Ten

I can hear the early morning sound of your coffee grinder chopping beans to a pulp. Is it Guatemalan, Ethiopian, or is it Kenyan today? The delicious smell wafts through the house as you invite the hot nectar to stir you awake. On your way to the clothing that would protect you from the cold, you kiss my cheek and whisper words of love. Our boy sleeps in the bedroom nearby. Ready to make the hour-long journey, one last kiss.

Ten.

Ten has been rather unkind to me, dear Ricky, always lurking. Ten brought with him uninvited guests, Guilt and Remorse. But Guilt and Remorse would not tease me about our marriage. No. Instead they found my weaker place and torment me about our boy. About the very specific memories of me failing him as a mother beginning with yesterday, traveling through that knock on the door, weaving through his childhood, and coming to rest at his birth. Our sweet, sensitive boy. Every moment of failure replayed in slow motion as though time was filled only with Guilt and Remorse, those selfish guests.

Ten.

The presence of Ten throughout the year differs from Nine and Eight and the rest. Those others appeared mostly around November, but Ten has been with me all year long. Ten is so very big. The enormity of Ten strikes me more deeply than the enormity of your absence. That’s a funny thing. Perhaps the peaceful satisfaction of our lives well lived, and the joy that is this new creation…this surprise of hope, provides some sense of freedom. But Ten, why must you be so heavy? What are you trying to tell me?

Ten.

While indeed Ten is heavy and those uninvited guests occupy far too much space, I trust that “…the very act of voicing our trouble to God begins a conversation in which we have opened ourselves up to his care, his mercy, and his provision” (Manion, 2010, p. 79). I simply marvel at how my heavenly Father gave individual attention to this existence of mine and intricately designed a beautiful life of unswerving faith and that he continues to go ahead of me weaving even Ten and his friends into something glorious.

Ten.

Farewell to Year Three

Dear Ricky,

I’ve been thinking about this day for a while now. Three years. Three is such a very small number, but it sometimes seems so very big. I want to do something special to remember you on this day, something intentional and purposeful. Yet none of my ideas seem quite right. I feel that if I don’t do something, if the day passes without some meaningful event – if I do little more than get out of bed, eat breakfast, and get to work – then I will have failed to honor you for our lives together. It’s not out of a sense of compulsion that I write, but instead out of a sense of needing to be near you, to be comforted by you, to be understood. This letter seems to be the best way to be close.

I’ve started this letter again and again and wonder that almost all of what I have written each time mirrors what I wrote to you last year – lack of being comforted, feeling that no one understands, carrying a hidden burden. Is that my lot in life? To never make progress, to never move forward? That doesn’t sound right. It doesn’t sound like me. It doesn’t sound like what God would plan. Maybe I need to evaluate my station based on a continuum now.

Although today is a day of reflection, and I give myself permission to feel the emotions that go along with such a day, I have to tell you that my life is so very good, Ricky. I think you would be proud of me. I feel like a whole different person, though someone I hardly recognize. I know and love God more deeply than ever and I love other people in a way that I never knew I could. I’m still strong, determined, and independent too. I’m not sure I like growing and changing sometimes. It means I’m moving away from you and toward something else. Even though I know it’s inevitable, and even necessary, I take each step with this keen awareness of what it means about your place in my life.

I think you’d like this little ministry God planted. I think you’d find so many of the same warm blessings I have. I think you’d be surprised like I am. You realize that none of it would have happened without you…um…without your death. I know that you didn’t have to die to make it happen, like Jesus had to die to give us life, but I also know that my life would look very different otherwise. Thank you for this unexpected gift. I thank God for keeping his promise to “make all things work for the good of those who love him and are called according to his purpose” (Romans 8:28).

And so I continue to step forward into this crazy new life carrying with me little more than a dull heartache. I move ahead with no fear, no regrets, no do-overs. Still peace, still grace, still hope. Mostly sweetness. And so, farewell once more my sweet Ricky. Until we meet again.

