Monose's 'Pocket Full of Miracles'

My sister has asked me to tell you of my dear Haitian friend and sister in Christ, whose name is Monose.  There's much to tell, and I'll try to do my best to tell it here.

Monose is a Haitian "nurse" on the island of La Gonave. I say "nurse" in quotations because where they lack some of the training of stateside nurses, and could never practice nursing here, they excel in other areas by being able to deliver babies, suture, diagnose and prescribe for simple diseases, unlike our stateside RN's --  and most all trained by the missionary staff.

Now, I couldn't say for sure when I first met her, I can only say when I first became aware of her.  It was my second short term trip to Haiti in 1988, and I didn't know any of the Haitian staff by name or very well at all.  Not knowing the language makes it so difficult to learn those little facts that set people apart in your memory  when you're meeting 100+  people in the space of a month's time.  I didn't know her name, I didn't know who she was, really nothing about her.  Then, my second visit to the country, I was walking across the hospital compound when I heard a small yell and was suddenly nearly knocked over by a woman throwing herself in my arms in a tight embrace, and saying something in Creole in my ear.  The missionary said, "She is so sweet.  This is Monose, one of our nurses.  She's saying how happy she is to see you again, that you didn't forget them," and my throat choked up, closed with tears.  Though I did love the times I spent in Haiti, and enjoyed the Haitian people so much, most of the time I DID forget them, didn't pray for them, couldn't even remember this woman who was so grateful for my return.  I returned her embrace warmly, but had no words.  The other missionary said some words to Monose, and with a sweet smile, she went on her way.

Years later, I went on the mission field for what I hoped would be a lifetime, and Monose became a dear friend.  We would have long talks, and she was one person of a couple Haitians that I could trust to really "tell me like it is" if I was having trouble in my cross-cultural relationships with the Haitians. Met Rousevel Michel was another, though Monose was always biased to my side. Met Rous, on the other hand, never hesitated to tell me what a hot-head I could be!  Bless them both!!  I really needed her support and his gentle and wise words of reproach!

Over the years, as I knew Monose, she got married to Met Harold (Met = teacher and is a title) and so, formally, became Madame Harold. Haitians would traditionally, and for formality's sake, take not only their husband's last name, as we usually do, but their first as well.  But Madame Harold was still Monose to me.  She had a son, and later, a daughter -- but by the time she had her daughter, health reasons had called me off the mission field.  I still miss her terribly.

Now where I served as a missionary, and where Monose lives, is a large island in the bay of Haiti off the coast of Port-au-Prince.  It is called La Gonave.  When I was there it was especially primitive. Our water ran by gravity by pipes from high in the mountains to our homes and to the village wells, but had to be boiled or treated before used.  Our only electricity was by our own generators, and our stoves and fridges ran on propane.  No phones.  No internet.  No TV.  It was, in many ways, idyllic, in that sense, if it wasn't so hot!  No fans, you see, never any AC. Mail came by plane to Port-Au-Prince and then to us by boat about once a month.

Our small 34 bed hospital served the island of 100,000.  We had the hospital, lab (microscope, a centrifuge, limited lab tests, no chemistries), clinic, one operating room, an x-ray machine that looked to me from WWII until Samaritan's Purse got us a new one and built a building to store it!  Complicated cases had to go by boat across 12 miles of sea, then by bus 2 hours to get to Port-au-Prince if they had really serious problems, or across the sea to St. Marc and another small hospital that had a surgeon sometimes.  But we would have surgical teams from the States come and do non-urgent surgeries we'd saved up for them, and our pediatrician, Marilyn, learned how to do C-Sections because so many women died trying to get to a hospital from La Gonave when they needed one.  Monose was one of our staff trained in the operating room to assist in these surgeries.  She's a good woman.

After I left the mission field, in 1998 I believe it was, a surgical team from Indiana was visiting our hospital in on La Gonave.  As I understand it, the day the team was leaving for home in the US, Monose woke that morning to find a lump on her breast. With fear and trembling, she went to the surgical team.  Prayerfully, the team removed the lump that very day, as transportation waited for them, to take them from the island to return them to home.  The tissue was placed in a proper medium for transport and the team went home with their precious cargo and Monose's hopes for good news.

The pathology report came back:  breast cancer.  Monose, in Haiti, limited resources, seemingly no options, faced what in that country is usually a death sentence.  To those of us who loved her, it was a terrible shock.  But God was at work in the hearts of those in the surgical team, who loved Haiti, and still do, who are still active in that country, in that hospital, on La Gonave.

First, Steve and Diane F. opened their home to Monose for as long as she would need to be there.  They are both physicians, and through their work, and the workings of their friends and friends of Haiti, a hospital in Indianapolis donated the operating room time and her room;  the anesthesiologist donated his time, the surgeon donated HIS time -- everyone wanted to be a part of helping Monose live!  I contacted the mission headquarters and found out they needed a translator, as Monose speaks no English, and they accepted me as a volunteer to go and be translator. I would stay with Steve and Diane and their family with Monose, to help care for her.  Of course, I had just started a job, had no vacation time -- but my employer decided to pay me for the time anyway -- more answers to prayer! Dear and loving friends of mine gave me their precious frequent flyer miles to make the trip, and money to give to Monose for whatever need she might have.

Now -- Monose would be flying by way of  Florida, CONNECTING IN O'HARE, of all places, then to Indianapolis.  Alone.  She had never been out of Haiti. Never been on a plane.  Never in a big city.  Not speaking English.  I thought and thought.  Then remembered Christine's sister in Chicago!  Sure enough, when Monose landed in Chicago, there was Katherine, supplied with Haitian pharases, to meet her and get her on the next plane!  Kathy even found a guy who spoke the language to help, if I remember right, to explain a flight delay.  What are the odds??  Pretty good, if God is in control!  I asked Monose, later, about that flight.  One, she was too frightened to eat, and people kept trying to feed her!  Second, she felt flying in a plane was OK as long as she kept her eyes inside the "little house" of the plane.  If she looked out the window at the clouds and distant sea -- well, it was better to just keep looking inside the "little house"!

At last Monose and I met in Indianapolis, and I stayed with her through her surgery and her initial recovery.  It was wonderful to see her, and her surgery went so well.  We had a great time later, too, once she started feeling better, as we watched two movies together on TV, and I translated simultaneously as we watched.  The first, "The Fantastic Voyage" where they travel through the human body in a mini space ship, she thought ridiculous, but I thought she might like because of her knowledge of medicine.  But then we saw "Cool Runnings", about the Jamaican Olympic Bobsled team, with John Candy, and she thoroughly enjoyed that one. We did some shopping, with money people in my church had sent her, so she could buy gifts to take to her family, and she bought herself some clothing so she would feel as if she fit in more.

I took her to her follow up doctor appointments, and, oh, all the good reports! We talked and talked, and were sad when it was time to say good by.  We both knew we might not see each other again, because I didn't know if I'd ever get back to Haiti again.  We prayed together and I cried on the plane.  Found out later she cried all the way home from the airport after dropping me off.

She's not much for writing letters, even when I do write.  Just not something she ever learned to do, so we don't really write.  But I know that at any time we could get together and it would be as if no time passed.

I saw her again, in 2008, 10 years after her surgery, and she looked great.  She got her miracle, thanks to God and all those who helped make it happen.  The cancer has never come back!  When I saw her, it was like 1988 all over again, me in the hospital yard and suddenly nearly being knocked off my feet by a woman throwing herself into my arms.  Monose.

Of course, this time I understood the words.

"Summer Should Get a Speeding Ticket"

          "Summer should get a speeding ticket" was the comment on Facebook that I read, I wish I'd thought of it.  Very clever.  There certainly is some truth in it.  Time has gone by so quickly, this summer, I'm certain it has truly MELTED away from the amount of heat that we've had.  I don't remember ever having such unbearably hot days, and I grew up without air conditioners, or even a fan in my bedroom.  We knew some hot nights, but, man, I don't remember people literally dying from the heat or my tapered candles literally melting and bowing down in subjection to it.  Crazy days.

