I Lost My Voice

It’s inevitable.  It’s Spring.  I know it’s going to happen it’s just a matter of when.  My kids always found great amusement in teasing me when it would happen. 

“Is that a mouse in the house?”

“Too bad mom isn’t up and calling me to leave because I’m totally ready.”

I would try to respond, but only a squeak or a hoarse whisper would be returned. 

This losing my voice thing has always been with me.  I don’t know the medical cause.  I’m sure someone who gets paid more than me could figure it out, but since it comes and goes I’ve never felt compelled to solve it.  Give it a day of not talking, some tea with honey and lemon and it will return.

As a writer, it shouldn’t make much difference.  After all, writers use words on paper, not verbally. It’s the perfect opportunity to use talent instead of vocal cords.

This time, however, it occurred to me that not only did I lose my voice verbally, but I have lost my voice on paper.  That’s a much greater problem.

I looked back on my blog and see there are scant posts for the last several years.  No attempts to explain, interest, engage, or exist outside of my bubble have been made.  I didn’t realize it was happening.

So, how did I lose my writing voice?  I became very intensely involved in teaching, mentoring, guiding, and helping a school and all of the people in that community.

It wasn’t a bad thing.  In fact, it was often quite good.  I watched several students find their purpose, their voice, their talent.  That is the real reward of teaching.  I poured my time and ability into them.  I wrote the best lesson plans I could.  I found activities to stretch them and bond them together.  I searched for opportunities to pull them out of their circumstances to see the greater good in the world. 

I watched the K-8 school slowly expand to high school adding one grade level at a time until this year there will be high school graduates.  I’m so proud of the progress. I’ve worked with colleagues that stretched their own imaginations and abilities to create tools to build successful students.  We cried together over losses, laughed with each other in joyful celebrations, and dug up old mindsets to create growth.

It has been a wild and rewarding ride.

All of those good things were good.  But it didn’t leave time or energy to write.  The miasma of activity circled me and pulled me higher and higher into its grasp.  There was no time to think, no time to play, no time for relationship building outside of the work. 

It’s what was needed.  It’s what was required.  It’s what was important.  Until it was done.

Now, in the stillness after the rush, I hear the words pulling me to paper again.  Perhaps this is the season of my life where writing will give back enough to keep body and soul together.  Or, perhaps, this is the season when the words will bring rest to my exhausted spirit. 

A good cup of tea with a dollop of honey and a splash of lemon will soothe my voice and help me to speak again.  A good hour of prayer with a dollop of reading and a splash of music will soothe my soul and help me to find words again.

Have you lost your voice?  I recommend you take some time out to rest, refresh and renew in the One who gives life. 

God Knew

My camera roll is a study of contrasts.  Google reminded me recently of five years of memories.  I studied the layers pealed back to see who appeared in the shots, where I was and why it seemed important to document for the lady who clicked the button.

Five years ago today I was journaling my every day Moscow life.  This was my second full school year in Moscow.  My neighborhood was familiar, comfortable.  I recognized people and knew my way around enough to not be lost.  One photo is the landmark church that guarded the street where home could be found.  But the photo was not a creative “shot,” just the view through the fence.  It was the view that you see when walking home from the grocery store.  I feel the bags pulling on my hands, my feet are sore, the wind has blown my hair into my face.  No glamour, just common. 

The next photo is a tired, solid apartment building.  The brown wood of the balcony has seen better days.  Weary lilac bushes are seen trying to push out leaves to welcome spring.  The sidewalk is littered with leaves and small bits of trash.   Another common view of my Moscow home. 

Four years ago today I see a myriad of shots from a long Moscow walk.  Instantly I am transported to that day.   The sun shone cooly and teased us with its brightness.  Thankful for a warm jacket and hot coffee, we walked.  I was accompanied by a young historian full of knowledge who practiced his English while I absorbed the culture of this grand city.  The photos are full of contrast.  A sleek, modern mirror building reflecting an ancient church.  An Easter Village sprung up in the court of the Bolshoi Theater. 

At the end of our walk, outside of a metro station named for the Revolution of 1905, beneath a statue honoring Communism, we happened upon a parade of Russian military tanks and soldiers walking with guns drawn.

My friend took a sip of his coffee and said with a smile, “So, when you were  in your 20s like I am now, did you ever imagine you would be standing here?” 

