Remembering James Harrison

On June 1 1999, I was in a plane crash with 28 dear friends.  We were our way home from a music mission trip, when our last flight home into Little Rock, Arkansas crashed upon landing in a severe thunderstorm.  We still mourn the loss of two precious lives from our group.  James Harrison, a friend and peer survived the crash but died trying to escape the wreckage and Rachel Fuller, the second born daughter of our directors died as a result of her severe injuries after being hospitalized.  

I was with both of them in the burning wreckage.  Much of it I cannot remember and it still haunts me that I have no better answers for loved ones left behind.  It has been a long process of healing, now fourteen years and three days of the journey behind me.  I praise God that the horrors of that night, the deep depression of the the days and months after, and the losses incurred no longer define (constrict, suffocate, consume) my days.  Indeed, I go days, even months, without remembering despite what might seem to be the near constant reminder of grafted skin and a chronic cough from smoke inhalation.  By my God's amazing grace, the life event that once threatened to forever rule my every waking moment is now just another chapter of the entire story of my life.  Some carry scars on the inside, and some of the outside, but if true healing is earnestly sought after and fiercely fought for, I have found that true survivors are not the sum total of the ills and crimes done to us, but the beautiful synergy that comes from entrusting the worthless pile of pain into the scarred hands of the only One who can trade it for things priceless.

A wise woman once told me "In God's economy, pain is never wasted.  EVER."

But it is good to remember.  The past few days I have been thinking of our friend, James Harrison who died June 1, 1999.  He saved my life.  A little over five years ago I entered into another season of digging deeper into my pain and sorrow to finally try and break free of it.  I spent nearly every Monday during the fall and winter of 2007 writing about my memories and then meeting with a wise counselor to try and unpack deeply entrenched sorrow and gripping grief in which I was still drowning.  The following entry I wrote one chilly, grey day in Sibley Music Library in downtown Rochester about my friend, our friend, James Harrison.  I needed to remember, because I found myself in the process of forgetting.  The horror and grief and loss and pain may (must?) be embraced, honored, and left behind, but the memories of the people must not.

So today, I post this in honor of my friend, James Arvin Harrison, who truly exemplified with his life this verse:  

"Greater love hath no man than this,  that a man lay down his life for his friends." John 15:13 (KJV)

And he did.  For me.

This begins what I wrote in the fall of 2007:

James Arvin Harrison was my friend. 

            I am not sure where to place this chapter, but his story must be told.  I have wanted to tell this story for a long time, for I fear that he is being forgotten.  While it is it something that may well be inevitable, for we are all on our way to being forgotten, I want to do everything I can to tell you about this young man, my friend.

            “James, listen.  I don’t know how else to say it – but I DON’T want to go out with you.” I said gently in a rare moment of complete frankness.  James Harrison and I had entered Ouachita the same year, fall of 1995 and were both music majors.  Entering freshman in the music department ended up knowing each other quite well, for we had a block of basic classes that served to weed out those who truly desired to work to pursue music as a discipline from those who merely liked to sing or play.  James was in many of my classes and we were in Singers together.  Singers was a 30 - 40 member choral group that traveled together several times a semester as well as toured internationally about every other summer.  James sang bass.  It fit him.  He was tall and big with dark bushy hair and thick glasses.  His appearance would have been much more imposing had he not had a slight birth defect that left one shoulder stooped beneath the other one.  He carried himself with an air of almost apology.  Almost like he was sorry for taking up too much space, and always seemed to be trying to make himself small or unnoticed. 

            Since my freshman year, I could tell that every once in a while, James would get the notion that he was sweet on me.  Honestly, I think I was in a rotation of three or four gals he had his eye on.  James was a dear young man, generous, compassionate, a servant through and through – but nothing in our encounters left me with a desire to be pursued romantically by him.  There was just nothing there.  It all came to a head my junior year, when he asked me out, yet again, and was most insistent.  I was not too keen on the idea of making him angry or feeling rejected, but I would not yield, “James, I am not just saying this, I want to be your friend.  Nothing more.  But I truly value your friendship, please don’t make that awkward.”  As I feared, the next time I saw him I met an icy glance and things remained chilly between us for a while. 

            Our senior year, the silence began to melt.  James got a new church gig with a tiny country congregation not too far from Arkadelphia.  I wish I could remember the name of the church and town, but it escapes me.  For the first time, perhaps ever, he found a place to belong completely.  A group of people who welcomed him and accepted him and appreciated every gift he could offer.  I watched him blossom as he began to more fully discover God’s calling upon his life.  There was even rumor that a young woman in the congregation had set her cap for him.  I know it felt nice to be pursued. 

            I am not too sure how it got started, but we began to meet for lunch on Tuesdays and Thursdays the spring of our senior years.  We went early, as soon as the cafeteria opened around 11:00.  We would sit and eat together, talking about all the exciting things going on in our worlds.  I even got on to him a little bit about things such as how he handled his finances and being behind in so many classes.  We truly became friends.  I think in some ways, it felt almost sibling like, so great was the comfort and camaraderie between us.  Even when James Cheng and I started being interested in each other, it was much later in the spring before even he intruded into James Harrison and my sacred lunchtime conversations and accountability. 

            Because of my work-study job, I had a key to the music building.  Whenever I got the inkling on a random Friday or Saturday night when the music building was guaranteed to be deserted, I would sneak over long after my normal practice hours and creep into the dark recital hall.  I had long discovered that my key worked on those doors as well.  With my arms full of scores and books, I would flip on the minimum number of lights and enjoy an hour or so of practice, if you could call it that.  I thought of it as a private time of worship.  I may be practicing a Puccini aria, but as the silvery sound of my unaccompanied voice filled the empty room, I would often fall to my knees in praise, singing solely to my Maker.  I so enjoyed the closeness of the emptiness, the privacy of the stillness, the strange intimacy of a place normally so public.  I would linger over difficult passages, or just sing whatever came to mind and heart.  On more than one occasion, I would sometimes feel as if I was being watched, and on more than one occasion, I caught James Harrison creeping down the back steps from the recording booth high above.  Sheepishly he would make some excuse for needing to find this or that recording for his work-study job.  At 10:00, on a Friday night.

