Wonderfully made

Looking back on this COVID-19 crisis, we will have lots of memories about the things that we did that were uncommon before the crisis I know some of you have taken up gardening for the first time because my kids have been unable to find the garden seeds that I usually buy. And more of you must be cooking because we are shorted several things on every online grocery order. 

All of us will remember what TV programs we binged on. Cheryl and I don’t watch a lot of TV, but we have been watching “Blue Bloods” and “Call the Midwife.” One of our kids suggested “Call the Midwife,” and we have been regularly watching it during the sheltering in place. However, as Allison’s time of giving birth to her fourth child and our sixteenth grandchild approached, we stopped watching it. Too many unusual and crazy things happen on the TV program, so we just decided not to watch it until after the birth. 

The producers of the program worked hard to make it as realistic as possible while keeping the show as decent as possible. Living in West Africa we witnessed childbirth very close up from time to time. There were no hospitals or maternity clinics near us out in the bush, so women had their babies in their villages. There was no midwife to call, so a mother-to-be depended on expertise nearby. Some pregnant mothers came to us and asked us to take them to a small clinic nearby that was manned by the equivalent of a nurse’s aide.

Once a young woman came to us moaning and said she was going to have a baby. Cheryl and I loaded her in our vehicle and headed to that little clinic about 20 minutes from our house. We did not make it. We caught her baby in my bandana—that was the only thing in the Land Cruiser that was “clean.” Baby and Mom did well and both survived our intervention. 

Amanda was born in a clinic with a midwife in Abidjan, Ivory Coast. I was right bedside her “supervising” the midwife, and I was the one to loudly announce, “C’est une fille!” “It’s a girl!” 

Cheryl and I have managed to either be present when a grandchild was born or be there within 24 hours of all but four of our grandchildren. That may not sound like a great feat, but we have had grandkids born in three other countries. 

Our sixteenth grandchild, Noa Edith Dolbeer, was born recently only 2 1/2 hours from our home, and we were not able to be there. That stinks! But it is not the fault of anyone else but me. For a few more weeks I am having to stay away from other people. Thank goodness for FaceTime! We have had regular visits, and she already responds to my voice—OK, so maybe she just had gas or the hiccups. Noa is such a perfect baby.  Of course, I know that she is not perfect, no human is perfect, but right now I long to give her a gentle squeeze and snuggles. 

But Noa is wonderfully made as a creation of God. We are grateful for all of our children and grandchildren for they are each such a special gift from God. 

“I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well.”  - Psalm 139:14

Touch

My flight from Calcutta to London was delayed 18 hours, and I had a lot of time on my hands. I had just finished reading the book that I had brought with me on this trip to India. This was during the flip phone era 18 years ago, so I did not have devices to work on or provide entertainment. There was no airport Wifi or any internet connection at all. What I needed was another book.

After finding a small book store in the departure section of the airport, I browsed the window display for books in English. My eyes fell on a book entitled “The 5 Love Languages.” I had heard some people talking about this book, but I had never read it. 

I settled down into a “comfortable” chair in the airport waiting area and read that book in one sitting. It was an amazing read! I only wished that I had read it years before this stage of my life. I was so excited about this book that I sought out the airport post office to place a telephone call to Cheryl back in the USA and tell her about this book. I asked her on the phone to order a copy of this book for each of our four children.

The biggest discovery for me in reading this book was to learn that my love language is touch. If you had given me a list of the five love languages I probably would have guessed touch, but now it was validated: God gave me the love language of touch. 

I like to shake hands, to pat people on the back, to give hugs, and to put my arm around someone or hold their hand when praying for them. Of course, in the workplace I have always had to be careful about expressing my love language. I dislike those side winder hugs from people. I give big hugs!

Cheryl and I are blessed to have 16 grandchildren—newest arrived Friday night (more on that later)—and they all give great hugs. Even our 19 year old grandson, Collin, gives us hugs every time we see him, no matter where we are or who is looking on. I single him out because we only have three grandsons and he is the oldest. I love scratching the backs of any of my grandchildren who enjoy have their backs scratched. I love touching my grandchildren.

And that brings me to today. I have not been able to hug our grandkids for the past nine weeks. The last hugs would have been from our local kids and grandkids at church and in our home for Sunday lunch. The last time anybody but Cheryl has touched me was my last proton therapy treatment on March 20. My treatments compromised my immune system, and my radiation oncologist told me not to have contact with anyone during the healing process.

No touch with any other person other than the main squeeze in my life (Cheryl) in 8 weeks. Now I have had a lot of virtual hugs either via media or when the kids come for a driveway visit where we sit 12 feet apart and talk. 

For two weeks Shelby, our 18 year old granddaughter, lived in the lower level of our home in self-isolation so she could go to Allison’s home to take care of their children while they went to the hospital to have their fourth child. There is a small kitchen and plenty of space on the lower level, and it has a separate entrance, so Shelby would go for a walk each day and did not have to come through the upper floors. 

Shelby was self-isolating so that she would not be infected with anything before going to Allison’s, so she left a week ago without being able to give us a single hug.

Now we are blessed to have Abbey (20) and Madelyn (18) living in the lower level. After riding out the pandemic with friends in Kentucky, they are staying downstairs away from us for two weeks so that they can actually be in close contact with us. 

Today we had a FaceTime visit to meet our newest grandchild—Noa Edith Dolbeer, born Friday night in Nashville. It was a great visit, and Noa cooperated well and even looked right into the phone. We heard her cry as she became hungry, we saw her take a bottle, and saw her burp on Will’s shoulder, but we could not touch this newborn gift. I hurt. I want so badly to cuddle with Noa and establish a lifetime bond between Papa and Noa. But this bizarre time in which we live does not permit me to touch her. I can’t use my love language.

