I still tear up when I think of it—it seemed so wrong, so unnecessary

 

All these years later, I still feel pain in my chest when I recall what they did.

 

It seemed so wrong. So unnecessary.

 

And my husband and I sat and squirmed in the middle of it.

 

We were the first, and perhaps last, white people ever to visit that little Anglican church high in the Taita Hills in southeastern Kenya.

 

The congregation welcomed us warmly even though we surely did startle them when we white people stepped through their door. (See We had lived in Kenya only a few weeks and—Wham!)

 

During the three-hour worship service, the congregation took up two offerings. Some people had no money—instead, they brought produce, eggs, milk, or dried beans.

 

Read that again: Some people had no money, so they brought produce, eggs, milk, or dried beans to place in the offering plate.

 

Only then did it start to dawn on me how poor those people were.

 

Then, they auctioned off those items.

 

Everyone bantered and laughed while they converted the food into cash for the church’s expenses. We couldn’t help but laugh with them, enjoying their joy and fellowship.

 

After forty-five minutes, the people had converted into cash four eggs and two bunches of Swiss chard. Dave and I calculated they’d raised the equivalent of thirty-eight cents.

 

Then the auctioneer walked into the congregation and stopped in front of us.

 

I could not believe what I saw him do next.

 

He handed us the eggs and chard.

 

Stunned, I wanted to cry because, as Americans, we were rich—and I mean shamefully rich—compared to them. Every day of our lives, we’ve had more than enough to eat and yet those dear people, who had so little, gave us the food donated to the church.

 

It didn’t seem right—they needed the nutrition and we did not!

 

I wanted to hand back their eggs and chard.

 

What would you have done?

 

I wasn’t sure what to do, but I’m so thankful that God prompted us to notice their delight in giving—their enormous grins and nervous giggles—and that He prompted us to accept their gifts. We did so with a mixture of thanks and deep humility. Overwhelmed by their kindness, I wanted to weep.

 

In them, we beheld God’s grace—they gave us what we did not deserve. I will never forget that as long as I live.

 

Indeed, the Taita people were living, walking, talking, joy-filled examples of God’s generous grace.

 

Looking back on it,

I count that little congregation

among God’s hundred times as much that I blogged about recently

—an answer to my daughter Karen’sprayer

based on Matthew 19:29.

Click on When Jesus’ words are difficult, sharp and real.

Be sure to check it out.

You’ll be glad you did.

(From Grandma’s Letters from Africa, Chapter 3)

 

I was a stranger and you welcomed me

 

Dave and I and our fellow orientees had been in training for two months and we’d soon learn how well prepared we were for the third and final phase of our orientation: Each family would be on its own, scattered throughout remote African villages in mountains named the Taita Hills.

 

We would no longer have the comfort of living alongside our fellow orientees. Our directors, Brian and Jenny, would leave the area—but only after dropping off each family (or single person) in their new settings.

 

Dave and I were the last of our group to arrive at our new “home.”

Well after dark on Saturday, November 6, Brian pulled The Pearl (our group’s trusty Toyota Land Cruiser) to a stop high in the Taita Hills. We hadn’t seen another dwelling or signs of humans for quite a while. Trees and darkness surrounded us, but The Pearl’s headlights shone on a little mud-plaster house.

 

Brian walked to the door and spoke to the people inside. Then he turned and ambled back to us.

 

“They didn’t get word you’d be living with them,” he said. “It’ll take them a few minutes to get ready.”

 

Only later did I realize that they had already gone to bed.

 

Before long, Brian introduced us to our hosts, an older couple, Rafael Mwakodi, whom we called Bwana, and his wife, whom we called Mama. Looking back on it, I suspect this “older” couple was younger than we were.

 

Brian said goodbye and headed out into the still dark of night. The “village living” phase of our orientation course had begun.

 

In the dim glow of a kerosene lamp, we visited with Bwana and Mama, all smiles. Bless the Mwakodis’ hearts—I would not have smiled if foreigners awakened me at night and announced their three-week stay.

