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Hats Off!

Hats off to homeschooling moms! Mostly because the hat will be knocked off anyway. Things can get wild and crazy in a homeschool room. In the past few years, I added homeschooling to my repertoire of school experiences. Whether as a student, parent, or teacher, I have experienced: private Christian school, public school, and homeschool in the United States as well as international, Christian, boarding, and homeschool in several foreign countries. Each situation carries a unique set of challenges and benefits.

Not very far into my first year of homeschooling our kids, I realized that homeschooling is not for the faint of heart or for anyone low on energy. My image of homeschooling moms has never been negative, but it certainly jumped up a few notches once I started doing it myself. I kept thinking, “And all this time I had no idea what all they had to do!” Sure, we get done earlier in the day, but when we are done...I am DONE, you know what I mean? My brain is toast by two o’clock in the afternoon! Emails? Forget it. Dinner? Did we already order pizza for dinner this week? We did? Phooey.

Last year we did homeschool and dorm school (different kids did different things obviously). This semester all the kiddos are homeschooling. Next semester it will be Christian school abroad. See what I mean? We really like to mix it up in our family! Ha!

To all the families starting up a new year of school...HAVE A GREAT ONE!

The Rest of the Story

I got a lot of responses from my post The Box. For some reason the "comment" tab doesn't always work so some responses were verbal or in emails and messages. Sounds like the post stirred something in all of us. So now I'd like to post the rest of the story... and I've invited my mom (shout out to Diana Norwood!) to be a guest blogger for this! We all may be wondering what the rest of the story will be for Wi'am, but here is a look at someone else's end story... thanks for sharing Mom!

Consider the difference Jesus Christ makes in a life. The contrast is significant.

It happened to me in South Asia…

We were in a small town that had a decent hotel. We were staying there while we taught a leadership seminar for national church pastors and leaders. For women teachers, it is appropriate to teach in a sari. Hence, I was wearing a sari, riding in the local rendition of a rickshaw, which sets the occupant high in the air on a small seat, behind the man who peddles the rickshaw. Talk about conspicuous! First of all, being white seems to draw everyone’s eyes in your direction. Secondly, a white woman wearing a sari is really strange. Oh, the looks I endured as we traveled the roads to the community center where the seminar was being held. Especially irritating to me were the stares of the men. They were all Muslim men. When they looked at a woman there was no respect in their eyes. It was more a look of disdain and distaste and vulgar thoughts. A woman feels dirty after noticing a man looking at her in that way. After enduring many such looks on the way to the community center, we arrive. I pay the rickshaw driver and walk inside to meet our class which has gathered from many areas of the country. It’s always a thrill to meet these men and women. This week, I notice a man who is dressed just as any Muslim man, with white salwar-kameez (long shirt and pants) and a very bushy black beard. One of the participants brings him up to me to introduce him.

The contrast to the men on the street is vast. He walks up to me with a huge smile shining through his black beard, and he looks at me straight in the eyes. He’s eager to meet me and talk to me. I quickly shift my cultural gears. In this Muslim culture, a woman doesn’t look a man in the eyes or talk to him. But there was no avoiding this wonderful man. I quickly learned his story:

He was the imam (leader) of the mosque in his village: looked up to and respected. As he frequented a pharmacy in town, the pharmacist (who was also sitting in this seminar and who was a strong believer) began to share with him Jesus Christ. The imam became a believer, but kept going to the mosque and sharing Jesus Christ there. He was run out of the mosque and eventually out of their village. His wife had also become a believer. They and their children were now without a home. Eventually they were able to relocate in another village and have been attracting Muslims and winning them to Christ. He no longer can lead in a mosque, but he now leads a growing group of former Muslim believers as they have gathered into a “church”.

Only Christ could change such a man. It’s a miracle. And it's "the rest of the story" for this man and his family. What can we do today to help write "the rest of the story" for those without Christ?

It's Time

“It’s time, Mom,” said my boy. He stood in the open doorway of the hotel room where we stayed. The light of the afternoon sun flooded the doorway where he stood so that his face was dark and his form was a silhouette outlined in gold. His eyes were not hidden in the shadow, though; they beamed. His backpack hung over one shoulder and he carried a bag in each hand. He stood tall and handsome. When had he grown so tall? His voice was deep too. When did that happen? When did my little boy start talking as if he were a man? In recent days I found myself startled to hear a strange man in the house talking to my children. Then, I’d realize from the conversation that it was not a man, it was my own boy (whose voice seemed to have dropped multiple octaves overnight) talking to his siblings.

