Monsoon Morning

Kolkata

August 1, 2010

https://record.reverb.chat/embed/REKWUb3mV264RZ8xjQIf

It was Sunday morning and I walked to the bus stop in the moody monsoon rain. I love rainy days. Thunderstorms amaze me with their power and majesty and pounding downpours, reminding me of the awesome power of our Omnipotent God. But that day’s kind of rain is my favorite, the dark, cloudy-day kind of showers bringing cooler temperature and the steady, drenching, cleansing, life-supporting water from the heavens. It is that kind of day that gives peace to my soul.

Despite the fact that my new salwar suit was getting soaked and I had to wade through muddy monsoon currents flowing down the street and dodge the spray from passing cars, I was reveling in my rainy morning walk. My eyes feasted on the sight of my sidewalk-dwelling neighbors going about their morning rituals. A mom cooking lentils and rice on her sidewalk ‘stove’ for her family’s breakfast. A boy with a metal bowl catching precious rainwater running off a roof. A lady sitting in the rain on the sidewalk with a tattered, black umbrella protecting only her plate of food. Beautiful people surviving in difficult circumstances.

Calcutta sidewalk 2006

Then my eye caught her, a wrinkled grandmother seated under a plastic sheet wearing a simple green and white cotton sari. Her head turned up toward me as I walked by and without breaking stride I looked at her and smiled. And she smiled back. A huge, almost toothless smile that made my heart swell with a joy that I cannot explain. It was an intensely spiritual moment that even now, a decade later, has me smiling.

The Word became flesh and dwelled among us. He came to earth and lived in a human body and showed us by example how we should live. He walked among the poor and healed the sick and fed the hungry. That is what He did and that is what He asks us to do. He asks us to walk on this earth in our neighborhoods as He did doing the things that He did. Some days I am better at that than others. Some days I give education and some days I give counsel. Some days I give food and some days I give money. That day I gave a smile. And I don’t understand exactly what happened in that moment, but one thing I do understand. That Sunday morning for at least one tiny moment I walked as He did.

“And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth.” —ESV

“And you became imitators of us and of the Lord, for you received the word in much affliction, with the joy of the Holy Spirit,” —ESV

The Art of Being

1979-1982

Bethel, Alaska

Bethel is a village situated on the Yukon Kuskokwim Delta in southwestern Alaska. It is a larger village, off the road system, and serves as the regional hub for many surrounding communities by providing medical resources as well as other native corporation and governmental services. The population is ethnically diverse, even multinational, however the primary residents are the native Alaskan Yup’ik Eskimos.

Shortly after the birth of my second child, Katrina, my family and I transitioned to Bethel from Wasilla, Alaska. The transition from Arkansas culture to Alaskan life and culture had been big but the transition to bush life was enormous. While I had been in cross-cultural settings before, that was my first experience in cross-cultural living. At the beginning of my third decade of life learning to not only survive but to thrive in a community different from mine was a challenging experience. There were not only difficult but exhilarating experiences and so much to learn—extreme climate, new foods, new outdoor activities, a local language unknown to me, new ways of nonverbal communication, new values, new customs, and just surviving in a harsh environment.

Body language is an important part of communication in all cultures. It, however, isn’t a communication form that we often think about as long as we are immersed in our own culture. In my travels I have learned (sometimes the hard way) that even simple hand signals carry conflicting interpretations culture to culture. For example, our North American game with a child of ‘getting your nose’ is to a Costa Rican and the ‘thumbs up’ sign is to a Bangladeshi the equivalent to showing the middle finger in much of the world. Oops!

While living in Bethel I taught an after school class of girls one day a week.  One afternoon while working on a project with them I asked one of the girls a question.  She looked at me sweetly but said nothing.  So I asked again.  Still, silence.  Upon asking a third time I realized that her eyebrows, almost completely hidden by her long bangs (fringe), raised slightly.  Raising the eyebrows to a Yup’ik like nodding the head for me means yes.  There have been so many embarrassing moments and I can’t even imagine how many more that I was completely clueless about.