            He always carried peppermints in his pockets.  He loved handing them out to anyone who was around, and often you would see peers or professors hitting him up for one.  He discovered years before that I liked the green kind, and not surprisingly, he always handed me a green one without asking.  He told me over one of our lunches that at his new church job the kids lovingly called him “The Candy Man” and would flock to him before and after services.  I knew most of his story, the parts that he shared openly.  He was jokingly referred to as “Puck” growing up.  It was an acronym for Pop-Up-Camper-Kid.  His parents had retired and moved closer to family in Arkansas and resided in a camper while their house was being built.  It was then, in that pop-up camper in the autumn of their lives when their other children were long grown and gone that James Harrison was conceived.  He often jested about how other kids got to play fetch with their dads when they were little – but he had to “fetch” everything for his aging father.  I remember meeting Mr. Harrison, a slightly stooped gray-headed soft-spoken man and his fiery, delightfully outspokenly country, younger wife Reba on Singers trips to northern Arkansas churches.  They beamed their pleasure when they saw James decked out in his black tuxedo with the choir.

            James filmed my senior recital for me on April 29, 1999.  Late that night, after my recital I was unable to go back to my room and admit the day was actually over, so I slipped by the computer lab and checked email on my way home to my dorm room.  There was an email from him, my friend James Harrison.  I don’t know why I did it at the time, but I printed it.  I wanted to keep it forever.  I am so glad I did. 

            From:                          “Arv”

            Organization:              Ouachita Baptist University

            To:                              DELTA/MAD30236

            Date sent:                    Thu, 29 April 1999 23:04:13 CST

            Subject:                     Recital

            Kristin,

Your recital was magnificent.  Thank you so much for all of your hard work that you have done to prepare it for us.  Please know that the videotape was recorded in a dumb machine operated by a feeble human.  Even if it were done by a pro, there is no way it could have captured your angelic beauty—both in appearance, and in sound.  Thank you for sharing your God-given talents with us, but most of all, thank you for the privilege of calling you friend.

Arv

James Harrison

OBU Box 4342

Arkadelphia, AR 71998

(870)-245-4342

            James Arvin Harrison was my friend. 

This ends what I wrote over five years ago.

  

In a story I have yet to tell completely in prose, James Harrison saved my life.  I live today because he called for me on the floor of a burning aircraft when I was 22 years old and had lain down to die.  Today I woke up and touched the hand of James Cheng, my husband of 13 years and rolled over to wrap myself in his warmth and faithful love.  I look up from my laptop to gather in a tear-filled glimpse the beautiful faces of the three children I get the honor of mothering.  And today I will again revisit the campus where I first met James Arvin Harrison, the grounds we walked, the music building in which we learned, and I remember him.  I hope this has given you opportunity to honor his memory if you knew him, and admire his beautiful life if you did not.

            In a testimony on the music mission trip that ended in a plane crash he told us that the verse his parents used to pick his name was simply this:

“James, a servant of God and of our Lord Jesus Christ,” James 1:1 (NIV)

            And he was.

Daily Bread

So we have now been in Honduras for two weeks.  Two weeks of learning to slow.  Two weeks of every meal at this same table.  Two weeks of no “let’s just go out for dinner” option, and once-a-week trips to the grocery store.

You see, The La Rancho Ebenezer is over an hour away from the city.  And it is not just any hour drive.  A large portion of it is a steep climb over gravel roads that are unlike anything I have ever traveled upon.  It is the kind of bumpy ride that makes you very wary of sitting next to the window in the van, because if you are not compensating for the potholes and unexpected swerves, your head will smack the glass.  I know this from experience.  I feel like a bobble head all the way down the insanely washed out road.  My kids throw up their hands like they are on a roller coaster and cry “weeeee – weeeee – weeeee” all the way home.  And last week, Ellie threw up at the bottom.  She was just all shook up.  Mmmm –mmm – mmm – mmm – mmm - yeah – eh – eh.

And here’s the really tricky thing for me.  We only go to town once a week.  Oh, yeah.  I did not realize the implications of this on every day living.  Simple questions like “Can we have milk?” results in me whipping open the fridge door and suspiciously eyeing the level of the opaque white gallon container, mentally counting the days until the next wagon ride down the Hon-D’Oregon trail, and trying to figure out if we are going to make it, as if our very survival depends on milk.  But let’s just say there have been multiple meals in which I stand over the pot stirring or over the dough kneading and praying God will stretch it to feed our expanded family of 8 (or more, as we have welcomed many to our table), because the pantry is nearly empty and I am running out of tricks up my sleeve to MacGyver into meals.

Add to this the very exciting element of undependable power lines and the now very familiar black outs of varying lengths.  Oh yeah, baby.  I miss OG&E (Oklahoma Gas and Electric) and the beauty of a well-constructed infrastructure.  Those guys are like my new super heroes and next time they drive up in their loud beeping yellow light blinking bucket truck to the breaker outside my house I will go inside immediately and bake them cookies with real butter and the expensive chocolate chips, providing they can fix the juice so my oven will bake.  See, at home, when the power occasionally goes out due to a fallen limb, electric storm, or the occasional insane four-day ice storm or freezing rain that encapsulates everything in sparkly death, those guys don hard hats and arm themselves with chain saws.  They work around the clock to set things right in the grid and bring the Force back into balance.  I think I will now carry a secret flame in my heart for those scrappy pole climbers.  They deserve a parade.

Here, electricity is a privilege, not a right.  Even writing that out shames me, as I consider the way I know most of the world lives.  But how many times have I felt more than a bit miffed that I can’t download very important things fast enough, like the latest Autotune of the news from YouTube (I love those guys!!), or that my show gets interrupted because there is a tornado in the next county and the weather man just has to give us an excruciating blow by blow (it’s an Oklahoma thing), or heaven forbid – the picture is fuzzy? 