Love,
Me

“To him who is able to keep you from falling and to present you before his glorious presence without fault and with great joy—to the only God our Savior be glory, majesty, power and authority, through Jesus Christ our Lord, before all ages, now and forevermore! Amen” (Jude 24-25, NIV).

Farewell

Dear Ricky,

My thoughts fight for expression…expression that looks like nothing more than a jumble of words on a page.  I’ve started and restarted this letter to you eight times, who knows if this will be the last.  I’ve never written to you before.  What should I say?  What will be my last words?  What would have been my last words?

Do I tell you all the things I miss so much about you?  That list would go on forever.  Do I tell you all the new things God has brought me to?  That story would seem unreal.  As my best friend, I want to tell you everything.  I want you to know me again.  Would you still love me? 

How do I describe the impossibility of comfort?  An emptied box of tissues litters the ground at my feet.  The safest place in the world is in your embrace.  I’ll have to wait.  Be strong.  Smile.  Be thankful.  But not comforted.  It’s like being thirsty and never getting a drink.  How do I marry this new and beautiful life God has made for me with this unfillable longing for comfort?  Yes I find comfort in Jesus every day.  It should be better and in many ways it is…but it’s not the same.  My uncle calls with his sweet spirit and soft voice and I fear that I’ll melt like a pile of snow melting onto the carpet…he’s an echo of you.  But even for him I put on the brave face as best I can.  It’s only you with whom I can completely surrender to this sadness.  Hold on.

My burdens are many – unknown to most, understood by few – and yet I seem to reach the end of each day with a sense of joy and peace.  Evidence of grace.  My life seems to be nothing but evidence of grace.  I never could have, nor would have, put these pieces together in such a way as this.  I hardly recognize myself, my life.  I love that the testimony of God’s presence is so boldly evident, such a contrast to the person I was/am.  So unmistakable.  The impossibility of so much hope could only come from Him.  I am constantly surprised by hope.  And yet you live with Hope every day.  What is He like?  Were you surprised too?

Two years have passed since last we were together.  I’ll replay those days anew for many years to come.  But I must look toward the future too.  And so farewell, my sweet Ricky.  Until we meet again.

Love,

Me

“To him who is able to keep you from falling and to present you before his glorious presence without fault and with great joy—to the only God our Savior be glory, majesty, power and authority, through Jesus Christ our Lord, before all ages, now and forevermore! Amen” (Jude 24-25, NIV).

Surprised by Hope

Year two is almost over, which means My Second Year is almost over too. The blog will be retired on November 22, 2010 and, while it will still be available online, I won’t be adding more posts. My Third Year as a “next blog” doesn’t work, as discussed in the post of the same name. Yet becoming a missionary to East Africa and sharing stories about how God is moving there surely deserves public expression. To that end, and to the end (kinda) of the many weeks of intense planning, I’m very excited to reveal the next blog.

Surprised by Hope was created to encourage, demonstrate, and testify to the many ways we can be surprised by hope. It’s not a personal blog about grief and healing, as was My Second Year. Surprised by Hope is intended to focus on Christ-like, hope-filled ministry to the men, women, and children in East Africa. Don’t be surprised to find stories about the people I meet and the places I go, discussions about education issues or politics, tools for helping missionaries expand their reach, or testimonies about finding Hope in everyday life.

Surprisedbyhope.org serves as a portal to three main segments of the site.

• The blog button focuses on field ministry. In other words, its primary purpose is to report what is happening while I am on the field in East Africa and to provide ministry-related updates. Don’t forget to sign up as a “Follower.”
• The artisans button focuses on the groups of handcrafters in East Africa who hope to increase sales as a means of providing for their families.
• The giving button focuses on the many ways – financial and nonfinancial – that we can work together in this ministry.

Take a look at the website, know that it’s a work in progress, and join me in bringing the surprise of hope to today’s East-African culture.

“Show me your ways, O Lord, teach me your paths; guide me in your truth and teach me, for you are God my Savior, and my hope is in you all day long” (Psalm 25:4-5, TNIV).

What Comfort is There?

