Faithful are the wounds of a friend...

I had someone use that phrase when speaking with me the other day.

My first thought?

In the middle of a difficult conversation, throwing a Bible verse at someone is playing dirty - because how in the world can you argue with God's inspired words, especially when your whole life has been built around trying to integrate it's truth into every aspect of your life?

So due to the context, the comment was not at all appreciated.

And as a parent... as well as one who works in a Christian school with children who misbehave,...a lot... that is something I need to remember.

I also trust God that "criticism," whether offered 

contructively out of love 

or 

vengefully with a desire to hurt in retaliation, 

gives the Spirit of God opportunity to hold up a mirror where I can look long and hard to see if the criticism, or at least certain aspects, was merited.

So I'm sitting with these words for a bit, even though it also means cutting the wound a little deeper.

Interpreting and applying a proverb

According to the Bible Project, in one of their videos about the book of Proverbs: "... the purpose of this book is to help you develop a set of practical skills for living well in God's world and this gets linked with another key idea...; the fear of the Lord. Now fear here is not about terror. It's about a healthy sense of reverence and awe for God and about my place in the universe. It's a moral mindset that recognizes that I am not God and that I don't get to make up my own definitions of good and evil, of right and wrong. Rather I need to humble myself before God and embrace God's definition of right and wrong, even when that's inconvenient for me." (beginning at 1:44 in the video)

A quick search reveals all sorts of strategies for studying this book of short, pithy sayings. However, since the distinguishing fact of a proverb is its succintness, there are also a few cautions to keep in mind. Thus a proverb should generally not be considered an absolute truth or promise. Additionally, because some proverbs describe the reality of life in a fallen world, description or inclusion is not the same as a comprehensive rubber stamp.

In other words, the wounds of a friend are generally faithful, but do not assume that is always the case... unless, of course, the friend in question is God. 

Rereading the beginning verses of Proverbs 27 today, the image that keeps coming to mind is from last year's Easter program:

Adam and Eve choosing the kisses of the serpent instead of heeding the words of God. 

I wonder if, in their minds, those words seemed hard, restrictive and unfair, even though they had come from a friend - their God who walked and talked with them, from the beginning, in the garden? 

As a consequence, God then pronounced words even more wounding, the curse of sin on all mankind. 

Thankfully, he then followed with words of promise, planting a seed of hope that blossomed into fullfillment with the empty tomb. 

From the beginning of time, the wounds of the only perfect friend prove faithful, while the kisses of the eternal enemy bring catastrophy. 

Voila ~  the truth on which this proverb is based.

However, no mere human  is a perfect friend.

Three key words: wounds... friend... faithful...

Wounds

In the original language, wound refers to a bruise, or what happens when a part of the body is injured and blood from the damaged capillaries (small blood vessels) leaks out. With no place to go, the blood gets trapped under the skin, forming a red or purplish mark that's tender when you touch it. It is the result of an act that crushes or batters.

Friend

Today, friend has all sorts of meanings, including those listed as designated connections on social media. Clearly, that is not what this proverb is getting at. 

Friend, in the original Hebrew language, refers to someone who loves or is loved. There really isn't a whole lot more detail. In fact, this particular Hebrew word used for love can refer to love in any or all of its possible manifestations. 

What several of the commentators I read said was that it was more telling to look at what love was not. In particular, love is the opposite of hate. 

Most dictionaries define hate as a very strong feeling of dislike; an intense hostility. The ancient Hebrew prioritizes a very different nuance. “Sane’ ” (saw-nay’), often translated as hate, is, in pictograph letters, “thorn seed.” According to Jeff Benner in The Ancient Hebrew Lexicon of the Bible "The thorn, (the seed of a plant with small sharp points) cause one to turn directions to avoid them.” In other words, not allowing love. Hate means putting up walls, a hedge of protection, to avoid pain. This image makes me think of the Michael Card song Why?

Only a friend can betray a friend

A stranger has nothing to gain

And only a friend comes close enough

To ever cause so much pain

Faithful

Pillars of support, stable, nourishing, established and sure...

Putting it all together ~ 

Sure and stable, supporting, nourishing and buttressing are those tender to the touch contusions that result from crushing and battering when inflicted by someone who loves you, sees you for who you are and is working for your very best. 

Photo credit : Unsplash by Robert Linder

So what's my conclusion?

Ouch!

Can I trust the "friend" who has recently wounded me? I really don't know. 

We humans are so fallible, so prone to wander, so likely to sin and seek vengeance, so arrogant and sure that our own way has the holy stamp of approval. Thus, that question is impossible for me to answer.

However, I can trust my divine friend. 

We often pray for deliverance from hard things - the things that cause us pain. God, however, is more interested in delivering us from our sinful selves than He is in stopping the pain of a wound becoming a tool of redemption in His faithful, capable hands. 

