The Pages of History

I was in that category of people who got the kind of degree that their parents often gently nudged wouldn't be very practical.  You know, a degree in English, or a degree in theater.  Those kind of majors are always cautioned with the question, "Don't you think you oughta have a back up plan?"  Mine was a degree in history.  The simplified question was, "What do you do with a history degree other than teach?"  I had no desire to teach so I really had no good answer to that question. 

But I knew I loved history.  I loved stories and I loved the stories that history had to tell.  I remember going to Arlington National Cemetery in Washington, D.C. a few years ago with my mom and grandparents.  We went up to Arlington house at the top of the hill.  As we walked through the rooms, crowds of people everywhere, we came upon one of the family bedrooms.  The comforter was spread neatly, the furniture arranged just so.  And then there was a tiny little step stool next to the bed.  It was clearly a child's bedroom.  And as silly as it sounds, I nearly burst into tears right there because I had this compulsory thought, "Somebody lived here.  Somebody's life unfolded here, and somebody's story was told here.  Life happened here."  The moment just seemed so monumental to me.  But, of course, those are the ones that you keep to yourself, confident that you're crazy and that no one else will understand.   

I imagine I've had other such sentimental moments, moments when I'm struck by the ordinariness of lives lived out on the pages of history.  My grandmother (the same one who missed the memo about the iceberg in the previous post) recently unearthed a treasure trove of family history when she found a bag of old parchment letters and notes, primarily exchanges from two distant relatives who were writing back and forth about the research they had been doing of the family tree.  Most of the letters were from 1932-1936, each one building on the previous one as the two family members dug up more and more info about who was related to whom, where they lived, and where they came from.  My grandmother even managed to find the original Civil War draft papers for my great-great-great-something-or-other.  A small piece of paper, neatly scripted, with instructions to report to such and such a post on this day in 1864.  This relative of mine would go to war in May of 1864, only to be captured one month later and be held a prisoner of war for over a year.  He was released and eventually honorably discharged in June of 1865.  We also have the original souvenir poster of his honorable discharge, as a reminder of what the "Brave Boys in Blue" did to serve their country.  I am always awestruck by such mementos of history.  I mean, think about it - the Civil War!  All those years ago, and now in 2011, here we are looking at the original draft and discharge papers of a man I have never known.  I felt like I had struck gold as I poured over the material, reading the letters, following the stories, wondering about their lives.

But what struck me even more than finding such relics of the Civil War was one letter in particular that noted the children of one side of the family.  It was neatly typed on two thin pieces of parchment, folded in thirds, looking like it had been tea-stained.  It listed the 10 children of one son and then the 9 children of the other son.  It was toward the bottom, though, where I caught the line "had 1 son no good." 

That's all the letter pretty much says about this son.  No good. 

How's that for being defined by history?

To have your entire life summed in one singular phrase like no good is a disconcerting thought, and it's not even my life that is being described.  I know history can be harsh at times, telling us not what we want to hear, but what we need to hear.  But history can often be skewed by those on the outside looking in, those who have watched from afar.  I can't help but wonder - what's the one sentence history will write about us?  Us - as individuals, us as a nation, us as a family?  I surely hope it's not no good.  And what are we doing about it to see to it that such sentences aren't left on the pages of history?  

I don't want my life to be defined by the phrase no good.  I wouldn't want my grandchildren or great-grandchildren or great-great-grandchildren to someday unearth a pile of letters, exchanges between two people tracing the family line, and have the sentence say about me one daughter, no good, or really anything else remotely resembling the concept. 

Instead, I hope the phrase well done, good and faithful servant applies to my life and those to follow.

I Want a Dog Like This

While Jill and I were cruising down the highway on our way back from Nashville last weekend, we came upon this little red truck.  At first, I didn't think much of it, but then I had to do a double-take.  I thought, "There is no way that is a dog on the back of that truck."  We're cruising along at 70-something miles per hour and this little truck was passing us.  But yes, lo and behold, not only was this dog sitting atop the tool box in the bed, he was asleep.   Eyes closed, content as could be, oblivious to the fact that he could potentially be toast in a matter of seconds if an accident were to happen.  At this point, Jill and I were in the middle of a really intense emotional conversation and I finally had to tell her, "Jill - I hate to interrupt this moment, but I have to get a picture of this."  I couldn't believe it.  Where can I find me a dog like that?  