The time we are spending up on this jungle-y mild weathered mountain is killing something ugly in me.  It is not just the power outages that are chipping away at some deeply entrenched pride and self-sufficiency, but also things like, oh - the resulting loss of the some of the precious food reserves I already am worried will not last us the whole week, the feeling like we will not have enough, and the blasted inconvenience of the power fizzling out one hour before I have to feed eight very hungry people when I am tired and only want to get through dinner so I can plop all the grouchy folks, including me, in front of a feature film and zone out from my caged misery for at least two good hours, then tuck everyone in bed before my hair self-ignites and I outwardly morph into the angry freak of nature I have brewing inside.

Among other things.

But yes, Friday evening rolled around and I found myself staring into a nearly empty fridge and counting the meals to make and mouths to feed until the after-church Sunday shopping trip.  My options were quite limited.  As I struggled with a nagging fear of starving to death (As if! I could live off the reserves in my thighs for a good four weeks), I struggled with the greater sin of ingratitude.  Of looking into my pantry and my life at the moment and accusing my precious Father that this, whatever it was before me, was not good enough. 

Last year my precious mentor, Diane, and I read the book, “One Thousand Gifts” by Ann Voskamp.  If one reads it with a heart open and a desire to embrace the heady truths it poetically weaves, it is a game changer indeed.  But Friday, I found myself in front of the open cabinets, rummaging through my sub-par stores and grumbling in my heart.  All I wanted to do was pick up my sweet little iPhone, punch the single magic button that offers a world of ease and information at just one little touch and sweetly command it through gritted teeth, “Call Pizza Shuttle” and pick up a hot dinner in less than 20 minutes.  But this was not an option, not in the least.  So, I was forced to deal with my ugly heart.

I stood there and pulled down flour, yeast, and oil.  My only option.  Bread.  Yes, we can live on bread.  A stale plan formed in my mind: some sort of fusion focaccia trio (not at all able to be mistaken for pizza for there was very little cheese) one with leftover chicken bits and lots of spices to cover over its barrenness, one sprinkled with a handful of slightly slimy lunch meat and the remaining cheddar scraps, and one with cinnamon, butter and brown sugar to try and end well to redeem the poverty of my offering.  Done.

But my heart was still angry. Still accusing.  Still not still.  I kneaded that triple batch of dough with gritted teeth, wondering if we would have enough, and feeling more than a little trapped on The La Ranch.  The sounds of a wild game of futball wafted into my kitchen from the campo just above our Casa Shalom.  But my heart would not reach for the joy the moment held. 

Halfway through my very aggressive dough making, the Spirit (Friend, Helper, Teacher) whispered to my heart, “Kristin, what is in your hands?”  I looked down, my scarred hands covered in white flour, submerged in warm, soft, heavy dough, and plenty of it.  Daily bread.  Manna.  Just enough for today, but more than enough really.  My bowl was full of it, my hands immersed in it, up to my elbows in it.  My heart softened and turned to the Bread of Life.  And I picked up again the training of my heart towards eucharisteo, taking whatever is given and giving thanks for it, no matter what.  For you see God is always good and I am always loved.  Always. 

The bread transformed into a mound of promise, a bowl full of joy.  Warm, fragrant and delightful, it held the nutrients and everything my expanded table of 8 needed for today.  I held what was given to me, the option I had, and I gave thanks.  I thought of the widow in the bible whom Elijah was sent to, who originally had only a little flour and oil, just enough to make one last meal to feed she and her son, and then slowly starve, and suddenly my meager meal turned into a feast of provision.  If given to the Lord, it would be enough, just enough each day to sustain us.  It wasn’t about bread anyways, it was about gratitude and trust, both of which I had less of than pantry stores.  I patted our dinner now with gentle gratitude, covered it with a clean towel in an oiled bowl, and set it on the oven to rise.  And right as I was reaching out to preheat the oven to aide the rising of our dinner and the moment’s redemption of my deflated heart, the power zipped off.

Oh yeah.  Bleep.  Nothing.  Zip.  Nada.

Crickets, baby.

My left eyebrow shot up, and my lips puckered.  Ah-ha.  I turned inward and I swear the Helper had a little holy smirk upon his ethereal visage.  “Very funny, God.  I appreciate the humor of your timing, but seriously now, bring it back on.  I gotta bake this holy manna you have given.”  And his very smarty pants response?  “Ah, Kristin, but man does not live by bread alone…”

Very funny, oh Master of all the Universe.  Very funny.

I waited, no dice.  I went out onto the campo to watch the late afternoon futball frolicking.  I just knew that the power would zip on right when I really needed it.  God was just having a little fun with me.  He’s funny like that, you know.

But an hour later, when I really needed it to heat my oven, the electricity remained off.  The clock was ticking, the seven pairs of shoes were 30 minutes away from being kicked off outside and the little people they carried inside would be hovering in my personal space in the not-so-big kitchen asking the inevitable “What’s for dinner?” line every mother loooooooves to hear when the plan is not working out as, well, planned. 

I needed some serious help.  I assessed the situation and went to the front closet to rummage through my options.  I needed a stovetop idea, for we have a gas range.  I came up with one dusty can of diced tomatoes, one tube of tomato paste, and two sleeves of pasta – one spaghetti and one linguini.  Voila!  It’s I-talian night, people.  I found an emergency loaf of white bread in the deep freeze and toasted it on the tortilla flat iron as the pasta boiled and I tried to conjure red sauce out of my random tomato products. 

As evening fell the darkness encroached quickly with no lights to be flicked on at the touch of a finger.  Everyone came in hungry and tired, washed hands and sat down to my thrown together meager offering.  The first option I originally begrudgingly formed out of flour and oil now lovely and moundy and risen looked like the Promised Land, all flowing with milk and honey.  My watery red sauce and sticky pasta seemed a pitiful plan B, indeed. 

Kensi, one of the 10-year-old girls we are caring for, rummaged under the kitchen sink (I always pray against roaches when I open those mysterious doors beneath the sink) and produced a random assortment of candles.  We lit the motley crew of wax with wicks and the table transformed into a child’s delight.  Kate, my eldest, nearly began to quiver with elfin glee, “ooooooooh mom, plain pasta with salt – my favorite!  And by candle light…!  I hope the power goes out every night!”  And the frustration of the situation crystallized into unexpected beauty.  We bowed our heads to pray and I truly gave thanks for all of it; the near empty fridge, remaining bag of flour, risen dough punched down and stuck in the slowly thawing freezer, the pan of weepy red sauce, white toast, and sticky spaghe-uini.  When seen through the eyes of a child, this dinner was not some mishappened afterthought – it was a candlelit feast to be treasured and remembered!