The cost of choosing choice

According to at least a couple of sources I found, the word "count" appears in the Bible 105 times.

Here are few examples...

• Genesis 13:  "...if anyone could count the dust of the earth, then your offspring could be counted."
• Numbers 12: "...Oh, my lord, please don't count this sin against us, in which we have done foolishly, and in which we have sinned."
• 1 Chronicles 21: "David said to God, 'Wasn’t I the one who gave the order to count the people? I am the one who has sinned and acted very wickedly. But these sheep, what have they done? My Lord God, please let Your hand be against me and against my father’s family, but don’t let the plague be against Your people.' "
• Job 13: "Why do you hide your face and count me as your enemy?"
• Psalm 40: "Many, O Lord my God, are the wonders which You have done, And Your thoughts toward us; There is none to compare with You. If I would declare and speak of them, They would be too numerous to count."
• Luke 1: “For He has had regard for the humble state of His bondslave; For behold, from this time on all generations will count me blessed."
• Luke 14: "For who of you, willing to build a tower, doth not first, having sat down, count the expense, whether he have the things for completing?"
• Philippians 3: "...I count all things but loss for the excellency of the knowledge of Christ Jesus my Lord: for whom I have suffered the loss of all things, and do count them but dung, that I may win Christ.... Brethren, I count not myself to have apprehended: but this one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before, I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus."

Count. It is a verb, an action word.

Sometimes, it was an action commanded by God allowing us to see the infinite benefit and inestimable bounty found in him - trusting him and forsaking all to follow him. 

Other times it was an action prohibited by God, particularly because that action would lead to pride, self-sufficiency and idolatry.

But it always includes a reckoning, a computation or estimation identifying and demonstrating the value we place upon something.

In Jesus' discourse (Luke 14),  this verb referred specifically to determining a value, a cost, that his followers had to decide whether or not they were willing to pay.

It was never a question of if such a decision would cost. 

Regardless of the decision, there would be a cost. 

That was a given. 

The question was which one those those listening were willing to pay.

When we chose missionary life, we knew there would be a cost to pay. Sometimes, the cost has seemed so nonexistent that momentary benefits far outweighed any expense. Other times, that cost has been far steeper than we ever imagined having to pay, leading to consequences that 1) we didn't choose and 2) we never desired.

More than anything else, it has reinforced the value of the ministry we have been gifted.

Today, I watched a documentary on Rick Rescorla, the director of security for Morgan Stanley, a financial securities firm housed in the North Tower of the World Trade Center in 2001. Rescorla recognized the possibility of terrorist attacks on such symbolic buildings, and insisted on evacuation drills which, when were implemented on September 11 and probably saved over 3000 lives. Not his own, however. Rescorla counted the cost, re-entering the building (while speaking on the phone with his wife) to do a final sweep, just prior to the building's collapse.  

In light of our world's current events, I've been asking myself how it is that people want to be able to make a choice, theoretically after having weighed all the information and counted the cost, but then scream and fuss when faced with the results of their choice? 

Why are they not willing to live the consequences inherent to their decision? 

The consequences might stink; they may seem discriminating, frustrating, unfair, detestable, abhorrent... but they shouldn't be surprising.

People want to decide, and in our society, they currently have that freedom. But that doesn't seem to be all that is desired. People want the freedom to choose without any cost.

If the choice really was that important, that essential, that precious... the cost should be willingly and readily paid.   

Language of Love

If you were to visit my house while my crew was sitting around, fiddling on their electronic devices, cleaning, folding laundry or working on homework some Saturday morning, the probability is high that you'd hear them singing a really (and I mean really) silly song called The Language of Love (by Ylvis). When I was a kid, it was Weird Al Yankovich... When my bigs were littles, it was Silly Songs with Larry. 

Today, we've got Ylvis and this song is all about a "puppy love affair", where a man and a seal fall in love and sing to each other. Ridiculous? Yes! But my kids have a blast, laughing and singing all in good fun, especially when someone decides to imitate the seal as she sings her love back to the man.

On a cold, snowy, blowy, white-outy wintry morning when all has been canceled and all have been advised to hunker down and shelter in place,  I've heard the song a few times. Funny thing? The title lines right up with reflections I've had this past week, returning to school... and ministry... after the Christmas holiday.

Many are familiar with Gary Chapman and the five "love languages:

1. words of affirmation, 
2. physical touch, 
3. acts of service, 
4. gifts and 
5. quality time. 

My love language is, without a doubt, words of affirmation. I feel most loved when people gift me words, sincere and quality words. I feel most loved by God when I spend time studying, meditating and drinking in His Word. I most naturally and easily love and minister to others through words, both written and spoken.

At least until the last couple of years. Doing life and ministry in French makes communicating and using words well more challenging, complicated and definitely more exhausting.

