When Peace Flees

How is it that things can be trucking along oh-so well and suddenly nosedive? You find yourself standing in a barren place saying “What on earth just happened?!” The peace you had evaporated, leaving emptiness where it once was. You know what I'm talking about, don't you?

For days I grappled discouragement and it just didn't make sense to me. I began hunting for peace—God's peace—after all, how was I to teach a Bible study dealing with peace when all I had was a ring of evaporation where there once was that river of peace? So I searched for where I turned off the path, for harbored sin, for unknown sin, for over-tiredness...anything that might even overshadow God's peace in me. But I carefully avoided an area. It hurt too much to go near there. An area that often seems selfish to me.

You'd think I'd have learned my lesson by now. But I guess I haven't.

In the midst of all that's going on, I closed the documents that were always open. It seemed that once again I had to postpone writing fiction and, to be honest, I didn't put up much of a fight. The historical missionary romance story I'm working on brings up so much emotion in me that it's overwhelming. I totally love the research I was doing, but had to read it through tears. I don't understand why. Maybe it's a way that God was using to show me and remind me that this isn't just a pet project, that it's something He's planted deep in my heart, that it's not something I can walk away from, even for a few months. Working on it is a joy that often bleeds and leaves me wavering between exhilaration and exhaustion.

On my way to Bible study last night, I poured out my heart to God, asking Him where the peace had gone and how was I to teach on His peace when I didn't have it. I asked, and God answered. I think He'd been trying to answer for a couple of days but I was too busy avoiding that area of my heart, thinking the ache over closing that document for awhile was simply my selfish desire to write.

I wasn't even half-way to study when peace returned. This morning that document is once again open, and this afternoon I'll work on it. A little everyday will keep the momentum going and the progress flowing while still letting me do the other things I need to do.

Peace I leave with you; My peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you. Do not let your heart be troubled, nor let it be fearful. ~John 14:27

So tell me, how's the peace in your heart?

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Language & Missionaries

It's a winner of a day
here at Patterings.
LoL--sometimes saying that just totally cracks me up. *eye roll*

Aaaaanyway...today's winner of Diana Brandemeyer's book, Hearts on the Road, is Karen K. Enjoy! =)

In other news, I've been working on my missionary romance this week and had a piece of the puzzle fall together yesterday. I'm beginning to get excited now that more and more pieces are fitting together. =) I reached my writing goal each day, and I'm sloooowly making progress. Granted, those words majorly stink--but that's okay! I'm making progress and moving forward, which is very important after last month!!

So tell me, what's a missionary to do when they have an extremely hard time learning the language? If he's there to tell people about Jesus, and he butchers the language, is there any hope for him or should he just pack his bags and head for home?

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Unimportant Update

Yesterday I finished two major projects I HAD to do this week: finish our Christmas shopping and finish the preliminary edits for my husband's book about gender dynamics. Actually, I've been working on those edits since March, so this has been a major project, especially considering that I'm not an editor (which is why I did only the preliminary edits!) and the material wasn't something I would normally have an interest in. But I do have a great interest in my husband and I've heard much about gender dynamics since I'm one of his sounding boards. =) What a learning experience this year has been! Now that project is off my plate. Kind of. LoL

In the cracks of time (it's amazing how much you can read in 5-10 minute segments!) I've been reading and researching for my new project, the one God gave me on my birthday. I've read Through Gates of Splendor, These Strange Ashes, and No Graven Image, all by Elisabeth Elliot and all about Ecuador. I love reading missionary stories and I love reading about Ecuador—the people and the country itself.

The next books on my list are Jungle Pilot (about Nate Saint's life) and End of the Spear (written by Steve Saint, Nate's son). I have to tell ya, I'm having a very hard time making myself do the things I need to—things like correct the kids' school work, plan (and help cook) the meals, fold the mountain of laundry, sweep and vacuum. You know, the usual things I need to do to keep our household running smoothly, or at least running. LoL All I want to do is dive into End of the Spear. I know that's reading the books out of order, but it's a library book I had to order from a different library and I want to make sure it's read by the time it's due. Thankfully, I own Jungle Pilot, thanks to the generosity of Missionary Aviation Fellowship.

Speaking of MAF, I really, really, want to write a book (a novel LoL) about an MAF pilot. Last month, as I read a bit about Nate Saint (in Through Gates of Splendor and flipping throuugh Jungle Pilot) and then did some research online, I had to pry myself away and refocus on the storylines I have. Those stories have to take place before or during World War II to fit in the parameters of the publisher I'm aiming for, and MAF wasn't started until just after the war, by veterans. Men who saw a need, saw they could fill it with the skills God had given them, and they obeyed God's call. Their obedience to God and the vision He gave them changed the landscape of missions. My brain goes into a frenzy when I start thinking of possible storylines with MAF pilots and someday I'd love to follow that...

