faith like potatoes

Since we returned from Alaska, some of the hot job propects Greg had before we left seemed to have cooled a bit. And there appear to be few viable offers out on the horizon . . .

I, being the mature woman of God that I am, plummetted instantly into panic mode. I tried to take Greg with me, but he decided to keep his eyes fixed on the things above (that would be God) and not on the things of this world (that would be our circumstances of being unemployed, no prospects and a looming mortgage).

By God's grace, however, I am reading through Hebrews right now and just cruised through chapter 10 and landed in chapter 11--the oft-recounted "faith" chapter. Realizing that faith and panic are at opposite ends of the trust spectrum, I asked the Lord to infuse me with the kind of faith I kept reading about:

"By faith Noah, when warned about things not yet seen, in holy fear built an ark to save his family."

"Now faith is . . . being certain of what we do not see."

"By faith we understand that the universe was formed at God's command, so that what is seen was not made out of what was visible."

I began, ever so slowly, to get the picture that faith operates best with its eyes closed--where there's not the slightest glimmer of hope. That's when God does His thing and surprises us in the dark and we can only stand in awe of His faithfulness.

And the Lord, in His goodness, cemented that truth in my frantic little brain through a movie we watched last night, called "Faith Like Potatoes."

The movie started with this line: “The condition for a miracle is difficulty, however the condition for a great miracle is not difficulty, but impossibility.”

And it just got better after that.

I won't ruin the movie for you by revealing the plot (it's a true story). You'll have to see it for yourself. But I'm encouraged in my faith-walk, knowing that the invisible God is working in unseen ways around me for His glory and my good.

And for today, I can trust Him for that . . .

i wish i could show you . . .

. . . the beautiful hearts that beat behind these precious faces

. . . the incredible pain that shapes the daily lives of these little ones

. . . the amazing hope that carries them on

. . . the love that the Father has for His Native children

. . . and the wonderful plans that He has for them!

the funeral

I got invited to the funeral this week, so I decided to go. Most of the villagers, plus several dozen friends and family members from neighboring villages, trickled into the Community Hall during the heat of the day to say goodbye to Flora, an elder who'd passed away from a lingering illness.

It wasn't the first Alaskan village funeral I've attended. Years ago, when we lived in Anchorage, our family had the privilege of attending the funeral of the chief of Tyonek, who died at a very young age of cancer. Tyonek is a Russian Orthodox village, so the funeral was officiated by the local priest. I remember that the service seemed interminable, we stood the whole time (and got some dirty looks from the priest) and ate a lot of interesting food (including muktuk--pickled whale blubber) at the potlatch afterwards. It was an amazing experience.

The funeral I attended Tuesday was catholic, since this village was the first catholic outpost, started in the 1800's. I haven't been to Mass in a long time (I grew up Catholic), but was amazed at how easily the liturgy came back to me. I was a little surprised by the smattering of good baptist songs mixed in with the responsive readings. We held hands and said the Lord's prayer together and then sang all the verses of Amazing Grace. Brother Rob, who is actually a Franciscan friar and not a priest at all, said nice things about Flora and heaven during the eulogy.

My favorite part was hearing my friend, Paula, (an elder in the village) say the Lord's Prayer in Athabaskan. Last year, I asked her to teach me how to say goodbye in her language. Paula told me the Athabaskan Indians didn't have a word for "goodbye". It was too rude and final. Instead they say something that means "I will bother you later."

My Native friend Carmen coaxed me into going up and taking communion with her. Protestant that I now am, I tried to grab the wafer with my fingers. The celebrant glared at me and I suddenly remembered that only certain people are supposed to touch the Eucharist. So I opened my mouth and she begrudging placed the tasteless wafer on my tongue. I followed Carmen back to our seats, avoiding stares and raised eyebrows, my heart rejoicing that I'd experienced communion with my Native friends.

On a side note, I've been reading through the book of Hebrews since we arrived in this village. I've been so struck by the emphasis on Jesus being our High Priest--He is the One we go through to reach the Father. His blood--not our dead works--covers our sin. We can enter into the Father's rest because of His son's sacrifice.

How amazing is His grace to us! Pray that my friends here can grasp that truth.

Carmen's dream

Well, we are back in the village again. It's the hottest weather we've experienced during our visits--upper 80's today! And on the Yukon, it feels about 10 degrees hotter than it actually is for some reason. So we are hot and sweaty but rejoicing in the fact that mosquitos hate hot weather more than we do!

There has been a lot of activity since we arrived. I was awakened at 1:30 this morning by a medivac plane landing and then taking off with a stabbing victim. Arnold was stabbed by his younger brother who is hiding from the State Troopers somewhere in the village. Arnold should recover but I'm not sure what will happen to the brother when he's finally apprehended.

