Marian bent to enter the one-room hut where she would eat Christmas dinner. She had not wanted to come, but Joseph, her teenage assistant at the dispensary, was bursting with excitement when he asked her. "Mama will fix a FAT chicken, and we want you to come!"
Marian knew that no matter how fat the chicken, it wouldn't go far among 9 mouths, and hers would make 10. But she could not disappoint them, and so she said she would come on one condition. "It's an American tradition," she said. "I will come only if I can bring yams." And so it was decided.
She had wanted to stay in her own home and imagine their Christmas back at home in Iowa. Christmas without her. She didn't want to admit that she was homesick, and she was resenting this place. The heat and humidity were oppressive, and she wanted to talk to someone who spoke English! And she wanted cold, the kind of cold that felt as if needles were piercing your legs. And she wanted turkey and dressing and pecan pie and divinity candy and a Christmas tree and poinsettias, and well, she wanted the whole American Christmas.
Now in the hut her eyes began to adjust to the dimness in the room--no electricity in the Belgian Congo in 1955. She saw the Christmas cards proudly displayed around the room. Mama's was in the place of honor as a centerpiece for the table. Others were adorning the walls. Little Nicia clutched hers in her two hands.
"Merry Christmas, Nicia," Marian said as she sank to the floor and sat by the child. She looked at the card. It was a recycled American greeting card depicting the nativity. The ladies of the church back home had cut off the face of the most beautiful cards they had saved from Christmas 1954 and had carefully glued red, green, or gold paper to the back of each. Marian had written personal messages on each one though most of the people could not read.
"Tell me again about the baby Jesus," Nicia asked.
"Why don't you tell me?" Marian answered.
The child hesitated and began in Swahili, "He left his beautiful home in heaven and came to live with us. He was born in a barn, and they wrapped him up tight, and they laid him in feedbox." She looked intently at the card. Then she looked at Marian for a long time before she continued, "Was it like you leaving Iowa and coming here to live with us?"
Marian felt the tears coming, and she could not stop them. She was strong; she could run the dispensary by herself, and she could even fix the generator when it broke down, but she could not stop the tears. She was humbled and ashamed. Ashamed of her own selfishness. Ashamed of how little she really knew of God's love. At that moment she came to realize just how much God loved these humble believers, so simple and unspoiled.
When she could finally talk, she put her arm around the little girl and said, "No, Nicia, I'm afraid I'm not very much like Jesus. But I will tell you this. There's nowhere in the world I would rather be than right here with you."
And it was true.
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
Sunday, December 15, 2013
The Bridge
Imagine that you are lost in the mountains. You come to a deep ravine across which is a rickety footbridge. You are exhausted and scared and hungry. You are terrified of heights, but there seems to be no choice but to try to cross. And so you decide it's your only hope.
You take a few cautious steps onto the bridge; it shudders and swings slightly. Your every nerve screams for you to turn back, but you are frozen with fright and cannot. Against your better judgment you look down feeling sick and dizzy and your skin tingles. Panic nearly keeps you from breathing. Finally, you lower yourself onto your hands and knees and inch your way toward the other side.
You have nearly reached your destination when you hear footsteps running toward you across the bridge. You can't bring yourself to turn around to look, but you know by the sounds and by the violent swinging of the bridge that someone is coming. Suddenly a group of three joggers thunder past you and land safely on solid ground just ahead of you. Feeling foolish, you complete your creeping journey and meet the waiting runners.
You are safe and they are safe. On what did your safety rest?
Sometimes I am creeping through this life, full of fear and panic. This is when I must remember that my peace does not depend on the strength of my faith but on the eternally trustworthy Object of my faith. Surely it's better to inch fearfully through the Christian life than to remain immobile, but how much better to run with confidence because the Bridge will never fail.
You take a few cautious steps onto the bridge; it shudders and swings slightly. Your every nerve screams for you to turn back, but you are frozen with fright and cannot. Against your better judgment you look down feeling sick and dizzy and your skin tingles. Panic nearly keeps you from breathing. Finally, you lower yourself onto your hands and knees and inch your way toward the other side.
You have nearly reached your destination when you hear footsteps running toward you across the bridge. You can't bring yourself to turn around to look, but you know by the sounds and by the violent swinging of the bridge that someone is coming. Suddenly a group of three joggers thunder past you and land safely on solid ground just ahead of you. Feeling foolish, you complete your creeping journey and meet the waiting runners.
You are safe and they are safe. On what did your safety rest?
