A rural village in Varzol of 300 homes.

It really was one of the better schools I’ve seen here. Very welcoming group. Even the old chair of the community committee (like a mayor) came to meet and talk with us. When we were done several hours later he offered his arm to me to keep me from falling. He was a frail little man and my thought the whole time–I mean how could I refuse? was…“Please God don’t let me fall and land on this poor little guy. If I hurt him—not very good for US relations with this tiny village!

Their were students waiting at the school long after it closed to get my “autograph”—geez these kids need something more entertaining to do after school!  I willingly obliged. They’d told me when we talked they’d NEVER met an American before and seemed very excited to capture the moment with photos and the autographs. I’m sure they’ll entertain their families for several days about the lady from the US who came to talk to them.

When the parents first came into the meeting–the fathers looked stern and unapproachable.  Two of them in particular made me feel very uneasy and I thought to myself…“I’m glad I’m with colleagues–these guys look like they don’t like ME.”  I determined to talk with them individually all the same and realized quickly into my conversation with them at the close of the focus group I could not have been more wrong.

All in all it was a good visit and hopefully hands reaching across the cultural and religious divide with a warm handshake.

The women and young girls here have beautiful long hair. Gorgeous. One of the grade nine girls.

A snowy road in the stunning mountains.

Martha's high school graduation photo

My mother-in-law died on Saturday. She was 101.

The month before she was born the Mona Lisa was stolen from the Louvre.

Italy declared war on the Ottoman Empire the month Martha made her debut.

William Taft was president and Orville Wright set a world record that held for almost 10 years keeping a glider aloft in Kill Devil Hills, North Carolina for 9 minutes and 45 seconds.

Planes were beginning to gain ground (or should we say air?) as potential military weapons.

The Indianapolis 500 was run for the first time and construction began on Fenway Park in Boston.

The Ford Model T faced its first competition as beloved American family car with the production the very first Chevrolet.

Another big move forward—the Computing Tabulating Recording Corporation (CTR) is incorporated in New York—better known as IBM.

The US postal bank is created and a 9 hour work day is introduced.

A change in the dynamics of the American family is underway as the first home for the aged in the US is opened in Prescott, Arizona.

During her lifetime she lived through a lot of history. Two world wars, the women’s suffrage movement, the prohibition, the great depression, two atomic bomb blasts, desegregation and civil rights. During the roaring 20s, a fun-loving and dance loving Martha saw women’s dress lengths go from dragging on the ground to a scandalous just above the ankles to well above the knees. Equally shocking was when women began sporting men’s clothing and then burn their bras, get rid of their bras and finally flaunt their bras.

Feisty huh?!!

The second child and only daughter of privilege she unexpectedly lost her father when she was 16. Not many years later she also lost her adored older brother. Tragedy struck again when her husband accidently died when her only child was 5 years old. Well educated but not terribly well prepared for the workplace she was forced to take on two jobs when the life insurance policy her husband had taken out a few weeks before his death wasn’t processed correctly and she was left without the resources he’d planned for her and his son. Today she’d sue. Back then she just hunkered down and forged ahead.

Martha and her mother--Nan.

A tiny somewhat frail looking woman her stamina would catch you off guard. She was a survivor. She was tenacious. She was tough. She was a devoted daughter, sister, wife, loving mother and adoring grandmother.

She was loved.

She will be missed.

I’ve been thinking about this thing of closure quite a bit the last few weeks–probably because in a few more–I’m headed to Cairo to get some “closure”. At least that’s how folks talk about it with me. But the truth of the matter is–I don’t want to close that chapter in my life. If anything, I’d like to expand upon it–or at least be able to  relive it in some meaningful way.

So, I’m coming to the conclusion that despite all the hype about the need to bring closure to things in our lives whether it’s a death of a loved one, an unexpected and unwanted move or change in our lives–I think we’re thinking about it all wrong.

Yesterday, my daughter Heather was telling me about a blog she stumbled on in which a lady wrote about cleaning up other people’s trash that had blown into her yard. http://aninchofgray.blogspot.com/2012/01/dont-throw-your-trash-in-my-backyard.html  It’s a very insightful post made all the more meaningful that even though it starts off talking about wrapping paper that drifted into her yard–it ends up talking about a tragedy her family experienced the past year–the accidental drowning of her 12 year old son. In her view–her need to reach out to the world beyond her personal loss and grief–she was inadvertently spreading  her family’s “trash” of their  tragedy all over other people’s lives.