Then today, an older woman died in her home. It was of natural causes, and expected, but the whole village (and folks from surrounding villages) are gathering at the community hall for her funeral and memorial pot latch. Even though it's so hot and dusty here, there's been a flurry of people coming and going by the teen rec all day.

My friend Carmen dropped in on her way back from "downtown" (the part of the village that's down by the Yukon River). It was so great to see her--she was still glowing from a presentation she'd just given for a group of people down at the Catholic church. She talked about the Wellness program she was starting in the village--a tool to help local folks to stay sane and sober.

"I was very nervous, but I did it!" Carmen told me, wiping sweat from her brow. She looked awesome with her new glasses and cute haircut (she said she's still recovering from the haircut I gave her last summer) "I just feel like God wants me to help the people here."

As I listened to Carmen, I remember a dream she told me about several years ago. In the dream, a man rescued her from drowning in a sea of ice. She started to follow him away from the treacherous water, but realized there were many people still drowning. The man told her that she was to go back and help rescue all the other perishing souls. Carmen told me she knew this was a God dream, although it totally overwhelmed her.

When Carmen first shared her dream with me, she was struggiling with severe depression. She barely felt "rescued" herself--let along strong enough to help save others. But she's clung to Jesus with a tenacity I've rarely seen in a believer.

And He's carried her, through trauma and abuse most of us cannot even imagine, and now Jesus is using her to show others the way to safety. I pointed this out to her today, that she's fulfilling the dream. She's helping Jesus rescue her people.

"Oh my gosh!" Carmen exlaimed, her brown eyes wide with wonder. "I had forgottem that dream--but I am doing that! How can I do anything but obey my God?"

I gave her one of the journals I'd brought and encouraged Carmen to write her dream down, so she wouldn't forget again. We both agreed that the morning meeting was just the beginning of its fulfillment.

Such is life in the village . . . death, pain, life, miracles . . .

more garden revelations . . .

I tend another garden at a plot graciously provided by a church up the street. A few months back, a handful of hopeful gardeners put up fencing around the plot, tilled up our little bits of earth in our appointed spots, planted our seeds and starts and watered and waited.

Yesterday it was more like I waited and watered.

While the community garden was well-designed in most aspects, we've had water issues from the get-go. I hear rumors of some kind of underground irrigation going in, but for now all we have is a series of hoses connected together to transport our water from its source--a faucet right in front of the church office--to our garden, which is several hundred feet up a grassy incline.

This patchwork hose has been an adequate solution until recently. Since it runs across the church parking lot, the hose takes a lot of abuse from passing cars, and our current hose sports a small geyser when the water's turned on. Not only does this voluminous spray soak the parking lot, it reduces the water flow from the end of the hose chain to an annoying trickle.

This was the case when I arrived at the community garden last night. Blessed woman that I am, I have two plots to water. One in the upper left quadrant, the other just a few plots below on the left. I quickly realized that the wee trickle from the hose would not be sufficient for both plots--if I wanted to get this chore finished before I leave for Alaska on Friday.

But I came up with a plan--I placed the hose in strategic spots where it gave the surrounding veggies a good soak, then trotted down the hill to a pond not far from the garden and filled a 5 gallon bucket with water to lug back up to the second plot. After dumping the sludgy, tadpole-filled liquid on my thirsty beets and corn, I raced uphill to the first plot and repositioned the hose between the tomato and pepper plants. I repeated this process at least a dozen times until my vegetables were sufficiently watered (my apologies to all the tadpoles who gave their lives in the process--but you will make good fertilizer). It took me over an hour to accomplish what I normally finish in 15 minutes!

As I lugged the heavy water bucket up the hill, I remembered some of the stories the somali girls told Danielle about life in a refugee camp. Their dad made a garden, they said. The girls described how they watered the garden with drinking cups filled to the brim. If they did not make these long, oft-repeated trips in the searing heat to water their plants, the crops would die and there would be no food. Once, the girls told Danielle about a pet kitten their dad had given them. When food got scarce, however, the kitten starved to death, becoming part of the inevitable food chain.

I've found myself becoming a bit irritated with the somali girls lately, and my sweaty exercise in manual watering was a good reminder of where they've been. I've learned from experience not to place a cupcake-filled platter in front of them. Each girl will devour five apiece, then stuff a few more in their pockets for later. I've watched the younger girls take mouldering, mushy apples from my fruit bowl and try to hide them in a coat pocket as they go out the door.

Even though they now live in a land of plenty (comparatively speaking), they still aren't certain there will be food to eat tomorrow.

On my fourth hike up the hill, I decided to always have my fruit bowl filled with fresh produce when the girls come . . .

Musing about Africa and water and life made me think of Stephen as I carried another bucket and emptied it out on the cucumbers and canteloupe. I injured myself during this haul, scraping my big toe on a rock and making it bleed. I barely dodged two angry bees and got so thirsty I momentarily considered drinking out of the presumed lead-saturated hose.

