Pray-er

It was May, 1991, and the Soviet Union was falling apart. Gorbachev’s glasnost policies had turned the hearts of many of the satellite republics towards a spirit of nationalism that resulted in the countrymen of these republics wanting to rid their lands of anything to do with Russian dominance over the past 70 years. Statues of Russian generals were being removed and names of streets and cities were being changed from Russian names to Kazakh, Tajik, and Uzbek names.

I had the opportunity to be in the middle of these historic changes from 1989-1994 through a couple of companies that I had established in 1990. One of these companies took American business people to the former Soviet republics before communism fell to teach western business principles. Believe it or not, we used Junior Achievement material to teach banking, accounting, marketing, and other subjects. One of the challenges was getting these people who had lived for generations under the socialism of the communist regimes to understand free enterprise and all the good things associated with it, like profit and losses.

The other company did community development work in Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, and Uzbekistan. When we first started working in this area there were no other companies from the west registered. Until just before communism fell in 1991, our business training company was one of only two western companies registered in Kyrgyzstan.

It was a case of being in the right place at the right time. There are many stories from these years, and we will share more of them at a later time.

Today I want to tell you about one of the several delegations from these republics that we hosted in the US.  My first introduction to these former Soviet republics was through a consortium of Baptist colleges and universities. I was working with Mississippi College at the time when this consortium was formed at the Atlanta airport in August, 1987. We were part of this consortium from the very beginning, and it was this introduction that led me to want to do more in that part of the world.

We were bringing official government delegations from these republics to the USA for the first time since before the time of Stalin in the 1920s. Each delegation consisted of three high level government officials, an interpreter, and a representative of the KGB whose job was to make sure that these government officials returned to the USSR.

It has been difficult in this post not to tell stories that come to mind about these experiences with these government friends, but I must save those for another time and move on to my story for this posting.

The mayor of Frunze, the capital city of the Kyrgyz Republic, was accompanied by the government’s Minister of Education and the Minister of Culture and, of course, a representative from the KGB. I recall that the title they gave him was something like the Associate Deputy Director for Internal Administrative Affairs. We enjoyed joking with him about us knowing that he was in the KGB, and he was kind-hearted enough to laugh with us rather than attacking us with a piano wire!

After hosting this Kyrgyz delegation in Washington, DC, Chicago, and Atlanta, we brought them to Mississippi. One evening during their visit, I had some business to take care of at my office, so one of my colleagues picked them up at their hotel in Jackson and brought them to our home in Clinton. A cable had arrived in my office for the mayor, so I delivered it to him in my living room. He opened the cable, and there was a lot of buzz in the Kyrgyz language—the three government officials often spoke in Kyrgyz when they did not want their KGB colleague or interpreter to understand them.

After a few minutes of discussion, our Russian interpreter explained that the mayor had been asked to cast the deciding vote for the new name of their capital city. Frunze was a famous former Soviet army general, and the Central Asian republics were trying to rid their countries of all Russian influence.

The mayor cast his vote for Bishkek in our living room that evening, and the next day our office sent the cable that determined the name of the capital city of the Kyrgyz Soviet Socialist Republic, which today is known as Kyrgyzstan.

Among the many stirring memories from these experiences with our Central Asian friends were the opportunities to share our faith with them. During that same Kyrgyzstan delegation visit we took our friends to church. That was the first time any of them had ever attended a church service.

It was a large church, so we decided to arrive just as the service had started so the delegation would not draw any attention. We sat near the back of the auditorium, and as the service was about to end, the pastor, a friend, recognized our delegation and asked me to pray the benediction.

After the service was finished and we were walking to our vehicles, one of the delegation said to me in broken English, “Larry, I not know that you are a pray-er.” That sentence has been played over and over in my mind through the years. I pray. But, am I really a pray-er? Is praying such a second nature action for me that others recognize me as a pray-er?

I think that my Kyrgyz friend was asking me if I was some kind of holy man. He did not know other English words to describe what he wanted to ask me, so he asked in the only way he knew how. The way he used the word is not proper in our colloquial English,  but it was a powerful word for me to hear, and I hope that it rings in your heart of hearts just as it has in mine for the past 20 years. Lord, I want to be known as a "pray-er."

Galloping Horse

Fannie Peeples was one of my mentors. To some of you that sounds strange for me to say that a woman was a mentor, but that just means that you did not know Fannie. The Lord brought Fannie into our lives when we moved to Vicksburg, Mississippi in late 1973. Within a month of meeting Fannie, she lost her husband.

A couple months after her husband’s death Fannie went with us on a senior adult trip. That was when I became so attached to Fannie. She was a wise lady—and I mean that in the strictest sense as she was very proper. We always dreaded having a meal in her home as we were afraid the kids would just totally blow it manners-wise or otherwise. Fannie was very active in many social circles of Vicksburg, but she was especially involved in the local Garden Club. She even authored a book for the National Garden Club.

Fannie was raised on a rural Mississippi farm, so she was a very matter-of-fact person. She always spoke her mind and laid out all the facts in any given discussion. She did not believe in talking around a subject—especially a controversial one. You never had to guess where she stood on an issue because she would tell you.

Sam and Fannie each had strong work ethic, and they had accumulated some wealth over the years. They were generous givers and supported several Christian ministries in addition to their own church.

The first week after her husband died an early death from a heart attack, one of Sam’s friends came to Fannie and said to her that he knew that she did not know much about business. Well, that was enough to make her boiling mad, but then the “friend” went on to say that he was offering to buy one of their businesses—a petroleum distribution company. I can’t print all of Fannie’s response, but her friend got the message. At that moment Fannie decided that she was going to learn the businesses and do better than Sam ever did. And, she did. This was the time in the 70s when the local service stations were becoming obsolete and convenience stores began to open. Fannie not only became much more successful in the petroleum distribution, but she developed over a dozen convenience stores selling her gasoline products.

She was quick witted, and she was so full of life and just fun to be around. Our family has some Fannie-isms, and in some future posts maybe I will share more of them.

Through the years I have heard her give this Fannie-ism several times. I dropped some food on my shirt at a meal where Fannie was present, and I was fretting about messing up my shirt. Fannie said, “Don’t worry about it. It’ll never be noticed on a galloping horse and that’s the only kind you ride!”

Another time I said that I needed a haircut, and Fannie retorted with the same response: “Don’t fret about needing a haircut because it’ll never be noticed on a galloping horse, and that is the only kind you ride.”

She was right. In her own way she let me know that it was okay for me to be high strung and ride a galloping horse. Until a few years ago I only worked in one speed—fast. I made mistakes by going too fast, but I figured that it was alright to make a mistake because I would get another opportunity to do the task again.

The years have mellowed me. I am more deliberate now—although I still like to make quick decisions and I still walk and work faster than most people. But, sometimes I catch myself walking at a very fast pace or working on a project at warp speed, and I pause and ask myself: Why am I doing this so fast?

I get my work ethic from my mother and dad. They are two of the hardest working people who I have ever known. My dad is 87 and he works hard in the garden or the yard or on a project at church or helping someone else. Often someone in my family will say, “Pete is going to kill himself working so hard,” or “Pete is going to die in that garden.” My response is “What is wrong with that?!” If he dies from doing something he loves then, what a wonderful way to go to be with the Lord.

My horse has slowed to a canter, but I am still riding him hard. Maybe the horse and I will be blessed to live on this earth for 87 years and die in the garden. Thank you Lord for giving us energy to complete all the work that You have called us to do.