When I was 25, the Berlin Wall still stood staunchly in place.  I was someone who hardly left the South Side of Milwaukee, let alone would stand calmly watching a Russian military parade in the middle of Moscow. 

But God knew.

Three years ago I was in Thorp, Wisconsin, at a picnic table in a little park surrounded by my grandbabies.  Hardly able to keep them in the frame, they are running, playing, laughing at the day.  Such a contrast of the last year’s location!  American freedom exemplified.  Had you asked me at 16 would I be so richly blessed with my family, I could not have imagined it.

But God knew.

Two years ago my worlds collided.  Friends in Moscow took a picture which was tweaked and printed by friends in Eau Claire who brought it to me in Milwaukee.  I see my reflection in the photo of the photo.  I am reminded how small the world is.  Had you asked me if I expected my love of history to bond two artists across the continents, I would not have expected it.

But God knew.

One year ago the photos are filled with ministry at church and work.  It’s funny, in a way, that my work would become more ministry than profession and my volunteer time would be the same.  I see the people that I work with at church in the photo and the kids that we get to bless together.  I’m a facilitator that makes sure the teachers have the tools and training they need to be successful.  I love it.  I get to enjoy the students, but also enjoy helping brilliant young teachers thrive.  My profession is a teacher, but it’s more ministry than teaching.  My students come from almost the same starting place that I did.  I see myself in them so often.  It’s my privilege to help them academically in a place where their spiritual growth is just as important. 

The church photo shows a room full of listening hearts lifted up to hear an encouragement, a puppet speaking from a tree, several teachers filling the air with their love and compassion.  I can feel the joy of the place. 

In the second photo there is a line of young artists, fresh faced, innocent smiles, best and brightest. They are together enjoying a taste of victory.  They have well represented our school by their excellent work and character. 

I remember being the age they are.  When the world was full of possibilities and I began to stretch my creative wings.  I dreamed of being a writer at a famous magazine or newspaper.  I would travel the world and write, write, write!  Or maybe I would be a teacher. I would go to a foreign country and teach impoverished children how to read and write.  Or maybe I would be a social worker and help foster kids and kids in jail get out of the life of drugs and alcohol and hurt. I would have a big family with lots of kids and extra rooms for more kids so they would never feel left out.  

Then life happened and all those dreams lay beneath the will to survive.  Hard years happened.  If I were smarter I may have avoided some of those hardships.  If I had more direction I may have not become so scarred and calloused.  Had you told me there would be a time when my life would become enveloped in helping kids in various ways, I would not have believed you.

But God knew. 

Now I see in these pictures the reflection younger me couldn’t imagine.  I see healing, confidence, strength, love, compassion and strength.  I did go and do all those things I dreamed of.  I have filled my life with people in every place who occupy spaces in my heart and, I hope, I in theirs.  

I love to look through my camera roll.  It reminds me where I’ve been and where I’m going.

This Thing About Families

This thing about families.  It’s not about a name or a place to live or a status to have.

It’s about belonging.

It’s about walking into a crowded room and knowing where to sit and who to talk to.  It’s about not ever knocking on a door, but always just walking in.  It’s about being sick and knowing someone will go to the store for you, make soup for you, pray for you.  It’s about reaching out and finding a welcome hand.  It’s about being inclusive, never excluded.

It’s a hard thing for me to understand.

It’s not about time spent or even calls made.  Although those are nice and welcome.  But family doesn’t count the days between, only the hours with.  Family thinks about you when you’re not there and talks about you like you’re just around the corner.  “My sister always loves….,” “My brother always says ….”

Family knows you – really – and accepts you anyway.

Your fears are their opportunities to be a hero.  Your joy is a reason for them to laugh.  Your tears are a reason for the to problem solve or share or fight.


It’s holiday times and create a memory times and everyday times when you just need to be alone with people who know you.  Take the mask off, lay down the shield.  It’s refreshing and resting and sometimes even arguing, but knowing once you blow your stack and spill the beans and all the volcanic ash is everywhere but in, you still have someone to grab a cup of coffee with and a smile to share.  Family helps you find the boundaries.

I have seen it often – but not always – at church.  I have known it with certain friends, but not all.  I’ve even felt it in some workplaces.  Not all, but some.  It’s like you’re covered, held, welcomed.

Most people silently push away, exclude, separate from others.  


Family pulls you in.  


It’s not culture, color, religion, location, time that builds family.  I have family in Africa, Asia, America.  I’ve known some for all my life, some share my DNA.  They represent many religions, many socio-economic levels.  Some are very wealthy.  Some are very far below the poverty line.