Missionettes girls’ club

Perhaps one of the most important cultural norms was one of the most challenging for me in the beginning — the social art of “being”. I grew up in the South in a mostly caucasian community. I understood fairly well the cultural norms of politeness in that community. I especially understood that the art of polite conversation was an essential skill. Being shy and introverted I never felt particularly gifted in this area but I knew for sure how to give it a good awkward try. I might add that at a young age one of my fears of marriage was wondering what in the world would my spouse and I would talk about for “till death to we part”!

I quickly learned three essentials of hospitality in my new Yup’ik community: 

  1. Never take a guest’s coat.  In that subarctic climate a coat is essential to survival.  If you take your guest’s coat they may feel trapped.
  2. Always offer a cup of tea or coffee.  The hot beverage would not only warm their body as they came in from the cold but would create a warm, inviting atmosphere in my home.
  3. Never force conversation.  The art of polite conversation was not appreciated in my new environment.  If I asked too many questions, thus forcing conversation my guest would feel awkward and leave.  In the Yup’ik community the art of just being together is highly valued.  No talk is expected.  Just sitting together sharing presence and a warm beverage is a lovely way to spend time and enhance friendship; it is all that was expected.

Well, for this Southern girl number three felt awkward. It seemed rude to just sit together. But the rude thing actually was to try to force small talk. One thing helped me tremendously; my second daughter, Katrina, was an infant and toddler during those years. Eskimo people love babies. So we sat, sipped coffee, watched the baby playing and giggled. I was so thankful for the reprieve of giggling at babies! Did we never talk? Of course we did. But the lack of pressure and expectation provided by just “being” together opened the door to trust and after time many deep conversations occurred.

Katrina in her dad’s beaver hat

I have been a friend of Jesus as long as I can remember.  I’ve had many classes on prayer, quiet time, devotionals, and such things.  Those were all extremely valuable.  But recently I have discovered that I had never been taught something quite simple:  the practice of just “being” with Jesus.  Thankfully I have practiced silence instinctively most of my life but I didn’t actually know it was “a thing.”

The discipline of prayer is practiced in numerous forms.  There is petition, supplication, intercession, groanings which cannot be uttered, tearing down strongholds, praise, worship, and more.  All of these forms of prayer are essential.  But there is also the discipline of selah, of “be still and know that I am God”.  Perhaps the discipline of being silent before God is under practiced among believers today.  Perhaps we think that prayer is only talking to God, or perhaps talking and then listening briefly.  Perhaps it feels awkward to sit silently in God’s presence, not asking anything of Him nor expecting to hear anything from Him.

Over the years I have learned that when I know someone well like a spouse or close friend it is comfortable to sit together without any pressure to converse, simply enjoying being in the company of someone we love.  How much more wonderful to sit in the company of the Almighty, soaking in the peace of being with Him, resting in trust, abiding in his love.  We don’t have to get his attention, we don’t have to ring a bell or perform a ritual for Him to notice us; he is already there, attentive to our need, waiting for us to acknowledge him.

Jesus said that he would never leave us or forsake us and that he would be with us forever.  Usually his presence is not in a doing or speaking context; he is just always there.  When I sit silently with him I feel that I am acknowledging his continual residence with me and demonstrating that I am present to him as well.  These times of silence before him refresh my spirit and bring peace to my soul.

Perhaps you are not familiar with this spiritual practice and would like to begin.  A very simple way to practice silence in God’s presence is to seat yourself comfortably, still your mind of all the clutter shouting at you, acknowledge God’s presence and your desire to be with him, set your mind on God by letting one of his names (Jesus, Father, Abba, Lamb of God, etc.) or a short phrase from scripture float around in your mind, and rest—just be, quiet and still in his presence.  Begin with a few minutes, maybe five or ten, and work up to twenty or so.  He might speak to you during this time but it is likely that he won’t.  He will however be blessed by you, his child, being present to him and you will be blessed as you sit in awareness of the Great I Am.