I settled into my chair, my heart quiet and my bowl full.  This was enough.  In fact, this was good, very good, for it came from the hands and heart of a very humorous, unimaginably loving God who is dying to show me that to truly die to self is to live the fullest life in him.  The richest life.  The not-as-you-planned-or-expected-it-to-be-but-not-in-the-least-disappointing life.  The moment by moment indwelling of the Teacher who will show me the most excellent way, if I stop to ask and always hold up whatever I find in my hands as an offering of thanksgiving and pass it around to share.  And last Friday night, we supped by candlelight atop a mountain somewhere in Central America on a coffee-roasting, blackberry-growing, child-rearing ranch and found our hearts crying out, “Best!  Dinner!  Ever!”  Can we do this again, Papa?

And I would have missed it all if Pizza Shuttle had been within the realm of possibility.

PS - It took me nearly half an hour to get this thing posted with these two pictures.  

Journey to Honduras

As I write I am sitting in a cement block house near the top of a mountain that has no name an hour outside of a city which I cannot spell, much less say right.  I am in Honduras.

Kate sits behind me on the bed James and I are borrowing for another three weeks or so.  She sits and merrily sews fuzzy white yarn with a very blunt needle into plastic canvas.  She is creating a little box with a grinning bunny face upon it.  I have never seen her happier, this creative child of mine.  Nothing brings her greater joy than making things.  Her name, Katherine Joy, means “Pure Joy” and nothing makes her heart sing more than crafting something beautiful out of things others might consider trash.  Her “Collection of Collections” underneath her bed testifies to this gift of hers, making something out of what others quickly dismiss as nothing, nothing of any real value.  A box of used batteries, a box of colorful lids of markers long dried out and thrown away, a box of various glittery things found on the floors of mall playplaces and left over from birthday parties, and many other things waiting for the right moment of inspiration.  This little girl teaches me of our Father, hers and mine, who never wastes anything, and sees value in the things everyone else considers leftovers, trash, or worthless.  In the hands of a Creator, there is nothing worthless.  Everything, even things we label as terrible, painful, a mistake or a waste can come alive to whisper His redemption, sing His majesty, and testify to His unfathomable creativity and ability to make beauty from ashes. 

This I know from my life.  I have experienced hurt, rejection, pain, fear, loss and sorrow so deep I felt if I even began to cry, I would never stop.  How it is that my God has taken the mess and of it made majesty?  He is so amazing, my fingers could never type words eloquent enough to even begin to capture it.  I thank Him for the creative process He is working in me, in James and my marriage, in our family of five, in our journey Home.  After all, every morning we are given the gift of waking up is one day further in our journey to Home.  I want to travel well.  And take as many sojourners with me as Papa allows.  Every day we live, we are one day closer to Home.

Speaking of journeys, you may wonder how it is we came to Honduras for nearly a month of our summer.  Mostly for my own clarification and processing, I will write it out here.

James and I met at Ouachita Baptist University in Arkadelphia, Arkansas.  (Oh yeah, we're going way back...)  We fell in love and a great many other things happened soon after that, including but not limited to a plane crash, a two-month hospitalization resulting from a life-altering injury, a six-month engagement and resulting marriage, and a courtroom battle fought against a major airline.  And that was the first 18 months of our journey together.  (Please imagine me throwing back my head and laughing loudly, not out of the bitter cynicism that once infected my soul, but out of crazy joy from all that God has delivered us through and from.) 

During our first days of falling in love, the Spring of 1999, we often went for long, lazy walks in the sultry Arkansas spring evenings.  Even now, over 13 years later, the scent of honeysuckle wafting on waves of humid evening air makes my heart go pitter-patter.  I am right back there, strolling lazily along, hand in hand with this tall, dark Asian fellow that just months before was nothing but an awkward missionary kid that I always mistook as a foreign exchange student who spoke English really well.  But I digress.

I am not sure how it happened the first time, but it became a pretty common event for us to end up on a professor and his wife’s porch not far from campus, confiscating their porch swing for the evening.  If we were really fortunate, they might come out and visit with us.  Bryan and Leigh Anne were actually not much older than we, maybe five years, but they had recently returned to Ouachita after his graduating law school.  He was legal counsel for the University and taught an occasional class, one of which James had been in the semester before.  She worked in the Admissions office.  As I mentioned, very shortly after, just around four months after James and I started our journey of falling in love, I was in a major airline disaster traveling with a choir from Ouachita.

I had to stay home in Oklahoma the following fall.  During this time, James and I wrote letters, occasionally called, and emailed back and forth.  Oh, that was a miserable and lonely time that seemed to stretch on forever.  We got engaged that Christmas (1999) and I returned to campus, and began to plan a wedding.  When the weather warmed up, James and I found ourselves again on Bryan and Leigh Anne’s porch.  It was only one year later, yet we had traveled thousands of very difficult emotional miles, and were still struggling in countless ways.  Our time on their porch and later in their young-marrieds fellowship class at Park Hill Church was life-giving in so many ways.  I so needed to feel normal when everything in our lives was spinning madly out of control.  They let me be me, the me they had known before and didn’t openly pity me like I felt from so many.  I was such a hot mess.  I chuckle to think what mess I brought to their peaceful porch all those evenings.  Regardless, they were a haven indeed and we watched them closely, both their personal walks with Christ and the way they tended their marriage.  Bryan gave James and I wise and biblical counsel regarding our decision to sue the airline.  There were so many screaming voices in our heads and pressure from all manner of outside sources about what to do, his steady voice speaking truth and grace and wisdom was like cool water in a scorching desert.  God used them, their personal lives, and the peace of their porch to minister to us in a very chaotic time in our lives.

