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“If you wait for perfect conditions, you will never get anything done.” 
― Ecclesiastes 11:4

If I could truly take this to heart, I would write much for often.

Honor in the Telling

I have been told that my father read every book in the Lincoln County library. The librarian claimed that she would call our home to tell my father when a new book arrived so that he would have something new to read. He and I made regular visits, I perching or sprawling or kneeling in the stacks labeled Children on the right side of the building, and he in the adult stacks on the left, two stories high. He read remarkably fast.  When he had selected his reads, or rereads I suppose, he sat in the orange vinyl lobby seating next to the newspapers hanging on wooden rods. Sometimes I would bring my books over, and sometimes I would listen to records through the giant earphones, with him in view.  I can see it. I can smell it.  His expeditious reading ability was developed inadvertently through hardship, when at the age of eight he spent one year bed ridden with rheumatic fever.  That year he read voraciously and completed two years of school work during his illness instead of one. He would go on to earn the honor of valedictorian of his senior class in 1948, but he would not attend college. There was no money for it.

My father, Aubrey Hilton Felder,  grew up on a farm in Pike County, Mississippi.  Whenever our family would make the 25-30 minute drive from our home in Brookhaven to the farm to visit my grandparents, Claude and Lexie Felder, who lived there until after "Pa Pa"'s death in 1976, my father would say, "do you want to take the highway - meaning interstate - or do you want to take the country roads?"  When it was up to me,  I always chose the country roads, including wooden bridges and branches that cloaked the winding road in a sunlit quivering tunnel of green. The farmhouse was the hostess of hours of happy make believe and lazy afternoons in the porch swing.  The mimosa trees for climbing and reading,  the wooded paths leading to tiny ponds and black berry bushes, tee pees made from the dried day lily stalks and clothes line string, the front room closet holding a few beloved toys - monkeys in a barrel, stackable plastic cats, and stuffed sock animals - and the dusty old barn which housed Bet, the most aged and patient equine on the planet were the stuff of rich childhood visits.  Visits to the farm often coincided with Camp Meeting at Felder's Campground, a summer revival which had taken place since the mid 1800's. Spanish moss and rustic cottages, dinner on the grounds and wooden pews outdoors, vivid images in my mind.

After high school,  my father went to work at a local AM radio station, WJMB.  Years later, after he purchased and became owner and operator of the station, my father fell in love with and later married the 17 year old daughter of the station's secretary, Miss Lynn Harrision, a tennis player and Brookhaven native for generations. During my childhood my mother helped part time with the bookkeeping and as a preschooler I played house under the desks, learned my alphabet on the typewriters in the office, and punched patterns in the rows of numbers on the adding machines, pulling the level over and over. My father's office smelled like leather and WD-40.  His desk was massive and very messy. Stacks of reel to reel audio tape and files covers the desk and stacks lined the walls. I was welcome in every space. I grew up hearing my father's voice not only doing "spots" on the radio, but as the broadcaster of our local high school football games.  I accompanied him to games, arriving early and sitting up on the stools in the press box until my playmates and later friends arrived.  I remember lying in my bed some nights listening to the radio and calling the station to request whatever song I wanted to hear. His knowledge of sound equipment was made useful by school and church programs, my mother's junior auxiliary events, and community productions all of my life, he was generous with his time and equipment.

I know my father was an adventurer when he was younger because I have heard stories of hunting trips in the mountains of Colorado and seen photos of deep sea fishing trips with his long time friends. I also remember being told that he would only ride a sure footed mule, no horses for him on the steep mountain trails. He was an avid gun collector, and I loved watching him clean them.  Oil cloths and ramrods and WD-40, guns in the cabinet, in his closet, in the air conditioning vents.  By the time I came along when my father was 39, however, the damage done to his heart during his childhood bout with rheumatic fever had begun to take it's toll and he could no longer bear the altitude of the rockies.  His heart condition would also render him unable to attain health insurance at any point in his life. This misfortunate fact would be the cause of great hardship as his health failed in later life.