“Be still and know that I am God.” —ESV

“I stretch out my hands to you; my soul thirsts for you like a parched land. Selah”  —ESV

Can the Devil Read My Mind?

This morning I am sitting in my comfortable chair and sipping my morning coffee, strong and creamy, as I write this blog. I do not usually write at 8:00 am but I was awake very early and this has been on my mind for a few days. Some of what I am about to write I have only shared with one or two people ever. This will not be a theological treatise nor will it be scientific theory. What I write this morning will be my personal experience and the conclusion I draw from that, some would call it anecdotal. My belief seems to be unique; perhaps I have a bit of an Elijah complex as I know of almost no one who agrees with my viewpoint. I will not try to convince you to change your thinking on the matter, I only want to share mine and so I share this story.

The year was 1977 and my little family and I were living in Little Rock, Arkansas in an upstairs apartment of a fourplex in a lovely part of the city.  After the birth of my first child, Katie, I had resigned from my position in a bank to be a stay-at-home mom and I was loving life.

It all began with me waking in the middle of the night and seeing demonic spirits in the room.  While that sounds frightening my response was annoyance; they had interrupted my precious sleep.  Not wanting to awaken anyone by speaking out loud, when this occurred I would simply, in my mind, speak to them and tell them to go.  And they always did.  Around the same time I began experiencing strange phenomena in the early morning or during afternoon naps when I was neither fully awake nor fully asleep.  These experiences were disconcerting so I would cry out to Jesus and then immediately wake up.

The next progression was during the day. In addition to the apartment’s front entrance, there was also a staircase outside the kitchen. The staircases were constructed of a metal frame filled with concrete steps. It was virtually impossible to walk up those steps silently. Running up them produced a loud, distinctive ringing sound. Occasionally throughout the day I would hear the sound of someone running up and down the back staircase but when I looked out both the front and back doors there was no one so I concluded that it was an evil spirit sent to harass me. The ringing was so loud that I sometimes wondered if the neighbors could hear. One day when a friend was having lunch with me the sound began. I nonchalantly asked her, “Do you hear that?.” Looking puzzled she responded, “Yes, what it it?” I already knew that I was not hallucinating but still I was comforted to know that the noise could be heard by others.

And then the spiritual confrontation got more personal. One afternoon I was sitting on the sofa while one-year-old Katie was down for a nap. A inaudible voice spoke to me and offered me celebrity and fame. I responded without spoken words that that was impossible as I was not beautiful. The spirit told me to look at a magazine lying on the coffee table. On the cover was the face of the current Hollywood female superstar. The spirit said, “Look closely. She is not so beautiful, it is an illusion and I can do that for you.” As I looked at the photo I realized that beneath the glamorous illusion her face was actually the face of a very ordinary woman. I then told the spirit to go because I was not interested in his offers. And he left.

A few days later the enemy of my soul once again came to me. This time he told me that on the coming Thursday intruders would enter my home and that there would be bloodshed. I was terrified. I began praying to God seeking wisdom and peace. My husband was out of town for the week, traveling for his work with Arkansas State Parks. My toddler and I were alone. The fear grew and as I continued to cry out to God for help he gave me a verse which is precious to me still all these years later: “For God has not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.” (2 Timothy 1:7) I clung onto that promise with all my being. Wednesday came and still shaken I needed a plan. I decided that when I went to church that evening I would find my close friends there and ask if my baby and I could stay with them that night. But when I arrived they were not there. Throughout the meeting my mind was occupied with what to do; should I go to my friends’ house anyway or should I go home. To be honest I felt a bit silly to go knocking on their door (I mean, they might think I was nuts.) so I faced my fear and opted to go home. Back at home I tucked Katie into bed and then fell asleep repeating to myself, “God has not given me a spirit of fear but of power, and love, and a sound mind.” When I woke up that dreaded Thursday morning I immediately sensed the very tangible presence of Love in my home. I don’t have words to describe the supernatural, heavy thickness of that Presence but I knew beyond a doubt that the Love was so powerful that no force of evil could possibly enter my home. Perfect Love had cast out all the fear in my heart and mind. I passed the hours of that dreaded day singing, dancing, praising God, and with my baby basking in the presence of Almighty God.

