Winds of the Himalaya – Part 1

Reminiscings from the Roof of the World

The Beginning

It seems a lifetime since I first sensed that God had something for me to do in that mysterious part of the globe called the “Roof of the World” due to its high altitudes and the fact that it is the abode of our planet’s ten mountains that tower over 8,000 m (26,000 ft). If you know me very well you are probably aware of how much I love that beautiful land and its amazing people. This is the first in a series of chronological blogs recounting my time in the Himalayan region of the world.

This abiding obsession of mine came in an instant and stubbornly nestled into my heart where it has remained even till this morning as I begin my attempt to document the incredible journey on which it led me. From 1982 until 1985 my family and I lived in perhaps the most beautiful place I have ever visited, Haines, Alaska. We lived in the parsonage of the church where my husband pastored. The church attic was brimming with bygone treasures of previous pastors. Of upmost interest to me were a plethora of books and troves of National Geographic magazines. In spite of being mother to three small children, I passed most of my limited free hours engrossed in this newly discovered library.

One of those books was authored by a husband and wife team who were at the time well known public speakers. As I had years before attended one of their meetings and the book title was intriguing, my interest was piqued and I jumped into the book curious as to what they had to say. The main premise of their book did not resonate with me but one section lit up my spirit like a roman candle. In this portion they discussed the concept of territorial spirits (see Daniel 10:13, 20 and Ephesians 6:12), a concept with which I had gained firsthand experience while living in Haines. They then presented the idea that around the globe there are “touching down points” for both angels (see Jacob’s ladder at Bethel in Genesis 28) and demons. Upon reading that my mind kicked into high gear. Instantly I had two strong impressions: 1) Haines, Alaska was a touching down point for the demonic and 2) The Himalayas are Earth’s major touching down point for evil forces. With that impression I knew that those majestically beautiful mountains were somehow in my future and I embraced that understanding with trepidatious excitement.

Fort William Seward, Haines, AK

What I did not know was that it would be some seventeen years until the soles of my feet would actually touch the dirt of the Roof of the World and much longer until I would be able to stay there long-term.  For me to have gone any sooner would have been disastrous.  I was nowhere near being prepared to face the challenges that awaited.  I needed more forming and more learning and that would come primarily through life experience.  God had a rigorous training program in store for me.

While that training had already begun it stepped into high gear during my years in Haines, a location where paranormal activity was extremely commonplace. (I was told that a B movie was filmed there based on the stories of one of the better known local spirit beings and even more recently Ghost Hunters filmed an episode on location.) Those experiences are too much to share here so I’ll save that for another day. But by finding myself in the middle of the metaphorical fire and learning to survive as well as to thrive, all accompanied by study and books and good mentoring God would mature me. He would teach me that His Spirit in me has absolute authority over the evil realm, how to exercise that authority according to His will because formula prayers don’t always work, and that I never need to fear. I would learn how to hear His voice, how to follow His leading, how to discern the spirit realm, how to wait, that His will is not always what I want or think best, how to pray and to stand in spiritual warfare and in hard times, and so so much more. Of course the learning process continued after I first breathed Himalayan air and even now I am not complete and probably was never the “best candidate” for the job. But God knew what He needed to build into me so that I could not only persevere but be effective in the work He gave me. And so, I launch into the story of the life and the land and the people that I love so much.

The Curious Case of the Disappearing Cookies

1994 Nikiski, Alaska

Every single evening about an hour after dinner my husband, Rufus, would go to the kitchen, retrieve a small mixing bowl from the cabinet, fill said bowl with ice cream, a sliced banana, and Oreo cookies. He would then return to his recliner in the living room and eat the entire contents of that bowl while watching the news or sports on TV. On occasion he would allow one of my Maine Coon cats, Tessa, the privilege of licking the bowl clean. Rufus was a dog lover; I was a devoted feline aficionado. Until recently I never cared much for the canine family; he had never had a cat before we married and somehow felt they were inferior to his dogs. One day he complained to me that my cats ignored him. I responded, “And how much time have you invested in them?” His reply was a simple but audible groan. Tessa, a beautiful calico Maine Coon, for some reason took a liking to Rufus. Every evening she would sit on the back of his recliner and clean his hair. (Yes, I agree, yuck was my opinion of that arrangement too!) And so Tessa unofficially became “his” cat.

Now as far as the Oreos go, my husband was obsessed with the chocolatey wafers and the white creme sandwiched in between. I am not sure if a single day of our married life went by without him eating Oreos. If it did I am quite sure there must have been some sort of withdrawal symptoms. We sometimes had “that” conversation. How do you eat an Oreo cookie? He in good caveman style just chomped down the whole cookie. I on the other hand had a somewhat more dainty process. I separated the wafers (of course the creme filling usually sticks to only one wafer) and ate the naked wafer first and then lastly the decadent creme covered wafer which then seemed all the more decadent with the totality of the creme to itself. Some have the habit of nibbling the cremeless edges of that second wafer before devouring the remaining cookie so creating a much higher creme to wafer ratio for that last bite of bliss. I find that process somewhat tedious.

Well, back to my story. One day Rufus came to the conclusion that his precious cookie sandwiches were disappearing. That is not unthinkable in a house that was usually buzzing with people. So he took speedy action and found a secret hiding place for his treasured stash. Now I am not judging here; I have on occasion been known to hide an especially delectable morsel or two. But he became obsessed with his Oreos and we all rolled our eyes, all the while believing him to be deluded.

Then began the interrogation period. (At this point in my story you need to imagine The Pink Panther Theme song.) Rufus would head to the kitchen in the evening as was his usual pattern. And then quite quickly he would storm through the house questioning every human he encountered—his wife, his children, his foster children, probably even a guest or two were on his list of suspects; in other words if you were human, ate food, and were in the house you were at the top of his list of potential cookie snatchers. I suppose he never interrogated the cats because, well, how could a “less-than-intelligent” cat ever find his cleverly hidden Oreo lair. One by one he would ask, “Have you been eating my Oreos?” And one by one we all responded in like manner, “No, I have not eaten your cookies. I don’t even know where they are!”

