Exile ~Fiction Friday

A Christmas story.

Welcome to Fiction Friday! This week our host is Rhonda over at Beach Reads. Join us over there for links to more fun fiction.
*****

Exile to Siberia couldn't be worse than this. I wrapped my heavy sweater closer about me as the wind whipped through the converted monastery. A nun led us across the compound, my classmates following eagerly while I felt like I was being shoved into the heart of Siberia.

I grabbed Debbie's arm. “I only know one or two Christmas carols in Spanish!”

She laughed. “Just smile and sing in English.”

“But I can't sing, have you forgotten that?” Panic closed in around me as surely as the stone walls crowded us.

“So? Our being here is what's important to them, not how good we sing.”

How did Debbie get so wise? I decided it came with being born on the mission field, and those of us new to being missionary kids had a lot to learn—fast.

We passed through an arch and then into the commons room where ancient people were huddled around a weak fire, thin blankets wrapped around their stooped shoulders. Watery eyes blinked at us, a few smiles greeted us, and hands reached to touch us, as if they were trying to convince themselves we were real. My friends stopped along the way, holding bony hands within theirs, gently patting shoulders and smiling as they spoke with the people.

I trailed along, shocked by their shivering misery. When a leathery hand clutched my arm, I jumped and pulled back, but the lady held tight. There was wonder in her eyes as she looked at me, and when she pulled me down, I shakily knelt beside her chair. Gnarled fingers gently touched my hair, then combed through my blond curls.

My throat tightened and began to burn. It had been almost a year since I had seen my grandmother, almost a year since she had combed through my hair and crooned to me like this at the airport. This was my first Christmas without her. I knew she had sent gifts, but I would've traded every gift I'd ever received if we could just be together for this one, too.

I joined my classmates and shoved clenched hands deep in my pockets. Singing Christmas carols was the last thing I felt like doing, but Debbie's nudge and smile reminded me of my duty. I looked at the lady I'd knelt beside and found her watching me, her knotted knuckles pressed to her lips as if she was willing me the courage to sing. After several attempts, my voice finally made it past the tennis ball that was wedged in my throat.

I sang, returning the smiles of the old people as they joined in with their rusty voices. Debbie was right. They didn't care that I sang half in Spanish and half in English, and they couldn't have cared less about my bad voice. They were hungry for smiles and a touch of Christmas joy to brighten and warm their cold lives.

Time after time my gaze returned and found her eyes on me. She'd smile and nod, her lips mutely moving. “Oh santisimo, felicisimo, grato tiempo de Navidad! Cristo el prometido, ha por fin venido: alegria, alegria, cristiandad!*” Christ, the promised One—the reason we celebrate Christmas. The reason my family had left home, so others could know Him, too.

Tears ran down the crevices that time had etched on her face, but her eyes shone. She pulled out a hankie edged with green lace and patted her cheeks dry before drawing the edges of her shawl close again.

After singing, we handed out the small candy bags we had made for them, and I returned to her chair, kneeling beside her again.

“Feliz Navidad,” I said as I gave her the bag, marveling at the pleasure the small gift gave her. I wondered when she had last received a gift, or even a piece of candy.

She looked into my eyes, as only a grandmother can, and pulled out another hankie, edged in purple lace and neatly folded. She pressed it into my hand. “For when you cry. Feliz Navidad, hijita.**” When she gently cupped my cheek and kissed my forehead, her hand was so cold it almost stung my face. At that moment I knew exactly what I was going to do and I felt the joy we had just sung about—Christmas joy.

I took off my sweater, gently wrapped it around her shoulders and dropped a kiss on her wet cheek. With the hankie she had given me, I dried her tears. “Gracias.”

*****
This is a Christmas story that comes from my years in Ecuador. Although the setting and the condition of the 'old folks home' is close to how I remember it (LoL, realizing my memory of some things is sketchy), the rest is fiction--I was so overwhelmed that first year I was in Ecuador, that I never thought to do such a thing. Looking back, I can easily picture Debbie doing this--and yes, there is a Debbie--she is definitely not ficticious!