God Bless Grandmothers

I dearly love my grandmother.  I have few child memories apart from her and my grandfather and their farm.  My grandfather was always the one, though, that had such an imposing force throughout all of my memories.  I think I just saw him as larger-than-life when I was child and so I carry around that image in my head.  It was my grandmother, however, who always lingered in the shadows of my thoughts, always quietly loving her children and grandchildren, and occasionally sweeping a baby lamb out of the house that dared to follow me in. (I kid you not.  She literally took a broom to my baby lamb and swept it out the door after he followed me along when I went inside to get a drink.  She was not a fan of having animals in the house, despite my grandfather clearly ignoring her wishes and frequently keeping newborn lambs and calves in a box in the wash room so he could nurse them back to health.)

After my grandfather died a couple of years ago, we weren't sure how my grandmother would take it.  They were approaching their 55th wedding anniversary shortly before he died, and she was going to go either one of two ways: die right along with him or blossom and find a new set of wings.  She did the latter.  The woman is busier than ever and if her head weren't attached, she'd probably leave it behind with all that she tries to keep track of.  She'll celebrate her 80th birthday in July, and even at her age, she's still advising youth in 4-H (her and my grandfather have both been inducted into the Ohio 4-H Hall of Fame), still sewing like a mad woman, volunteering for this and that, and rarely misses a breakfast at the Der Dutchman.  She does occasionally have two different colored shoes on and doesn't notice it, but she's still trucking along, living life.  

Sometimes, though, you hear the phrase only this would happen to her in relation to my grandmother.

Case in point:

She's on a cruise this week.  In Alaska.

The woman has never set foot on a cruise ship before in her life, let alone one in Alaska.  But a friend of hers coaxed her into going as part of a 4-H group and so she went.  She booked her flight, booked the cruise, and got about 30 pages into Michener's Alaska and gave up on it, before she decided she better start packing.  I assisted her with the packing and that in and of itself was a trip, so to speak.  I walk into her living room last week and she has clothes sprawled everywhere. I had to gently tell her,"Now, Grandma.  You're only going to be gone for 7 days and, quite frankly, nobody is going to care if you wear the same pants 3 days in a row."  So we trimmed things down a bit and sent her on her way.

Then this morning, I get a strange phone call from my mother.  "What are you talking about?"  No hello, no greeting, nothing.  "Uhhh...hello?  Mom?  What do you mean, what am I talking about?"  "What are you talking about?"  "Mom.  I have no idea what you're talking about." "What is this about Grandma's ship hitting an iceberg?  Let me call you back."

I am super confused at this point.

I dig around online to see if I can find anything.  USAToday has an article and I glance over it and see that everything is okay.  The ship had merely hit an iceberg, but did not breach the hull.  Everyone's fine and they went on as scheduled.

My mother calls back with more details.  Apparently someone had mentioned something to my aunt at work, "How's your mom doing?"  "She's fine - how should she be doing?"  "Oh well, I heard a cruise ship in Alaska hit an iceberg."  Of course, a flurry of activity, panic, tears, and text messages ensue, based solely on the statement that the ship had hit an iceberg and nothing more.   As all good daughters do, they picture the worse case scenario that their beloved mother could be in.  Images of Titanic are floating through their heads at this point and until they hear from my grandmother, they are not thinking otherwise.

My mother mistakenly calls me thinking I sent the text about the ship hitting the 'berg, thus the confusing phone call.  She eventually calls my grandmother, no answer.  She calls my grandmother's friend, who thankfully does answer.

Allow me some creative license as I envision how this conversation between my mother, grandmother, and the friend went, based on my mother's recap of the details:

"Mom, how are you doing?  Is everything okay?"

"Oh yeah, we're just doing just fine!  How are you?  How's everything back home?"