 

After a few minutes, they led us to our room, and Dave and I settled in for the night.

 

Only much later did Dave tell me that the Mwakodis had moved out of their own bedroom to let us have it and that they slept on the floor in another room. That makes me want to cry. In Bwana and Mama, I beheld the sacrificial heart of God Himself. (From Chapter 3 of Grandma’s Letters from Africa)

 

And, looking back, I recognize that Bwana and Mama, and their home for three weeks, were part of “God’s hundred times as much” —an answer to my daughter Karen’s prayer based on Matthew 19:29:

 

“Everyone who has left houses

or brothers or sisters

or father or mother or children

or fields for my sake

will receive a hundred times as much. . . .”

 

You see, before Dave and I left the States and moved to Africa, everything within me screamed that it was not right for us to leave our 21-year-old daughter, Karen, alone at that point in her life. But God had made it clear that it was okay for us to go. It broke my heart. It broke my young Karen’s tender heart, too.

 

 But in Karen's guest post, “When Jesus’ words are difficult, sharp, and real,” Karen wrote this about the last night she spent with us in the States:

 

“I prayed that [Matthew 19:29] for my mom that night. I asked God to give her a hundredfold for all her sadness, for all she was leaving behind. I remember writing that verse down to give her. I wanted her to know that I understood, that I trusted God, that I believed Him and His promises—for myself and for her.”

 

Neither Karen nor I knew what, specifically, 

those “hundred times as much” blessings might be, 

but now I can say for sure: 

Bwana and Mama Mwakodi were part of 

the hundred times as much, 

directly from God’s hand.

 

Jesus was speaking of people like the Mwakodis 

when he said, “I was a stranger and you welcomed me” 

(Matthew 25:35).

 

Our Maasai guard’s prayers for us brought tears to my eyes

 

. . . Dave and I bent down—the doorway opening was miniature—and stooped inside the home of our Maasai guard, John.  

 

Suddenly blackness enveloped me, and I caught my breath. Outside, we had stood in intense equatorial sunshine, but when I ducked through that little door, the sheer darkness shocked me.

 

Immediately I received another surprise: in front of me, within about two feet of the doorway, I came face to face with a wall.

 

I jerked backward, ever so slightly, back toward the light. . . . (Click on My heart still races when I remember those moments.)

 

I must have gasped because Dave took my hand and led me to the right. We felt our way down a short hallway and entered a small room, also dark except for a tiny hole in the roof—about four inches across—to let smoke escape.

 

Little sunlight entered through that hole.

 

Everything appeared dark—mud-colored dung walls, dirt floor, and smoke-covered ceiling. (I realized then that’s why the Maasai, their possessions, and artifacts always smell of smoke).

 

Gradually my eyes adjusted to the dark and I could see that the room measured about nine feet square. Some of our fellow orientees sat on beds—wooden frames attached to two walls, with loosely woven strips of cowhide for mattresses. I joined others who sat on a low, rough-hewn bench attached to John’s dung-mud-and-stick wall. We had entered the heart of that Maasai family’s world. 

 

A small pile of coals burned on the floor in a fire pit made of three stones. In the shadows, I noticed a couple of children and one of John’s three wives. He had children by all of his wives, and each family unit lived in its own hut within the compound. Apparently, John took turns living in each hut.

 

Our Maasai hosts had invited us for tea, and John’s wife squatted on the dirt floor over the fire where, in a large metal pot, she boiled milk, water, tea, and sugar together—that’s what they called chai.

 

Two things worried me about their chai, though, because they made it with water from the same dirty little brook that flowed beside our campsite—where animals waded, where people bathed and did laundry.

 

Second, I worried because I heard that Maasai clean their pots with cow urine and charcoal. This germ-phobic woman found the situation stressful. The primitive setting, the dwelling, the smoke-filled room, the furnishings—everything seemed alien. My nerves were on edge.

 

But then. . . . But then. . . .

 

When the chai was ready,

John prayed for us, in English and, to my surprise,

he prayed only for us. On and on he prayed,

asking God to shower His blessings upon us.