          I was thinking today of some of the fun summers I've had in the past, because, frankly, this summer was not my best. I took my vacation really early in the season, and the heat, for me, put a damper on all 3 months.  I didn't go to any picnics, didn't see any fireworks, didn't even go out to canoe or kayak, not even ONCE.  But now that the weather is cooler, I hope to start acting like I do more in life than sit at a desk and work.

Lunatic Thrill-seeker

          Once I'm out on the lake, I enjoy canoeing, but especially kayaking, because it's so maneuverable, I suppose, so fast.  Because kayaks are so light, they're much less work, and you can talk to the person your kayaking with because you're side by side, not in front and back.  And if you're in an area where there are speedboats, it's fun to jump their wash.  But I didn't always admire kayaking, let me tell you.  I'd always associated kayaking with those lunatic thrill-seekers on Wide World of Sports riding rapids and spinning around under water in what looked to me like giant pickles.  Not fun, to me, but a death wish.  Anyway, to proceed: 

          It was probably about 10 years ago that my friend, Christine, and I took a trip to Long Beach Island, NJ, and decided to take an "Eco-tour" through wetlands by kayak there.  They were ocean kayaks, where you sit on top, you're not inside, and they were long, flat, and we each had one.  I had a wonderful time paddling around in it, I fell in love with the thing!  Afterward, driving back to our hotel, I told Christine that I'd been a fool to think my canoe was the only way to go -- we NEEDED kayaks.

          "GREAT!!"  She exclaimed, "Because right now, end of season, a lot of places have used ones for a good price!"  With that, we came upon a souvenir shop on the bay side that, besides the usual junk, also had used kayaks for sale. Christine whipped the car into the parking lot..  She went off to look at kayaks to her heart's content while I got to look at T-shirts, etc, all the usual junk you feel you can't live without while you're at the beach, but can never understand why you bought once you get home.  (My apartment used to be FULL of little sand castles, carved men in yellow slickers smoking pipes, a miniature wooden pier with a plastic gull perched on top, etc, like I was somehow nautical, but actually get quite seasick and live hundreds of miles from the ocean.  These things usually end up in our bathrooms, which is puzzling to me, but the subject of another blog:  Why do we think bathrooms have anything to do with the ocean?)

          I'd only been shopping for a short time, when I felt Christine excitedly tap my shoulder.  She'd found a kayak she wanted me to check out.  I obediently followed, thinking we were going to be heading toward the bay.  To my surprise, she led me to a bright yellow single kayak with a "keyhole" sitting arrangement.  In other words, though you wouldn't flip all around upside down in it, you sat INSIDE it, not on top.  More puzzling, it wasn't on water, it was in front of the shop, in the parking lot, about 5 feet from the major 4 lane Long Beach Island road.  "Try this and see what you think!"  Chris said, indicating the bright yellow kayak, that if not a pickle, looked like a banana, anyway. Skeptically, I began to get in the thing, while Christine and the owner, a woman about 65, watched.

          Now, Christine, a trim athlete, teaches fitness and such things at a nearby university.  I am the polar opposite.  I was kinda round, (now I'm decidedly round) and have an Olympic Gold in Sedentary.  As I slid into the Monster Banana, Christine remarked she thought perhaps the hole was a little tight on her, what did I think?  I looked at her in amazement as my humonga-butt settled in.  "WHAT???  It was tight on YOU and you just let ME get in???"

          I couldn't bend my knees because I was in a long, skinny 'banana' and I had really bad arthritic knees. I hadn't had my knee replacements yet, see.  Uh oh.  "Uh, Christine, I can't get out!"  The owner's eyebrows shot up in alarm.  "I'm serious, I can't get out!"  I tried to push on the kayak, but it was plastic, and I was afraid it would buckle.  I couldn't help myself, I started to giggle, which got Christine going.  Soon, she and the owner each had an arm and were pulling.  I began to wonder how it would look when the old lady dropped from the heart attack she was brewing by lifting me AND the kayak 3 inches off the ground, as it was firmly wedged around my posterior.

          Then I noticed we had an audience, 4 lanes of it, plus souvenir shoppers in the parking lot.  Thank goodness I didn't have a bathing suit on, though if I did I might be easier to grease up with Vaseline or KY Jelly...

          FINALLY, I managed to turn on my side, have Christine and the owner hold on to the kayak, and with effort, wiggled like a snake onto the parking lot, where I lay for awhile, breathless with laughing.  (I don't THINK there was a pop, like cork out of a bottle.)  Christine sat next to me, laughing, while the owner examined the kayak.  We waved a good bye to the onlookers and scurried to the car, where I proceeded to sit on the floor, unseen, but giggling, still.  We didn't buy any kayaks on that day, but when I did, I assure you, it was a sit on top.  I've since used kayaks where you've sat inside, but I've mentally measured them up pretty carefully first, knowing that if I'd had so much as a dime in my pocket that day, I'd have been learning how to accessorize a kayak for high fashion!
         

"I was in prison and you came to visit Me."

Something kind of monumental happened several weeks ago, and it's a sad commentary on the busyness of life that I'm just getting around to writing about it now.

I was a teenager when I came to faith in Christ, and I think it's special how God reached me.  It's certainly special to me!  I was a "churched" youngster.  My parents sent me to Sunday School as a child, and we attended church with periods of faithfulness, then dry stretches of non-attendance.  But I had an amiable relationship with God, I thought. I certainly had a belief in His existence, though He had little to do with my daily life.  I don't believe I would have enjoyed it much if He HAD interfered too very much in my affairs.

I had a flair for music, a singer, but unfortunately chose the clarinet to play in the school band.  My brother has been quoted as saying that no one, but NO ONE, except Benny Goodman, should ever attempt to play the clarinet.  I'm sure his strong feelings come from my early attempts at getting sound from that stubborn instrument and its finicky bamboo reed.  I finally gave it up and my parents bought me a guitar.  I was 16 and eventually taught myself notes, then chords, then even picking.  In 2 years I was adequate, and one of my high school teachers asked me to her apt. one evening for dinner, and to bring my guitar, as she played a bit as well.

I'm digressing a bit -- let me just say that she was a Christian and wanted to start a Bible Study in her home for students and faculty of my high school, and wanted me to be a part of it.  You see, she thought I was a believer already, though I wasn't.  The very first study it was all faculty and me -- and I received Christ as my personal Savior that very night.  It was truly, for me, a trip from darkness to light. 

Photo Copyright Associated Press

About that same time, as God was speaking to my heart, enlightening the muddle of my mind to see His Truth, He was doing the same thing in a mind far superior to my own.  He was at work in the heart and mind of a man named Charles Wendell Colson.  Because we came to Faith around the same time, I've felt a kind of kinship with him over the years.

Charles Colson was President Nixon's "hatchet man", a term he coined to describe himself.  I was just beginning to grasp politics, just starting to watch the evening news and trying to piece things together.  The news was full of the Watergate Hearings, and the name Chuck Colson was like Satan, the man who said he'd walk over his own grandmother for Nixon.  He was ambitious, was a liar, a crook, and had a heart of stone.  So everyone I knew said.

What we did not immediately know was that God had taken hold of that "heart of stone" and was turning it to flesh.  Sometimes we have to reach bottom to look up to God, and Colson had reached the bottom.  A Christian friend had given him C.S. Lewis' book Mere Christianity to read, and it had a profound effect on Chuck.  It turned him to belief and faith in God.  It melted his heart and brought him to his knees.  He was never the same again.  Against legal advice, he pleaded guilty to the charges against him and went to prison for obstruction of justice.  It was, he said, "a price I had to pay to complete the shedding of my old life and to be free to live the new."

His conversion was met with skepticism and mocking by the press and comediennes.  These were, over time, largely silenced, when as a result of his prison term, Chuck Colson became involved in prison reform, founding The Prison Fellowship Ministries.  He devoted the rest of his life to working on behalf of those behind bars around the world.

His Washington Post obituary notes:  "The ministry he founded in 1976 grew into a worldwide movement with branches in more that 110 different countries....In addition to befriending prisoners and converting them to Christianity, Mr. Colson established a rehabilitation program that aimed to cut the recidivism rate..."  (Washington Post, April 21, Michael Dobbs)

He also showed concern for the families of prisoners through his Angel Tree program, which makes sure that the children of prisoners have gifts for Christmas, even though one or both parents may be in prison, through donations of people like you and me.