"Fine, but we saw where an iceberg hit the ship.  Are you all right?"

"Me? Oh, I'm fine, just fine.  Having a wonderful time.  What iceberg?  We didn't hit an iceberg. There's no icebergs here.  It's bright and sunny!"

Friend in the background, yelling: "Yes, we did, Doris!  Why do you think the Coast Guard was here all day yesterday?!"

I am not exaggerating.  My precious grandmother - who may be slightly forgetful, but has her wits about her - was not paying any attention and did not realize they had hit an iceberg.

I suppose if I were from the South, the appropriate response would be "bless your little heart."

God bless grandmothers.  They really are something special.

I want to be just like my grandmother when I'm that age.  Eighty-years old and going on cruises to Alaska.  Graceful and loving life, innocently -and endearingly so - living in her own little world.

I'll just have to remember to pay attention to the icebergs.    


     

Long Time, No See

Ahhh, Matt Wertz. So good to see you again, my friend.

My buddy Jill and I took a road trip down to Nashville (NashVegas to some) this past weekend to see Matt Wertz and Ben Rector in concert.  The last time I saw Matt in concert was 4 years ago and the ticket cost $5 - and to be honest, I didn't know who Ben was until probably a month ago when we decided to actually make the trip happen. 

It was at this little venue called Exit/In in the West End of Nashville, near Vanderbilt's campus.  We spent Friday night and Saturday morning/early afternoon bumming around downtown Nashville, The Gulch, and then the West End.  So many great little niches in the area.  And after walking around Vandy's campus, I had fleeting thoughts of wondering why I didn't go to school there. 

Our tickets said 8:00 start time.  So, in my orderly little mind I took that to mean the show would actually begin at that time, with doors opening maybe an hour or so early.  I should know better when it comes to such things.  We walk up at 7:15 or so and there is already a line of people waiting.  So we jump in line, thinking the doors will open soon.  But no.  The doors don't even open until 8, let alone have the show start.   We finally get in, get settled up on the balcony, decent view.  Eight-thirty rolls around.  No Ben.  Nine comes and goes.  No Ben.  Not even so much as someone walking on stage to check his guitar or something.  Jill and I are checking our watches, thinking we are such grandmas because we are already yawning, thinking what a brutal morning it is going to be after being up so late and then having a 7-hour drive ahead of us.  Nine-thirty - movement behind the curtain.  It's Ben!  Finally!  He jams out to a few songs, and then the magic hour rolls around.

Matt makes it on stage at 10:30 and I think I broke out into the most absurd grin ever.  I adore this guy and I love his music!  He plays a great set and then about part-way through, he's talking about how he wrote this next song with a good buddy of his,  Dave Barnes.  Then Dave walks out!  Could the night get any better?!  I was done checking my watch at this point.  We stuck around for the encore songs and walked into fresh air at 12:15 a.m.  My body didn't know what to do at that hour.

Matt Wertz and Ben Rector - you were worth the 14-hour round-trip from Ohio, the long wait in line, the hotel bill, and everything in between.

But do you think you could make it to Columbus next time?     

My dear Wormwood

A devotion from the NIV Women’s Devotional Bible, written by Beth Donigan Seversen:

The Screwtape Letters by C. S. Lewis is a fictitious diary of scolding letters from a mature demon (Screwtape) to his young nephew (Wormwood). It is Wormwood’s job to keep a recent convert to Christianity from being productive for Christ (the Enemy). Screwtape’s letters point out where Wormwood has failed or missed an opportunity. I have often mused that there must be a missing appendix to these letters somewhere that reads like this …


My dear Wormwood,

The following instructions shall help you proceed in handicapping your convert’s effectiveness in the Enemy’s kingdom. One of our great allies at present is her perception of herself. It is your task, therefore, to feed her poor self-esteem. Already she wastes time primping in front of the mirror and worrying about her looks.