My memories of him are full of outings -  the ice cream parlor downtown which was always freezing cold compared to the heat and humidity outside in southern Mississippi, Janie's Bakery for all over chocolate donuts on Saturday morning, and our favorite,  Jones Restaurant across the railroad tracks for lunch of roast, rice and gravy, green beans and corn muffins.  He liked salt on his watermelon and cheese on his waffles.  He took a 30 minute nap every single day, no matter where we were or what we were doing.  He wore khaki pants, hush puppies, and a Munsingwear shirt every weekday that I remember except once, on vacation, when he wore shorts fishing on our boat, and his legs got terribly sunburned. On Saturday evenings for a while, my father, a self taught musician, would play the steel guitar in a tiny establishment called the 550 Opry House on Highway 550.  I liked to go with him and sit in the metal folding chairs with the old people.  When I was 6 years old or so I even sang on stage with his "band', a feat which I suspect took very little coaxing. I remember sitting on the concrete back steps of our patio as he lit the charcoal in our grill and I caught rolly pollies while I talked his ear off. We often went downtown to the historically beautiful post office to pick up the mail for the radio station, finding it's box number on the wall of little metal doors.  As we left I would always slide down the ornate stone bannisters which framed the wide stone steps. He owned a small tractor which lived behind our garage in the middle of our old Brookhaven neighborhood, and every once in a while he would crank it up and drive me in his lap slowly around the neighborhood in the evening.   My nightly tuck ins occasionally included delightfully silly stories about the adventures of Sargent Sam, a character from my father's imagination.  Sargent Sam had a brave dog named Tonto and a petulant grandmother who once got her bottom stuck in a bear trap. I can remember very few details of Sargent Sam's adventures, but I remember that. What I wouldn't give for a chance to hear and record them. When I was in preschool, we added a two story addition to our house and he designed the blue prints. He cared nothing about sports unless one of his children was playing.  From 4th of July races at the Country Club to tennis, basketball, softball tournaments and infinite number of nights watching me "cheer", both of my parents were there, in the stands, every game. Growing up so close to New Orleans allowed trips to plays, concerts, great restaurants, and the French Market, colorful memories indeed. On Sundays my father took us to Sunday school and afterward we would met him in the lobby at the back of Faith Presbyterian Church where, if he was an usher that week, I would see a tiny white carnation pinned to his lapel. After the service he put the flower in my hand. That smell, so easily recalled.

The day my father died I received a phone call at our tiny house in Tulsa, only the second house I had ever called home.  Phil and I had been married a mere nine months.  I was wrapped in a towel, having just stepped out of the shower and I was about ten weeks pregnant with Hannah.  My parents had visited us in our new married home only once, and we watched Father of the Bride, a poignant experience given that he had been the "Father of the Bride" just a few months before. I remember my father being a bit startled by my domestic inclinations, and as I was standing in the doorway when they were leaving, he told me what a good job I was doing, looking in wonder at his littlest girl who was now a woman and a wife. Little did he know that shortly after they left we would discover that I was also a mother to be.  Little did we all know that would be our last conversation face to face.

I don't know how to put that depth of grief and loss into words. I have tried before to write about it, to write about him. For many years each attempt at putting the words on paper made them too real to bear. I remember groans and I remember my inability to get out of that towel wrap and move on to get dressed. I remember a new husband, at a loss regarding how to comfort his bride, but reaching for me, trying.  I remember sitting on the plane from Tulsa to Mississippi, and, overcome with despair and sadness, looking in detachedness at the people around me who were having a ordinary day. I don't remember the drive from the airport in Jackson to Brookhaven.  I do remember walking across our front yard, through the front door that was never locked and into the foyer of my childhood home. I remember seeing my little brother, the day before his 12th birthday, and feeling a torturous helplessness.   I remember choosing an emerald green shift dress to wear to my father's funeral because it was his favorite. He had seen me wear it to a friend's wedding a few months before. I remember pouring rain and the horror of burying my beloved Daddy.  And I remember a community surrounding us, the community that had raised me, come and honor, come and feed, come and thank, come and proclaim the kindnesses my father had shown over the course of his life.  And I remember the gift.  I remember the new life, the timely gift which averted my eyes from my own pain, my loss and trepidation - to look forward. Throughout my pregnancy my emotions were overloaded - joyful anticipation juxtaposed with despair over what no longer could be. My children would never know him.


