The power of remembering

It’s easy for me to trust God when life is easy, but when a major decision gives me knots in my stomach, too often I realize I’ve only given mental assent to what I’ve been taught about God’s trustworthiness.

Putting those teachings into practice is an entirely different matter.

Last week I told you about a time I was at a defining moment. If we were to join Wycliffe, as “faith missionaries,” my husband and I would not receive a paycheck. Instead, we’d depend on God to form a team of individuals and churches who’d pledge to support us financially.

But we, and all missionaries, must deal with this:

Those who say they’ll support missionaries

don’t always follow through.

That meant Dave and I would be giving up a steady, predictable income. And even if everyone who promised to send money did so, we’d be living at only 65% of what we were accustomed to.

We humans are so used to being self-sufficient—trusting in our own wits and education and hard work to make a living. But moving to Africa would strip us of our usual worldly safety nets. We would have to trust God.

So, before I was willing to join Wycliffe, the big question I had to ask myself—and answer—was this: Could I—would I—trust God to meet our needs despite an unpredictable income?

Deciding to trust God—really trust Him—can be a huge battle, even though we have His many promises in the Bible.

So, at my critical moment, I had to decide: Would I apply what I’d heard about God’s trustworthiness and promises and provisions?

Even if our human supporters let us down,

or even if Dave and I had an emergency expenditure,

would I live out, in practical everyday ways,

my trust in God?

My first reaction was to hold back, to pull back, to question whether He would really be trustworthy.

A messy internal battle waged. Ongoing doubts and fears tormented me.

But I have learned that

the key to being willing

to trust God is this:

We must remember

God’s faithfulness

and help in the past.

“Listen to me . . . I have cared for you since you were born. Yes, I carried you before you were born. I will be your God throughout your lifetime—until your hair is white with age. I made you, and I will care for you. . . . Remember the things I have done in the past. For I alone am God! I am God and there is none like me” (Isaiah 46:3-4, 8, NCV). 

“Remember how the Lord your God led you. . .”  (Deuteronomy 8:2).

“You saw with your own eyes what the Lord did. . . . Be careful, and watch yourselves closely so that you do not forget the things your eyes have seen or let them fade from your heart as long as you live” (Deuteronomy 4:3, 9, NIV).

Yes, the key is remembering—but we don’t remember well!

Mike Metzger addresses that: 

Many churches have forgotten the premium that the historic Judeo-Christian tradition placed on remembrance . . . and recalling the right things. The ‘great sin’ of the Old Testament was forgetfulness (at least it is the most recurrent offense). ‘Remember’ is the most frequent command in the Old Testament. (Clapham Memo, January 19, 2007, “Back and Forth,” by Mike Metzger)

We too often forget what we’re supposed to remember!

That means we must train ourselves—discipline ourselves—to remember how God has helped us in the past.

And so, when faced with whether to trust God with our finances in Africa, I had a powerful memory to fall back on, a memory of God’s faithfulness to us in a unique way.

Let me tell you about it.

The following is an excerpt from my new memoir, Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go: A Foot-Dragger’s Memoir about three years our family spent working with Wycliffe in Lomalinda, a mission outpost in Colombia, South America, living on a tight budget. This event occurred in February 1978, fifteen years before our move to Africa.

I trudged up [the] dusty-red . . . hill at 7:45 on a February morning, sweat dripping down my forehead and back. As I hiked, I wondered, Will this be the day?

I looked forward to reaching the top and turning left toward my office, stopping along the way to check the mail. I usually enjoyed peeking into our cubbyhole, hoping for letters from loved ones in the States but, that day, like so many recently, my stomach knotted at the thought of what I might find. Will this be the day we learn the bad news? I reached into our mail slot. Yes, this was the day. My throat went dry as I unfolded our financial statement.

Two months had passed since Dave fell mysteriously ill with his kidney problem and incurred a $400 bill for flights to Bogotá, housing, and medical expenses—a huge sum for us. Like everyone in Lomalinda, we lived on donations from people back home which they sent to our California office. Some donors sent money every month, others only occasionally, so we had a sporadic income. Our budget was complicated because it took two months to receive our statement and learn how much money we had. We never had a surplus, and certainly not an extra $400 for doctor bills. We weren’t acquainted with Wycliffe’s policies about debt, and I worried and wondered, After we cover medical bills, how will we pay for food and housing?