This is the second or third week that I've done NO writing. This week I've not been on the computer much, except to edit for Jim. I'm backlogged and feeling a bit panicky about not writing and all the things I need to do (my writing to-do list, not even considering my daily living to-do list!!). I've let Adding Zest sit idle because those articles take a huge amount of time and energy to write, time and energy I just haven't had. I've also let this place sit idle except for the author spotlights. But yanno, that's okay. =)

Just wanted to give you an unimportant update of what's been going on. Next year (LoL it's just a couple weeks away!) I'll get back to my normal routine around here with devotionals, not just author spotlights.

If you haven't seen them yet, there's two book giveaways going on this week:
Margaret Daley with Christmas Peril, and Amber Stockton with the winner's choice of book. Both book drawings close late tomorrow night, so if you haven't entered, you still have time!

Merry Christmas!!

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Another Surprising Twist

My birthday was quite a day. An amazing day. First thing in the morning I went to one of my favorite sites, The Seekers, to make sure I didn't miss the fun they had planned for the day. They had Tina James, senior editor from Steeple Hill Love Inspired—my target publisher and a book giveaway every hour. That adds up to a must read early status! =]

As I read the interview I came to a sentence that I had to read about 4 times before I was sure I wasn't seeing things. Here's what it said: “We are also interested in stories featuring missionaries abroad in exotic locations during various historical periods.” Now, for those of you that know me really well, know that I went on high alert right then. But I pressed on with the article, determined to read it all and leave my comment to get my name in the hat for the book drawings. (Yanno, important things first. *eye roll*)

When I left my comment, I copied and pasted that sentence and mentioned how it had caught my attention because I'm an MK who happens to love history. And writing. But then I sat and stared at the computer screen as my brain went into overdrive with ideas, possibilities and what I would need to do so I could write a historical missionary novel.

Since then I've begun some preliminary research online and I have plans for contacting people I know who might be able to point me in the right direction for more information, as well as contacting mission agencies that I know were in Ecuador in the early days. I'm centering my research on missionary life between the years of 1900-1960, with an emphasis on prior to 1950. I'm also focusing my research on missions in South America, especially Ecuador, but I'll be researching and studying much more than just Ecuador and South America because I'd like to write more than one missionary novel.

I have reasons for doing this. It's not just a whim.
~God has called me to write.

~Missions has had a huge influence on my life. I am who I am today because of missions and missionaries who invested in me.

~That sentence that caught my attention has been sitting on the Love Inspired Historical website for who knows how long and I never saw it until my birthday.

~For 40 days before my birthday I celebrated and prepared for the upcoming year. I was seeking (and still am) God's will for my year. I want His best and I want to follow Him. God is a God of infinite detail and I believe His hand was in the timing of me seeing that sentence.

~For 20 years I've been wanting to do something to increase missions awareness so more will pray for them and be involved in their outreach. Last year, part of my 40 day birthday celebration was a missions spotlight for that purpose. (It's archived under the Missions Matter tab above.) Writing missionary novels—fictional missionary stories—will get missions and missionaries in front of readers.

~I want to help people see and understand that missionaries are real people. They aren't super-spiritual people who speak in thee's and thou's and have no fun! Missionaries are approachable and need prayer and support, but so often we seldom hear about them as we sit here in the States. They're off our radar screens—to our detriment.

In the few days since that sentence wrapped itself around my neck, I've thought of nothing else. I've been doing preliminary research and a lot of thinking and soul searching. When I shared this with some of my friends, they didn't laugh. They encouraged me and started praying. My family and those that know me best (warts and all) see this as a good fit. I'll be diving into research, knowing it will be more than just research—it will be challenging on every level, especially spiritually. I'm looking forward to it. I love reading missionary stories. I find them interesting and I always grow as I read them. The other research I was looking at having to do was a drudgery. This is a joy.

You'll be in on the highlights of my research. As I come across thoughts and quotes that challenge me I'll post about them here. I've already found one and I'm anxious to share it with you.

I wanted to share all this with you here because I truly believe this is one of the results of my 40 day celebration and preparation. Have you been thinking about what you can do in the last 40 days of this year to help prepare you for the upcoming year? The 40 day countdown starts on Sunday, November 22 –a week from today.

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From These Ashes

This is a story that is near and dear to my heart because the setting is where I consider home--Ecuador. This is fiction, but things like this happen.
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From These Ashes
They're too weak to bear this, Lord. Jared slumped against the mud courtyard wall and looked at the church. Pieces of jagged glass clung to charred window frames, bearing testimony of the destruction within the cinder block walls. Tendrils of smoke curled out from the smoldering heap that was once a pulpit and simple wooden pews.

Jared raised his eyes to the roof of the building. Even the cross Marco made, Lord, it's gone. And the new Bibles and hymnbooks. Oh, Lord, I wish I hadn't brought them over last night. His eyes slid closed as his chin dropped onto his chest.

At the squeal of the gate Jared looked up. Marco stepped in and stood surveying the damage the vandals had done. Looking up at the roof, his eyes narrowed and his jaw set, but he said nothing. He turned and looked around the courtyard at the garbage that had been dumped and strewn around. Shaking his head, he walked back out the gate without looking back.

