“Only one life, twill soon be past…”  Yeah, I know, that’s the first line of an old poem about the importance of storing up treasure in a place where it will endure forever.  But it also can successfully stand alone succinctly to sum up what, in the Good Book, is described as “a vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes away.”

Eighty-eight years ago last September 3rd, my mother made her first appearance on this earth.  She was born the seventh child of a family that would expand to include thirteen; but before she was two years old, with only one younger sibling, her family literally gave her away to relatives.  Her birth mother had come down with pneumonia, and all of the children save the nursing babe were farmed out to kin, but the others all returned home when she came home from the hospital.  My mother never knew, much less understood, why she was never reclaimed. After being shuffled from one set of kinfolk to another, at age 2+ she was taken by a 40 year-old farm couple from 60 miles away that were unrelated to the family and that had no children of their own.  It wasn’t until she was nineteen that she was adopted by the people I knew as my maternal grandma and grandpa.

I don’t know much about my mother’s childhood.  I do know that she was exceptionally bright, and that she bypassed at least two grades, being graduated from high school at the tender age of 15.  As a teenager she loved to dance and enjoyed attending the movies.  After graduation from high school she enrolled in a junior college and earned a Medical Secretarial diploma.  This was followed with employment by two doctors and a dentist for almost a year.  She then went on to earn her Bachelor of Science in nursing.

She first met my father when he was 7 and she was 8.  From then on he was on her mind.  As she puts it, “I liked him in his knickers.”  Ultimately, though her adopted father opposed it, at least initially, she and my father were wed.  Dad was in the Navy at the time, and they were stationed in Atlantic City, New Jersey for the duration of WWII.

My brother John was born about a year and a half later, I followed him by 14 months, and our sister Mary appeared 16 months after that.   Mom might as well have had triplets. Three children within 30 months of each other was enough to keep her more than busy.  Steve and Esther came 6 and 8 years later, respectively.  David was born in her 44th year, and in between these babies there were several that never saw the light of day.  She said she’d always wanted six.

Mom was a devoted wife and mother.  We all have fond memories of coming home from school to an inhabited house, of our favorite meals and lunches, of a home that was immaculately kept, and of a mother whom we often heard in private prayer .  The heart of her husband trusted safely in her, and her children have all ultimately arisen and blessed her.  She most certainly was a Proverbs 31 lady!

Her life passed by quickly.  She and dad served seven churches spanning 42 years of ministry.  All were either church plants or congregations that had experienced difficult times.  And, as the years rolled by, mom encountered her own times of suffering.  Unthinking and sometimes unkind “church folks” wounded her with words.  Her reaction, as witnessed by entries in her diaries, was to forgive and to ask God to change her to be more like Jesus.  The “strawberry episode” offers insight.

A lady in one church was particularly spiteful toward mom, and she wrestled with what to do.  Dad and she had planted a strawberry bed in the yard behind the parsonage, and it was yielding delicious and plentiful fruit.  Mom loved her strawberries and carefully tended the plants.  One morning as she was picking the fruit she heard Jesus say, “Give her your strawberries.”  A brief argument with the Lord ensued.  Mom didn’t want to share.  But the Savior persisted, and in the end she did as He’d directed.  As a result, it seems, the whole demeanor of the offender changed and the relationship was better from then on.

The most difficult trials and the most severe pain for Mom resulted from the loss of her oldest and youngest sons to death.  David went first, at 15 the victim of a drunk driver on New Year’s Eve in ‘81.  John succumbed to complications following a third heart surgery in ‘86.  Her diary entries from then on made multiple references to the loss, and their subsequent birthday anniversaries were always remarked upon.  I don’t think that pain ever went away.  She just learned to live with it.

And then, after fifty-eight and a half years of marriage, her beloved Arthur went Home to heaven.  By then the disease that would eventually claim her own life was progressing, though we were not skilled to understand what was happening.  It ultimately robbed her of the ability to recognize us, and to do all the things that had been second nature to her for the major portion of her life.