As I read her post–her personal loss can’t help but touch the reader. Even though you don’t know her (I certainly don’t) you can’t help but feel like you’ve been invited in to the most intimate struggle whirling around–if not plaguing–her mind. And you feel–at least I did–it’s a bit uncomfortable sitting in the front row observing and vicariously taking part in her heartbreak. Indeed, one phrase in her blog popped out at me….”Maybe you are having sympathy fatigue and wishing you could read something here about spray paint or dumpster diving or the annoying way Tim chews”.  Then it struck me: this mother  isn’t seeking closure–she’s embracing what happened–indeed she’s opening up–not closing this chapter of her life.

I’ve never lost a child.  Came too damn close to losing several–but I was fortunate and my children’s lives were spared. But they will bear the scars of their accidents and the consequences of those accidents for the rest of their lives.  As I think about all the people who I’ve shared the story with of their accidents and the other significant things that have happened in my life (I guess the trash I carry with me)—–I can’t help but come to the conclusion this reaching out to other people has nothing to do with closure.  To be honest-I don’t want closure and even though these experiences were tough they are the most memorable despite being difficult things that have happened in my lfie. I want to open them up–I want to relive the memories, rejoice in the blessings and miracles, revisit the good times as well as the bad, embrace the meaningfulness of my life and the lives of those close to me.

I think we have it all wrong. Closure means saying good-bye; it means giving something up; it means ending something. That’s not what I want. I want to invite you in and say, “Look, see, this is what my life has been.  These are the people and experiences that make up the fibers and tapestry of my life.”  I’m opening the door and inviting you into the inner chamber of my life. I want to share with you who I am and what is important in my life.

When you think about it–when we do that with each other it’s such a gift of intimacy and trust. So, if that’s what closure is all about–bring it on!

The tiny lake was called Middle Lake because it was connected to two other lakes through channels–Washington Lake on one side (where the boys scouts summer camp was) and Mars Lake on the other side (where the girl scouts summer camp was).   Over the course of the summer it was amusing to watch the convoy of row boats full of young boys from Washington Lake heading to the girl scouts camp on Mars Lake for an afternoon of games and I’m sure more than enough tomfoolery.

Unlike some of the home owners on Middle Lake we didn’t have a sandy beach in front of our cottage. The lake area in front of our cottage was covered in a blanket of water lilies that decomposed over the years turning the lake bottom into a mucky goo that was host to a number of unpleasant things–including the dreaded leeches.  It was a tremendous effort to make a beach where none existed—first pulling out all the lilies, then laying a protective carpet of heavy duty tar paper down to slow regrowth which was then covered by mountains of sand.  The first year my father did the heavy hauling carrying out bucket after bucket across the beach area to create a small (and somewhat sharply inclined) beach that enabled us to walk into the deeper area of the lake. After the first summer my parents took advantage of the icy cold winter and  poured buckets of sand spread out on top of the ice so when the spring thaws came the sand would settle down pretty evenly across the beach.  But each year it was a battle to reclaim our beach and I have vivid memories of lugging even more sand, fear of the leeches and lots of pulling out sea weed and lily bulbs in our spring ritual to reclaim our beach. As my sisters and I left home and our parents (especially our father) aged over the years you could see they were losing the battle against the water lilies and increasingly more of the beach was reclaimed by the rightful owners of our beach front.

Twice I lived in the cottage with my children when their father and I were doing our graduate studies at Michigan State. Although the cottage was really meant for summer living  my children carry fond memories to this day of their time spent there. Rustic or not they loved it and despite the chilly winters we experienced for them it was one of the few places they can call home in the US during their primary school years. No one has lived there –even during the summer–in almost two decades and our discussions about getting rid of it makes them sad–signals an end to an era of their lives.

But time marches on and the cottage quietly nestled there among the weeping willows, lilacs and wisteria bushes planted by my mother—beckons a new generation of children to come play and frolic during their summer vacations in her welcoming arms.

I’m in Timor Leste a country that shares a small island with part of Indonesia.  It has a violent history with its nearest neighbor and after years of war between the two groups and near genocide of the Temorians the island is now experiencing relative calm. I’m here working with a local CARE team supported by several people from the US including two Brazilans–one a lady, Lotte, who used to be based in Timor for nearly seven years and a young man, Thomas.

