Richards Family Adventures

INTERNATIONAL GREETINGS

2011-11-03T02:54:00.000-07:00

Anneke shares stories from labor with Baby Hope now in her arms!

INTERNATIONAL GREETINGS By Kris 10/2/11

I’ve written before about comings and goings and how difficult they are as a missionary with YWAM. But there is something about those greetings that is so different. It’s almost like God took one of those assorted seed shaker tubes and shook out a variety of wildflowers onto our plot of land here in Kona, Hawaii. Take my stroll the other day from my condo to the school where I teach. The walk takes five minutes max. En route and on the way back, I was greeted by several friends. To show you the incredible diversity of this place and the privilege it is to know these folks, I’ve left nobody out.

Marcia, my Brazilian master-teacher friend who has taught years in the state of Kumin in China, was hanging out at the nearby Learning Center classroom working with a student. She ran up the path when I greeted her, coming to give me a real hello.

I walked further and came across, Andre’, who is a Harley-driving Brazilian pastor(with the full look of a Harley driver) . A newer resident in the dorm my husband manages, I barely know him, but I greeted him in Portuguese: “Oi!”

“Oi-you!” He called back with a smile.

A little further, I found a new friend and ICS parent, Jean-Patrique, who is Swiss-French and has worked the last several years with his family in Mali. “Bon Matin!”

“Bonjour,” returned the tall, middle-aged gentleman.

Then I saw an American friend, Melissa, with whom I teach and work closely. “Hi Melissa!”

Melissa and I on a hike during a multi-family camping trip this August

“Hey, Kris! How’s it goin?”

Next I saw Anneke, my friend from Holland with whom I swim each Wednesday. She stopped me, out of breath, to share good news: "I won't be able to swim with you anymore. I am in pre-labor!" I plopped down on the nearest lava-rock wall, listened, hugged her, and rejoiced at this good news. I have given rides to this health-conscious mom-to-be as we’ve swam laps at the community pool for months. It has been a delight to watch her body, and her anticipation, grow with this imminent arrival.

After class, I saw Melani, a friend from France. “Bonjour! Ca va?” I asked the Marlo Thomas look-alike who always is fashionably dressed.

“Bon, merci!” she called out to me with her characteristic knock-out smile.

Corlize, my journalist-trained friend from South Africa, called out to me in her soft Afrikaan accent, “Hello, Kris!”

Corlize, one of my first friends when we joined YWAM in 2009.

“Hi, Corlize, it’s good to see you!”And it was. Striking Corlize could have a high-powered job with CNN. Instead, she chooses to live in a simple apartment in Kona among the poor and abused. Her passion is to hang out with homeless people on the beaches.

“And you also,” Corlize beamed.

Next, I saw Wilson, a tall young man from Nigeria who once relayed how God told him to speak to me about releasing a worship song in his native language. I led him to sound-engineer Kumu, who is helping him do just that. “Hello, Kris!” he greeted me with his huge, white-teethed grin.

“Hi, Wilson!”

The thing is, this was just about every person that passed me in those minutes. In other words, I know most of the staff at this base. What a delight and honor!

I gathered up these international greetings, a fragrant bouquet in my arms, and smiled as I hustled home.

OLD FAVORITE: BONDING WITH BOYS 2007

2011-07-24T19:59:00.000-07:00

BONDING WITH BOYS
(Bodies in Action)
By Kris Richards
(February 28, 2007--when Evan was 8 and Jo Jo was 4)
If I had to choose a part of speech that describes boys, it would be the verb. Action verb. Not the helping verb like my friend Terri’s daughter who had cleaned my boys’ bedroom by the time I returned home the other night, nor the being verb which just sits there and is. But action. Raw, no-holds-barred action.

When you teach children creative writing, you encourage them to use strong verbs. You entice them to abolish the over-used ones like “said, went, or did.’ Frankly, I don’t think our boys know how to just “say,” or “go” or “do.” They yell and exclaim, or run and jump, or perform and conquer. Sometimes, in a rare moment when they are sitting still, they postulate. Of course they don’t know what that means, but they go places in their minds. Sometimes light years away. Take a couple mornings ago at breakfast. Our recently-turned four year-old throws out between Shredded Spoonful bites the following: “Mom, why are we here on this planet?” I stop spreading peanut butter and look at him. “I mean, why are we on Planet Earth and not on another one like Pluto or something? Mercury would be too hot, but maybe that other one would work. What is it… Venus?” I blink at my son, noticing that his feet are far from touching the ground . So are his thoughts. When I was 50 months old, I don’t think I even knew what a planet was, let alone the relative distance and temperatures of planets.

I’ve come to realize that life is too boring for boys to just be. So that’s why there’s usually a toy or invention within arm’s reach at the table to occasionally pick-up and play with. Only, it’s not playing with: it’s adjusting, morphing, beheading, or destroying. But it’s not destroying either. The pile of blocks will be knocked over so that a newer and better space station can be built. It’s always something newer and bigger and better. They’re problem-solving and postulating and asking questions that transcend our little world and normal things like Shredded Spoonfuls and peanut butter sandwiches.

At first I thought it was just my husband. When we were dating, I would be astonished at how fully he’d have to experience things. I concluded that he wouldn’t really be doing something unless he got hurt trying. A simple church-league baseball game was an excuse to slide into home plate, gashing his shin and adding pebbles to his knee. When we tried roller blading? The first hill we came to, he went straight down the center. Though we had cute, new matching helmets, knee and wrist pads, his looked drastically different than mine after the first hour. I had found an alternative path around the hill. (See my last article on boys and testosterone and the correlation of risk.) After we married, I began to expect that a little stint shooting photos would not be just “taking pictures.” He would always arrive home with mud on his back or down his side because he had to get just the right angle lying on a tree out over the river, or down in the sand. As I write this, my hubby has just returned from another photographic exploit on the coast. As he hands me his camera to peek at, I feel his freezing hands and notice the joy on his face. “Alright, how wet did your feet get?” I ask suspiciously. “Not very,” he replies, smiling.

But you know what I did on our honeymoon? Besides the usual romantic stuff, I was his coolie. Yep, coolie. This was before digital cameras, and so I would carry the camera bag and tripod up over dunes on the Southern Coast, or between burls in the Redwood Forest. You see, I knew he had a passion for photography. I wanted to bond not just over romance and gourmet meals and candlelight and good coffee and art galleries and my favorite movies, but also his stuff: his action. So I joined him in it. That, after all, is bonding for boys.

You see, I knew this already. For a year before we married and a few more afterward, we hung out with boys at an inner-city drop-in center. Oh, there were some girls at this place on NE MLK Boulevard and Dekum, but the girls didn’t really want to hang out with us. They were more private. Not the boys. To bond with them was easy. Randy played basketball and got his body slammed into the wall a few times (once through the wall, but that made it only more enjoyable). And me? I played Horse and ping pong. I was good at it, and so the boys respected me. I could usually beat Leondrae and Josh, but rarely could I conquer the more mature LaMont. It was fun. Some boys who came in were trouble makers who had brothers in jail from Measure 13. But they were good in that place because they knew that we were on their side and were motivated by love. We had proved it over time by our actions--and the action games we had played with them. These boys eventually helped us move into our first house, and even came to a batting cage with us in Tigard.