But even at this stage of life when she who had been so adept at so many things now had to rely on others to do the simplest tasks for her, her gracious God used her to accomplish his will in others.  One grandchild is especially grateful for her unflagging love for and confidence in her Heavenly Daddy.  She was unable to communicate much of anything to him that made sense that day, but her clearly stated conviction that God’s Word is the truth is what brought that young man to his knees before the Savior – in her presence.

The mist that was our mother’s life is vanishing away even as I write.  She is, quite literally, awaiting death in the memory care unit of a new nursing home quite near to the home of one of my sisters.  She has completed the circle of life that sufferers from Alzheimer’s experience, journeying back to her childhood and a time in her reality when we, her children do not exist.  She told my brother and me, along with my daughter, in a lucid moment about three months ago, “Life is so short.  Enjoy every day.”  Her life will, in the words of that old poem, “soon be past;” but she spent it laying up treasure where both it and she will endure forever.

We boarded the American Airlines Flight 65 from Zurich at 8:50 a.m. and flew the 8 hours across as many time zones to JFK in NYC.  It was an easy flight for me, but Luana simply endured it.

She awakened that morning with a headache.  A couple of ibuprofens seemed to ease the pain, but when we entered the plane the malady returned with force.  She’s a tough lady, and that showed in the way she handled thre three successive flights.

There was a four hour scheduled layover in New York that stretched to five because of the apparent ineptitude of our domestic airlines.  As we waited that extra hour, I couldn’t help thinking that we’d flown to the other side of the world, taken 6 in-country flights over there, and then returned, with the only glitch in the schedule coming on both ends of our journey in our own country.

At any rate, we still had another 7 plus hours of elapsed time before we’d walk in our own front door.  In fact, from the time of our departure until our ultimate arrival more than 22 hours would transpire.  And, my wife was absolutely miserable.  The headache was the worst she’d ever had, and it was now accompanied by severe muscle aches and a fever.  I know she was miserable because, well, because I’ve been married to her for more than 43 years.  She doesn’t complain.  She has a high tolerance for pain.  But, I could tell she was in misery.

It doesn’t help either that most flights set the A/C thermostat at a level designed to refrigerate sides of beef for lengthy periods of time.

We were met in Omaha by our friends Jeff and Jean, who delivered us to our own door and beds; but the symptoms persisted the next morning after 7 hours of sleep.  I called the doctor, and he sent us to the hospital emergency room.

Have you ever been consigned to such a place?  9 hours later, following several diagnostic tests, Luana was admitted.  (Editorial comment here:  I’m just glad the President’s new health care system is not in place yet – we might still be in that ER these two days later!)  Both types of influenza (A and B – which includes H1N1) were eliminated as possibilities, as was malaria.  The spinal tap revealed that viral meningitis was the culprit.

Meningitis is an inflammation of the membranes that cover the brain and spinal cord.  Viral infections are the most common cause of this malady, but bacteria can be at the root as well.  Just to be certain all bases were covered, the docs ordered intravenous antibiotics and an MRI of her brain.

I’m more than a little relieved that it is not I that has been afflicted; although, I hasten to add, I do wish I could take my best friend’s pain away.  I’m relieved, I say, with my tongue firmly thrust into my cheek, because if an MRI were done on my brain they’d find half of it gone due to the activity of the amoeba I wrote about in my first post on this trip.  I prefer to keep on fooling people about my deteriorating condition, although that is becoming increasingly difficult.

My dear spouse has spent the last two days in hospital.  The pain meds have dealt with her discomfort, and as it is with any viral attack, she will just have to weather this until it leaves.  That could take another 10 days, though she will probably be dismissed today.  Bed rest and fluids will be the regimen.

The enterovirus that causes this condition is most often spread through direct contact with an infected person’s stool – most often through small children who are not yet toilet trained.  It can spread to adults by the changing of the diapers of an infected infant.

In addition, the arbovirus, spread through mosquitoes and other insects, can produce viral meningitis.  And, finally, these viruses don’t always result in this infection, but can manifest in other ways, depending on the state of a person’s immune system.

But, one of them did result in this infection for Luana.  She handled a lot of babies on the subcontinent, and she was bitten by a few mosquitoes.  But she will be ok, with no permanent affects.  We thank you for your continued prayers.

Meanwhile, there is no cure for what ails me.  What day is this, anyway?