There's no doubt about it. I just can't use words nearly so easily or as well. In fact, I am pretty sure I often sound like the "seal singing" part of the above mentioned song. Therefore, since moving to Quebec I've been pushed - more than ever before - to learn new ways to communicate God's love, ones that aren't so "word-heavy," ones such as acts of service, and quality time. 

Unsurprisingly (even though head-in-the-sand-me managed to be surprised) communicating love via those secondary and tertiary for me languages demands an investment, a significant one, of additional effort and time. Words are easy and natural, at least for this introvert. Those other love languages require that I do what comes much less naturally. Even when I do try to fall back on words, my first instinct and characteristic choice, additional time and effort is required.  

And while I can't quantify this type of daily life effort in the same way I can calculate effort using a physics equation, I have ascertained the following:

• Compared to what I experienced while living in the developing world (i.e. my daily life in Niger), much less physical effort is required to "do life" in Quebec... and that's taking into account all the inconveniences that are a part of dealing with lots of cold and snow.
• On the other hand, even though the French language has been an important aspect of of life and ministry in both places, in Quebec, it encompasses the majority of all I do. Most days, I communicate more in French than in English. I can do it, but the mental effort is significant.
• When we first started this adventure 20+ years ago, I had no clue what choosing to live life in a language other than your maternal tongue demands. Today, I have enormous respect those who, whether by choice or necessity, do so.
• My appreciation of those who regularly demonstrate love using one of the other "love languages" is increasing exponentially.
• I'm learning to better recognize and appreciate those gifts of love when they are shared with me.
• I'm thankful that using my less "natural" love languages is deepening my daily dependence on God, because I feel unable, tired and out of my league.
• I'm learning to turn first to God's Word to help me communicate love when I want to use words, as well as to recognize when words just might not be the most effective tool.

Perhaps most significant of all, I'm realizing anew, literally every morning, just how dependent I am on God and his Spirit if I want to demonstrate and share his love - steadfast, sure and new every morning - regardless of the language.

Ma chaise berçante... otherwise known as rocking chair "internship"

Tomorrow morning some time, my two older girls are taking off with a friend to visit their younger sister who is attending school in a different state. I'm delighted they are going to check up on their lil' sis. Yet, my mama-heart is exceedingly worried - the weather forecast ain't so great and even though they are all grown up and competent drivers, I know from personal experience how scary it can be to driving through the regions where they'll be driving in nasty winter weather.

It's even scarier as their mother... I literally texted one of them today and asked if we could Skype tonight just so I could be sure and hear their voices again if they died. Fortunately, said daughter kindly understood her mother's freak out...

I remember being a young adult, I remember my mom being worried. I remember having to work really hard (not always successfully) to not be offended by that worry. I had no idea how visceral and real and almost decapitating (as in the panic can sometimes interfere with any semblance of logical or reasonable brain activity) that worry can be... My family and God are pounding yet another parenting truth into my rather hard head.

One of my coping strategies to try and manage this overwhelming - and if I'm blunt, sinful, since it is me trying to micromanage their lives mostly for my own comfort with more than a dash of "their own good" mixed in - panicky concern is nostalgia. The fact that I recently heard a radio program highlighting the benefits, physical and mental, of rocking - for both big and little people - has had me mentally meandering through my rocking chair memories. 

The stories this chair could tell...

My parents gave me this Amish rocker shortly after we announced we were expecting our first child, in other words, back in 1995. I've sat in this chair during every pregnancy, rocked, nursed and sang to every one of my babies in this chair. It traveled to Niger (yes, Africa) in a container and spent several years, creaking and cracking on the back side of the Sahara Desert. I'm sure if I looked closely, I could still find bits of desert orange sand in the joints. Fortunately, it was spared during the great termite infestation that destroyed a couple thousand dollars of home school curriculum, videos and other termite delicacies while stored during a home assignment back in the States.

Then came the great conundrum. We were leaving Niger. We weren't shipping a container home. But I wanted my rocking chair. So I took it apart, carefully packed it into a suitcase, and brought it back to the American side of the Atlantic. Of course, taking it apart was much easier than getting it back together. Even with all the pictures we took. Tim offered to buy me another one. I refused.

I didn't want another one. I wanted THAT one. My rocking chair...

The chair I rocked in when my back was KILLING me during or immediately after each of my pregnancies (Believe it or not, I did not enjoy even though I've spent approximately 75 months, 3236 weeks, or 6.25 years - of my life pregnant. And yes, I was counting.)

The chair where I rocked and breathed and read until I memorized Philippians 4 after waking with panic attacks at 3 am repeatedly... until I experienced physically the "peace of God that guards my heart and mind."

The chair where I cuddled and nursed and deepened that relationship with each little life God's gifted to Tim and me.

The chair where I've read Winnie the Pooh or the Wheel on the School or Ruth to each one, because whether they remember it or not, I do.

The chair that I far too often left neglected in the corner of my bedroom for long stretches because I was too busy to stop and take the time, too concerned with my own dreams, my own plans.