I believe with great conviction that the enemy of our souls can read our thoughts. In this story all the conversations that took place occurred in my mind through thoughts, not vocalized words. There are many more stories I could share in this regard but this is enough for today. In a nutshell, every time I have rebuked or told Saten to flee, even inaudibly, he has, either immediately or after some time of my resisting him. I am not aware of any scripture that specifically says that demons can only hear our audibly spoken words nor of any that say that they can hear our thoughts as well. Most of us would agree that evil spirits can put thoughts in our minds and even influence our dreams. Is it such a huge stretch to acknowledge the he can also hear our unspoken responses to him?

I have read that some believe that in The Garden during the time before The Fall the people and the creatures could communicate through their thoughts as well as with their voices. No one knows whether that is true or not and at first it is a disconcerting idea; I do not want people to know what I am thinking! However, it is also an intriguing idea to consider. But that was before The Fall, before sin, before we humans felt the need to hide. It was a time when every thought was pure and good. Truth is, I can hardly imagine such a time, but I want to. With all my being I long for that innocence and believe that perhaps we will again experience it one day when all things are made new and our innocence is completely restored.

“God is love, and all who live in love live in God, and God lives in them.  And as we live in God, our love grows more perfect…Such love has no fear, because perfect love expels all fear.”  —NLT

“My enemies did their best to kill me, but the LORD rescued me.  The LORD is my strength and my song; he has given me victory.”  —NLT

“Even when I walk through the darkest valley, I will not be afraid, for you are close beside me.  Your rod and your staff protect and comfort me.  You prepare a feast for me in the presence of my enemies”  —NLT

The Crow Who Loved Me

One thing I loved about my apartment was the tiny balcony off of my bedroom and the lush, green tree that shaded it. I soon discovered that dozens (seemed like hundreds) of Indian grey-necked crows lived in that tree. They were beautiful, raven black with a royal silver necklace. They were noisy (There was literally a cawcawphony of crow voices every morning and evening.) and they pooped—a lot. But I didn’t really mind them. Until. They started building nests. On my balcony, in the windows, nests popped up everywhere.

I had had a previous experience with a bird nest in my first apartment in Kolkata (previously named Calcutta) and that story did not end well.  So every time I saw a new nest I tore it down.  And they rebuilt.  And I tore it down again.  Soon I noticed that they were rebuilding with the same materials from the nest I had just demolished; identifiable pieces of wire, twine, and unique twigs were their treasured building tools, intricately woven together into a home for their soon to come young.  As that observation tugged at my heart and as I marveled at their weaving skills I tore them down again.

After two or three weeks of this building and rebuilding I clearly became a crow enemy. “How could I tell?” you might ask. Well it wasn’t hard—dive bombing. Every time I left my apartment and walked out to the street they would dive at me and peck my head as they swooped by. “How do they know it was me?” I would ask myself. Well crows are very intelligent. Some say that corvid intelligence is human-like and compare it to that of a seven-year old. These corvids very well knew that I was the villain.

During the midst of nest building season I left for a couple weeks of travel.  When I returned, on the ledge of the window by my dining table was a nest (and, yes, I recognized the building materials).  As I opened the window Mama Crow flew off her nest revealing six tiny, beautiful blue eggs.  My mama heart melted and my house-wrecking days were over.

Not many days later six little babies emerged, pecking their way out of the blue shells.  They were adorable, straining their necks, mouths wide open calling for food.  And then shortly there were two.  (I’ve been told that it’s normal for only two crows to survive in a nest.)  During that hatching period I kept finding dead baby crows left on my balcony ledge and in my potted outdoor plants.  “Why” I repeatedly asked myself “are the mothers bringing their young to me?  Are they hoping that I can revive them?  Have they forgotten that I am the villain?”  Well of course they haden’t forgotten; remember crows are very intelligent.  To this day I do not know why they brought me their dying young.