It means "exit."

After exulting in the scenery and culture of Switzerland for the last two posts it occurred to me that some of you might be thinking, “Wow – all that on the funds supplied by others.  Sweet deal!”

Not!  We three couples (Wetzigs, Crockers, and VanCampens) forked over out of our own pockets the dough for this two day hiatus on the way home from the subcontinent.  And, it was with a sense of relief on my part when we settled into our seats this Monday morning (2:45 a.m. CDT) for the flight home.  I told John Wetzig that it had felt like someone had stuck a vacuum into my wallet in the land of Zwingli, Calvin, and Heidi.  The Swiss franc is almost equal to the American dollar, and it takes a lot of them to exist there.  For instance, number 1 at MacDonald’s (Big Mac meal) varied from about $9 to over $11.  Breakfast each morning, whether taken in the hotel or downtown, was about $30.  And the box of chocolates Luana bought for a gift this morning was $30.

Do you now wonder that this Dutchman was ready to leave the Alps?

Here above the Atlantic, about half way to JFK in NYC, I have some time for contemplation.  I’m thinking of individuals we met along the way these past 17 days.

The first that come to mind were the kind Finnish ladies who gave us the business class seats on FinnAire 008 to Helsinki.  In Helsinki it was the lady that assisted us in filing our missing baggage report, and that gave us the 140 euros for necessities until the luggage showed up.

On the subcontinent a variety of folks step into view in my memory.  There’s Buji, the gentle manager of one of our hotels, a man who revealed himself to be a believer and in whose hotel each Sunday morning other believers gather for prayer and praise.

There’s SR, a diminutive native of this country whose personality and heart are huge.  He works at helping our young friends be successful in ministry, but was so in need of encouragement himself that he gave me a hug after translating my two messages from Elijah’s life and experiences.  He was, he said, ready to continue in his work.

There’s VK, the amiable and jovial, though deadly serious about discipling disciplers among his people, district overseer.  He’d traveled 600 kl one way, a twelve-hour bus ride, to the retreat because he wanted to see me.  Is that humbling, or what?  Would I have done the same, were the tables turned?

There’s the face of the Muslim man, the owner of The Only Place Restaurant who’d buried his father just before we entered his establishment for those fabulous steaks, but who took time to patiently answer the questions of these four Western carnivores.

Then there are those 155 pastors, in addition to the wives and families of some of them.  I now know the names and faces of a goodly percentage of them.  They blessed me beyond measure, and I told them so at the last location.  One of them stood to tell me, on behalf of the group, how much my presence and ministry had meant to them.  I only hope they profited half as much as I did.

It was really hard to say goodbye.

From the land of the reformers it’s Melanie, the delightful Swiss miss that served us our breakfast in downtown Zurich.  It’s Donald from the hotel snack bar, the guy that called our room to let me know he was holding for me the camera I’d left hanging on the back of my chair there.

I pray that Luana and I made as much a positive impression on all of these folks as they did on us.  I pray that though they may not have realized it at the time, what they were seeing was actually Jesus.  That’s what I pray.

And, what I am thinking right now is how good it will be to be home again.

Both John Calvin and Ulrich Zwingli made their homes in Switzerland.  Geneva was Calvin’s town, and Zurich was Zwingli’s.  Today, Sunday, August 16, we three couples took the tram down town.  In addition to taking a boat taxi for a hot ride on the lake, we visited three churches.

Yes, we “went to church,” as we say, three times.  The first was the Grossmunster Church.  It was built as a Romanesque building in 1220, but in the 16^th century Zwingli launched the Swiss Reformation from it.

The second was the Fraumunster.  It was founded in 853, and mostly noble women lived in this influential Benedictine abbey.  But in the 16th and 17th centuries its doors were opened as a refuge for persecuted French Huguenots.

The third building was St. Peter-Kirche.  Europe’s largest clock face and fire watch lookout point are located on or in its steeple tower.  Parts of the building date to the 9^th-15^th centuries.  It now houses an evangelical church.

These were just three of the church buildings whose towers (steeples) dominate the cityscape.  But for all that, as I wrote in the previous post, this land of the Reformers stands in great spiritual need.