Jared's head fell back against the wall and his eyes burned from more than just smoke. Lord, Marco is leaving--the man I thought could someday be the pastor here.

Jared heard the gate clanking, but didn't open his eyes. He didn't want to see any one else turn away. After a moment, a scraping noise grated on his ears and he raised his head.

“Marco. What are you doing?” he asked.

Marco leaned on the handle of his shovel. “We have a service here in 30 minutes and I thought it'd be more pleasant if we didn't have to stand amidst the garbage.”

“I don't know that it will make a difference.”

Marco looked down, scraping the sole of his worn shoe on the shovel. Scratching his trimmed, black beard he looked at Jared. “That's just a building, Pastor,” he said. “The people, the true church, will still be here in 30 minutes.”

Will they come, though?

The gate squealed again and a group of women entered, each carrying a broom. Their hushed talk ceased as they stood in the courtyard.

Tears rolled down Carmen's face as she looked at the destruction. “Those men who did this are fighting against God. They think that burning the church will put an end to God pursuing them, but they're wrong. We need to pray even harder for them now.”

Jared rose to his feet, emotion filling his throat as he reached for the extra shovel Marco had brought. Here I was, thinking they weren't strong enough to handle this, Lord, and they're praying for the ones who did it. Forgive me, Father, and help me learn from them. Give me the wisdom to handle this correctly. Please, use this for Your glory.

Garbage quickly gave way to people as they trickled in, each whispering about the men who they suspected of destroying the church. Each week two or three men had been across the street, scoffing as people came and went from church. They were the star players of the towns' soccer team and were influential with the men of the town. Many church people had been praying specifically for their salvation. This morning they were nowhere to be found.

Jared wiped his hands on a rag as he looked around at the group gathered in the courtyard. Father, they're all here. Not one is missing.

Marco stood beside him, grinning. “This is the church, Pastor.”

Jared smiled, struggling to find his voice. “How did you become so wise, my friend?”

“You taught me that, just as you taught me that good can come from these ashes.”

Lord, bring beauty from these ashes...

Jared raised his hands, and in a clear, strong voice he led his flock. “Praise God, from Whom all blessings flow...”

When the last notes faded away Jared raised his voice again. “Jesus asked Peter an important question one time. He asked, 'Who do you say that I am?' and Peter answered, 'Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God.' Jesus' response was, 'and upon this rock I will build My church; and the gates of Hades shall not overpower it.'*” Jared turned and reached for his Bible.

Pray for the men who did this, Jared.

Now, Lord?

Now.

Jared turned back to the group without his Bible. “Pray with me. Dear Heavenly Father, I pray for those that did this. Let them see that burning a church will not put an end to You pursuing them. Don't let go of them until they stop fighting against You and completely surrender to You. Open their hearts to Your love and forgiveness. Please, Lord, do not let go of them; draw them to Yourself and make them one of Your beloved children. In the name of Jesus, Your resurrected Son, I pray, amen.”

Hiding in the shadows of the alley, a man who reeked of whiskey, wood smoke and garbage wrapped his arms around himself as his head dropped and his shoulders shook.


* Matthew 16:15-18 (NASB)
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I'm so excited! This is the first time I've been able to participate in Fiction Friday for months. And the first time I've participated since passing on the baton. I meant to announce to everyone that Fiction Friday is now hosted by Karlene, a wonderful Faithwriters friend I got to meet in August at the conference. Karlene is a doll. Sweet, fun to be with and a servant's heart. I was thrilled when she said she would take over Fiction Friday for us. Thank you, Karlene! I'm so thankful for you!!

For links to more fun fiction stop by this week's host, Stina at With Pen in Hand.

Missions and missionaries are much on my mind these days, especially with Heidi's Candle in the Corner missions spotlights going on. Be sure to stop by and check it out and participate!

You'll also find this story at Journey Ezine, a wonderful mission outreach ezine. Check them out!

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Plagued By a Piece of Cake

This week Sherri is hosting Fiction Friday for us over at A Candid Thought. Join us there for links to more fun fiction! Also, Cara Putnam is in the author spotlight here this week she's giving away a copy of her new release, A Promise Kept. Be sure to leave a comment on Tuesday's or Wednesday's post to be entered in the drawing.

Now that our Vacation Bible School is over for our church, our eyes are fixed on the upcoming World Changers trip. This year 3 of my kids will going with 60+ others from our church youth department for a week of work. This is a highlight of their year and they're excited!

Throughout the summer many others are going on missions trips, and as you know, missions and missionaries are near-and-dear to my heart. So, for today's Fiction Friday, I'm posting a piece to remind us to pray for those going on missions trips.

Plagued By a Piece of Cake
***Thursday***
I'm so excited I can't sleep. Tomorrow we leave on our missions trip and I can't wait. Cindy, my team leader, keeps asking me if I'm sure I want to do this. I keep telling her I love people and new experiences. This is going to be a fabulous two weeks, I just know it.