Stevie with Michael

And then on one rather normal afternoon I per chance happened into the kitchen at just the opportune moment. To my great surprise I had nabbed the perpetrator redhanded, paw in the cookie jar so to speak. Stevie, the blue tabby matriarch of my Maine Coon cattery, was atop the refrigerator. She had managed to open the door of that high, nearly unreachable-to-humans cabinet above the fridge. Stevie had been caught in the act with her paw inside the cellophane package carefully dragging another coveted Oreo onto the refrigerator top even as she was still munching the remains of the previous cookie.

I laughed till I cried as I later meticulously described to the not-crazy-after-all accuser and all of the innocent suspects of the household how I had single-handedly nabbed the Oreo thief and solved the great cookie mystery. The criminal had been found out. The riddle was solved. The guilty party who before this incident had never ever been looked upon as a scoundrel was of course not chastised nor incarcerated, not even fined for succumbing to irresistible temptation but rather she was hugged and bestowed with bountiful kisses and great admiration for her stealthy endeavors and extraordinary taste in the finer delicacies of American society.

Winds of the Himalayas

The Day God Sang over Me

What does one do when all has been (seemingly) lost? What does one do, where does one turn, to whom does one run, how does one go on? These are the questions I was asking myself during the life crisis I described in my last blog, Along Right Paths (September 6, 2022) jackietallent.com/2022/09/06/along-right-paths/.

There were many more questions, so many questions. I had been leading a thriving outreach to the children of my community. I had, along with ministry teams, made several treks through the Nepali Himalayas, one of the most fulfilling and exhilarating things I have ever been a part of. My head and heart were filled with myriads of dreams and hopes and visions of serving God and touching lives of the poor and hurting and those who had never heard the Good News of peace and freedom that is offered to all. But in an instant it was all lost. “What about all of that?” I wondered. Had I just made it all up? Had I ever actually heard from God? Where was God in it all? Why and how could he do this to me, to my calling, to my hopes and dreams? Were they even from him at all? Had he ever even spoken to me? I was not angry at God but I was very broken and confused; I was devastated. I thought I had understood where he was leading me but now it was ripped from my hands. The inner pain was excruciating.

It felt as if God were done with me yet at the same time he was all I had, the only one I could turn to, and all I could do was press into him..and ask him my questions.  One morning I woke up and the house was empty.  It was a chilly Alaskan November morning and I had nothing to do and no reason to get out of bed.  So I just stayed there under my cozy down comforter drifting in and out of sleep for maybe a couple of hours with all of those questions swirling around in my head.  And then at one point while I was dozing a dream came to me that was clear and powerful.  A man was singing to me a beautiful love song.  His song was comforting yet passionate and in the dream I felt peaceful, protected and safe, loved.  So loved.  Suddenly in my dream I realized that the man was Jesus.  Thinking “It’s Jesus!  I’ve got to remember the words!” my mind grasped onto the last line he was singing and immediately I was wide awake.  “You will once again walk on the winds of the Himalayas,” were the lyrics he had sung to me.

Sethan Trek, Kullu Valley, India

Those simple words, so few, so simple, so beautifully poetic took care of all of my questions. No, there was no specific answer. But there was hope. There was promise. And there was a sense of love in extravagant abundance. I still didn’t understand the whys or the hows. I still didn’t know the future but I knew that he had indeed placed a call on my life and that calling wasn’t lost; it hadn’t been taken away from me. I felt reassured that my vision and my dreams were valid and God-given. “His gifts and callings are without repentance,” became a reality to me. Many hard days still lay ahead and it was years before my feet once again stood on a South Asian peak, but as promised they eventually did and through it all I had God’s guiding peace; I had renewed confidence in his total, no-matter-what love; and I had his promise, “You will once again walk on the winds of the Himalayas.”

How has God taken your hand and walked with you through difficult times? I would love to hear your story.

Himachal Pradesh, India

The Lord your God is in your midst, a mighty one who will save; he will rejoice over you with gladness; he will quiet you by his love; he will exult over you with loud singing.

Zephaniah 3:17 ESV

Along Right Paths

how my life verse found me

My whole world came crashing down around me in October of 2001.  Life as I knew it came to an end.  I of course knew there were grave problems.  I had no idea how grave.  Until November 9.  When the Himalayan-sized mountain of evidence was presented to me I had no other option.  I moved out.  I moved out for my wellbeing but also to try to force him to get help and to change his behavior.  The divorce didn’t come for some time but eventually he sent me the papers to sign.

Those first days are a blur. I mostly laid on the sofa under a quilt in shock. A couple days in two friends came by to pray for me. One of them spoke prophetically and told me that God would show me the steps ahead. And he did. In just a couple of days God showed me my first two steps. I realized that I would need improved computer skills for whatever work I might find. Quickly I found and enrolled in computer literacy classes offered for women needing a new start in life. And just like that the next eight weeks were filled. During those weeks God also brought to mind an inner-city ministry in Brooklyn that offers four-month internships. I applied and was accepted. I very naively thought, “I’ll go there, get all healed up, and be ready to launch into my future.” At the end of the four months I had only begun to hurt.

Brooklyn, NY

I desperately wanted to remain in ministry but believed that I was now disqualified, as if I were wearing a “Scarlet D” on my chest. So, I reasoned that my next best option would be to work for a nonprofit providing humanitarian aid. I spent my few free hours researching on a computer in the intern house and just as I had decided on a couple of organizations and prepared to send off resumes the house internet went down. It was nonfunctional for weeks. At first I was quite frustrated but began to realize that God’s hand was in the situation, that he was closing that door. During those weeks Psalm 37 came alive in my spirit, especially verses 23 and 24: “The Lord directs the steps of the godly. He delights in every detail of their lives. Though they stumble, they will never fall, for the Lord holds them by the hand.” (NLT) These words drove deep into my heart and spirit and very quickly became my life verses. Within a couple of weeks I was offered a staff position right where I was interning and felt very confident that God was indeed directing my steps just as my friend had prayed only a few months previously. My 2 1/2 years at Metro Ministries were invaluable on my road to healing and personal growth but also in training for the future. The skills I learned while there — teaching, writing curriculum, leading, and more — have been a great asset through the years, especially during my time in Kolkata.