I stood in the post office, financial statement in hand. Unfolding the printout, I skimmed the list of donors. I spotted a name I’d not seen on our list before—Best, Bill and Marion. I’d grown up in their church and babysat their kids a few times but hadn’t seen them for years. My eyes ran across the page to see how much they’d sent: $400, the exact amount of the doctor bills.

Wait a minute, I said to myself, Dave incurred those costs two months ago. I checked the date their money arrived in California. Dave got sick just hours later. I fought tears. How could this have happened?

The Bible says God knows our needs before we ask and will answer even before we call out for help [Matthew 6:8]. Even before Dave’s illness, before we knew we’d have a need, God had worked in the Bests’ hearts to meet it.

Now, I know He doesn’t promise to solve our problems even before we know about them. He says He knows what we need and that He will answer, yet His answer might be, “Wait a while.” It’s always the “wait” that worries me, the conspicuous time gap between the need and the meeting of it. Sometimes He must work in us, and maybe in others, to ready us for His answer. When His time is right, He provides. During those months, I had no idea how or when He would answer, and that troubled me. Little did I know He had already answered.

That day in the middle of South America’s plains, God felt so near it seemed I could see His face up close, I could feel His breath. Right there in that post office. (from Chapter 25, Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go: A Foot-Dragger’s Memoir, by Linda K. Thomas)

“Call upon Me in the day of trouble;

I will deliver you, and you shall glorify Me.”

Psalm 50:15

Standing at a crossroads: Could I—would I—trust God despite an unpredictable income?

I haven’t kept it a secret from you: I’ve confessed that I really didn’t want to move to Africa. And I also confess that all my reasons were worldly.

“I didn’t want to get rid of our furniture, our treasures, or possessions. I didn’t want to dismantle our home. . . . I didn’t want to say goodbye to friends. I didn’t want to leave Port Angeles, with its forests, mountains and sea. . . .” (From Chapter 2, Grandma’s Letters from Africa)

And here’s another reason: I didn’t want to give up a steady income and good health insurance.

Let me explain. Some mission agencies pay their personnel, but Wycliffe Bible Translators, like many, does not.

Instead, “faith missionaries” rely on God to pull together a team of people and churches to send donations.

Some churches and individuals promise to send money and always do, right on time.

A few promise monthly donations but send it sporadically.

Others discontinue their financial support because of a serious illness, a death, or other financial setback.

But the sad truth is this:

Some churches and individuals

promise to send money

but never follow through.

Even if all supporters send their pledged amount every month, most missionaries live near (or even below) what North Americans call the poverty level. They can set aside little, if anything, for an emergency.

In our case, if every supporter followed through every month, we’d take a 35% pay cut—we’d bring in 65% of what we were accustomed to.

And no longer would an employer contribute toward health insurance and retirement. We’d have to cover those costs out of our 65%.

Does reading such things put a knot in your stomach?

If so, perhaps you understand why I balked at turning my back on a steady income and good health insurance.

And yet, Jesus said we shouldn’t worry about what we’ll eat, drink, or wear because God knows our needs (though He’s not so concerned about our wants) and will take care of them—if we seek first His kingdom and His righteousness (see Matthew 6:24-34, NIV).

In other words, He “already knows all your needs, and he will give you all you need from day to day if you live for him and make the Kingdom of God your primary concern” (Matthew 6:32b-33, NLT).

It was a conditional promise—God would keep His part of the deal if I’d keep my part. He was simply waiting for me to make up my mind.

I stood at a crossroads.

I’d arrived at a defining moment.

My decision would change my life, no matter what I chose.

So, did I want to make God my first priority?

And could I—would I—trust God to keep His word?

Did I fear He would do an inferior job and leave me disappointed? Discontented?

Would I walk away, choosing to stick with our current job security and all its perks? Would I choose self-sufficiency?                                                                                                                     

I have a feeling God’s heart longed for me to trust Him,

to be content with whatever funds He provided.