This morning Lotte generously offered to drive us all to a barrier coral reef about 50 kms from Dili that she used to swim at when she was here (hint hint:  Lotte is an experienced scuba diver and sea kyacker.  Lesson one:  don’t trust experienced scuba divers and sea kyackers!).  We were all very excited about the chance to go swimming since the beaches here are on the edge of the great barrier reef and  among some of the most beautiful in the world for their underwater gardens.

The water was a wonderful lukewarm and indeed the coral reefs were amazing. But you had to swim quite a ways out to get beyond the canopy of growth below your feet–and even though it was beautiful to look at walking on it was a completely different situation. The reef is slippery and at times the coral is extremely sharp. And to make matters more dicey, occasionally there are tiny sea mites that can sting you–irritating but not life threatening unless you are allergic to their bite.

The sun was shining brilliantly and the water lured us ever so much farther out as we discussed our work and casually chatted about our lives. It was with a bit of a shock as I looked at some rock outcropping that had been way to our right towards the east that I realized just how much the current had pulled us away from the beach now somewhat distant on the horizon. “We’d better head in” Lotte cautioned. “The tide is going to go out soon and we’ll have trouble getting in.”

Well, guess what Lotte, it was ALREADY going out and we were already in trouble. I kept trying to swim faster but the current was pulling me even more quickly beyond the rock out cropping towards the open water.  I kept telling myself not to panic that would only add to my problem but it’s one thing to tell yourself that and another to follow through with the suggestion. It was soon evident to Thomas I was in trouble and he gallantly swam over to my side and politely offered to help.  Pride in my way I told him I was fine but appreciated him staying with me.

Soon it was very clear pride was going to have to give way to common sense. Thomas swam next to me and grabbed my hand and began pulling me in towards the shore and away from the giant boulders he feared might do some major damage if we were to be knocked against them. Even with his help it was a struggle to make any headway.

It took us a good 1/2 hour to get to a place where he could stand and  literally dragged me along. Finally, I could barely get my feet on the surface but the coral was both slippery and rough. My feet would slip off the rock as the force of the current pushed me aside. My panic surged as my foot got cut trying to get a foothold on the slippery reef and I recalled Lotte’s comment there are sharks in the area.  GREAT!  That’s all we need just a few sharks to add to my dilemma.

By this time all the others had made it into the shore and I watched with growing envy wondering how long (even a bit of IF) it would take me to get there too. This I knew–if it weren’t for Thomas I would NEVER have gotten in. Even with his help I was panicked. And I was worn out but you couldn’t stop swimming or the current would pull you out farther. My heart was pounding from the effort to  swim against the current.

Eventually we dragged our way in. I must confess I was a bit wobbly from the combination of panic and physical excursion. Even when we were slowly walking the last few feet to the shore he held my hand–calmly telling me we were okay and he was amazed that I even went in the water at all at my age!!

So, as the saying goes, all’s well that ends well. And other than being a bit embarrassed about it all–the morning ended up fine.  I apologized profusely to Thomas but he just waved it off–just a thing one does in a normal day’s work. I bought lunch for him later that day. I figured it was the least I could do. We later dropped him off at his hotel.  I suspect he took a long nap after all that hard work dragging the old lady to the shore.

I learned my lesson. Next time we go to the beach I’ll keep safe and play in the sand on the shore.  The water may look temptingly lovely; but trust me it’s menacing too if you’re not careful.

Coral Reef Beach in Timor Leste

So, here’s a photo journey of what I’ve seen thus far.  Enjoy.

Ta Prohm Temple

Ruins of the temple

Roots overtaking the temple

Angkor Wat at sunrise

Village temple

Despite his disarmingly good looks he was a friendly, approachable guy. I quickly learned he was headed to a convention in Las Vegas. When I cautioned him to keep close tabs on his wallet he assured me gambling wasn’t his vice. As our conversation continued I learned he was a doctor and he jokingly quipped the MD stands for massive debts which was one of the reasons why he didn’t engage in high risk activities like gambling.

Although I never asked him his name I did learn that he paid cash for his beach front home on Marco Island which he doesn’t insure (that’s his vice), that he’s an only child and mom and dad were closing on Friday on their much larger beach front home on the same island just down the beach from his. Their house sits on 20 foot stilts–thankfully the old timers have an elevator–and unlike their son they insure their house.

