Sunday’s Musings 9/2

Again, for this post I’m dipping again back into Ecclesiastes but this time, the 2nd chapter.

Solomon, with all his wealth, pursued life and it’s bountiful pleasures. So he says in this chapter. His was a pursuit for fulfillment for what satisfies the human heart; what do men find pleasing and fulfilling in this life. He wanted to find this satisfaction and and, as he says in vs 3, “which they should do all the days of their life”. So not only to find ultimate satisfaction but then to pursue it till death. Did he find it? No. There was nothing he didn’t try. Whatever he wanted, he got.

What was he trying to run from? The answer comes…death. It’s a fact of life. He, a wise man, would eventually die. So would the beggars of his time. And after death, everything he did, he would leave behind. So the question is asked, what did all those possessions of his benefit him? They didn’t. He recognizes this and there’s anguish in his voice as he asks in vs 19, “and who knows if he will be a wise man or a fool? he will rule over all my labour”.

Ecclesiastes is a book of man’s search for God. The rest of the Bible is about God’s search for man.

EJ

Glorious Truth

“So, Jesus died for for me. Why?”

“You want to know why?”, I asked her.

“Yeah”, was the response.

Looking her full in the face and knowing I was about to utter sacred and precious truth, I answered her. “Because He loves you”.

This took a second or two to sink in. When it did, it was noticeable. Her face crinkled and her voice took on a quieter, more reflective tone. “Aw”, she said, “that’s sweet”.

Amen ma’am, I wanted to shout. This is the best news you can ever hear. It’s life changing, life giving and is the purpose and drive for a Christian. Unfortunately, this young woman wasn’t .

To give the setting a little, I had had plans to go to Pennsylvania last weekend. There was a number of stuff I wanted to do and people I had wanted to see. The main reason for going was a Paraguayan reunion. The plans for the reunion changed in the 11th hour and the event was moved to Virginia. Since I had a handful of things that I had wanted to do in Pennsylvania, I kept with those plans and began my weekend there. Friday night found me with a friend that I hadn’t seen in 2 years. John Beiler is from Port Royal and ever since Bible school about 4 years ago, we’ve been good friends. He’s someone whom I respect and listen to when he gives advice. Given the closeness of our friendship and the amount of time that has elapsed since our last chat, yes, I had a great desire to royally gab the hours away.

We were sitting there, about 200 yards away from the McDonalds where we had purchased our drinks. It had been a glorious evening of riding the mountain roads in his brother’s jeep and chatting all the while. The chatting had kept up underneath the spreading branches. of a friendly elm. We had just gotten well started when a car pulls up 2 spaces over. We ignored them; after all, it was a McDonalds and the public is in and out the whole time. After sitting there for about 10 minute, the female driver called out.

“Hey…whatcha doing?”. Her tone implied that she had other things on her mind

“Nuthin”, said John, “Just hanging out. What are you up to?”.

Her response was identical to John’s. “Nuthin. Just, you know, hanging out. Where you guys from?”

“I’m from around here and he’s”, jerking his head my direction, “from Ohio”.

“Ohio, really? Like Cleveland from (here I forget what TV show she quoted)?”

"I don’t know,” says I, “I don’t watch television”.

This aroused her. “Not watch television?!” astonishment showing in her voice, “What are you, Amish or something?”

“No, we’re not Amish” was John’s response.

“Then Mennonite, right?”

“Right”.

She gets out of her car and walked closer. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties. I looked at John and he looks at me. We’re thinking the same thing, “Heaven help us”. Her name was Sara and she was a local who was out trolling. According to her, she was a dealer in weed as well as a mild alcoholic. She was with her current boyfriend but confidentially told us that when she moves to Kansas, she’ll conveniently ditch him. She kept going on giving such information in hopes of what? Picking one of us up? Getting some money out of us for a mythical need? I don’t know. The conversation became interesting when she told us…

“I’ve wanted to become Amish”.

“Really? Why?”