Only a man well acquainted with God

could pray the way John did.

His prayer brought tears to my eyes.

 

John’s wife poured the chai through a strainer into a metal teapot, and then John took over. First, he poured the chai into a metal cup and then into other metal cups—the kind with a rolled rim—and began to pass them around to his guests.

 

Our orientation leader, Brian, had warned us about those cups. Washed in water from the stream, the rolled rims could trap that filthy water. Since we couldn’t know how clean the cups were, Brian coached us ahead of time to pour some chai over the rim—as inconspicuously as possible—and hope it was hot enough to kill germs where we put our lips.

 

So, there in the dark, each of us reached down and dumped chai on the ground. I wonder if our hosts noticed—they probably did—and I wonder what they must have thought about us.

 

The room had no cross-ventilation and sweat ran down my back and neck. We visited for about an hour—John and Brian apparently conducted introductions and made speeches in Swahili—and then we hiked back to camp.

 

Along the way, I pondered how John and his family

lived in what Westerners would consider poverty,

and yet they were rich in hospitality, dignity, and the love of God.

 

I had worried about manure, soot,

cow urine, and contaminated water,

but in reality, I had stood on holy ground.

God lived in that place.

(From Grandma’s Letters from Africa, Chapter 2)

 

Now I look back and realize that John and his family were part of the “hundred times as much” God provided in answer to Karen’s prayer (click on When Jesus’words are difficult, sharp, and real.)

Our shallow little stream in the desert

 

When you just need your mom!

 

Last week, I told you that several young ladies with us during our orientation course called me “Mom.” That was a surprising bonus, a blessing indeed, because I missed my kids so much—I missed having someone call me “mom” the way my daughter Karen and her brother Matt did.

 

The pain was nearly crippling.

 

In my Bible, in the margin alongside Psalm 88:18, I had written “Kenya, 1993.” The verse reads “Lord . . . You have taken away my loved ones” (NCV). Or, in another version: “You have taken from me the one I love and my friend” (VOICE). Friend. Yes, my kids were my friends as well.

 

Years later I thought of that pain when I read Romans 8:38-39, “I am persuaded that neither death nor life, nor angels nor principalities nor powers, nor things present nor things to come, nor height nor depth, nor any other created thing, shall be able to separate us from the love of God.”

 

And if nothing can separate us from the love of God, perhaps nothing can really separate us from the love children and parents feel for each other, no matter how far apart we might live.

 

Maybe we need to train ourselves to feel the love—the connection, the friendship—from afar.

 

One of the young ladies with us during our orientation course, Sue, was soon to have her birthday and no doubt she was missing her mom—perhaps as painfully as I was missing my kids.

 

Here’s good advice for all who miss their moms:

 

I Miss My Mother by J. H., Burundi/USA

 

“I miss my mother. This problem crops up everywhere. For most missionary women and mothers, we are overwhelmed with new surroundings and we ‘just want Mom. . . .’

 

“Try to communicate often. Stay in prayer, stay in touch. 

 

“Do not tell your mother everything; she will worry, and usually the problem is over before she gets the news.

 

“When you leave your mother to go to the field . . . find a relative or friend to put aside a gift for your mother (or mother-in-law) [to give her when you’re gone] to let her know just how much you have appreciated her. . . .

 

“We need mothers; we are lonely and begin to look for ‘mothering substitutes.’ Usually God brings older women into our lives to show us the way. And basically they show us: How to schedule our days. How to use local products to make familiar recipes. And tell us ‘don’t forget to sift your flour.’

 

“Pray and ask God for someone who is older and wiser; one who has lived successfully in the country that God has called you to. Chances are that the very friend you have chosen to speak with, and open up to, was dreadfully homesick as well.

 

“God understands, and He says to us, “And everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother, or children or fields for my sake will receive a hundred times as much and will inherit eternal life” (Matthew 19:29).*

 

“Trust Him with this desire for your heart.”

By by J. H., Burundi/USA. © Women of the Harvest; published in Women of the Harvest Magazine, Sept/Oct, 2001. www.womenoftheharvest.com. Article used by permission.