***Friday***
This place is beautiful! Palm trees line the streets and snow capped mountains are in the distance—just gorgeous! We're spending the night in a dorm that missionary kids live in during the school year and it's not much different than my college dorm. There's even a t.v. in the living room area, and we had meatloaf for supper. I don't see what the big deal was about and why we had to sit through all that orientation. Tomorrow we travel to Chillanes where we'll work on their church. This is going to be a piece of cake.


***Saturday***
I thought we were going to die on the bus ride here! The driver was a madman! He flew around hairpin curves and wove in and out of traffic. He used his horn more than his brakes and he couldn't even stop someplace decent for us to use the restrooms. I have never seen, or smelled, such a disgusting place! The toilets were overflowing, there were no toilet seats, and you had to bring your own tissues in with you. When I started gagging Cindy led me around a hill so I could squat. If I hadn't been so desperate I would've waited for someplace with clean toilets.

It turns out Chillanes is a dirty little town. We're staying in rooms at the school where there's no glass in the windows and no running water: only a smelly outhouse.


***Sunday***
When I mentioned the accommodations to Cindy today, she said, “I kept telling you this is how it would be and you kept telling me you could handle it.” She makes me so mad! There's been dirty kids hanging on her, and she acts like she loves the food. At lunch we got potato soup and bread, and supper was a huge plate of rice and beans with some cooked bananas thrown across the top. Of course, Cindy smiled and cleaned her plate. Everyone loves her—I just don't get it. Tomorrow we start work.


***Friday***
I am so tired I don't know how much I'll be able to write.
The work is harder than I thought it would be and people are always nagging me about being too stand-offish. I work hard, but I can't stand the food, and I'm starving. The dirtiness of the everything is just gross, too. I'm glad the kids don't pester me anymore--their sticky, grimy hands give me chills just thinking about them! The adults are better, but they don't try to talk to me anymore, either. I smile at them and say, 'hola', but they just smile and go talk to someone else. I don't get it.


***Sunday***
We went to another church today, even higher in the mountains and dirtier than this place. I forgot my candy bars and didn't get to eat anything all day. One of the old ladies there gave me some of those baby bananas. I smiled and said thank you, but I couldn't eat them after seeing her dirty fingernails. I threw them out as soon as I could. Later on she wouldn't even look at me but went and sat near Cindy. Of course Cindy put her arm around the lady and gave her a hug. How can she do that?


***Wednesday***
I shared a candy bar with one of the cleaner girls today. She laughed and ran off to share it with her friends. I was so weak I stayed in bed almost all day. Two more days here and then we go back to the city to fly home. The other girls are talking about how much they'll miss the people here, but I don't know why. I tried making friends with them, but even tonight they didn't want anything to do with me. And they say I'm standoffish!


***Friday***
Finally! We're back in civilization! I almost ate myself sick at supper. They served hamburgers and nothing ever tasted so good!

The people here are so much cleaner and friendlier. Why couldn't that village be like this? They don't treat me like I have the plague here-- I don't understand why the village people did.
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This was great fun to write because I wove bits of real events in with the fiction. Chillanes is a town in Ecuador, although my description here is NOT accurate of the town, but I wanted to use that town name because two of my favorite missionaries live there--they had a profound influence on my life, whether they know it or not, and I love them greatly.

This sort of thing happens quite often on missions trips--unfortunately--but it doesn't have to! Loving people speaks through our actions and crosses all language barriers. I've seen missionaries kill the language but still have a great ministry because of their love for the people. It all comes down to love--God's love in and through us.

Remember to pray for the missionaries you know, as well as those going on missions trips this summer!

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An Andes High

It's Fiction Friday! Really, it is, even though I'm once again running late. I had a couple of big things come up last night, and I'm still scrambling as a result. But that's okay! They were blessings and I'm so thankful for them! God is showing me again just how good He is. WoW!

Today Rick, at Pod Tales and Ponderings, is hosting Fiction Friday for us. Be sure to join us there for more links to fun fiction. :-)

This week's story is a special one to me--it's about Ecuador and based on a story told me by my classmate, Pete. Similar stories are told by many of my missionary friends from many different countries, and they never cease to amaze me.
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An Andes High

My nose was dripping again from the cold, so I pulled out my bandanna and blew it, then wished I hadn't. I suddenly had an unobstructed whiff of the Quichuas that were packed into the tent to see the Jesus film. Bathing in the icy streams of the Andes Mountains was not something these people did very often, and I didn't blame them—this high in the mountains it was cold, even on sunny days. That whiff was enough to wake me up from the stupor I had fallen into and it was good a thing since the movie was almost over. I wanted to get the reels rewound so I could crawl into my sleeping bag as soon as possible after the meeting ended.