Later, I quit teaching and quit hanging out with youth in the inner-city in order to “slow down and have kids.” Boys, to be exact. You know, the action-verb boys. Instead of getting into bed, they swing from the bottom of the bunk and then drop onto the bed, squealing with delight. Coming down from either bed involves alternative routes from the ladder, and often a fireman-style slide down the bar on the bottom corner. When I’d help Jo Jo out of the van at two, he’d stop and yell, “TO INFINITY AND BEYOND!” before leaping into my arms. Now he just repels out of the van, his right hand clutching the seatbelt behind the driver seat, of course always clad in his army fatigue jacket.

Three mornings ago I was alerted that one of the boys was up when I heard a soft tapping on the bathroom door. I looked down to see four small fingers slowly sliding underneath the crack into the bathroom. I chuckled and opened the door. My four year-old was lying on his side, of course in army fatigue pajamas. “Shut the door,” he said calmly. I opened it 30 seconds later to find him in the same exact position, but now with a sword in his hand. Of course, he couldn’t just lie there and wake up, he had to lie there and fight evil forces!

The other night my boys were looking for something to do. They asked if I’d play a game of air hockey with them. Of course I would. I began to play against Evan, who is quite good. I was playing slower that night because Jo Jo was sitting in my lap. In my mind I contrasted this scene with my playing fast and competitively with those teenage boys at the drop-in center. I was a different person then! I knew I’d bond with those boys if I played hard and well. Now I was growing closer to my own boys by just playing. I was showing up and hitting the puck. When I play with Jo Jo, of course my reaction time is purposefully slower. But I’m in the game. I’m letting some get by… anything to keep that ear-to-ear grin going across the air hockey table.

At times I wonder about those boys from the drop-in center, and what twists their lives have taken. This last Halloween, my two little Super Heroes and I were at our church’s Harvest Party. While my caped crusaders were running around with some other similarly-clad boys (see my article “Keeping Their Capes On”), I went to prepare their hot dogs. A young man came in with his wife or girlfriend, possibly her mother, and a small child in his arms. He plopped himself down across from me, apparently needing a breather. I greeted him and he, me. Then he peered closely at me and asked, “Have I met you before?” I wasn’t sure. I looked at this handsome man in his mid-twenties, his baby boy snug against his side.
“I’m not sure… What is your name?”

“Rashaad.”

“RASHAAD!? I remember you! From the drop-in center on Dekum!” Bingo. That was it. He remembered me and my husband from those Saturday nights. Rashaad was a very quiet boy who, with his twin brother, would get dropped off each week by their grandmother. They’d play serious basketball and showed real talent. We never got to know Rashaad and his brother, but I remembered the big grin and the space between his front teeth. Yep, same nice boy. Similar Adidas gear. Only now, he had a good full-time job, a girl friend he was planning to marry, and a son in his arms. He was still a man of action, but he, too, was slowing down his game.

The Weaving

2011-07-24T02:03:00.000-07:00

I’ve been thinking lately about baskets. In Hawaii there are many kinds of baskets. The ones I notice most-frequently are the loosely woven baskets by craftsmen on the Kona wall or at the market. They’re made of palm branches and start off green and loose, and over time become brown and brittle. When a piece runs out, the artist pulls out another frawn and overlaps it, so you cannot see where one piece ends and another begins. It’s just a circular, beautiful basket.
The people in our lives are like layers of those branches. They stay for a while, and mesh themselves in comfortably to the walls of our lives. Then, they leave. They may return again later for a season, or they may not. As building managers of a residential dorm at YWAM’s University of the Nations, we have stayed for the last 15 months while families have come and gone from Building 1. Some families we become closer to, while others we miss out on sharing a friendship. They change each quarter. Every now and then, there’ll be a family that stays longer for some reason.
Such was the case with our Norwegian neighbors, with whom we shared our lives for six months. Jarle (pronounced Yarle’) and Ashild (O’sold) won our hearts quickly with their five month old baby, Julia and her equally adorable toe-headed big sister, Live’ (Leeva). When Julia had a fever over 104 degrees for several days, we suggested a doctor who offered discounts to YWAM missionaries. I came in and prayed for their baby one night when she continued, again, her weak cry. Soaking wash cloths in tepid water with vinegar, I showed Ashild how to wrap the baby’s legs and pull the fever down and away from her vital organs. This technique was taught to me by a Swiss neighbor friend when our son Josiah was with high fever a few months earlier. Love and trust was woven in to the basket late that night.
At Easter time, I did what has become a tradition: I invited all the children from around the world who live in our building and the surrounding ones to join us for the American tradition of Easter egg dying. With my sons, I taught them how to color them, and then we pulled out the Resurrection Eggs and recalled the very first Easter story. Live’ joined us at that time in April, coloring an egg with her mama.
When Jarle needed advice about a car, Randy told him where to go in town to get it to pass the emissions quality test, and what types of things they check in the American system.
In June, I went to the end of year celebration of Foundation School to join the families-now-friends from our building as their children performed at the event. Jarle’ led worship first on his guitar, singing out with his soft Norwegian accent. Ashild, who taught the preschool class, handed out darling “Armor of God” pieces to her daughter as well as other friends like Rachel, our friend Gavin’s little sister. Eventually, the older kids like Gavin and David performed a hip-hop dance. I cheered with their proud parents.
We congratulated kiddos and prepared to hug the parents, again, as they packed up for outreach. And then, those families left. In a flurry of early-morning airport runs after days of packing, and room inspections and hugs and tears and prayers all around, they left. I felt as if my basket was unraveling.
Except for Jarle and Ashild. On a different schedule, they were leaving in a week. They got to see us clean up and pack up to move off campus. Semi-settled into our new condo, we invited our Norwegian neighbors for dinner. I delighted in having a full kitchen again, and prepared one of our favorite back-home dinners: grilled rosemary chicken, Trader Joe’s cornbread and the slow-cooked baked beans, a family recipe. The dads and some of the kids swam in our pool, while the moms and some of the kids (like our son Josiah in a cast) visited on the pool deck. They blessed us with marshmallows for roasting and chocolate macadamian nuts for savoring.
But the best part of the evening? It was when they looked at us over dinner on our lanai and said, “You have done what you said you would do. You have been like parents to us.” Randy and I glanced at each other, a bit surprised. “When we first came, you told us all that you wanted to be like a mother or a father to the young families in this building. You have done that! You did it when you prayed for our daughter, when you loaned us childrens’ Tylenol, or in so many encouragements along the way.”
What an eye-opener. These guys had been with us longer than the other families, and had seen us greet and hug goodbye two whole groups of families. They had heard us when we weren’t doing well as parents or when we grew weary of our 400 square foot apartment, and they’d seen us when we were building jigsaws and reading stories to our boys. Ashild told me, “You are an awesome mom. You are to your boys and you have been like that to me. Thank you!” We hadn’t really thought about it, we just kept doing what we felt to do as building managers who have a heart for families.
Though I knew these sweet friends would soon be climbing on an airplane, there was something that came full-circle that night. Maybe it took their leaving to do it, or maybe our all being off campus for some larger perspective, but there was a mutual blessing, a giving and receiving, and a completing of a basket. It was good and beautiful. We were grateful.
Since that evening, I have been in Ohana Court worshipping on a Monday morning, noticing hundreds of new faces. We now live off campus so we are not as closely-connected to the new families. As much as we love our new condo, we miss that camaraderie, of hearing everybody’s business whether you want to or not, and of being there for each other. I remember recognizing the back of Dave’s head or seeing whom I thought was Farrell in the distance, but it was not. They were in Japan and Cambodia, and these were new faces. Friends to come for a weaving yet to be.