I was very moved after I read Chuck's autobiography, Born Again, many years ago.  He was a man who, unfortunately like many celebrities who become Christians, have every move, every stumble, broadcasted and examined by a skeptical public, and are so open to ridicule.  How many of us, in our early days of faith could stand that kind of scrutiny?

The world lost a true giant of the Christian Faith when Chuck passed on to Glory and his reward.  He was a man of real integrity. It's hard for me as I see some of the real powerhouses of God age and move on, and I wonder who of us will take their place.  We are so into ourselves, and so lack the service and sacrifice of some of our elders, some of the "greats" of our past.  It was hard for me to see Dr. James Kennedy pass on.  I pray for Charles Stanley as now he sits down to deliver his messages, though I love and admire his son, Andy, and his ministry.  But time marches on and I wouldn't deny these men the rest and reward they so richly deserve. 

Charles Colson was a dedicated Christian man that I greatly admired.  He was articulate, he was immersed in Scripture, and knew how to apply it to our daily lives.  I loved his books, I loved to listen to his radio program, "Breakpoint", as he shared brief bits of Biblical wisdom, and how Scripture applied to our society today.  He was a man who really "stayed the course."

It's not a course I would want.  Prisons and prisoners scare me, and I'm wondering if I'm disobedient for not EVER visiting prisoners in prison!

"Then the righteous will answer him, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thristy and give you something to drink?  When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you?  When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?'

"The King will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.'                                                       Matthew 25:37 - 40

He was a man, I believe, who will hear as he stands before his Maker, Savior, and King:

                          "Well done, thou good and faithful servant."

Photo Pat Burdette

Little Einsteins

OK, OK, I admit it.  I'm biased, I'm prejudiced, I have no objectivity at all when it comes to my four nephews (all wonderful and brilliant young men), or their wives, (fine young women, 99.9999% worthy of them), and I am ready to accept the girlfriends of the unmarried ones, too.  Right after they pass the IQ and integrity exams, followed by the grueling obstacle course in Quantico. 

But all of these over protective feelings  pale in comparison to those I have for this angel pictured here, A______, my great-niece.  Certainly pretty, as stubborn and pig-headed as anyone with Pennsylvania German blood flowing in their veins OUGHT to be -- but also musical and intelligent.  Yet her intelligence has a strange little bent.  In other words, she fits right in with our family.  She was 2 years old in December 2011.

I knew she was her mother's daughter at first, because she likes dresses.  I would have worn jeans to my high school prom if I could have found a dress made of denim.  But, not to worry, because she's musical like I am, and has my will of iron. and a temper.  I pray she doesn't go through everything I had to go through to learn to control it!

Anyway, she is a real mother to her dolls, so she's one up on me in that department.  When I was even older than two, my dolls often found themselves upside down in a corner with extremities askew and bald patches.  Hers are all named, in bed, and covered up.  Completely, even heads, faces.  When they sleep they look like a line of corpses in a morgue, but they will never catch a draft!  And if you have the audacity to uncover a face here and there, or a nose to peek out for oxygen, she will squeal, run over, and cover the offending face again.  Cadavers, every last one.

She's been watching Little Einsteins, lately.  I've never seen the show myself, but I understand that music plays a part.  Some are the classics that I love, Vivaldi, Mozart, Beethoven, Handel.  Amazing.  A________ LIKES the music.  My nephew was out with her in the car driving one day and she requested daddy put on "Little Einstein music."  Yes, she wished to hear the classics.  So now he's gone out and purchased some of the music for them to listen to.

Recently she named her feet.  Please keep in mind she is TWO YEARS OLD.  One foot is named Ella (for Ella Fitzgerald, I think?) and the other Sousa -- for John Philip Sousa, the composer.  I kid you not.  Not long after the christening, her feet were banging against each other and making spectacles of themselves.  When questioned she told her mother that Ella and Sousa were "fighting".  How cute is that?  And creative!

To continue to gush with just one more story -- today my sister, her grandmother, wrote me the latest A______ story.  They had been at the playground, and after they'd left and were driving home in the car, it began to rain.

"Rain, rain, go away,
Come again another day," they sang together.

 Then Little Einsteins raised its head again.  A_______ said "Let's sing it again, only this time, louder -- you know ... CRESCENDO!"

How are we ever going to keep up with this child?

Not "Tin-Grin", but "Knickle Knees"

    For some obscure reason, when I was young, I wanted braces on my teeth and eyeglasses.  The eyeglasses I got, and as soon as I could, traded them for contact lenses.  The dental braces I never got.  But in later years I got something much more permanent, though concealed:  bilateral total knee replacements.

     For the first surgery I had no idea what to expect, no realization of the amount of pain I would experience and the torture physical therapy would bring about (though I did have the benefit of meeting a life-long friend and dear Christian sister in my physical therapist).  The mere SIZE of the incision was a shock to me, as was one of my nurses' description of the actual surgery.  I don't know WHY I didn't research the whole thing a bit more before I did the first one, the right knee, but it had to be done.  It wouldn't really have mattered what gruesome details I was privy to, I suppose.

     A different surgeon did the second knee, and it was night and day.  They went through every disgusting little detail, even showed me what the prosthetic device looked like that they were putting in.  I knew more than I think I WANTED to know about it all.  There was one last parting pearl of information to impart to me, and the pre-op educator did it with great gravity.

     "Listen," the nurse said seriously, "Dr. __________ has a tremendous record of NO INFECTIONS with his surgeries.  One reason is that if you have so much as ONE TINY SCRATCH on your leg, one cut, he will CANCEL your surgery.  Don't even shave your leg before surgery, we will do that.  GUARD THAT LEG from cuts, scratches, ANYTHING that might cut it, DO YOU UNDERSTAND???"

     I solemnly crossed my heart and hoped to die if I got one little boo boo on my leg before surgery.  Then the weekend before surgery my friend, Christine, and my sister, Kathy, and I packed up and went to the beach, Long Beach Island, NJ, for the weekend!  WHOO HOO.

Barnagat Light, Long Beach Island

     Now, my sister and I have always loved going to the shore together, a kind of "girls only" trip.  I love my sis, we have a great time.  Christine's not much for sitting on the beach, but will tolerate it for our sake.  But we love Long Beach Island because there is no boardwalk, only beach, and the lighthouse, and quaint shops, peace and quiet, and we sit on the beach, play games, read, people-watch, talk, sleep.  Now, ever since the movie "Jaws" and the time one August we were overcome by jellyfish in the surf, we are not much for actual SWIMMING in the ocean, but usually we go in for a bit.  For us, on this particular vacation, this is where the trouble began.

Jetty at the lighthouse, bay side

     You see, in a way it was the surgeon's fault.  I probably NEVER would have even gone IN the water if he hadn't said not to get even a tiny scratch.  But, as fate would have it, I DID go in the water that day.

     My sister, Christine, and I were slowly strolling out into the surf, talking together.  The sea was pretty rough, the breakers hard, high, and frequent, so we had decided not to go too far out.  I was mid-sentence, I think, and a little less than knee-deep in water, when I took a step forward with my stronger right leg -- my left leg, the one to be operated on, fairly useless.

     Suddenly I felt nothing in front of me, under my forward foot!  I began to fall forward as I walked right off the end of a drop off.  "So I said to heeeeeeeeeEEEEEE --  AAAAAAAAHHHHHH!"    Christine made a grab for me, but down I went, landing right on my posterior.  I had no glasses on, and was facing the beach, but glanced behind me just in time to see what looked like a tsunami wave ready to break over me.  "NOOOOOOOOOOOO -- glub glub...." and I was turned over and over, butt over head in 3 feet of water, sand and sea creatures in my hair, feet, I am sure, flailing in the air.

     I came up, hair over my eyes and some seaweed draped prettily over one ear, and sputtering.  Christine was still trying to make a grab for my arm, calling for my sister's help.  I glanced at my sister, and she was helpless with laughter, holding her stomach and doubled over.