It would be years later when I became a parent that I would more deeply appreciate the richness of the experiences of my childhood. I now understand how much my father enjoyed simply being with us.  We spent numerous weekends and even weeks sleeping all over the US in our pop up camper, from nearby rivers to the Smokies, not to mention a three week trip from Mississippi to Canada and back. I grew up the youngest of a boy then three girls, until ten years later when we adopted my younger brother, and in my mind's eye it seemed that my father spent as much time teaching the three girls to shoot skeet, fish, and use a solder gun as he did my brothers.  But he did not treat me as a Tom Boy, he treated me like a beauty, a fully capable beauty.  When I would walk into the door of 504 Storm Avenue from Ole Miss, or Camp Desoto, or numerous other adventures, he unfailingly picked me up off the floor and held me in a hug, delighted completely. He believed in me fully, even to a fault.  But his affection for and confidence in me gave birth to an optimistic expectation about people and life in which I assume the best, though I would live through some of the worst. That expectation has shored me up to bear grief and to delight in joys all of my days.  I miss him most when I want my children to know something that he could have taught them, when I imagine the conversations they would have, when I see needs in their lives he could have filled. But when I miss him, I tell them all about him, and honor my father in the telling. 

Good Long Minutes

Sometimes it seemed that the 42 minutes we had left before I could get everyone into/onto beds for nap time / quiet time lasted an eternity.  Dead on my feet mama of four under 5 years, those minutes crawled by... would we even make it?  Days when four elementary aged children had four book reports, four history fair costumes, four reading logs, and/or four practices/lessons/games... those days could be very frantic but LONNNGG marathons.  The seventeen minutes before dinner was ready... very long minutes.

But now.

I could use some very long minutes.
Weeks are like an afternoon.  Four years of high school, a few months.
Slow down please.  Please slow down. Please.

Please.

Our lives are so full right now of celebrations, milestones, BIG things.  College visits, driver's licenses, formals, milestone birthdays, freshman orientations (high school and college), big games, summer jobs, road trips....
Big, fast, full....

I want some long minutes.

I know what it means when Matthew says "but Mary kept these things and pondered them in her heart."  Sitting in the new quiet of our house today, just sitting. Reviewing in my mind's eye and in my heart's ears the images and sounds of four cherished babies, four delightful toddlers, four curious and adventurous children, and four self assured, dreaming and inspired teenagers. Struggles and fears and growth and life lessons.  All of it stored not in scrapbooks, not even in the thousands of jumbled photographs (not for lack of trying), but in my head and heart.

Having some good long grateful minutes.

My Pleasure to Introduce...

My daughter's blog:

http://abidinginlove-hnewman.tumblr.com/

"Let me see your eyes"

We could never be sure they were listening until faces turned and eyes lifted up. Eye to eye, face to face, important messages were delivered. A house full of children, pets and toys, laundry and chores, music and laughter, many distractions - some enticing, some necessary - prompted us to realize that we could not be sure that the child we were talking to was receiving our message unless we could see their eyes. We really should not hold a child to the consequences of disobedience unless we KNEW that the instruction had been received.

Be it encouragement for a difficult moment, a strong word of caution, or a fervent declaration of love, Phil and I constantly asked, "Let me see your eyes".

In turn, our children realized if they had something important to say, or to ask, they also needed to be sure our eyes were fully engaged - for where mama's eyes were so was her attention. They quickly learned that if I was doing two or three or more things at once, they were not likely to get answer from me.
"Turn your face", they would say, or they would reach out and turn it for me.

Thank you, sweet Jesus for the invitation to ask for Your full attention, Your eyes fully upon me and through me.  Let me turn away from all that distracts me, competes for my glances, to set my face fully upon You, to receive all that you offer in counsel, instruction, encouragement, affection.  Let me see You - provision, position, power -  and all that troubles me falls away.
For where my eyes are, so will I be.  

"The LORD bless you
and keep you;

the LORD make his face shine upon you
and be gracious to you;

the LORD turn his face toward you
and give you peace."

Numbers 6:23-26

What does it say...

What does it say about your life when you haven't written about it in 5 months? coming soon.....

Psalm 145:9 The LORD is good to all, and His tender mercies are over all His works.

I don't want to miss this. Any of it, any small detail of His mercy.

At 4:30pm this afternoon we received the phone call we have been praying for, a match has been found for the tissues Hannah needs to have transplanted into her knee and femur. We are flying to Chicago for the surgery in less than 24 hours. I do not have time to be typing this, but I do not want to forget.

