she said, "He says to have it."  When I unfolded it, I was a bit shocked.  Two twenty-dollar bills.  Why?  And suddenly I knew:

On the way to the hospital for delivery, about 9:30 PM on September 9th, them following me in his car, I was nearly out of gas. I stopped at a station to fill the tank. The hospital is only 4 miles from our house, so it's no big deal, except I didn't want to be at risk if needing to bring his parents in for some reason.

So, yep, this Sunday, 5 months later, he passed approximately the same amount along to me -- obviously a "thank you" gift -- simply because I was doing whatever was needed during the baby's several pre-arrival weeks at the Dr.'s and, then, during delivery.  I'm amazed.

Dumbari also popped a note on my coffee table.  I didn't even see it until yesterday.  This is what it says:

Joine, last time you help me 
for birth baby so that 
I help you but this is so 
small for your help, but you' 
help me so much.

Lots of thank ful of u.

God bless you

thank you,

laxman

 

don't refuse to accept

this OK.

I actually took a picture of myself today wearing the shawl in my office.  Took it so I could share the "shawl" story with you, visually.  Believe me, this has been a blessing.

[And, that "don't refuse to accept" on the note referred to the money, I'm sure.]


And his English writing might not be perfect, but his kindness is.  And hers.  And the others.  Love them.

MARY MAGDALENE - SCENE 3

Mary lay staring into the murky darkness, listening to the wind rustling the leaves of the olive trees outside the window.  She heard the sound of horse's hooves on the rocky pavement somewhere in the distance.  And, through some filtered moonlight drifting across her room she saw the shadowed forms of her family and heard their quiet breathing as they slept.

For Mary, sleep was a vestige of the distant past.  She hadn't slept well since childhood.  It wasn't because she wasn't tired; she had been tired for most of her life.  Sleep, instead of relief and rest, brought dreams and voices ...ghosts from her past, looming "beings"  from her present to repose in her room and mock her when she entered the anteroom of sleep.  So, she survived on short naps when others were nearby to wake her if she became restless or began to cry out.

She had become a joke to many in her village:  "God must be punishing her...the psalmist said God gives his beloved sleep...if she can't sleep that must mean she is hated...If God makes her suffer so, why should WE treat her any better?..."  Most people, not wanting to face a torrent of sarcastic, venomous words, kept their comments outside her range of hearing. Some, though foolish enough, let her hear them.  They received the full brunt of her wrath.

On this particular night, as she waited for daybreak, she thought of Jesus.  He had a deep capacity for compassion, and heart-filled insight into people.  Occasionally, as his eyes searched the crowds, Jesus looked at her, and she knew he could see right into her soul.  She was certain he knew her reputation as a harlot, most of which was a result of her night- time wanderings, but, some, she freely admitted, had a basis in fact.  She was nearly convinced that illicit love was better than no love at all.  What amazed her most was that his eyes carried no condemnation.  She sensed only that he hurt because she did.  And it was that discovery, more than any other, that put a spark of light into the darkness of her life.

She didn't talk about the change she felt inside.  She knew from experience no one would want to listen, so she hid the small piece of hope in one of the far corners of her heart, determined to keep it alive.  She was too realistic to believe the hope might grow, but was content simply to protect it.

As the golden-gray streaks of morning broke across the sky,

and the others in the room began to stir, Mary, still thinking of Jesus, pulled her blanket up under her chin, rolled towards the wall, and went to sleep. 
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Next week, Mary Magdalene Scene #4.  Jesus touches her again.  As he does to and for us.  Forever and ever.

 

G-GIRL BAPTISMS... AMEN!!!

What a blessed morning we had.  Reached Stonebridge Church here in Omaha right before 11:30 and, when walking in, saw my daughter, my grandkids [the girls and others], the girls' friends and some of our family friends arriving.  A pile of neat people.

The baptism began just a few minutes after the service started.  One worship song, announcement time, and then the baptism occurred during worship song #2.  It was wonderful.  Six girls, three of ours, one from another family, and two from another, and all baptized by family or friends.  WOW!  Never seen it quite that flexible.

However, here're the photos.  The Twins, Makayla and Miranda, are 15; Juliana is 10.   [The photos are not good enough, because the action went faster than my camera. "Beautifulness" doesn't count; the watery event DOES.]

Dave and I and all the church attenders ... a few hundred ... rejoiced, clapping, and hollering happily, and glorifying the Lord.

Did I pray publicly?  Of course not!  Did I pray in my heart?  Yes.  Several times. -- This morning before our attendance, during our time there, and after heading home.  And this is what, basically, is my prayer for them:

Father, in the Name of Jesus, I lift up to you 3 of my dear ones.  And I thank you that their hearts are turning more and more in Your direction.