Rubbing my gritty eyes, I saw all the people crowded together, sitting on the ground, watching the movie. The Quichua women, with their heavy wool skirts insulating them against the cold, had children tucked in around them, forming a family cluster, with their father nearby, stoic in his sweater or jacket and traditional wool hat. No one was dozing, no one was even yawning or squirming. All eyes were focused on the canvas wall that served as the projector screen, intently watching.

This was the third night of showing a film at the end of busy days of getting a fresh water supply to the village--if you could call this a village. There was a school building, a thatch outhouse, and one sod home, no more. Other homes were tucked within the folds of the mountains, visible only if you knew what to look for and where to look, yet every night the tent was packed with people wanting to see the Jesus movie. While they sang a few songs in their nasal Quechua language I rewound the reels then settled back to pray while Angelo, a young national pastor, preached in Quechua.

Later, as I was putting away the ancient reel-to-reel projector, a man ran in. “Senor Pedro. Please, will you show the film again tonight?” His face was flushed and I wondered if he'd been out back drinking, but he didn't smell of the local brew.

I was exhausted. The Jesus film was a great tool for reaching these mountain people, many of whom had never seen a movie in their lives, but if I showed the movie again, it'd be hours before I could go to bed. There was a rustling at the doorway that drew my attention. A group of people stood there, all with flushed faces.

Looking back at him I finally recognized the man standing before me--he had been saved the first night we showed the movie.

“Please, my family needs Jesus, too.”

Even though I was exhausted I couldn't miss this opportunity. I called them into the tent then turned and threaded the film strip into the projector while they collapsed on the ground, chattering excitedly. When the movie began they quieted, all except for one or two who translated as much as they could into Quechua. Other people drifted back in to watch and soon the tent was full again.

I stepped outside for a few minutes and took a deep breath of the frigid air. It was cold enough to sting my nose, but wonderfully fresh. I looked up and was once again amazed. Lord, it's beautiful up here. The stars are so close I think I could reach out and touch them, and they're so bright. I slowly turned in a circle, looking at the towering mountain peeks that surrounded me, awed by their velvetty black silhouettes against their starry background. Thank You for getting them here in time and for getting my attention. Please touch their hearts, Lord.

When the movie ended Angelo preached again.

Afterwards the man came to me. “Gracias, Senor Pedro. Mi familia,” he had to swallow and try again. “I knew they needed Jesus, so I ran home and brought them back. Now my family knows Jesus, too.”

Angelo joined us then, smiling. “This man lives a full day's journey from here, on the other side of the mountain. To make it there and back so quickly he must have run the whole way, gathered his family and then come running back, carrying the little ones. He was afraid they'd be too late, but praise God, they weren't.”

And to think I was almost too tired to be bothered...
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Don't forget to join us at Rick's at Pod Tales and Ponderings for more links to Fiction Friday!

Julie Lessman is giving away a copy of one of her books! To be entered in the drawing, leave a comment on one of her posts below. You can either scroll down to Tuesday and Wednesday's posts or click here.

Next week we have Janet Dean and a copy of Courting the Doctor's Daughter. Be sure to join us!

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Going Fishing

Welcome to Fiction Friday! This week Sharlyn is hosting for us--be sure to join us there for links to more fiction!

Today's story is a small slice from my life...

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“You want me to go fishing with you on Saturday?!” I tried not to groan, but I didn’t quite succeed. Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind going fishing with Dad, but I was hoping to sleep in. When Dad goes fishing he’s up and going at 4 a.m. and I hate getting up that early! But, being the good daughter that I am, I didn’t say no right away.

“Where are you going?” I hedged.

“There’s a lake I heard about that you can drive to; no hiking.”

Dad knew me well. He knew it’d be more enticing if I didn’t have to hike for hours through the mountains. “You can drive to this lake?”

I must’ve sounded rather incredulous, “Yes, you don’t even have to hike in.” We lived in the Andes Mountains and as you went higher there were fewer roads.

My mind was working. Fishing without the hike--it sounded almost too good to be true. “Sure, I’ll go.” I knew I could curl up in a clump of paramo grass, catch a morning nap and still have plenty of time to fish a little and to read some.

Saturday came and I piled into the truck before 4:30, grumbling about it while Dad happily sang chorus after chorus. What Dad greatly lacks in a singing voice, he more than makes up for in enthusiasm, so I wasn’t able to sleep any before we left the paved roads for the mountain roads.

“Remind me next time to ask about the so-called road before agreeing!!” The road was so rough that my head was coming close to hitting the roof, so I put my seat belt on to keep me anchored down. Right when I thought the road couldn’t get any worse, it did.

“Stop!” I hollered as I grabbed onto both the dashboard and the door arm rest. Dad slammed on the breaks, gripping the steering wheel tight enough his knuckles were white and looked over at me. “You missed a bump back there!”

There was a wicked gleam in his eye when he realized what I’d said. He threw the truck in reverse and backed up fast, swerving crazily from one side of the road to the other, stopped, slid it back into drive, and took off like a mad-man, still swerving from side to side. I was holding on for dear life, screeching and laughing at the same time, begging him to stop.