Richards Family Adventures: Over the Pacific on Our Way Home (Hellos and Goodbyes)

2011-02-20T01:23:00.000-08:00

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Richards Family Adventures: Over the Pacific on Our Way Home (Hellos and Goodbyes)

Over the Pacific on Our Way Home (Hellos and Goodbyes)

2011-02-20T00:39:00.000-08:00

January 5, 2011
I haven’t blogged in months, but feel the need to do so now. I feel this strange mix between gratefulness and sadness, between friends gained and friends lost. Ohana soon-to-see and ohana left- behind.

It took an 11 year-old boy to jump-start my thinking, and my emotions. Little boys (and even big boys) are known for not being in touch with their feelings—or knowing how to express their feelings when they have them. We were all getting ready to go to bed on our last evening of a New Year’s visit to Portland. These are dear friends with whom we stayed our last few nights prior to embarking on this journey, who drove us to the airport on our send-off to YWAM 15 months ago. These are the same friends who were able to scrape together the days off-and the money-earned to fly to Kona—our only visitors—around our oldest son’s 11th birthday.

It was that son’s best friend who now shook my consciousness a little. It wasn’t by what he did, but by what he could not do. When asked by their mother to say goodbye to Evan and Jo Jo, Adin, the younger boy whom Fetta refers to as “my verbal son,” came down to our basement digs and stood tall, looking us in the eyes. “I want to say goodbye and to wish you safe travels on your journey.” Wow. His older brother? “He is in bed; he cannot bring himself to say goodbye to Evan.” Huh. After some hesitation, Evan wandered in to Noah’s room. They chatted about whatever 11 year-old boys do, and said a brief goodbye.

I pondered this as I got up early the next morning, allowing time to run upstairs and catch Noah before he headed to school. I just had to get a big hug in with this best-friend-of-my-son. You see, this non-verbal boy almost knocked me over when we first arrived, his hug was so welcoming. It wasn’t at their door; it was on the driveway as he flew out of his house. Kinda like Evan when he decided he couldn’t wait to greet Noah at their Kona hotel six weeks earlier—he had to surprise him at the airport, with one of the biggest smiles I’d seen on his face since we started this adventure a year earlier.

Knowing leaving was hard, we decided to leave a couple of Kona candies with these special friends: two chocolate-covered mac nuts for two wonderful brothers. Together with a card we each signed, we hoped to sweeten the sadness that our exit would leave behind.

This ease-in-welcoming and difficulty-with-leaving was repeated as we had dinner with our former neighbors. Cherie and Kerie were happy to catch us briefly after a dessert at our old house, but wanted more time. They invited us over a few nights later after a busy Sunday afternoon. The conversation was easy over beef stroganoff, and our boys quickly flew upstairs for Lego-building and Star Wars-watching (two of their favorite pastimes, which they shared in common with the neighbor kids). At some point in the conversation, Cherie asked how long we’d continue on this teaching-children-overseas adventure. She said nothing at our “2-5 years” response, but when I talked about the improved-decorating of our former-home-now-rental, she quipped, “All the better for you to enjoy when you come home!”

“They’re having a hard time with this,” I thought to myself. Randy seconded this view when he noted Ashley fleeing up the stairs to keep from crying as we left.
From the Portland area we made our way up the rainy highway towards Seattle, including the longed-for stop at Krispy Kreme Doughnuts. My sister and her family were again so happy to see us. I quickly accepted that my body was exhausted. Now on our last night of our first vacation from YWAM, I recounted how many friends had welcomed us on this trip: sixteen households had happily hugged us and then said goodbye. I was fine with this. Exhausted, but fine.

After an early-to-bed prior to an early-to-rise for Sea-Tac Airport, I began to crack. I was side-swiped with sadness. I found myself weeping at not-big things. When my sister stopped me for one final hug in front of Hawaiian Air, I broke. Jolie, my sweet sister, had made a special trip to Whole Foods for garnishes for her gourmet soup and clotted cream for her anglophile sibling. Now a few hours later, she was smiling her winning smile as she squeezed a goodbye. I could not hold back the tears. I realized this was harder than I thought. I hadn’t counted on being broad-sided with those feelings. Not only was my body not accustomed to the cold, damp climate (I’d gone to bed early with Vitamin C), but my emotions were not handling these goodbyes.

I settled in to my airport seat to await our next chapter when an idea struck me: the Frango chocolate in my purse--a sweet sentiment from my Seattle sister. Like our intention with the Kona candy left for our boys’ buddies, I was now comforted by a similar act. I slowly ate the chocolate, savoring the memories of each hello and goodbye.

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God {via my sister}. II Corinthians. 1:3-4 Here are some of the loved ones we got to hug on during our first trip home in 15 months.
Evan hugged by Cousin Ike at Christmas
Greetings from Uncle Rob and Aunt Sharon, Christmas dinner at brother Andrew’s.

Christmas hugs for Anna Linda Hugs with neice Claire

Hugs with Grandma and her four children and hubbies

Hugs with Dad!
Hugs from teacher friend Sue Carlson at Cedar Tree on a frosty first-day-of-school in 2011

Guys Going Goofy at the Geisel’s

Hugs in our former home with good friend/hostess Natasha Poonka

Hugs with former neighbor Barb Sauer
Getting Increasingly Goofy with Marcus in our former home

Wonderful histories with Neighbor Mike, Phillip and Andrew Poonka

A warm Hug on a Cold Day from Niece Sauni
From Zimbabwe to Tonga and back: Randy and sister Kim exchange a New Year’s hug

A welcome visit from our Kiwi-Singapore City Bible friends Lois and Steve Ross (whose daughter, Grace, was in Evan’s preschool class)

HUGS FROM FORMER NEW SONG FRIENDS, ROOMMATES, AND PASTORS

On the way home from Albany, hugs at sunset

Our Own Jurassic Park Setting

2010-07-29T19:31:00.000-07:00

One of our favorite places to go for a family get-away is the Kohala Coast on this island--specifically, Pololu Valley. There are seven of these valleys that string together across the north face of the Big Island. It is very wet and windy here, much more than the sunny Kona side. The last of these valleys is the famous Waipio Valley, where we and thousands of others have hiked. But this one, called Pololu, is more remote and seemingly untouched. Just around the bend from the beach is an outcrop of rocks that Randy has captured a hint of in his beautiful photos. That is where some of the movie Jurassic Park was filmed. Enjoy with us, our descent into the valley that we took in mid-July with Evan's new friend from Tacoma, Parker Griffith and his family. We hiked down together, lost Randy for a couple hours while he tried to do justice to this beauty with his camera, and then the Richards re-convened for a family hike. We discovered stacked cairns of rocks, old marine ropes and rope-swings with to-die for views. You may get dizzy watching some of these photos. We hope your eyes are dazzled by the beauty, once again, of God's untouched creation.