Some share pages and pages of history with me.  Some only a few paragraphs.

I’m mostly afraid of the family thing.  Afraid I am over-assuming my place. Afraid I am over-assuming their acceptance of me.  I stay back a little just in case.  So, if they reject me, no one will see.  I am cautious until I know for sure that if  I walk into a crowded room and I see family, I know where I belong. 

What’s Left

The Story of Tina and Hurricane Michael


I wrote this story, but it's not really mine.  It's Tina's and all of her household.  It's a story of blessings.  It's not an allegory.  It's not fiction.  Total, 100% fact.  When everything is taken from you, you find out what's left. - Kris 


TINA

Who knows how long the winds lasted or the rain?  Can someone tell me their force and fury?  To me, time stood still and whirled and pulled and pushed and caught up until everything that could be shaken, had been shaken.  But what was left were the most important things.


October 10, 2018 Hurricane Michael strutted through the Panhandle of Florida like a gangster.  He thought he would break us down.  He thought he would destroy us.  Instead, he left behind hope, community, faith and family ties stronger than before.


How can that be?  Well, let me tell you a story.


PANAMA CITY, FLORIDA

Hurricane season is not a new thing in the Gulf of Mexico.  It comes and goes each year.  Sometimes it clears out large swaths of trees and homes.  Over the years people have become wise to its wiles and have learned to build better and be more prepared.  Warnings for strong storms are issued long before landfall.  


Panama City sits like a hidden jewel in the middle of the Panhandle.  Family vacationers have long enjoyed her white sand beaches and Shell Island.  Family businesses are strung along the coast like a pearl necklace.  It’s gentle southern charm mixes with the sunshine to lull visitors into a quiet rest.

Hurricanes are not normal here, actually.  They go up and down the sides of the Gulf, but really don’t make landfall here often.   Maybe a Category 2 storm here and there, but nothing you can’t get through with window covers and a tub full of water.  There are stories of the storms in the history of the town, but that was over 100 years ago.  Nothing to worry about.


Hurricane Michael was set to make a name for himself, but we didn’t know it.


My name is Tina.  I am a Wisconsin transplant to Florida working as caregiver to my 92-year old grandmother-in-law, Francis.  I also care for my mother-in-law, Pam, a diabetic with COPD who requires oxygen 24/7.  The day of the hurricane Grandma’s 89-year-old sister, Aunt Betty, came to hunker down with us.  I forgot to mention the love of my life, my husband, Beau.  He was there, too.  He has some challenges of his own which keep him from functioning at 100%.  


As the caregiver of this little band, I looked into evacuating.  It’s a project to get the walkers and wheelchairs and oxygen tanks into a car anytime we need to all go somewhere.  Impossible with Aunt Betty because that is one more body than my car can carry.  She would drive herself, of course, but not more than a block or so.  


I called the people I was supposed to call and explained the frailty of my household, they said to stay.  I spoke with family asking for options of where I could go, they said to stay.  I asked Grandma and Aunt Betty and Pam and they said to stay.  No one expected more than a Category 2 storm, if anything would make landfall at all.


The day started normal enough.  Some wind, some rain, some warning that the weather would worsen.  I filled the tub with water, made sandwiches and put them in the cooler along with other water and food stuffs in case the electricity ran out.  Grabbed the extra cash on hand and important papers and got them into one purse.  I then made sure I had everyone’s medicine in one place.  A friend from Wisconsin watched weather reports and texted me a stream of information.  How close was the eye, how strong the winds, when was it going to make landfall, and then silence.  


SHELTERED

I have no idea when the intensity increased and I don’t know how long it lasted.  People have told me the wind speed and the hours upon hours of battering, but I can’t comprehend it.


At one point I realized we were not safe in the living room.  One-by-one Beau and I moved the ladies into the hallway, then into the corner of the hallway.  As the winds howled and tore around us, we began to pray.  Grandma and Aunt Betty are preacher’s daughters well versed in the art of communication with God.  At first we asked for safety, shouting in heavenly languages above the roar.  At some point, however, it changed.  Peace surrounded us and we realized somehow we were in the middle of a miracle.  We began to thank Him for taking care of us, for getting us through, for the shield of protection.