We fly home tomorrow to another country with a great, but largely forgotten, spiritual foundation.

Two days ago we flew from the subcontinent to Helsinki, and then down across Europe to the city of Zwingli – Zurich, Switzerland.

What a contrast to the country we’d been living in for the last week and a half!  As the plane circled for landing I glimpsed manicured farms and well ordered towns.  And closer inspection yesterday supported those aerial views.

Yesterday we three couples had decided each to do our own thing, choosing which excursion or tour we wanted to take.  Luana and I opted for the Heidiland Tour, a bus trip that would take us 130 kl (about 80 mils) south and east to the site that inspired the book Heidi. The views were awesome as we drove into the Alps.  We traveled along Lake Zurich and stopped to visit the last Hapsburg stronghold in this tiny country, a castle that sits in the town of Rapperswil.  We did travel up the mountainside to the Heidi House, and even saw the goats, or, at least some goats.  Then we journeyed to the tiny kingdom of Liechtenstein, just 9½ miles by about 15.  The capital city of Vaduz was absorbed with the yearly celebration of the duke’s father’s birthday.  The old man had died, but before he did he made a law that his August 15^th birthday be celebrated every year with parties by everyone.

And, they were partying.  Streets were blocked off.  Live concerts were in progress.  There were dozens and dozens of food venues.  Hang-gliders soared from the mountain peaks.

I said to Richard Crocker later, “I’d like that on my birthday.”  He said, “Well, folks may remember the day you die like that.”  Nice, huh?

We crossed the River Rhine once again into Switzerland and headed through the mountains by a different route back to Zurich.  The mountain farms were amazing.  Geraniums filled window boxes on every house.  The fronts of the churches were decorated with roses.

It was a feast for the eyes, and soon I quit taking photos because of the overload on the senses.  I captured enough that you will be able to see what we experienced.

This small country is a very beautiful place, but it seems to be as full of spiritual darkness as the large one we left earlier in the week.  Only 5% of the populace, some 7.8 million souls, even attends church on a given Sunday.

The needs in Heidi’s land are pronounced.

It was the last day at this site.  I’d preached on how God provided for Elijah through the birds, the brook, and the widow.  These guys are now seeing the flow of funds from the USA begin to dry up – as the schedule dictates.  Believe me, Elijah had a lot to say to them.  I challenged them with my story of how God had met my needs down through they years.

After the message, Luana and I handed out as gifts the Lincoln pins I’d acquired from the Chamber of Commerce.  We took a bunch more pictures and had tea.  And then it was time for one more breakout session.

We men took our chairs outside on the shady side of the building.  I asked those 48 guys if they would share with me stories of how God had provided for their needs.  The first man stood and began to speak, but almost immediately from high above from a pipe jutting out from the building a stream of water descended into the center of our circle.  No one got too wet, but it made for a lot of laughter.

We relocated out under the palm trees, and men began to share from their hearts.

One story in particular is worth repeating here.  Seems one of the guys was newly married a couple of years ago, and he and his bride had used up all their funds on the wedding.  She asked her man what they were going to do, since they now had no money. As they were riding to their home on his motorcycle (150cc is about the largest here), she wasn’t, in the translator’s words to me, “seated properly.”

The groom stopped the bike for her to reseat herself, but as he did so, the bike that was behind them sped by.  The rider was chewing tobacco, and as he passed he spit, covering the husband’s shirt from shoulder to elbow with the foul liquid.

The new husband looked down and saw a wallet lying in the road.  He surmised it was the chewer’s wallet and began pursuit.  But the offender thought he was being chased to be beaten by the irate groom, so he rolled it on, as we bikers say.  The young pastor sounded his horn, but that only made the man go faster, and the pursued eventually disappeared from view.

The couple stopped their bike.  The young man searched the wallet for identification.  There was none, but there were bills amounting to RS6,500 – about 150 USD.  That was a huge amount.

The pastor concluded his story by saying, “We figured that God was meeting our needs.”

It was a funny and true story, and it does underscore that Elijah’s God has not changed over the centuries.  He still feeds the birds of the air, clothes the grass of the field, and cares for his people!