Answering the question of how I will remember Rick on the second year anniversary of his death is not the same as answering the question of how I feel about it. Perhaps a few weeks ago I would have answered the question of how I feel differently. But as the second anniversary approaches, I find myself wondering why I feel anxious and frustrated about things that have very little meaning. I start not to recognize myself.

How do I feel? I feel overwhelmingly sad. I feel helpless that nothing can be done to change that sadness. I also feel comfort in knowing it is okay to feel sad and that this sadness will not last forever…I feel hope. But I cannot move into hope too quickly. I want and maybe even need to pass through this sadness and experience it fully. With the many exciting things happening in my life it is easy to put off the deep feelings of grief and I would not serve myself well in doing so, particularly given the knowledge that I am strong enough not to be sucked in by grief.

I realized last night that the only comfort in this sadness would be to have Rick wrap his arms around me and allow me to cry my little eyes out. No other person on earth can have that same comforting effect because of the special relationship between husband and wife, between Rick and I. With him all my guard comes down, I don’t have to hold anything together, I am not judged, I can just melt into his arms and let go of every worry and every burden.

Yes, I am comforted by the hugs of friends and family but it’s just not the same. So what can I do with the idea that I cannot be comforted? Yes, Jesus can be my comfort and he has been for so long. But what about that real physical need to be comforted? There is no satisfaction. There is no way to be comforted. I have no choice but to accept the sadness. I have no control, I have no choice, I have no comfort. Reality.

Tomorrow (figuratively) I will have the strength to accept that the need for comfort will go unsatisfied, that I cannot take control of this situation, that I have only one choice and that is Jesus…however unsatisfying that feels (did I just say that out loud?) until I actually allow myself to be comforted by him and find that I do feel better. Today is not tomorrow…yet.

On Faith and Future

The moment Rick died my sense of life became cloudy. That is the only word I can find to describe this literal feeling in my head. I could no longer see the future. I could no longer picture what my tomorrows looked like. Everything we had planned and imagined for ourselves disappeared in an instant. It’s a little dizzying not to mention indescribable.

As time passed I realized that God was revealing just enough of my future to require me to make a decision for today alone. One step at a time I passed through each day, then each week, then each month. Today I cannot imagine as far into the future as Rick and I did together, but I can see enough to keep me from falling off the edge.

I actually think I am learning to love this shorter-term view. What I try to orchestrate for myself is so much less exciting than the life God puts together for me. But he “needs” things to line up just right before he reveals them to me so that I will be faith-filled and obedient. It’s fun to watch, actually. I’m constantly amazed at the cool little details he attends to, at the surprising connections, at the beautiful pictures. I definitely couldn’t do that myself.

Thank you, God, for this new perspective on faith and future.

My Third Year

My Second Year was titled such that it was my second year of figuring out life after Rick died. The title signaled something – it signaled some connection between his death and grieving, and my life and future. I hoped that some transition would take place during My Second Year and I believe it has (although I’d be interested in your thoughts about that issue).

The rest of my life will not be strictly defined based on the number of years away from Rick’s death. The rest of my life will be defined, instead, by obedience to the call of God. Perhaps My Second Year readied me for this perspective…a transition of thought and heart.

Rick’s death will always be a part of me, but it will no longer be the biggest part of me. That piece of my life will find a new home in me…somehow, somewhere. I have a peaceful sense that my memory of him and our lives together will find its proper place according to the grace of God.

As I contemplate my third year, such a title as My Third Year seems irrelevant or inappropriate. This next year will have little relevance to Rick’s death and the work of grieving and healing (not that all grieving and healing ceases). Over the course of My Second Year, my future has become my future rather than what should have been our future together.

So, what does that mean for my third year? My Third Year won’t exist. Well…it won’t exist in blog form. Praise God that he has truly turned my mourning into gladness and has given me comfort and joy instead of sorrow (Jeremiah 31:13b).

Women's Crafts

Following the Bible study, the women sought my business advice about how to improve their crafts and how to better market them. In addition to the traditional bead jewelry, a few women showed designs that were of a higher caliber. The woman shown with this necklace added a stone to the center of her design along with some plastic beads, giving this necklace a very formal design look.