“Well, not Amish. Just get married to a Amish guy. I think he’d be more stable and less likely to cheat on me.” Ooh, interesting. That piece of information ‘bout sent John and I spinning. Then she kept going. “He’d be a good person…like you guys.”

This we latched onto and hijacked the conversation. We explained to her that we aren’t naturally good. That of ourselves, we are nothing. It’s Christ living in us that gives us the power and freedom to live above our natural desires. She knew some spiritual information but we couldn’t take any scrap of information for granted. In talking to her, everything needed to be laid out and explained. Only after we talked about God as the ultimate supreme and good being could we proceed with the Garden of Eden and man’s depravity. From there, we went to the Cross. And that’s where we got to, what was for me, the highlight of the evening. Watching the knowledge of truth hit home and her response to it, I knew that we had gotten somewhere with her. It was priceless and a moment I’ll not forget for awhile. Shortly after this, she hurriedly left with her boyfriend, who by this time was getting antsy about the amount of time that we had spent in conversation.

They say a person on average hears the Good News about 7 times before coming to the point of commitment. I don’t know where Sara was but she got closer to it last Friday night. Nor do I know what she really wanted out of 2 guys who were enjoying their drinks and each other’s company. All I know is that she got a whole lot more than what she was looking for. She got Truth!

 

EJ

An Issue of Identity

Here I sit, in theory working on my presentation on Paraguay. This talk is due in a week at my church. But I’m tired of going through thousands of pics so here’s to something that I’ve been thinking of lately.

 

Identity. What is it? I was thinking about this and came to a conclusion a couple of weeks ago. This was shortly after I had gotten back from South America. The conclusion…what I had once thought of as my parent’s beliefs and ways of doing things has now become my own. Ever so slightly and through the years, a form of thinking and reasoning has developed. A style of living, likewise, has come upon me. Not saying that this is how I always will be but take this for a example. I go to church. I’m a Bible believing Mennonite and believe that my place, on Sunday morning, is in a pew. Now, when I was a child, I had to got to church. No ifs ands or buts about it…if my parents went to church, I went along. Now, it is my choice not only to go to church but where to go to church.

 

I use this because I’ve been getting this question a lot lately. “Do you still go to your Dad’s church?” Uh-huh, should I not? I realize that this is a point of reference for a lot of people. Casual acquaintances that I run into whom I haven’t seen for close to 3 years, ask me this. It’s easier for them to remember which church my father is a part of than it is thename of the church. It irritated me a little at first. Why do people almost assume that I DON’T go to my father’s church instead of assuming that it’s a good place to be? Has it to do with this rootless restlessness that is so prevalent in our culture today? 

My earthly father is no religion. Therefore, he has no church of worshipers giving him praise. Now my Heavenly Father, He does. Next time I’m asked this question, “Do you still go to your Father’s church?“, the answer will be a resounding yes!

In the States

Wow, tomorrow 2 weeks ago, I left what had become home for me for the past 2 years. As uncertain as going to another country can be, from experience, it’s the trip back that is even more uncertain. Why? When I left my life in the States, I had had a place in my social circle. In my job, family, church, etc., I had a place and I knew how to fill it. Going to a new country for a extended term of service, there is a level of uncertainty but eventually you discover your niche. You become acquainted with a new level of normality of life. The whole process of leaving this new normality again yanks you from what has become normal and comfortable to something different. Something that looks bigger and scarier than the process of acclimating to a new culture. And that is, re-acclimating to life in the States. I say States as this is where I’ve come from but it would be the same for anyone going back to their home country after being away for years. Why is it worse in coming back then in going? The answer is simple. As I’ve written, when I left, I had my place. But upon returning, I’m not assured of that place. Life has brought changes in my absence. And in the face of those changes…is uncertainty. The uncertainty of acclimation.