Meanwhile, Michael was picking up and putting down everything in his path.  Including the house around us.  The walls, the roof, the possessions around us tore up like matchsticks and strewn about.  Finally, there was silence.  We looked at each other stunned, grateful.  None of us were injured in any way physically.  Not a scratch.



I looked around the house that Grandma and her husband had lived in for most of their adult lives.  It was completely destroyed except for the corner where we stood.  Cautiously, I ventured out.  I found one cat, but not the other.  I made a path to the door outside and shouted to the neighbors.  One at a time, we made a roll call of who was remaining.  Banding together, we helped each other out of the unsafe homes and into one that was mostly solid.  


Electricity was out.  Phone lines were down.  I made a desperate attempt at a Facebook post hoping my sister in Wisconsin would see it.  “Send help.”  


My phone rang, “Hello?”  Somehow my sister was able to reach me.  


“Hello!  We’re alive.  The house is gone.  Send….” And then the phone was dead again.


Off and on through the next several hours she would call and I could answer for a few minutes at a time.  She gathered enough details to make a few calls.  But I’ll let her tell you that side of the story.


KRIS

I watched and worried and prayed in Wisconsin as I saw the storm moving closer and closer to my sister.  Unable to bridge the land gap, I prayed that God would send a hedge of protection around her house.  She is my only sister and my best friend.  My heart ached as I wished I could do more.  Once I saw the storm winds had receded I started to call her every couple of minutes just in case I could connect.  I saw her Facebook message to send help and immediately called her.  


“Hello?”  I was shocked to hear her voice. 


“Hello!!”


“Hello!  We’re alive.  The house is gone.  Send….”  And silence.


How could I get help to them?  I posted to Facebook and Twitter asking if anyone knew anyone who might be closer.  My son, Thi, joined the quest.  We needed to get the ladies out of the destruction, but how? 


Over the next few hours we managed several short conversations with Tina.  We knew they were in a safe place with the most essential bases covered.  However, without electricity Pam was going to run out of oxygen.  Finally, Thi connected with the Coast Guard in Milwaukee and told them of the situation.  They contacted the Coast Guard in Panama City.  They couldn’t say when they would get there, but they would send someone as soon as possible.



TINA

We had no idea all of that was happening.  It took several hours to get everyone safely into one place.  The ladies were shocked at all they had lost, but grateful to have each other and be alive.  Tucked into the standing portion of one of the only standing homes in the cul-de-sac we tried to sleep.  


At one point I stood looking into the night sky. Without any light noise from the city, the sky took on a life of its own.   Complete quiet, complete peace, deep night sky lit with a million stars.  I thanked God for seeing us through.  At last, I, too, lay down to try to sleep.


I was roused awake by the clatter of helicopter blades.  I sat up to see a search light scanning our area.  ‘They must be assessing damage,’ I thought. 


Across the street, Dan ran out, pulled down the American flag from his front porch and began to wave it wildly signaling the helicopter our location.  He realized that somehow they had gotten word of our needs.  Hovering, they sent down first a medic and second a basket.  


“We heard there is a woman here on oxygen in need of help?”


“Yes, over here.”  Dan directed.


It was a like a movie being filmed around me.  They loaded Pam into the basket and then she and the man were lifted by rope into the helicopter and swooshed into the night. 


The next morning we left the house with hardly more than the clothes on our backs.  For the next several months we would stay with friends, in a rented condo, an apartment and finally a new home.  We were some of the extra blessed minority.  Insurance quickly replaced most of what we lost.  I went back twice to see what could be saved.  


WHAT WAS LEFT

Although Pam’s rescue was a dramatic miracle, as was the standing corner of the room, there were many other less dramatic surprises rife with meaning.  The WWII medals won by Grandpa preserved beside his flag.  Grandma’s silver and china untouched.  Our car left outside of the garage almost completely preserved.  Even the missing cat was found almost two weeks later hiding under a bed.  

I have had seasons before when I thought I lost everything.  I thought I understood the meaning of love and friendship taught by many hard life lessons.  Michael brought it all sharply into perspective.  


We found new hope in the future.  Surely God is writing a story of our lives that is not yet complete.  We realized we are surrounded by a community of friends, near and far, who love us deeply. Their generous gifts of food, money, clothes, prayers and kindness overwhelm us.  Our faith in God is stronger than ever.  Having been tested in the fire, we find God is still surrounding us.  Our family ties are stronger and more committed than ever to taking care of each other.  