Next week we'll be doing 'Fiction Friday Favorites' since it will be the day after Christmas.
Merry Christmas!

*”Oh Santisimo” A Spanish Christmas carol
**Merry Christmas, little one.

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As Simple as a Smile ~Fiction Friday

Welcome to Fiction Friday! This week our host is Lynda, at On the Write Track. You are more than welcome to join us there for links to more fun fiction--whether you write fiction or just enjoy reading it. Invite your friends to join you!

As Simple as a Smile
“This isn't open for discussion, Suze. It's decided. These people asked us to come and that's what we're here for, planting churches--even if it means climbing this mountain every week.” Bob glanced over at his daughter then shifted into granny-low for another steep grade as they wound up the mountain.

Susan huddled against the door, arms crossed tightly across her stomach. I hate being the odd-ball. Everyone stares at me and all the ladies touch my hair. Having blond hair is such a pain. I wish it was black like everyone else's here; then I wouldn't stick out so much... I wish...

Just then they rounded a curve and the village came into view. It was tucked into a fold of the mountain, clinging there, like gray ivy. Susan's arms tightened even more as her anxiety grew. I hope they don't make fun of me.

“You know, Suze, it's as simple as a smile.”

Susan turned her blue eyes to her mother. “It might be that simple in the States, Mom, but here I stick out like a sore thumb.”

Her mom gave her a squeeze. “Then let's pray you find a special friend here.”

That'd be nice, God. I could use a friend, and a special friend would be even better.

Bob maneuvered the truck through the narrow cobblestoned streets and parked beside a mud wall with broken glass shards embedded in its top. A stooped old man shuffled out the gate with an equally aged lady just a step behind him. Their faces radiated joy as tears trickled into the crevices on their faces. “We've prayed for this for almost 20 years. Welcome to our home. Please, come and join us.”

With shuffling steps they were escorted to a living room where people sat on vinyl furnishings. Susan nervously glanced around as she trailed after her parents. On the far side of the room a girl her age sat on a sofa, smiling at her, and she patted the space beside her when their eyes met. Maybe she'll ignore my hair. Susan followed her parents as they circled the room, greeting each person, as was customary, and she didn't even mind when an older lady pulled her down for a kiss on the cheek and a pat on her hair before allowing her to move on to the smiling girl.

“Buenos dias. Me llamo Susana,” Susan said with a smile for the girl, just as she'd said to everyone. Her heart was beating so fast it took her a moment to realize the eyes she was looking into were a deep blue.

“Buenos dias. I'm Marta. Sit here beside me.” Marta gently tugged Susan's hand, giggling. “I'm so glad you have blue eyes, too,” she whispered. “Abuelita assured me you wouldn't think I'm strange because of my eyes.”

“People think you're strange?” Susan whispered back, surprised.

“Si, because I'm a Christian and I have blue eyes they've even called me a witch.” Marta's eyes clouded briefly, but then cleared. “But I can tell that you don't think I'm strange. You understand.”

The girls shared a smile as the old man raised his hands, waiting. Marta leaned close once again. “My grandfather, Cristobal,” she said with a fond smile toward the old man.

“Gracias,” Cristobal said through tears. “My family has prayed for many years and today God has answered. Each week we will meet here, at this same hour, for a time of teaching and worship with our brothers and sisters. Bring your neighbors and friends; they are always welcome in my home.” Cristobal held out a hand to Bob. “Hermano Roberto, please, come and lead us.” The men clasped hands, then embraced, as they exchanged places.

Bob stepped forward with a smile. “In the days after Jesus ascended into heaven the Christians met in small groups, much like this one. Being here with you is an honor as well as an answer to our prayers--thank you for asking us to join you. Our God is a great God, answering the prayers of His children.”

