I almost missed you…

I was like everyone else on their morning commute, eyes on the road, thoughts on the day, ears on my kid’s voices…

And then I saw you…

And my heart ached.

Hair–matted and filthy, skin–almost blackened by the sun’s rays, bones–visible through your taut skin…

Barely dressed, hunched over–touching your hair, maybe muttering…but I couldn’t see your face.

Your mind, likely tortured, likely empty, separating you from the people you know and the world around you…

Where were you born?  Who is your family?  What brought you to this place–where you sit, like a lonely piece of discarded trash.

I know you came from somewhere. 

I know you have a name, but maybe you don’t know it. 

 

I know you have a Creator, and He knows your name.

I don’t know how to reach out or what to do, and my heart bleeds and aches for those who are just like you—around the world. 

Those who are discarded—they are everywhere if we look and see.

I see you….  

People have often said things like, “I admire you so much!  I could never live where….-insert something here- ex: there are squatty potties in most bathrooms, there are lots of roaches/ants/lizards/rats/snakes/whatever, you can’t go to Walmart, etc..”  They tell us how much they admire us for our sacrifice.  Ever since we began this journey with God, we don’t feel like we are sacrificing much.  We live in a different place yes, but although some things are weird, you just adapt.   However, the biggest sacrifice is the loss of relationships and missing the people you love.  It is hard to not be a part of their lives and what they are going through. 

My Mom and my Dad are getting ready for a big move.  My Mom has sold her house and they are trying to make arrangements for where they will live next.   They have lived in the valley of central Washington for quite awhile.  They moved there not long after Casey & I came to Indonesia for the first time in 1998.  They bought a house and my Mom was a pastor at the Church of God.  She has retired from that ministry and is working in an office, which she will finish up this summer.  Caring for a large house has become more difficult for my Mom, I am sure that it is time to simplify her life and completely support her in that.  I have been thinking about that, especially since we have some belongings here, at her house, and in Indiana.  Our lives here on earth are short.  It does not make a lot of sense to collect a lot of stuff.  I’m thinking more and more about getting rid of things I can’t use, even if in the past I labeled them as “sentimental”.  But, that’s off on a rabbit trail (although watching her move is helping me think about some things). 

I find myself really wishing that I could say “thank you” to the community that she has lived in–for being a part of my parent’s lives for so long.  Neither my brother or I have lived there, and we are thankful for other people who have become “family” to my folks.  I know that it will be a transition and adjustment for them as they move to a new community and get to know new people.   She has people who support her and know her and she’ll have to build a new network. For example, she’ll have to find new doctors, a new car mechanic, and new friends.   As she leaves this town, I find myself (and my kids) processing this loss for ourselves as well.  My kids only know this house, in that city, as where Grandma lives.  They have never equated her with any other place.  They find themselves really sad as they talk about the fact that they won’t come “home” to that place anymore.   It has felt like a place that we can settle for a bit when we are in the States, and now, because things in life change—we will be even more “homeless” when we visit the U.S.  I didn’t really like that valley much—and when Mom would tease, “C’mon, come live here!”, Casey and I would both crinkle our noses.  The hills were brown, the buildings drab and the feed lots STINKY!   When we would arrive from our drive from the airport, I remember Dad saying, “Roll down your windows and SMELL OUR CITY!”  I also don’t know Spanish or Hispanic culture very well and as a result I often felt a little awkward there. 

BUT, despite those strange or uncomfortable things, it was home for Mom and Dad.   I treasure memories there so much my heart could burst!  I remember playing with baby Ryan in the church parsonage where Mom and Dad lived.  I remember Casey going with Dad and a church couple to try to find a real Christmas tree in the forest—and coming back with the ugliest Charlie Brown tree you could imagine.  We had to tape some branches on with electrical tape!   I remember drives to Seattle and Portland to see family and get to/from the airports.  I remember getting to bring Dad home for the afternoon to visit when he was more mobile and lived in a smaller nursing home.  I remember walking him around the block once when he lived there.  It was really hard for him.  It was the last walk we took together—my sweet Daddy who would meet me and jog with me every day during his lunch break from A.U. when I was in college.  I remember getting back into the States in June 2011 with a tremendously broken heart—for many different reasons.  One thing I was smarting from was how we were being treated by the local people here.  The stress of that had built up to a monstrous level.  We arrived in the evening, and early the next morning I went to the “Hispanic” grocery store by myself to buy some milk (…or possibly cheese!).   It was 5 or 6am…an ungodly hour (translate: only a jet-lagged person is awake)…and the people cleaning the floor, preparing for the onslaught of customers greeted me cheerfully, “GOOD MORNING!”…  I wanted to weep at their kindness.  It was hard for me to handle that kindness right at that moment, and it reached in and touched my heart.  I won’t forget it.   I remember visiting the city pool, the library, the grocery store and watching some parades (what OTHER city has the “Lighted Farm Implement Parade”?).  I also remember how many people in the community would use the high school track as a place to exercise, play, walk and talk.  I went there often in the early morning or early evening.  