Sidewalk SS

During my final months in New York, God again stirred in my heart the call to overseas work and, though I thought that was impossible, he faithfully showed me the way and has consistently guided my steps through difficulties and into adventures and joys I never imagined.  From Alaska to New York to Asia, from below sea-level rice fields to Himalayan peaks he has held me by the hand, guided my steps, and delighted in every detail of my life.  And I have delighted in him and in the joys, adventures, and friendships that I have found along the path.

Below sea-level to Himalayan heights

Do you have a life verse? I would love for you would share it with me!

"..He guides me along right paths,
bringing honor to his name.
Even when I walk through the darkest valley,
I will not be afraid,
for you are close beside me…"
Psalm 23:3,4 NLT
Life can be like the road to Gandruk, Nepal, steep and rocky, and fighting a mule train for passage. But oh the view at the sumit is worth it all!
"Trust in the Lord an do good.
Then you will live safely 
in the land and prosper.
Take delight in the Lord,
and he will give you 
your heart’s desires…
The Lord directs the steps 
of the godly.
He delights in every detail 
of their lives.
Though they stumble, 
they will never fall,
for the Lord holds them by the hand.
Once I was young, and now I am old.
Yet I have never seen
the godly abandoned
or their children begging for bread…
Put your hope in the Lord.
Travel steadily along his path.
He will honor you by giving you the land…"
-- Psalm 37:3, 4, 23, 24, 25, 34 NLT
"For the Lamb on the throne will be their Shepherd.  He will lead them to springs of life-giving water.  And God will wipe every tear from their eyes."
-- Revelation 7:17 NLT

A Rose by Any Other Name

I read the novel, Black Beauty as a child.  It is the story of a horse of the same title who through the course of his life had a number of homes and owners.  Each time he changed homes he was given a new name and each time felt as if his identity had been robbed.  What’s in a name?  Do names matter?  Why do we have names?  Sometimes I think about weird things and weirdly I have recently been thinking about the importance of a name.

Genesis 2 tells us that one of the first jobs given to the first man was to assign names to the animals. This indicates that God recognized importance in having a word to identify his creatures. Throughout history it seems that children were named very intentionally with their names being determined specifically because of meaning. That is still true in much of the world. When I was working among the people of my neighborhood in Kolkata I was surprised to learn that they don’t name their children at birth. Instead girls are called Choti, little girl, and boys are called Chota, little boy. The parents observe their children as they grow and two or three or so years later they give them a name that suits the child. For example, Pryia is a girl’s name meaning “dear” or “loved” and Kajal is the word for the black powder which is used something like eyeliner. The Kajal in my English class wore genetically endowed “eyeliner”. Raju is a boy’s name connoting “king” or “prosperity” and Bipin means “forest”. The Bipin that I knew was tall and lanky.

Pema

Traditionally in the United States we choose names for other reasons than “letting the name find the child”. Often we name our children for relatives and ancestors. I named my oldest Katie for her maternal great-grandmother and Marie for my mother. I named my second Katrina because it has a lovely sound and Elizabeth for her paternal aunt. A few years later I discovered that even English names have meaning and was relieved to learn that my girls’ names have positive implications. When my son was born I did some investigation and chose Michael meaning “who is like God” or “gift from God” and Wesley after his father’s maternal grandfather. Three years ago when I transitioned back the US I became mom to a precious, cream-colored golden doodle and called her Pema (pronounced pay-mah) which is a common Tibetan name for both men and women meaning “lotus”. As she grew and I learned that a doodle’s hair is more like sheep’s wool I jokingly thought that I should have looked up the Tibetan word for sheep or lamb!

Michael, Katie, Katrina

Normally a person’s name becomes a strong part of their identity. The novel, Black Beauty, gives us insight into the power of identity that a moniker holds. This power is understood by human traffickers. When a woman is trafficked into prostution it is common to give her a different name as part of breaking her will and identity. My name is Jacqueline but I have always been called Jackie. Sometimes I get called Cathy (no idea why) and it just feels odd to be called by another name. Evidently the spelling is also part of my identity because I feel a little bit violated, like it is not referring to me, when someone misspells it. I once worked in a ministry where my name and assignment were sometimes written on a board. It was invariably spelled Jacky. (Ugh, I cringe as I type that!) So one day I passive-aggressively erased the “y” and replace it with “ie” thinking my little hint would be noticed. But no, next time Jacky, whoever that was, was back on the board instead of me. My years in South America are however an exception. In Colombia my nickname is pronounced “Yackie”. I didn’t much care for the way it sounded so respectfully requested that I be called “Yah-kah-leen” (Jacqueline with a Colombian accent). That version has a melodious sound with which I was quite comfortable.

Colombian courtyard

There, of course, are exceptions. People sometimes change their names for various reasons. Authors use pen names, there are those who dislike their names and take another, actors often choose a more marketable name, etc. Upon adoption one of my granddaughters changed not only her surname but her full name as a symbol of beginning a new life. (We could do an entire blog on surnames but not today.) My daughter, Katrina, was called Trina most of her growing-up years. She quickly changed that as an adult because she despised the nickname. So we called her Katrina until the devastating hurricane of 2005 which gave her an aversion to the shared name. Since her friends had already been calling her Kat, from that time on she has been Kat. I rebelled against her name changing for some years; I just couldn’t call her another name as if she were someone else. But, I am sure much to her relief, I have managed to learn to call her Kat and actually feel like I am referring to my second born daughter. (The irony of that story is that as a teen I read a book whose protagonist was Kat and had wished that I too was named Kat.)

There is one whose name is more important than all of the other names put together.  It is the most loved name in all creation.  It is the name that is above every other name.  It is the name of the King of Kings and the Lord of Lords.  It is the name to which every one who has ever lived and ever will live will one day kneel.  That name carries all the power of the universe and when it is called upon the miraculous is released.  Elohim, JHWH, Jehovah, Jesus, Holy Spirit, our God the Supreme Creator is known by many names.  He, like my kids in Kolkata, also is called by names that describe his nature, character, and reputation.  He is called Lover of My Soul, Healer, Provider, Peace, Lord, I AM, Protector, Good Shepherd, Almighty, Most High, the Beginning and the End, Lord of Hosts, and more than I could even list here.  When we speak his name we are acknowledging his Reign and Kingdom Power to touch our lives and our world and that name is effective because it carries the authority and power of the Uncreated One who created all that exists not only on Earth but also in the heavens and in all the universes and galaxies, even those yet unseen by human eyes.