And in my minor discomfort, I wondered about the conditions Stephen faced as he trekked miles through the jungles to take the Living Water to those dying of thirst. Oppressive heat, lions, snakes, bugs, the LRA, lack of food and water, lack of sleep . . . any one of those would cause me to turn back home. And yet this young Sudanese man, compelled by the love of Christ, forsakes all comfort and safety on a regular basis to share God's love with strangers.

I prayed for my future son-in-law as I made my journey to the watering hole and then back up the hill one last time. And I asked the Lord to help me ever be mindful of his sacrifice and discomfort as he follows the One who had no place to lay his head.

My garden watered, I hobbled--covered with dirt, sweat and blood--to my little red car and headed wearily for home. Upon my arrival, I made myself an iced latte and then took a shower before checking my email in my nice, air-conditioned house.

The grime washed away, but my garden revelations stayed with me--and even prompted me to make a donation to a wonderful ministry in Sudan, called "Make Way Partners." Check out their website--God is doing amazing things in North Africa.

I love that the Lord used a thirsty garden plot in Oregon to turn my heart to Africa!

Beet it!

No, this isn't a misspelled tribute to Michael Jackson.

It's my apology to beets . . .

I cooked my very first fresh beets tonight and they were muy delicioso! How fresh were they, you ask? Freshly plucked from the Tub O Grub just minutes before I plunged them into boiling water.

It doesn't get much fresher than that!

They were baby beetlets, perfectly sized for instant gratification. Thanks to my mother-in-law, I knew enough to slip the outer skin of the crimson orb before popping it in my mouth.

Mmmmmmmm . . . beet heaven!

I got off on the wrong culinary foot with beets early in my childhood. I still remember the day I tasted my first pickled beet. It was at a family gathering and someone had loaded my plate with typical holiday fare. I was excited to see the bright red slices carefully arranged between the mashed potatoes and green beans. I loved my great-grandma's candied apple rings and thought momentarily about saving them for dessert.

My sweet tooth won out and I crammed an entire slice in my little mouth, red juice dribbling down my chubby chin. Before I started chewing, however, my taste buds alerted me to the fact that something was seriously wrong. And I gagged and spit the nasty mess onto my plate.

No amount of scolding or threats of dessert-withholding could persuade me to take another bit of my Aunt Tilly's prized pickled beets. In my little head, the experience was akin to taking a big gulp of what you thought was lemonade, but having it turn out to be sea water instead. I vowed to never eat beets again.

Thankfully, that vow has been broken! Beets are packed with nutrients--vitamins A and C, iron, calcium, etc. (although I just read that the tops that I just threw away have 3 times the nutrients as the root! Who knew?)

And my husband loves them . . . I can't wait to see the look on his face when he sees what's for supper tonight!

giraffe--the other white meat

Yellie and Krispin brought the Somali girls over for a swim and to work in the garden last night. I taught the girls how to hoe weeds, thin carrots and fill a watering can from a mud puddle.

They taught me about the epicurian delights of giraffe.

Halima, Ndfia and Habiba are only now beginning to talk about their experiences in Kakuma, the Kenyan refugee camp where their lives began. Recently they described for Danielle--in gruesome detail--how their family would capture, kill and slaughter a giraffe. All three girls grew animated as they recounted the process.

"There was a lot of blood!" exclaimed Habiba, the youngest.

"What did giraffe meat look like?" I asked the girls during dinner last night.

"Like meat," Halima answered matter-of-factly. "It was red."

"And how did it taste?" queried Danielle.

"Like giraffe," said Halima, starting to get annoyed by our questions.

(It probably tastes like chicken, which seems to be the meat default mode for American taste buds. But the whole giraffe-butchering scenario just seemed a tad barbaric to me).

Later that night, Halima asked me about our trip to Alaska.

"We go stay in a village with Native people who all know or are related to each other," I explained to her. "We eat moose and caribou and sometimes even bear that the people hunt and catch."

Halima showed both interest and surprise. "You eat moose? And bear? Are they red meat like giraffe?"

"Probably very similar," I told her, intrigued by the obvious parallels between the cultures. "Hey, you should go to Alaska with me some time, Halima. You would like it--except when it's cold!"

She beamed, then nodded and said, "I would like to go!", then ran off to round up her sisters, who were running amuck in my backyard.

They worked liked pros at the community garden until Habiba and Ndifa discovered tadpoles at the watering hole. Halima scolded them in their native tongue while she watered the beets and radishes.

It so reminded me of my three girls back in the day: Lindsay always the responsible child, disgusted with Yellie and Candyce who were always off chasing tadpoles and butterflies.

Even though we've never eaten giraffe, I sense our family has a lot more in common with the Somalis than we realize. And they have more in common with the Athabaskan children I love on each summer than they know.

How culturally cool is that?