I ask you, Father, to show them what the spiritual gifts of their lives are, that they will come to understand the joyfulness of serving you.

Bless their parents, their step-parents, and family friends, such as Dick, who baptized them, and others who are being placed in their lives to help them grow stronger

 and more solidly in You.

Finally, Dear Lord, now and forever,

 I bless You for Your presence 

in their lives.  

Amen.

PSALM 56:3

My 15-year old twin granddaughters had given this cross to Dave and I about 3 years ago.  They had made it in their school.  As you will see, it is on our living room wall, and will never be removed, and is always on our heart. 

When reading that Word this morning, I immediately thought of this cross.

 

 The painting is by Jay Jones, Susan's son.  He's amazing!!  Colorful painting, based on the North Shore.  Couldn't be much more  "me"-ish.

KABUJOGERA, UGANDA -- FINAL STORY

After the delight of dedicating and naming Hannah,

we had a few more hours at the church on our plate.
 
So, on our first "plate", we ate breakfast at P. Robert’s house. While there, P. Israel said one of the conference pastors had asked them a question. This man rents his home -- I assumed it was similar to a mud hut, which is almost all I was seeing in the area.  He said he had discovered a skull which would indicate that the owner had dedicated the house to an idol.  His questions were: can this affect him, and, what should he do about it?  I presented some options and believe, overall, it was good advice, but again I was struck at the matter-of-fact way these men and women approached this whole topic and how eager they were to receive anything that could help them.

We went into the church for the Tuesday teaching, which was done by Tim.  He actually was just giving a quick introduction to spiritual warfare, because we were leaving in early afternoon.  

After Tim spoke, the Pastor Robert asked me to give a word of farewell, which I did – nothing elaborate.  However, then he  said there had been a prayer request sent from another of their churches, because the family knew we were there and they wanted us to pray for them.  Their letter said that they had been married for 15 years and they had an 11 year old girl.  They wanted another child and had been seeking God for a long time and they wanted us to pray for them.  And I was asked to pray.  I felt my faith drop to my feet -- praying about barrenness was something I'd rarely done, and certainly not publicly.  But, I held that letter in my hands and prayed the best I knew how.  Everyone seemed satisfied, but my INSIDE prayer had been “LORD, PLEASE LET THESE PEOPLE HAVE A BABY!  DON’T LET THEM DOWN.” [I've never known the consequences.]

After all this, P. Robert said the people were going to give a love offering.  He said it is part of their culture to show appreciation and that we must receive it. 

Well, the people started coming forward with their gifts: avocados, beans, HUGE cabbages, MORE avocados, a couple of mats, pumpkins, coins, and more avocados.  It was obvious the people were giving their best.  I was so overwhelmed I could hardly breathe.  Then P. Robert asked me to pray the blessing over the offering.  I was so shaken it took me a bit of time to get control of my emotions enough to pray.  

When we were finally ready to leave, Robert came to me with an envelope containing my personal share of the offering, 2,700 shillings or about $1.30 -- all the coins mixed with the other gifts.  I immediately understood how King David must have felt when his men brought him the water from Bethlehem and, instead of drinking it, he poured it out.  I didn’t know then what I would do with this money, but it was too holy to spend in a common way.  I put it in my Bible and would keep it there until a God-door would open. 

[Donated it at my friend Pastor Joseph's Baptist church in Soroti 

on my last Sunday up there, January 18. Two months later, 350 miles away. What a blessing that, not knowing it would occur, the Kabujogera church would  bless the ones suffering from the rebels.  So happy I truly kept those shillings in my Bible, waiting and waiting for the time-share.]  

Then we headed home with our bags, our 9 warm bodies,  piles of gifts in the back and under our feet -- and a chicken.

...AND FACING REALITY

It was a very tight and long four hours, but I was floating on my inside.

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I had never felt so honored, appreciated, respected, received and humbled in my life -- and not often since then.  They had asked me to come and teach again, and I truly will in a heartbeat if God ever makes the door open on our side and would love to take Dave with me to meet Pastors Robert and Israel.  Dave would be a blessing, of course. [And Tim and Jill are still dear friends, dear family. We love them.]

Sometimes I felt that I was living in a travelogue.  I've often pinched myself, while traveling in Uganda during those several trips over and around there, to check if it was really real that I was doing what I loved to do and spending time with people I loved to be with.  The pinching pain always felt good.

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Thank you, Lord, for sending me there, and, now,

 after all these years, allowing me 

to share with family and friends, 

both locally and abroad.

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