Things are going one way, BUT GOD intervenes and everything changes!
Author: Debra Kornfield
Collector of "But God . . ." stories, through childhood as a missionary kid in Guatemala, high school as a "foster" kid in Raytown, Missouri, college at Wheaton, marriage to David Kornfield, nursing school at Rush in Chicago, four years in Port Huron, Michigan completing our family of four children, twenty years in São Paulo, Brazil split with ten years with Karis in Pittsburgh before she moved to Heaven.
2 Corinthians 7:5-6 When we [Paul and his team] arrived in Macedonia, there was no rest for us. We faced conflict from every direction, with battles on the outside and fear on the inside. But God, who encourages those who are discouraged, encouraged us by the arrival of Titus.
Up until the 18th century, amethyst was included in the cardinal, or most valuable, gemstones (along with diamond, sapphire, ruby, and emerald). However, since the discovery of extensive deposits in locations such as Brazil, it has lost most of its value. The highest-grade amethyst is exceptionally rare. (Wikipedia)
I grew up in a remote village in the highlands of Guatemala. American visitors were rare. When I was four, a family traveled the rough mountain road to visit us. The mother of this family—I’ll call her Mrs. B—fascinated me. She was gentle and soft-spoken, with a ready smile and laugh. Her eyes sparkled. She had kind words for everyone and seemed to radiate happiness. She gave me a glimpse of another world, another way of living, a possible different future. I found myself thinking, When I grow up, I want to be like her.
That’s still true. I’m intrigued and challenged when I encounter graciousness, the word I later assigned to my memory of Mrs. B. She encouraged me with new possibilities. With hope. Not because she related to me in any particular way during her brief time in our home, but simply by her manner of being.
When I read the history of the amethyst, I remembered Mrs. B. At four, she sparkled for me like a precious gem. As I grew up, I discovered Mrs. B’s qualities in many people: love, joy, peace, patience, gentleness . . . all the gifts of the Spirit. No less lovely for being more common than rare.
In my novel Horse Thief 1898, I modeled Cathleen, and at a younger stage in life, Aisling, after Mrs. B. Cathleen and Aisling (and doubtless Mrs. B) have faults, weaknesses, struggles. They are capable of hurting those they love. Yet they embody graciousness.
Isaiah 54:10 “The mountains may move and the hills disappear, but even then my faithful love for you will remain. My covenant of blessing will never be broken,” says the Lord, who has mercy on you.
Topaz is one of the hardest naturally occurring minerals,
yet it must be treated with greater care than some other minerals of similar hardness.
My dad would be 96 today. Do they celebrate birthdays in Heaven?
In choosing topaz to honor Dad, I’m interpreting its hardness as toughness. He endured so much, age 84 seemed too young for him to die. We weren’t prepared. He was diagnosed with metastatic cancer on his birthday and died just 23 days later, on Nov. 12, 2008. Not long enough for us, his eight children, to extend the care to him we wanted to give.
There were other reasons too that it seemed Dad was taken from us too soon. For twenty years, he shepherded our mother through the tangle of Alzheimer’s. When forced by his own health to admit her to a care facility, though, he came alive again. He traveled to visit his children. He participated in family gatherings. He played with great-grandchildren and indulged his neglected hobbies: music, photography, woodworking, and needlepoint, to name a few. But while we were just starting to know our father again, after his long absence, God took him Home.
Dad learned to be tough early on. His family home was foreclosed during the Depression because his parents were unable to handle one mortgage payment—of less than $100. His baby sister died. His father worked on the railroad and spent most of his sparse times at home sleeping.
A Wycliffe Bible translator in a remote highland village of Guatemala, Dad built our furniture, figured out how we could have hot water (by running pipes through our wood-burning stove) and weathered rejection from the people he had gone to serve. Over many frustrating years, he showed kindness to the people around us and rejoiced when some finally began to understand God’s faithful love.