 

Sometimes God asks us to serve Him in ways that break hearts. The Bible teaches us to count the cost (Luke 14:25-33; Luke 9:57-62). That cost can include the pain and loneliness of living apart from loved ones.

 

But as James Hinton said long ago: “Never be afraid of giving up your best, and God will give you His better.” When we do that, we need to remain alert—be attentive and focused—and watch for the ways God carries that out.

 

*Be sure to read my daughter Karen’s post

about Matthew 19:29.

Click on When I read her words,

tears stung my eyes and the earth buckled.

 

They called me “Mom”

 

Last week my daughter Karen blogged about reading Matthew 19:29 the night before her dad and I left for Africa: “‘And everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or children or fields for my sake will receive a hundred times as much and will inherit eternal life.’ (Matthew 19:29.)” (Click on When I read her words, tears stung my eyes and the earth buckled.)

 

Karen continued: “I remember thinking I needed to trust God for the promise in that verse, both for me and for my parents: that we would receive a hundredfold. 

 

“I prayed that for my mom that night. I asked God to give her a hundredfold for all her sadness, for all she was leaving behind.

 

“I remember writing the verse down to give to her. I wanted her to know that I understood, that I trusted God, that I believed Him and His promises—for myself and for her.” 

 

Not until years later, not until Karen wrote—and not until I read—her guest blog post, did I know she prayed God would give me His “hundred times as much.”

 

Bless her dear heart! Now you know why that, when I read her words, tears stung my eyes and the earth buckled.

 

Little did Karen know the many ways God would answer her prayer.

 

In Chapter 2 of Grandma’s Letters from Africa, I wrote about arriving at the second locale for Kenya Safari, our orientation course. Even though my husband, Dave, was still recovering from illness, we had to clear undergrowth and pitch our tent.

 

A couple of young ladies in our group struggled to clear their land so Dave, weary and weak, helped them too. I don’t know how he did it, but he did! (Click on Strengthening the sick beside streams in the desert.)

 

I wrote: “Those gals seemed comforted by our presence and before long, they started calling me ‘Mom.’” 

 

Do you see it?! 

Jesus said those who leave children 

for his sake 

would receive a hundred times as much, 

and Karen prayed for that.

 

God answers prayers in various ways—some of His answers are deep and spiritual, others are everyday things—and there in Maasai-land, God provided a few young ladies to call me “Mom.”

 

That probably didn’t fall into the deeply spiritual category, but believe me, I was delighted to add a few kids to my “family” that day!

 

Shortly after we arrived in Maasai-land, one of the young ladies, Sue, had a birthday, and it was within a day or two of Karen’s birthday. I wrote: “I felt heartsick—I wanted to see my Karen on her special day.

 

“Then I thought of Sue’s mother. No doubt she longed to be with her daughter on her birthday.

 

“That’s when it occurred to me that, in a small way, I could stand in for Sue’s mom, so I gave Sue a birthday hug and told her it was from her mother.

 

“I prayed that someone would do the same for my Karen Anne.” (Grandma’s Letters from Africa, Chapter 2) 

 

So, you see, people who leave children (like I did) and leave parents (like Sue and the other young ladies did) receive more than spiritual gifts and blessings from God—He also gives us people who stand in for loved ones.

 

The lovely ladies you see in the old photo (below)

are part of the “hundred times as much”

God gave me.

 

I’m smiling. Are you smiling?

 

Here’s an old photo of the residents of what someone nicknamed The Thomas Estates, our adults-only community in Eleng’ata Enterit (in Maasai territory). Along with Ma and Pa Thomas, you’ll see the young ladies who honored me by calling me “Mom.” They are Jennifer, Diana, Sue, and Joy. (And notice the size of that tree trunk!)

 

Has God blessed you with special people to stand in for your family? Tell us your story. Leave a comment below or on Facebook at Grandma’s Letters from Africa: A Memoir.

