An Unforgettable Week

We used to tease my dad about his obsession with reading the Dallas Morning News obituaries first thing every day during breakfast.  His reply was always the same:  “Just checking to see if I have to go to work today.”  Being self-employed, he seldom took the luxury of a day off.  Dad went to work almost every single day until the day he didn’t.  (It’s been almost ten years, and I still miss him.)

The truth is that my dad looked at the paper to see which of his friends and acquaintances had passed away so he could pay his respects.  The older he got, he more funerals he attended.  That’s just how it goes.  My grandmother used to say that one of the worst part about growing old was outliving all your friends.

This past week I felt like my dad, only I was checking Facebook  (instead of a newspaper) each day to see if different friends and loved ones on my prayer list “had to go to work” again, or if they had been promoted to glory.  Happily for them, but sadly for those left behind, several died last week.

First was the death of my friend’s mother, whom I had been praying for since she suffered a stroke that weekend.  Then the team leader from a short-term group who came down a few years ago lost his battle against cancer, passing away that same day. 

A couple of days later, a car accident in Paraguay took the lives of a woman some of you may have met at the WOTH retreat last fall, Julie Kurrle, and her six-year-old son.  Then without any Facebook warning at all, a neighbor across the road passed away.  Finally on Sunday a Sonlight forum friend lost her precious little daughter, Megan, to leukemia.

Of all of these, the most tragic are the ones involving the little children whose lives on earth seemed cut short.  I cannot imagine the pain and emptiness felt by the parents.  But then again, those are bittersweet when we picture Jesus welcoming them directly into his arms.

What was truly heart wrenching was the reaction of unsaved loved ones when my neighbor, Joel, died.  My husband and I were in their home when the first responder finally gave up on CPR.  I have never heard such despairing cries of agony and loss.  The wife and daughters were wailing out of sheer hopelessness, not understanding the implications of Joel’s profession of faith in Jesus.

Such an unforgettable week points me again to the reason we are here, the reason we make such sacrifices (like being thousands of miles away when my little granddaughter was taken to the emergency room earlier this week), and the reason we have hope even in the midst of terrible tragedy and loss.

So many have yet to hear the reason for the hope we have.  Here is a sermon that reminded me why we are here, why we do what we do, by  David Platt, author of Radical; it reminds me again of God’s sovereignty.

Here’s a song to minister to your heart, in case you’ve had a week like mine full of sad surprises. 

IRL* If you're reading this, then I guess you have to go to work.

Transformational Sweat

Since no one shot me down last week, I had planned to continue the mini-series on acceptable sins, thinking I would have the perfect post on either laziness or grumbling and complaining. It turns out, I have been strangely industrious and – miracle of all miracles – haven’t had any complaints yet!

This is Holy Week – slash - spring break for our teens, but instead of hanging out, sleeping in, and being lazy all week, we are helping some coworkers who are hosting a team from the U.S. Unlike the rugged teams we normally send to suffer in a remote mountain location, this group is staying in Puerto Escondido, overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

While most people would jump at the opportunity to serve in such a beautiful place, I had to struggle get my heart straight before agreeing to come. Going to the beach, as I’ve mentioned before, is not my favorite thing. It requires a nasty long drive down a winding road up and down from 5000 feet down to sea level. And then being hot and sweaty is something I generally avoid like manual labor.

Considering the prospect of being in a non-air conditioned kitchen preparing dinner for 22 people, I imagined writing about a whole slew of other besetting sins. It turns out, however, that I have found great delight in doing this. The work the rest of the team (including my husband and kids) do each day is much more grueling than my going to market, shopping, disinfecting produce, chopping, cooking, and cleaning up.

Turns out I have the best job around – plus I get to sneak in an afternoon swim (while I pray, of course) before they get back. Plus we will eat in restaurants a couple of the seven nights, making my work even lighter. It’s as though God, knowing what a wimp I am, tests me to see if I am willing, and then He carries my load.

So we’ll gladly skip the post I thought I would have to write, and just praise the Lord that His mercies are new every morning, and that His grace is sufficient for all our needs. You know what? Even sweating isn’t such an awful plight to be dreaded. Joy has been my constant daily companion. I am so thankful I didn’t allow my flesh to talk me out of this opportunity.

Meanwhile our friends in Mali are going through terribly unsettling times following the coup last week, having had to evacuate before the borders closed on Sunday. There are few situations as dreaded or stressful than to be forced out of a country on short notice. My heart goes out to each of you who were affected, and especially your children leaving behind friends, pets, and toys that didn’t make the cut when the bags were quickly packed.