Sometimes I am creeping through this life, full of fear and panic. This is when I must remember that my peace does not depend on the strength of my faith but on the eternally trustworthy Object of my faith. Surely it's better to inch fearfully through the Christian life than to remain immobile, but how much better to run with confidence because the Bridge will never fail.
Looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith...
Hebrews 12:2
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Grumpy Old Man
Grumpy old man...or woman. No one wants to be one. I think anyone can avoid becoming one, but you have to start NOW. Whether you are young or old, you are becoming an old person. I don't mean to discourage you, but you are aging. And unless you die young, and we all hope that doesn't happen, you will one day be an old man or woman.
I was reminded of this recently when a friend from long ago called. I'll call her Irma. It was rather late in the evening, and frankly, if I had recognized the number, I wouldn't have answered. For over an hour I listened to a sad story. Everyone, or nearly everyone, who had ever crossed her path had done her wrong from her sisters to the government and everyone in between. Social Security and Medicare don't work; doctors won't listen to her; lawyers close up shop and vanish with her money; the real estate people lied to her when they sold her the house; workmen cheat her; the family beat her out of her inheritance; churches don't visit the shut-ins any more. People in this country, who TRY to do right and make the world a better place should not be TREATED like this. AND NO ONE EVER CALLS HER. Imagine that!
It was exhausting. Then over the week-end the phone rang, and this time I did recognize the number, and I didn't answer. I listened as the answering machine recorded the sorrowful message, "Please call me." So Sunday evening when we didn't have church because of the weather, I said to myself, "I better call Irma. Set a mental timer and get off in 20 minutes." And so I did. Call her that is, but so much for the 20-minutes rule. For an hour I listened to the same old thing once again. Some of the complaints go all the way back to the 70's!
If you are feeling uncomfortable that Irma herself may read this someday, I assure you there is little chance that she ever will. But if by some freakish accident she does, well, maybe she won't call me any more. I'm feeling cold even as I write this, but it takes so much emotional energy just to listen and occasionally try to interject some note of hope!
By contrast I think of my Uncle George who is 90 years old and suffering from cancer. My mother, who is a very positive lady, told me just last night how cheery he is. "Just like always," she said.
What makes the difference? I really can't say, but I know I would much rather end up like Uncle George than like Irma. I do call her my friend because in the past she was a real friend to me. That was more than 30 years ago, and as I recall, she was negative even in those days. It seems that the "abuse" she suffered began a long time ago. But now the complaining is much worse. I remember hearing a preacher say once that you will be the same kind of old person that you are young person--only more so! I do believe the truth of that.
I was reminded of this recently when a friend from long ago called. I'll call her Irma. It was rather late in the evening, and frankly, if I had recognized the number, I wouldn't have answered. For over an hour I listened to a sad story. Everyone, or nearly everyone, who had ever crossed her path had done her wrong from her sisters to the government and everyone in between. Social Security and Medicare don't work; doctors won't listen to her; lawyers close up shop and vanish with her money; the real estate people lied to her when they sold her the house; workmen cheat her; the family beat her out of her inheritance; churches don't visit the shut-ins any more. People in this country, who TRY to do right and make the world a better place should not be TREATED like this. AND NO ONE EVER CALLS HER. Imagine that!
It was exhausting. Then over the week-end the phone rang, and this time I did recognize the number, and I didn't answer. I listened as the answering machine recorded the sorrowful message, "Please call me." So Sunday evening when we didn't have church because of the weather, I said to myself, "I better call Irma. Set a mental timer and get off in 20 minutes." And so I did. Call her that is, but so much for the 20-minutes rule. For an hour I listened to the same old thing once again. Some of the complaints go all the way back to the 70's!
If you are feeling uncomfortable that Irma herself may read this someday, I assure you there is little chance that she ever will. But if by some freakish accident she does, well, maybe she won't call me any more. I'm feeling cold even as I write this, but it takes so much emotional energy just to listen and occasionally try to interject some note of hope!
By contrast I think of my Uncle George who is 90 years old and suffering from cancer. My mother, who is a very positive lady, told me just last night how cheery he is. "Just like always," she said.
What makes the difference? I really can't say, but I know I would much rather end up like Uncle George than like Irma. I do call her my friend because in the past she was a real friend to me. That was more than 30 years ago, and as I recall, she was negative even in those days. It seems that the "abuse" she suffered began a long time ago. But now the complaining is much worse. I remember hearing a preacher say once that you will be the same kind of old person that you are young person--only more so! I do believe the truth of that.
Monday, December 2, 2013
Dark December?