So—our family is mourning our loss in the move.  We thank you dear friends of my folks—for how you have loved them (and in doing so have loved us!).  Thank you for developing in us a love for a city we weren’t that fond of to start with.   Thank you for helping them now–especially as Mom starts to sort, sell, and pack.  I wish I could be there to help and I can’t.  It makes me thankful for those who step in to help.  

Please say a prayer that God will continue to put the details in place.  Please pray for them to be supported in this move by those around them.   I am sure there will be sadness as they move into something new–please pray for them as they mourn and for our hearts too.   There is a sadness we did not expect….I guess you always get that when things in life change.  

Our school has to have six different Christmas and Easter services.  With around 2500-3000 students, it is difficult to find a place where everyone can gather together.  Things happen in shifts.  The church which founded the school and helps us be here, has recently built a new church building.  The services take place in that building.  The preschool-kindergarten had their service Wednesday, then there were two elementary services–one for 1st-3rd grade, and one for 4th-6th grade (both on Thursday), then one junior high, one high school, and one staff service (on Friday). 

Since I am a junior high teacher, I went Friday morning and then back for the evening service for staff.   I had to take Chase with me Friday morning because I was not able to pick him up from his own school because the times conflicted.  He took some coloring books and a notebook and pencil.  After the singing and sermon, the back doors to the sanctuary burst open, and two teachers came in dressed as Roman soldiers.  They were yelling and bringing along a person dressed in a white robe.  The man was crawling along, pulling a cross on his shoulders.  A crown of thorns was on his head and his face looked bruised and bloody.  They were yelling at him and whipping him.  A small group followed–some ladies who were softly crying and some men who were yelling.   Then the soldiers grabbed a man who helped the Christ get his cross on to the stage.  After they placed the cross on center stage, the group moved away and the dramatization was over.

When the door slammed open and the yelling began, Chase was surprised.  He looked up, wondering what was going on.  It was hard for him to see in the dim light and understand, so he was actually not completely absorbed in what was happening.  That was until I pointed out who was playing the actor of Jesus.  I whispered, “Hey, Chase.  Do you see?   That is Mr. E.  He’s pretending to be Jesus.  They’re showing what happened when Jesus died.”  From that point on he was transfixed, trying to relate the teacher he knows with the man in a robe wearing a crown and a wig and having a battered looking face.

When the service was done, our group of junior high teachers gathered and got some pictures taken.  Finally Mr. E arrived.  He still had some makeup on.  Whoever did his makeup did a good job, making it look cut and bruised.  Chase did not want to get a picture taken with him.  It looked really authentic to him.   When we left the sanctuary, he looked at me and said, “Mom, is Mr. E. going to be okay?”  I told him it was just makeup and he really was alright.  

I thought that was the end of it, but then we went to last night’s Easter service for the staff.  Chase had a piece of paper and was drawing.  He drew a sword and asked me to write the word “sword”.  He drew a “spear” and he asked me to write the word “spear”.  He also drew a couple of other things—and I realized they were all words that he had heard or was looking at in his workbooks earlier in the morning during the service.  Then, he copied all of the words on the paper in his own handwriting.  Then he whispered, “Mommy, would you draw a man holding a spear?”  I tried my best, and I drew a man wearing a helmet and holding a spear.  But, he was not satisfied.  Then he whispered, “Can you draw Jesus, carrying the cross?”   I tried my best and then I wrote the word “Jesus” on the paper.  He copied the word “Jesus”.   Then he folded up the paper so that only that picture and the words “Jesus” were visible.   He showed his Dad–“Hey Dad, see?  A disciple with a spear (a little confusion there) and Jesus.”