Sweating over a hot stove and being a servant is a privilege. Even if it were a struggle for me, I would not want to trivialize it in light of these serious times for so many of you. I have spent time each day interceding, not just for this work team, but also for each of you in your current struggles.

No one said this life was going to be easy, but I feel for those of you who are sweating these days of uncertainty. May you find comfort and encouragement as we anticipate Resurrection Sunday, as we keep busy at our tasks of reaching the lost before the coming of the Lord.

IRL*It's a privilege to serve up what He offers.

Knock, Knock. Who's There?

“Oh, no you’re not, young lady!” seems to be the theme of my week, only minus the young part. It’s not me the mother talking, but me the daughter hearing these words. Ack. Just when I thought I was grown up enough to make my own decisions and do my own thing…

Thwarted. Repeatedly. Every time I turn around, Dad seems to be saying, “Oh, no you don’t.” Again I am out of control. He’s calling the shots.

This morning at breakfast my ds told an old knock-knock joke that I once told a friend, thinking she might see herself in it, but she didn’t. Today it hit dangerously close to home.

Knock-knock.

Who’s there?

Control Freak…. Now this is the part where you say ‘Control Freak who?’

Ack. I never thought this was particularly my problem, but suddenly nothing is going my way, and I realize again that I must lay down the reins all day long, every day of my life.

And you know what? When I do, I invariably find that God’s ways are better than my original plans.

The weekend retreat was lovely, and the messages were exactly what I needed. It was only behind the scenes that any power struggles occurred between the Trail Guide and myself.

Day one, we had planned a lovely 5-plus hour drive to the retreat center, just our family and the conference speaker and his wife, who have been dear friends for over twenty years. Then dh informed me we were caravanning with another family. Then the family informed us they were taking another family in their van, and yet a third vehicle was following them with another family of six.

First stop was McDonald’s. I thought we would drive through very quickly before leaving the city and take some burgers for lunch. Thwarted. It wasn’t yet noon, so all we could get was breakfast. Then the three other families decided they would go into McDonald’s to order. Forty minutes later we were finally on the road.

My plan was to arrive in plenty of time to get registered and settled before the first session, but due to a string of complications (road work, long potty stops, etc.), our 5-plus hour trip took a full 8 hours. It wasn’t bad, mind you, just not what I had envisioned. The poor speaker had to literally climb out of the car and walk straight to the podium and start speaking.

And so it went for the rest of the weekend. It’s like we remind the newbie missionaries, “Not bad, just different.” That’s my new mantra of the week. Surely I will soon stop trying to micromanage and allow the King of the universe to dictate what each day will hold.

IRL*Meanwhile, I am awaiting the imminent birth of my first granddaughter, which I had hoped (and planned) to announce today. ...

Was it Something I Said?

"Was it something I said? "

My “Ask Jamie Jo” question in reverse (since you have no questions for me, then I’ll ask one of you!) is: How do you live with the consequences of hurtful words once spoken but never forgotten by those who took offense?

Particularly, how do you hold your head up and continue in fellowship with loved ones and/or coworkers, who choose to hold a grudge, yet may never let you know what it was you did or said that was so unforgiveable?

The thing about being imperfect is that I can freely forgive those around me, at least for insignificant little offenses. One of my virtues is that I really truly “get” what it means to be loved unconditionally and to be completely and forever forgiven. Thank You, Jesus!

Because of that (and a very forgetful nature in general, which in other contexts is anything but a virtue), I can forgive myself when I blow it. I hate my sin, but I know where to take it for daily/hourly/ continual washing. That’s the greatest blessing in this life as a Christian – being bathed in love and forgiveness.

Being forgiven, I can then forgive myself, and being aware of my constant struggle against this sin nature (and careless tongue), I can easily extend grace to others when they sin against me. Usually.

Ironically the one sin I hate the most is the sin of unforgiveness. I just don’t get it.

How can Christian workers and family members grow old and bitter, daily revising a long and ready list of offenses people have ignorantly committed against them? Maybe they really don’t “get” it – the whole gospel message of forgiveness, redemption, setting the captives free, healing the broken-hearted and all that. In that case, what is the point of their missionary zeal?

What message are we conveying if we don’t demonstrate love and forgiveness?

Help me out here. I want to understand. You see, lately I have been convicted of my role in some broken relationships. When I’ve asked, “Was it something I said?” more often than not, I’ve discovered that yes, in fact, it was. Sometimes the offense was so long ago, I can’t even recreate the scene of my crime to possibly untangle or rectify the damage of my careless words.