The chair where I've spent uncounted sleepless nights with sickies praying for patience and health yet also appreciating those long moments of quiet with just one child rocking snuggled close in my arms.

The chair strategically placed under the air conditioner where I'd listen, the sweat still rolling down the back of my knees, to Jan Karon's audio books during sieste on a sweltering Niger afternoon.

The chair where I held my neighbor's deathly sick and desperately needing surgery little girl who continually moaned in pain while knowing there was nothing else I could do - just to give her mama a few minutes break.

The chair where I've prayed for bigger kids when they've been far from me and I've been worried about them - their safety or the wisdom of the decisions they were making.

The chair where God, along with my family, has persistently worked to gentle stubborn, hard-headed and selfish me, giving me a long "internship" in choosing joy while putting my desires (and sometimes needs) aside for a few moments to focus on serving another.

Chaise berçante... those words, pronounced in French even sound like the gentle to and fro of my chair as tilts forward and back, that God has used to gentle me. A place so comfortable, so comforting, that moves so gracefully - where I've learned some of the hardest yet most important lessons of my life.

That chair represents more than just the many precious or challenging memories of parenthood. It represents much of my journey with my Savior. I often wonder what that chair would recount... if it could.

Thankfully, a dear gentleman in one of our partnering churches was able to help put my Amish rocker back together. But it is definitely worse for the wear. Today, it sits beside our fireplace, held together by duct tape... 

...as today that "internship" continues. I pray it continues for many years, encore!

PS My girlies made their trip safely and are now hanging out and s'encouraging (yes, that's franglais). I wish I could be there with them.

just one of those days where I don't like very much what I've signed up for

We signed a lease today.

That means this July, we will make our 32nd move in 25 years of marriage. Thankfully several of those were "smaller affairs" back before we had lots of kids. But it will be our fifth move in the last 10 years - and two of those were international.

I'm a little sad. 

Actually, if I'm going to be "authentic," today I'm a lot sad.

I'm also a lot tired, just thinking of all that now has to happen between now and then.

As followers of Jesus, we learn to hold dreams, hopes as well as the people and things we love close to our hearts, but loosely with open hands, offering all back to God. 

Today, I'm wishing that God will let me stop learning that open-handed heart position.

Almost two years ago, when we moved into the rental house where we are presently living, I fell in love. With all those moves, I've lived in quite a few different places. I'm usually pretty content. I've found things to love and enjoy about every house we've ever had. I don't think I've ever been unhappy with any of our living spaces.

This house was different. For me, it has been a head over heels love affair. It's cute. It has personality. It has been well-lived in, with "scars and stretch-marks." There's a pool surrounded by a deck about to collapse. A fireplace. Enough square footage to really stretch out and breath deep. Space to invite friends and family to visit. An older neighborhood with huge trees, great paths to walk, the golf course (or cross-country ski trails, depending on the time of year) right across the street, a cute little "centre-ville" and the St. Lawrence River just down the hill. I love living here. It doesn't just feel like another in a long list of houses. It has felt like home. The day we signed the lease for this however, I knew we'd be moving again, sometime. I forgot to hold this home loosely. During the past 20 months, without really realizing it, I've clenched tightly my metaphorical hand around the idea of staying here, for several more years.

God has been prying my clutching fingers away, one at a time over the past several weeks... and I'm a little sore from clinging too tightly.

It all started when we began praying about the possibility of moving. The church plant project of which we are a part has a community church as its goal. It is much easier to invite people to a community church activity when you actually live in the neighborhood. We started wondering if God might be asking us to move into that area of town. Tim and I told each other we were going to pray about it. Instead of praying for wisdom regarding such a big decision, however, I spent more time asking God to pry my hands back open because the idea of packing everything up just seemed to suck all the energy right out of me.

Then, my desires became a bit of a mute point. We received  notification that the owner of our current home had decided to sell. We could renew our lease, but that means living in a house with regular visits from prospective buyers, potential inspections and probably work that needs to be done as a result. Eventually, we'd be given notice, and we would have a certain period of time during which we would have to find another place to live so we could vacate the property.

So we started to look in earnest. Every morning, every night - I would scrutinize the housing ads on six or seven different web sites. I'd write and find out if renters really didn't want dogs or if they just didn't want big dogs, if rental prices included utilities or not, what neighborhood the house was actually located in, if the house was even still available and if could we arrange a visit. Then came the visits. Last Monday night, neither agent showed up to show us the house, so we uselessly drove around for two-ish hours. The visits are almost always a bit of a let down. The house never looks quite as big or nice as it does in the publicity photos.

Yesterday, we had it narrowed down to two places: one close to the church plant neighborhood, farther from school and work, a lot smaller, less expensive, an indoor parking spot and access to a community pool as part of the deal; the other possibility was a bit farther from the church plant neighborhood but walking distance from the kids' school, an almost new and lovely home with significantly more space, more bathrooms, almost no yard and a steeper rent. 