My boy. He was going to move into a dorm and attend school far away from home. We planned for this day for years. We talked about it, read about it, and dreamed about it. But now it was time to do it. Were we really ready for this? Was my son?

He thought he was. But he didn’t know about homesickness and broken hearts, about mean teachers and selfish friends, and...and...

“I’ll be there. Trust me.” It was not the deep voice of my son who’d grown up too fast, it was the Holy Spirit in my heart. The same Holy Spirit Who was in my son’s heart too.

We raised our son to love Jesus and honor His Word. But, would he keep on the path to life when he was out from under our watchful eyes? What about bad influences around him and temptations and...and...

“I’ll be there. Trust me.” It was that Still Voice that my son would recognize too.

I remembered the words of my father, “You and your husband have raised him well, Dear. Like an arrow, he will fly straight.” I remembered the conversation I had with my father the night before...

“I keep trying to tell him last minute advice, Dad,” I complained, “and he doesn’t hear a word I’m saying. He’s so excited to go that my words seem to bounce off his head like ping pong balls off a wall.”

“He doesn’t need to hear them, Dear,” my Dad replied, “He doesn’t need to hear them because you’ve already taught him all the things he needs to know. But you need to say them for your sake. So it’s OK, just say them and let them bounce away. He’s going to be just fine!”

I know my dad was right. I knew this day was coming, but can it possibly be here already? So soon?

“Mom? Mom, it’s time to go.” I jump and look back at the doorway with the silhouette of the young man that somehow I am old enough to have borne and raised. “The dorms open in twenty minutes.”

“Well then,” I reply, “Let’s do this!” I flash a smile at him. Gosh, I am so proud of him. He’s gonna do great. I grab my purse and follow him out the door. Before closing it behind me, I reach back in and snatch the box of tissues off the entry table. I’m gonna need it!

The Box

I felt myself being squeezed back into a little box. It all happened in a matter of seconds and it started just by the look in his eyes.

It has been four years since I left a country that I poured myself into for thirteen years. Since the day I flew away, I have not seen a single person from there.

At first I didn’t miss it. Then I missed it terribly. As each day passed, I grew and changed. I tried new things, I found my voice, I learned that my opinions mattered and my gifts contributed to others. I gained confidence and slowly ventured out from the box that my former world had kept me in. I felt free!

But I still missed the people from my other world. Sometimes I wondered why I loved those ladies so much and why I couldn’t go back. If only I could go back now: now that confidence filled my veins, wisdom matured me and joy put a spring in my step.

One day last week, my husband and I enjoyed a delicious Arabic meal with friends. Ramadan (the month of fasting for Muslims) is in full swing, but the restaurant served us before the fast broke at sundown. We sat under colorful glass lanterns and watched young people playing on the beach as we dipped bread into creamy Arabic dips and talked about both the mundane and the deep.

As the sun creeped lower in the sky, more people wandered into the restaurant. Arabs and Asians from various countries sat at tables throughout the room. The non-Muslims ate their food eagerly while the Muslims waited patiently for the fast to break. My husband and I noticed a group walk into the restaurant and immediately knew they were from a land we formerly lived in. There were two men, a lady and two children. I admired their faces as they walked by. How I missed those faces!

After dinner, I wondered aloud if I should try to meet the lady. My dinner companion encouraged me to do so. The lady had gone to the restroom, so I followed her in and asked her where she was from. Our guess had been right! Her name was Wi’am. She and her daughter were very happy to hear a khawadja (white foreigner) speaking Arabic. She said that I spoke Arabic well. That was a very gracious complement, since I discovered only one in every three words that came out of my mouth were Arabic. The others were a mixture of Bahasa and English and I also had to resort to charades. What on earth happened to the Arabic file in my brain?

We chatted a little and then she excused herself and returned to her table. I rifled through my purse looking for a name card to give her, but I must have given them all away. My friend, who came with me to the restroom, handed me a piece of paper and pen so I could scribble my name and email address down. My hand was shaking out of sheer excitement. A woman from my former home! I loved those ladies!

I quickly left the restroom, but found that the family was already gone. Shoot! Then I looked out of the glass door of the restaurant and saw them meandering through the gift shops set up in the parking lot. At the risk of appearing “stalker-ish” in my excitement, I left my dinner party behind and walked briskly across the parking lot toward Wi’am. I gave her the piece of paper and talked to her a little bit more before the men walked up. Again, I was excited to speak Arabic and meet more people from our former home.

“This is my husband,” said Wi’am, as the men strolled up to us. I smiled brightly, eager to tell them that I used to live in their country.