     Suddenly, without even seeing it coming, I was hit again with another driving wave, and there I was, feet in the air, head in the sand.  Charming, I must look so charming, I thought.  Christine was trying to get a grip on me, clawing ridges in my forearm.  When I caught sight I my sister again I think she was in danger of drowning from laughter, she was very nearly falling into the water herself.  I was thinking I could have saved myself a lot of trouble if I'd drowned her as an infant.

     I was so hindered by my bad knee I just COULD NOT regain my footing, and I began to look like the creature from the black lagoon with each successive wave, covered in sand, shells, seaweed, small sea life and who knows what.  Finally, a man waded out from the beach to help, a smoking butt hanging from his mouth.  He was so untroubled by the waves that, I swear, the ash did not fall from his cigarette.  He and Christine each grabbed an arm and helped me up, and I was able to get my bad leg under me.  We thanked him profusely and he waded back to shore.  My sister weakly followed behind, still periodically giggling.

     I probably got another 5 paces before a particularly nasty wave hit me in the back of the knees and -- you guessed it -- down I went yet again.  Words can not describe the humiliation of flopping around in that shallow water, trying to get up, hearing Christine call, "Oh, man?  Oh, ma-an?" she sing-songed sweetly.  "Can you help us one more time?  We promise we're going in to shore now."

     The man waded out yet again, tossing his butt into the water.  Up I got again, with the help of the three of them, my sister having recovered from her seizures and fits of hilarity.  Christine said to the man, as a comfort and a promise, "We really ARE going to spend the rest of the day on shore!"  I tried to thank him myself with as much dignity as I could muster, with my hair plastered to my head so oddly and decorated with the treasures of the deep.

     As we finally accomplished land I hopefully said, "Do you think anyone noticed what was going on?"

     My sister and friend looked at me with pity.   "Oh, I'm sure no one noticed."

     Secretly we all knew we'd be the discussion around many a blanket, towel, and dinner table, and possibly the subject of a home video or two.  Oh well, everybody loves a clown......

     And my surgery?  Well, it was with heavy heart I showed the pre-op nurse the tell-tale scratch on my knee on the morning of surgery.  She looked at me, her lips a tight straight line, looking like an old west hanging judge.  She said she'd check with the doctor and left.  I sighed.

     Soon the doctor appeared and with a serious face examined the 3/4" shallow scratch on my knee.  Probed it, squeezed it, pushed, pulled.

     "No,"  he said with a brilliant smile, "completely superficial.  We'll go ahead with surgery!"  I threw my arms around him with joy.

     Now I have two metal knees, and I can't get through airport security stark naked.  But, by golly, I'll bet I'm a better match for those LBI waves now!!!

Hunger Games

OK, I admit it.  I read the first book, The Hunger Games.  I confess I found it pretty riveting.  I could not put the book down, and when I had to leave it, to cook or help with something around the house, I did those chores with only a very small part of my mind.  Most of my mind was in Panem, in the Arena.

Copyright Lions Gate Films

At first I was amazed as I read the book. No cussing at all, no using the Lord's name in vain.  No sex at all, just some chaste kissing and sharing a cave for warmth.  The main characters seemed to have a moral center -- caring for their family and friends in bleak and terrible circumstances, usually caring for them sacrificially, lovingly.  Though the protagonists, Gale and Katniss, and later Peeta, had a core of anger about their circumstances, they were not cruel to those around them, but directed it toward those responsible, not blindly taking it out on the innocent weaker ones around them, like bullies.  I found myself drawn in to their pain, their pride, their struggles to stay alive.

Of course, there is real violence in Panem.  I know I'm giving nothing away when I tell you that there was a great rebellion many years before, against the Capitol, and when it was finally beat down, District 13 was utterly destroyed and the other 12 districts enslaved and starved by the Capitol.  Each District specialized in something, be it textiles, electronics, fruit orchards, fishing, or coal mining, as was district 12's specialty, but all for the benefit of the Capitol. They live in luxury, while the rest starve.  District 12, the coal mining district, is where Katniss, Gale, the young man who teaches Katniss all she knows of hunting and snares, and Peeta, the baker's son, all live. To remind the Districts of their enslavement to the Capitol, the people are starved and kept captive.  In addition, once a year they  have a lottery, and one girl and one boy between the ages of 12 and 17, called "tributes", have to go into an arena of some large area of a different climate every year, of  unknown hardships and traps. There they must find weapons, somehow survive by overcoming the hardships of the arena's environment, and by killing each other until there is One Survivor.  They called these horrible "games" the Hunger Games -- I forget why.  Maybe because if you win, you and your family get enough food for the rest of your lives, though your family members' names still get put in the pot for future lotteries, as well as any children you might have..  Just not your name.  You are "safe" from the Arena, but not from the heartbreak of seeing your loved ones go through the trauma of waiting to see if their names are picked, or if they must actually go.

I'm taking a long time to explain all this -- sorry! To hurry along,  Katniss' family consists only of her mother and her little sister, an innocent, named Primrose.  Katniss hunts and is as tough as Primrose is gentle, young and protected from the harshness of life by Katniss.  It is Primrose's first year to have a name put in, just one slip of paper, but Katniss has her name in many times, on many slips of paper, having an extra paper in for each time she procured extra food for her family and because of her age.  For each year after the age of 12, they put and extra slip in (one name slip age 12, two name slips age 13, etc), so your chances increase with age, plus the extra slips for extra food.  Prim is nervous, but Katniss tells her how unlikely it is, out of the thousands of names, that Primrose will be chosen, as she only has one paper in those thousands to be picked.

Of course, Primrose's name is picked!  Katniss knows this is a death sentence for Primrose, so she volunteers to take Primrose's place. (I remember Jesus in the Gospel of John:  "Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends."  John 15:13)  So Katniss takes her sister's place in the Arena, even though she feels it is her own death sentence.  But she takes comfort in knowing that her family will at least get extra food for a month just because she went, even if she doesn't come back a Victor, and Gale promises to look out for them after her death, even as she would have done for him.


I won't share any more, except to say that Peeta is the boy chosen to go, and THAT has it's own set of difficulties for Katniss. She doesn't know him well, but the one time they had contact as children it was when he saved her and her family from starving by giving her some bread, even though he was beaten for it.  She is sorry that someone she knows, and was kind to her, is now someone she will have to kill to survive.


In the Arena, what fascinated me wasn't the hunt, one for another to the death, though it had some interest in her cleverness, but the things Katniss did to survive in her environment -- the ways she found food, kept warm, found water, etc., and yes, the ways she eluded her predators.  Her love for Rue, a fellow tribute, who reminds her so much of her little sister, and her agonizing over the thought she may have to eventually kill her, as well as Peeta, for whom she begins to have feelings.

But I wondered, as I read the first book, how really far we are from the Hunger Games?  I'm sickened, when I flip to on TV, by what I see, and I've taken to mostly watching old movies or nothing at all.  The author, Suzanne Collins, said she wrote The Hunger Games kind of in reaction to Reality Shows, and  I despise most of them myself.  She fears we are becoming more and more hardened to human suffering and we will end up like The Hunger Games, missing the humanity in those around us, without compassion, without love, without pity.  I've wondered about this myself.  The author is concerned that as we, in these reality shows, continually watch people suffer, it becomes unreal, and we become hardened to it, just as the Roman Empire became hardened to the violence of the Colosseum, which is what The Hunger Games' Arena is, of course, modeled after.

I mean, is there no limit to the humiliation we will watch others go through for entertainment?  I absolutely can not bear to see it.  Intervention shows, shows where you get to watch people argue out infidelities, paternity, same-sex travesties, do interventions for their addicted family members, go on dates with a bunch of people while we watch them choose mates, even swap wives for awhile to see how the new wives handle the family -- and more.  There are some family dynamics that were meant to be PRIVATE, and some not to be explored at all!  We become so HARDENED to these things, we have no feelings anymore for what is evil, what is painful, we lose all compassion for each other, it all becomes ONE BIG SHOW.  


As a culture, we are just a step away from the Arena.