The Tonga Blow-Holes

2010-03-25T01:53:00.000-07:00

The Blowholes of Homua! By Randy If I only had one word to describe the Blowholes of Homua it would have to be exhilarating! Of course how could anyone describe with just one word this amazing place, hidden on a small bump of an island called TongaTapu, which hardly breaks the surface of the vast South Pacific. If it was well known, the Blowholes of Homua would be one of the wonders of the world. But this secret spot sticking up mere feet above the blue waters of the ocean is the most exhilarating place I have ever visited. When you are there all you want to do is shout! Loudly! Cheering, clapping and whistling are also very common occurrences for all who visit this place. Wet! Wild! Windy! Massive waves crashing onto the upraised coral sends water skyward and shoreward, soaking all who are standing there in awe of the previous display of the tremendous power of God. Swell after swell pound the shoreline of coral rock. Mile after mile of Tongan coast is pummeled with the churning Pacific. 30’-40’-50’ and at times 60’ into the air the waves shoot up before falling back into the ocean or blowing up onto the land and those lucky enough to be viewing this wonderful show. The secret is that as the coral breaks down from the force of the surf, holes and narrow tunnels are formed. The water shoots through these tunnels up into the air, to the delight of all who see it happen. Exhilaration, way better and cheaper than a Starbucks Grande Iced Mocha with four shots of espresso! Exhilarating and thrilling far beyond watching a rocket launch or your long-awaited first trip on an airplane. If you could spend all day at the Blowholes you would be spent just from all the adrenalin that was released in your body, but you would want to return again the next day! The Blowholes of Homua were the favorite spot of our family and our team on this tropical island paradise. Here are a few shots I took there. If you go to the following link you can see some more of my shots and a couple of videos of the action. You can also do a search on You Tube to find some other videos of this wonder of the world that, in one sense, displays His power. http://travel.webshots.com/album/577108786TycShS The boys loved the blowholes so much that they wrote the following poem about them: THE TONGA BLOW-HOLES A Mighty Adventure on our Last Day-off in Tonga By Evan and Josiah Richards March 8, 2010 A day out with Katoni and Young, our private “chauffeurs” from Lafa Lafa. We went to the wicked, wild, and wet Blowholes of Houma. The waves were as tall as a house, and their spray even higher. The water shot through the coral holes like a whale when it breathes. “KAPOOH! BOOM! CRASH! SMASH!” The angry waves devoured the trembling coral below. Mommy’s rain jacket caught the wind ‘til it puffed out like a Sumo wrestler. And we stood there, Daddy, Mommy, Evan and Jo Jo, Screaming, shouting, dripping and smiling An exhilarating day out to the Tonga Blow-Holes.

Gifts Freely Given

2010-03-24T01:45:00.000-07:00

GIFTS, FREELY OFFERED
This was originally written by Kris on 2/10/10, and was edited with an amazing final gift at the end that was given our last day in Tonga, March 13, 2010.

“Freely, freely, you have received, freely, freely give. Go in my name and because you believe, others will know that I live.” This old hymn was on my mind today, and I hummed it as I cleaned up in the campus kitchen. It seems to have extra meaning now, as I ponder gifts and as I sit here in this south-pacific country where I’ve come to freely give away that which I have received (Christ’s love).
I’VE BEEN THINKING LATELY ABOUT GIFTS. It is a privilege to receive a gift from someone when there is no obligation or formal situation mandating such action. The best gifts are from the heart, spontaneous or carefully-planned, but given freely just because that person cares.
I got such a gift from my 4th grade son, Evan on my birthday two weeks ago. Well, it wasn’t a gift but a hand-made card. Dad didn’t tell him to make me a card, but he penned one with a green Overhead pen, front and back, with little pictures of each of our 4 heads and well wishes from Evan to Mommy. He hid it in the fridge on the birthday fudge the team had made for me here in Tonga. He figured for sure I’d come home and eat it, but I didn’t. It was a big night on this missionary base, as it was the kick-off evening for the new Discipleship Training School on this base. It was the biggest incoming class they’d had in 10 years. So, celebrating my birthday was a lower priority, and just didn’t happen (until the next day). Imagine my delight when I walked in the door around 10 p.m. to find that Evan had stayed awake, and ran to the fridge to give me my card. It was gold to me. I actually wept, as it was the first time in my 40+ years of living that I had not celebrated my birthday at all on my day. But he wouldn’t have that, and made sure of it with that little rather-messy green card. That was a priceless gift for this mom 23 hours ahead of her time-zone and home. Another gift for my birthday was lavished upon me by my new friend Jennie. An Australian teacher and mom whom I befriended the first week, she insisted on treating my family to a tour around the main island and an afternoon at a beach and supper for my birthday 48 hours before she was to fly home! (See photo of Jennie and her kiddos and our supper.)

Another gift was from my new friend Kerstin, a German woman on this base who also is a teacher. She offered to give me a back massage for my birthday, which I cashed in on a couple nights ago. She is excellent at these massages, as her masseuse aunt in Germany taught her many techniques. She comes over with a home-made concoction of coconut oil and hot chili peppers—kind of a tropical version of Icy Hot. When Kerstin walked in, though, she brought another gift for my husband. It was nicely-wrapped horseradish from a care package they’d received from Germany. I had mentioned that Randy loves horseradish, and she’d remembered and decided to go out of her way and give out of her way for his palate. What a treat! (Spending Valentines' evening at a resort for dinner with Kerstin and her husband, Karl, was also a gift! See photo.)

I had a few more gifts, freely given, today from locals. One teen-age gal on the base, Cindy, who is a nanny for the leaders, braided my hair in the French-braid style that the Tongan girls wear. She cheerfully did this, even though the dinner bell was ringing and she had kiddos to watch. We had some yard work that we needed done, and I was trying to find one of the guys to come over with his machete . A young man did come with a weed-eater, and took care of all of that growth and more for us. As I was picking up trash that was in our yard, I was called over by two of the new DTS students. “Want a drink?” Within seconds they’d taken their machete and made a green coconut into a lopped-off fresh drink for me. I ran inside, got a straw, and enjoyed the drink, like a tropical version of Gatorade. I glanced in the mirror at myself drinking this coconut milk with my new hair-style: gifts, freely-given. I was thankful.
Not to be forgotten was the mind-blowing gift given me by my Tongan friend, Kika. She had been going through some difficult times in her family, and we had had her over for prayer and encouragement. She also was the person we’d hired to do our laundry, and she did it quickly and so efficiently that the blouses sometimes looked like they’d just come from the department store rather than a two- gallon washing machine that you have to move the hose out to re-fill on the porch of her fale. Our last morning in Tonga, I was awakened by Kika at the door at 6:50. I could hear Randy saying, “Kris will want to see this; let me wake her!” I crawled out of bed…. to a shocking gift from Kika. “I couldn’t think of a gift for you, so I prayed, and this is what came to mind. Please take it!” It was her tapa cloth. (See photo of Tongan wedding with tapa cloth on wall behind.) This is a priceless tapestry that the women create over weeks and hand-down from generation to generation. Kika had received hers on her wedding day from her mother. It covers a whole wall, and is made from the bark of the Ironwood tree. There are black ink markings on it that represent things in Tonga, like the three dots representing the three old kings that all used to reign that island nation. I still cannot believe this newer friend gave me her tapa cloth! I transported it home in a loosely-bound carry-on bag. When it was time to declare what I was taking out of the country for customs, I could attach no dollar value to this sacred cloth. What a privilege and a remarkable gift, freely given!