My friend Jackie called me tearfully several weeks after.  “Why would God do this to you, Tina?  You’re such a good person.  Why would He take so much from you?”


“It’s clear to me, Jackie.  He knew that I would tell of His goodness in the middle of the storm.  I would give Him glory for taking care of us.  I would thank Him for his protection.  I could bemoan what was taken, but instead I will rejoice in what is left.”


Hurricane Michael tried to destroy us, but instead left us with many great gifts.



 

Angel Armies

It was summer and the screen door was the only barrier between me and the evening.  I sat at my desk beside the door so I could see outside while I wrote a class paper.  The yard outside was dark as the streetlight hid behind the towering trees that lined the property between my little cottage and the parking lot beside. 

** Photo Cred: D. Boyte 

Crickets and distant traffic played a quiet song as city life battled nature.

I wrote.  I don’t know what I was writing or for which class.  I was feeling settled and safe.  The cottage was small, but quaint.  My belongings stacked up upon themselves around me.

I loved that the church was across the street.  The church where I volunteered, where I worshiped God, where I connected to people.  I felt less alone. 

I saw a bright light make its way across the lawn and I stood.  It was an odd angle and seemed as though it searched my yard.  I saw a car moving slowly down the street.  Ah, just a car turning the corner.  Back to work. 

Bloomington is a big-small suburb rich with diversity.  I liked it. I hadn’t been there long, only a couple of weeks, but I liked it.  I liked going to Starbucks and hearing several languages.  I liked walking to the grocery store without fear.  I liked that families played at the park and walked along side streets together. 

I heard a “whoosh” and thought I saw a dog run past the open door.  It was frighteningly close.  Instinctively, I jumped up and closed the door.

Before I could lock it I heard a shouting voice from the back of the cottage, the side of the parking lot, the darkest place in the yard. 

“Let me see your hands!  I have a gun.  I’ll shoot.”

“I ain’t got nothin’.”

“I said let me see your hands.  Drop the knife.  I have a gun.  I will shoot you.”

I moved cautiously to the middle of the cottage not sure where the safest place to avoid a stray bullet would be.  I wasn’t even sure where they were or why they were there or who they were. 

“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” I heard my own voice whispering.

Red and blue lights lit the other side of the cottage, the street side, and I realized I was definitely not alone.  Carefully I opened a piece of the blind and looked out.  The street was lined with police cars and officers standing at attention.  Some with guns drawn. 

“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.”

Just outside of the back door I heard a rustle and more angry voices, though I don’t recall what they said.  Emerging from the short walk between the garage and cottage two officers escorted a third man.  Wild hair, messy clothes, slumped shoulders.

I was too stunned to feel afraid or angry or sad.  I watched as they took him to the car, closed the doors, exchanged information and cleared the space.

In retrospect, I find it interesting that no one checked on the cottage inhabitants.  How did they know I was safe?  It almost felt like a dream or a movie or a book with me as the reality scene actress. 

At one point before the exit of the crew the Assistant Pastor, who lived across the street, called me.  

“Kris?  Everything ok over there?”

“Yes.  Inside is ok.  I have no idea what’s happening out there.”

“Ok.  Let me know if you need anything.”

“Thanks.  I will keep you posted.”

No shade on him or his wife for not waiting until the hullabaloo quieted before they crossed the street to check in person.  I sure wouldn’t go out there!

Though this happened many summers ago, I was reminded of it the other day.  I heard a line from a song about the God of Angel Armies being always close.  I wonder how many times I have been minding my own business, doing my own thing, unaware of danger around me because I am surrounded by unseen caretakers. 

There are times I could almost feel the shield.

The time when Kellie and I walked down a late, dark street on our way home and were met by a line of leering, drunken men.  We simply sidestepped them and kept walking as if we didn’t see them.  What stopped them?  Or should I ask what did they see that stopped them?

Accidents avoided, credit cards not stolen, purses recovered untouched… how many times was I obliviously living my daily, scattered life while I was surrounded and protected from harm? 

I’m not trying to be mystic or super spiritual or tell you to look for signs of halos and swords.  I’m just saying that there was a night when I was clearly in danger and I didn’t know it because Someone had sent someone to find someone who meant harm. 

Just in case you were wondering, the bad guy had stabbed someone about a block away from my quiet door step.  He hid in an alcove beneath my window and would have been safe in his darkness had it not been for a K-9 unit dispatched.  The German Shepherd was not fooled by the hiding place and lead the rest of his crew straight to the fugitive.  This story could have ended so many other ways, but God had other plans. 