After the breakout session in which I’d been told that the men of this country never tell “I’m sorry” to their wives, six or seven guys motioned that they wanted to talk with me.

Their question to me was about divorce and remarriage in the United States.  Was it true, they wanted to know, that divorce and remarriage happened a lot in my country?

“It does,” I told them.  “It does often.”

“Why?” they asked.  “Don’t the people know the Word of God?”

Their concept of our nation is that it is a Christian country.  They couldn’t conceive that Christian people would not know the Word of God.  My first task was to help them understand that ours is not a Christian nation.

“There are many people who are not believers who do not know the Word of God about this,” I said.  “So, they divorce.”

“What about the Christians?  Do they not know the Word of God?”

“Well,” I said, “many of them do.  But they choose not to obey it.  They divorce anyway.”

They shook their heads, unable to comprehend what I’d just said.

I thought about it later.  These guys bow to culture and refuse to admit their need of forgiveness from their wives.  They even play the culture card when it comes to being physically abusive at times to their wives and children.  Most American believers would stand firmly against this, saying, “Don’t they know what God’s Word says?”

But in America, “Christian” men and women are divorcing each other at an alarming rate because, in my opinion, they are also playing the culture card, refusing to do what the Word of God says.

As I wrote in the last post, the Word of God trumps culture every time.  American brothers and sisters, let’s determine to do what it says in regard to our relationships to each other as husbands and wives.  Let’s quit following our culture and live according to the Truth.  And then we’ll be in a position to pray for our brothers and sisters in this country that they will do the same.

Yesterday, Wednesday, the schedule called for “sharing and fellowship.”  As we did with the prayer time the day before, the men divided into two groups, and the ladies met together.

I chose to ask the men how they demonstrated love to their wives and children, following Paul’s commands about those relationships in the book of Ephesians.

It took some effort to draw them out, they being reluctant to talk of such private matters.  It was interesting that it was some of the younger men, men whom I’d taught, who were most forthcoming.  Two of them “took marriage” less than 3 months ago.

I asked them how they handled disagreements with their wives.  One said, “When she is angry, I say nothing.”  All chuckled and agreed.  I tried to determine whether this meant that they simply withdrew, or that they thought it best not to answer back and continue the argument.

But the roadblock came when I asked, “When the problem is your fault, what do you do?”

They silently sat and looked at me.  I tried again, “When you’re the one who’s done the wrong that leads to the argument, what do you do?”

One of the 15 young men I’d taught who’d been wed just two years said, “Ask forgiveness.”  This was met with laughter.  “That’s right,” I said.  But my words were lost in the babble of voices as 22 men talked back and forth.  Then when the volume died down, one of them said, “Here a husband does not say ‘sorry’ to his wife.  It is our culture.”

I immediately stood up and held my Bible aloft.  “This book is for all cultures.  Peter tells us to live with our wives in an understanding manner, treating them as precious, so that God will hear our prayers.  We are called to be different than our culture.  The best way to show Jesus to our culture is to treat our wives differently than what is normal in our culture.”

There is much unbiblical behavior that can be condoned by playing the culture card.  Indeed, how many men in our Western world operate by the same rule that these men were touting?  How often do men in the good old US of A excuse their rude behavior to their spouses because “men do not tell ‘sorry’ to their wives?”

I’m sorry, but God’s Word trumps culture every time.

P.S.  The utter irony of this post is that just after I finished composing it I opened my big mouth in an unkind way and had to say “I’m sorry” to the person who means the most to me in this life.

Have you ever heard the phrase “I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet?”

Yesterday Jeff Petersen and George Cheek arrived at our retreat site.  After lunch our fearless leader took all of us, indigenous leadership as well, down the road about ½ mile to a place called Home of Hope.  That’s where the above phrase came to mind.

I actually didn’t want to go on that excursion.  I vaguely remembered seeing a video with scenes connected to that facility, and I was quite sure I didn’t want to see those things up close and personal.

Home of Hope was established by an indigenous fellow connected to Campus Crusade.  He is known as Autoraj, because he formerly drove one of those 3-wheeled taxis.  He became burdened for the folks this culture simply throws out on the street, and he began to rescue them.  You can go online to read about this ministry at www.newarkmission.org.  This committed follower of Jesus literally prowls the city looking for people who are left to die in the gutters, if there were such things.