We talked and prayed. And we decided. I left the school's staff retreat today a little early so I could drive by the first choice above and sign the lease. 

I wanted to cry. Not because I didn't like the choice - our two choices were pretty equal in my mind, each with different positives and negatives. I was just sad that we had had to make the choice. I don't want to move.

Even if it is what I signed up for.

I signed up for this when I promised Jesus as a little girl that I "wanted to be a missionary for him someday, when I grew up."

It is what Tim and I signed up for when we moved to Niger, and then to Quebec.

Part of serving God is counting the cost and this is one of the costs.

I am loath to call it a sacrifice because I will have a roof over my head, our gang of 4 plus 1 (when she gets done with her Bible program this year) will all have a bed and we will be together. We will figure out a way to cram the big kids, my parents or other family in if and when they come to visit. We'll have people over, lots, just because we do that, and we'll be snug and laugh lots. I will choose to be content and I will probably learn to love this new space.

Signing the lease today, however? 

I didn't want to do it, even if I had signed up for it. 

It felt like a heavy, burdensome sacrifice.

It gets old not knowing from one year to the next if we'll be in the same place. It gets old realizing there are still boxes I've not unpacked from the last two moves. It gets old not having the stability of a house we own.

Then I remember one of Paul's prayers for the Ephesians.

"...having the of your hearts enlightened, that you may know what is the hope to which he has called you, what are the riches of his glorious inheritance in the saints, and what is the immeasurable greatness of his power toward us who believe." (from Eph 1) 

This is nothing more than a momentary impression of something that today, feels like a sacrifice. I've an eternal home awaiting me in the future. Once there, I'll never have to move again.

Sous le manguier... or... Under the Shadow of the Mango Tree

I've often been known to remark that I'm not a sentimental mother. 

First day of Anna's last year of high school, August 2017

Don't get me wrong. I love my children, I love being with them more than almost anything else. But I don't long to return to those earlier days of this journey. My heart is too full with the right here and right now. My days are full enjoying life and just being with this gang - as my babies have become little people who have become/are becoming bigger little people who then morph into tweens, teens and finally emerge as young adults. 

I love discovering that I just don't love them because I birthed them and because they are mine.

I really just like them and the people they are becoming.

So this mama-thing, watching these kids grow up and become - more often than not in recent years - has kept me going nonstop, regularly takes my breath away and often leaves me without words (hence the much less frequent posting in this place).

So today, I thought I'd share some of her words, first in French because that's how she first wrote it for a school assignment. She agreed to translate it so that I could share it here. 

I'm proud of this girl. 

Anna giving cross country skiing a try this winter. 

She's always surprising me and it started from day I learned we were expecting her. I'd had a complicated (i.e. requiring a medical procedure) miscarriage just the month before and wasn't planning on another immediate pregnancy. She was the biggest of my babies, always happiest when she had all of her people within easy reach. We almost lost her once (that story is here, if you want to read it), and gratitude that we still get to enjoy her frequently catches me off guard, completely overwhelming me as thankful tears fill my eyes. 

In public, she's introverted and shy, so much so that it amazes me when her clownishness surfaces once we are back at home. She's a planner and she's not afraid to try something that interests her (like the time she made croissants or roped me into a three day bike ride that has us now planning a much longer one as soon as life permits it). 

She's a Senior (or Sec 5) student this year. Academically, she's doing fabulously - taking the most challenging classes and playing varsity basketball - all while working as a cashier and helping in one of the Sunday School classes as church. School has never been simple for her. In addition to her shy introversion (in a system that rewards outgoing and extroverted leadership), she has dysgraphia, which means writing (as well as a few other things) doesn't come easily or naturally. What takes other students 30 minutes can easily take her three times as long. 

I remember times while she was a student at École Alliance in Niger, when she and her classmates were required to copy lesson texts from the blackboard. She struggled to finish the entire text that others had completed in minutes. Her handwriting was usually illegible and her copied text was filled with spelling and orthographic mistakes. Each time she'd look away from the board to the paper, or vice versa, she'd get lost and by the time she refound where she needed to be, she'd have forgotten the sequence of letters she was trying to copy. 

Fortunately, she's always loved to write and God gifted her with a natural perseverance and "sticktoittiveness" that kept discouragement at bay, even in the most difficult seasons. Her hard work and refusal to give up have paid off. Last year, she passed two of her required ministerial exams (in French, mind you) - one with a grade of 98%; the other with a 100% score. As I was leaving the school one afternoon last week, her French teacher poked her head in the room to say that she's never seen someone make such a marked improvement in such a short time. Anna's slightly embarrassed smile at that comment sent my mama heart soaring, and I silently thanked God for this girl and all He's done in her life. 