His mercies.

Our house is fairly in order. This is quite unusual, a mercy. I have not been able to find my passport, I just did, mercy. We recently received an unexpected financial bonus, nearly the amount needed to pay for our portion of Hannah's third surgery in 6 months, mercy. We have enjoyed a week long break with our entire family, including Phil, at home doing virtually nothing. We are therefore well rested. Unusual, mercy. Last night Hannah spent the evening with a huge group of girl friends at our house, an end of break light hearted good time. She did not know she would be packing for Chicago tonight.... mercy. Friends are calling and texting offering rides and help for our three boys who we are leaving on such short notice, having mercy. Our mothers (mine and Phil's) will be cooking and sleeping over, they are both in town and available, precious mercy. There is snow in the forecast for TN, H is taking a FULL load of IB courses and will be missing a lot of school... a few snow days thrown it would sure lighten that load.... a mercy. Phil is scheduled to work Wednesday, the day of surgery, but a co worker offered to take his shift in spite of that meaning a very quick turn around coming off a night shift for her, no small mercy.

Gotta go for now... my family is waiting for me in the living room to pray. More later. This story is far from over.

Every time I step out my door, I find a little package of gifts in a gallon size zip lock bag, on the steps or in the mailbox, labeled for a sponsored child at

Divine Grace Primary School, Uganda. Getting them all packed up and getting ready to send back to Uganda with Peter and Phoebe Sozi through

Care Ministry. These things will be so cherished, not because of their worldly value, which is

dear, but because of what they represent, a living breathing, loving, praying person who sees and cares for this child. Thank you sponsors, these

relationships will change all of our lives. Over 220 children sponsored, 700+ to go, "Is anything too

wonderful or difficult for God?" Luke 2:27

For H

8 Then your light will break forth like the dawn, and your healing will quickly appear; then your righteousness will go before you, and the glory of the LORD will be your rear

guard. 9 Then you will call, and the LORD will answer; you will cry for help, and he will say: Here am I... 10 and if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry and

satisfy the needs of the oppressed, then your light will rise in the darkness, and your night will become like the noonday.11 The LORD will guide you always; he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land and will strengthen your frame. You will be like a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never

fail. Isaiah 58:8-11

“Go before”, “hold”, “strengthen”. Those were the words running through my mind as I searched my memory, and then my online search tools for words from His Word to comfort my baby girl. Following knee surgery last June for a torn meniscus, Hannah has been working to rejoin her basketball team and to run track in the spring. However, her pain has not subsided as expected. A MRI last week revealed the reason why - Hannah's knee is not healing, it is deteriorating, rapidly. Her doctors see no good course of action, thought action must be taken. We will see a specialist in Chicago on Monday.

Hannah loves to move, to run fast, to jump, work hard and sweat. It has always been a joy to watch her. She also is in love with her Savior. She knows where to take her joys and her frustrations. She shares those things with her family and friends, but she knows as humans we may fail her, and that her Savior never will. She is looking for the mercies He is already showing in this trying time, taking note. She is grieving over the losses but anticipating His works.

God has knit Hannah together so marvelously, and you, and me. Hannah’s knee contained a meniscus that is unusually circular and thick, and her femur, where it enters her knee joint, is flattened rather than the usual rounded shape, variations that worked beautifully together until she was injured. These variations are also what is challenging to her doctors... she needs a meniscal transplant, but she is not a good candidate because of her unusual anatomy. Those are the facts from our perspective. The marvelous truth, however, is that Hannah’s Lord God is privy to a COMPLETE perspective, to all of the wisdom, to all of the power, to all of the mercy, and to all of the love needed to deliver Hannah however He chooses. What a delight to live as a daughter of such a God, with out fear in spite of sadness, with hope in spite of pain. Thank you for joining us in lifting Hannah up to such a God, and to Him be all the glory.

A taste in photos until I can gather my thoughts

Please click the link to our facebook photo albums:
Trying to capture this trip in photos

More of Uganda for those who have asked

The Last of Uganda

Homesickness while still at home

He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men... Ecclesiates 3:11

Pre trip week. I KNOW those words stir up many images in the minds of mothers everywhere.