He also mentioned  he attended medical school in Grenada where he thought he received a comparatively good program to even the best schools in the US–thankfully since it cost just as much as most medical school in the US. He realized after he finished his rotations in the US he really wasn’t cut out for the life of a doctor–the hours were just too brutal. So, he decided to return to his hometown of Naples where he got his contractors license and started a construction company. When asked where he learned how to build houses he told me he learned on the job–it really wasn’t THAT hard.  Okay???  Seems this work went great and he made good money until the economy bombed that is.

So, he put up his tools but what to do?

Seems his dog had the answer.  Surfer Ken didn’t provide all the details but it would appear his best friend who we’ll call Rover had an accident that required a vet to insert a metal plate on his leg. While doing the procedure the vet mentioned the company that made the plate he was repairing Rover’s leg with was actually located across the highway from the veterinary hospital.

“You should check them out–they’re looking for professionals like you for their R & D.”

Well, that’s exactly what Surfer Ken did. He checked them out.  And the rest is history. Surfer Ken is now in the business of selling orthopedic surgical supplies to  surgeons–for dogs and man.

So, what’s the point of this post?  Everyone’s got a story. You just gotta give them a chance to share it.

Why you ask?  Well, thanks to a Canadian National Railroad strike our second to the last leg of the honeymoon trip from Oshawa, Ontario—the overnight ferry boat ride from North Sydney, Nova Scotia to Port aux Basques, Newfoundland –was on hold.  We arrived shortly after the strike began and like so many other folks waiting to make the voyage set up camp along the highway that led to the port where the massive ferries were empty waiting for the cars and passengers that would soon (hopefully) fill them up.

We were situated near the front of the line which pretty much ensured us a spot on one of the first ferries heading out across the straits unlike thousands of those unlucky folks behind us who were backed up for miles along the highway. For one thing, this meant we were near enough the docks we could use the public restrooms and haul water back to our campsite making life much better than most of the other unlucky souls who were unable to find lodgings in the overwhelmed hotels in the area and were forced to sleep in their car and walk for several miles to find a restroom.  Not nice. Expecting a prolonged delay we pitched our tent the first night we were there despite our slim hope the strike would  be settled within a few hours.  But one night dragged into two and two into three. Foolishly each day we gathered a bit more from our car and trailer and carried it up into the tent.

My husband and I tried to amuse ourselves and spent the time we were held hostage while the union fought it out with the management of the railway system. We visited the sites of North Sydney, read in the tent, played cards or threw around a frizbie in the empty area where cars would normally line up awaiting their turn to board the ferry.

Rumors abounded among the stranded passengers.  Everyone knew someone who knew someone who knew someone who had an inside track to the negotiations taking place behind closed doors. People huddled together sharing their tidbits about what was happening, when the strike would end and the ferries would again be shuttling people back and forth between the mainland and the big island. We listened to as many of them as we could—coming to our own conclusions about the veracity of the various rumors that ran rampant.

Despite the whispers the end of the strike was near—on the evening of third day we headed to our tent—pitched on the side of the hill of the last cloverleaf on the TransCanada highway that routes cars on the last stretch of highway that leads to the Atlantic Ocean and Newfoundland beyond and went to bed.  We’d been hearing the same comments ever since we’d arrived and were quite convinced the end was not in sight.  After all, we heard on the radio they were at an impasse; surely the radio would be more accurate than all these folks waiting in the non-line to board the ferries.

It’s hard to describe what a “knock” sounds like on a canvass tent. It’s more of a slight kind of quiet rustling or flapping noise. But despite how quiet it is that’s exactly what awakened us several hours later when a Canadian Mountie knocking on the side of our tent woke us from our sound sleep.  We could hears cars whizzing by on  the highway below us almost obscuring his words—“You need to move your car and trailer. It’s in the way. The strike has been settled for hours.”

We quickly gathered what seemed to be mountains of junk that littered the tent, pulled the tent down, hauled our belongings down the hill and stuffed our belongings into the back of the car. We soberly watched the cars that had been backed up for miles behind us whizzing past to secure their place in the lines to load unto the ferries that were quickly filling up.