Marta reached over and squeezed Susan's hand.
Maybe Mom is right. Maybe it is as simple as a smile.
********
Although this piece is pure fiction, the church in Checa, Ecuador, did first meet in the home of Cristobal and Angelica, and these characters are pretty true to that couple, as well as their home. It was this couple, with Manuel and Elvia, that asked my parents to start a church in their town--and my husband and I had the privilege of joining a team to help enlarge the church building my dad built just before leaving. God answered the prayers of His faithful children and the church that grew out of their prayers now sends out missionaries of their own. God is so good!

Don't forget to join us at On the Write Track for links to more great fiction!

Missions Matter! ~Blog Giveaway coming November 12th!

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Lasting Impact

A Missions Matter! blog giveaway post!
By Kim Roof, missionary in Lima, Peru.

I could be here all month writing about the things God has done, and is doing! God is awesome!

I'm on a trip right now with my husband in Arequipa, Peru, where my parents were missionaries for about 8 years. I lived here for several of those years before going to Alliance Academy. My husband and I were just visiting a friend of our family, a lady that used to take care of my brothers and I when my parents had to travel...a dear godly woman. Her son was telling of how he will never forget the impact the missionaries had on his life back in 1970. My parents, among other missionaries, were some of the pioneers here in Peru that held open-air campaigns every night to raise up churches in areas where there weren't any. I remember sitting in those open-air campaigns and watching people come to Christ, and seeing people being healed, and hearing all the other stories my parents always tell me--I can say that my parents are my heroes! To tell you the truth, I don't know how they made it as missionaries here in Peru back in the 70's. All I know is that they had a tremendous faith in their God!

I never thought of returning to Peru, where my parents had been missionaries, but since I've been here over these past 15 years, I never fail to run into someone that got saved under my parent's ministry or was touched in some way by their lives. They are still living for God, and some are in the ministry today because of the impact my parent's ministry had on them. That really blesses me because I know that our labor as missionaries is not in vain! It's God that does the work in people's lives, but He uses willing vessels (like us) to reach those people. So, wherever you are (I'm talking to missionaries around the world...even in the U.S.), keep up the good work and don't grow weary or give up. Many lives have been touched, are still being touched, and still have to be touched by you!
********
Tom and Kim Roof have been missionaries since 1992 and founded Followers of Christ International soon after they were married. After language school and serving in Mexico, they moved to Peru and have been working in coordination with the Church 'Camino de Vida' with Pastors Robert and Karyn Barriger. Their initial assignment was to be directors of the Bible School of Camino de Vida for 6 years, and then have been in full time children's ministry since they year 2000. During this time their children, Daniel and Charity, were both born in the country of Peru.
The Roofs are responsible for a nationwide children's ministry, Corazones en Accion (Hearts in Action International of Mario and Suzanne Babarczy) through which they do evangelistic events, teacher training workshops, children's congresses and minister in schools and churches, and also present a faith based program called 'STOP' that teaches children how to prevent sexual abuse. Their vision and heart's desire is to reach the children and young people of Peru, and raise up the church of Jesus Christ in Latin America and in the Nations.

Missions Matter! ~Blog Giveaway coming November 12th!

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Up the River

A Missions Matter! blog giveaway post!

Debby is another classmate of mine and she wows me with her planning and organizing abilities! Last year she was one of the ring leaders for our 20 year class reunion, and it was wonderful! Debby lives in Wheaton, Illinois with her family. She stays at home with her 4 children, and her time is spent caring for her family, volunteering at school and church and attempting to keep up with the family scrapbooks. Debby just might be the reigning scrapbook queen of our class! I loved watching her with her children last year, especially the one that is a carbon copy of herself! (Her older daughter is missing from this picture, but they definitely have four children.)

When I sent out a plea for testimonies and pictures, Debby sent me parts of a children's presentation she did this summer, and I love this! I remember Debby's mom as being a very calm lady--and now I know why. It wasn't just that she was then in the capitol city of Ecuador, without a river in sight, it was the river of Life that flows within her.