 

When I read her words, tears stung my eyes and the earth buckled

  

“ . . . If we’re not willing to make an Abraham-like sacrifice, we’ll miss out on God’s best for us. On our drive to Dallas for pre-field meetings, I asked myself, What would I have forfeited if I’d refused to go to Africa?

 

“I wondered what Jesus meant when He said those who leave houses and families for His sake would receive a hundred times as much.

 

“What, specifically, is that ‘hundred times as much’?

 

“I couldn’t envision the answers. I sensed only that I’d have regrets if I missed that elusive ‘best’ and that mysterious ‘hundred times as much.’” (Grandma’s Letters from Africa, Chapter 2)

 

Not until years later, not until Karen wrote, and not until I read, her guest blog post (Don’t miss it! Click on When Jesus’ words are difficult, sharp, and real), did I know she prayed God would give me His “hundred times as much.” When I read her words, tears stung my eyes and the earth buckled. I can’t find words . . . .

 

I continued in Grandma’s Letters from Africa: “Over the years, I’d also heard that Abraham was not an exception to the rule. No, those people who commit their lives—their all—to God must, at times, make enormous sacrifices.

 

“I sat for a long time and pondered those words. I stepped back mentally to look at myself. I had an ‘Ah-ha’ moment: my heartache was not an exception to the rule, not an uncommon experience. No, many people who walked this earth ahead of me, and even beside me, paid far higher costs.

 

“The time had come for me to stop feeling sorry for myself, place my children in God’s hands, and focus instead on the work in Africa—and on the work He wanted to do within me in the process. (Grandma’s Letters from Africa, Chapter 2)

 

“A hundred times as much.” I was not hoping for—and Karen was not praying for—material rewards. I envisioned God would answer by surprising me with His peace, friends, joy in serving Him, an opportunity to experience Africa, and new things to learn about Him—and oh, yes, He gave me all those, and more! God answered Karen’s prayers—Grandma’s Letters from Africa is my testimony to that.

 

I believe He also heaped His hundred times as much upon Karen, her brother Matt, and my husband. I’m confident that over the years we, and they, will continue to recognize those blessings.

 

The wise old author of Ecclesiastes said there’s a time to mourn and a time to dance (3:4). We mourned over saying goodbye to each other and living on opposite sides of the world.

 

But the time would come . . . the time to dance would come. . . .

 

When Jesus’ words are difficult, sharp, and real

 

“Love is unselfishly choosing for another’s highest good.” 

C.S. Lewis

 

Continuing from last week with our guest blogger, my precious daughter Karen:

 

I remember helping my parents pack their treasures away that summer and moving out of the house I’d grown up in.

 

I was attached to that house, to those books, and dishes, the creaks in the hallway floor, the smell of the spices in the cupboards, the view from the kitchen table of the walk outside the front door, the basketball hoop above the garage door, and the cracks in the driveway we used for the free-throw line.

 

Moving out was hard for my mom especially, although I think she tried not to show me.

 

I read the gospel of Matthew that summer and many of Jesus’ words were difficult, sharp, and real, and I was challenged to ask myself if I really believed them—did I take Jesus at his word? Both the difficult words and the comforting words?

 

My parents were taking him at his word. They were throwing everything they had into his care, against common sense, outside their comfort zones.

 

My self-centered sadness was tempered by deep admiration, and a desire to trust God and live accordingly, like they were doing. I was learning, slowly, that with my eyes on God, I could view change as adventure instead of loss.

 

That summer I accepted my first teaching job and my dad helped me find a little house to buy, both of which were equally thrilling and terrifying. The excitement of those upcoming transitions, of my entrance into the adult world, with all my optimism and 21-year-old confidence, helped some, but also made their departure more difficult. I entered these new roles without the comfort of knowing that I could fall back on my parents’ guidance and help.

 

God’s greatest gift to me had always been

the love and support of my parents.

They had been the sigh and deep breath of knowing

I had backup—they’d been there for me no matter what.

I’d always known I’d make it because,

well, because Mom and Dad were there.