One day when we are with Jesus in the world to come we will receive a new name. This name though won’t strip our identity; it will complete it. It will be a glorious name that identifies the beauty that our Father sees in each of us. Maranatha, Come Lord Jesus!

What is in a name?  Everything.

“I read in a book once that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, but I’ve never been able to believe it.  I don’t believe a rose WOULD be as nice if it was called a thistle or a skunk cabbage.”

L. M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables, goodreads.com

Winds of the Himalaya -Part 15a

Out of the Mouths of Babes

Abbie warming up by the kitchen stove. Ilam tea gardens

At 11:45 pm on December 16 a team of teens, young adults, a couple of older ladies, and five-year-old Abbie boarded a flight out of Kenai, Alaska for the first leg of our journey to the tiny Himalayan kingdom of Nepal. While Abbie’s parents had made this journey a few times it was a first for my granddaughter. My first visit had been in March of the same year. The moment was filled with indescribable anticipation and joy as I had carried in my heart a call to Tibet, the “rooftop of the world,” for many years and since travel there was not feasible due to political conditions I had decided that her southern neighbor, Nepal, was my best option.

📷 from postcard

On the 19th we landed exhausted in Kathmandu, a city I had dreamed of since watching the movie The Night Train to Kathmandu a decade or so earlier, and at 3:00 am checked into the Student Guest House in Thamel, the tourist sector of the city. A short sleep, breakfast at 11:00 am, and we began our work of prayer walking through some of the key strongholds of the area. By the time we returned to the guest house many were already feeling sick and disoriented due to the spiritual oppression we were facing. The following day we continued praying through the city and the backlash continued.

Durbar Square
Boudhanath Stupa
residence of Kumari Devi,
the living goddess
priest sacrificing to Kali at
Swayambhu, the Monkey Temple
Yama, the Tibetan
lord of death.

Part of the team left by bus in the afternoon and at 9:00 am on the 21st the rest of us began our twelve hour road trip (also marked by spiritual resistance in the form of accident and sickness) to Damak in far southeastern Nepal.  Our purpose was to visit five of the seven Bhutanese refugee camps in the area.  The Bhutanese were of Nepali descent and had been violently forced out of Bhutan due to their refusal to to adopt Bhutanese dress and religion and likely because they occupied some of the most fertile land of the country.  Though their ancestry was Nepali their heart was Bhutanese and they longed with tears to return home.  At one point during our stay I had overheard the term Bhutana ama and understood it to mean mother Bhutan. Later I used the term in prayer over a large crowd and there was a noticeable stir and smiles of appreciation for my understanding of their heart’s longing. 

Damak school ‘bus’

The 22nd began with a rickshaw ride and prayer through the town and then we headed out to visit three camps. At one of the camps we were swarmed by literally hundreds of children, approximately 2000 according to one of our Nepali team members. They had never seen white skin before and word spread fast! They had of course also never seen a white child so they were enthralled with Abbie, each one struggling to press in closer for a look. Abbie’s dad is a large man and he was carrying Abbie but the kids kept pinching her legs which was frightening her a bit so he lifted her up onto his shoulders out of reach. The mob continued to follow us through the rather large camp calling her a baby doll and asking, “where do the batteries go?” The air rang with excited little voices as the crowd of children pressed in so tight that the entire group moved almost as if it were one entity. I remember nervously thinking that if someone were to fall they would be trampled. I also remembered in the Gospels the phrase “the crowds pressed in around him” and thought, “This is how Jesus must have felt!” We could hardly stop laughing in amazement to be in the middle of such a surreal moment in time!

On the 23rd we visited another large camp in order to present at a school assembly with approximately 1700 students plus teachers in attendance. Many students believed our message and the headmaster was fascinated, eager to know more. Abbie’s mom gave him her Bible which he proudly brought to show me and I explained to him the structure of the book and advised him to begin reading the Gospel of John. That night God gave Arjun two dreams about Jesus and the next day he told us that the Bible is the most amazing thing he had ever read, and that he is in charge of 98,000 people to whom he wants to teach the Truth. We felt like he would be a Moses to his people. In the ensuing years Abbie’s mom occasionally got emails from the camp assuring her that they were still following Jesus.

Arjun and his wife in the rear

That evening several of us drove up a mountain to pray over the village of Dharan. Although it was steaming hot in the plains it was quite chilly on the mountain so Abbie and her mom, still sick, stayed in the car to pray. We prayed through the tiny village and noticed that there were no tea shops but only beer venders. When we prayed before the temple I asked why there was a bell in front. “The people ring it when they come to pray so the god will know they are here,” I was told. Then we all walked over to a long bluff to pray over the valley and the Yakkha people who live in the region. While we were praying two of us saw an enormous beam of light shining from east to west through the valley and we prayed for the light of the Son to shine over the region. We prayed against fear, darkness, bondage, alcoholism, and false religion. After that I saw the illuminated forms of two giant angels, about half the size of the mountain that was behind them, hovering over the valley. When we finished praying and returned to the car we shared notes and discovered that five-year-old Abbie, led by the Holy Spirit, had been praying exactly the same things that we on the mountainside had prayed.

Ilam tea gardens
Trekking up to the tea gardens, Abbie was a great hiker!
Abbie singing and playing around with children in a village on the border with India
These ladies need some joy. 😉
football in Chitwan
My friend is in a years long fight against a brain tumor. Will you pray with me for his healing?

There is so much more to tell as it was a huge trip. We visited so many people, prayed for so many needs, talked with a man who had had a dream that we were coming, met two leaders who had been imprisoned 11 months and 14 months for their faith, presented several school assemblies, and played with so many children. They wanted so much more; time was our only restraint. We trekked to a village in the local tea gardens where we visited a Christian family. We climbed up a mountain on the border and prayed over India. We prayed around the palace in Kathmandu for the royal family and the government. We encouraged believers in the Chitwan jungle region of southern Nepal, visited an elephant sanctuary, and headed north to the border with Tibet. Back in Kathmandu we shared gifts and prayer in a home for formerly trafficked women and girls. Finally we debriefed for a day in Thailand, and arrived home January 8. It was perhaps the fullest, most eventful three weeks of my life.