Daily I watched as my two little crows grew, and they grew to know me and to trust me. Every time I opened the window they opened their mouths and called for me to feed them. I didn’t, of course, I didn’t want Mama Crow to reject her babies because my scent was on them. One of the babies became shy and would hunker down when I opened the window but the other more and more aggressively called for me to feed him.

Then the day came when they flew the nest.  But the two stayed close.  When I would open the window the shy one would sit and watch from a nearby apartment’s ledge.  The braver one would fly up to my window ledge and caw loudly at me.  Soon a routine was formed.  I got up in the morning and started the coffee grinder.  Brave Crow flew to the kitchen window and called for me.  I talked to him and gave him a cookie.  He carried it over and shared with Shy Crow.  I loved it!  I had a pet crow!

Then I went away for six weeks of language study.  As I was traveling home I was thinking of my crows and was sure that they would have left, assuming that I was gone for good.  I arrived late and exhausted and went straight to bed.  Next morning I woke up late, went to the kitchen, and ground coffee.  Hearing a huge racket at the kitchen window I opened it and there was my crow, dancing.  Yes, he was overwhelmed with joy—dancing, flapping his wings, jumping, singing, calling to me in one of the most beautiful welcome homes I have ever received.  

There is something deeply beautiful about bonding with a wild creature.  You can’t hold it or touch it or scratch its ears.  But there is a connection between you, an affection that is about more than giving and receiving food, a loving of sorts.  There is a feeling of peace, of contentment, of being one with God’s creation.  I sometimes ponder The Beginning when God placed the first man and the first woman in The Garden and gave them dominion over the earth and everything that moved on it.  I can imagine that there was no fear and that the people and the creatures had more than a master/worker, hunter/prey, friend/pest relationship, but that rather they shared friendship.  As I dream of the “world to come” I imagine myself in a beautiful garden living in harmony with all of the wonderful creatures He has made.  More and more often my heart yearns for that day to come.

Have you ever bonded with a wild creature?  I would love to hear the story.  What kind of beauty do you imagine we will live in one day on the redeemed earth?

“In that day the wolf and the lamb will live together; the leopard will lie down with the baby goat. The calf and the yearling will be safe with the lion, and a little child will lead them all. The cow will graze near the bear. The cub and the calf will lie down together. The lion will eat hay like a cow. The baby will play safely near the hole of a cobra. Yes, a little child will put its hand in a nest of deadly snakes without harm. Nothing will hurt or destroy in all my holy mountain, for as the waters fill the sea, so the earth will be filled with people who know the Lord.” —NLT

The Man Who Taught Me to Fish

a tribute to fathers

We hopped into the family car and headed to the lake while my mother stayed at our campsite to prepare the evening meal on a green Coleman camp stove. I had been begging my father to teach me to fish and my preschool excitement was bubbling over. Daddy pulled out two fishing poles and as the cool lake-sized waves gently splashed onto my feet he baited the two hooks. A couple feet of line above the squirming hooked worm he attached a small red and white bobber and explained to me that when I caught a fish the bobber would signal to me by going under water. Then he helped me cast out the line and I stood there on the bank anxiously watching and waiting. The time passed too quickly and my bobber was still floating when he told me to reel in my line because it was time to go back to camp for our dinner. Sadly I obeyed. As I raised the baited hook up from the water I was shocked and delighted to see a tiny, silver fish dangling there, water dripping from its tail, too lightweight to pull even my little bobber underwater. The excitement of my first catch quickly turned to sorrow as my father threw it back into the lake explaining that it was too small to keep. As I cried he consoled me with the promise that there would be more fish in my future worthy of taking back for the skillet.

My father was a good man. Although he had to drop out of school after third grade to pick cotton and help with the family income, he was very intelligent and he hungrily studied on his own for the remainder of his life. Along with three of his brothers signing up, he joined the US Navy and fought in World War II. Stationed on a submarine in the Pacific he learned the trade (machinist tool and die maker) that would support himself and his future family.