I’m just scratching the surface of Dad’s creativity, resourcefulness, his love of making God’s Word make sense in another culture and his linguistic skills. Through difficulties that might have broken other men, he never lost his sense of humor. We rolled our eyes at his puns, but his jokes lightened the stresses of life. He told me Mom having Alzheimers was an advantage in that he could tell the same joke repeatedly and she laughed every time. Here are a couple out of many, many favorites:
“I love exercise. I could watch it for hours.”
“I love the beach. The only things about it I can’t stand are the sun and sand and salty water.”
“I was watching a fight on TV and a hockey game broke out!”
Miss you, Dad. Happy birthday. Thanks for sharing with us God’s faithful, merciful love.
Isaiah 33:2, 5-6 But Lord, be merciful to us, for we have waited for you. Be our strong arm each day, and our salvation in times of trouble. . . Though the Lord is very great and lives in heaven, he will make Jerusalem his home of justice and righteousness. In that day he will be your sure foundation, providing a rich store of salvation, wisdom, and knowledge. The fear of the Lord will be your treasure.
“Precious opal shows a variable interplay of internal colors.” Wikipedia
Dr. P retired. Retired! Irrationally, I found myself thinking, How could he?
We lived a continent away. We depended on Dr. P’s counsel, and lately Karis had been sick more often than not. Maybe his partner will care for Karis. Nope. His partner said, “I’ve watched Dr. P care for Karis for years. But I have no idea what to do for her.”
Finding a doctor for Karis in São Paulo took months. Months of frustration as one lead after another led to a “no”; months of worry as Karis’s symptoms worsened; months of questioning whether God noticed our need.
Finally, a chain of contacts led us to Dr. Garcia. Karis fell in love on our first visit, for his first questions were not about her health, but about herself: her interests, her hopes and dreams. As he examined her, they talked about the Spanish poets. By the time he called me into the room, they were on to existential philosophers. “I have so much I need to read before I see him again!” Karis exclaimed on our way home. “In the original languages?” I teased.
Karis’s life was tough. Treatment was often painful and costly. But Dr. Garcia saw her; for him the practice of medicine was art as much as science. He helped her believe her life was worth fighting for. He set firm boundaries when Karis tested her limits. But he also advocated for her freedom when others wanted to keep her in too narrow a box.He paid attention to her heart and mind, not just her physical distress.
How does a mom say an adequate thank you for such blessing in her daughter’s life? There will be time, yes, in eternity, to express the wonder of a God who loves so much, in such variable and inter-reflecting colors. Thank you, Lord, for the gift of Dr. Garcia, a man free to love his patients with wisdom as well as knowledge.
Luke 18:7-8 Don’t you think God will surely give justice to his chosen people who cry out to him day and night? Will he keep putting them off? I tell you, he will grant justice to them quickly! But when the Son of Man returns, how many will he find on the earth who have faith?
“Sapphire’s blue can be vivid and saturated, like it’s lit from within.”
Idagly and Otto are one pastoral couple among many who have chosen to stay in Venezuela, even though most professionals have left. It would be easy for them to leave, because Otto is Colombian. But they and their three young children believe God has called them to serve and to suffer with the Venezuelan people. Most days, God’s justice doesn’t feel like it’s being granted quickly, but they hold tightly to this promise anyway. Apparently, God’s sense of timing is different from ours.
To say life is not easy is an understatement. Idagly says the question in Luke 18:8 challenges her every day as she deals with frequent blackouts, the daily struggle for food, clean water, medicines and fuel which if they are available at all require endless hours standing in lines, practically nonexistent health care, no public transportation or services like garbage pickup, and on and on. Starving people have killed and eaten the animals in the zoos.
Caracas is ranked at the top of the most dangerous cities in the world. Otto and Idagly’s children were kept indoors even before the coronavirus hit, because it’s too risky for them to be outside. The current MONTHLY minimum wage is worth less than $2.00 in U.S. currency. With almost no protection, the few health workers still working in Venezuela are dying of COVID-19 one by one.