With God’s grace, I know in time I will be able to once again give hugs, but it is hard during this season. Seasons come and seasons go. Some are short and some are long. Some are good and some are not so good. I have said that hundreds of times when giving counsel to others. But right now I need to reassure myself that this will be a short season, and I will be able to express my love language once again. 

The word touch is used many times in the Bible. Here are a few instances that l like:

Then Isaac said to Jacob, "Please come near, that I may touch you, my son, to know whether you are really my son Esau or not." - Genesis 27:21

And all the crowd sought to touch him, for power came out from him and healed them all. - Luke 6:19

See my hands and my feet, that it is I myself. Touch me, and see. For a spirit does not have flesh and bones as you see that I have." - Luke 24:39

P.S.

A few years after the Calcutta airport story I became friends with Gary Chapman and told him this story. He did not know that his book had even been published in India, so it must have been published without permission from his publisher. So, looks like I learned about the 5 love languages from an illegal copy of the book. That did not hurt the blessing that I received from reading it. Thank you, Gary Chapman! 

Holy Spear

From time to time someone tells me that they remember things from when they were as young as 3 years old. I have heard that the older you get the more you remember things of the ancient past and forget the most frequent things. I admit that I have arrived at that time of life, but I still only remember a couple things from the age of three. I can remember lots of happenings and friendships from age 4 and 5, but not  at age three.

When I was four years old, my friend, Theron, lived in the house behind ours, and our backyards joined. He liked to come play in our yard because we had a swing set with two swings—no, none of that fancy other stuff that you find on today’s swing sets. My mother would mix up cocoa and sugar in a small tin and cut two small twigs for us. We would chew on the twig until the end was frayed, and then we would dip them in the cocoa/sugar mix. That was our way of “dipping snuff.”

Now before you think that my mother was promoting the use of tobacco for preschoolers, remember that this was the 1950s and the use of tobacco products was not taboo. Candy was something that we got for special occasions like Christmas and Easter, so cocoa and sugar was a real treat. 

Another fond memory from my fourth year was my mother kneeling beside my bed each night and reciting a prayer with me: 

Now I lay me down to sleep.

I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

If I should die before I wake, 

I pray the Lord my soul to take. 

I talked to my mother this week about that prayer, and she told me that was the prayer that her mother had said with her when she was a little girl. 

I remember being afraid some nights after going to bed. When I called my mother she would come and sit on my bed beside me and comfort me. Sometimes she would remind me that the Holy Spirit was right beside me all night long protecting me. For the longest time, I thought she was saying “Holy Spear!” So, I was terrified even more to know that there was a spear right by my bedside.  

When I was leading missionaries as they opened up new work in Eastern Europe, Cheryl and I had the pleasure of traveling for several weeks with Henry and Marilynn Blackaby. Henry and Marilynn were such an encouragement to these new missionaries who were struggling with learning a new language and getting their families settled into new homes in strange places like Bratislava, Szeged, Ljubljana and Klaipeda. 

One of the things that Henry said when he was teaching us during that season was something like this: Through the ages God has spoken through a variety of means. In the present God primarily speaks by the Holy Spirit, through the Bible, prayer, circumstances, and the church. 

We don’t have to ask the Holy Spirt to be with us for God has promised that His Spirit is ALWAYS with us. 

Ephesians 1:13-14: “When you heard the message of truth, the gospel of your salvation, and when you believed in Him, you were also sealed with the promised Holy Spirit. He is the down payment of our inheritance, for the redemption of the possession, to the praise of His glory.”

Thank you, Lord, that the “Holy Spear” is always beside us. 

Steward

During this COVID-19 season many people have talked to me about how bored they are because they are having to stay at home. I have not been bored one day. I am not special, but Cheryl and I do have something special—a small farm. We are blessed to have this property of pastures and deep woods to enjoy. I think Cheryl really appreciates the farm more than I do—although she does not get outside the house nearly as much as I do. My getting out of the house has a double bottom line for us: it keeps me from getting stir crazy and bothering her and we are both happiest when I can get some outside therapy each day. 

As I was feeding our cows, goats, ducks and chickens yesterday I was cogitating on this: the word environmentalist has become a negative word to many of us because of some radical movements around the world. The word conservationist is still a positive word. I thought about the differences and similarities of the words. I admitted to myself that I am not a true environmentalist, but I am a conservationist. I do my best to control erosion on our steep property; I preserve hardwoods so future generations will have deep woods on the property; I keep the pond free of algae; I nurture good pasture grasses; I plant fruit-bearing trees and bushes and on and on. I concluded that I am more than a conservationist. I am a steward of our farm. I am a steward of the resources that God has entrusted to me. 

When church members hear the word “steward” many of them automatically think of giving money to the church. However, the first meaning of the word steward in the dictionary is “one who manages another’s property.” 

We don’t rent our farm from a proprietor. We don’t actually own it as there is still money owed on the property. We believe that God is the owner of our farm just as He is the owner of the universe that He created for us to live in, to enjoy and to care for. 

God has entrusted this small piece of property to our family and our job is to do our very best to take care of it. But this responsibility is not just for this land for we are to be good stewards of ALL that the Lord has entrusted to us. 

“This is how one should regard us, as servants of Christ and stewards of the mysteries of God. Moreover, it is required of stewards that they be found faithful.” 1 Corinthians 4:1-2