He held that folded piece of paper for the whole rest of the evening.  He was caressing it the same way that he caresses his blanket (yeah, we thought he had given that up but he adopted a new one!).  He held it in hand, and put it up to his face.   I said, “Why are you doing that?”  He said, “I like it.”   When I found the paper this morning, the picture I had drawn was mostly rubbed off the paper.   The picture was definitely hard to see, because the sweet little fingers of a five year old had massaged it away.

What I walk away with from yesterday is the reminder to have the heart of a child.  The awe of what Jesus really did should settle deep into my heart.  I should not pass by it without emotion, but it should leave an important mark on me whenever I consider it.  I should not just go through the motions of another Easter celebration, but the very eyes of my soul should wonder at His sacrifice and His pain.   May I love You all the more Lord, for what You endured for the love of me! 

The news here has been captured by a case of rape at the international school in the capital city.  Hearing about the brutal attack on a five year old child by members of the janitorial staff has been devastating.  Two have been arrested for the crime, although others have not completely been ruled out.  Apparently there is also news of another victim coming to light.  Some have condemned the mother for going to the media and splashing the sordid details for the world to see.  She claims that she took the story to the news media because the school and the police didn’t respond to her complaints in a timely manner.  Now she is filing suit against the school for $10 million.  Some are condemning her for that action, questioning her motives.   Although I don’t necessarily agree with a civil suit that has the intention to “punish” the school, I do find myself imagining what I would feel.  Something went horribly wrong–who was to blame? How could it have been prevented?  What if something so terrible happened to my amazing five year old?   My  heart bleeds with anguish for what he has endured.  My mind can’t fathom it and I feel physically nauseous thinking it. I wish I could turn back time and save him from that agony.   Although I don’t necessarily agree with her suit, I have seen that ‘hiding’ sexual sin can be so damaging too.  If it is not exposed, it could happen to other victims since the perpetrators could get away with it.  People should be horrified…people should feel anguish for his boy and his family.  Her exposure did put it out there and hopefully it will result in protecting others in the long run.  

As that school reels with what has occurred, all of us are thinking about what needs to change so this doesn’t happen again.  How do we protect our kids?  How do we protect our students?  Can we?   What measures would really help?  

As they struggle with this, the news broke that the U.S. just found a man who is considered one of the worst pedophiles ever.  His secret was discovered and he committed suicide. The man worked at schools for a long time–at many schools overseas.  He was American.  Guess what?  He worked at this same international school for TEN YEARS.  He drugged his victims, so many had no knowledge of what happened to them.  Now the government here is responding by closely scrutinizing foreigners at all schools.  It feels like we are going to be under a microscope and that can feel unfair—but, on the other hand, if it really ends up helping to protect some kids somewhere (and doesn’t result in just an extortion opportunity)—then it is not a bad thing. 

I guess it goes to show, that you never can know where a pedophile or sexual predator lurks or what their citizenship, education or background may be.    That was proved this week.  Foreigners are not the only possible “bad guys”.  Local people can also fit that description.  We have the responsibility to teach our kids about boundaries and have to be diligent as teachers and parents.  

I read tonight that the American who took his life said he was molested when he was young, so he had to do that to others.   This just crushes my heart in two because I’ve seen this happen in the lives of some people I love dearly.  I feel such sorrow and pity for him because he was robbed of his innocence and then he felt that he had to terrorize others.    I feel so angry at Satan, because this wickedness can be so damaging for generations.  Only by the very grace of God can a person be completely healed and not wreck havoc upon others.  It takes the LIGHT of the Lord to expose the hidden sins and pain.   It takes JESUS to heal. 

I am praying this evening for those who have been hurt. I am praying that God will cleanse that place in them so they will not hurt others. 

God, please, have mercy….

 

 

 

I’ve been in my kitchen for the last few hours, getting things put away from shopping and fixing food.  Tonight the family had tacos for dinner.  It made me think of how Mexican food was one of the easiest and quickest meals to cook when we were in the States.  Grab yourselves some tortillas off the shelf, some refried beans from the can, some greens, some burger to fry and mix up with taco seasoning, and some shredded cheese.  Throw it all together, and BOOM dinner is ready.  