Since she can’t get gas for her stove, when she has electricity, Idagly cooks on a small electric burner as much food as she can, as fast as she can before power goes out again. But how does she preserve that food, in a hot climate with such frequent power outages?
I am stunned, challenged, and blessed by the strength and grace of our friends. Last Monday Idagly described for me a gathering by Zoom of pastors and their wives all facing the same circumstances. “But the tone of the meeting was praise. It’s just amazing how God is showing his faithfulness to us, even in small things. We KNOW God is caring for us.”
The Holy Spirit, alive within them, shines even more brightly because of the surrounding darkness. For me, Otto and Idagly and the other pastors and their families in Venezuela whom we know and love fit right in with the great examples of faith listed in Hebrews 11.
Will you join me in praying for them, and thanking God for the radiance of their lives?
1 Kings 8:22-23, 27 Solomon lifted his hands toward heaven, and he prayed, “O Lord, God of Israel, there is no God like you in all of heaven above or on earth below. You keep your covenant and show unfailing love to all who walk before you in wholehearted devotion. . . . But will God really live on earth? Why, even the highest heavens cannot contain you. How much less this Temple I have built!
Exodus 35:30-35 Then Moses told the people of Israel, “The Lord has specifically chosen Bezalel son of Uri, grandson of Hur, of the tribe of Judah. The Lord has filled Bezalel with the Spirit of God, giving him great wisdom, ability, and expertise in all kinds of crafts. He is a master craftsman, expert in working with gold, silver, and bronze. He is skilled in engraving and mounting gemstones and in carving wood. He is a master at every craft. And the Lord has given both him and Oholiab son of Ahisamach, of the tribe of Dan, the ability to teach their skills to others. The Lord has given them special skills as engravers, designers, embroiderers in blue, purple, and scarlet thread on fine linen cloth, and weavers. They excel as craftsmen and as designers. . . Let them construct and furnish the Tabernacle, just as the Lord has commanded.”
“Even when they are mined in the same area, each individual emerald has its own unique look that sets it apart from the rest.” Wikipedia
We were guests at one of the fincas (ranches) owned by our host, Emilio (not his real name). This one sheltered two hundred horses, many of them prize winners on the racetrack. But the bottom had fallen out of horseracing in this country. “I lose money every day caring for these horses, so financially this finca doesn’t make sense,” Emilio told me. “But there’s no way to sell it. No one wants these beautiful creatures anymore. Yet I love them.”
Emilio was graciously giving me an early-morning tour of the finca, introducing me to some of his equestrian beauties. As we walked, he told me some of his story. He was the son of a poor emerald miner. The mine workers were paid too little to survive. They hid a few of the emeralds when they turned in their finds each day, so their families wouldn’t starve.
Emilio laughed. “The miners often gathered at my father’s house to look over their haul and distribute the rough gems for cutting and selling. I was so interested, from the time I was a toddler, that they threw me the stones they didn’t think had much value. I watched my father and learned the basics of faceting. While he was in the mine, I practiced with his tools on the inferior stones they would have thrown away. By the time I was ten, they started noticing my work and gave me more valuable stones to cut for them. I began earning a small commission.”
We stopped as a finca workman approached. “The mountain lion has taken down another of the colts. I think it’s time to go after it.”
“First, contact the local authorities,” Emilio instructed. “The mountain lion too is one of God’s creatures. Perhaps we don’t have to kill it.”
The man left and Emilio continued his story. “As a teenager, I began earning real money. And I became proud. I lived a life that was not pleasing to God and hurt many people, especially women. But eventually I met God, through Jesus. My life changed dramatically. I began rising early to pray and study Scripture one, two hours every morning before I went to work.