I believe that God really does care about those details of our lives and He really does send angels to protect us.  Sometimes He even lets us glimpse them. 

Hidden Cost of Missionary Work

I am re-posting this very popular piece.  Not because I'm planning to go overseas anytime soon, but because it is now a sample of what you will find when the Moscow book is finally in print.  I am hopeful that will be soon. 

Also it's a reminder to those who go and those who stay that there are hidden costs and blatant blessings waiting for you. 

God is good.  

Are you planning to go somewhere this year?  Tell me about it!  Let me join your prayer team.

==============================================

There is a hidden cost of missions work that is overlooked.

Yes, it’s expensive to buy plane tickets, food and daily supplies, lodging, transportation.  Those are all budget items that are fairly easy to plan for.  We take our savings or retirement or offerings and sparingly apply them to stretch across the months, or years, we are abroad.  Those are expected expenses and we do our best to be wise.

There is the obvious emotional expense of unfilled heart time.  You know, the deposits made into our lives by those we love while we do everyday life with them.  When you’re abroad, you are not holding your grandchildren when they scrape their knee.  You’re not kissing away the sad days when a dog is lost or a friend moves away.  You’re not listening to the saxophone rehearsal, the reading practice, the math drills.  They can video you in, but it isn’t the same.  Your arms are empty and your heart is drained.  You are glad they are happy and healthy and living well without you, but your arms ache for them. 

Your peers, friends and family, don’t always quite understand why you’re gone, and that’s an emotional drain.  Some of them resent that you aren’t there to help with the life chores.  Someone else has to take mom to the doctor and call you with results.  You can’t be available to babysit or rideshare or decorate.

You pray they have found a new mother figure, a new best friend, a new co-problem solver so they are not facing the problems of life alone. 

You call to catch up and realize you have no idea who is married to whom and when the baby shower will be or what the garden looks like this year.  You realize that moments are slipping away in your time clock which can’t be re-stocked.

It’s hard to communicate what you are seeing and hearing every day.  The market buzz, the language difficulties, the smells of every day life.  You talk about baking banana bread and hoping that you have figured out what the notches on your oven mean.  They smile but can’t understand. 

If you’re really blessed you find a community that becomes a family to you on the field.  You commiserate with them in the morning after the long walk to work.  You hold their babies and plan their birthday parties.  You laugh with them about the awkward language exchanges in a grocery store or metro.  You find familiarity in struggles.  They may be from completely different parts of the world.  Their language base will not be yours, their history will be unknown to you. Yet, you find yourself walking beside them as if you are intrinsically connected.

They are living the same sensations and challenges.  They “get it” without explanation.

All of that is difficult, but not the hardest thing.  The hardest thing is after you’re home.  You return!  Yay!  Everyone rejoices!  There are greeting hugs and special dinners and welcomes of all kinds.  Then day turns to week to month to year.  You realize that your heart is in two places. 

You wonder how your friends over there are managing life. Are they still continuing the things you tried to teach them?  Did they pray today?  Are they reading their Bible?  Is anyone confusing them with a different message of God’s love?  Are they studying?  Are they working together to be better?

The handprints of the expat family members are deep within your memory.  You are glad to be with your family and friends, again, but you miss the others constantly.  You wonder how they are re-settling in their new life.  You pray they have found a new mother figure, a new best friend, a new co-problem solver so they are not facing the strangeness alone. 

You feel guilty for wanting to be back on the field after having missed so many moments with everyone.  You try to swoop back into the common paths, pick up where you left off. 

But you’re different.  You say weird things like, “pass the smetana” and then realize that no one at the table knows what that is.  You stand in a grocery aisle ten times the size of the one you had become comfortable with and feel overwhelmed.  You tear up when someone says the Pledge of Allegiance to the flag while everyone else repeats with boredom.  You watch the news with new insight and have new opinions that no one cares about. 

You try to share it.  That’s not always wise.  “In Russia we….,”  “When I was there …,” You see the glazed eyes of the listener and then the kids tell you it sounds like you’re bragging.  You realize they were busy living a different life which filled your spot in their path.  Meanwhile, your experiences pushed them out and they resent it. 

There is the real cost.  The shaping and pruning which happened while you were being stretched into a useful vessel for the work of God has made you different.  Your family and friends don’t want a new you – they liked the old one well enough. 