That is not what happens here.   As I prepared tacos for dinner, I was musing about how it is now one of the more time consuming meals.  I can buy pinto beans in a can but then I need to blend them and cook them for awhile to make “refried beans”.  I can brown up hamburger and add some seasoning (yes!) but I have to shred some cheese (no worries).  But, then I have to make the flour tortillas.  That is the part that makes it more arduous and makes me not want to make Mexican as often as I used to.  

In the States you should wash your produce when you get it home, but here it is even more serious because there can be some deadly stuff on those fruits/veggies.  And, I can’t just use water from tap which can be equally deadly.  I have to use bottled drinking water.  In my itsy-bitsy tiny kitchen, washing a lot of fruit and veggies can be quite a feat.   I often wish for some more counters, cupboards, drawers, and some room for more than one person.  

I also have been the one who gets to greet the roaches.  I had a run-in with one this morning that crawled up the leg of my jeans while I was washing dishes.  I also REALLY don’t like the sink.  There is a catch (plastic basket) that fills up the sink hole to trap food.  Pull that sucker out, and there are often a couple of roaches there, ready to explode out into the sink.  By the way, these are big roaches….    And so, I’m always carefully scanning the sink trap, seeing if I reallllly want to pull it out and empty it or not.  I have also resorted to scooping everything out of it with a spoon so the critters can’t get out.   That part is a little more difficult about living here.  It’s not something I like very much—I’m not a fan of those bugs. 

But, my intention is not to have people feel sorry for me!   I was just musing about how different things can be. Many people here have a helper who cooks and cleans.  That can be a real game changer and has the potential to make things in the kitchen even easier than they can be in the States.  I don’t have one and still don’t feel like I want to have one for several different reasons but I do realize that could be an option.   I have benefited from that before and in many ways it is really nice.    There is no way that you’ll ever think about or even realize the extra work that has to be done when there is someone to do it for you!  🙂

I’m going to keep thinking about what is easier and what is harder in other areas of our lives….  🙂  

 

 

 

Thank you for all of your kind words and your prayers.  I know that many of you have walked through journeys of intense suffering, and I don’t for one minute believe that my sadness is any greater than yours.  I know that each of us has our own burdens and challenges.  I appreciate the encouragement you offer me through this trying time for my family.

 

I have never been in such a low spot as I was this weekend. 

 

 

 

What I have felt involves so many different feelings.  One involves someone I love so much, marching toward his death.  We are all going to die.  It is inevitable.  This is a truth we all know and have evidence for.  I also believe that there is something beyond this world and that is a belief I hold without the evidence in hand.  But, my heart still grieves so much because I have realized anew, how much my Dad means to me and how much I love him.  It is just going to hurt when he is gone from this earth and that is a reality.

 

 

 

I also have a feeling of raging against God yet again.   I am glad that He can handle my feelings.  I hate Huntington’s Disease and what it does to a person and to families.  I can’t understand why God, who “fearfully and wonderfully” created all of us, would allow such a terrible genetic disease to be in my family—or rather any family.  What did my family do to deserve this?  I know I won’t understand that ever, for the answer isn’t available.  I also see families sharing pictures or stories about precious moments with grandparents and I feel a little jealous.  My Dad was incredible with children.  He entertained so many of them during his life.  My kids and my niece and nephew haven’t really gotten to experience this with my Dad.  Some of my Facebook friends have shared how my Dad brought such joy into their lives when they were kids.  I am glad that he shared that gift with everyone he could.  I am just sad because that is something we have lost.

 

 

 

What brought me the greatest sadness this weekend was the news of his suffering.  One of his medicines seems to be causing really bad issues for his heart.  However, reducing or eliminating that medicine will cause other issues.  There really isn’t a “win” situation.  It is more of an issue of figuring out what is best for him here at the end of his days.   As I heard about his suffering this weekend, it hit me hard.  I don’t want him to endure this, day after day, until his heart gives out.  I don’t want to lose my Daddy—but I don’t want this suffering to continue either.  My memories took me back to nine years ago, when Dad was on his last visit to Indiana.  We were in my living room in our little apartment on Fountain Street in Anderson.  I can almost remember it like I was there again.  Dad said, “I really want to take my life.  But I won’t do it, because I know how much it would hurt you.”  I’ve been thinking about that.  It makes this suffering even more difficult to bear, because it feels like he is suffering so I will not be hurt.  I know I didn’t cause any of this…but, the feeling exists that he chose suffering for the love of me.  (Yes, there is a great spiritual lesson there.)   My Mom believes that my Dad didn’t really want to take his life or no one could have stopped him.  But, his love for me deterred him, and now I feel added anguish at his suffering.