Abbie and her new friends

While I have only mentioned five-year-old Abbie individually a few times she was with us through everything, ministering right along with the rest of the team. She not only drew attention because South Asians love children but she prayed prophetically, she trekked like a trooper, she gave out gifts and handed out scripture when they were refused from the hands of adults, she spoke encouraging words when she sensed exhaustion and frustration and sickness, she was a key part of all the assembly presentations, she engaged in spiritual warfare, she ministered in her own right. So often I have heard children called the church of tomorrow. That is a half-truth because children are also the church of today. We need to stop putting the young on a back burner and give them opportunities to lead and to pray and to minister. I believe that God honors the prayers of a child in a special way and we need to be allowing them to exercise that beautiful gift of favor with their Heavenly Father. God said that out of the mouths of babies and infants he has established strength to still the enemy! That is spiritual warfare! Let’s stop pushing our children to the side and instead encourage them, train them, and give them opportunity to participate in the service of God.

Abbie all grown up with her own babies

Out of the mouth of babies and infants, you have established strength because of your foes, to still the enemy and the avenger.

Psalm 8:2 ESV

Samuel was ministering before the LORD, a boy clothed with a linen ephod..and the boy Samuel grew in the presence of the LORD..and the LORD came and stood, calling as at other times, “Samuel! Samuel!”  And Samuel said, “Speak, for your servant hears.”

1 Samuel 2:18, 21; 3:10

Joash was seven years old when he began to reign..and Joash did what was right in the eyes of the Lord..after this (when he was older) Joash decided to restore the house of the Lord.

2 Chronicles 24:1, 2, 4

..children do not have a “baby” or “junior” version of the Holy Spirit.  He is the same age in them as He is in us.  Even though they may be young, immature and inexperienced, God’s Holy Spirit working in them is the power of God…born-again children are brothers and sisters in the Lord first and children second…Our children need to hear the Word of God coming in power just as the adults expect to hear it each time the church gathers together!..(During the Welsh revival) young children often went out into the streets singing and witnessing.  Large meetings grew out of their testimony. (James Stewart, Invasion of Wales)

David Walters, Kids in Combat, pages 20, 21, 22, 47

My Coffee Journeys

how I became a home coffee roaster

Folgers (coffee in a can) was a staple in my childhood home. My parents loved coffee (cream, no sugar) and they believed that Folgers was the best. They had coffee for breakfast, in the afternoon, and always when company came by. As I was entering teenagerhood I began to be interested in coffee myself but my mother believed that coffee was for adults only. There were sayings describing why a child should not partake such as “it’ll put hair on your chest” and “it’ll stunt your growth.” Nevertheless she finally gave in to my pleading and told me that if I would drink an entire cup of black coffee then I would be initiated into the coffee drinking world. I took her challenge. It was awful. But I persisted, perhaps because I was stubborn or perhaps because I thought that if I managed to guzzle it down and started drinking coffee that I could add cream and it would taste better, or perhaps both. I downed the last drop, plopped the mug down on the table, looked up and smiled, and she reneged. I never tasted another drop of coffee as long as I was living at home.

Moka pot coffee maker

My coffee drinking life began when I went away to college and with the exception of a year-long coffee fast in 1977 continues to this day. During my first semester at the University of Arkansas I discovered that it now tasted delicious and so I enjoyed the coffee and doughnuts provided every morning by the art department and felt very grownup. Through the years I percolated nothing but Folgers in the classic red can, convinced that it was the best to be had, and evidently was a master of the process as I sometimes received compliments on my good coffee. Until 1984. In 1984 a hippy friend came by to chat bringing along freshly ground coffee beans and a stovetop espresso maker. And a new life had begun. From that day on as much as possible there was freshly ground coffee in my mug, although our newly acquired drip coffee maker remained a kitchen fixture as the Moka pot seemed complicated and a bit scary to me.

Spanish Language Institute, San Jose’, Costa Rica

In 1988 my husband, 3 children, and I packed our bags and moved to Latin America. We lived for a year in San Jose’, Costa Rica where we studied in the Instituto de Lengua Española. Costa Rican coffee is superb, however the markets only sold it finely ground and premixed with 10% sugar. I do not drink sweet coffee. It didn’t take us long to discover a peanut and coffee roaster in the Mercado Central. And so began a habit of regular bus trips to downtown San Jose’ where we would purchase one pound of coffee beans, still warm, scooped into a brown, paper bag. Costa Ricans make drip coffee using a cloth bag (kind of like a sock) hung from a metal frame. I remained convinced that my drip coffee maker was still the best method for a perfect cup.

pink cathedral
hand made cart
one of many beautiful cathedrals in Costa Rica

Our next adventure took us to Cartagena, Colombia, South America.  Colombia is well known for four things.  I will only mention two:  emeralds and coffee, i.e. coffee heaven.  Colombians drink tintos, tiny cups of coffee more or less equal to a couple shots of espresso.  Colombians also drink very sweet coffee but if one orders un tinto amargo con leche the waiter will bring your coffee with no sugar and a pitcher of warm milk on the side.  As I said, coffee heaven.  Imagine my surprise when I discovered that Colombian children drink coffee for breakfast.  One morning our housekeeper was trying to give my kids coffee for breakfast which they refused.  I explained to her that in my country children weren’t given coffee.  Giving her my mother’s explanations we both giggled as I used my hand to show her how much taller I had grown than her due to no childhood coffee.  While living in Colombia I heard from a friend who had visited a coffee plantation in the state of Antioquia that the plantation owners roast coffee beans in a skillet every morning before breakfast.  “Sounds like coffee heaven,” I thought.  And with that I had acquired a new obsession, one day I would roast my own coffee beans.