Why would someone pay all of those expenses?  Why would someone give up life-moments to go somewhere far away and face untold challenges?  Why would someone cash out retirement and savings to live like a pauper during – and after – a missions trip?  Is it worth it?

Each individual has their own answer to those questions.  For me, I see my life as a gift from God.  I know the failures I have amassed, the foolishness that I walked into full of purpose only to find my life at risk, my money gone, my need for a grace-full Savior to get me out of a mess.  My every day is a present.  I don’t deserve it.  I look at the full, good life of my family.  They live surrounded by goodness and hardly notice.  They are healthy, strong, creative Christians.  I know those are gifts from God and I owe God in return.  Not only my family, but also my abilities.  If I am able to teach and love, it’s only because God has shown me how.  Statistically, that’s not how I should have turned out. 

But God… in His goodness has made me who I am.

When He opened the opportunity, I was compelled to go.  I could not say no.  Not to Moscow, not to Milwaukee, not to wherever He sends me next. 

Is it worth it?  It is.  When I look back at all of the details of my life, when I consider the experiences and the sharing and the praying and the blessings … in spite of the cost … I would do it again.  I am richer for it.  I have learned to hold my memories in boxes.  There is an American box full of fireworks and coffee sipping.  There is a Russian box full of walking and laughter.   There are boxes full of brilliant, rich friendships. 

Life is full of complications wherever you are.  You may as well go where God sends you.  Live fully.  Don’t be afraid to do what is at the end of your hands to do.  Don’t be disappointed when a door closes.  Trust the Author and Finisher of your faith to know what is best. 

In the end, you will find a blessed life with full pages. 

Easter - Death and Life

I must always consider this season greater than others.  I see rainy, sunny, cold, snowy, sunny Sundays in my Easter history.  It’s always in Spring – the season I dislike more than any other.  Spring has taken so much from me. Mocked me with its motto of new life by taking those who I love the most.  Taunting me with bright skies as it clogged the air, making breathing for this asthmatic simply painful.

For God to come to me over and again so personally in Spring is always a surprise.  

It was Easter season at a Lutheran Church when He spoke very clearly to me, “take up your cross and follow Me.”  I have no idea if anyone else heard Him, but I did.  I can still see the austere arched ceiling, hear the creak of the wooden pews, smell the 100-year old stale air.  Feel the pull of a Force I struggled to understand. 

It echoed the words of yesteryears when I, as a very young girl in Catechism class, went through the Stations of the Cross.  I recall standing before Simon wishing I could have been there.  I vowed I would have done the same. I wanted to be Veronica wiping the face of Jesus, caring for Him.  Easter promises never forgotten. 

Another year, another difficult season in my life, I made my way to church to honor Him for Easter Mass.  I remember the rain, the crowd, what I wore.  Alone in the crowd, the service did nothing to fill my emptiness.  I stood on the steps outside waiting for my ride and considered the fresh cleanness of the air.  Wondering if God could give my life some cleanness, some freshness.  Was I too deeply entrenched in sin that I couldn’t be forgiven anymore?

Through that year, He worked on my life and my heart.  Turning everything I knew upside down.  Conflicts, problems, situations compounded as I struggled to make sense of my life.  My survivor skills were in high gear that year.  Again and again I felt Him reaching for me until finally He compelled me to take a chance on Him.  Lay down my life.  Shift my paradigms.  Face the fear of rejection.  He showed me I needed to die for Him to breathe new life into me. 

A kind voice, a simple message, a clear direction.  Repent – die.  Be baptized – buried.  Be filled with the Spirit of God – born again. 

Simple, but profoundly life changing.  To this day, 32 years later, I can’t explain to someone what happened or how.  It’s my experience alone.  I can retell the story.  I can write about it, talk about it, draw about it.  But there are no words or pictures that can really describe the girl who went into the water and the one who came out.  Not perfect, but new. 

Now, so many Springs later, I still see the joy of life He has given.  Never breaking His word, never leaving me.  There have been dark and difficult days when it was hard to see how I would ever make my way through.  Poverty of love, money, abundance of heartache and lack of peace days. 

Never has He forsaken me, though I deserved to be left behind.  Never has He let go of me, even when I tried to pull myself away. 

The slightest whisper, the smallest gesture, the minimalist plea – He has heard.  Never turning himself away from me.    

Spring.  Easter.  Death and life all twisted together.  Thanks, God.  I am so grateful.