All I can say is “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

Mostly I just carry on, making new friends, hoping and praying that they are the forgiving type, knowing that eventually I will likely offend them in some way, too. I choose to embrace my friends’ humanity along with all their oddities, and to forgive when they fail to love like Christ.

If only I could more easily forgive when they refuse to forgive me….

Tell me honestly now: What do you do in these situations? Become a paranoid people-pleaser, and keep everyone at a pseudo-happy distance, never saying much for fear of causing offense? Or...?
IRL* Tempting though it is, this seems like a lonely road to becoming un-real.

When God Says...

Another helpful and fun book for your Amazon wish list is Diving Off the Pedestal, by one of my closest friends and coworkers, Lila Joy Quezada. She’s another down-to-earth, very genuine person you will appreciate. In her book, Lila tells the story of how her family came to join us nine years ago as a result of a timely (God-orchestrated) email from Jim and me.

The rest of the story (shortened blog version) is that we had been discussing with the president of our sending organization our desperate need for more workers on the field. Sadly, even if we recruited someone that very day, I told him, it would take at least a year and a half for anyone to go through interviews, orientation, support-raising, packing, language learning, and house-hunting before finally beginning to work with us. Surely God saw this crisis well ahead of time and had already prepared someone in advance. Right?

Within 24 hours of this discussion, we received their prayer letter, asking people to pray for direction for them. After 12 years of pastoring a Hispanic church in Oregon, they felt it was time to return to Latin America. Since we already knew them from our early days in Guatemala, of course we jumped at the possibilities, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Today is a different story.

Since, once upon a time, God provided a coworker for my husband, a dear friend for me, and many companions for all of my children among the now 8 Quezada kids, I was ever so hopeful that God would work a similar miracle and bring the “Hayes Zoo” (one of our faithful WOTH readers) and family to work with us. They, too, already spoke Spanish and were already working in Latin America. They also had children who were becoming good friends with my youngest two. It all seemed so perfect…until we got their email indicating it’s just not going to happen. After a few months of unsuccessfully trying to raise support, the door is closed tight. They are settling back in the U.S. instead.

Now we are back in the position of praying for a younger couple like the Hayes, who might catch the vision for reaching unreached non-literate people groups in southern Mexico. While personally disappointed, my heart really goes out to the Hayes family back in limbo, readjusting to life in America. Their question is “How do you respond when God says ‘No’ to something you think is just perfect?”

IRL*How would you answer them?

Jungle Camp

On Saturday we got together for a swim and barbecue with some of our dearest buddies and co-sufferers of so-called “Jungle Camp” (missionary training experience)—our first meet-up in 24 years! We laughed over our ludicrous antics back when we were young and silly, rebelling over the rules of “camp.” We were only allowed one suitcase and one apple box apiece for luggage, and once in the camp we had no access to our cars or telephones. If we wanted to go to town, we had to hike there. No food could be brought back into the camp.

The story I remember best was the time a couple with no kids walked the five miles into town one Sunday and ordered pizza. Following the letter of the law, Methuselah* and several other people snuck out late that night, and met the pizza deliveryman just outside the gate. I was back at the cabin with a sleeping infant, anxiously anticipating my first bite of “real” comfort food. To my extreme disappointment, Jim returned with empty hands, shocked that I had expected a slice. “But that’s against the rules, honey.” WHAT?!

Another time our friends received a visitor who managed to sneak in a whole suitcase of contraband. Late one night we were invited over to their cabin for a sneak peak and snack. Nothing ever tasted as good as that forbidden Snickers bar. The Jenisons became friends for life at that moment. My heroes.

The last memory is the most preposterous of all. We got our hands slapped for audaciously helping each other on what was meant to be an “independent assignment.” We had backpacked most of the day along a dry riverbed to our campsite. With one piece of plastic and some rope, we were expected to build a makeshift shelter for the night. Then we were to build a campfire and cook dinner for ourselves.

Our “sin” was that the men worked together (a no-no) to build both families’ sleeping quarters while the wives nursed babies and pondered how to turn our rations into dinner without too much cooking involved. By the time we got our fires started, the other campers (minus small babies) had already finished eating their own meals, and we could all but taste the delicious smells wafting toward our camp. One couple kindly offered us their leftovers, but we were informed that this, too, was “against the rules.” With friends sharing our misadvantures, we could laugh instead of cry.

In all these years, I can’t remember a single incident on the field where we met a new missionary and thought, too bad they didn’t go through Jungle Camp and learn to work more independently. On the other hand, many times we have wished our friends and coworkers had been taught the art of partnership and collaboration

IRL*which camp are you in?

[*see Jamie-Jo Speak in sidebar]