 

 

 

I told Casey that I never have felt this bad.  After I talked to Mom and Dad and heard Dad tell me that he loved me, I just wept.  I spent most the day weeping.  I did go to church, and cried through the service.  Then I just crawled into bed and cried some more.  I have never felt that depressed—or unmotivated to move—even though dishes, laundry, cooking, and school work were all calling my name.  I didn’t care.  

 

 

 

I spent a month helping my Mom care for my Dad.  I had to say “goodbye” to him and come to Indonesia.  My heart was torn, and I cried buckets—but none of that has felt this bad.  I feel like Wesley, in The Princess Bride, who had some of his life sucked away.  I feel that has happened to me this weekend.  I feel raw, torn and incredibly sad. 

 

 

 

Those of you who have walked this know that we have to choose to praise God.  We have to choose to surrender our loved ones into His hands.  We have to choose to rejoice in the midst of the pain.  Right now I am so thankful that God gave me such a great Dad.  He endured much during his life and is enduring much right now—but, he loves me.  That I have known forever and I am still sure of, and that I treasure.  I am sure that the other things that I need to choose will come in time.   

 

 

 

Thanks again for your encouraging words and for loving me and my family through this.  I am praying God will ease Dad’s suffering and provide him help, but will also allow me to spend a few more days with him when I go this December. That is my hope, but it definitely has a selfish element.  What I really want, at the deepest part of me, is for my Dad not to suffer with this terrible disease any more.  So, I hope, I pray, I wait…and I cry.   

 

My Dad just had his annual assessment with his neurologist. The doctor is a really neat guy, who has cared for my Dad for quite a few years. He is retiring, and that’s challenge, for he has walked with my Dad through the difficult stages of this disease through his annual evaluations. He understands, and it is hard to know if we will find that again in a physician.
 
In his assessment, he said that Dad is in the “final” or “last” stage of Huntington’s disease. That is not a surprising statement. I’ve seen what has happened to Dad over the years. I have seen how much he has changed in the last two years. I’ve heard about what my Mom has dealt with as she had done the best she can to care for him. I’ve heard it and I’ve lived it and every experience we have with him causes more grief, a little more loss and a little more dying. Just hearing those words did it again. It is a fresh reminder that the end is coming.
 
Sometimes I talk about death somewhat casually, because all of us are going to experience it. I know that it is inevitable and unavoidable, and honestly, who would want to live forever in this fallen world? And, I also know that I don’t want my Dad to suffer a long-drawn out battle with his body and his dying brain. I do long for him to be whole again, because I do believe that there is something after this life. I do believe he will not be in chains to this devastating illness until his death and then it will all end. I believe in his restoration after life on this earth is through. This belief I have does give me some hope.
 
But, all that being said and done, I can’t escape that he is in fact my Daddy. I love him so very much. I struggle with the sense of loss yet again, over and over. Each little bit that he is unable to do, say, or be just causes another stab of pain. And now it’s been stated that we are facing the end. How do I feel about that? Suddenly extremely and awfully selfish! I want the end to come for his sake and I want it postponed for my sake. And so, tears fall as I cry all over again for what we have lost.
 
Maybe that is the clincher. Every time we lose another part of him, we grieve all over again because of what we have lost since the beginning. It’s like this huge ocean of grief that just hits and bowls you over once in a while. We lose him by degrees, but we feel it all completely—over and over and over again.
 
I want to be with him again. The last month we had together was so wonderful, but I feel like I need to soak up more seconds, minutes and hours before his time on this earth is over. I am going to do all that I can to make it happen. It will be expensive. I won’t have a long time to take off, away from work and from my family. Since it will be short, it assuredly won’t feel like long enough. I will also be purposely forcing myself into more grief and sadness by his side. But as I’ve said, he is my Daddy. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

2 Corinthians 4:16-18

“So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day. For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison,  as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal.”