"I was walking through Marshall's the other day, and I saw the Christmas displays, and I began to feel that familiar dread." Someone said these words to me recently, and I knew exactly the dread he spoke of. He mentioned the pressure of buying gifts for everyone. "You don't know what to buy; you don't know what they want or need; you don't know how much to spend. If they appear to spend more on you than you do on them, you feel cheap. It's this big guessing game, and it's not fun! Then on Christmas day when everyone is saying, 'Isn't this GREAT," you envision the cash register!"
We all know this is not how it's supposed to be. Satan has highjacked Christmas (Thanksgiving too, but I'll save that for another day.) To be honest, I'm not exactly sure why I feel the holiday gloom. But I do feel it. As the days begin to get shorter, and I hear the inane "45 days 'til Christmas," or some other idiotic comment, I begin to notice the anxiety. Actually, I don't have exactly the same pressures my friend expressed, but somehow I have a hard time feeling festive. For one thing we have simplified in recent years. We haven't continued traditions that weren't working. But still...there always seems to be too many places to go, too many things to do.
I was whining to myself about this all week-end. After all, all this talk about black Friday and gray Thursday and cyber Monday is enough to send anyone into the abyss! And would you believe some over-achieving smart aleck even sent us a Christmas picture already!
So yesterday I took my place at the organ. We sang, "Emmanuel," and I was barely aware of what we were singing. Then we turned to "Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus," and I began to think about all those masses of faithful people who for all those centuries trusted God to keep His promise to send a Redeemer. My heart began to soften a little. Then came "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel" and "Let's Worship and Adore Him." Still, I was only vaguely aware that God was trying to nudge my cold heart. Then the choir began to sing "Our King Has Come," a song I had never heard. They soared to lofty heights to "REJOICE, REJOICE! and quieted almost to a whisper as a reminder that our King has indeed come. I felt my throat tighten and the tears collecting behind my eyes. "Stop this, Barbara; think of something else; you know your nose gets red and you get a headache when you cry, so cut it out!" But I couldn't help it. The Holy Spirit was reminding me that shopping and gift-giving and Christmas cards and black Friday and cash registers and busy schedules were all so much foolishness. I MUST not let these things that don't matter, absolutely do NOT matter, steal the sheer joy that I should feel when I realize that God Himself came in the flesh to live among us. But not for the purpose of giving us a holiday to celebrate. No, He came to offer Himself as payment for a debt that I could never pay. And then He went to the trouble to draw me to Himself, to show me that I am a sinner totally unable to rescue myself, and offer me that supernatural gift of eternal salvation. Now THAT is a thought to banish the blues! REJOICE!
We all know this is not how it's supposed to be. Satan has highjacked Christmas (Thanksgiving too, but I'll save that for another day.) To be honest, I'm not exactly sure why I feel the holiday gloom. But I do feel it. As the days begin to get shorter, and I hear the inane "45 days 'til Christmas," or some other idiotic comment, I begin to notice the anxiety. Actually, I don't have exactly the same pressures my friend expressed, but somehow I have a hard time feeling festive. For one thing we have simplified in recent years. We haven't continued traditions that weren't working. But still...there always seems to be too many places to go, too many things to do.
I was whining to myself about this all week-end. After all, all this talk about black Friday and gray Thursday and cyber Monday is enough to send anyone into the abyss! And would you believe some over-achieving smart aleck even sent us a Christmas picture already!
So yesterday I took my place at the organ. We sang, "Emmanuel," and I was barely aware of what we were singing. Then we turned to "Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus," and I began to think about all those masses of faithful people who for all those centuries trusted God to keep His promise to send a Redeemer. My heart began to soften a little. Then came "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel" and "Let's Worship and Adore Him." Still, I was only vaguely aware that God was trying to nudge my cold heart. Then the choir began to sing "Our King Has Come," a song I had never heard. They soared to lofty heights to "REJOICE, REJOICE! and quieted almost to a whisper as a reminder that our King has indeed come. I felt my throat tighten and the tears collecting behind my eyes. "Stop this, Barbara; think of something else; you know your nose gets red and you get a headache when you cry, so cut it out!" But I couldn't help it. The Holy Spirit was reminding me that shopping and gift-giving and Christmas cards and black Friday and cash registers and busy schedules were all so much foolishness. I MUST not let these things that don't matter, absolutely do NOT matter, steal the sheer joy that I should feel when I realize that God Himself came in the flesh to live among us. But not for the purpose of giving us a holiday to celebrate. No, He came to offer Himself as payment for a debt that I could never pay. And then He went to the trouble to draw me to Himself, to show me that I am a sinner totally unable to rescue myself, and offer me that supernatural gift of eternal salvation. Now THAT is a thought to banish the blues! REJOICE!
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