making French press coffee in my Kolkata kitchen

Although there were coffee plantations in India, for most of my years living as an expat there a good cup of coffee was hard to come by. Indian coffee generally consisted of powdered Nescafe’, powdered milk, and sugar mixed with boiling water. Top priority for all my care packages was a few pounds of whole bean coffee, and loving friends and family kept me fairly well supplied. While living in India I boldly experimented with various new-to-me methods of brewing the delectable nectar. Starting with French press, I then bravely tried a Moka pot and discovered that it is neither complicated nor dangerous and produces a wonderful beverage, although I have managed to ruin a couple due to morning bleariness and failure to put water in the bottom chamber. From Moka pot I ventured on to the AeroPress and scrumptious coffee while traveling became a reality. A coffee community had begun to develop and it quickly flourished. There are now amazing coffee roasters in country and plantations are growing excellent quality beans. One day a friend from Delhi introduced me to Blue Tokai Coffee Roasters. Blue Tokai, my new coffee source, roasted my choice of beans and shipped them same day directly to my guest house on the side of a Himalayan mountain for a very reasonable price. From that day on I was never in short supply of delicious coffee.

photocredit: http://www.bluetokaicoffee.com

Fast forward to the present. Finding myself back in the USA in 2019 with little to do but rest, my long time dream of roasting coffee at home resurfaced. With a little help from some friends I discovered Sweet Maria’s (sweetmarias.com) where green coffee beans can be purchased along with easy to follow instructions for the perfect roast. Now restricted to decaf I was thrilled to discover that there are several organic, Swiss Water decaf coffees produced that maintain great flavor. I also discovered that green beans are much cheaper than roasted beans. And so, jumping into the coffee roasting community I ordered my first green beans and with great enthusiasm roasted my first batch of coffee. It was a heady experience to finally realize my long held aspiration! I discovered that roasting coffee is not terribly difficult, however one must follow the procedure very carefully to get the desired results. Timing is essential. My first roasting was done in a skillet just like Juan Valdez (who is not actually a person) and the Colombian coffee growers of whom I was told. I quickly decided that a wok would be much easier than a skillet. I roasted some amazing coffee in my wok. The downside is that as coffee beans approach “first crack” they release their interior moisture and fill the house with smoke. So after some time I moved on to the next level and ordered a popcorn popper. (Only a certain type, which can be found at Sweet Maria’s, rotates the beans in the necessary manner for a good roast.) I could then do my roasting outside, so no smoke in the house, and roasting time was cut in half due to the efficiency of the air popper.

Green coffee beans at beginning of roasting in my wok
Full city stage of roast
cooling the roasted beans

The experience of coffee roasting is satisfying but, because using these methods only a small quantity of beans can be roasted at once, it is difficult even for one hearty coffee drinker to keep an adequate supply on hand.  On the Kenai Peninsula in Alaska I live in a land of local coffee roasters, coffee shops, and drive-throughs; www.http://www.kaladi.com and ravensbrewcoffee.com are a couple of my favorites.  I have also discovered http://www.freshroastedcoffee.com, where I can buy green beans as well as coffee roasted on order and also a large variety of teas. Even delivered across country it is quite affordable.  Nowadays I am blessed to use a home espresso maker with which I brew phenomenal (in my opinion) decaf coffee from both store roasted and home roasted beans, a blessing from God and something “ordinary” for which I give thanks.

my coffee loving friend and I in a Costa Rican coffee field, August 1997

So why do I ramble on about such a simple, ordinary thing?  Because God created this world for us to enjoy.  He is a God completely full of joy; he rejoices, he sings, and he dances and so should we, his creation.  We should not wait for the momentous events in life to celebrate.  I believe that God is honored when we enjoy the ordinary and when we revel in all of the beautiful things he has provided.  So let’s give thanks today and all days for the pleasures he puts in our paths.

What ordinary things fill your life with joy?  I would love to hear about them!

Their trust should be in God, who richly gives us all we need for our enjoyment.

1 Timothy 6:17b NLT (Perhaps taken a bit out of context 😉 but I believe the sentiment applies.)

A joyous God fills the universe.  Joy is the ultimate word describing God and his world.  Creation was an act of joy, of delight in the goodness of what was done.  It is precisely because God is like this, and because we can know that he is like this, that a life of full contentment is possible.

Dallas Willard, Life without Lack: Living in the Fullness of Psalm 23, page 10

We pray for the big things and forget to give thanks for the ordinary, small (and yet really not small) gifts.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Life Together:  The Classic Exploration of Christian Community, goodreads.com

Clay Cups of Calcutta

Kolkata, India 2012

In October of 2012 Katie, my daughter, and her friend came halfway around the world to visit me. They traveled from Oklahoma to Dubai and passed their layover riding camels and exploring desert dunes. From there they traveled to Kathmandu, Nepal where Katie spoke at Himalayan Ezra Institute’s tenth anniversary. Their next stop was my home in Kolkata (Calcutta), India.

Care package from home 🥰

During that entire journey Katie had been hauling two big, blue totes full of wonderful delights for me. When she arrived I excitedly tore into the totes which were filled with too many goodies to name. There was stuffing mix and cranberry sauce for the upcoming Thanksgiving feast, packages and packages of Reece’s Cups sent from a friend in Alaska to bring me joy in my day-to-day, and most importantly there were gifts from America for my five classes of students. As I write this I am once again overwhelmed with the love that motivated such effort to indulge me.

Pictured above: tea picking in a Darjeeling tea garden, Darjeeling town mall, India mail box, Mt. Kanchenjunga (8598 m/28,209 ft) as seen from Tiger Hill
Mt. Everest (8848 m/29,029 ft) can be seen on a clear day.

Our adventures together included an overnight train ride north to Darjeeling where we visited emerald green tea gardens, gorged ourselves at a Tibetan cafe, and the next morning sipped Indian masala chai while watching a breathtaking sunrise over the Himalayas from Tiger Hill. In Kolkata we explored neighborhoods, taught and played with the kids in “my” neighborhood, and reveled in the joy of tea in the City of Joy, the former capital of the British Raj.