Maybe He wondered why I couldn’t be more like Paul, who wrote:

“I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want” (Philippians 4:12).

Have you ever found yourself 

plunked down at a fork in the road?

Like me, did you wrestle with 

whether to answer God’s call 

or the world’s call?

Or maybe today you’re at a crossroads,

a life-changing intersection.

How will you decide?

What will you decide?

What a sweet, small world—26 years in the making!

If someone had told me I’d one day stand on African soil, I’d never have believed him.

But there I was, sitting next to my husband on a British Air 747, and we had just touched down at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport in Nairobi, Kenya. 

Africa!

The date was August 21, 1993.

Dave and I ducked through the jet’s little oval door and, squinting in early morning sunshine, we clunked down a metal stairway. With carry-on bags and laptop computer tucked under our arms, we followed fellow passengers across the tarmac and up the stairs into the terminal—much smaller than the last three we’d seen, JFK and London’s two airports, Heathrow and Gatwick.

Inside the dimly lit terminal, a man stepped out of the crowd and handed us forms. Bleary-eyed after an all-night flight, we thumbed through our passports, searched for numbers and dates, and filled in the forms’ blanks.

Next, we joined a line facing a row of narrow wooden booths that looked like something from my childhood back in the 1950s—hand-made and stained reddish-brown. When our turn came, we stepped forward and handed our passports to an official who spoke softly in a clipped Kenyan accent. He asked a few questions, stamped our passports, and waved us through.

We took a couple of steps forward and found ourselves on an escalator down to the baggage carousels—all two of them. Only one hummed around on its U-shaped journey, so that made it simple. Thank God for small airports. Our suitcases, boxes, and duffle bag showed up one by one and, after your grandpa lugged them onto our cart, we turned around and stood in line for an inspection. When our turn came, the official rummaged through a few bags and then pointed us toward large glass doors.

I wrote this in a letter to my granddaughter, Maggie:

Your grandfather’s cousin Paul stood on the other side of those glass doors, and by then we were mighty pleased to see a familiar face. He and his wife Barbara translate the Bible with people in what was then called Zaire (now the Democratic Republic of Congo), but they happened to be in Nairobi at the time. 

Paul loaded us into a borrowed van and we set out toward the city. He sat behind the wheel on the right side of the van and propelled it down the left side of the highway, a practice established in British colonial days. It seemed like we drove down the wrong side of the road, and I felt disoriented and dizzy. Add that to jet lag and sleep-deprivation—and I thanked God it was Paul’s job to drive and not mine.

We drove through broad grassy spaces, punctuated by African thorn trees, with a clear view of escarpments in the hazy distance, wide and purple, and all of it spread under a vast dome of blue sky.

Before long, we passed a few shops and businesses, some shiny like new, others patched and rickety. The highway had no paved shoulders, only orange dirt littered with thousands of plastic shopping bags. Pedestrians and goats walked alongside speeding traffic. 

We passed piles of burning trash that filled the air with a foul odor. Enormous old trucks and buses spewed black exhaust, adding to the air’s stench. The fumes burned my nose, and I could feel my chest tighten.

Within minutes, we entered the busy city of Nairobi, cloaked in blossom-covered trees, dense green shrubs, and tropical flowers—red, yellow, purple, and orange—lavish beauty in the midst of trash and polluted air.

Paul maneuvered the van through thick, aggressive traffic. I held my breath while he battled his way into a congested traffic circle, and around—clockwise.

Unruffled, Paul steered the van out of the traffic circle and onto a narrow, quiet lane lined with towering eucalyptus trees. Within seconds, he pulled up to an iron gate with stone pillars on each side, and a blue-uniformed man stepped out of a narrow wooden guardhouse. 

He swung the gate open and Paul drove us into a small compound. We slid open the van doors, climbed down, and—stepped into springtime. Dappled sunshine filtered through tall old trees, and the temperature felt about seventy degrees. After wild city traffic, noise, and exhaust, this place was a hushed haven. 

Paul explained that our offices would be there on the campus of Bible Translation and Literacy, or BTL, a Kenyan organization that partners with Wycliffe Bible Translators. I looked around at three charming stone buildings reminiscent of old British structures, three stories each, with quaint, small-paned windows and ginger-colored tile roofs.