Here's part of Debby's children's presentation:

I live in a suburb of Chicago and have four children. They take the bus to school, come home, do homework, play soccer, swim and are involved in Awana clubs. One of their great fears is that some other sibling will get a bigger piece of dessert. I guess that makes them ordinary kids. Some of my biggest fears are that they’ll get run over by a car or get abducted by a stranger. On a more serious note, I worry, too, that they might be led astray by friends who do not love Jesus or might decide upon reaching adulthood to abandon their faith in Jesus. Fears like these prove I am a mom, I guess, and maybe they also reveal that I am a mom who grew up in a different country!

My mother had some of these same fears – and others besides. As a missionary mom, she had good reason to be concerned at times. One day, when I was 3 years old, my mom couldn’t find me. She asked all around the village and, finally, a Chapalachi mom calmly said that I had gone up river in a canoe with two 5-year-olds. How do you think my mom felt? What do you think she did? All the canoes in the village were being used. My mom couldn’t even go find me. Imagine knowing that your 3-year-old daughter was in a canoe with two other children, wearing no life vests, paddling through snake infested water. My mother did the only thing she could do. She prayed. Jesus brought the three of us safely back that very same day. My mother celebrated and worshipped her Lord.

Our family moved to Ecuador in 1970, to tell people how much Jesus loves them and wants to be their friend and release them from their fears to live in freedom. We began in the jungles in northern Ecuador where my Dad travelled up and down a tributary of the Amazon river to reach people who had never heard about the love of Jesus. The jungle was a two-day trip from civilization. We used latrines and had a generator which gave us electricity a few hours a day.

While in the jungles my mother, a nurse, ran a dispensary. Aside from the witch doctor, she was the only medical personnel for miles. On several occasions men with chain-saw related injuries came for emergency medical attention. Once, a man had cut his ankle so badly, my mother did not know how she would repair the cut. She was a nurse, after all, and not an orthopedic surgeon. Once again, she turned to Jesus to ask for help. While she was praying, the villagers heard an outboard motor. Most villagers could not afford to buy a motor, so that could only mean that someone wealthy was heading our way. The villagers ran down to the river bank to meet the canoe and in the canoe was none other than a doctor from John’s Hopkins Hospital. He came unannounced once a year to vaccinate villagers. It was miraculous timing. The doctor sewed up the ankle. Once again, my mother thanked her Lord for His provision.

What do these memories teach me? They remind me that no matter where we are, God is with us. He hears our prayers and we can trust Him. Remembering how God took care of our family and those we lived with during those years in the jungle, helps me to lay down my fears for my own children today. I keep praying for them and leave my worries at the feet of the Lord.

Ps – And yes, I do let them ride their bikes on the street – even if I do worry just a teeny bit about their safety when they do so!




Missions Matter! ~Blog Giveaway coming November 12th!

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My Experience, My Choice

A Missions Matter! blog giveaway post!

Rob Hatch is one of my high school classmates who had the privilege of being brought up in Ecuador. He sent me an article he wrote for an MK magazine about how living in another culture impacted him, and continues to impact his character, over 20 years later. Rob is managing internet user interface design for Unum - a large disability insurance company in Chattanooga, TN. When not geeking out about design and web construction, he's running after three kids and trying to be loving to a wonderful wife. He is also an elder at New City Fellowship, a very diverse PCA church that focuses on racial reconciliation and mercy ministry in the urban setting. A long bike ride once in a while keeps things sane...

Here are some excerpts from Rob's article:

Cultural Marginalization: My Experience, My Choice
by: Rob Hatch
My experience of returning to my parents' home culture for the first time was probably pretty typical. I got off the plane from Ecuador and entered a third grade classroom where three passions were raging: Star Wars, Kiss and Elvis Presley. I was completely bewildered. All I was thinking about was my favorite soccer team: Liga Deportivo Universitario and the salsa music I so enjoyed at street festivals in Quito. There was no one who shared these passions. When the kids taunted, “Ecuador? Where’s that…” something deep occurred in me. I recognized myself to be very different from those around me. The interests of my life, the places I loved, the dreams of what I considered a life lived well – were not shared with those around me. I felt culturally marginalized.