“One morning, after reading about Solomon, I felt God asking me as he did Solomon, ‘What do you want? Ask, and I will give it to you!’ [1 Kings 3:5]. I asked for vision, for the ability to see the uniqueness of every emerald, to be able to cut each one precisely to reveal its distinct radiance. God granted my request. I knew it that very day when I went to work. I had vision I could never have imagined. I could see into the ‘soul’ of each emerald and knew how to reveal the beauty endowed by its Creator. I went from being a good craftsman to a gifted one. People noticed. Today I am the most sought-after emerald cutter in my country, even though I don’t do marketing, use a computer, or own a cell phone.
“But this gift and the wealth it brought me has come with a huge cost. It has introduced complexities into my life I know I am not wise enough to navigate, and I have made many mistakes. I beg the Lord every morning for help.”
We had circled back to the house and were joined by my husband and his wife. I have not had an opportunity to talk more with Emilio about his story. I watch from a distance, intrigued by God’s work in their lives, praying for his guidance through the pressures they face. The largest emerald mining operation in their country was bought out by a foreign firm, which now exports and cuts the emeralds that would have made their way to Emilio. Our friends’ financial status has actually become precarious. What is God doing? What is the next chapter in this tale? I’m as curious as you!
I’ve been thinking more about Emilio and about Bezalel and Oholiab since joining a group called United Adoration, www.unitedadoration.com: “We are on a mission to revitalize the creativity of the local church by empowering artists to write music & create art in their own language, culture, and context.” Check it out! I’m gaining new vision for the arts as worship, as God’s Spirit pours out his gifting in the Temple of the worldwide Body of Christ. That’s a topic for another time.
Matthew 10:26-31 Don’t be afraid of those who threaten you. For the time is coming when everything that is covered will be revealed . . . Don’t be afraid of those who want to kill your body; they cannot touch your soul. Fear only God . . . What is the price of two sparrows—one copper coin? But not a single sparrow can fall to the ground without your Father knowing it. And the very hairs on your head are all numbered. So don’t be afraid; you are more valuable to God than a whole flock of sparrows.
“Long before Marco Polo found his way to Asia, Burmese warriors were embedding the stones under their skin to make them invincible in battle . . . That rubies even exist, says Peter Heaney, geosciences professor at Penn State University, is something of a ‘minor geological miracle.’” https://www.discovermagazine.com/planet-earth/the-geology-of-rubies
Neide, a young woman who worked at our mission office in São Paulo, Brazil, hungered for God. She wanted every part of herself to be cleansed and healed from her messy background. She longed for the fruits of God’s Spirit to flourish in her soul.
I didn’t know this until we were assigned to the same small group to meet regularly and pray for each other. Neide asked for time outside of those weekly encounters, to open her heart fully to the Lord’s work in her life.
We talked once about being rough gems pulled from the darkness of mines and now placed in the hands of a skilled lapidary who saw the unique beauty in each of us. He could clean, grind, facet and polish us until we glowed for him. A painful process, often. But in his hands, we were safe.
A walk and then a long bus ride brought Neide to work each day and took her home. She began to use that time to soak in God’s love for her.
One morning, Neide didn’t show up for work. Her brutalized body was found tossed behind bushes between her bus stop and her home.
When I think of who is in Heaven with our daughter Karis, sometimes I think of Neide sparkling in her worship, joyfully offering her whole self in praise to the Lord she loved more than life.
The Lord God will rescue his people, just as a shepherd rescues his sheep. They will sparkle in his land like jewels in a crown. How wonderful and beautiful they will be! (Zechariah 9:16-17)
Micah 7:7-9 As for me, I look to the Lord for help. I wait confidently for God to save me, and my God will certainly hear me . . . Though I sit in darkness, the Lord will be my light . . . The Lord will bring me into the light, and I will see his righteousness.
“You’re safe because you’re with me,” Vania [not her real name] whispered. “Don’t ever come here alone.”
Slipping through a narrow break between buildings on a busy São Paulo street, we plunged steeply downhill on an uneven staircase through a hive of makeshift dwellings and the stench of festering garbage.