In the old movies I watch, the violence is virtually bloodless.  Maybe not realistic, usually bad guy that is shot has a half dollar spot of blood where the bullet went in and a small trickle of blood from the corner of their mouths.  That was it, but you got the idea.  There used to be a rule in the studios that no bad guy could prosper.  Movies today, the violence is slow, bloody, the camera lovingly scanning over the body as the bullet wrecks destruction, the knife mutilation, or whatever.  Teen horror movies are the worst, I can't watch them at all, the Friday the 13th, Final Destinations, and the rest, with each death more horrible than the last.  No brains to the plots, just more and more gore.

When I was in Creative Writing class in High School I don't think I learned much, but one thing my teacher said really stuck in my mind.  He was talking about sex in novels or movies and what constituted pornography.  He said "A love scene takes you to the bedroom door and stops, the rest is imagination. Pornography takes you beyond the bedroom door."  By that definition we have a lot of porn during Prime Time TV.  VERY LITTLE IS LEFT TO THE IMAGINATION!!

What is my point to all of this??  I have a few.


One:  In every generation we are becoming more and more hardened to the sex and violence in our culture, tolerating more and more.  This is no good for us as a culture.  We are speeding ahead to our death:  a death of morality, of conscience, and of people. 


Two:  Christians want to be able to "engage the culture", but at what point do we harm ourselves and our children by letting too much in?  We don't want our kids to be geeky morons that get picked on, but we don't want to lose them for the infinitely more important eternal, either.  It's a fine line.  I spoke to a dear friend once, who has great kids, but one is straying from the Lord.  I asked her, even before he was straying, if she would have done anything different while raising her boys.  She said, "I would have monitored their TV more, things like that.  Been more strict about what I let in to influence them."  Would things be different for her youngest?  Who knows.  You can do everything right, and a child can go away for awhile.  You can only do your best and pray.  But do we want to make it harder for them?  It's a fine line, and I don't have children, so who am I to say???  But I wonder if we are losing our children in the church because we give them too much.  Too much materially, and too much of our sick culture.


Three:  Am I willing to give up the things I enjoy if I think they are harmful to me in subtle ways, or worse, to those around me?  It really is the heart of 1 Corinthians 10:23,24,31-33, I think.

“Everything is permissible”—but not everything is beneficial. “Everything is permissible”—but not everything is constructive. ²⁴ Nobody should seek his own good, but the good of others...... ³¹ So whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God. ³² Do not cause anyone to stumble, whether Jews, Greeks or the church of God— ³³ even as I try to please everybody in every way. For I am not seeking my own good but the good of many, so that they may be saved.

There's the rub!  Sometimes I wonder if I really am loving enough to give up something I enjoy for the good of someone else, or even for my own good!  And that's no good for me!  Or my brother.

Did I say that as a culture we are one step away from the Arena?  Maybe I am on the path as well. 


I still think, for the most part, The Hunger Games is a really good read, but I was surprised to find out it was a Youth Novel.  Maybe I'd have to pre-read it before I'd let my 14 year old read it.  And I don't think I'd let my 12 year old near it!

Bird-brains

I love birds.  Well, sometimes it's actually a love-hate kind of thing.



I love their singing and their bright colors, like the Goldfinches we saw all summer bathing shamelessly in the open in our birdbath, or the Bluebirds that were eating berries off our pear tree a couple autumns ago.  I love sitting in a group of trees, listening to their varied songs, a cacophony of different choruses, yet all blending together in that beautiful chime of a new spring.  And doesn't everyone look for those first Robins of spring, with their fat red breasts puffed out with pride at being one of the first harbingers of the season?  They just crack me up when they're on the hunt, hopping around the yard, then they stop short and turn their heads to the side, looking (listening?) for that elusive worm.  How do they do it?  Then the peck and some sort of squirming thing is usually in the grasp of their beak.......or not.  Sometimes it's a miss.  

I love how, on a winter's day, they skip and cheep and chirp through the snow around the bird feeder, those in the feeder scattering the seed all around and OUT of the feeder.  Then the ground feeders, the smaller birds, the Sparrows, the Juncos (Snowbirds), Mourning Doves and the rest gobble them up.  I enjoyed how they all scattered, but not too far away, when I would go to fill the feeder, then swoop in almost as soon as I turned away to see what offerings I had left them.  Those Chickadees in their happy black caps, the Nuthatches daringly walking upside down on branches, obviously the acrobats of bird-dom, the Titmice with their feathers standing up on their heads, scandalized at the strangeness of their names.  Not mice or mouses, after all!

Sometimes birds are quite quarrelsome.  Oh, I expect it when a nest of young-in's is involved.  A nest is a bird's castle, after all.  And what mother or father would not protect its child, be it an egg or a ball of fuzz with a gaping beak?  I remember when I was a pre-teen (this is when my nephews would bring up covered wagons, but it was really late 60's), a pair of Barn Swallows took residence in our detached garage.  By the time the nestlings left home, the Swallows were wrecks from our constant invasions and we were in no better condition from being dived at regularly by the frantic parents who would miss our heads by, it seemed, centimeters.

But Sparrows at a feeder seem to waste so much time flying at one another, trying to keep territory, or take over territory, when every bird has pretty much the same seed everywhere in endless supply.  They'll fight over a twig on a bush, the branch of a tree, a spot on a wire --  they bear witness to the adage that the grass is always greener on the other side.  Even Robins, who seem to be above such things, will squabble a bit. The other day I saw three of them searching a bit of grass, hunting for prey, in a large clipped yard near my office.  Plenty for all, really, vast in bird terms.  Then one dived at another's feet, chasing him about two feet away.  The put-upon bird looked around and vented its frustration on the third, diving at THAT one's feet, sending it flying off a bit.  Then the first one was at it again, all thought of the hunt gone as all three began chasing each other around over a four foot square bit of ground in a 50 foot square field.  Surely there is a spiritual lesson there somewhere!

Mourning Doves strike me as kind of odd.  Their cry is mournful enough to deserve their name, to be sure, and my friend, Christine, has gotten down the skill of imitating them very well.  She will stand in our driveway and look at a lone dove on a wire and coo to it. It tilts its head and looks at her quizzically.  Christine coos a few more times and soon the dove answers and they have a little conversation going.  Soon, however, Christine must coo something offensive because the dove abruptly flies off with a final whir of wings and that whistling coo they make, in apparent indignation.  But I really find them odd -- the doves, not Christine -- because of their strange reluctance to fly.

I sometimes wonder if they're a little neurotic, which might be another reason why they are mournful Mourning Doves.  Nearly every day I will encounter one or two at least once while I'm driving to work, and where are they?  In the road.  Not NEXT to the road, not in a field kind of NEAR to the road, but IN the road.  Moreover, I know these birds are capable of flight, and I am bearing down on them at about 45 or 50 MPH but they start WALKING away.  I hit the brakes, of course, and hope they will fly.  No, their only acknowledgement of their danger is that they will begin to WALK FASTER, their heads jerking frantically in time......yet walking.  I'm nearly on top of them now, "STUPID BIRDS" I gasp, and finally they take wing, a slow and low flight, 6 inches from my bumper, and flit to the side of the road.  Sometimes I'm not sure if a tire has clipped a few feathers on the way past, but usually I look back and there are no little carcasses, so I know they get away.