For me, the challenge of pre trip week includes an inexplicable need to nest, in addition to actually packing. I've heard I am not the only one. This need to nest multiples rapidly if I am leaving children at home. Which I am. In 5 days.

Phil, Hannah and I will be leaving for Uganda on Saturday. Peter, David and Cameron will be in the U.S., together and split up, in Murfreesboro, at the beach, and in Dallas visiting grandparents. I have been so excited about Africa for weeks..... and I still am.... but to be honest, yesterday I got homesick. And I'm still here.

I can remember seasons when my focus was so much on home. Be it because I had little ones here everyday all day, or because we had not yet had our hearts pricked by the the inspiration to go on these trips to other cultures, I remember when my EXTRA energies, my project and over and above the routine efforts were ALL geared toward home. Sometimes I miss that, sometimes I wish my heart were not pulled in directions which are worlds apart. But the fact is, a knowledge and a longing have been born in the hearts of our family, and it cannot be undone. Along side that longing is another, for all the loves of our hearts to be made right, in one home, without separation by miles, poverty, hunger, and disease. We look forward and long for that day, and we have every reason to hope.

And in the end, the end is

Oceans and oceans
Of love and love again
We'll see how the tears that have fallen
Were caught in the palms
Of the Giver of love and the Lover of all
And we'll look back on these tears as old tales

'Cause after the last tear falls
There is love

andrew-peterson.com

"You were taught, with regard to your former way of life........ to be made new in the attitude of your minds; and to put on the new self, created to be like God in true righteousness and holiness. Ephesians 4:22-24

The in the back of my mind urging to sit down and write... but what about... there is too much ... it has been to long.... has finally given way to pushing the "new post" button and seeing what tumbles out of my jumbled overflowing heart and mind. Our home life right now is a whirling existence, dotted by sweet sweet times together. We are pulled in many directions and involved on many fronts in pursuing growth, in pursuing travel, in pursuing a deeper more intimate relationship with God. I reflected.... looking for a central theme, hoping it would bubble to the surface. New. hmmmm

Hmmmmm. Hannah, 16, is thinking about schools. LikeUniversity school, like leave your mama and daddy and pack up your clothes and books and photos and our money and drive away and don't wake up in your bed every day in the light blue room with the brown silk curtains down the hall from the kitchen kind of school. I have always said every SINGLE time we get just a little bit comfortable with any stage of parenting God is more than happy to undo that comfortableness by propelling Hannah onto the next giant parenting stage. Keeps us

humble, dependent, seeking wisdom. Right where we need to be. Hannah is a brave girl, formulating her next adventure. Is it fair to say I am thrilled for her and devastated for myself?

She has been required to work through knee surgery which completely interrupted her summer - basketball, summer camp, and driving her jeep with the standard transmission.

But she is on a journey back to health, working hard at rehab, pursuing a full IB diploma, singing with our youth praise band, and being a precious daughter.

Peter, 15 as of Thursday, has made the giant leap from the comfortable lap of precious and nurturing and

challenging and wisdom instilling Providence Christian Academy, the classical school he has attended since he was a

little old wise 5 year old baby to Big Huge

awesomely diverse and wisdom using and wonderfully stretching Oakland High School, the 6A public high school down the street. It is SOOO interesting to listen to Peter, to watch him put into practice all of the that has been poured into him all of these 15 years, to watch him get comfortable and be himself, and love people who on the outside seem nothing like him, and to work, to work at his classes, to work at multiple

positions on the freshman football team,

to work at baseball (his true passion), to work at time management, to work at basketball, being a family member, being a Christ follower. He is a BIG boy, like bigger than his daddy big, and a BIG joy to behold.

David, oh David, 13 and fierce. Fiercely passionate about music and about hitting a baseball and about hitting on the football field. Fiercely gentle in spirit, fiercely descriptive in writing, and fiercely hungry all the time. Our baby David, our peace maker and muse, has MATURED into a young MAN David. David is a deep conversation on the spur of the moment any time of day or night. He is still a great mimic, be it Sid from Ice Age or the Joker from the Dark Knight ( I don't like that one).... he is good.

He makes us laugh. David is developing his skills on drums and the guitar, he is a dedicated student of both. He is a great brother and a great friend. His last year of middle school, WHEN did this happen??? Next year he joins Peter and Hannah... in High School.