But it was the silence that unnerved me. People were everywhere, but they seemed frozen in place, all eyes fixed on us. Even the half-naked children stared. I had to focus on not falling as I followed Ivani down, down, down, until abruptly she turned left, walked through someone’s home, across a stinking passageway, up a few steps and into a room lit only by the glare of hot sunlight streaming through the open door. Someone lay on a pallet in a dim corner. Vania’s mother. She had sent Vania to fetch me to pray for her.
These memories flooded my mind as twenty years later and a continent away, I saw a message from Vania pop up on Facebook. “Can we talk? My father died. I am in deep grief.”
Vania’s father. He arrived as Vania and I prayed for her mother. I noticed a change in the atmosphere even before Vania gripped my arm mid-prayer. Looking up, I felt punched in the gut by a look I can only describe as pure hatred. “Out,” he spat.
Vania kissed her mother and pulled me past him and out the door, back up and up to the safety of the street. “Go. I’ll call you.” And she disappeared.
Staring at my computer screen, I pondered the miracle of Vania. Her passionate love for Jesus. Her pilgrimage toward healing from a lifetime of abuses, neglect and trauma. Her determination to conquer sixth grade, and then seventh . . . Her inexplicable love for her broken family.
My computer dinged. I typed “Of course. Call. I’m sorry for your loss” and hit Send. But was I sorry? In light of all that man had done to my friend? No. “Lord, I don’t have Vania’s Spirit-fueled love. Forgive me. Use her again to teach me. Have mercy on his soul. And on mine.”
Galatians 3:14, 18 Through Christ Jesus, God has blessed the Gentiles with the same blessing he promised to Abraham, so that we who are believers might receive the promised Holy Spirit through faith . . . For if the inheritance could be received by keeping the law, then it would not be the result of accepting God’s promise. But God graciously gave it to Abraham as a promise.
God also graciously gave Karis a Promise when she was sixteen: Seu Amado está guardado. I learned from her journals that at the end of her life, she understood “guardado” to mean protected, rather than her first interpretation, “reserved or saved for you.” She believed “Anthony” was the Beloved of the Promise. Anthony believes she still prays for him.
Here’s part of a paragraph I added to the Spanish translation of Karis, All I See Is Grace:
The last time I saw Anthony was after the publication in English of this book in 2018. . . It was so good to be with him and be reminded why Karis loved him so much. He is charming, irresistible in his courtesy, his love for people, his passion for Christ, his courage in taking God’s Word to some of the most dangerous places in the world, his creativity and sense of humor. If you think of him, dear reader, please pray for his ministry and for his safety. Even though you don’t know his real name, I’m sure God will know who you’re praying for!
Lebanon. “Anthony” was there when Beirut blew apart August 4. Here’s what he wrote on September 9. I decided to leave it all in and let you decide how much of it you want to read:
Five days after I arrived, a massive explosion in the Beirut port destroyed a huge section of the city, killing approximately 180 people, injuring several thousand and leaving 300,000 people homeless.
I soon found myself wandering the streets of Beirut in what looked like a post-apocalyptic wasteland, armed with a shovel, work gloves and a facemask. I was part of a roving band of scouts and several friars from our parish, moving from house to house, street to street, clearing rubble from bombed-out homes.
The experience of these days following the explosion was surreal. There were hundreds of groups of volunteers like ours, crawling through rubble. The government seemed entirely absent. At times we were elated. At other times I couldn’t stop tears from filling my eyes.
The burn of tear gas claws the tears from my eyes and seeps through my double-layer of masks to strangle my throat. I grab my Lebanese confrere’s arm and hang on as we stumble blindly with hundreds of others running from the canisters that the police shoot into the crowd behind us.
It’s Saturday afternoon, four days after the blast. My Lebanese confrere and I finish cleaning up the blood-stained apartment of an elderly couple and then head downtown to join a massive government protest. We are incognito. I have been warned not to open my mouth nor to draw attention to myself as an American. We are there to support our parishioners: grandparents, parents and teenagers, and, more generally, the Lebanese people, who have come out for this.