Robins seem to have this same distaste for flying.  They walk an awful lot for a species that were given by God the wonderful gift of flight.  Maybe it's because God also gave them such teeny weeny little brains.  Their eensy weensy little brain pans must be about the size of a pencil eraser, after all.  I understand the walking when they're hunting worms.  But they walk entirely too much, in my opinion.  I've seen them walk right across a road, a two lane road, instead of flying.  Isn't that just a little daring for something that could be squished under one tire of a vehicle?  And, like the Mourning Dove, instead of flying when my car is coming, I get this fast walk, then a REALLY fast walk, with the head bob bob bobbin' along, along, but if I do hit it, there will be no more throbbin' that old sweet song in the Robin household tonight, let me tell you.  But no flying, sometimes not at all, and I've actually, I'm ashamed to stay, come to a NEAR STOP when there is no traffic.  I'm a sucker for wildlife and hate roadkill, though I've never cried over a possum or skunk.  I have been upset by cats, rabbits, squirrels, chippies (Chipmunks, to you), deer, etc. It just seems I shouldn't be so upset over animals when children lose their lives daily due to abuse or want of good food or health care.
                       But to continue =>

One day I came home from work and Christine looked at the front of my car and -- uh oh.  Sticking out of the front of the grill of my car were, I tell you no lie, two stiff bird feet.  MURDERESS.  At least I felt that way until we took the bird out and saw what kind it was.  It was a Robin.  Then I knew the truth.  Not murder, but SUICIDE.  I know this not because of the Robin's penchant for walking, but because of their other equally insane habit of swooping across the road at about a FOOT off the ground RIGHT IN FRONT of my car.  Are Robins, as walkers and low-flying swoopers, afraid of heights or something?

All of this makes one thing Jesus said in Scripture very clear to me.  Of COURSE he watches over Sparrows, even though they are small, a dime a dozen, and argumentative.  To watch over Mourning Doves and suicidal Robins would be MUCH too tiresome, even for Him.

Right, I'm no Bluebird, but Bluebirds don't mind sharing!

Rejoicing Over Us With Singing

The LORD your God is with you,
   he is mighty to save.
He will take great delight in you,
   he will quiet you with his love,
   he will rejoice over you with singing.

Zephaniah 3:17

 I don't actually remember the first time I heard this verse quoted to me, but I remember that I caught my breath at the very thought of it.  It seems so pat to say "the Lord God is with you', but it is staggering in its implications.  Think of the people, just a few of them, who the Lord God claimed to 'be with'.

The bush was burning but not consumed...

There was Moses.  Moses who, in hindsight, seemed so silly at times, shoeless before a burning bush in the desert, arguing with God because he didn't speak well, trying to wriggle out of being God's spokesman before Pharaoh (Exodus 3). Then, when he finally comes to realize what it means when God said 'I will be with you' (Ex. 3:12),  went on to be a great leader of Israel and close confidant of God, the Creator of the Universe. Remember the days he spent with God, how he and God spoke back and forth with each other in such frankness?  How his face was so radiant after spending days with the Creator that he covered it because it was scaring the people? (Ex. 34) That's a BIT of the joy to have the Lord God with you.

And David had the Lord God with him when, even as a youth, he came out with a sling and five smooth stones before a giant that had seasoned soldiers quaking in their boots.  He was buoyed up by the courage that comes from true faith in his God.  “You come against me with sword and spear and javelin, but I come against you in the name of the LORD Almighty, the God of the armies of Israel, whom you have defied.  This day the LORD will hand you over to me, and I’ll strike you down and cut off your head. Today I will give the carcasses of the Philistine army to the birds of the air and the beasts of the earth, and the whole world will know that there is a God in Israel.  All those gathered here will know that it is not by sword or spear that the LORD saves; for the battle is the LORD’s, and he will give all of you into our hands.”   (1 Samuel 17:45-47)  This is what happens when the Lord your God is with you.  You can speak with that sort of confidence and KNOW it is Truth.

"I am with you always, even to the end

..."

I could fill pages, of course, with all of those recorded in Scripture who have known the presence of God within.  People like Gideon, Esther, Joshua, Abraham, Ruth, Peter, Paul, Stephen, John, Mary, the mother of Jesus -- and so the list goes on.  And we, if we know Him with a personal faith, may add our names as well!  He has promised to be with us, every moment, every day, in good times and through adversity, he has promised to be with us ..... and so He is.  This means He is with us, even if He FEELS far away, or if it seems our prayers bounce back to us off the ceiling.  If God has said He will be faithful, then He will be.  Have no doubts, no fears!

Zephaniah also points out that God will take great delight in me. In you. He is enchanted with you. With each of us.  I need Him to do that, you know, taking delight, I mean.  Because not enough people in this life treat us as well as God does, and it's not exactly their fault. So many of us are too busy licking our own wounds from the beating the world gives us to really care for each other as we should.  Though, perhaps if we did look up, we'd feel a good bit better about our lives.  "Keep your eyes fixed on Jesus", the Bible says, "the Author and finisher of our faith!" (Hebrews 12:2)

When I read this verse I get a beautiful picture in my mind of being cradled in God's arms, just like a weeping, hurting, or confused child.  The arms of a God who loves and accepts and cherishes me, even if I'm at times rather very unlovable.  He takes joy in me, and quiets my tears, and even my fussing about the way life is so unjust.  And He rejoices over me, over His creation, with singing.  He takes pleasure in me, His child! 

Now, as a child of God, put yourself there, mentally, in His arms.  He rejoices and sings over you, as well!

One more verse, and I'll let this go.  "For we are God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do."   (Ephesians 2:10)

I am told that to properly translate this verse, we mustn't think of "workmanship" as a rough chair or table a primitive carpenter may have made, or even a vintage cabinet that would make it onto Antiques Roadshow.  No, it is more in the spirit of a MASTERPIECE -- a Monet painting, a Van Gogh, a Michelangelo's top of the Sistine Chapel, something from a master craftsman.  Something that would awe you with its beauty, that would move you to praise for its Maker.  That's the kind of WORKMANSHIP and MASTERPIECE God is forming us to be.  Something that even makes the angels wonder.

And He laughs and delights and sings over us at each stage of his work, from our beginning rough edges right through to the day of our perfection. 

Delightful!

Oh, Deer, to be in Heaven

I live a bit of a distance from my job, so in the beginning I bought some maps and began to trace ways that might be quicker or shorter. As it joyfully turns out, the shorter and quicker way includes a daily drive through a portion of Trexler Game Preserve (now Trexler Nature Preserve).  This has added a lovely dose of peace and beauty to my schlep to work and a calming effect after a stressful day, especially the part that goes through Geiger covered bridge.  There are streams, trees, apple orchards, and it's close enough to work that I've driven there over my lunch hour, pulled a chair out of my trunk and sat in the sun next to a creek and just let the peace of God's creation wash over me.  I am blessed!

I wish I had the ability of a true photographer to somehow convey the peace of sitting in the sun -- or if its too hot, the shade -- and just spend a few moments away from the demands of people, to replace the ringing phone with the sound of birds and running water.  Some of you may know.  Those of you who do not, I'm sorry.  Try to find it, even if it's a recording and a darkened room for 10 minutes and pretend.  For me, it's a taste of heaven!


Growing up in my home town, it was very rare to see any deer, or any wild animals except squirrels or rabbits, which were very common and dull.  Or perhaps I was too clumsy or noisy in my treks through the woods to see anything more interesting!  My mother said I never, but NEVER, stopped talking as a child. She would eventually just say "yes...yes...uh huh..." until she heard me say excitedly "Really??!! I CAN??!!" and then she'd have to back things up and find out what she'd just agreed to.  I find that to be 
very maligning to my character, who knows what important things I may have said that we may never benefit from today, what genius may have escaped unnoticed.  :-)

OK, so anyway, a bonus for me is what I might see along the way.  Wild turkeys, and the day before yesterday I saw a beautiful male ring-necked pheasant, his plumage just radiant in the morning sun.  (Actually, I almost pegged the silly thing with my car as he ran across two parallel roads, but he made it across safely.)  [I found out later there is a farm not far away that raises them, then lets them go and you can go with your dog and gun and hunt them.  Is this really sporting???  I mean, they've grown up in the cage, someone opens the door and shoves them out, and they mill around until someone chases them a distance, sics dogs on them  and shoots them.  After all, how big is a pheasant brain to figure this strategy out?  It's just kind of hanging around, trying to figure out why it's OUTSIDE the cage now, and what's going on, and BLAM!  BLAM!  BLAM!  Just doesn't seem right, somehow.  And I'm not anti-hunting.]