My Great-grandpa Mac had assured my Grandma Kay,

“You can always come home,"

and that’s the kind of parents I had.

 

But with them in Africa, I couldn’t just make a phone call or stop by for an infusion of confidence and encouragement. I was learning that God Himself would be my support and that He was enough.

 

The night before my parents left, I remember crying. And I remember my mom crying—the only time I specifically remember her crying. Her grief was tangible. It was as if I could actually feel her heart breaking.

 

We of course had talked about our sadness, about her worries of leaving me, about the difficulties, about trusting God, but that night it was as if I couldn’t reach her. Words and hugs weren’t enough. She was isolated in her sadness, and I suppose I was too, and both of us were trying to think of the other.

 

I remember opening my Bible later and, not to overstate it, but it was like an epiphany. Words I’d read before suddenly were clear and true and alive:

 

“And everyone who has left houses

or brothers or sisters

or father or mother or children

or fields for my sake

will receive a hundred times as much

and will inherit eternal life.”

(Matthew 19:29)

 

That’s what my parents were doing. They were following Jesus. It was suddenly so beautifully clear to me that that’s what it is all about, and if we are doing that, nothing can go wrong.

 

It might not go the way we expect,

and it might hurt,

it might even break our hearts,

but we would be all right

because God was with us and we were trusting Him.

 

I remember thinking I needed to trust God for the promise in that verse, both for me and for my parents: that we would receive a hundredfold.

 

I prayed that for my mom that night. I asked God to give her a hundredfold for all her sadness, for all she was leaving behind. I remember writing the verse down to give to her. I wanted her to know that I understood, that I trusted God, that I believed Him and His promises—for myself and for her.

 

By now, friends, you understand why Karen is so dear to me and why my heart broke to leave her.

 

Come back next for Karen’s third and final post.

 

When God asks your children to make a heart-wrenching sacrifice

 July 11, 1993, at seven minutes after five in the morning, Dave and I backed out of the driveway in Port Angeles. My mother stood beside our car with her arm around Karen, only twenty-one years of age and newly graduated from college, and together they waved goodbye. Tears streaked down their faces.

 

I choked on my own sobs. How could I survive four years without seeing them?

I then entered into another type of grief. Before, I only imagined walking away from the altars. (Don’t miss I could say “yes” to  God, or I could say “no”). (See also Still wrestling down that elephant in the room and Assuming our love for God is enough and our grip on family and dreams is loose enough.) 

 

The time had come to live out the reality of it. I felt almost dead inside but, at the same time, something in me whispered to God, I lift up this offering to You. Please find it an acceptable sacrifice. Find in it a sweet aroma. (See Philippians 4:18 and Exodus 29:18.)

 

We were heading toward Dallas for pre-field meetings. That first morning in the car, after the sun rose, I opened my favorite devotional book. To my surprise, my precious Karen had lettered several Bible verses and slipped them into the book on special dates.

 

For August 11, the date of our flight out of the States, she wrote in her graceful script, “Anyone who loves his father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; anyone who loves his son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me; and anyone who does not take up his cross and follow me is not worthy of me. Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it” (Matthew 10:37–39). (See photo below.)

 

On the date of her birthday, she had written, “And everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or children or fields for my sake will receive a hundred times as much and will inherit eternal life” (Matthew 19:29).

 

Inserted at her brother Matt’s birthday, she’d written, “If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me. For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me will find it. What good will it be for a man if he gains the whole world but forfeits his soul?” (Matthew 16:24–26).

 

When I read those words in Karen’s handwriting, I sensed that she had placed her parents upon the altar, lifted us up before God, had gone through her own grieving, and in the process had come to some understanding of those verses’ meanings. (from Chapter 2, Grandma’s Letters From Africa)

 

Words can’t capture the utter rawness, 

the unspeakable ravages of dying to oneself 

in order to walk away from one’s children, 

even when we do it because God is asking that of us.

 

Words can’t capture the utter rawness, 

the unspeakable ravages of what Karen 

and her brother Matt experienced 

in order to let go of their parents and, instead, 

to offer only their benedictions and love.