Our friendship has continued.  We actually have children around the same ages, and secretly have plans to do some very stealth and skillful smooshing together of them to see if anything sticks relationally in the years to come.  I admire deeply their purposeful parenting, the order and intentionality of the way Leigh Anne runs her home, and Bryan’s self-effacing humor.  In the twelve years since we have left Arkadelphia, Bryan has become Dean of the School of Business and God has grown in he and James a common passion: the ministry of business as missions. 

Over the past few years they have read the same books and entered into email conversations with a few other like-minded (read: brilliant, God-loving, passionate for the spread of the Gospel) guys who desire to hash out hard questions like how best to help the poor without creating a cycle of dependence?  They like to kick around abstract economic theories and then ask the hard questions of how does this apply to us personally and to God’s people, the church?  How can we effectively do what he has called us to do – take care of the poor, the widows, the orphans?  This kind of think tank stuff makes my head spin and I thank God for giving James Bryan and a handful of other really clever guy friends to wrestle over these things with. 

So around October of last year, Bryan called James with an offer.  A ‘friend of a friend’ kind of opportunity.  An “Hey, I got a guy” kind of connection.  So, it turns out that Bryan had a connection with a family serving as house parents in a children’s residency program outside of Tegucigalpa, Honduras.  The program is sort of a mountain farm that grows amazingly delicious coffee and blackberries out of which they make jam and different teas.  The idea was to travel to Honduras with Bryan and a small team of business students from Ouachita to Rancho Ebenezer in order to see the operation and get to know the business side of it in order to try and find a market niche for their products so they can become more sustainable.  Please imagine the excited gleam in my husband’s chocolate brown eyes, because for a business-as-missions kind of guy, this opportunity was hitting the jackpot.  The small team left in January for a whirlwind tour of the facilities, the Ranch and the ministry.

Upon his return, James found it difficult to describe what he had experienced.  The opportunity for growth, the beauty of the ministry, the structure of the homes, and the delightful children stole his heart.  There are around two dozen of them, ranging in ages from 3 to 17, plucked from the streets and removed from homes in the inner city in which their parents were unable to care for them.  On the ranch, they are growing up in homes with house parents who love the Lord, and are protected, cared for, taught well and growing into God-fearing, Christ-loving, gospel-spreading Hondurans.  It was just the kind of thing James and I had originally been passionate about in our early years of marriage as we hashed out what our calling might be as a couple and now as a family. We are hungry to find programs that support Christian ethnic people in their own countries to take in orphaned or abandoned children who desire to raise deeply passionate Christian young people who can shake up their own country for Jesus.  I am a huge supporter of adoption both domestic and international, but I can’t help but ask the question, “how can a nation rise up into healing if we deplete it of its most precious natural resource, its children”?  We have long desired to support this very kind of ministry, one that is empowering local people to care for their own, in their own language and culture to, by God’s grace, raise up a generation of world changers launched into their native culture and context.  James came home excited for me to see it for myself, this coffee-roasting, blackberry-growing, Honduran kid-rearing ranch high on a mountain somewhere in central America. 

So, we decided to visit as a family this summer.  Bryan and Leigh Anne also planned to come with us (perhaps the initial stage of our stealth plan to smoosh our children together, yes I know they are all 10 and under, but the pictures might come in handy at the rehearsal dinner…).  We threw some dates back and forth and entered into conversations with the staff of World Gospel Outreach about a short trip to have the Rancho Ebenezer experience. 

About mid-March we received an email simply asking, “Instead of a four-day trip, would you consider something more along of the lines of a six-week visit?  We are in need of some substitute house parents when a missionary couple goes on furlough for the summer…”

Whoa.

Last fall I devoured an autobiography of a young 20-something named Katie whom God has used to launch a ministry in Uganda.  It is called “Kisses From Katie” and she details the radical, amazing journey the Lord has led her on over the past four or so years, so amazing that she has written this autobiography as a 20-something and I cannot wait to watch the rest of her story unfold, for there are many chapters left to be lived.  In one of the chapters she simply states (I do not have my copy with me here – so I am loosely quoting from memory and will fix it later) “People say I must be ‘special’, that God has ‘special’ plans for my life.  All I do is simply wake up and say “yes!” to whatever it is God has for me that day.  All I do is what He gives me for that day.”  And there she is, a single white 20-some year old female, now an adoptive mother to around a dozen Ugandan girls and operating a ministry that feeds and provides school fees and uniforms for hundreds of Ugandan children.  I suppose instead of saying “Yes to the Dress”, she has trained herself to say “Yes to the Mess”, and trusts God to see it through, after all, it was His idea in the first place.

Well, James and I have often been overwhelmed with the needs of this world, the reality of the suffering and hurt and loss and depravity and exploitation of innocence.  Where do we even begin to help the hurting, to find ways to reach out to those who do the hurting?  Where do we even begin to meet the staggering practical needs all around this world, always with the goal of feeding the greater hunger of spiritual starvation with the Bread of the Life, Jesus Christ?  Well, we are learning to simply wake up and say yes.  We can only be obedient with the opportunities we are offered.  We are only asked to do what is placed before us.

So, when the question was asked “how about six weeks instead of four days?” the answer was simple.  What can we do with this opportunity given?  We consulted our calendars and said yes to the dates we felt our family could offer.

And here we are on a mountain, in a cement block house, somewhere in central America.  I am still not totally sure I can find Honduras on a map, but I tackled the grocery store yesterday afternoon with the 17-year old Fany as my right-hand gal (Who am I kidding?  She was really in charge of me, poor thing.)  And today we Chengs begin week 2 of cooking and caring for, playing and laughing with three of those little people James and I decided long ago we wanted to be passionate about.  A precious national and spiritual resource, redeemed from the streets and the hands of broken parents with broken hearts who were for countless reasons unable to care and provide for them, taken up on a mountain farm and tenderly grown into something beautiful by the grace of our Lord.

I love our Creator.  He indeed makes all things new.  Especially me.

Learning to Listen

Today is May 12, 2012.  It has been over a year since I have really written anything.  Over a year since I turned off my facebook account.  Over a year since my mother in law died. A year of radio silence, facebook silence, blog silence.