We gather with tens of thousands in Martyr’s square. At first, things remain relatively peaceful. A small group of more organized protesters begin to try to push past the police to gain access to government ministry buildings. Government forces fire tear gas. Most of us watch, chanting, as these two groups push back and forth. Protesters begin to set buildings on fire, buildings that are already mostly destroyed from the August 4 explosion. The quantity of tear gas begins to increase. My confrere and I decide it’s time to move away from the conflict. It has taken an ugly turn. The police fire into the crowd from the opposite direction, right in front of us, and suddenly we are enveloped by a cloud of gas.
I am glad that the burn claws my eyes. I am angry.
“The blast still ringing in my ears, I got out of our destroyed hotel lobby and went up to a middle-aged woman standing in the parking lot, staring at her hand. The top half of her middle finger was gone, but she seemed pretty calm.
‘Can you help me get to the hospital,’ she asked?
I began walking her in the right direction, telling her how impressed I was by her calm.
‘My generation, we’ve seen wars, terrorist attacks, everything… we’re used to this sort of thing,’ she said. Then she began to bawl.”
And then Lea stops her story and begins to cry. This is the first time that she has opened up about what happened in the aftermath of the blast that caught her at her work in the Four Seasons Beirut Hotel lobby. We’re sitting with 10 of the girl scout leaders from our parish doing a follow up meeting to process what we’ve seen during our volunteer work, and to talk about the effects of trauma and how to deal with them.
We had been planning to hold this meeting with a psychologist and a counselor present. But now the government has announced the beginning of a new lockdown because the number of Coronavirus cases spiked following the explosion. And so, on the advice of my superior, I cut short my stay at a bare-bones hermitage in the mountains overlooking Syria where I was spending several days with another confrere praying and processing things, and I head down to Beirut for an early meeting with the scouts the day before the lockdown is scheduled to begin.
Because of the last-minute change of schedule there will be no psychologist or counselor present. I ask Lea before the meeting if, as one of the main leaders, she would be ready to talk one-on-one with any of the participants who need extra time and attention to process their experiences and emotions. “Of course,” she responds, her usual confident self.
Now she is the one crying. I pass her some tissues. We all sit in silence for a second. Then she looks at me and begins to laugh. “I was supposed to be the one to help people if they got emotional,” she chuckles and sniffles.
“Jesus has come to our home! Praise God!” Old lady number 1 is super-pumped that a Franciscan priest in religious garb is delivering food to her home as part of the post-explosion relief efforts. Her friends, old lady number 2 and old man, happily join us in a moment of prayer, a heartfelt word in my rusty French and then an “Our Father” all together in Arabic.
It has been two weeks since the blast. I’ve once again joined our parish’s scouts as we volunteer with a secular NGO, Nation Station, delivering food to victims of the blast who are living in their damaged homes. Almost everyone in this majority Christian neighborhood is happy to see a priest and most welcome a quick moment of prayer before we continue our deliveries.
Back at the NGO, in between delivery runs, I rub shoulders with secular youth from various backgrounds. Game designer Muhammad and I strike up a conversation about his hilarious double-entendre Pacman t-shirt (“I scored in the 80’s”) and from there we move on to questions of faith and physical healing. I compliment Shiite background Aya on her nose ring and soon we are discussing her family’s organic farm in the Bekaa valley. For many of these secular young people, religion (which in Lebanon is at times in bed with the corrupt political system) is viewed only as the source of problems. They are a little shocked to see a Franciscan with robes drenched in sweat, asking for orders, lugging bags of vegetables (e.g. “No Father, please, please let someone else do that…” [clericalism dies hard in Lebanon]) and joking about nose-rings and telling them about the beauty of prayer and confession.