Cyclone Rene'

2010-03-06T01:59:00.000-08:00

On February 14th, Randy and I went out for Valentine's with a German couple on our base who have become good friends. We had heard a cyclone was building far north of us, but it was just a tropical storm level 2 earlier that day. While we went to dinner and swam in an increasingly-churning little bay at nearby Kaleti Resort, we found out that the tropical storm had upgraded to a Cyclone (Hurricane) and was up to Level 4. It was headed right toward our island, and was supposed to be a Level 3 Cyclone by the time it hit. We tried to determine from the website at the resort if the arrival time (from a weather station in Fiji, on a different time zone) was 6 a.m. or 6 p.m. the next day. Well, at 6 a.m. "BAM!" We got wind! I kept thinking of that movie Twister throughout the day when Helen Hunt yells out, "We got sideways rain. We got cows!" as she sees various things going by the car in the hurricane. We just had sideways rain, palm trees bending, a basketball (netball, here) hoop pulled out of the concrete, and some flooding on our campus in almost every little home (fale'). So, at the base-leader's counsel, we had our whole team and then a few in to our larger home during the cylone to wait it out, read, eat snacks, worship together, play games, and find whatever we could to occupy us by candle-light. It was sooo satisfying for me to find a bed or a couch cushion and sheet or blanket for all 14 people that found shelter in our home that night! We had our team of 11, plus two more Tongans and a Kiwi who was visiting to help speak on the campus that week. The next day, we spent much of it inside as well, but discovered a new pond on the field by our house, a couple palm trees down (which is hard to have happen since they are so flexible), and a fence or two down. The damage was minimal, but the cyclone was the worst this area had seen in about eight years. We found a few houses in town with roofs missing, and many plantations (esp. banana plants) devastated. We were happy to be able to offer hospitality, and to grow closer as a team as we hunkered down while 70-100 mph winds whistled outside! Here is a poem that Jo Jo wrote in the shape of a twister in his writing folder. Our team enjoyed hearing it.

CYCLONE RENE
February 16, 2010
Tonga
It started to rain,
And we played a game.
Palm branches broke,
And the floor got soaked.
Candles got lit,
And we ate a bit.
The wind did roar,
And Allen did snore.
14 people slept in our home,
All because of that BIG CYCLONE!

By Josiah, Age 7

My Life is a National Geographic Magazine

2010-02-13T01:29:00.000-08:00

MY LIFE IS A NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE
I mean it—that is no exaggeration. I am seeing such suffering and such beauty in nature and in people here in the South Pacific, that I cannot do justice to it with words. My husband, great photographer that he is, also cannot do justice photographically to what we’re experiencing here.

Today we visited a village that is by far the poorest and most-forsaken place on this Tonga Tapu main island. It is way out on a peninsula outside of town, past the wharf, the market, and the Her Majesty’s Marine Base of Tongatapu. This is the part of the island where all the other villages take their old garbage and junk. There are shipwrecks out in the harbor, rusting carcasses of commerce long-forsaken. There are stacks of cars, smashed, along the road. Behind many of the “houses” is a type of bay, but it’s more of a pond that is indiscernible of where it ends and the garbage starts. I cannot believe people are allowed to live in this place. I’ve been told by the locals that the government has actually improved it quite a bit in an effort to move the junk outside of town into the “bush-bush.” I found myself praying repeatedly that the people in this hidden-away village would not feel forgotten and overlooked. Though they are surrounded by trash from this whole island, I prayed that they would know they are valuable and beautiful to the Lord.

Our time there today involved pulling up in our bus, all 20 of us emptying out, and then going door-to-door inviting people to the program we’d be putting on at 1:00 that afternoon. Well, we didn’t get far in this endeavor. Upon disembarking from our bus, we were flocked with about 20 kids, all in various states of dirtiness and disheveledness. I looked at a little girl holding a red flower in one hand, and gripping a barbed wire fence in the other, and I thought of a name for these kids: Children of the Barbed Wire. They were all beautiful children, and you wanted to take them home. One little girl was brought to our attention who had a bad gauge out of her foot—from barbed wire. It looked pretty gruesome to our healthcare people, but they cleaned her off and patched her up. “When did she cut herself?” my son inquired. “Last week,” her big sister replied. WHAT?! Last week? This is a bloody mess on a three year-old that should have been dealt with that day, not the next week. Where was her mother? ? Though I saw many children playing along the road, along with stray dogs and the local pigs that have access to everywhere, I didn’t see many moms. (It was a week-day in late morning; perhaps the moms were at work.)

Enroute through the community, I strolled on to the beach for a few minutes while some of our people played marbles with some of the boys. What was here?! Shells of the most-unusual shape and color! Like the beautiful Children of the Barbed Wire, these shells were diamonds in the rough—spotted huge Cowrie and Collector Urchins and spiny shells that looked like a glove that could fit your hand. Evan plucked out of the coral bits of a giant oyster shell. I found two of the type of mollusks that I’d seen and bought in the Philippines, from which the harvest pearls come.

Eventually, I started a spontaneous game with the 30 or so kids sitting on mats in a yard. We sang songs, performed a skit or two, and I gave a testimony about how God is faithful even when we have a big mountain to be moved. My “mountain” was when I lived in Portland as a young teacher who was only subbing and not getting paid throughout the summer. My waitressing pay helped, but wouldn’t enable me to pay my bills. God came through by allowing my car to get hit when I wasn’t in it, and the person in the car insisting on paying top-dollar cash to fix the car. I wonder if the kids could relate to my story—even with our friend Paki translating. Would the Children of the Barbed Wire—some with faces like older ladies due to pain they have known—consider difficulty paying your bills for one summer a “mountain” to be moved?

I doubt the impact we had on those kids was from what we said, or what truths we chose to highlight. Instead, it was the love of God that caused us to visit, to hold, to pray, to hug, to bandage, and to remember (and write about) the Barbed Wire Children.