In my father’s day gender roles were clearly defined. The cultural expectation for a man of his time was to love and be faithful to his family and to work hard to provide for his family food, housing, security, and protection. Although throughout my growing up years our budget was meager my Daddy excelled in fulfilling that role. His work in the machine shop paid the bills and bought a farm. In the evening and on weekends he worked with my mother tilling the land to grow vegetables and caring for chickens, cattle, and hogs thereby putting the bulk of our food on the table year round.

My father didn’t stop with loving, providing for, and protecting his family but also invested time in my siblings and me. With an eight year old begging for her first bicycle he found parts from scrapped bicycles, assembled them, and at Christmas presented me with a beautiful, kelly green bike, which he then also taught me to ride.

In fifth grade I read a book about Australia and asked my parents how a boomerang worked. So my daddy made me a wooden boomerang and taught me how to use it. He taught me how to roller skate at three and at twelve taught me how to use a box camera. He taught me to shoot a gun at thirteen and at sixteen he taught me how to change a tire.

Both my father and mother read constantly setting an example for me to become a voracious reader. He instilled in me my love for nature and the outdoors by taking me on walks in the woods and taking our family tent camping most every summer weekend.

Was my father a perfect man? Of course not, he had human imperfections as we all do. But those were far, far outweighed by my memories of the good, honest, honorable, hardworking, loving man that he was.

After I was grown he and my mother were able to open their own tool and die shop and life was suddenly easier for them. Even then they shared their blessings with me and my young family. In my youth I didn’t really appreciate the gift I had but now than I’m older I look back and am thankful for my secure foundation provided by the godly man that was my Daddy.

Everyone needs a father in their life. Sometimes, though, life deals a different hand; tragedy happens or men don’t live up to their responsibilities and then mothers are left to carry a heavy load as single parents. (Special honor also goes to the fathers who have stepped up as single parents.) I believe we live in a time when the role of father has been undermined, disrespected, even despised. I believe that the root of many of the ills of our society is the scarcity of godly father figures. But the presence of God as our perfect Father brings an indescribable security to the soul who will accept him. I am deeply grateful for my godly earthly father, but I am even more grateful for my holy, almighty Eternal Father who loves me beyond any human’s capacity and provides me with complete security and everything I will ever need.

Let’s take time this week to honor the men in our lives who have poured their time and energy into enabling us to become who we are.

“…I will be your Father, and you will be my sons and daughters, says the Lord Almighty.” ~NLT

“The name of the Lord is a strong fortress; the godly run to him and are safe.”  ~NLT

Butter Tea with a Monk

It was a chilly Himalayan morning in Tatopani, a Himalayan village in northern Nepal on the border with the Tibet Autonomous Region. It was also one of the most meaningful days of my life. The humidity in the mountains drove the cold straight to the bone. Decked out in my trekking gear I sat with my friends in the rustic tea house and with my eggs and toast I sipped steamy, sweet Nepali chai. I asked for my tiny tea cup to be refilled again and again until I was embarrassed to ask for more and it was time to head out.

The trek up the mountainside was a banquet for the senses; a breeze rustling the lush, green mountain jungle, exotic birds serenading us along our journey as if they knew our hearts were full of anticipation for unknown adventure lying ahead. The sound of rushing water chimed from the trail ahead and I looked up to see a colorful Tibetan prayer wheel slowly turning, propelled by the force of the gentle mountain stream. The prayer wheel was engraved with the sacred letters of a Buddhist mantra and filled with hundreds of copies of the mantra. The people believe that as the wheel turns the words are sent to the heavens, filling the atmosphere with peace and safety from malevolent forces.

We continued on our trek upward and in a few minutes were standing before a locked gate behind which was a small Tibetan monastery. There was no one in sight. DT, our guide, banged on the gate and called out for several minutes. A lone monk dressed in his maroon robe and matching faux-fur lined jacket appeared from out of the fog. He greeted our guide and opened the gate for us to enter. As the team and I followed him through a court yard it felt like a dream world, only my aching legs reminding me it was real.