When he once again slammed on his breaks I wilted onto the seat. “There! Did I get them all that time?” I was still trying to catch my breath so I didn’t respond. “What?! I still missed some?”

He reached to shift back into reverse but I lunged for his hand, “No! Please, no more!” It was hard to talk while laughing so hard, “You got them all!”

At last we topped out onto a plateau and the lake lay before us. “Wow,” Dad stopped the truck and we sat there in awe. Not only was the lake in front of us, but to the right a steep, rocky peak soared high, and best of all, the view of Antisana. “I heard we’d see the mountain on a clear day.”

Dad was soon pulling out his fishing gear, and I grabbed my backpack, anxious to settle into a clump of paramo grass. The peace of the lake enfolded me and I dozed off listening to the breeze blow above me, through the grass.

Along about mid-morning Dad took off hiking, and I gladly picked up my book, knowing he’d be gone for a couple of hours. I knew from past experiences he would find a spot and settle in to read his Bible, he always said he felt closest to God while out there fishing.

The next time I saw Dad he was stopped in the middle of the plateau, standing with his hands raised. At first I thought something was wrong, but when the wind shifted I could hear him singing. He sang all four verses of “How Great Thou Art,” in English and also in Spanish, and my heart joined his in worship and praise.

That’s still how l picture him, wearing his fishing vest and battered felt hat, standing in the middle of the Andes Mountains singing “How Great Thou Art.” Fishing was just a side trip, but connecting with God was the real reason for heading out there.

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Don't forget to join us at Dancing on Rainbows for more Fiction Friday.

This week Linore Rose Burkard is here. She's a speaker at the Faithwriters conference and you'll love her! Leave a message on the interview with Linore to be entered in her book giveaway!

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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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From These Ashes --Fiction Friday

This is a story that is near and dear to my heart because the setting is where I consider home--Ecuador. This is fiction, but things like this happen.
********
They're too weak to bear this, Lord. Jared slumped against the mud courtyard wall and looked at the church. Pieces of jagged glass clung to charred window frames, bearing testimony of the destruction within the cinder block walls. Tendrils of smoke curled out from the smoldering heap that was once a pulpit and simple wooden pews.

Jared raised his eyes to the roof of the building. Even the cross Marco made, Lord, it's gone. And the new Bibles and hymnbooks. Oh, Lord, I wish I hadn't brought them over last night. His eyes slid closed as his chin dropped onto his chest.

At the squeal of the gate Jared looked up. Marco stepped in and stood surveying the damage the vandals had done. Looking up at the roof, his eyes narrowed and his jaw set, but he said nothing. He turned and looked around the courtyard at the garbage that had been dumped and strewn around. Shaking his head, he walked back out the gate without looking back.

Jared's head fell back against the wall and his eyes burned from more than just smoke. Lord, Marco is leaving--the man I thought could someday be the pastor here.

Jared heard the gate clanking, but didn't open his eyes. He didn't want to see any one else turn away. After a moment, a scraping noise grated on his ears and he raised his head.

“Marco. What are you doing?” he asked.

Marco leaned on the handle of his shovel. “We have a service here in 30 minutes and I thought it'd be more pleasant if we didn't have to stand amidst the garbage.”

“I don't know that it will make a difference.”

Marco looked down, scraping the sole of his worn shoe on the shovel. Scratching his trimmed, black beard he looked at Jared. “That's just a building, Pastor,” he said. “The people, the true church, will still be here in 30 minutes.”

Will they come, though?

The gate squealed again and a group of women entered, each carrying a broom. Their hushed talk ceased as they stood in the courtyard.

Tears rolled down Carmen's face as she looked at the destruction. “Those men who did this are fighting against God. They think that burning the church will put an end to God pursuing them, but they're wrong. We need to pray even harder for them now.”

Jared rose to his feet, emotion filling his throat as he reached for the extra shovel Marco had brought. Here I was, thinking they weren't strong enough to handle this, Lord, and they're praying for the ones who did it. Forgive me, Father, and help me learn from them. Give me the wisdom to handle this correctly. Please, use this for Your glory.

Garbage quickly gave way to people as they trickled in, each whispering about the men who they suspected of destroying the church. Each week two or three men had been across the street, scoffing as people came and went from church. They were the star players of the towns' soccer team and were influential with the men of the town. Many church people had been praying specifically for their salvation. This morning they were nowhere to be found.

Jared wiped his hands on a rag as he looked around at the group gathered in the courtyard. Father, they're all here. Not one is missing.

Marco stood beside him, grinning. “This is the church, Pastor.”

Jared smiled, struggling to find his voice. “How did you become so wise, my friend?”

“You taught me that, just as you taught me that good can come from these ashes.”

Lord, bring beauty from these ashes...

Jared raised his hands, and in a clear, strong voice he led his flock. “Praise God, from Whom all blessings flow...”