Then it happened.

Any passerby would not have known that anything unusual had happened at all. The shop owners would have seen a group of North African tourists talking to an American lady for a few seconds and then would have seen them walk on their way. It happens all the time, every day. Why would anyone think it strange?

It started by the look in his eyes.

It wasn’t a bad look, or even a leering one. It was not so much what was in the look as it was what was NOT in it. It was a look that was void of respect. I was de-humanized in a split second. The words he said were cordial. But his look and his manner held me in disdain and crammed me into the tiny box “where you belong.” That man and every other man like him commanded me to shrink. Suddenly, my sleeves felt too short, my jeans too tight, my voice too loud, my manner too friendly, my walk too quick, and my stance too confident. What I would have given for a headscarf to cover my hair that moment. What on earth had I been thinking? His look shot emotions and reactions into my heart that I hadn’t felt in years. My mind saw every man who had leered at me and every man who had touched me or spoken to me inappropriately...I suddenly remembered every unspoken rule for a woman to survive in that man’s world. I found myself squished back into a tiny dark box.

There is no room for anything but me in that box- I am stripped. There is no room for self-expression or confidence. There is no room for talent or a voice of any kind. There is only me. I had been soundly put in my place and he didn’t even have to raise his hand. He never would have anyway. What man would shake hands with an infidel woman during Ramadan?

I turned and walked away. As I slunk back across the parking lot I realized I inadvertently gave Wi’am the wrong email address! In my excitement I’d confused two of my addresses and wrote down a mixture of the two!

Idiot! A thousand men just like him chuckled. See? You are a stupid woman!

A bell on the restaurant door jingled as I opened it and in a split second I had re-entered my own dimension. I sat at the dinner table and talked about strategy and vision. My ideas mattered. My voice contributed to the conversation. My confidence returned. I bloomed again and the tiny stifling box sat shattered in the parking lot.

It has taken me four years to get out of that box and let the Lord nurture and grow me. I don’t have to get back in that box. But what about Wi’am? She’s never known anything different. Now I realize: that’s why I love her and ladies like her so much. They are beautiful and only when I crawled into that dark place could I see them for who they really were. I could see the potential for what God had made them to be.

The box. It’s a place that only a woman can go. No man can truly understand it or feel the pain that comes with it. Although I have attempted to describe it, it’s indescribable really. It’s a place where women are living and dying without the hope of Christ. Wi’am is there...and all my friends from that country.

Will you pray for Wi’am and women like her? Will you pray for the men in their lives? There is just under two weeks left of Ramadan. As people like Wi’am and her family are more sensitive to spiritual things this month, will you pray that they will find Jesus? He really is the answer after all.

Jesus said, “The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to release the oppressed, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.” Luke 4:18-19

In Our New Home...Not For Long!

Five weeks...that's how long we've been in our new home. Five weeks of unpacking, organizing, getting to know our new island and just settling in.

One week...that's how long it is before we take our suitcases BACK to the airport and fly away. I'm praying for "No Madness" during this season of "Nomad-Ness."

We are headed to Texas where I hope I'll find my sanity. Perhaps it's waiting for me in a basket of warm tortilla chips with a large bowl of salsa beside it. That's where I'm thinking it is...which is why we have requested lunch at El Fenix on the way home from the airport.

We have a few mixed feelings about the next five months. We are beyond excited to see our State-side family and friends again! We are looking forward to the opportunities to meet with partners in various cities and churches! We are a little reluctant to leave our new home that we just spent five weeks setting up! But you know what?...that's a good spot to be in. The Lord has already been providing so much for us here. It will be fun to return in January. And we know He has so much already lined up for us during our time in the good 'ole USA. So who wouldn't rejoice about that!?

God is so good! How has He shown His goodness to you lately?

Transition...Again?

Nearly three months since I've posted? Ouch! Is it too cliche to say, "A lot has happened since I last wrote"?

A surprise turn of events has us packing and moving...again! This island has been our home for two years. We actually planned to be here much longer. But the Lord had other plans! We have agreed to expand the area we are working in and, as a result, a move to a more central location is necessary.

So now we're island hopping! Off we hop to a new island...in Malaysia. A wonderful surprise for us is the gift of having our family all back together again. Aaron will get to live at home and attend the same high school he attended this past year.

As we enter into yet another time of transition for our family, I hold to the Anchor, the Faithful One. I am so thankful for His Word. As we pack our suitcases and enter into a month of traveling and "nomad-ness" I think of this verse:

"Your decrees are the theme of my song wherever I lodge." Psalm 119:54