Yet my hands so often reach for and pick up the laptop, logging in yet again to email, hungry for something I cannot find.  My fingers still so often enter in my credit card number again to get that thing, whatever it is, trying yet a different angle to scratch an itch I cannot ever seem to really pinpoint, always just beyond my fingertips.  I go to the fridge and rifle through it for something that I never seem to really find, shovel in another fistful of something salty or sweet, in reality trying to fill the bottomless, yawning cavern in my soul with a tiny toy plastic spade. 

It has been over a year since my friend Salli sent me a link to the blog of a woman whose writing has changed my life.  Over a year since I bought the book and began to read its life-changing message of learning and keeping the practice of counting the gifts, the abundant grace gifts all around.  Asking God to open my eyes and my heart to his unending mercy and grace gifts all around.  Even when my heart feels dead within my and my dry, thirsty soul reaches for things that will not satisfy.  When my hands again pick up my phone and send out random texts to good friends about trivial things, but really asking, “Am I ok?”  “Are you there or am I really alone?”.  No matter the trivial subject, is that not often the real message?  “Do I matter?”  “Do I count?”  Am I seen?”

Over a year of trying to pull away, and only just now am I really turning in, trying to learn to listen to the Spirit of God.  Yes, I am just now, just really now am I taking a pen and paper and sitting in silence.  I am only a few days into this practice of listening.  And you know what?  After a year of striving to create a vacuum into which He can speak, I am only just now turning in and finally, well, finally…

…listening.

Ah-ha.

And you know what.  If I sit still and bow low and quiet my heart, He speaks.  His word rises up in my heart.  Still and quiet a book, chapter and even verse number will come to my mind, I turn to it and my breath catches in my chest. 

He is speaking to me. 

The God of the Universe, through the quiet whisper of the Helper promised by the truest Revelation of Himself, the Son, speaks to me. 

Whoa.

I am undone. 

That first morning I sit in the big blue chair under the lamp my bother gave me for Christmas, its soft yellow light spilling over my white cotton gown, an oasis of light in the still darkened house. 

Do not be deceived, I have nearly lost the discipline of daily rising before my wee ones.  By some miracle, I stumbled down the hall and into His grace.

He was waiting for me.

I shyly pile around me my bible, journal, and a new little devotion book.  It is almost awkward.  Like being naked for the first time in front of James.

Spiritually I disrobe, and stand before him.  I am starving in the one way I need most to be filled.

I turn my heart to the God of the Universe, and ask for him to speak.  I sit.  I wait.

His whispers to me begin with the phrase, “Arise my love, my Fair one, the winter is gone a new season is here…”  My heart quickens within me.  I jot it into my journal, first contact! 

“I know this!”, I think, “I know this!  This is scripture.  This is His word – now where was that?”  My hands instantly reach for my laptop, just a few inches away, instantly seeking to utilize the world wide web of information at my fingertips, a god to which I constantly appeal through the séance of google – desiring what Eve first lusted after when she sold us all out: knowledge. 

Perhaps it is called the web because it is a trap into which I am so often entangled. 

I often pluck this fruit and sink my teeth into the juicy stuff it offers, and sell my own soul for trifles of useless knowledge, mere morsels of tantalizing entertainment and before I know it I have wasted hours of my precious resource: time. 

He whispers again, “Be still.  Listen.  Do not seek it, let me give it to you.” 

I pull back my hand, not wanting to rip into this gift before it is given.  This is something new, this waiting for it to be given. 

“Psalm 72”, whispers the King to my heart.

I read it.  I sit.  Nothing jumps out.  I wait.  My eyes linger on the print on the page.  Words that stand forever, printed on fragile onion skin that will one day crumble into dust.  Then I see at the top, “A Psalm of Solomon.”  My spirit quickens within me. 

And again, that quiet voice, “Song of Solomon, Chapter 3.”

I flip to it, my heart beating a little faster.  I read it.  It is juicy. 

“Are you gonna get up and look for me?  Go out and seek me?  Reach first for me?  How bad do you want me?”

My appetite is stirred.  I want more.  I want to seek him, I want to listen – to really hear him, and to respond to him in ways I never have before.  I want to find him, and cling to him, and not let go of him until I am satisfied.  Oh yeah, I am all in, more than I have been in a long time.  I linger over the passage, finally stilled.  Striving ceases.  I do not need more information, I need more silence, I need to wait until what I really need is given.  Even the waiting can be a gift.  I need the stillness in my whirling world.  He knows this, this lover of my soul.  I wait with great anticipation. 

 My eyes fall on the words just above chapter 3 on the very to which page he led me so gently.

They leap out and call to me, an aria of invitation welling up and bursting forth with tenor joy:

“My lover said to me, ‘Rise up, my beloved, my fair one, and come away.  For the winter is past, and the rain is over and gone.  The flowers are springing up, and the time of singing birds has come, even the cooing of turtledoves.  The fig trees are budding, and the grapevines are in blossom.  How delicious they smell!  Yes, spring is here!  Arise, my beloved, my fair one, and come away!’”  

(Song of Songs 2: 10-13 NLT)

Puccini sung by Pavarotti on his best day ain't got nothing on my lover Jesus.  His voice cascades over my thirsty soul like living water from an eternal spring, cool, refreshing, and everything I have been seeking, longing for, that itch that I cannot seem to scratch that is always out of reach, no longer tormenting, that hunger so deep and elusive, satisfied.  

He has been waiting for me.  And finally I hear, turn, and respond.  

Whoa.

I got bumps on my goose.

He is speaking to me.  He is speaking to me.

The God of the Universe, through the quiet whisper of the Helper promised by the truest Revelation of Himself, the Son, speaks to me.

After over a year of silence, he is speaking to me.

The winter is past, the rain is over and gone…

He is Risen. He is Risen indeed.

Easter.

He is Risen.  He is Risen indeed.

On Friday we had over some new friends.  They are Muslim.  I met the woman in the play place at the mall the Monday of spring break.  I felt very softly God telling me to scoot over and speak to her.  So, I obeyed.