You must continue to encourage her to compare herself with so-called “spiritual giants” whom she admires. This will eventually immobilize her. When she feels inadequate she will no longer attempt anything for the Enemy’s kingdom because of her fear of failure. Her warped self-image will lead to unhealthy relationships and hinder her ability to love others. The more often she tells herself that she is a bad person – that she’s not competent – the more easily she will feel threatened by others. This will turn others off to the Enemy and his loathsome Christianity.

Ultimately, her relationship with the Enemy himself will be adversely affected. Since she is not satisfied with how the Enemy has created her, her intimacy with Him will be destroyed and she will find it difficult to trust the Enemy, pray to Him or read that detestable Book.

Finally, emphasize her weaknesses so repeatedly that she begins to believe that she is unimportant to the Enemy. This will push her to compulsive striving to please Him through her own accomplishments. Her works will no longer be motivated by faith, but by a dislike for herself. Confuse her so that she never feels forgiven. If you successfully convince her that the Enemy is never pleased with her, she will grow weary and give up altogether. But more of this in my next letter.

Your affectionate uncle,
Screwtape

Depraved Indifference

Enseko = Laughter = Sseko Designs

I cringe at the thought of spending more than $10 or $15 on a pair of shoes.  I am not a shoe person - never one of those girls that had a shoe fetish, with a closet overflowing of them.  I have one pair of boots that I've had since I was a freshman or sophomore in high school. So, you know, per my usual MO, a decade later, I'm still valiantly holding on to them.  They're in great shape - waterproof and all.  It's a running joke in my family, though, my choice of footwear.  My brothers actually bought me a pair of tennis shoes one year for Christmas because up until that point I refused to buy some myself.  I didn't see anything wrong with the current pair I had, but clearly the family thought otherwise.  My mother eventually had to force me to part ways even with those shoes.  It's not that I'm partial to the shoes, it's just that if there's nothing wrong with them, I'm not going to spend a fortune on a pair just to get an upgrade or a better looking version.

But earlier this week, I spent what I would deem a small fortune on a pair shoes.  And I didn't think twice about it.

A few weeks ago, my friend Emily sent me the link to a company that had a job opening she thought I might be interested in.  It was with Sseko Designs in Kampala, Uganda, for the Director of Operations.  (The thought process behind that possibility is an entirely separate post all together).  So I checked out the site, browsed around the products, checked out the story, and was hooked. 

Because you want to know the really beautiful thing about this company?  It's not about sandals - it's about the women behind the sandals.  It's about opportunity and change for a people and a country that have been hurting for so long. 

Sseko \say-ko\ Designs was created to help these bright young women continue their education. The Ugandan school system is designed with a nine month gap between secondary school and university. These nine months are intended to allow time for students to earn money for tuition before continuing on to university. However, in an impoverished and male dominated society, many of these young women struggle to find fair work during this time.


Sseko Designs hires recent secondary school graduates for this nine month period to live and work together, while earning money that will go directly towards their university education. These women will not make sandals forever. They will go on to be doctors, lawyers, politicians, writers and teachers that will bring change and unification to a country divided and ravished by a 22 year-long war.

Sseko Designs is a not-just-for-profit enterprise that recognizes the power of business and responsible consumerism to support sustainable economic development, which in turn affects a country's educational, justice, and health care systems. The goal of Sseko Designs is two-fold: provide university tuition for these promising young women through a sustainable monthly income, while also contributing to the overall economic development of Uganda.

Although consumerism makes many empty promises, responsible and proactive consumerism has the ability to change lives. Like the lives of Mercy, Mary and Rebbecca.

Every sandal has a story. This story has only just begun, but with your help, it will be a story of hope, success and change.

So that's why.  That's why I don't think twice about paying $50 for a pair of sandals.  To me, the sandals are just icing on the cake.  They're cute.  They're trendy.  They're durable and well-made.  But it's the opportunity to help these women that gets me.  I'll gladly go on buying more sandals and more straps, for myself and for others. (I see birthday and Christmas gifts on the horizon!)  They may live half-a-world away but they're dreamers just like me.  I love funding dreams.

Boys will be Boys...

...regardless of skin color or country of birth.  Dirt is still the universal food of little boys and animal noises are the universal language. 