English Class
English class
English Class
Sidewalk Sunday School
Sunday School by the Train Station

Tea to an Indian is like butter to bread, gravy to mashed potatoes, a horse to a carriage. Tea and biscuits (cookies) for breakfast, mid-morning tea, tea in the afternoon, tea marks the flow of life and in many ways gives life to the citizenry—poorest to richest, youngest to oldest, every tribe and creed—of this magnificent, chaotic, sweltering, beautiful metropolis. (You might enjoy watching the tea tasting process in Kolkata on The Amazing Race, season 18, episode 6.)

Nepali milk tea made with
water buffalo milk.

Tea in West Bengal is prepared in numerous ways.  On sultry afternoons it is often served black with heaps of sugar along with lemon and salt, yes salt perhaps to replace what is lost through the nonstop perspiring that is inherent to the region.  I have also on occasion been served tea, iced with a heavenly blend of aromatic spices.  But by far the most common and my favorite is masala chai, spiced tea.

Indian masala chai

A good cup of Indian chai (or cha in Bengali) is not difficult to make.  It is simply a blend of black tea, milk, sugar, and spices.  Perhaps the most common tea imbibed in Kolkata and north India is made with fresh ginger root and cardamon pods, often called ginger tea.  It is delicious.  The other recipe that I am familiar with is more exotic.  To make this recipe you would also add star anise, nutmeg or mace, black peppercorns, cloves, and cinnamon bark.  A mortar and pestle is helpful but not necessary.  It is heavenly.  (Vanilla is not an Indian flavor and is not found in authentic Indian chai.)

Tea in India is commonly served in many different containers. The American habit of carrying around a huge mug or 20 oz. cup from the drive-through is not practiced in India. Indians drink their tea in small to tiny vessels and everything stops for tea break. It is a sort of ritual preferably shared with family or friends. Tea may be served in a porcelain or china cup, a small glass, or even a coffee mug which would never be filled to the top. As much of life in India is lived in the street, tea is also served on the street in tea stalls. Watching a tea vendor (chai wallah) prepare his delectable potion is mesmerizing. Once the tea is perfect the chai wallah at a sidewalk tea stall will usually serve it in a tiny plastic cup. (www.chaiwallahsofindia.com is a beautiful blog that gives much information about tea and also describes India’s love for the beverage.)

Chai Wallah near my apartment. Notice that he serves his chai in small glasses.

In the City of Joy outside tea is commonly served in small, handmade, unfired clay cups, 2 rupees for the common small cup or 3 rupees for the not quite so small cup. When the tea is ready the vender takes a clay cup, bangs it rim down on the counter to knock out any loose bits of clay, and then fills the cup. The most difficult part of having tea on the street is the moment the chai wallah hands it to you. I am quite sure that its temperature is far above the boiling point. I always found it next to impossible to hold the clay cup unless there was a board or brick nearby to set it on. Finally I learned the art of holding the cup with my thumb on the rim and a finger on the opposite side of the rim or briefly on the bottom. Next comes the period of slurping and gently blowing to cool the concoction till it is actually tepid enough to drink without risk of scalding. It is a most delightful experience. When alas the cup is empty, one simply tosses it to the pavement where it shatters into pieces and is instantly “recycled” into dust.

I am pretty sure that I never drank tea in a Calcutta clay cup without thinking of a lovely picture found in the Bible, “we have this treasure in earthen vessels”.  While Kolkata masala chai for me is “treasure in an earthen vessel,” this phrase references something far more important.

A mug is comfortable and a china cup is beautiful.  But the handmade clay cup is rough and imperfect, insignificant; it is made for temporary use, holds only a little, and after use is thrown away and broken.  It has little value.  Its importance is the heavenly nectar it contains.  After the tea is poured out to refresh someone its job is done, its life is over, it returns to dust.

My human, earthly body is a clay vessel.  It is rough, imperfect, and created for only temporary use.  For a few years it houses the eternal part of me, my soul and spirit, and it also is filled with, by my invitation, the presence of God.  The thing that’s most important about my body is that it contains this treasure of God’s presence.  My purpose is to love God and to pour out his Presence to refresh and encourage those around me.  I should be continually being filled and poured out.  And then finally one day when it is time for my departure, my body will be thrown to the ground and return to dust and I will move on into an eternal, glorious dwelling.

Augustine of Hippo speaking to God said, “You have made us for yourself, and our hearts are restless till they rest in you.”  (Eerdmans’ Book of Famous Prayers)

For I am already being poured out as a drink offering, and the time of my departure has come. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Henceforth there is laid up for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge will award to me on that Day, and not only to me but also to all who have loved his appearing.

2 Timothy 4:6-8 ESV

For we know that if the tent that is our earthly home is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. For in this tent we groan, longing to put on our heavenly dwelling..so that what is mortal may be swallowed up by life. He who has prepared us for this very thing is God, who has given us the Spirit as a guarantee..we would rather be away from the body and at home with the Lord.

2 Corinthians 5:1, 2, 4b, 5, 8 ESV

A Woman Who Loved Life

a tribute to my mother

When she was just eighteen Mama met my father and they started seeing each other. One summery Texas evening my father picked up my mother for a date and my grandparents told them that she had to be home by the time the moon set. So, for the entire night my to-be parents chased the moon so that it remained just above the horizon in their view, however far that view was from her parents sight! Eventually they found themselves in a small Mexican border town. My father said, “Let’s get married!” (At that time there was a mandatory three-day waiting period between getting a marriage license and the wedding; no such restrictions existed in Mexico.) It was an already hot, sultry morning, and as they were waiting for a Justice of the Peace to complete the paperwork my mom sat on a wooden chair. My father, foot propped on the same chair and leaning forward with his elbow resting on his knee, smoked a cigarette. The Justice of the Peace completed his paperwork, looked up at the couple and announced, “I now pronounce you man and wife.” That short and sweet, impromptu wedding lasted a lifetime.

My mother at 18
My Maternal Grandparents

My mother was born and raised on a ranch in the heart of Texas.  From the start she knew horses and she knew how to enjoy living.  While she never knew wealth, she knew how to work hard to achieve her goals which were relatively simple — a loving family, a farm, good food, and a little adventure here and there.  The truth is that she saw life as an adventure.