The conditions of the folks Raj rescues make for startling viewing, whether it’s by video or in real life.  I watched the video he was in the process of producing, along with my companions, and at times was almost forced to close my eyes.  You would have to see these things to believe them, and even then you’d find it difficult.

At our meeting site there are gnats, flies, and mosquitoes.  We are not overrun by these insects (or should I say, “overflown”), although they are somewhat of a nuisance.  When a fly invades my home in the States, I hunt it down and kill it – a single fly!  But some of the folks in Autoraj’s video had really suffered at the “hands” of flies, with their wounds becoming breeding grounds with the resulting maggots.  And this man tenderly picks these undesirable people from the streets, literally picks the maggots from their bodies, and administers love and care to bring them to health.

I walked slowly back down the road toward our meeting place in deep contemplation.  Compared to Raj, my concern for people seemed to be only skin-deep.  I said to Luana, “I don’t think I have that much love in my heart.”  I can’t stand flies in my home, he picks their babies out of fellow human beings.

“I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet.”

We finally experienced the monsoon rains that are supposed to be blanketing this land this time of year on Monday night, the 10^th.  This city, which sits about 3000 feet above sea level, looks greener than either of the other two we’ve visited.

But the showers of blessing that began at our first stop farther north have continued without abatement here.  Let me share a few with you.

The first night of our meetings here several pastors from one of the districts led us in worship.  Three instruments were utilized, all of them percussion:  a set of tired drums, a tambourine, and two pairs of “finger cymbals.”

The singing was great, but the most interesting thing about the worship was the drummer.  He was a little boy named Shadrach.  His cadence was the same for every song, but that’s the way he’d been taught.

One of the men I’d taught two years ago is maintaining a school for 17 children.  He and his wife take orphaned and/or impoverished kids into their home to prepare them for the public school system by bringing them up to the third grade level.  In addition, this pastor takes children with him to the villages to help with the worship in his evangelistic endeavors.

Shadrach is just 8 years old, but he has blessed me in ways he’ll never understand.  He not only plays the drums, but he also sits quietly and meditatively through each message with absolutely no adult supervision.  And the messages are at least 60 minutes long (except for Tom’s and mine).

His posture in prayer should be copied by the kids in my own country, in my opinion.  Perhaps even by the adults.  In fact, when we were having our “burden-bearing” prayer time with the men, when they each sat in the chair in the center of the group and shared their concerns, when we all laid hands on them and prayed, he was right in there, placing his small appendage on the head of the subject of our intercessions.

I wish you could have observed this firsthand.  I know you’d have been as blessed as I.

Mrs. Clinton made the phrase “It takes a village to raise a child” popular a few years back.  In this culture, it seems to be so.  At least, it seems to be so with our pastors and their families.  The children at this retreat are public property.  O sure, their mamas see to their most intimate needs, but everyone else takes a hand in their general care.  Even the very young bachelor pastors can be seen holding a baby or toddler, obviously happy to do so.  And, when children are making noise in the meeting place it is not always the parents who take them out.  More than a few times I’ve seen others get up and remove the offenders.

The fact that noisy children are taken out of the meeting is a blessing all by itself!  The district leader who “chairs” the meetings will stop right in the middle of translating a phrase and point to the offenders, telling someone to shoo them outside.  This is another practice that I wish would become normal in the USA

Talk about being blessed – that hour and a half prayer time with the men was phenomenal.  After they realized that the thing with the chair in the center of the room was not a gimmick, after they sensed the sincerity of it, they took full advantage.  Man after man sat down there and expressed his concerns.  All laid hands and all prayed – all at once, and then with person wrapped it up each time.  The prayers were not short either, partly because I sense that it is part of the culture to be repetitious.

No matter – I was blessed.

We all have been.  And I suspect that today will be no different.

Oh, one other blessing.  Doug Shada, the president of our Berean Fellowship, actually ate some of the faire here at lunch…with his hands like the rest of us were doing.  And, I have photographic proof!