When the last notes faded away Jared raised his voice again. “Jesus asked Peter an important question one time. He asked, 'Who do you say that I am?' and Peter answered, 'Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God.' Jesus' response was, 'and upon this rock I will build My church; and the gates of Hades shall not overpower it.'*” Jared turned and reached for his Bible.

Pray for the men who did this, Jared.

Now, Lord?

Now.

Jared turned back to the group without his Bible. “Pray with me. Dear Heavenly Father, I pray for those that did this. Let them see that burning a church will not put an end to You pursuing them. Don't let go of them until they stop fighting against You and completely surrender to You. Open their hearts to Your love and forgiveness. Please, Lord, do not let go of them; draw them to Yourself and make them one of Your beloved children. In the name of Jesus, Your resurrected Son, I pray, amen.”

Hiding in the shadows of the alley, a man who reeked of whiskey, wood smoke and garbage wrapped his arms around himself as his head dropped and his shoulders shook.


* Matthew 16:15-18 (NASB)
********
Thanks so much for joining us for Fiction Friday! If you're joining us in posting, add your name and url to Mr. Linky and enjoy the other fiction. If you're reading, be sure to follow the links--there's some great stories this week!
Happy Friday, everyone!

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Fiction Friday: Plagued By a Piece of Cake

***Thursday***
I'm so excited I can't sleep. Tomorrow we leave on our missions trip and I can't wait. Cindy, my team leader, keeps asking me if I'm sure I want to do this. I keep telling her I love people and new experiences. This is going to be a fabulous two weeks, I just know it.


***Friday***
This place is beautiful! Palm trees line the streets and snow capped mountains are in the distance—just gorgeous! We're spending the night in a dorm that missionary kids live in during the school year and it's not much different than my college dorm. There's even a t.v. in the living room area, and we had meatloaf for supper. I don't see what the big deal was about and why we had to sit through all that orientation. Tomorrow we travel to Chillanes where we'll work on their church. This is going to be a piece of cake.


***Saturday***
I thought we were going to die on the bus ride here! The driver was a madman! He flew around hairpin curves and wove in and out of traffic. He used his horn more than his brakes and he couldn't even stop someplace decent for us to use the restrooms. I have never seen, or smelled, such a disgusting place! The toilets were overflowing, there were no toilet seats, and you had to bring your own tissues in with you. When I started gagging Cindy led me around a hill so I could squat. If I hadn't been so desperate I would've waited for someplace with clean toilets.

It turns out Chillanes is a dirty little town. We're staying in rooms at the school where there's no glass in the windows and no running water: only a smelly outhouse.


***Sunday***
When I mentioned the accommodations to Cindy today, she said, “I kept telling you this is how it would be and you kept telling me you could handle it.” She makes me so mad! There's been dirty kids hanging on her, and she acts like she loves the food. At lunch we got potato soup and bread, and supper was a huge plate of rice and beans with some cooked bananas thrown across the top. Of course, Cindy smiled and cleaned her plate. Everyone loves her—I just don't get it. Tomorrow we start work.


***Friday***
I am so tired I don't know how much I'll be able to write.
The work is harder than I thought it would be and people are always nagging me about being too stand-offish. I work hard, but I can't stand the food, and I'm starving. The dirtiness of the everything is just gross, too. I'm glad the kids don't pester me anymore--their sticky, grimy hands give me chills just thinking about them! The adults are better, but they don't try to talk to me anymore, either. I smile at them and say, 'hola', but they just smile and go talk to someone else. I don't get it.


***Sunday***
We went to another church today, even higher in the mountains and dirtier than this place. I forgot my candy bars and didn't get to eat anything all day. One of the old ladies there gave me some of those baby bananas. I smiled and said thank you, but I couldn't eat them after seeing her dirty fingernails. I threw them out as soon as I could. Later on she wouldn't even look at me but went and sat near Cindy. Of course Cindy put her arm around the lady and gave her a hug. How can she do that?


***Wednesday***
I shared a candy bar with one of the cleaner girls today. She laughed and ran off to share it with her friends. I was so weak I stayed in bed almost all day. Two more days here and then we go back to the city to fly home. The other girls are talking about how much they'll miss the people here, but I don't know why. I tried making friends with them, but even tonight they didn't want anything to do with me. And they say I'm standoffish!


***Friday***
Finally! We're back in civilization! I almost ate myself sick at supper. They served hamburgers and nothing ever tasted so good!

The people here are so much cleaner and friendlier. Why couldn't that village be like this? They don't treat me like I have the plague here-- I don't understand why the village people did.


*****************

This was great fun to write because I wove bits of real events in with the fiction. Chillanes is a town in Ecuador, although my description here is NOT accurate of the town, but I wanted to use that town name because two of my favorite missionares live in there--they had a profound influence on my life, whether they know it or not, and I love them greatly. This sort of thing happens quite often on missions trips--unfortunately--but it doesn't have to!!

Remember to pray for the missionaries you know, as well as those going on missions trips this summer!!

Thank you for joining us for Fiction Friday, whether you're posting fiction or reading--or both. If you're posting, put a link to us here at Patterings, and add your name and url address to the Mr. Liknky gadget. If you're reading, enjoy the stories!