A warm conversation ensued.  Sprinkled with laughter and mommy tales.  Woes and wonder of the offspring of our wombs, my girls, freshly turned six and nearly three, played merrily with her only son, a tumbley 18-month old.  In a span of less than half an hour we all seemed decided on friendship.  She asked for my number, I gladly gave it.  A few weeks later we had iced tea on a warm Sunday afternoon.  She brought me daisies, I made scones.  We talked freely about her faith.  The five pillars were outlined, my understanding grew.  Our friendship deepened.

Friday last, Good Friday, Sad Friday, she and her husband came to dinner.  We broke bread together: salmon, couscous, glazed carrots, and greens.  We passed the dishes and scooped hearty plates full of good food and feasted on even better conversation.  Our children ate, we ate.  The chaos of a table full of children’s chatter and adults trying to follow a thread of thought filled the house.  My heart was full.  This, our Passion offering.  Sharing our table, giving and receiving love.  Bread broken across lines of faith, dishes passed from hand to hand, in love. 

Children wiped down and dishes cleared we moved easily into dessert and coffee.  Warm, dark brownies topped with blackberry ice cream and fruit of the same, melting and pooling all together in a yellow fiesta bowl, chased by coffee, strong and hot.  Offspring in the next room settling into movie night.  A selection from the library lit up the screen and quieted their normal noise.

Our conversation turned to films.  We discovered with delight the husband’s interest and study of all things film and his affinity to analyze and discuss his reaction, thoughts and insight into entertainment well done.  James and I enjoy the same.  All favorites were brought to the forum, all genres were game.  We enjoyed opening up deep thoughts about themes, motives, acting, projections into the future, reliving old twists.  The conversation danced over the melting dessert, our thoughts both aligning and playfully disagreeing.  Worldviews came into focus. 

“Have you seen the ‘Passion’”, he asks, when our thoughts turned to Mel Gibson and wondering what he was up to recently.

 “Oh yes!’, I say, “We actually own it.  We will watch it tomorrow, an act of remembering for us, on the eve of the day we celebrate the resurrection.” 

“What did you think of it?”, he asks. 

“I weep through it every time, it rends my heart.  I truly believe that is what Jesus did for me, to save me.”  I offer gently.

 “I thought it was very well done,” he answers.  “Very well done.”  And we discuss the artists’ take on different angles and the use of original languages and other details that make it legit. 

And that was all.

We breeze by the thing that separates us.  We from our new friends.  To them, Jesus was a prophet.  Not Son of God.  Not part of triune God.  He did not rise again.  He is not the truest expression of the Father. 

Last night James and I sat on the couch together and witnessed again an artistic rendering of my Christ’s passion for mankind, for me, through that movie.  I forced myself to watch and even count each blow to his back.  I only looked away during the most evil moments, the moments that haunt me for it reminds me all too clearly of the sinister darkness that reigned that night.  Darkness’s finest hour.  All hell broke loose and wickedness ruled.  We killed our God.  Our selfish hands slapped him.  Our wicked fists pummeled his face to pulp.  The whips of our anger scourged him, the chains of our lusts bound him, the crown of our mockery ripped his brow, the burden of the whole of our wretchedness he drug inch by miserable inch, foot and foot, step by agonizing step to the hill where we stripped him, exposed him, laughed at scorned at his misery, and gambled away the only thing we thought had any worth, his robes.  The nails of our ingratitude pierced his hands and feet.  He thirsted and all we offered was rank and sour.  He the Living Water, thirsted.  And we offered up vinegar.  Oh, how wretched we are.  We have nothing of value to offer at the foot of the cross. 

I sat and experienced that “well done” film all over again.  A scene struck me anew.  As Jesus is being beaten, scourged, after they change from rod to cat of nine tails, Mary cannot bear to watch any longer.  She begins to walk the perimeter of the courtyard, and collapses in glazed sorrow against a column.  Mary Magdalene finds her and falls, weeping into her arms.  The sounds of the whip hitting and flesh tearing, the deep groans of my Savior continues as the tissue is ripped from his back, Pilot’s wife approaches the women, face contorted with fear, sorrow, and remorse.  She hands them a stack of folded white cloth.  Perhaps linen?  Cloth meant to bandage his back?  Or perhaps a shroud for the body?

When the scourging is complete and Jesus’ limp body is drug off, leaving a trail of blood marking its path, the Marys and John are left in the desolate courtyard.  They approach the whipping post.  A bird’s eye view shows the terror of splatter marks, fanning out, a painting of pain on the dusty cobblestones.  Mother of God drops to her knees and takes pure white linen cloth.  Costly.  She begins to mop up dark, near purple pools of the blood of the Lamb.  Priceless.

James says, “I never understood what this is about.  What is she doing?  Why did Pilot’s wife give her cloth, why is she cleaning the blood…?”  This scene has actually played in my head for nearly a week now, from my memory.  I have chewed on it.  And now I see it again.  And it rends me.

I am a mother.  I have an only son.  He lies next to me on the couch this very morning.  Resurrection morning.  He awoke with a fever so this meditation is my act of Easter worship.  Joshua and I are home, in our pajamas and thunder rolls, rain pours down into our dry, dusty, thirsty earth.  His breathing is uneven and husky, from throat thick with sickness.  A few moans escape from his sleeping mouth.  I type in the dark on the other end of the red leather couch.

This is the child who nearly two years ago split his forehead, about a third of the flesh laid open.  James brought him to me (man who is the Understater of the Universe), hand over the bleeding wound, and said with pale face, “This is BAD.”  I knew it to be so before he took his hand away.  The white of his skull showed, and the skin of his forehead gaped open, it was hard to believe the skin had ever been able to cover the expanse of bone now left exposed.  I have this one image of his wound in my mind.  Only this one, because I could not bear to look at it again.

There was a trial of blood from the site of injury to the tile of the kitchen.  Head wounds bleed a lot.  I was a burn/trauma nurse before I stayed home to raise my babies.  But nothing I saw there ever undid me like seeing the blood, the exposed bone, the agony of my own son.

I do not remember mopping up the blood of the accident.  I think my sister did it for me while we waited in the emergency room for the codeine to take effect and his head to be put back together one stitch at a time.  His long, four-inch scar tells the story.