I could say more, but instead, I'll just share Anna's words ~ 

Sous le manguier

Les samedis matin ou les après-midis après l’école, on sortait dehors pour jouer. Pour échapper au soleil brillant on trouvait refuge à l’ombre des manguiers. Les trois arbres étaient plantés dans une rangée. Notre préféré était le plus grand, car il était le plus proche du tuyau. 

Pendant que nos parents prenaient leur sieste ou que notre mère cuisinait, on construisait des villes entières autour du manguier. Avec la boue, les brindilles et les feuilles, on fabriquait des maisons, des ponts, des magasins, des fermes et des enclos pour nos petits chevaux en plastique. Le tuyau simulait la source d’une rivière qui entourait notre petit paradis. Au centre de la ville se tenait l’arbre. Parfois, il était un château, un gardien ou un lieu sacré. Son rôle changeait toujours. 

Plus loin que les frontières de l’ombre était un désert. Vaste et inhabitable, il représentait un danger constant pour les villageois. Lorsque le tuyau arrêtait de couler, les jouets s’organisaient en une caravane pour traverser les dunes. Sur l’autre côté de l’étendue aride attendait une nouvelle oasis. 

Quand on s’ennuyait de nos jeux imaginaires, on se couchait par terre et le sable, refroidi par l’eau et l’ombre, rafraîchissait nos corps. Parfois on observait les margouillats qui grimpaient sur les murs en ciment de notre maison. Si on était fatigué, on fermait les yeux et l’odeur du manguier remplissait nos narines. Même aujourd’hui, le parfum sucré des mangues me transporte dans un autre monde.

Under the Shadow of the Mango Tree

On Saturday mornings or sunny afternoons after school, we went outside to play. We sought refuge from the scorching sun under the leaves of the mango trees. There were three of them, planted in a row. Our favorite was the biggest, because it was the closest to the hose. 

While our parents rested or our mother cooked, we built entire villages around that mango tree. From mud, twigs and mango leaves we constructed houses, bridges, stores, farms, and corrals for our little plastic horses. The hose was the source of a river that surrounded our haven. In the middle of our town stood the tree. Sometimes it was a castle; other times a sentinel or a peaceful, hallowed place. Its role was always changing. 

Outside the safety of the shadow was a desert. Vast and inhospitable, that desert was a constant, endangering our villagers and their livestock. When the river dried up, our toys formed a caravan. Together, they marched across the endless dunes where a new oasis awaited them on the far side of that wasteland. 

If we got bored of our imaginary games, we stretched out on the ground, demolishing our village. The sand, cool and damp, refreshed our sweaty bodies. Together we’d watch the margouillats that effortlessly scaled the cement walls of our home. If we were tired, we’d close our eyes, relishing the sweet perfume of mangoes that filled our nostrils. 

Even now, the fruity odor transports me back to those days, that time.

Five Minute Friday ~ Journey that includes Physicians and dentists, Panic attacks and Pretty amazing grace... "Oh my!"

Might as well start off by saying that I'm not setting a timer, not watching a clock, not worrying about keeping this to five minutes... although in the spirit of Five Minute Friday, I will skip the overthinking and editing that is normally a part of my blog posts.

Of course, if I did watch the clock... took the time to overthink... went back to edit... 

Chances are? 

I'll never hit that post button.

So without further ado, here it goes.

This journey began 12 or 13 years ago... and if I'm honest - a season of burnout. Still not sure of the exact mechanism... the why or the how... but somehow a combination of 

• stress due to my stage of life - busy misso mama with home and ministry responsibilities...
• parenting many children in close succession and the wear and tear of successive, close pregnancies and long term nursing -physically- on my body...
• medications instrumental in preventing malaria, but that did bad things to both my mind and body...
• stress due to high expectations that I had for myself as an overseas missionary...
• through the roof stress in co-worker relationships, both perceived-by-me AND real...
• rising tensions as well as physical dangers and threats in our neck of the woods...
• a downed high tension electric line that resulted in persistent and long power outages (while living in what has, at times, been described as the hottest capital city in the world)...AND
• an out-of-the-blue tree nut allergy suddenly emerging...

plus some other things that I'm forgetting as well as a few that I'm choosing not to list...

All of these mixed made a powerful cocktail that knocked me off my feet for what felt like a long season.

I began experiencing panic attacks. 

At first it was hard to distinguish an attack from an a reaction to tree nuts - heart racing then pounding then actual palpitations, difficulty taking a deep breath or breathlessness, a numbness and feeling that both my tongue and throat were swelling, extreme nausea, a fear of being alone (in case it was a real, physical issue) but an even greater terror of anyone seeing me in said state, cold sweats, physical trembling all over. 

Getting rid of the tree nuts was an easy solution, except that it didn't stop the attacks. 

Then, I started to figure out specific triggers: an angry disagreement with my husband, a sick child, a need to take (or give to one of my kids) a new medication where I didn't know what sorts of side effects would be experienced... but I still experienced mad symptoms, feeling like a cat perched high on a tree branch and I didn't know what to do or how to let anyone help. Still, no real relief.