And don't forget to tell your friends! Anyone and everyone is welcome!

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Friday's Fiction: Hermanas

Welcome to our first round of Friday's Fiction! I'm so glad you could join us, whether you're posting or reading--or both. If you're posting, at the end of this story there's a Mr. Linky box for you to add your name and url address to. If you're reading, enjoy the stories!

And a humonous THANK YOU to Kristen for making the button for us!!


If you'd like to join the fun and post the button, too, here's the code: (Just remove the three sets of astericks to make it work.)
<**center> <**a href="http://pattywysong.blogspot.com/2008/05/tomorrow-is-almost.html"> <**img src="http://i218.photobucket.com/albums/cc241/IrishMissy16/Taste%20Buds/patteringsbutton.jpg"/>


This is a fictionalized true story from Ecuador...

~~~Hermanas~~~

I laid out another batch of trim boards on the sawhorses and studied the stack I still had left to do, wondering if the pile was growing when my back was turned. At this rate, I'd never get done by the end of today. My sawhorses were set up along the edge of the church courtyard and people would pass and wave, sometimes stopping to talk, but when they realized I didn't understand Spanish they'd smile and move on. Lord, what am I doing here? Anybody could be staining this trim and I could be home taking care of my children and getting ready to teach my Ladies' Bible Study. What on earth am I doing here? Why am I here? Did You really want me here?

While mulling over why I was on this mission's trip, thousands of miles from home, one of the church ladies came over, picked up a paint brush and said something, but I had no idea what. I flashed her my best smile and shrugged. “I'm sorry, I don't understand Spanish.”

She smiled, dipped the brush into the can of stain and began working with me. After a moment she put a hand on her chest and said, “Sonya.” Pointing to me she raised an eyebrow.

I might be slow with a paint brush, but I caught on to her game fast. I pointed to myself and said, “Rebecca.”

Sonya raised her left hand and showed me her simple wedding band, then pointed to my own ring. We grinned at each other and then, through a series of pantomimes, we discovered we both had three children and even their ages. Sonya's eyes were warm and glowing with a joy that could only come from knowing Jesus, and I marveled at the connection I felt with her, even though we could only communicate through mime. The silence that fell between us was comfortable, but it didn't last long—Sonya began humming as she worked.

I immediately recognized the hymn “Trust and Obey” and knew she had given me the answer to my 'why am I here' question. I was staining trim in a church courtyard where I was one of the few that didn't speak Spanish because God had told me to. It was all about trusting and obeying God. Tears welled up and I blinked fast to keep them contained, but Sonya noticed and gave my hand a squeeze as she continued humming.

Clearing my throat I joined her on the chorus. “Trust and obey for there's no other way, to be happy in Jesus, but to trust and obey.” We sang the rest of the song together, alternating lines. Sonya would sing a line in Spanish and I'd sing the next in English. We finished the song together, laughing at how we sounded, but pleased we'd found another way to connect.

I wrapped my arm around her shoulders for a squeeze. “Thank you!” I knew Sonya wouldn't understand me, but hoped she'd hear my heart. “Before you started helping me stain the trim I was feeling sorry for myself, wondering why I had come here, to a place where I couldn't even communicate with people. I thought that God could've used me more at home, or at least someplace where they speak English. But now I see that my being here is about me trusting and obeying Him. He'll take care of the rest. Thank you for reminding me of that.” We shared a smile and I knew she'd understood my heart. Thank You so much, Father. Help me to obey You and to trust You at all times.

After a few moments of quietly working Sonya began talking to me, much as I had to her. Even though I didn't understand her words, I understood her tears and her heart, and I hurt with her. Just as she had done for me, I held her hand, squeezing it when tears clogged her voice.

The missionaries' daughter passed by and Sonya called her over to translate for us. “Her husband is an elder of the church and feels that God is calling him into the mission's camp ministry, but he's struggling. They live with the rest of his family, in an apartment off his mother's courtyard, but his family isn't saved. They're giving him a hard time about it because he has a good job here with the electric company. They're making it hard for Sonya, too, saying she's stealing him from them.”

Our translator was called away, but Sonya continued on, finally wiping her tears and smiling. After another hug I dug in my backpack for my Bible. I turned to Ephesians and showed her. Her eyes lit up and she ran for own her Bible.

With much laughter we got both Bibles to the same place and I pointed to Ephesians 1:15-19 in her Bible, hoping she'd understand I'd be praying those verses for her. They were underlined in her Bible, just as they were in mine, so I knew she was familiar with them. With more tears Sonya hugged me then turned a page and pointed. I didn't need my Bible for that one.

“Bear one another's burdens, and thus fulfill the law of Christ.”*

Sonya beamed a smile at me. “Hermanas,” she said as she pointed first to herself and then to me.

Somehow, I remembered what that word meant. “Sisters.”



*Galatians 6:2 (NAS)

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