This experience is surely typical of most third culture kids, and my reaction to that marginalization was probably also typical. Otherness proved to be a wall that kept me from anyone else in that 3rd grade classroom. I remember isolation and silence. Life was focused on the date of return to the place that I called home, rather than on reaching out in any meaningful way to the world around me. My mantra became, “this season too will pass” knowing soon enough I would return to that place where I felt comfortable and called home.

Yet when I look back now, the simple story of cultural marginalization doesn’t speak completely to the reality of what was going on in my heart. That year I begged so insistently to see the Star Wars movie that my parents decided a preview viewing was in order. They sat straight through two showings of the movie before taking us. I was hooked. The imaginary world of Jedi Nights and space battles became an enthralling play-scape – exactly as it was to many of my 8 year old school mates. There were aspects of culture and experience in that classroom that called to me, that I yearned for. There were ways for me to connect with the world around me and places where the otherness receded and a common experience became bond and friendship – even identification. Those kids would never understand the glories of Liga Deportivo Universitario – but our common play-scape proved a place of connection.

Many years later Dave Pollock fleshed out this powerful lesson at a re-entry seminar. He taught me that being this unique amalgamation of cultures presented me with a choice. I could see it as a powerful tool to be used well as a bridge, or as a paralyzing liability that built walls between myself and all others. It is this choice of how we handle third culture identity that affects our experience of marginalization in any culture.

********
One of the riches of the third culture experience is the ability to understand the cues and tactics useful in living fully in any culture. My wife has laughed at me after leaving some very stereotypical gathering, be it in Appalachia in Tennessee, or Porteño in Buenos Aires – saying “They probably have no clue that you aren’t just like them.” The fact that I work hard to fit in does not become a rejection of my cultural complexity. I don’t believe this is an either-or situation. I think it is perfectly acceptable to talk exclusively about Tennessee Football in one setting and River Plate Soccer in another. The fact that I know them both doesn’t mean I need to impose both on a group that does not. Nor do I feel particularly threatened or marginalized when I don’t understand the passions of a culture. I listen and learn.

Some times my wife has expressed frustration with my ability to identify with all people. She says “In the final analysis who are you?” There is danger in having no center of identity, in living solely to adapt to the culture where you find yourself. Building bridges does not mean rejecting the complexity of all it is I am. I choose to maintain my love of Salsa Music, even though I might not try to teach my Appalachian friends to appreciate it. There is also danger in never moving beyond participation, full as it may be, into disclosure and intimacy. In true community – of course -- the fullness of my identity is exposed and appreciated, even if it is not always understood. My experience has been that after I have made the effort to understand and participate fully in a particular culture – those there have been willing to listen and appreciate the “otherness” that I am. She will never love my soccer teams, but my wife does appreciate and enjoy listening to the glories of Liga Deportivo Universitario.

Rob's article is great because it explains what so many MKs experience and deal with, as well as how living in other cultures has a lasting impact on us. Even though I was only in Ecuador for six years, I experienced similar situations when I returned back to the States, and like Rob, I've found my time in another culture to be a huge bonus feature to who I am, enabling me to be comfortable in many situations. Thank you, Rob, for sending this and letting me post excerpts. It's a great article!

Coming up within the next week will be Rich Brown's jail experience while on the mission field.

Also, don't forget--I'd love to hear from more of you! Whether it's a post about a missionary book, about missionaries you know or heard speak, a missions conference, a missions trip, ANYthing to do with missions. Just post it on your blog (and if you don't have a blog, send it to me and I'll post it for you!) then come back here and add your name and the url to that particular post to the link gadget, which is at the end of my 40 till 40 post.

Missions Matter! ~Blog Giveaway coming November 12th!

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