I also complimented the women who offered a variety of ways to use the beads beyond just jewelry – for example as a purse. I did a double take when I realized the beads on the purse were handmade. The purse was also lined, which added a quality feel. I explained that these attributes would set their work apart from that of others and thus improve demand for their products. The challenge now is to find the best place to market their products.

While I’m not sure I helped a whole lot, I enjoyed learning how they made their jewelry and spending more time with them on a personal level. If you are interested in purchasing any of the jewelry or crafts shown here or in a previous post, there’s still time. Just let me know and I’ll get word to the ladies. They use the money to pay for school for their children and to put food in their bellies.

It Should Have Been Me

As the Bible school came to a close, the final teaching was about the Passion of Christ. Kelly told the familiar story in a way that so touched me on this particular day. I admit that the brutal story often brings tears to my eyes, but when Kelly reminded me that it should have been me on that cross tears ran down my face. I should be the one to pay for my own sins. I should be the one to suffer and die.

Would you be willing to send your child to death to save someone else’s child? To be honest, I’m not sure I would…as a matter of fact, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t. What parent doesn’t believe that their kids are the end all? That they would do ANYTHING to protect their children? I’m sure God felt this way about his Son too…yet he still sent him to die for me. I cannot even fathom such a gift. Not even close. It should have been me!

Praise God for such a sacrifice that has more meaning to me today than ever before. Because of that enormous gift, I will get to see Rick again. I have the hope of seeing everyone I love again. I will see Jesus, the great comforter. How can I ever thank him?

Stressed

I’d been asking to go for a walk over the last few days because I could feel the internal stress building. Nothing bad has to happen for my stress levels to rise, it happens when combining being away from home (Lauren’s) for too long, being in totally new situations, not having enough alone time, a lack of exercise, not enough sleep, and any number of other factors. Much of Africa is safe in the daytime except perhaps the bigger, more congested cities. But not many places in Africa are safe in the evening. Finding time to walk was out of the question, even with Gabriel. Still, I kept asking.

The return drive from Karamoja – another 10-12 hours – was long and bumpy. That ongoing sense of confinement and stress continued to build. A single minor event was the last straw. I lost it. I couldn’t be nice anymore, I couldn’t hold it all in. All I wanted to was to run. We parked the car at a hotel, I gave Laura (who knows me well) the eye, and put my shoes on and ran as far and as fast as I could. I didn’t ask if it was safe or even for a suggestion about where to run. I just ran. I ran and ran and ran until I couldn’t see in the dark anymore. I ran and ran and ran and cried and cried and cried. These are the times I feel so alone and am smacked with the reality of that aloneness.

Had I gotten the regular exercise I was asking for the build up would never have happened, nor would the tears, the last straw would not have come, the appearance of rudeness on my part would never have surfaced, worrying my friends would not have been an issue, missing Rick might not have crossed my mind. But, I knew it was coming and there was nothing I could do about it.

In the end, I was all worn out and sat at the end of the drive watching the big orange moon rise behind a few clouds and cast a beautiful light on Mount Tororo. I was reminded of God’s presence and of his unending goodness. Exhale.

Three Months

Fewer than three months separate me from the end of My Second Year. That I can think ahead that far is a minor miracle in and of itself, but to think that I’ve almost made it through another year without Rick is another accomplishment…not that I had a choice.

On one hand I feel the weight of answering the question about what year three will look like – will I get back into “real life” or will missions continue? On another hand I actually press myself not to look ahead that far – I might miss something God has planned for me that isn’t yet prepared. So here I am in that “in between” state again. I must admit, though, that this “in between-ness” is becoming relatively comfortable…although never easy.

I believe I can hear God’s voice so much more clearly, and I believe that I’m more willing and free to respond to his voice when I do hear it. From the outside looking in, I’m not sure any of My Second Year makes sense, but I have been quite comfortable here…authentically working through my new normal alongside people who love me (way more people than I ever knew).

This final short-term mission trip to Uganda will be the last trip in My Second Year. A few weeks of reflection and then My Second Year blog will close too, about which there are so many implications. These ends, though, do not signal THE end but instead they signal the beginning of something new. Even though I don’t know what that new thing will be I do know that it will come from God and that it will be good.


