Hungry for Home

As we walked into the tiny Cuban café that had opened recently, I noticed two men, one younger than the other, sitting at one of the tables. The older one with the slim face and graying buzz cut asked if we had eaten Cuban food before. I smiled and responded not since our last trip to Cuba several years earlier. My husband ordered the Cuban: beef and French fries on a long French roll, weighted and grilled like a Panini. I chose the ham and cheese Panini with mustard, lettuce, tomato and pickles. We each ordered a Mexican fruit soda.

When our order came, I looked down at the generous sandwich, and tears welled as I remembered the hungry people we had met in Cuba. Not long after, the older man came and stood tentatively near our table. He asked if we had been allowed to take pictures during our Cuba trips and whether he could talk with us about our experiences after we were done eating. My husband promptly said, “Have a seat!” As we reminisced about the two church mission-study trips to Cuba, the memories flooded back. We told him about our travels to Sancti Spiritus in the center of the island on the first trip and to La Habana on the second trip, with one night away at the seminary in Matanzas on the northern coast.

Sarge said he had been born in Matanzas, and had left Cuba as a seven-year-old. He had been back only once as a seventeen-year-old to visit relatives. He said he belonged to Little River-Academy Methodist Church, and his pastor had been urging him to go along as the translator on a mission trip to Cuba. He admitted he was tempted, but at the moment he wanted to know more about how the Cuban people were doing.

I said they were poor, and that I felt guilty eating the sandwich remembering how bread was rationed there. We told him we had spent our time in Cuba visiting Christian brothers and sisters and hearing about their ministries: laundry services for the elderly in a place where soap is a luxury, and gardens to provide fresh vegetables for the hungry. We also told him that in spite of the difficulties of their daily lives, the Cubans we met enjoyed life and were devoted to their families. There are many artists there: singers, dancers, sculptors, painters and poets. Perhaps because their earnings were much the same regardless of their jobs many pursued their artistic gifts to create beauty in a place where beauty is as scarce as soap.

Sarge asked if he could see our pictures some time, and then hastened to add, “No hurry, just when it’s convenient.” I said, “Of course!” and promised to stop by soon. My husband said, “I need to get back to work.” He stood and shook hands with Sarge. When Sarge reached out to shake my hand as well, I saw the sad look in his eyes, and impulsively gave him a hug.

I know what it is like to have no early home to return to, as my parents are both deceased. I don’t know what it is like to have left my home country behind and have only childhood memories to cling to. Our hearts long for home, for a place where we belong. In this Holy Week as I walk once again with Jesus towards the cross, I’m reminded that God has promised us a permanent home in a new heaven and a new earth, a place where death and mourning and crying and pain will be no more—a place where God himself will make his home with us. Maybe that’s the real home we all hunger for here in this world. Easter is our yearly reminder that the world as it now exists is not the end of the story. Thank God for that!

Grace and Peace,

Donna

God at Work

I returned from our latest Nicaraguan mission trip three days ago. My mind and heart are still catching up with my body. This year, in addition to the medical mission team, the three of us my church sent to Clean Water U, the education program of Living Waters for the World, travelled as the water team to search for a community with whom we could partner to install a clean water system. During our ten-day trip, I spent two and a half days bouncing around the province of Matagalpa in Juan’s truck with his assistant and translator, Nestor, and Eric and David, the other two members of the water team. It was a blessing to see more of this beautiful country than on previous trips, and to meet new people and make new friends.

Eric and I were anxious about having to choose one community as well as the need to make a decision in the three days we had to check out potential and existing water sites and sign a covenant agreement. Both of us were touched by the gracious hospitality of Consuelo, the community leader who invited us into her home in the tiny community of Las Lajas, the first site we visited. Neither of us wanted to tell her no. David, the young engineer, was more pragmatic. After we said goodbye to Consuelo to travel to two other potential water sites, I prayed urgently for discernment and clarity, and texted La Jefa, our group leader, to ask the members of the medical team to do the same.

God answered our prayers in an unexpected way. When we arrived at one of the two remaining sites we visited after leaving Las Lajas, Juan went in search of their community leader. He returned a few minutes later to tell us they had decided they were not interested. At the final prospective site, we met with another community leader under a tree in her front yard high in the mountains. She was interested in our proposal, but said she would need to gather her community later to make a decision. We left her to visit the building she had in mind for a water system and to obtain a water sample for testing. When we arrived at the building, no one had a key. David could not evaluate the site for an installation. Eric and David turned the handle on the faucet at their water source, but no water came out. There was nothing to test.