Had we not been like the five foolish virgins in the Bible who failed to keep awake while waiting for the bridegroom to come we would surely have been on the first ferry to head to Newfoundland.  But we weren’t. Nor did we make the second ferry. It was with a great deal of chagrin as we waited for our turn on the third ferry on a walk down the now nearly empty highway that we discovered a few of our precious items precariously hanging on a sign on the side of the road by our makeshift campsite. These items had apparently fallen out from the tumbled mess in our arms as we hurriedly tossed our belongings into the car. As we sheepishly gathered them up they were a somber reminder of our foolhardiness in hauling so many of our belongings into our temporary home on the side of the road.

What did we learn?

Lesson Number One:  Don’t ignore all rumors sometimes they might be true.

Lesson Number Two:  When you’re in a makeshift campsite on the side of a major highway—stick to the essentials and don’t fill your tent up with anything but necessities.

Lesson Number Three:  Always be prepared for the unexpected.  You never know what may happen next.  Don’t be caught off guard.  For, if you are caught off guard—you might just miss your boat—and the next time it might be the ONLY boat that’s going where you need to go.

So, after that rather embarrassing experience I led a relatively circumspect life and didn’t need to be reminded by a Bible story on ways to lead a well-meaning and judicious life.  Well, not until God called me to remind me about a promise I made him many years before.

I was in college when I met Bob. Besides being one of the smartest people I know he seemed like a genuinely nice guy. And when we began spending more time together I increasingly realized he was the kind of person a girl would like to hitch her wagon to.  But you know–you gotta be sure about these kinds of things and in a moment of contemplation I talked to God about him.  In the course of our conversation I told Him that if it worked out that we (me and Bob) would spend our lives together—well, I would make a commitment to God that I’d go where He wanted me to go. Anywhere.

Now, when I made THAT promise I was really thinking of places like where I grew up.  You know—places that had running water and electricity and grocery stores and hospitals.  Nothing fancy–just the essentials—a typical run of the mill kind of American town.

I certainly meant my promise to God.  And in my view—my move to Newfoundland pretty much fulfilled my promise to Him. Going there certainly had been a challenge for this middle class American girl.  I had to cook on a wood stove and during the winter running water was definitely a hit and miss commodity if a somewhat stressful adventure. The outhouse that welcomed me upon our arrival was more than daunting as were the toilet plunger that held the bedroom window in place , the lonely commode (why is this here it’s not connected to any septic system?) sitting in the open in the corner of our tiny bedroom and a host of other oddities in our new shanty we would be calling our new home.

The one and only grocery store in the nearest town 20 miles away carried most of what I wanted but I must confess their reconstituted milk took a good deal of getting used too, bananas were a new thing to that part of the island and were not always available and the nearby tiny clinic on the other side of the bay in Bloomfield seemed to be state-of the-art but ONLY if you didn’t have anything seriously wrong. Although I don’t recall the name of the doctor, I do remember he was young, short, dark and handsome and liked to play basketball with Bob and the other exercise-conscience young men in the area once a week in a nearby school gym. That activity alone made him stand out from the typical Newfie. But the marauding horses—the BIG horses who openly grazed everywhere around the bay area where we lived–were certainly enough to challenge more than just my Christian experience over the time we lived there.

So, notwithstanding my promise to GOD I’d go ANYWHERE—I figured I had more than met my commitment with the already exhibited sacrifice I’d made to move to the wiles of Newfoundland far from my family and life I was familiar with. God and I were even in my view.

But God saw it differently and I was soon to learn He had other plans for me.

Two and a half years after leaving Newfoundland things were really starting to come together. First, we had our beautiful baby girl, Heather, and 19 months later our bouncing energizer bunny boy, Danny, blessed our household too. About a year after Danny entered our lives we made the decision to take the REALLY big step and buy our first home. By this time we’d moved to Oshawa, Bob’s hometown, and we’d found the perfect place:  an almost new duplex in a neighborhood with several family friends living down the street. As a 3-bedroom split level one of the extra special features of the home was a partial basement below the main living area.  This area was a child-sized wonderland that offered more than enough storage space for their hoarder mom in addition to plenty of room for the kids to ride their tricycles during the cold winter months.  It also had a little nook we turned into a child-sized reading corner and play house much to the delight of both Heather and Danny. Life became even better when we purchased a portable dishwasher for mom which we squeezed it into a space beside the refrigerator that definitely turned my tiny kitchen into my little side of heaven.