Cameron, nearly 12, baby Mammie, he is a joy these days. Something very precocious in Cameron has softened into a delightful pre adolescent sensitivity. If you have known us a long time you will remember that Cameron completely rejected his place as the youngest in the family and insisted for years that he wanted to be the boss (first words I heard in the morning from his two and three year old lips from his crib ).... that he NEEDED to be the boss.... Bless his heart. The fact was he had a million bosses all around him and he did not like that. Time has told, as did many amused spectators from that time, that as long as he chose to align his passionate heart with good, we would be in great shape. He has grown to pour that heart out on the basketball court, baseball and football fields, in friendships with children in the Dominican Republic on our mission trips, in writing, in drawing, in singing! We are all dreading the day when Cameron shoots up and grows up, the last glimmer of child we have in the house.

I remember when our children were little, 1,2,4, and 5 for example we would laugh and say, "just imagine when they are ALL teenagers. I'm not sure what we thought that meant, but I doubt we imagined this...... these real senses of humor, real dreams, capacity for real work, these fledgeling responsible, persevering people. I also doubt we dreamed that such silliness between them would continue to run rampant the way that it does.

Even on days when I am a tad bit worn out from driving to and fro and to and fro and to and fro, from washing very very smelly enormous socks turned inside out of course, from staying up late with those who are up, and rising "somewhat" early for those who need to, and even tired of hearing opinions about my thoughts and plans when I used to only hear "yes, m'am, mama, that sounds fun!"... I am so thankful, truly, humbly grateful, for each of these babies 3/4th grown. I adore this season, that is so fleeting, and all that it means to be "mama".

I couldn't help but notice... it was such a revealing snapshot of our life.  

Fresh tomatoes, guitar music, football mouthpiece and knee pads, a puddle of something, dish clothes, party invitation, letter from Wheaton, yellow tote waiting to be embroidered, shirt worn to school today, church bulletin, school lunch form, brownie batter in a bowl, coffee cup, McCarty salt and pepper bowls, high school freshman schedule, retainer in its case, Algebra homework, fortune cookies, 6th grade lit book, grocery bag, bunny food, Athleta catalog, cereal bowl, insurance form, banana, protein powder, mobile phone, water bottles, a new razor, Votivo red currant candle, and blue leather journal.  

All on my kitchen counter.

Hold on Loosely - Dominican Republic post 1

The words that I heard were, "no more bags tonight."  I thought, "that is not right...." and looked around at the 15 others traveling with me.  From what I could see, only 2 of us had any luggage, and those two only one bag each.

We were in a developing country.  We were tired, so very tired from our 17 hour travel day and we were still hours from our destination.  I was traveling with four children.  To the desk I bebopped for reassurance that the remaining 27 bags belonging to our mission team were on the way.  What I saw was a young girl who spoke very little, very polite English.  I don't speak Spanish, but what I gathered from the conversations taking place did not provide the reassurance I was looking for.  

Images of what our lost bags contained started flooding my mind.  Packets of materials to teach embroidery to women, mosquito nets, our bedding, shoes other than the flip flips I was wearing, crafts kits and toys for the school children, bug spray,  baby wipes, duct tape, underwear, flashlights, bed bug spray, toiletries (some very essential ones), all of our clothes, all of the massive amounts of equipment and supplies needed to complete a mission trip to the  mountain villages of the Dominican Republic without electricity, hot water, or walmart.  I can't describe the feeling of vulnerability that I felt as we left the airport near midnight with my husband, 4 kids, and nothing but my backpack.  

Yes I can.

I felt needy.  

There was nothing I could do about. 

I felt out of control.

What is God doing?

We made a few stops that night, first at the home of the missionary  who was hosting us where we were given sheets and a towel,  nightgowns for the women.  Second stop, a late night store to purchase the essential toiletries, one of several opportunities I would have over the next few days to redefine essential. The two other adult women on the trip and I slashed through the mental list of what is needed, a list that for me would have previously included moisturizer, hair plump, my shampoo, my favorite deodorant, mouth wash, three kinds of sunscreen, two kinds of bug spray (high% deet), eucalyptus lotion, body wash, on and on and on.  We chose 2 bottles of shampoo, 3 spray deodorants,  tooth brushes, and feminine products for the 16 team members to share.  And we were ecstatic to have them.  Hmmmmm. Clue #1.  