We entered a large, stark room and seated ourselves on mats on the simple floor. The monk disappeared for several minutes, leaving us to sit, almost silent, contemplating our otherworldly surroundings. I found myself wondering what the meaning of all this was, what was my purpose for being here. Soon the monk returned carrying a huge thermos jug and a stack of very large porcelain tea bowls. He set the thermos on the floor and a tea bowl before each of us. He then proceeded to fill each bowl to the brim with a steaming hot, pale milky liquid. I had heard of Tibetan butter tea. I had heard that it is salty and not considered delicious by most outsiders. I had been well taught that to refuse a host culture’s food is to reject the people and their culture. So I carefully lifted the brimming, hot bowl of tea cupping it in my hands and appreciating the warmth that it gave. I thought, “salty and buttery. I will pretend it’s soup.” I put it to my lips and sipped a teeny bit. Hmmm. Not so salty. And not so bad.

As I slowly sipped my tea, enjoying the warmth it provided and becoming accustomed to the new flavors, the conversation turned to the monastery and the life of the monks. Our host explained that all of the other monks were in prayer closets meditating. I learned that it is the practice of Tibetan Buddhist monks to spend long periods of time in small dark spaces meditating and often fasting during their meditations. He explained that frequently spirits would come to them and instruct them. It was this monk’s rotation to stay out and watch over the monastery.

As I sipped my Tibetan butter tea down a little, the monk would refill it to the brim. After several refills I began to think I would never be able to finish my tea! Noticing my surprise DT explained that Tibetan hospitality demanded that the guest’s cup could never be empty. He explained that when I had had my fill of the warm beverage that I should let it cool a little, then chug the entire cup and place it upside down on the floor. That is the host’s signal that I am finished.

As more and more cups were coming to rest upside down on the floor I was becoming more and more anxious that we had not completed our task. I was a guest on the team, a tag-a-long, and didn’t want to impose on their plans, but I was bursting with the sense that we were meant to speak to this monk about eternity.

I asked DT if he could translate into Tibetan for me. He said no but that the monk knew enough Nepali to understand. So with the help of his translation I began to share The Story with our host. I began to talk about the beauty of creation and the goodness of the Creator God. I shared about the first man and woman, their relationship with the Creator, their mandate to care for the creation, and their choice to obey the serpent rather than the Creator thereby handing dominion of the earth over to the Enemy and breaking relationship with the Creator. I shared God’s intermediate plan of sacrifice to restore partial relationship. Then I told the Story of Jesus, the Lamb of God and Perfect Sacrifice, who gave his life so that we can once again be family with the Creator. Then I said, “You don’t have to live life after life after life trying to be good enough because Jesus was good enough for you. You only have to receive his gift.” At that point the monk who had only been looking at DT, the translator, turned his head and looked at me with an amazed longing of a look in his eyes. I looked at him and nodded and his eyes filled with tears. After finishing by describing eternity future to him we stood to leave. The monk led us out to the gate and we said goodbye to a noticeably changed man.

I skipped, almost danced all the way down the mountainside back to Tatopani. Cold, fatigue, those Himalayan leaches, nothing could dampen the exhilaration of obeying the Holy Spirit and seeing a life changed with God’s hope, a man finding true peace for the first time.

That was nearly twenty years ago. Since then I’ve had incredible experiences and seen God do phenomenal things. That morning, however, I still count as perhaps the most meaningful experience of my life.

What makes an experience meaningful? There could be a myriad of answers to that question. There are many things that make a great impact on me. The joy of a new child, grandchild, or great grandchild. A tough task successfully completed. Teaching a child and the moment they ‘get it’. Those special moments when God’s presence is almost tangible, or a word that he places in my heart. But at the top of the list for me are those occasions when God works through me and I get to see a person’s life changed.

I’d love to hear from you! What makes an experience meaningful for you? Do you remember a time that you consider a highlight of your life?

“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

The Portrait in My Cup

Since I was about eight years old I have dreamed of visiting Bali. (Strange I know but that is another story.) I often daydreamed of the white beaches bordered with palm trees, the sound and smell of ocean waves lapping against the shore, but especially of the mysterious mountain that I imagined loomed over her. Through the decades that dream never faded and when I occasionally thought of Bali my heart would stir as longing for her rose up in me.