But, as I said, God had other plans. It was two months after we moved into our new home that Bob got a call from one of the Vice Presidents of the SDA church headquartered in, at that time, Takoma Park, Maryland. Almost a year earlier Bob had met with one of the church leaders who was visiting our home church. Bob eagerly expressed his earnest desire to go to Africa as a missionary. Fluent in French, and more to the point—a living, breathing being who WANTED to leave his hearth and home to head off to the unknowns on the other side of the world—this was just too much of a “Get Out of Jail Free Card” offer to the church brethren. They listened, they prayed and they decided.  They were going to ask the Bob Prouty family to go to a medium-sized mission post in one of the more remote areas of North Kivu, Zaire, literally in the heart of Africa not much more than five miles from the equator.

Now Zaire at that time was still under the rule of Mobutu. More to the point it was a hotbed of instability then (tragically even more so now). Life was not easy: communications with the outside world were non-existent; living conditions were in my view almost pre-historic for someone used to 20^th century amenities and luxuries; and they spoke no English. So, when God in the form of that GC VP called—well, let’s just say it wasn’t met with a great deal of enthusiasm on my part.

My initial refusal to go caused me great consternation. I knew I’d made a promise to God and despite my perspective I’d already met my commitment I felt just like I was saying no to God and more importantly—no to any kind of long term relationship with Him and the hereafter with my refusal to take this call.  So, after a three-night struggle something like what I figure Jacob probably experienced when he wrestled with that angel, I said a reluctant “yes” and begrudgingly began preparations for the next and probably most significant journey of my life.

A few short months later we sold our new home and headed off for our two-month training at Andrews University in Michigan. Bob was finishing up his MA at the same university which conveniently left me to attend the training on my own. You can imagine my delight upon discovering that the final decision about our employment and eventual deployment as missionaries would only come after intensive scrutiny of our (rewrite that MY) engagement (rewrite that performance) during this assessment period.  I’m sure you can appreciate how I saw it—if I said YES to God but they said NO to me…well, that wouldn’t be MY fault.  Right?

So, I began designing the most delightful plan ever. How to totally-miserably-completely-yet masterfully fail their evaluation of my suitability for mission service?  After all, since Mr. Bob who wanted to go and would naturally just be a hit with EVERYONE NOT THERE —left me up to my own devices it was just TOO MUCH temptation to resist.  So, I began to implement my masterful plan.

Culturally sensitive?  NOPE.  Check.

Willing to sacrifice and be a risk taker? NOPE and NOPE. Check and check.

Ready to minister to the less fortunate?  NOPE. Check.

Upbeat? Caring? Optimistic? Trusting?  Nope. Nope. Nope. And NOPE. Check, check, check and check.

Well, you can imagine MY surprise when two months later OUR name was NOT on the list for those who were NOT going to their mission post.  Indeed, it was with a sinking heart that I noted next to the Prouty family name it said:  Lukanga, Zaire.

WHAT?  After putting up with the pity if not disgust of all the other well-intended, wonderful, generous caring folks who sincerely wanted to do this who were TOTALLY put off by this obnoxious and completely unlikable person I WANTED AN EXPLANATION why we were still on the list to go to Lukanga as missionaries.  Certainly there had to be a mistake.

So, it was with some confusion and consternation that Bob accompanied me to the meeting I’d arranged with the organizers and evaluators of the training program. You can imagine MY dismay when confronted with my frustrated “WHY ARE WE BEING SENT OUT? AREN”T I COMPLETELY UNSUITABLE FOR THIS KIND OF SITUATION? WASN’T I OBNOXIOUS, RUDE, INSENSITIVE, COMPLETELY UNLIKABLE?”  and I was told in reply, “Well, we have to admit that when we got to your name we REALLY deliberated.  But, after careful consideration, prayer and reflection of all you said and did we realized your opinion about what it would be like was SO NEGATIVE that in comparison you would find it JUST WONDERFUL. So we decided you’ll do a great job!”

OH NO!!!  GOD YOU CHEATED. YOU FOILED ME IN MY MASTERFUL PLAN. 

So, like a reluctant Jonah I headed off to Zaire.

Little did I know that God had some other lessons for me to learn before this would all be over.