As a child I never lived in a place for more than four years.  My parents’ dream was to own a farm in Arkansas.  While that may sound like a not too ambitious dream it took them many years and numerous moves to various states to finally realize that ambition.  Repeatedly changing houses, states, schools, and friends might seem daunting for a child but it never was an issue for me; everything was an adventure for my mom and her unspoken life lesson for me was to embrace that adventure and to love new things.

family
my mom and sister

Hard work did not daunt this woman.  When she finally had her farm in Arkansas she whole-heartedly spent the long Arkansas summers working the land.  Alongside my father she planted, watered, weeded, and harvested a bounty of fruits and vegetables which she then shelled, snapped, chopped, canned, froze, and otherwise preserved for winter to feed not only the humans but livestock as well.  She milked cows, plucked chickens, ground sausage, butchered deer, and taught me to do all of the above.  She was living her dream.

My mother loved good food and even more she loved cooking good food.  My grandmother was German and passed down treasured German recipes to my mother.  As well Mama was through and through a southern girl and had mastered buttermilk battered fried chicken, mashed potatoes with milk gravy, fried okra, pecan pie, and all the other standard elements of southern cuisine.  In spite of that she was not afraid to have a cabinet filled with all sorts of exotic spice nor was she afraid to experiment with those flavors anytime she discovered some intriguing new way to combine them.  Food in our house could never have been described as bland!  All three of her children absorbed her love for food adventures and all three of my children (one a trained chef) have embraced their heritage of the enjoyment of good food and the preparation of dishes from around the globe as they explore their own culinary adventures.

Far beyond helping with schoolwork and studies my mother taught me life skills.  She taught me to speed type on one of those old-fashioned typewriters that build finger muscles.  On a black metal Singer, which was just a step above a treadle machine, she taught me to sew my own clothes.  She taught me to balance a budget, and she taught me to cook over a campfire.  When I wanted to be an artist my mother bought supplies and lessons and hung my framed masterpieces on the wall.  She lovingly encouraged me in everything I wanted to be or do.

My earliest memories are of sitting in a big chair beside my mother with a thick, blue Bible story book in her lap.  Daily she read to me all the stories of the Bible.  The Word of God was hidden in my heart long before I was old enough read it.  The greatest gift my mother gave me is the greatest gift that can be given.  She taught me to love God.

Tashan, the Arabian and Redneck, the Maine Coon

After I was already grown and on my own and she was still very much young at heart, Mama purchased Arabian horses and helped my sister break them.  She learned to scuba in the Bahamas and to ski in Colorado.  If she had been wealthy no doubt she would have seen the world.  She did get to travel, but only a little.  But that didn’t matter because to my mother every day was a new adventure waiting to be explored.  My dear, fun, life embracing mother was a woman with the extraordinary gift of seeing the ordinary as adventure.

Mama in center holding Katrina at Kuskokwim 300 dog sled race, Bethel, AK 1981
One of the last photos I have of my mom
Family

“She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come.” 

Proverbs 31:25

“To live is the rarest thing in the world.  Most people exist, that is all.”

Oscar Wilde, goodreads.com

Echoes and Reflections

Reflections in my mind
of the echoes in my heart,
memories of a life lived
in search of a Kingdom
paint a mosaic menagerie,
weave a tapestry of joy and pain and grace.
From castles tall to shattered slums,
children’s giggles to wails of anguish,
through desert and valley to mountain summit,
rain forest to high Himalayan peak
I’m seeking in the creation’s eyes
reflections of the Creator’s love.
Eternal years flash by,
crushing pain and shattered heart
form my soul, 
teach me to let go,
yet joyous friendships encourage the heart,
and the love of a Father holds me tight.
Children’s laughter, birds’ melodies,
thunders’ crackings, winds’ swooshings,
cats’ meowings, waterfalls’ cacophonies,
and in the silence of snow
I seek the voice of the Divine.
Copper pennies and silver dimes
thunking on countertop,
fists clenched with lemonheads and sweeTarts
that fuel bicycle adventures
along small town streets and country paths.
Silver dungchen* bassooning,
copper bells tinkling on snowy path,
heart clutching expectancy and dreams
that fuel high altitude adventures
among ears who’ve never heard.
Honey, ginger, lemon tea
sipped in Himalayan sunlight
waiting for migraine’s blindness to pass
Steamy, creamy cappuccino
sipped under balcony roof
waiting for monsoon deluge to pass
Maroon broth with crispy pork belly
echoes murmurings of searching
from maroon robes
lost in a soup of karma’s detachment.
Vermillion gravy with rice and curd
echoes ripplings of laughter
from joyful hearts,
friendship is shared in community’s bond.
A tiny voice with longing eyes says,
“Please, give me a crumb.”
He persists, I stare at my medianoche.**
I avoid his gaze, angry at him,
at the system, at the devil.
A frail mother, infant on hip says,
“Please, milk for my baby.”
She persists, annoyance turns into compassion.
I return her gaze with loving eyes
gifting her food and rupees for milk.
The shattered thump of a clay Bengali teacup
cast to the ground,
purpose complete (a weary sojourner’s longing thirst quenched)
echoes
the shattered longing of an earthen globe spinning,
longing, aching,
its purpose lost (thrown to the wind in the great betrayal)
waiting redemption, renewal, restoration.
Among the reflections of divine love,
lessons learned but still far to go,
a soul filled with echoing memories, 
longs for Eden lost
and yearns for Paradise.

“The heavens proclaim the glory of God. The skies display his craftsmanship. Day after day they continue to speak; night after night they make him known. They speak without a sound or word; their voice is never heard. Yet their message has gone throughout the earth, and their words to all the world.”
‭‭Psalms‬ ‭19:1-4‬ ‭NLT‬‬

“So all of us who have had that veil removed can see and reflect the glory of the Lord. And the Lord—who is the Spirit—makes us more and more like him as we are changed into his glorious image.”
‭‭2 Corinthians‬ ‭3:18‬ ‭NLT‬‬

* A dungchen is a Tibetan horn measuring up to 16 feet long which emits a deep, mournful sound that has been compared to the singing of elephants.
** A medianoche is a type of Cuban sandwich made with a special bread and named “midnight” because it is often eaten late into the night.