TIME FOR A NEW DICTIONARY

2010-01-16T01:41:00.000-08:00

TIME FOR A NEW DICTIONARY
Living in Tonga has certainly jarred my sense of which-way-is-up. This island culture is definitely down-under, being a six-hour plane ride from New Zealand. The stars look somewhat different here. The water goes down the drain counter-clockwise rather than clockwise as in the northern hemisphere. Though I’m tempted to call it “backward,” I realize that it’s just third world. I remember living in England for a year right after college. I saw gadgets and sociological happenings that were ten years past in the US. Here I’d say it’s more like a hundred years ago in America. Sometimes I feel like I am in a Little House book, and other times I feel like I’m in the most beautiful, untouched place on earth; and other times I feel like just regular living is camping.
We live on a Youth With A Mission campus called Lafa Lafa, located on the southern tip of the main island of Tonga. Our home is a beautiful, well-built structure that a German family expanded from the normal two-bedroom hut or fale that is common in Tonga. The home is an answer to my husband’s prayers, who asked God for nice accommodations for his family prior to our leaving our lecture phase in Kona. God definitely did that. But it’s what is around and part of this campus and island that throws me. I’ll try to explain it so that friends back home in the Northwest can grasp what it’s like for us as we swim through layers of culture adjustment.
The campus seemed at first to me like a retreat center with little cabins around. Near our home are three little portable-sized classrooms with little decks and brightly-colored plywood exteriors. These are for the little Christian school that is on the campus (which is currently on summer break here in December). Very close by our home are more small fale’s, which I thought were more classrooms or out-buildings for the campus, but they’re not. They are homes where young men live, part of the Team Extreme ministry run by our friends Lynn(American) and 'Ale (Tongan). I realized that I needed to change my definition of home when I saw young men going in and out of these structures. I had to keep changing my definition of home as we wandered into nearby villages, offering to pray for people or to invite them to our outreach meeting that Friday night. I’d approach a home with a Tongan brother, and we’d knock on the door. Apparently, it’s not considered rude to wander around peoples’ homes in their yard trying to find them. One such day we found a young man asleep in what I thought was a fort of some kind. Wrong. This is not some tinkering by teen-agers trying to get a touch of freedom from their parents’ place. This is a “bedroom” made of corrugated steel roofing softly lined with cardboard. The floor was dirt with a very old rug over it, and the walls were open framing with cardboard stuck in for insulation. The “bed” this young man climbed out of was a table with a foam pad on it. His “kitchen” was a hot-pot for tea. Under his bed was a huge, rolled up tapa cloth, which is a type of matting made by the women from bark of the Ironwood tree, and then dyed with natural dyes from the Tongan soil. I have seen kitchens without stoves under a tree lined by 3 feet high “walls” of the same tin roofing. Inside will be a chair or rock to sit on, and a fire over which 1-2 women may be cooking. Wow. Front entryways, even of nice homes, will have 3 foot-high little concrete walls in front of them that you have to step over when you go to the door. Quite necessary. Keeps the pigs out or in, whatever the case may be.

Besides the term “house,” I now have a whole new definition for “clean” and “safe.” There are very few seatbelts in this culture. I’ve seen a working one once when I caught a ride with a gal to the radio show we were doing on the local Christian radio station. Usually, our family (including our boys ages 7 and 10) climb onto our team bus where a boy will sit next to a parent for stories or singing wherever we’re going. No seatbelts there. And the bus door will be open the whole time, feet from where my 7 year old is sitting. Two nights ago we crossed the island for that outreach evening and had 35 people in the bus that is to hold 25. Two small children were crouched up on the dash board, smooshed against the front window. We cringe and hold our tongues—as well as our boys, tightly.
In this humidity, I have a new definition for “damp” and “dry.” I also have new words for being sick. They all range at this point along the stomach-flu end of things, but there comes a point in you when you know that dehydration or weakness is setting in, and you wave the white flag and declare yourself “sick.” I did this yesterday. It was wonderful just relaxing instead of going out for street evangelism. Though my teammates returned with wonderful stories of what God did, I was able to relax in a longer (cold) shower, and to nap for a good long time. “Relax” and “cold shower” wouldn’t have been near each other in my old dictionary, but they are here in Tonga.
“Going shopping” no longer means a nice, predictable, tight little journey. It’s instead an adventure I can bank on from finding the right shops to the bus breaking down to the city bus getting in a wreck with me on it!
Finally, “Tongan” to me used to mean someone with dark skin who was larger framed from Tonga. They probably would be someone who enjoyed traditional dancing, and may not have the same sense of time that westerners have. I have found that “Tongan” is someone who can “TIHOO!” like the rest of them in excitement. He is someone who can and does enjoy laughing, has a natural shyness, but when s/he gets going, they are the life of the party. Tongan is no longer an unknown face. It is Mata, Mapue, Siddatha, and Sunny. It is Sepho and Nive and their 11 other siblings; it is smiling faces, frequent laughter, ingenuity with their hands, and somewhat of a knowledge of Jesus. Tongans are friends from a new dictionary, yet to be completed.

THINGS I LOVE ABOUT TONGA

2010-01-16T00:08:00.000-08:00

I love the color of the skin of the children, and the way they call out to me when I go for walks on our campus. I love the singing of just about every sector of society. When vehicles go by on the road, they usually are vans or trucks full of people, all of whom are singing at the top of their lungs. I love how people don’t seem to need a radio or ipod—a guitar and a friend for harmony anywhere anytime will do.
I love how the people all drive slowly here. No one is in a hurry to get anywhere or to accomplish loads of things. I love how the people aren’t obsessed with looking good, and how being thin doesn’t seem to be on anyone’s mind. I love the bakeries that bake fresh bread every day. We buy it every three days or so, and slice it up for lunch or breakfast. I love the way our vegetable garden (planted prior to our getting here by a German woman) grew to harvest stage in six weeks. I am regularly harvesting the fruit of her labors. I love how it is windy here all the time. Though people have to burn their own garbage and there often lingers a smoky smell, it is not stifling like the Philippines as the smoke is whisked away quickly by that wind. I love how the culture has kept many of its traditions, including women keeping themselves covered in a skirt or lava lava. It’s amazing how holidays are centered for everyone around church rather than a party or a bottle. Though the churches aren’t perfect, everyone goes and hears and participates.
I love how the queen of Tonga hasn’t just given lip-service to wanting to “adopt” the people in the handicapped home; she has made each one of them her children. She brings them personal gifts, pays all the bills, and invites the residents to be her VIP’s when she has to make an appearance at something. I love our home in Tonga, with the leveler windows with screens, the Tongan wood cabinets, and the much space and rooms! I love the yard that God picked out for me here: complete with everything that was in my Hawaiian garden back home as well as things that almost seemed transplanted from my yard: three rose bushes and a honeysuckle. I never even saw a rose bush in Hawaii, having been to three different islands in that state. Yet here, 21 hours ahead of the Portland area, this former City of Roses gardener has pink flora bunda on the front corners of her lanai!
I love the men and their strong dances they do, the chants and “items” everyone does at schools at any event, and the women’s tapa cloths. I like snorkeling here, with coral unlike any I have seen, and tiny cobalt blue fish! I love the unassuming way the people have here, and their laid-backness coupled with effusive humor.
I love the beauty of this land, and how every morning when you awake it is clear and sunny. I like how I can go for a run in the early morning or for a walk at dusk with my boys, always in a t-shirt and shorts or a skirt and we’re warm enough! Though the land is fairly flat, the big sky is so beautiful. The clouds tend to be stacked cumulus ones that are rosy-tipped with sun rays stretching out past them. It’s like God is smiling down on us here in Tonga.