Thus we chose Consuelo’s community of Las Lajas as our partner in this new venture. God had answered our prayers for discernment and clarity: locking the door and shutting off the water faucet! We could only laugh and celebrate this new partnership. As we said goodbye, Consuelo had told me that the water in the well at Las Lajas originated in a spring that flowed from a rock up in the hills. I responded, “water from the rock, just like Moses provided!” Now, with God’s help, we will work with the people of Las Lajas to make that water clean and safe. God is good.

Grace and Peace,

Donna

God's Messenger

As I stood at the back of the sanctuary after the worship service to greet people as they left, I felt the post-sermon let down begin to set in. I have described preaching a sermon as holding onto a live wire for fifteen minutes. When it is over, the energy drains away, and I find I must go home and nap before my normal energy level returns. Pat approached me last. She is a statuesque, beautiful woman, whom I met during my last job as a lawyer. She was one of the Ph.D. doctors who worked at the hospital.

Pat thanked me for the sermon and said she’d enjoyed the humor. I thanked her and expected her to move on, but she hesitated for a moment. Then she said, “I remember watching you give presentations when you worked at the hospital. You looked miserable. Now, when I see you preach, you radiate joy. I’ve thought about that when I’ve heard you preach here in the past, and I wanted to share it. You seem to have found the work God has for you to do.”

I thanked her, thought back to my time at the hospital and said, “I am happier now. Thank you for sharing that!”

With tears in her eyes, she said, “I’ve wanted to share that with you for some time and decided to do it today.”

The Spirit was indeed moving through the service. What a blessing to hear a word of encouragement from one of God’s messengers--confirmation that I have, at least for now, found the place God has prepared for me to serve.

Grace and Peace,

Donna

Gratitude

I have been thinking about gratitude this past week. When life is hard, I have learned that it helps to focus on all the things that are going right in my life rather than the problems. At least that works for me when the problems are not overwhelming. When life seems impossible, however, I can find it hard to focus on gratitude as I struggle to stay afloat. Not that I don’t cling to God at such times, but I am less likely to remember to say thank you quite as often when I’m standing deep in the latest pile of lemons that life has dumped. But I met a young woman in the past couple of weeks who said “thank you,” and she has changed my perspective on gratitude.

This young woman and her teenage daughter are homeless. They spent the week sleeping at our church during our church’s most recent Family Promise week. Family Promise is a program that houses homeless families in churches while it helps them to improve their lives and to achieve independence. You can find out more at: http://www.familypromise.org/. Our church has participated in this program since its beginning in our community, and we have housed a number of families at the church since then. This time, however, something different happened. This particular young woman left a thank you note behind.

The reason we participate in this program is to serve Christ, and I don’t think any of us has expected appreciation for our efforts. But what a blessing she provided! Her note has been passed around the congregation and received with reverent gratitude. 1 Thessalonians 5:18 says to give thanks in all circumstances. I’m not sure how well I could do that if I were homeless and dependent on the kindness of strangers for food and shelter. But what I learned from a young woman who has that kind of wisdom and strength of character is what a profound effect a simple thank you can have on the recipients. Her expression of gratitude will fuel our volunteers for a long time. We have been strengthened to help others who are homeless because of her reminder that what we do matters. I never knew how much difference a simple thank you can make.

Grace and Peace,

Donna

A Man of Honor

We live in a neighborhood accessed by only one road. As a result, we know the neighbors and their pets and also their cars and trucks. Earlier this week, on one of my daily walks with our dog, Zipporah, I had a near death experience. An unfamiliar truck swerved across the road and came way too close to where I had scrambled for refuge in one of the neighbor’s yards. I looked up and saw an unfamiliar face in the driver’s window as the truck sped by. Once my heart slowed down, Zipporah and I finished our walk. I was a little shaken, but otherwise okay. I told my husband that evening about the mishap, and then mostly forgot about it.

As I walked Zipporah again the next day, I saw one of the neighbors I do not know well working at the house he purchased when the older couple who had lived there died. I waved and started to pass by, but he came out to the road to meet me, so I stopped. He said he wanted to apologize and told me he had been driving the truck that came too close to me the day before. He said he had not slept the night before because he felt so bad about it. He told me he had been talking with his passenger about the relative they were going to visit at the hospital and was not paying close enough attention to his driving.

I assured him I was fine and thanked him for letting me know. And I asked about the relative, who was doing better by then. We chatted briefly before I continued on down the road. Since then, I have thought about the conversation and this neighbor. In our culture, the response to making a mistake seems too often to consist of offering explanation and blaming someone else for the problem. The apology was an unexpected blessing. It began a relationship between the two of us where none had existed before. I am grateful to know a man of honor lives in our neighborhood. Our world would be a better place if there were more like him.

Grace and Peace,

Donna