For out of the blue and no reason I could determine, I'd be blindsided by an attack. Although, I guess, in theory, it is hard to be blindsided when those attacks were happening on an almost daily basis.

We went to our doctor. She said cut out all caffeine and get at least eight hours of sleep at night, but that brought no improvement. I changed malaria prophylactics, but if that helped, it wasn't immediately evident due to the long half-life of the medication - or so I was told. After another major episode, an injection to reduce that fight-or-flight response and a resulting bout with cellulitis, our doc referred me to a cardiologist. (Totally parenthetical, but visiting a cardiologist in Niger was enough to bring on a panic attack all by itself as they'd have me remove my shirt in the exam room and then walk to the procedures/imaging department, through the hallway filled with other waiting patients, for the actual test. It didn't seem to bother the local women, but I wasn't a local woman.) He first did a 48 hour heart monitor/EKG and then wanted to follow up with an ultrasound of my heart. His diagnosis was pulmonary hypertension. Not encouraging - and it wreaked havoc with finding medical insurance coverage for our family, specifically me, for the next decade. He said absolutely no more pregnancies, no caffeine, lots of rest, minimal stress - and come back in six months to see if anything had changed. Not long after, we learned that Mary Michelle was on her way... I ended up going to the States for that delivery.

It was finally an expat missionary nurse who helped me take an initial step on my journey to "recovery." She recommended a medication used by psychiatric patients, at a low dosage and one that I could buy over-the-counter in Niamey. At first, I took it regularly; then I gradually weaned myself off and used on an as-needed basis when experiencing an panic attack. I carry that little bottle of pills in my purse everywhere... still... even though they are long expired.

After a decade of these attacks

• no more malaria prophylactic, 
• no longer living in the excessive heat, 
• not having been pregnant for almost several years and not having a nursing baby for almost as many, 
• a lifestyle where I try and get regular outdoor physical activity, rest and sleep (even when I'm sure I don't need it),
• avoiding excessive caffeine intake - even when I'm sure I do need it (or at least want it), 
• quiet introvert-recharge-time alone at home - without the continual come and go of visitors as was so normal during our years in Africa.

I just went through two full years without even the hint of a panic attack (literally... October marked two years) - including an international trip where I had changed handbags and didn't have my purse placebo with me.

Until I went to the dentist a little over a week ago. 

I needed work done on both sides of my mouth: a small cavity and a chipped/broken molar way in the back that I'd waited way too long to have repaired. As is typical, the dentist (a young guy, with a man bun - all of our girlies think he's really nice... and hot!) used a topical med to numb my gums before injecting the anesthesia. I must have swallowed a little because my tongue and throat lost sensation and what feeling I did have resembled the swollen feeling I'd get back before we figured out the tree nut thing, back when I had regular panic attacks. And I had a stupid attack right there in the dentist office. Thankfully, after about 10 minutes and realizing that I was able to breathe just fine, gracious, kind and concerned dentist and hygienist/helper, and finally, some water to rinse the topical out of my throat, we were able to continue with the procedure on the back tooth. I did, however, opt to return the following week for the little cavity as really, all I wanted to do was escape back to my house.

I went in yesterday for that little cavity, knowing that I needed him to look at the back tooth again. I thought I had a little morsel of glue stuck under my gum that I'd tried and tried to tease out using dental floss - but had had no success. He found that and removed it pretty quickly. But when he looked a little more closely, he saw that the repair he'd done had actually cracked and a chunk had fallen out and wedged itself under my gum line as well. No wonder I couldn't chew on that side of my mouth all week! 

So... a subsequent repair, lots of digging around already tender gums - which we decided to do without anesthesia this time because we wanted me to be able to truly feel if it had been repaired. Of course, that meant I also got to truly feel the work being done as well. I'll suffice it to say, "Ouch!" and I did come home and cry cause I couldn't even when I wanted to while in the dental office. My mouth is still sore today. But the problem now seems to be fixed and no more dental appoints scheduled until my next cleaning - in a year!

As he started to work, as we moved from discomfort to downright uncomfortable to flat out painful, my heart started to race and pound and I feared another attack. Then a small still voice deep inside whispered, "Listen to the music."

It was no longer the pop music of the local station that had been playing while I was in the waiting room. It was praise and worship music - in English - and frankly, that doesn't even exist in Quebec City! It was like I was listening to a Christian radio station back in the States. And it played for the entire time the dentist was working on my teeth.

I didn't expect that. And while my heart continued to race, my one hand was clinching the arm of the dentist chair, my mouth hurt something fierce and I had to keep reminding myself that I could breathe just fine (during the instrumental parts), I was able to lay there while he worked and concentrate on words of praise and worship.

Grace is like that, - often showing up in the most unexpected places.