Anyway, back to the nice things ... once I and a friend were driving up a hill in the preserve and I stopped the car suddenly because trotting next to the road was a young red fox.  It stopped, and I stopped, fearing it would cross the road in front of me.  We both regarded each other, motionless.  Then it began to trot again, and I slowly followed in the car.  We went parallel for awhile, then with barely a glance, the fox turned off and trotted away.  What a beautiful animal, and seeming without any fear at all.  A few weeks later, about a quarter mile away, I saw an even younger fox trotting down the CENTER of the road ahead of me, glancing back every so often as if I were the intruder, until it finally veered off into some high grass.  Saw him a few days in a row, always within 10 feet of the same place, but I never managed to catch a photo, which is amazing considering some of the contortions I sometimes will go through to GET a photo.  And, of course, though common, I smile to see squirrels and chipmunks scamper around.  I'll frequently see hawks perched, or circling, and once I saw one make a kill.


My favorite, though, must be deer, with their beauty and grace.  Their legs are so long and fragile, their eyes so calm, yet they bound away with such grace at the slightest provocation.  Just these few pictures I've taken are three out of dozens and dozens of attempts.  As much as I love their quiet peace and beauty, they have no trust at all of me.  Some of my best shots -- and my only three sightings of bucks with racks in my life, I was just not quick enough with the camera.  They exist only in my mind, as my slightest movement or approach of my car, sends the dear deer running off in deer fear.

 I suppose I have a view in my mind that in heaven I will be able to be friends with deer and fox, squirrels and the like.  Do you think I'm odd and foolish?  Perhaps it's because I grew up in the 70's, when concern for the environment really took off, and the very first Earth Day came to be.  I know that's why I'd rather cut off my hand than throw even a molecule of trash out of the car window.

But, no, I really don't think it's that.  And it's not because I think animals have souls in the same way that humans do.  You see, when God created the heavens and the earth, he created animals and man in the garden of Eden "And it was good."  Adam named the animals, and it was his job to care for them -- look it up if you don't believe me.  To care for them as God cares for us, not to abuse or to use.  It may not be very theologically sound, but when I want to envision heaven I tend to fall back on Eden, before sin entered the world, as I find heaven difficult to grasp sometimes.  Is this misleading?  To me, it sounds a lot like heaven.  No sin.  Adam walked and talked with God in the cool of the evening, having face to face fellowship with God.  Adam and Eve did some sort of work, gathering food, caring for animals, but I think they walked right among them, and the animals had no fear of them at all, since no one was eating one another.  No animal was eating another animal, no man was eating animals.  Everyone was just eating fruits and vegetables, as it says in Genesis 1:30, 'And to all the beasts of the earth and all the birds of the air and all the creatures that move on the ground—everything that has the breath of life in it—I give every green plant for food.” And it was so.'  Sounds pretty peaceful, doesn't it?

So, as I drive to work, I dream a bit.  It's a little harrowing as I try to snap my pictures while driving, so many scenes are contained only in my mind's eye.  (I don't want to get to heaven before I've done all God has for me to do, or, worse, take someone with me, just to get a photo!!)  I dream of the day when God's  "Children-By-Faith", will walk with Him in the cool of the evening again, will enjoy His presence, His perfection, and the joy of sharing His creation without the blight of sin and fear, shame, terror, betrayal, and the rest.  I won't have to snatch a picture catch as, catch can then, because I'll be walking among my animal friends.  What a glory.  "Even so, come, Lord Jesus!"

Does this make me weird? 

                                                                                          

Oristiel and the Night of the Pig

As I said previously, when I lived in Haiti, Oristiel was my night watchman, and my protector from the nasty creeping things of the night.  My hero.  There was one night, though, that he rather failed me, and I'm sure he was not all that happy with me by the end of the night either.

I hadn't been in Haiti terribly long, and my language training had been interrupted by President Clinton's embargo on Haiti, the poorest country in the western hemisphere. This embargo was his solution to the military coup that had ousted their first democratically elected president, Jean Bertrand Aristide.  One of my missionary friends said that the embargo, where prices soared and the poor got poorer, the hungry, hungrier,  was like trying to fix a man's broken leg with a bulldozer.  I was in the capital, Port-Au-Prince for language school, at the time, and anti-American feeling was so high that it just wasn't safe for me to be there any more, so out to La Gonave I went and learned the language more by immersion.  All of this to say, my immersion took place at the hospital, so after a few weeks I could have long discussions with you about whatever ailed your little self, but if I had to sit in your living room and make polite conversation, I could only do so if you wanted to talk about your gallbladder.  I was very one-sided in my command over the language, and this became clear to both me and to Oristiel one night about 2 AM.

My bedroom was solid windows on two sides, and the head of my bed right under the windows, so I got the full effect, I'm sure, of the first blast of scent from outside.  I sat up in bed, gagging.  Good heavens!  What EVER in the world could produce a smell like THAT!!  Had one of the dogs...well, communed with nature... under my window?  After it had eaten Limburger cheese?  I'm a deep sleeper and for a mere ODOR to wake me up was a phenomenon I had never encountered in my life before.  This smell was like a living organism.  I turned on my flash, just to make sure stinky aliens hadn't landed, or Haitian Bigfoot or something like that.  Even the cockroaches were overcome and hiding.

I was coughing "Oristiel.  Oristiel.  ORISTIEL!!  What is that smell???"  "What did you say?  The what??""  I was gagging.  "The SMELL, the SMELL, what is it?"  "It's the dogs."  "Did they roll in...in...in...[there's no word for this in my vocabulary strong enough]...the latrine?"  "Nooooooo."  He seemed to be amused, now.  "Oristiel, please look at what they have."

A long pause.  Soon he gets back.  "Yo gin tet cochon an."  I thought about it.  Tet cochon an...the head of...a pig?  I must have puzzled awhile over this, and the stink wasn't fading.  Maybe I was losing consciousness.  Oristiel went on, "The dogs must have gotten it from the garbage."

Not my garbage!  "Oristiel, you are just going to have to move it.  Do you have a... "  I pantomimed a shovel.  "Do you understand?"  He didn't.  I pantomimed a shovel a few times, tried to describe it a few times, asked him if he knew where Cedieu, my day watchman lived, who had a key to the shed.  No, no, and no.  We would not make a good charades team.  Also, to this day, I can never remember the word for shovel.

I finally got a cardboard box and told him to pick it up with that and take the head to the garbage again.  He reluctantly got the box.  "But, you know, they'll just get it from the garbage again."  "Well, Oristiel, then you must burn it.  Do you have matches?"  Naturally not. He's not a smoker, after all.  I got him a book of paper matches, and instructed him with my less than brilliant pantomime how to scoop up a disgusting, rotting pig head, take it out to the dump in the farthest corner of the yard, and set the box on fire.  He turned away without enthusiasm, and I hardly blamed him.  The smell now permeated the entire house, thanks to the superb ventilation, and the fact the ceiling fan in the living room hadn't been turned off in years.  The theory was, you see, that it had run so long that if we turned it off it might never turn back on again.  It might just realize how good relaxation felt.  (We also did our work in the hospital and mission on that same principle, rarely taking an actual "day off".)

I felt a little bad for Oristiel as I envisioned him picking up the "tet", fighting off 3 dogs all the way to the dump, and then setting it on fire.  But time went on and on and the smell diminished very little.  No fire.  Soon I heard a small voice in the darkness.  "Mis?  Mis?  It won't burn!"  

Heaven, give me strength.  I went to the closet and got a plastic half gallon bottle of "gaz blanc".  Gaz blanc is white gas, or kerosene.  I said, "Here, pour this on it, then believe me, it will burn!"  It was coming onto 3:30 AM now, I was sick of the smell that somehow seemed less potent as I became accustomed to it, and obviously wasn't thinking too clearly.  When he came back 10 minutes later because he realized he had no more paper matches, I don't think I blinked an eye.  I just handed him a box of wooden matches and flopped into bed, and even slipped into a light doze.

WWWWWHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!   I was wide awake in an instant as I heard the sound of, I was sure, a jet engine lighting up, or possibly The Second Coming.  Indeed, the room had a very faint glow, though usually it was dark enough to literally not see my hand in front of my face if it was cloudy.  I looked out the window in horror.