Tropical gardens teemed with bright colors and textures—Bird of Paradise, lantana, begonias, rosemary, ferns, violets, marguerite daisies, banana trees, fig trees, hibiscus, and the grand centerpiece—lofty old palm trees in the center loop. I don’t think the Garden of Eden could’ve looked any prettier. (from Chapter 1, Grandma’s Letters from Africa)

AND—what a small world! The day before yesterday, we heard from Tom, a dear friend from Port Angeles (click on “But I don’t WANT to leave Port Angeles!”), who is not only in Nairobi, but, during his two weeks there with a missions team, he is staying at BTL! I could hardly believe my eyes when I read his message.

And he wrote, “BTL is a gift, a true haven!” 

Haven, the same word I’d written in my memoir about my own arrival at BTL.  

Yes, Nairobi, like the world’s other major cities, 

is a busy, dirty, rowdy city and yet, in the midst of it, 

Dave and I experienced the gracious, quiet beauty of BTL, 

and for four years enjoyed working out of offices there.

I’m delighted Tom is finding the place to be 

as lovely a haven as we found it to be.

I messaged Tom, "Blow BTL a kiss from me."

He replied, "I will do what you request,

but on the sly.

If the team sees me, they might just

put me back on a plane for home!"

How many grandmas have run from a charging hippo?

“By tomorrow, Maggie, you’ll have lived on this earth for two months,” I wrote to my new and only grandchild, “and I’m scratching my head, trying to figure out how I can be your grandmother from way over here on the other side of the world.

“I always imagined I’d be a traditional, quaint grandma like my grandma, the kind that sits in a rocking chair and knits baby blankets.” (from Chapter 1, Grandma’s Letters from Africa)

Yes, I dreamed, and expected, I’d grandparent in the ways my beloved Grandma Mac had. You couldn’t ask for a gentler, kinder, more loving grandmother. She was soft-spoken and preferred to live quietly in her home, a home full of love that she and my grandpa had created. I loved them with all my heart and their home was always a safe, happy place.

Grandma was always doing things for others—sewing, knitting, or crocheting clothes for her grandkids.

And cooking delicious meals. Sundays after church, my parents, little brothers, and I used to pile into the family car and drive the hour to my grandparents’ home. Usually my aunts, uncles, and their families were there, too, and we enjoyed gathering around Grandma and Grandpa’s dining room table. They lived on a tight budget but Grandma always served delicious meals, often featuring vegetables and fruit from her own garden.

That was the kind of grandmother I planned to be, I longed to be—but, instead, I lived half a world away from my granddaughter, Maggie. And I just knew my son Matt, and his wife Jill, would some day have another baby. And that my daughter, Karen, would one day marry and have babies, too.

It broke my heart to live so far away.

And my grandmothering couldn’t have been more different from what I expected.

In Africa, I stumbled into adventures most grandmas could not imagine. I wrote this to Maggie:

“How many grandmas have drunk tea in a pot cleaned with cow’s urine, or run from a charging hippo? How many grandmas have cooked breakfast over a fire, only to have a baboon poop in it? How many grandmas have jumped out of the way when a Maasai elder spit at them?”

Here’s what was happening, the “why” and “how” I ended up in Africa:

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord.

(Jeremiah 29:11, NIV)

“For my thoughts are not your thoughts,

neither are your ways my ways,” declares the Lord.

“As the heavens are higher than the earth,

so are my ways higher than your ways

and my thoughts than your thoughts.”

(Isaiah 55:8, NIV)

We humans make plans, but the Lord has the final word. . . .

the Lord decides where we will go.

(Proverbs 16:1, 9 CEV)

That information helped me take a new look at what God was asking me to do—but I admit that, at the time, it seemed both God and my husband wanted me to willingly allow a tragedy—living half a world away from my kids and grandkids.

But, Samantha Conners writes:

“God doesn’t call us to do things

in order to make our lives terrible.”

And so, long story short, I moved to Africa.

Eventually, I would learn that God’s plans for me were good.

And, despite the pain of being separated from family,

our years in Africa turned out well.

Come on back next week and I'll tell you about it!