“Do not fear, for I am with you; do not anxiously look about you, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, surely I will help you, surely I will uphold you with My righteous right hand” (Isaiah 41:10).

Smile

Uncle Kracker is a new country artist who recently released a song called Smile. The lyrics made me think about what makes me smile. I’m not talking about things I like or things that make me happy or even the 50 Things I’m Thankful For. I’m talking about those sparse moments when you realize you’re smiling and never knew it was coming, those inside smiles that sneak up on you.

As an example, while visiting Kefa Sempangi’s compound just outside Kampala, we came across an artist sculpting a rooster. The rooster is symbolic to me of “a new day,” a phrase and experience that has a very long story and very significant meaning that predates Rick and continues through My Second Year. Not many people are aware of the importance of this symbol in my life, but the instant I saw this rooster all I could do was smile. I smiled about the way the Holy Spirit uses these little moments to remind me of his presence. I smiled that quite inner, knowing smile that comes from deep within.

What makes you smile?

Kato's Story

During the February trip to Uganda, an orthopedic surgeon with the Mercy Uganda group met Kato (Kato means twin). Kato’s legs are malformed at the knees. This 15-year-old boy who adjusted to walking in an unusual way over the years, but he is experiencing increasing pain as a result of his natural growth.

In June, the Mercy Uganda team (including me) took Kato to the hospital for x-rays (Kato rode on the back of Henry’s boda-boda) and Laura returned them to the surgeon for closer examination and possibly a surgery to correct Kato’s legs and relieve the pain. This reply came a few days ago:

The doctor feels strongly that Kato had polio when he was younger. The way his knees look he just feels confident that it had to be that. He said there is basically nothing anyone could do to “fix” his legs. The problem is he uses his hamstrings to power his movements. He’s taught himself how to survive. Had it been corrected earlier in his life then it may not have been as bad. Because he uses his hamstrings he basically has no strength in his quads which is what powers “normal” legs to walk. So if they correct his legs to make them anatomically correct he would be unable to walk. If they put braces on his legs to straighten them, it’ll be the same outcome – no strength in the legs to power movement. I asked what would happen as Kato got older because he’s already in pain while walking and the doctor said he’d eventually end up in a wheelchair and if they did surgery he would more than likely end up in a wheelchair as well.

He ended up getting interrupted by a phone call but he called me on my way home last night and said that he was sorry and he knew he disappointed us. He wishes he could help him as well but doing surgery would probably make Kato’s mobility worse off immediately versus later in life. I know he is sad that he can’t help him because when watched that video of Kato walking I could see the wheels turning in his head. He is a great surgeon and he trained at the Shriner’s in Louisiana which dealt with kids with all sorts of deformities and if anyone could do it I would trust that he could.

So, we said that we need to help Kato get into the best schools so he can go to college and become a professor or pastor or something that he doesn’t have to do hard labor! He is currently sponsored?

I’m sorry for the bad news. As the doctor said there is only 1 person in all of creation that can help Kato…..and we all know who He is.

When I read this reply I felt like hope was snatched away in an instant. Even though we know our Creator will make all things work together for our good, it’s tough to pass through some days unscathed. And when it happens to children…that just seems so much worse. It’s hard not to feel that in America the likelihood of having gotten polio would have been almost zero and that in America surgery would have likely been an option at an early age. But we all know that bad things happen to children in America too.

I am happy to report that Kato does have a sponsor and they are willing to do all they can to help this young man to prosper in life.

Belonging

I continue to be aware of this inner desire that I have to fit in or to belong. Where does that come from? I know that I am a child of God and that I belong to him. Shouldn’t that be good enough? I know what my purpose is, at least for this year. Shouldn’t that help? Yet I still long for “place” on this earth. What does that even mean? Why has this sense of belonging become a topic that occupies my mind so much?