It has been an interesting month for me, spending time with my Dad.  His health has deteriorated a lot in the last two years.  He doesn’t communicate much and sleeps a lot.  However, he does have some moments of lucidity when he says some sweet and funny things.  Since I have been here I have seen some times when his eyes twinkle (with a memory of something naughty he once did) and I have heard him laugh once or twice and I have truly cherished that. 

When I first got here and began spending time with him, I felt pretty angry.  I was mad yet again that this disease is in my family and is taking my father.  I am losing him bit by bit and I was so angry because he was born with this and he did nothing to bring this upon himself.  I can’t say that I am not still angry, but I have seen some things that have made me feel a little better about what is happening to him. 

One of the weaknesses my Dad identified in himself in the past was dishonesty.  As this disease ravages his brain, he is nothing but honest.  He has said what he truly thinks and feels without any filter.  Sometimes it is not pleasant to hear.  Sometimes it is pretty funny.  But, something that he struggled with when he was “himself” has been stripped away.  Something good has come out of that.  That may be all I can find right now, but I am thankful to see something—to grab onto that and be thankful.

I am also thankful for the promise in the above verses although his body is failing now, he will be renewed once more.  That is hopeful for me and makes me rejoice, even as he fails. I know that this is not how it will finish. 

As I left his nursing home today after feeding him, I realized that I am really dreading the time when we have to leave.  It is not going to be an easy goodbye.  Dad will make is “sad face” and move on.  It will be more challenging for Mom as she loses an extra set of hands to help her in the care-giving process.  But, I know that we need to go.  I also know that God will take care of my parents.   And I can express great thankfulness that He has given us time to help my Dad.  I am so thankful for these days.  I am praying that God will provide the way for me to come again in the coming year.

Words can’t paint it,

They can’t describe it,

Clearly or concisely, 

They can’t wrap around it,

The words just don’t “fit”.

Try as I might they don’t do justice,

They can’t express it so you can see it,

Or feel it,

Or know it.

They just come up short.

Try as I might, in my poor pathetic way,

I am only partially there,

I can’t completely explain,

What you mean to me. 

The sweetest memories I have of my grandma are some of my faintest memories. Since so much time has passed, I just have overall feelings and a sense of things more than distinct sharp memories. The place where most of those memories arise from was Crow Agency, Montana. My grandparents lived on the Indian reservation and my grandfather was the pastor of the church. I remember their home and grandma’s kitchen. She was a great cook and that room felt so big to me—and so warm and welcoming. There were vents in the floor upstairs and I would try and eavesdrop on all the conversations and activity downstairs, even after being sent to bed. I remember being at the church with her and how she would teach and how much she loved the children. Grandma was a teacher, an encourager. I can still remember her handwriting, and her notes.
Grandma also had a good sense of humor. Grandpa is the King of Corny and he has spent a lot of time teasing her. She would just laugh. Her children too definitely got the joking/teasing genes and they would tease her also. She always took it so well and in her day, she dished it out too. I heard the story (more than once) about how she baked Ex-lax into cookies for her cousin and how it caused him a lot of embarrassing bathroom trips. There are probably more stories I never heard.
Another memory I have was more sobering. I was in the kitchen of our home with grandma, when I was in high school. She was drinking a glass of water and the disease that was beginning to influence her made her arm jerk violently. The cup hit the wall and water went everywhere. I remember the expression on her face. She was embarrassed and ashamed. My heart felt so sad as I said, “It’s okay Grandma,” and wiped up the mess.
I am proud of my grandmother. She went to Anderson College and she became a teacher. She loved her husband and her children. I am sure she did not do everything “right” in those roles, but as a mother myself now, I know how impossible that is. I love her, flaws and all. Incredibly, she also did a lot of research and was the first to discover the name for the disease that plagues our family and has taken her mind from us. The last time I was with her was June 2011. She could not communicate or show that she recognized me anymore. But, it was good to see her and tell her that I loved her.
Now she is fighting through what will probably be her last few days on this earth. I find comfort again, as I mentioned in a previous post, of thinking of her whole again. And, I find myself grasping at each and every memory I can find in the recesses of my mind. Grandma, I love you.