I checked my e-mails this morning and I had an e-mail from the village in Kenya.  The Child Care Director passed along a recent happening, which she knew I would appreciate:


While the Rafiki employees met with the Village Director on Thursday afternoon, two MiniMissionaries (short-term staff) and two other ROS (Rafiki Overseas Staff, long-term) and I watched the 97 children as they played. It made me wish that I had some afternoon play time with the kids every day. The kids had fun blowing and chasing bubbles, rolling tires, running, kicking footballs (soccer balls) and talking with us. One conversation when something like this:


An unidentified voice- “Mrs. Patty Yoss, Randall is eating dirt.”

Me - “Randall, come here.”

Randall - “Yes, please.”

Me - “Randall, please don’t eat dirt. It’s not good for little boys to eat dirt.”

Johnson- “Mrs. Patty Yoss, is it good for little girls to eat dirt?”

Me - “No, Johnson. It’s not good for any children to eat dirt.”

Hannah- “Only thieves should eat dirt!”

Much laughter by all!
 
Meanwhile, a few nights ago we went out to dinner for mom's birthday.  My nephew Rocco was there and I had the privilege of sitting next to him during the meal.  He has recently become prone to roaring at just about anything as he believes he is a tiger.  At the end of the meal, he turned to me and said in his little lispy voice, "You a lion and I'm a tiger, now roar!"  So I roared somewhat quietly, however he missed the memo about roaring at an equal decibel which prompted half the restaurant turn around and look our way. 
 
He then proceeded to go around the table, naming each person a particular animal name.  I was a lion, he was a tiger, my dad was a puma (clearly this kid has been to the zoo a number of times as I don't know too many three year olds who know what a puma is), my mother was a cheetah.  And then we got to the grandmothers and I thought, "Rocco, my friend, you better tread lightly when it comes to naming the matriarchs of the family." 
 
You could tell he was giving it a great deal of thought what he would name my grandmothers.  I just thought, "Dear Lord, please don't let the words rhino, hippo, or elephant come out of his mouth."  He settled on a giraffe for my one grandmother, which she was quite pleased with because she jokingly said, "I'll take that, considering I'm neither tall nor skinny!"  He then came to my other grandmother and I was anxiously waiting for what his animal choice would be and I could see he was on the verge of one of the dreaded three.  So I leaned over and whispered, "Rocco, maybe she can be a panther."  He looked at me and then he looked at her and said, "You can be a panther!"  
 
Bullet dodged.
 
I'm sure the time will come when I have to explain to Rocco, too, that dirt is not to be eaten, whether in Africa or America. 

With Our Own Eyes

To say that I think of Africa, namely Kenya, a lot would probably be an understatement.  Although it seems here lately that none of us can escape it really, considering the situations happening in Libya, Egypt, and the Ivory Coast.  And those are just the ones that are making headlines.  Don't even get me started on Zimbabwe.  I recently watched a documentary called "Mugabe and the White African."   It's a very compelling documentary, one that made me vacillate between wishing God would somehow wipe Robert Mugabe off the surface of the earth to wanting to cry my eyes out over the injustices in this world.  I was both disturbed and inspired - disturbed by Mugabe and his regime and inspired by the men featured in the story, who were choosing to take a stand, even at risk to their own lives. 

But that's beside the point.

I realized something tonight as I was reading over some Bible verses.  I was working on my lesson material for this week's small group and one of the verses we were to focus on was James 1:27, which says, "Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress..."   Our study actually focused on the previous verses, but I was left pondering this one.  I dug around through some commentaries and I was struck by the notes from Vincent's Word Pictures:

"James strikes a downright blow here at ministry by proxy, or by mere gifts of money.  Pure and undefiled religion demands personal contact with the world's sorrow - to visit the afflicted and to visit them in their affliction."

I, of course, read this and thought of Africa (you may think of your own example).  I thought of Johnson and Benson and Elijah and Denise and all of  the other little faces that I so dearly miss on a daily occasion it seems.  And while I spend a lot of time looking back, I look ahead to what the implications of this verse and this quote from VWP really mean.