Flashback:  One week before

One week before our trip I was frustrated.  It was fourth of July weekend and our air conditioning unit had quit working on Wednesday.  We needed a new unit,  but it couldn't be installed til Monday.  I had been hot for 5 days and wasn't very happy.  My dining room was teeming with mission trip supplies, clothes, craft kit materials, all waiting to be packed.  Little did I know what was to come.  It is kind of a blur now but I will try to hit the high points.  Early in the week our dishwasher quit working, as did our washing machine.  Washer needed a part that might be here on 5-6 days.   Pretrip laundry with no washer, family of 6.  Now I was hot, washing dishes by hand, and washing clothes in sink, at my mother's, and at laundry mat.  Next, the hot water was only warm.  Then it was cold.  New hot water heater needed, can't be installed until after we leave for our trip.  Now we are hot, washing clothes and dishes by hand in cold water, cold showers.  Add two toilets not working properly.  This is sounding a lot like living in the Dominican Republic.  Clue #2 

As our house continued to "fall apart" upon the discovery of water under our hard wood, failed attempts at repairs, and on and on, I finally become amused.  What more could happen?  What did it matter?   We were almost packed, prepared and ready to spend a week in the mountains of the DR that we love, our family together.  It seemed like an escape from the chaos that home had become.  I even said, "I never thought I would say that I can't wait to leave for our mission trip to rest and relax."  

Flash forward again, one week: 

In a truck driving up into the mountains of the DR to our camp at 3AM.  Thinking about what we don't have. Trying to regroup and plan.... with out anything.  Having slept about two hours the night before we left, now dreading another near sleepless night.   

Texts start coming to my phone from friends who are praying.    

"I will praise the Lord who counsels me... even at night my heart instructs me."  

"Know how far God is willing to go to prove His love for us.  He will never leave us."  

"Keep looking for Me and trust Me, I am bringing something special."  

"Texts" start coming to my mind from God who is loving. 

Hold on loosely to your plans, they are not My plans.

This is how they feel.  Who?  The women.

Love them, as I love you.  Let Me love them through you. 

You don't need your stuff, but boy do you need Me.  

I am stripping away to fill you up.  I am stripping away so I can love you.  Let me love you.  

I scribbled these down on a piece of paper by the light of my phone, not wanting to miss the moment.  

As the next two days passed, as we rewore our clothes, shared any small thing we had, rejoiced over a clean pair of underwear supplied by our hosts, and discovered the joy of virtually no possessions to clutter our space, the revelations kept coming.  Of the 11 ministry bags we checked in Nashville, we received only one: the one needed for the first day of ministry, and it contained only the essentials, no props or costumes, no frills.  We made up for that with enthusiasm and love. We had no supplies to teach embroidery to women on the 2nd day, and then learned that leftover kits from last year were on site, the exact number needed for the women who were present.  Some of us slept without netting, yet mosquitos were not an issue.   The toiletries we had to share never ran out.  

Was every moment perfect?  Certainly not.  For our family mishaps continued in the form of a severely infected bite on Cameron's leg (even PHIL was concerned), David being hit in the head with a shovel, and Peter experiencing what was, in retrospect, a potentially devastating fall into a cement block pit in the pitch black dark.  

Was God sufficient?  Abundantly so.  Healing, protection, provision, joy, rest, peace, and then, on the third day of our trip...... our luggage.  In his mercy,  our "trial" only lasted as long as necessary to teach the lessons.  Prove the love.  Show that we can do thing we do not think we can do.  How can I still need Him to prove it, require hardship to learn the lessons?  Keep teaching Lord, keep teaching.  

At the very least might I remember to hold on loosely and lift my eyes from my plans and my things, my preparations and my comforts, lift my eyes to the One from whom all help comes.  

Psalm 33:18-22

Watch this: God's eye is on those who revere him, 

      the ones who are looking for his love. 

   He's ready to come to their rescue in bad times; 

      in lean times he keeps body and soul together. 

  We're depending on God; 

      he's everything we need. 

   What's more, our hearts brim with joy 

      since we've taken for our own his holy name. 

   Love us, God, with all you've got— 

      that's what we're depending on.