But back to the Lamb.  And his mother, on her hands and knees, freewill offering of white linen in hand, slowly sopping up the pools of crimson that catch and reflect the glint of the morning sun.  So deeply red, they look near purple.  The freewill offering of a bruised reed, yet not breaking (Isaiah 42:3).  Bleeding, but not crying out.  Silent as a sheep before his shearers, and led like a lamb to the slaughter (Isaiah 53:7).  This Mother, who also had to look away, so terrible was her agony in witnessing the agony of her Son, is steadfast enough to kneel prostrate in the pooling evidence of her Son’s humanity, urgently wiping up the precious evidence of her Son’s divinity.  He took each blow, and even stood up for more, knowing full well that every stripe on his back would bring our healing, every drop of crimson on the dirty cobblestones of earth would purchase another life from the snares of hell.  She knew this.  That blood is precious.  And she gathers it in her arms, soaked into a costly garment, now made priceless. 

My son is now awake next to me.  His throat still dry, his fever still burning.  ‘Shaun the Sheep’ is now tootling across the screen across the room, a distraction from the low burn of fever.  Thunder still rolls.  Rain still soaking into our dry, parched, drought afflicted red clay.  All across this town, this state, this country, this world, sinners open sick, hot, dry throats and attempt to croak out the depths of our gratitude, for the bottomless mercy of the Gift.  It is unfathomable.  I open my hands and heart and dry, cracked, parched throat and receive it again.  The Bread.  The Wine.  Again.  And I am made whole.

He is Risen.  He is Risen indeed.

The Last Lap: James' Mom's Journey of Recovery

This is a letter I sent out yesterday to Friends and Family about James' mom's battle with Leukemia.  We thank God for His amazing goodness to us Chengs.


Dear sweet Friends and Family,

Over seven months ago, on July 9th, I got a phone call from James that sent me to my knees.  It was the news of his mother's leukemia diagnosis, and the prognosis was dire.  In the days and weeks that followed, we realized the slow agony of living with a 'diagnosis' - the intense hurry that one feels, accompanied with the agony of the slow pace that everything seems to travel around you.  As I stop to look back on this side of the process the one feeling that surges to the front of all the dozens of raw emotions is this: relief.

Angie, James mother, is home.  She has actually been home since January 29th, after 40 days in the hospital for the third round of chemo followed by a Bone Marrow Transplant.   Today they returned for another checkup and the DNA of her blood cells now all identifies with her donor, her brother Charlie.

God has healed her.  Your prayers, the prayers I begged you to pray for us, have been heard.  The prayers I wept on the floor, begging for our Father God to turn and touch her body with healing, have been answered with healing in her earthly body.  She has been given more time.  We are amazed.  Astounded.  Perhaps even surprised at the miracle in spite of the terrible medical odds she was given.  

I am humbled and quiet.  Would I feel the same relief and gratitude had God ordained for her to "graduate", as she calls it, to her new life and new body, in heaven?  Could I quietly continue to trust Him if things hadn't gone "my way"?  My children are memorizing Psalm 139, and we recently got to the part that says, "Every day ordained for me was written in your book before even one of them came to be."  On this side of healing it gives me great peace that she is indeed living out every day given her by the Creator since the beginning of time, but would I feel that same peace if I were standing in sorrow at her graveside?  sigh*  I have much to learn and grow into.  

So, we thank God.  We hold out our hands in praise and gratitude.  There are often no words when I stand in worship on Sunday mornings, only tears of joy, gratitude and amazement.  When I think of the events of the past seven months, the past ten years, there are often no words I feel I can use that capture it.  No words can describe my feeling overwhelmed by the greatness of our unfathomable God, who measures the ever-expanding universe with the span of one hand yet knows the number of hairs on my head this instant.  Our God.  Who is like Him?  I am crying in gratitude as I sit here struggling how to even express to you my gratitude.  My relief.  My surrender.

We thank you.  Thank you for your prayers, your emails and letters.  Your love and concern.  Thank you for asking, for caring and walking with us through this season - whether you are near or far.  What an amazing tapestry of lives and experiences we share, eh?  Thank you.

Today is James' birthday.  I know the best gift he has been given this year is the time we spent in Taiwan, and the promise of time we have left on earth with his mother.  And oh - the longer I live, the amazing gift of eternal life through Christ just keeps getting richer and richer.  All the folks who have gone before, the Savior I love more and more.  The Great God that I long to fall before.  He truly does save the best for last, eh?   

Here are some snippets from some of Angie's emails along the journey of her treatment, a window into her heart:

12/24/10
...I am pretty fine so far, really. There are so many things, those little things especially, I know in my heart that it is by my Father, for example - after all those hundred processes of sterilizing everything to get me checked into this "no germ room" which is quite fancy, the next day when I used the recorder, surprisingly, I found a tape of Psalty's singalongathon 2 which has the just right music for me to dance with in my room. It is good exercise and I enjoyed it.

1/14/11
...I have to mention about the gift of friendship I got with those nurses who take so good care of me. I even think that IMB can consider to send M to be patients in the hospital to do their ministry, just like send M to be teachers, students, doctors......, because nurse, doctor and patients are in such a natural way to share life, respect, trust, courage, life values, love, and personal life, family life and good chance to share the redemption of Jesus when you peek a hole. Most of them see death and feel weak to comfort patient and frustrated, they were taught 4 stages in school, but find it not satisfied. See we share, so we, as equally human, face death together, and I have a saying.

1/23/11
Dear son, James,
I deeply appreciate your this email about update on your life. How important it is! It is a narrow road to search, time past so fast and quietly, Look for His little light in the darkness, listen carefully His whisper and calling and wait for Him very patiently.
After all when you lie down, your creator is the one to truly value your life, and only Him. Isn't it? 

So, this will be our last mass email/facebook update for awhile.  May this thread of our story somehow encourage you in your journey.  Our God is faithful, no matter the outcome and how we interpret it through our earthly eyes. This cancer story has a happy ending.  But Angie is a true follower of Jesus Christ, so her ultimate ending, when she does indeed "graduate" to heaven will be much better than "happy" - it will be no less than glorious!

Peace and Joy,

Kristin Cheng