It's not enough to simply give money or to wish for a better life for those who are afflicted.

I have to see it with my own eyes.

You have to see it with your own eyes.

If we are to care for the fatherless and widows of this world, those who are without a leader, a guide, a husband, a shepherd - if we are to care for them, then we have to go and see them. 

I loved the definition of "to visit" in Thayer's Greek Definitions - "to look upon or after, to inspect, examine with the eyes."

You see, it's not enough to merely watch the world's hurts on the news or to read about it in a book.  We have to see it with our own eyes.  And I think that's the driving force in my desire to go back to Africa.  I want to see it again - with my own eyes, with the understanding that I am responsible.  I think there will always be this part of me that will never be satisfied until I set foot on that continent again - and to come face to face yet again with the world's deepest needs.  Even as I read over that above quote from VWP, I thought of Zimbabwe and the situation there.  If we are to be the Christians that we say we are, then maybe that even means going to Zimbabwe (or wherever - that's just my example)to see the afflicted people there in their affliction.   Maybe it means going to Egypt.  Maybe it means going to Libya.

Or maybe it means going up the street to the hospital to visit those who don't have families.  Maybe it means going to a homeless shelter and meeting the afflicted there.  Whatever it may mean, we have to examine it with our own eyes if we have any hope of making a dent.  

I loved the story David Platt gave in his book Radical. He talked about a trip he took to Sudan, one where he originally questioned whether it was worth going himself, maybe he should just send money rather than spending everything on a plane ticket and such just to get to the people.  But then he went and when he got there he met a man who thanked him for coming - thanked him for being present in the flesh, for not just sending money, but for physically giving himself to the people.  It meant more to that man that David be there, laboring alongside him and with him, than it meant to simply receive whatever money he might have sent.

Our physical presence matters to the people we encounter and help.  We have to be willing to give of ourselves and not just our finances or well wishes.  It matters to them that we see them.  

I Need Africa More than Africa Needs Me

I listen to a lot of Matt Wertz's music.  And Matt Wertz loves Africa, which makes me like him even more.  He supports an organization called The Mocha Club and while browsing around through the Mocha Club's website, I found this:



"When I think of Africa, the following images immediately come to mind: Starvation. AIDS. Child soldiers. Genocide. Sex slaves. Orphans. From there, my thoughts naturally turn to how I can help, how I can make a difference. "I am needed here," I think. "They have so little, and I have so much." It's true, there are great tragedies playing out in Africa everyday. There is often a level of suffering here that is unimaginable until you have seen it, and even then it is difficult to believe. But what is even harder is reconciling the challenges that many Africans face with the joy I see in those same people. It's a joy that comes from somewhere I cannot fathom, not within the framework that has been my life to this day.

The images spilling out of my television showed circumstances that could seemingly only equal misery, and I was fooled. I bought into the lie that circumstance defines happiness. The truth is, in Africa I find hearts full of victory, indomitable spirits. In places where despair should thrive, instead I find adults dancing and singing, and children playing soccer with a ball crafted of tied up trash. Instead of payback, I find grace. Here, weekend getaways are not options to provide relief from the pains of daily life. Relationships and faith provide joy. Love is sovereign.

My new reality… I know now that my joy should have no regard for my circumstances. I'm ashamed by my lack of faith, but at the very same moment I am excited by my new pursuit. I'm forced to redefine the meaning of having much or having little. I'm uneasy with the prospect of change and of letting go, but just the thought of freedom is liberating. I want what I have learned to trickle down from my head into my heart - I no longer want to need the "next thing" to have joy.

I'm not saying that Africa does not need our efforts. It absolutely does need our partnership. But for me, I've come to understand that I NEED AFRICA MORE THAN AFRICA NEEDS ME. Why? Because it is Africa that has taught me that possessions in my hands will never be as valuable as peace in my heart. I've learned that I don't need what I have and that I have what I need. These are just a few of this continent's many lessons. I came here to serve and yet I've found that I have so much to learn, and Africa, with all its need, has much to teach me.