At least part of the question was answered when I went to Uganda. In retrospect I can see that my love for that place was based on this automatic acceptance, this appreciation for my gifts and talents, this inclusion. I was never an outsider, I didn’t have to find a way to fit in, I just automatically belonged to the group…I was loved. I can say that I’ve never experienced this kind of warmth from total strangers before (although Parson Clampet and his crew in Alaska were pretty sweet but Uganda was different).

I realize I cannot have that feeling everywhere I go and with everyone I meet. But I also think I’m uncovering another aspect of losing Rick that is having a pretty significant impact on me. I belonged to him, he included me, he loved me. I was part of his group, I fit with him. To whom do I belong without him?

I know that I belong to Jesus but this is not a super spiritual problem, it’s a real and practical one. Yes, I am independent enough to not need to belong but I think this is a sign that God is changing my heart – I want to belong somewhere, somehow. God created us for community, right? This desire for a sense of belonging helps me see myself as coming closer to normal than perhaps ever before.

Happy Wedding Anniversary

On a sunny afternoon 21 years ago today, I married Ricky Lee Mosher on the lawns of Point West in Holland. The small ceremony – I never wanted the big wedding so many women dreamt of – was perfect. I’ll never forget the look in his beautiful hazel eyes as we said our vows…dreamy. Many times through the years this same look would return. It’s hard to believe that our marriage endured for just less than half my lifetime.

Last year – for what would have been our 20th anniversary and the 1st anniversary after his death – I revisited the place Rick and I enjoyed our honeymoon – The Terrace Inn in Petoskey. This is the place we had our wedding night dinner and enjoyed a walk on the grounds as well as by the lakeshore. I paged slowly through two albums of wedding pictures with an older couple who had been sitting next to me in the restaurant looking on. I reread all of the cards given to us for that celebration. I described to the then-and-now owner our little wedding story. After dinner, I sat on the very swing we sat on together (I have pictures) so many years ago and removed my wedding ring. I read our Bible verses, placed the ring in its box next to Rick’s ring, and acknowledged the end of that very special marriage.

While I do feel a sense of sadness and loss today, the pain is not quite so sharp at it once had been. I continue to be thankful for many years we had together and the way God has shaped me though that marriage experience.

Ephesians 5:22-33.

Wedding photo: 1989, Point West on Lake Macatawa
Vacation photo: 2005, Taggert Lake in Grand Teton National Park

The Stand

So I'll stand
With arms high and heart abandoned
In awe of the One who gave it all

So I'll stand
My soul Lord to You surrendered
All I am is Yours

We sang this song in worship tonight before chapel, including a few verses I’d never heard before. This is one song that I can’t help but let the tears flow down my cheeks sometimes. I don’t know if it was Rick’s favorite song, probably not. But it was one of two songs I asked the worship team to sing at his memorial service.

I will never forget what he looked like standing in the sound booth at church with his arms spread wide open as far as they would stretch, his head tilted back, his eyes closed, and the words of the song coming from his lips. He may have even forgotten all about the sound needs of the worship team during this particular song. Total and absolute love and abandon. Sometimes when we sing this song I look back to that sound booth thinking I might get one more glimpse of him there. That picture in my mind. My curly-haired Ricky singing to God with his whole heart. I am so thankful.

Never Under-Expect from God

Immediately after Rick died I had this calming sense that God would bring happiness and joy back into my life at some time in the future. I just knew it. As My Second Year was opened before me, I found that little by little he was doing just that. Not only was he creating a new kind of happiness and joy but I was totally and completely under-expecting just how good he would be. I don’t deserve it, but I accept his goodness toward me.

As I prepare to leave for Lake Ann Camp this morning, I’m excited about meeting all the new friends. But I’m more excited to see what God will do. As nervous as I am to meet all new people in a place I’ve never been, I trust God. I continue to surprise as he puts the experience together – circumstances, people, needs, abilities. He is so creative, and kind, and loving.

What I look forward to most is how he will use me to help others. Will I listen? Will I be obedient? Will I be bold? Will I love these campers and leaders? The only thing that might hold me back is me. Pray that my expectations of God would not be lowered and that I would have the courage to meet him whenever he calls.

“There is no fear in love; but perfect love drives out all fear, because fear has to do with punishment” (1 John 4:18).