 

Re-acclimation can be a monster, if not properly prepared for, that will gobble the unsuspecting into it’s maw. In a mild fashion, re-acclimation shows itself in slight feelings of disorientation, short term loss of direction in life and a overwhelming need to sleep. But in a more severe manner, feelings of bitterness, criticism and envy can be evident if some disenfranchised soul, upon returning, looks about him and sees apparent apathy and materialism in place of fervent zeal and spiritual passion. I pray God that I avoid this latter and more extreme version of re-acclimation. But it’s not to be altogether feared. God is still God. He is still real. So with Him, I venture through this stage of re-acclimation.

Photos of A Dear Place

                                          

                                                      

                                                        

                             

      

Tonight…I’m away from this place. For over 2 years, this was home. I’m now in transition. No longer a “missionary" in Paraguay, I’m on a journey that will take me to another place. It’s supposed to be home as that’s where my family is but right now, my heart is in these pictures. The people there are missed. I wanna go back but I must keep on the road ahead of me.

EJ

The Book

Entering into a smaller room of the Chaco history museum, I came across this book. Gigantic in size, it was the book used to keep track of everyone’s account. Items bought and from whom, items sold and to whom, who owed a favor to whom, if a debt was paid in full and if not, how much was left of the debt. In short, fascinating! My thoughts wandered off to another book that we read about. Where everything that everyone has done is written down. PTL! On top of my account, it’s written PAID-IN-FULL.

 

                        

                The Book                                                                                                  Someone’s account from long ago.

 

                                                                   

                                                                     And one more. A macro shot of a old guitar.

EJ

These Latter Days

There’s not much to write about, or so I think. In 2 weeks, I’ll be home from this adventure in Paraguay. My days are filled with running here and there, doing training for the person that will take my place, drinking tea with friends who want a piece of my time and trying in the midst of all this bustle to remember what it is about Paraguay that I have come to love so much. The clear days. The almost perfect weather. The relaxed atmosphere that pervades the country…..thanks Senor Terere. Yes, when it’s blazing hot, it’s terrible dusty. The winters have a added chill to them in un-insulated block buildings. But on a day like today, I don’t think I could ever leave. But the reality is that in a week, I’ll be on to El Salvador for a week before, ultimately, heading home.

So instead of waxing eloquent on nothing, I’ll just add some photos. Sometime, I want to post some highlights about the past 2 years but not today.

 

                                        

This is the board on which much strategy is conducted. A favorite of we of the clinic, this game has travelled internationally. Currently, it’s in Argentina, waiting for use.

                                                   

           

 

Another year, another trip to the Paraguayan Chaco. All of these were taken there.

 

EJ

A Book Excerpt

 

The Christian has put his hand into the strong right hand of Christ. In the language of the popular opera, he has by an act of conscious faith “put his hand in the hand of the Man who stilled the water”, and in that hand, the omnipotent hand of the omnipotent Christ, he has found strength: strength to stand upright in a world that is tumbling all around him; strength to walk erect into a new day; strength to stand tall despite the pressures of adversity; strength to stand up for what is right; strength to resist temptation in whatever form – or having fallen, to tread the path of the prodigal back to the Father’s house.

Herman W. Gockel

A Transfer Peace

The yellow, crumbly and still slightly warm chipa* was handed forwarded. “Gracias”, I said and after a few seconds of mentally scrambling for the right word, “Aguijay” (spelled phonetically). Instantly I could tell by the tenor of his voice that the old man’s heart was gladdened and in my mind, I could see his darkened face lighting up. He thought he had made a rare find. A American that speaks his native language, Guarini. He was in for a minor letdown.

 