Shortly before our arrival our fellow missionaries had managed to find a half bag of sugar, a full bag of flour, some salt, some oil, some powdered milk and a bit of oatmeal for the new missionary family.  Those purchases represented about a 6 month’s portion of Bob’s salary.  More importantly, it represented the staples for a missionary family living where we were out in the bush.  Those were the core ingredients of all your bread and many other basic meals we had day after day. In my view—they were MY lifeline.

So, when four months after arriving at Lukanga my supplies were almost gone, it was with some real panic I said to the other missionary women that I needed to get more. They understood my need; they too needed the same supplies. But the problem was Idi Amin was still on the rampage in Uganda and all supplies coming from Kenya through Uganda were cut off.  And the other main supply route-by boat from Kinshasa to Gisangani and then overland to Butembo–wasn’t working either. Bad rains the year before had all but washed out the only road between the two towns and the hundreds of miles to travel between them took months to navigate.  In fact, at the moment when my bag of  flour went completely empty the road was officially closed. Trucks were cut off and not coming through.

I was dismayed and beside myself worrying about what I’d do if I couldn’t get the sugar and flour I so badly needed. I contemplated how I’d managed if I couldn’t get what I wanted; what I absolutely needed. And I certainly let the school’s business manager, Gerard, who did the school’s shopping trips just how desperately I needed those things. Hoping for the best Gerard headed to Butembo on his next trip to town armed with a lengthy list of goods to buy.  Not only did he have numerous supplies to get for the school but he also had the lists of  items for the wives including a combined 4 bags of sugar and 7 bags of flour we all needed.

Shopping in Butembo was an exciting experience.  It wasn’t exciting because of all the wonderful things  you could buy there. Nope. What made it exciting was the possibility you MIGHT be able to get something you need that MAYBE there would be something available. So as you wandered from one tiny shop to the next it was the ultimate treasure hunt. Indeed the NUMBER of stores was something Butembo had no shortage of. And there was always LOTS of stuff to buy actually but they all seemed to sell the same sad assortment of items ranging from bottles of glycerin to nuts and bolts to engine oil and truck and car tires. It was just the STUFF you REALLY needed that just wasn’t there. There really wasn’t much beyond those few bizarre items.  And there certainly was no sugar or flour.

In store after store, Gerard asked the same question:  Any sugar or flour?  And heard the same reply:  Nope. None. Everyone wants sugar and flour. Haven’t had any for months. So, done with all his business and with only three things left on his list to purchase—sugar, flour and glass for the new church windows–Gerard began the long trip back to the compound.

Just before you leave Butemo tucked off on the left hand side of the road is amazingly a two-item store that only carried window glass and tires.  Despite knowing the store would NOT have anything but glass and tires true to his word that he’d do his best to get us our sugar and flour Gerard still asked the owner if he, by chance, had some only to hear the same old reply that there hadn’t been sugar or flour for sale in town for months.

Gerard began negotiating his purchase of the glass and the owner set about cutting and wrapped it for the journey over the horrible roads back to Lukanga.  About half way through the transaction the proprietor was called away to take care of some urgent business. A bit baffled he returned a few minutes later.  “Just how many bags of sugar and flour were you looking to buy Monsieur? he queried of Gerard.

 “Four bags of sugar and seven bags of flour. Why?”  Gerard responded.

Shaking his head in disbelief the store owner incredulously blurted out: ”Amazing. A truck just rolled in from Gisangani—he’s been on the road for four months.  He has four bags of sugar and seven bags of flour on his truck.  You can have it if you want it.  I can’t believe you were here just when he arrived.” 

Four bags of sugar and seven bags of flour that the driver later told Gerard left on his truck in Gisangani on the same day we arrived in Zaire. That might not seem like such a big deal to you but to me it was a definite, loud, overpowering message from GOD to Diane—I am watching out for you. This is no coincidence.  This was in my master plan all along. Trust in me; count on me; no matter what happens you’ll be okay. I AM here.

I’m not going to say that my faith like a little mustard seed blossomed and that I never doubted or questioned or felt moments of despair ever again. No.  It didn’t.  But…always, in the back recesses of my memory is the crystal clear recollection of the day Gerard came home with four bags of sugar and seven bags of flour and the joy always comes back

My oldest boy Danny met his wonderful saint of a wife, Amy, through his sister and her husband Dwight. I think they actually met before Heather and Dwight’s wedding but the interest in hooking them up really got it’s “umph” after their wedding.  Amy is Dwight’s first cousin and her family, indeed her mom in particular, thought Danny would be a great match for Amy. They had a lot of similar interests; and her family knew a fair bit about Danny through the family network and figured he was a decent enough kid and maybe a good match for their Amy. Certainly worth checking out anyway. Indeed, when they finally began seeing one another I recall Danny sharing with me that he hadn’t felt this energized (I think he actually referred to the feeling as “tingling”) when he was around her in a long, long time. It was definitely a good sign and a great beginning.