I don't know?  Perhaps the dentist himself... or his hygienist... picked out some music that they thought might specifically help me this time, after the panic attack the week before? The week before, while waiting for the attack to diminish, we'd actually had a pretty incredible 10 minute conversation about our time in Africa, faith and belief in Christ, why we'd gone in the first place and how I'd found out about my allergy/started experiencing the panic attacks. Then, the dentist left the room for another 10 minutes while the anesthesia took effect and the hygienist and I continued to speak. She'd attended a parochial primary and secondary school and had friends who'd done overseas charity work, so she continued to ask specific questions about our work and life in Niger.

If it wasn't that, perhaps the Holy Spirit did some miraculous thing and I heard the music that I needed to hear instead of what was really playing (although I don't tend to lean towards that sort of explanation - a bit too mystical for my comfort). I don't know if one of the receptionists changed to an internet station instead of a local station. 

What I do know is that when I needed that calming influence, God - or God through others - provided! THAT. IS. GRACE-IN-ACTION!

Time off... together, enjoying being outside on a beautiful day. and lots of physical activity... always helps when I'm starting to feel the pressure mounting. While back in the States for a training seminar last month, Tim and I took a day to visit DC. I've included a few of my favorite photos from the day, and our 14+ mile monumental metropolis trek!

In this journey we call life, grace catches us off guard, when we least expect it. In fact, I'm pretty sure it is much more prevalent than we even begin to recognize ~ for "every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning." James said that. Or, to quote Paul, "I besought the Lord [much more than] thrice, that it might depart from me. And he said unto me, 'My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.' Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me. Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ's sake: for when I am weak, then am I strong."

Generating Gratitude

Thanksgiving is this month… unless you live in Canada (like I do now). If you do, Thanksgiving was last month.

Traditionally, Fall- or harvest-time in western cultures - includes a specified time of celebration, family and giving thanks. But that doesn't mean western cultures have the corner on this sort of celebration.

Have you already guessed? Our monthly theme [at Missionary Mom's Companion] for November is thankfulness... and we hope to spark a conversation about how Thanksgiving (or Action de Grâce as we say in French) is celebrated around the world. 

To start things off, I'd like to revisit something I wrote a few years back... while I was still living in West Africa... all about gratitude!

...I feel a bit stupid starting out like this – 

I REALLY can’t stand listening to a generator.

I know. You’re wondering, “What’s the big deal?”

First, I’ve listened to them an awful lot lately.

Additionally, generators are noisy, they stink, there’s usually a big puff of black smoke as they start up, I’m quite sure they can’t be good for the environment and they consume a whole lot of diesel fuel. That gets expensive. 

And while that list of five might actually be considered valid reasons for my churlishness, they aren’t the real ones behind my stronger than ambivalent dislike.

My antipathy towards those monstrosities which authorize electricity for some while everyone else has plunged into darkness is nothing short of sinful.

I detest them because I don’t have one…

************************************

Don't bail now! To read the rest, please join me over at Missionary Mom's Companion... and let's discuss thankfulness!

The Enigma of Educating our TCKs

  

As a relatively large family (eight children spanning 13 years) that’s been on the mission field, essentially since the turn of the century (15 years - long enough to be considered career), we’ve tried several different education options: homeschool, local language schools, private school, public school, online school… We’ve not yet used the boarding option at a boarding school (unless you count our university aged kiddos living in a dorm, but that’s still a whole different ballgame). And, in fact, when we first left for the field, I would have told anyone who asked that home school was the plan, but also that boarding school was the only option NOT on the table. 

Now?

I would tell you that any possible option that presents itself makes its way to the table as a topic of discussion…

People have asked us before about our education plan/philosophy, and I used to think I had it pretty well figured out – actually, mapped out – before our first reached third grade. A special educator with several years of experience in the classroom… a professional trained to look at the individual skills, abilities and needs of an individual student – and one who was fairly good at what I did… I figured those skills would naturally transfer to figuring out an exceptional and best educational plan for each one of my own children. Since I was the professional educator, my husband – although always an active contributor to the many conversations – essentially followed my lead regarding what was best, educationally, for our children, although there have been compromises. 

I’ve discovered that it HAS NOT come naturally – because my own desires and dreams for my children often interferes with… even disguises… what might actually be best for them… educationally, emotionally, physically, socially… spiritually. Those best choices that I could see easily for someone else’s child weren’t nearly so obvious when it came to my own.  Sometimes, best choices actually get in the way of good decisions. Sometimes, we make what appear to be best decisions – only to discover down the road aways that we didn’t have all of the facts or experience necessary to know actually know what we were deciding…

We’ve I’ve made so many mistakes. 

I’m thankful for God’s grace and merciful children. 

Key questions we’ve started asking when it comes to making those educational decisions...

*************************************

If you'd like to read the rest, please join me @ Missionary Mom's Companion, where I posted this article last weekend!