OUR FRIENDS

2009-11-19T00:53:00.000-08:00

OUR FRIENDS
We have made some wonderful friends on our YWAM base! We wanted to introduce you to several of them. This is so you can get a closer look at our world, and the broad culture base here at University of the Nations. Our closest friends are Tina and Hans Hansen, who are from Denmark. They have a daughter Evan’s age who had her 10th birthday about three weeks before Evan had his. She has two little toe-headed brothers, Lucas and Marcus. The boys play with the Hansen boys or Ethan and Aiden, our next door neighbors. Their parents are our co-leaders of our school. Their family hails from eastern Canada. The mother, Jerilyn, is Kris’ small group leader and is Mohawk Indian. She blew everyone away in her community as a girl when she was a contender for the Olympics in ice skating. Her husband, Mark, was a high school teacher and youth pastor and is Randy’s small group leader. They are both great friends of ours, and lend us their car whenever we need it. Their input to us is so crucial because they, too, did a DTS as a family who was older and who had served in leadership roles for years. My running/biathlon partner is Ericka, a junior high teacher from Colorado who took a year off to travel around the world, staying with various missionary friends. She has a wonderful, global perspective on culture and the body of Christ. Another good buddy is Corlize, a journalist by trade from South Africa. She has soo much insight and reminds me of my dear friend back home, Jana Thorup. She lived in Israel for two years, and also did a 6 month internship at a well-known church in Albany, OR! In our school, I’ve gotten to know a few other girls: Chelsea, a 22 year old farmer’s daughter from Nebraska just got her degree in business and is wondering how that could fit in with the family farm. Becca is a super sweet 19 year old from Colorado who loves children. We saw a maturity beyond her years in genuinely caring about us and in reaching out to our kids that caused us to quickly think of her when we needed a sitter (dates are important, especially when we are surrounded by crowds of people all the time)! Ingrid is from Minnesota, and does my WholyFit with me when she can get up in time. I also have done WholyFit with Aleeia from Kazakhstan, and have struck up acquaintances with several more people: Janelle and Brian from Alaska with their three kids. He is a former fighter pilot who flies commercial airlines. She gives great haircuts for free to lady friends on the base. Mike is a young man from Boston U who was an atheist three months before coming to the U of N. Linda is a friend who sings in the choir with me, and is on staff long-term in England (originally from America). Carol is truly English, and has just joined the choir as well. She not only knows of where I lived when I worked with YWAM in the 80’s but she knows the exact street where I lived and the shop I lived above! There’s also Margaret and her husband, Gabriel from Rwanda (I speak French with him), Jacob and Joi, friends from Korea, and a lovely potter from Israel named Anoushka. I also just love April, a beautiful Filipina from the north, not far from where I was born in Baguio. There’s a young couple from Portland (SE area) who have two small children and she is pregnant with their third. Mariya is becoming a friend, who comes from Japan and will be in Tonga with us. There’s also Linda, on our team from Sweden, who is a kindergarten teacher and whose birthday we celebrated our first few weeks here. All of these people have marvelous stories. Some have lost successful businesses in the economic down-turn, and others have postponed their careers or college to carve out this half-year of their lives to serve God and share their lives with others overseas. It is a privilege to get to know them all, and to call them friends as well as our extended “Ohana.”

The Boys' Two Day Field Trip

2009-11-15T16:02:00.000-08:00

Last weekend, we went on a two-day field trip with 36 kids ages 6-16 from our Foundations School on the YWAM base. We drove in three vans south to Black Sands Beach, where we saw five turtles. (Here’s a turtle picture that Daddy took on his camera a few days later.) The sand was pure black!! It was not a good swimming beach, but we looked at several tide pools. We saw all the colors that sea urchins can be.

From there, we went to our campsite that was at Volcano National Park. Before going to sleep, we drove as close as we could to the new lava flow on Mt. Kileaua, but could only see a red glow as it was down in a crater about a third of a mile away. We were going to go to the lava tubes for a hike a bit earlier, but just as we were ready to go, there was a huge rainstorm with flash floods! So, the teachers said we couldn’t go hike in the lava tubes.

We spent the night there in a kind of dorm (military base), and then got up the next morning to go to Hilo. In Hilo, we went to the zoo, where a Squirrel Monkey had escaped! I (Evan) took pictures of the other Squirrel Monkeys so you can see what they look like. We were told they were vicious and they do bite. Also at this zoo, they had a giant white tiger, a giant ant eater, and a butterfly exhibit, but all the butterflies had also escaped! (We noticed a rip in the screen of the butterfly exhibit. This zoo is way smaller than the one in Portland!) We did see several tropical birds, like a Toucan!

Finally, we headed back home across the island, and stopped at McDonald’s for lunch. (McD’s is much more of a treat now that we eat dorm food every day on campus.) We ordered Oreo cookie Mcflurries, which we loved! While we were going home from McDonald’s, we were at a stoplight and we noticed that a nearby parking lot was completely flooded! (Jo Jo really wanted you all to know that part.) I (Evan) took a few pictures of my friends being goofy in the van (that's Abraham Kim sleeping on a thing of chips) and also took pictures of a waterfall we saw when we stopped at a look-out view on the way home. We had a fun time on our two-day field trip!

Dates out with Dad

2009-10-21T00:37:00.001-07:00

Last week, Randy drew inspiration from one of our speakers who talked about taking his daughter out for a special date. On two separate nights, he treated Evan and Jo Jo to a "Date out with Dad." This was such a treat because, although our lives are simpler here on this YWAM base, we are quite busy and don't have much quality times with our kids right now. So, Evan chose a little restaurant down by the water where he could have his favorite: pizza and Sprite, and even a rootbeer float for dessert--"a big one, Mom!" The two of them walked along the waterfront, with Daddy taking photos of Evan and Evan of Daddy. When I asked Evan what his highlight of the evening was, it was the rootbeer float and seeing a turtle in the surf at sunset. Where did Josiah choose to go for his date? You guessed it--the same pizza place. He, too, went for the rootbeer float and filled up his love tank as well as his tummy with wonderful memories made with Daddy. Jo Jo's favorite part was the large rootbeer float made with cookies and cream ice cream. The boys both returned beaming from their nights out with Dad and the treat of having had pop with dinner. We hope you enjoy the pictures as much as the guys enjoyed taking them!

Incredible Ironman

2009-10-21T00:16:00.000-07:00

On Saturday, October 10th, Randy and I were able to tag-team on security with our YWAM base for the Ironman Competition here in Kona. It was a staggering race in what was expected of the contestants, in the sheer length of the thing (2.4 miles swimming, 112 miles biking to the other side of the Big Island, and a whole marathon running), and in the number of volunteers needed to pull this off. Of the 2000 volunteers, 500 were from our organization. Our job was to stand at the finish line and keep back the crowd so that the runners could finish the marathon without people hindering them (especially those pesky photographers). Of course, for me especially, this was a front-row seat to cheering loudly for those who were hearing “You are an Ironman” over the loudspeaker. Our shift was later in the afternoon, but we arose early as a family to walk down to the starting point and snag a seat on the sea wall for the big swim. We were flanked by far-traveling folks with t-shirts bearing the name of their loved one in the race. Above us, a military transporter plane dropped skydivers with colored smoke trailing off in curly-cue designs. As the boys watched the flying fish launching in front of us, helicopters circled above. One of our team leaders was assigned to be on a surfboard, literally inching alongside a slower finisher who had recently received a new heart. (Sadly, he missed the deadline by eight seconds and was out of the race.) There were many reflections for us and our boys on the power of encouragement, endurance, discipline, and various scriptures on running the race and being surrounded by a “great cloud of witnesses.” The Ironman Race was a special memory and definite privilege for our family.