I never had any doubts about Amy. I knew she’d be fantastic. I recall watching her in a video Heather had taken and was editing of Amy’s sister’s wedding. Oskar, Heather’s son, was about 3 years old at the time and was a part of the wedding party. Not to be outdone by the bride and groom (Heather–yes indeed, Amy’s sister’s name is Heather too–and Dean) Osker was an intrepid little character who had his own agenda during the wedding ceremony intent on capturing his share of video-time and audience attention. Oskar kept his mom Heather busy coping with the dual task of videotaping the wedding while at the same time trying to coax her toddler son into sitting still on the bottom step of the stairs leading up to the podium where the nuptials were in progress.  However, he and the other young lad taking part in the wedding were having none of that. At one point Oskar made his way to the side of Heather-soon-to-be-wife of Dean at which point the minister greatly amused the audience by admonishing the young Oskar at her side that she was “already taken”.  Amy, the maid-of-honor, jumped into action whisked up Oskar into her arms and rocked back and forth with him throughout the rest of the ceremony–much to the delight of Oskar. I mean, if you can’t get the bride–well, then, go for the maid-of-honor right?  Watching her in the video tape I knew then and there she’d make a great mom some day.  Little did I realize she’d be a great mom to my very own grandchild Autumn Heather.

I noticed over the years they’ve been together that Amy is a fantastic partner for my son.  She reads him well and knows better than almost anyone how to keep in step with the beat of the drum that Danny dances to. I am amazed at how adept she is at matching his moods, reading his signals, manuevering the curves that come along in their path through life together. They suit one another well.  And it’s clear to me–and anyone else who takes the time to watch them together–they are going to be fantastic parents.  And we can’t wait.  At least we don’t want to wait any longer.  So, little miss Autumn Heather–make your debut. Get into the game. Bring on your stuff. Mom and dad are ready…that drum is beating….

Mommy is ready. Daddy is ready. The world is ready.

I’m bored A GOOD DEAL OF THE TIME.

There’s not much that interests me right now. OTHER THAN BEING AROUND HEATHER AND DANNY’S FAMILIES.

I REALLY DO LOVE being with Heather and the kids but I can’t help but feel that I put more stress on her.  At least at times. And I think I play “mommy discipline with the kids” too much which they probably don’t like and maybe Dwight and Heather don’t like a lot either.  I don’t want to get the wrong kind of relationship going with the grandkids–I love them to death and want it to be an unconditional “I LOVE YOU FROM INFINITY AND BEYOND“ message they get from grandma.  But sometimes they do things that the disciplinarian reflex in me just takes over.  And I don’t want to “PO” Heather and Dwight for interferring in their parenting with the kids. Mostly they’re REALLY good, loving, intelligent kids who don’t need grandma ragging on them.

Danny was asking me the other day if I was going to come and stay at their place.  Maybe it’s time to transition over there for a bit and wear out my welcome there. Well, after Autumn makes her debut and Bob and Esther have gotten all the grandma and grandpa time they need for a bit and the space is available.

Work doesn’t excite me. I must admit I LOVED what I was doing in Egypt. It didn’t feel like work. It was fun; it was my passion; I could see it making a difference.  I LOVED my team. The people I work with here are nice but….it’s not the same. I don’t feel that passion. And I wonder about what I’m doing making any difference.  I LOVED the literacy work in Egypt and I’m not doing anything with that here.  I feel that what I learned from that experience is being sucked right out of me from lack of application.

So.  I need something to jumpstart my life these days.

I’m going to start working out with a trainer this coming Sunday. Once a week. Can’t afford it but as I figure it–can’t afford NOT to do it.  But…that will probably only affect the “I’m tired all the time” issue.

I’m going to try and start having dinners with old friends every now and then.  Can only afford so much of that though. But I think connecting with old friends will make me feel less like a hanger-oner in my daughter’s home and life.

Although, maybe this is just what being 60 feels like.