“Before” Friends and “After” Friends

At first I thought I never wanted to have any friends who didn’t know Rick. I didn’t want friends who could not somehow recall that I was married to him, that I loved him, and that he died. I’m not really sure why this was so important to me. Perhaps I thought people who did not remember him could not know me. Perhaps a large part of my identity was now defined by this moment in time.

Thankfully, I still have a lot of friends who have known me for many years and who knew Rick and a little about how we felt about one another. These friends provide a sort of empathy that I occasionally need/want. They express a kind of understanding and compassion at having watched me walk this crazy grief journey. They’re a bit of a link to a time when Rick was still alive, to his memory. These are my “before” friends.

Yet as I walk My Second Year, I’m making a lot of new friends who view me through an entirely different lens. These people never knew me as a married woman; they never knew Rick or my love for him. They didn’t watch me learn of his death, lean into grief during the first year, and they didn’t watch as My Second Year emerged. These people know me as an individual, and they know me with more of the rough edges worn off. These are my “after” friends.

These new friends have little sympathy for my grief. They don’t see me as having once been married and as having lost something quite profound. They take me at face value – no history, no brokenness, just me. They also have little compassion or tolerance for any expression of grief. Don’t misunderstand, I am not saying these are not compassionate friends. I am saying they cannot relate to me in the same way my “before” friends can relate to me.

Today I am so glad that I have both “before” and “after” friends. They provide a kind of balance I didn’t know I would need. They also provide a kind of freedom; a freedom to figure out who I am without losing who I was. I want all my friends to know just how important they are not only for the personal relationship we have but also in this bigger picture of how all these pieces of life fit together…every person matters.

My Dad, June 29

I had every intention of posting about my dad for Father’s Day. As per usual, I got caught up in something else and didn’t even remember that it was Father’s Day. My dad so often gets the short end of every stick, although you’d never hear him complain. So, on this day – the day he became my earthly father, my birthday – I want to honor him. In keeping with the purpose of this blog – to address the issues of grief and healing along with the mission work God has called me to – allow me to write a little about my father.

A father never stops being a father. When Rick died, my father cried all the tears I couldn’t. He cried for the ache in his little one’s heart. He cried because he couldn’t fix it. He cried because he couldn’t be a substitute. When Rick died, my father wrestled with his desire to protect me and to give me over to the great Protector. We’re still working on that one. A father never stops being a father.

I am my father’s daughter. So many of the things I love about life, I learned from my father. My passion for the great outdoors came from many years of camping. My love of motorcycles and snowmobiles came from him too. My dad challenged me to go on my first roller coaster at Cedar Point, the Mine Ride, and then the next, the Gemini. My dad is the reason Duncan Donuts made it on my list of 50 Things I’m Thankful For. He used to take me for donuts every Sunday morning before church, a very special one-on-one time. Peanut butter pie made it on that list because of him too, mostly because we both love anything with peanut butter. I am my father’s daughter.

They say men marry women like their mother and women marry men like their father. Rick had many of the qualities my father has. This sense of adventure you see in me originated from my father and was perpetuated with my husband. The boldness to face My Second Year and to respond to God’s call on my life is the result of the way my father and husband showed me the Father. I have been so blessed to have two of the most important men in my life unknowingly and synergistically drawing me closer to my heavenly Father.

If you have seen me, you have seen the Father (John 14:5-14). I love you, dad!

Mary's Story

Mary Nakazibwe’s father died and her disabled mother works in a quarry. She was taken into Bethel Orphanage Home in 2004. Mary was one of the helpless children in Uganda, but God helped her. She studied at Bethel Covenant College up to Senior 4 class. From there she joined the Institute at Entebbe Vocational School. She studied tailoring for two years and graduated this year on May 14, 2010 with a diploma in tailoring. Mary is now making sweaters, school uniforms, and other African attire for ladies. She is currently helping Mercy Uganda make sweaters for school children in Karamoja.

Mary received a sewing machine from Mercy Uganda this week and used it to make me an outfit. I’m proud to be her first sewing machine-based customer.