So just imagine my delight when I learned that in 2018 I was to attend a conference in, you guessed it, Bali. With that childhood dream suddenly exploding in me I planned my trip. I was at the time suffering from extreme exhaustion and I decided that a week of vacation preceding the conference would be a very wise and delightful decision. After an online search I booked Lotus Cottage at Devi’s Place, in a village just outside Ubud of Eat, Pray, Love fame.

In August 2018 my overnight flight landed in southern Bali, and after making my way through immigration, I found the car sent from Devi’s Place to pick me up. In spite of travel weariness the 1 1/2 hour drive was delightful and my eyes feasted on the landscape and villages we drove through. I was surprised by the abundance of Hindu statutes and temples in the intersections and lining streets and neighborhoods. While Indonesia is predominantly Islamic, the vast majority of the population of the island of Bali practices Balinese Hinduism. On our journey north we passed roadside food stalls, stone carvers, shops, flowers, and lovely people everywhere.

Lotus Cottage was indeed charming. Built as a Balinese style dwelling it also had accommodations for a foreigner like myself to feel comfortable. The only enclosed room of the cottage was the air-conditioned bedroom. The kitchen, dining, living area was the front of the dwelling and was built like a large, covered front porch equipped with refrigerator and gas cooktop. Every morning a large breakfast of toast made from homemade bread with fresh butter and jam and tropical fruit was delivered to my dining table.

In the kitchen cabinets I found a package of Indonesian coffee. It was ground extremely fine, almost a powder, and I was puzzled as how to prepare it. With a little research (thank you Google for knowing everything) my suspicions were confirmed. The Balinese method of coffee making is quite simple. Put a heaping tablespoon of the the finely ground coffee into a cup. Fill the cup with hot water and stir well. Wait three to five minutes for the coffee to steep and the grounds to settle to the bottom and enjoy, remembering to sip carefully towards the end to avoid the settled grounds.

The area around the cottage was lush with colorful foliage and even a goldfish pond. Off the side of the bedroom was the huge Balinese open bathroom, surrounded by a flower covered rock wall and open to the sky. I had never taken a complete shower outdoors before. The primal bliss of the tepid water falling on me, mixed with the morning sun and tropical breeze on my skin made me think of the Garden before the Fall when shame and hiding came into the world.

The week passed quickly and I headed back to the south coast of Bali and although I had spent most of my time either in bed or lying on the sofa outside I left every bit as tired as when I had arrived. I did not know that I was just weeks away from a physical collapse nor did I have any idea that my recovery would take years, not days.

The hotel booked for my conference stay was a beachfront resort hotel and it was lovely in every way, containing restaurants and even a shopping area. On the way to my room I passed a coffee shop and restaurant. Desperately needing the comfort of a strong cup of coffee after my ride across the island I dropped my bag in my room and headed back to the restaurant.

As it was middle of the afternoon the coffee shop was virtually empty and as I was seated I asked the server for a cappuccino. The wait seemed eternal. The beach called to me from the window but I was impatient for my coffee. Finally the server returned and placed the anticipated cappuccino on the table in front of me. I was almost speechless. There was a portrait of a lovely woman in my cup. I am always blessed when I receive coffee art; my main love language is acts of service so someone doing something extra for me makes me feel loved. But this seemed beyond possible. As my eyes watered I choked out something like, “how..who?” The server simply smiled and pointed to the barista across the room. I don’t know if she gives everyone a portrait in their cup or if she noticed my wearily slumped body and eyes frustrated by the elusive rest that I seemed unable to find. But no matter, that lovingly kind act of a stranger will always warm my heart when I remember it.

Have you every done an act of kindness for a stranger? Have you ever received a loving act from someone you didn’t nor ever will know? How did that loving act impact you?

“Don’t forget to show hospitality to strangers, for some who have done this have entertained angels with realizing it!” ~ NLT