Randy's first post

2009-09-30T09:17:00.000-07:00

Everywhere you go on the University of the Nations campus you hear or see worship! All over campus, throughout the day, there are people worshiping with all of their hearts. Softly, loud or really loud! It’s amazing to see and hear. Some alone, some in small groups, some in groups at large as six hundred. Some in English, some in Korean, some in Samoan and from time to time you may hear Chinese, Japanese, Russian or one of several other people groups pouring out their adoration to the living God in some language you may have not even know existed. It is absolutely one of the most beautiful things you could ever hope to see and hear! In some ways I feel like a kid peeking in a crack in a wall at a construction site, except this crack in the wall of heaven, where there will be worshipers from every tribe and nation and tongue! No one seems to grow tired of hearing this or of joining the worshipers. At times, right in our apartment, we can hear three or four different groups of people worshiping separate from each other yet strangely untied in heart and purpose.

KIDS' COMMENTS

2009-09-29T00:23:00.000-07:00

September 28, 2009 I asked the boys their favorite parts about the following little stages we just went through, and here is what they said. *The packing time: Seeing so many friends one more time and Aunt Jo who came down, eating pizza out on the back lawn with friends when our dining room table was gone, and staying with Adin and Noah!! *Our first three days in Kona (at the Trendwest resort): Swimming in the lagoon by the mansions, eating Hawaiian shaved ice (Evan’s favorite flavor is blue bubble gum, Jo’s is butterscotch); seeing the dolphins, driving the glass bottom boat, *Our first few days on the YWAM base: Our new apartment, their bunk bed, the deep swimming pool, their friends they’re making from Denmark, Alaska, and Norway; eating every meal outside, “The geckos are funny. Especially when Mom closed the curtain and one fell down and she freaked out.” (Guess who said that.) Going to the beach, esp. Mile Post 88 Beach; the music and dancing here, and finding Plumeria blossoms to give to Mom.

TEARS AND MORE TEARS

2009-09-29T00:15:00.000-07:00

9/27/09 Despite the losses and the grieving of those things, Randy and I were deeply moved and spurred on by the tears, the cards, and the gifts. I held one sweet neighbor girl in my arms as she cried and cried. My sister called on our last day and announced she’d be driving down for the afternoon from Seattle to help with the last bit of packing and cleaning. She asked, “Is this insane?” to which my husband retorted, “I LOVE your insanity!” When she bounded in the door a few hours later, all I could do was cry. One friend knew that I like to make chocolate zucchini muffins, took my recipe and two zuchs from my yard, and baked a batch, delivering them to our door 3 hours later. That was HUGE for our sanity! Our friends the Johnsons put our boys up for two nights while Randy and I were cleaning-feigns back at the home. This was marvelous for our sons’ emotional well-being as their sons are some of our boys’ best friends in all the world. Neighbors loaned us bedding for the last month, and students of mine and friends arrived en masse for a one-day blitz. They deep-cleaned windows and bathrooms, assisted with last-minute mailings and mending, entertained our kiddos, did oodles of yard work, and helped me talk through the ordering/narrowing of my home-school materials for phases 2 and 3 of our mission stint. One friend paid one of his employees to finish out our kitchen floor, and then returned to fix our screen door and some siding that needed patching. Two families loaned us cars, and more than one couple shoved checks or cash for hundreds of dollars into our hands in those last 48 hours to help with settling-in costs. In the end, all of our material possessions were stored in four friends’ basements or warehouses. (Thanks, guys!!) The last night in the Portland area, our family at the Johnsons’ house. They live minutes from the airport and had two extra large beds to put us all up comfortably. As I drifted to sleep around midnight, I had tears in my eyes due to the loss but the huge gains we’d already seen. It was humbling. I awoke the next morning, ready to climb on the plane, again with tears in my eyes. And 24 hours later as I awoke in a resort in Hawaii (that a friend helped us get) for a 3-day R & R stint prior to our training starting, I was again in tears. It had been a clean-stripping; a death of sorts, and was the beginning of a new thing.“FOR YOU DIED, AND YOUR LIFE IS NOW HIDDEN WITH CHRIST IN GOD.” Colossians 3:3 “He is no fool, if he would choose to give what he can never keep to gain what he can never lose.”Former Portlander Jim Eliott (whose namesake our son shares and who was martyred doing pioneer missionary work in Ecuador in the 1950’s)

PACKING AND DYING

2009-09-29T00:08:00.000-07:00

September 26, 2009
PACKING AND DYING
Packing up a family to move overseas is an interesting, emotional, and intense experience. It has been a death of sorts, and—as we put our house up for rent and moved out of our established Vancouver neighborhood, a bit like going to our own funeral.

First, the grieving of the loss of stuff. We are going to live as missionaries in a long-term capacity. We’re saying we’ll be gone two to five years, but God only truly knows the real length of time. So, by definition, that means simplifying. Reality is, our furniture is mainly used, so paying for storage for years would by far supersede the cost of those items. Thus, doing a sort of material-triage, I whittled our possessions down to four furniture items that had been in the family for years, a bunch of art and books we’d collected, and treasure troves of my husband’s photography as well as scrapbooks. The one item that really made me lose it was my deluxe mixer. It was a medium-fancy one from (then) Meier and Frank that we received as a wedding gift. It had the attachable base, and the alternative hooks for kneading bread, which I never used. What I did use it for was dozens and dozens of batches of chocolate zucchini muffins made with my sons each August and September. We had managed to sneak in a couple batches prior to our Labor Day Moving Sale in which most of it went. The night before, I was on the kitchen floor surrounded by gadgets and crying like a baby—over that mixer. It sold to a little girl who was translating for her mother the next day for $2. My sons, too, fell apart at unexpected times over the loss of a bunk bed or a favored camping tent. It’s hard for any age of person to see strangers come on to your property, poke and prod things that you could almost call friends, and then unfeelingly offer a much-lower price. Like grief that broadsides you when someone has died, one of us suddenly would be crying without being able to verbalize why .

Then there is the loss of friends. We tried to balance seeing people with packing and deep-cleaning our house. Wonderful friends justifiably wanted to eke out another night around the dinner table with us. I’ll never forget a few very close friends who said they couldn’t bring themselves to say goodbye. So, they didn’t. It was more like, “I’ll see you on Facebook next week.” One friend threw a going-away party for a particular group of our friends, and she said she wanted to decorate the house with black balloons. It was an imminent loss that she (like us) was willing to face, even with dragging feet.

Finally, there was what I call the funeral procession. It was rather surreal as people did unique things in expressing their sorrow of the loss of us from their lives (at least for this season). One neighbor who is quite private brought over a card from her and the kids. Another neighbor came with her husband and hugged me over and over, saying how much she would miss us. There were tears from older people and peers and children, home-made cards, meals brought, and even a couple caramel Macchiatos delivered for this couple packing, again, late into the night. People accompanied/drove us to the airport and said things about impressions we made when we first met them years ago, surprising us by their candor.