There in the back of the yard, behind the shed, was a huge fire, and I saw Oristiel silhouetted against it.  The dogs, showing more intelligence than we, had headed for the citron grove on the other side of the yard.  I was frozen in body, but my mind was at full speed.  'Let's see, the shed will be next to burn, made of old dry wood, and full of wood and junk.  Yes, and I believe there are a couple almost empty propane tanks in there, too, that should ...... O Lord, help us all!  And next to go will be this house......oh no, just over the hedge on the other side of the dump is the Wesleyan school.....  The grass is so dry, maybe the church will go up, too.....O Lord, please help, I am so stupid, stupid......  Of course there's no fire department.... isn't there a fire department? Surely there's -- oh get a grip, of COURSE there's no fire department, do you think they have nothing to eat, but they have a few shiny LADDER TRUCKS stored away in the town square?  The whole village will probably go up.  And WHY?  Because the new, rookie missionary of just a few months came to minister to the people and managed in one night, in one fell swoop, to burn the whole village down......O God, help us all.......because of a stinky pigs head --  I'll have to go to headquarters and explain how I gave my watchman a half gallon of kerosene and matches and handily burned down the WHOLE VILLAGE......O Father, hear my prayer......'

I was sweating mightily, murmuring prayers and recriminations, until the flames died down.  I sat shakily on my bed in relief.  Eventually, just before 5, I laid down again.  I didn't think I'd sleep, but I must have, because Oristiel's voice woke me up one last time:

"Mis, here is your box of matches."

Good Lord, Deliver Us

This is probably not about what you think it's going to be about.  It's not about politics, or sin (at least I don't think it will be).  It's not about the 'heartbreak of psoriasis' or the horror of getting old, though I love what Bette Davis said about getting old.  "Getting old," she is reported to have said, " ain't for sissies!"  And the older I get, the more I see the wisdom in that statement!

No, ever since I wrote about my "dislikes" in this blog's profile, that old quote has been going around and around in my mind: "From ghosties and ghoulies, and long-leggity beasties, and things that go bump in the night, Good Lord, deliver us!"  I always thought it was a quote from Robert Burns, even though I first read it in James Thurber, but I looked it up today, and it was attributed to "Traditional Scottish Prayer" and the like.  Whoever thought it up, it is as charming as it is true.  If in the garden of Eden God put an enmity between woman and the serpent, He also put one between "long-leggity beasties" and woman as well, I feel.  Well, probably not just woman, either.  I doubt many men are charmed by them, but their dislike is overcome by their desire to rescue us, I suspect, or to look brave in front of us, perhaps.

I am afraid of snakes, but I can run from them, lickety split, and have done so many times.  But a large spider or centipede or millipede, and I'm just as likely to freeze in terror, unable to move, breaking out in a sweat, and may even get light headed.  Just don't like 'em, no, no way, no siree.

I find it interesting that God put in me such a strong desire to not only be in full-time Christian Service, but to be in foreign missionary service, and then to call me to a nice warm tropical place where bugs thrive.  Nice big ones, and yet I have this passionate fear of bugs, most all bugs.

When, after nurses training, I entered Bible College, the women's dormitory was quite an old, old building.  A tad decrepit, even, in places.  All the buildings bordered on pretty old and in need of some sprucing up, but it was a small school with excellent professors, and that seemed more important than some other things in the final analysis.  I still think so.  It's good toughening up for foreign missions! :)  Another good preparation was that they were infested with these disgusting light colored millipedes or silverfish, whatever they were, WAAAAAY larger than any of that breed should ever be.  My memory may be mistaken, but I feel certain some were at least 2 inches long.  And fast.  And UGLY.  I get a bit weak thinking about them to this day, and surely nothing prepared me for the day I woke to find one of the monsters on my wall next to my head  on my pillow. I've always been very slow to wake up and get moving in the morning, but I was out of that bed like a shot, had the Raid in my hands, and sprayed the horrible squirming, running thing in seconds.  It was so big I heard it hit a piece of paper on my floor when it fell off the wall.  I never found it...but I never looked too hard, either.

I do wonder a bit, truly, that God called me to be a missionary on an off shore island of Haiti called La Gonave.  You know, I found the insects there truly amazing.  I suppose many of the same are found in any warm place.  Florida and the southern US has what they call "Palmetto Bugs", but don't con me.  This is a rather quaint misnomer for the American Cockroach, as big as your thumb, not afraid of the light, and it flies.  It is not easily intimidated, is nearly impossible to kill, runs TOWARD you instead of away, and may not bite, but will nip lovingly on you.  It scorns your flyswatter, drinks insecticide for afternoon tea, and laughs at your fear. They thrived where I lived in Haiti, and it mattered not how clean you were.  In addition there were dreadful giant centipedes, biting ants, huge spiders...everything, you can imagine, that I detested with a passion.  We only had electricity, supplied by our generator, until 10 PM, so after that, to me, were the devil's hours.  Lighting a kerosene lamp, our source of light, or flashlight, only made a target for moths and other larger flying horrors.  I was ecstatic when an occasional gecko got in the house, knowing it would eat insects.  Also, I thought they were cute, a bonus.

When I was in Haiti a few months, I sent my mother pictures of my home.  It was a modest little cinder block house, and the interior walls as well as the exterior walls had large windows to ensure good ventilation. To discourage thieves, there were iron bars on all the outside windows, and screens that were holey, but not in the sacred sense. Most of the holes I covered with duct tape.  My mother wrote back that she got the pics, but only had one question: "WHY is there a can of Raid in EVERY ROOM?"  She was so naive. 

I never got over my phobia very well in my years living on La Gonave.  There were times I had periods of courage.  I woke one night to feel something scurrying quickly up my left leg.  Now, this could only be a monster cockroach   Palmetto Bug.  I grabbed it with my hand and threw it to the floor with all my might, hoping this would kill it, and forced myself to forget how huge it felt in my hand, forcing myself to sleep.

A few hours later I woke to use the bathroom, and with the flashlight, took a cautious look at the floor next to my bed.  Yes, there it was, a Palmetto bug, motionless on its back. I was certain it wasn't dead, but on its back it couldn't chase me.  I went to do my duty, and when I returned, I shined my flash carefully to make sure the devil hadn't flipped on me.  There, next to it, was something long and thin, about 8 or 10 inches long.  With a shudder, I realized it was a giant centipede, and it had the cockroa...uh, Palmetto Bug in its mouth!  These centipedes sting, it hurts, and they are fast and ugly as death.  I shuddered, sweat, prayed, grabbed my trusty Raid, and SPRAYED!!!  I'll spare you the writhing, the scurrying, the convulsions, the trembling -- and you should have seen what the CENTIPEDE was doing!  It finally died about 3 feet from the bed under a chair.  I prayed, thanking God, and laid down. Then turned on my flash -- yes, it was still dead under the chair.  I settled in the bed again...up again with the flash.  Yep, still dead.  A few more repetitions, and I knew I would get no sleep with that particular "beastie" in the corner.

"Oristiel!  ORISTIEL!"  Sometimes it was hard to wake my night watchman who swore he never slept a wink at night.  "Oui, Mis?"  I explained my battle with the beastie, and Oristiel came in with his machete to dispose of yet another "bet", as they were called.  It was a common nighttime chore for him, to dispose of my bug bodies, or dispatch scorpions for me, etc.  He removed it, and I told him NO WAY would I be able to sleep anymore tonight, now that there had been a centipede in my bedroom."Oh, Mis," he said tolerantly, "God will show you if there are any more in here!"   "Oristiel, I don't WISH God to show any more to me.  I wish for God to make sure there are none here!"

Yet, for all my Raid and bug phobias, and Oristiel's attempts at comfort ("Mis, don't worry about this little scorpion here in your shower!  You should have seen the one I killed on your front porch last week!"), I think he had and has a much healthier view of things.  Bugs are a natural part of life on La Gonave, and it was perfectly reasonable for him to suggest that it was enough to God to show them to me rather than keep them from me completely.  We don't become strong in life by avoiding all kinds of troubles, we become strong by dealing with our troubles and, with God's help, overcoming them.  Oristiel understood that so much better than I did.

I'm going to love telling you stories about my friendship with Oristiel.