I was on a transfer that turned long. It started off being a normal transfer for Caesarean surgery at a hospital a hour away to the west of Camp 9. John, my replacement, was along as part of his training. Everything went fine and we had already left the hospital, heading for the clinic. It was Thursday night and I was looking forward to a evening of relaxing with the staff, enjoying the last couple of times that I have with them. 10 kilometers out, the clinic called Rhonda, the midwife that went along, and wondered if the hospital didn’t call her. Apparently, after we left, they had decided that they didn’t have enough staff to take care of the patient. We’ve had some struggles with this hospital before in accepting some of our patients. Mostly, their issue is that they don’t want to be responsible in the case of something going wrong. Granted, all of our transfers are transfers because of some medical issue that we can’t resolve here at Luz y Esperanza. And this patient was said to be early, 28-29 weeks, although her eco (sonogram) said otherwise. Amongst ourselves, this particular hospital is notorious for coming up with cover stories that attempt to hide their unwillingness to take care of patients. Such is the sad state of the healthcare system here in Paraguay. Saying all that, the hospital was pushing the patient back on our hands. The only other option we had was going another hour and a half further west. After discussing our options, Rhonda and John jumped on a bus headed east to Camp 9 and I went on with the patient and her family. We stopped in Caacupe which is a small town that is the site of the Cathedral of the Virgen of Caacupe, one of Catholicism’s most holy sites in South America. Here the grandpa of the patient, the dad of her mom, climbed aboard and it was this gentleman whose heart I had gladdened by a strategic use of my extremely limited Guarini.

 

I was driving and although not fatigued, I tend to fall into a zone when I’m travelling for hours. Any conversation is welcomed and I had unwittingly primed this Paraguayan’s pump. He was through and through proud of his country and language. He said that although I can speak Spanish well, Guarini is much harder. This point he stressed for about 2 minutes. There are few Paraguayans who can spell Guarini correctly. I forgot to ask him how he did in Guarini grammar in school. He even, with pride in his voice, told me how that Argentina is asking for people to come over and teach Guarini to their people. This I took with 3 grains of salt. But from his perch in the middle of the van, he kept up a stream of conversation so thick and fast that it was hard for me to put a word in. Not that I really wanted to. I had long ago learned that speaking Guarini to a Paraguayan is the fastest way to get them to open up to me. Although his Spanish was clear and his manner harmless, I couldn’t stop from laughing inwardly at him. He was slightly hard of hearing, typical of older men, and I almost got the impression after he found out I couldn’t talk Guarini, that I couldn’t find my way around and needed a guide. This I did find amusing as in my presence, most of the conversations he carried on with others was in Spanish, which I could understand with virtually perfect clarity. And even after we got to the hospital and his 23 year old granddaughter was being admitted, he wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to run off on them. I reassured him that I wouldn’t be leaving them that night until they were admitted to some hospital somewhere. When it was all said and done with, I left them at the hospital in Itagua with the status of a angel amongst that family. Well, maybe not quite.  

 

But what hit me on the drive back was that even with all the changes of plans and having to suddenly work more than I had planned was the peace that was there through it all. That confirmation was something that I had been unconsciously looking for. At that time, I wasn’t supposed to be at home with my family or in a bible school somewhere. I was supposed to be there, that night, in that driver’s seat, eating a chipa and making conversation with a family that was facing some uncertainties. And when that realization hit, all I could do was thank God.

 

* chipa. a round doughnut like bread made from cornmeal, cheese, and almidon, which is starch that is extracted from mandioca, a potato like plant extremely common here in Paraguay. Mandioca is also known as yucca.

Shadowy Questions

I read the lines and for some reason felt smitten. Deep inside, the question arose. If the writer knew everything, would they write what they did?

 

This was the setting. The note had been sent a little while ago. In it was a tendering of thanks for services offered in the line of work that I’m currently engaged in. The note was brief but among the latter lines was expressed the firm belief that I would be blessed by helping those that God brings into my life. Reading that, my heart thudded a touch heavier and instantly my mind flitted away to…scenes….peoples…thoughts.

 

Perfection is not one of my attributes. Never has been, never will be, irregardless of what I may think at times. And it’s people who bring out the worst in me. They may not draw it out of me into visible action but inside, I know. And I wonder, if people knew how often I must deal with my unconquered self nature and how it threatens to burst out at times, if I’d enjoy the measure of respect I enjoy of those around me?

 

On top of this are questions of effectiveness…of how I’ll be viewed after my departure…of my term and how my standing was and will be with those whom I worked among. Maybe these are illegitimate questions. The pat answer is to step out in faith and live, leaving the results to God. And I want to…but the questions still lurk.