Little Marie Rita (age 10), Andrea (8), and Elio (6), look at me with deep, serious eyes. On August 4, they were staring out of their 6th floor kitchen window at the sparks flying from the port. They dove out of the way at the last second before the shockwave from the explosion tore through the window. Only three small rooms of their top-floor apartment remain intact. The rest were balconies enclosed with inexpensive glass and aluminum. All of that is gone.
Raja, a scout from our church, interviews the children’s mother and we fill out the damage evaluation form. We return to Nation Station to hear that the NGO might be able to give them mattresses…
“But what about the thousands of dollars of damage to the home,” I think? I call our Catholic Bishop, Cesar, once our Franciscan confrere before he was promoted to shepherd the Latin-rite Catholics of Lebanon. He has his own people out on the ground, seeing where help is needed, but he had asked me to keep my eyes open and let him know if I saw any situations where he could give a hand. I tell him about little Marie Rita and her family’s predicament. The next day I hear that his people have visited the family and promised to join others in helping them… a small sign of hope.
“It’s crazy, there are months where I have just barely enough money to buy bread… I can get a little bit of meat once every couple of weeks.” Myriam is a parishioner at our upper middle class/upper class parish in Beirut. She has a decent job. But the inflation from the economic crisis has devalued her salary.
Pause… eyes shifting, looking for words, slightly lost. John Paul is one of my oldest friends in Lebanon. A college teacher and professional musician. We met playing music in church, did a Christmas concert together, and a few years ago he asked me to speak to his Western Civ university class because he wanted a religious voice to balance out his newly acquired militant-atheist views.
Now as we sit together catching up, he seems to be having trouble finishing his sentences. His eyes get bright and watery. He was on his honeymoon in northern Lebanon on August 4 and the reality of the explosion only hit him when he got back and saw the destruction. He’s one of many people I have met in the past weeks who are having difficulty sleeping at night.
He tells me that he and his wife are planning to leave the country, for good. Over the next days I hear that every single person from my circle of peers, Christian background young professionals in their mid-30’s, are trying to find work or study opportunities that will allow them to leave Lebanon.
Anger. It comes up again and again in my encounters.
I’ve been thinking about the difference between anger as a natural reaction to evil/injustice, and wrath as a deliberate choice of the will to desire to take revenge and hurt others.
Jesus was angry when he entered the temple and saw the corruption… he reacted… and at the same time he was Love incarnate.
So I guess He can handle it if I bring my anger into my relationship with Him…?
“We can have all of the correct theological responses,” Bishop Cesar tells me after hearing my confession. “But when you go out on the ground and you see the awfulness of the destruction, it doesn’t fit (c’è qualcosa che non quadra). You have to bring that back into your conversation with God.”
Signs of hope:
Despite the economic crisis, Covid-19, the August 4 explosion and the political crisis, we finished construction of our church in Zahle last week. On Sunday we celebrated the first mass in the finished building with Bishop Cesar presiding.
Yesterday evening I presided at my first mass in Arabic. I’ve been taking advantage of my time here to do Arabic tutoring with a local parishioner who has lost her job as a teacher since the economic crisis began.
“Of course, you can celebrate,” said my Lebanese confrere Elias when I mentioned to him that I hoped my Arabic would be good enough to preside. A brief chuckle and then he sighed, “Haram (roughly translated “Too bad”) for the poor people of Zahle who have to put up with your Arabic.” (LOL).
But the mass-goers of Zahle turned out to be very generous and patient as I struggled through the tongue-twisting guttural lilt of the Fissha Arabic prayers. I sensed a new connection with them as we prayed together. After mass they kindly expressed their appreciation for the sweat and tears that a middle-aged foreigner had gone through to enter their linguistic world.
Thank you for reading this and for your prayers and support for me in this journey. Even though my trip to Lebanon ended up not being the “safe” visit that it was supposed to be (I’ve gotten tested for Covid-19 three times since I got here because of all the potential exposure), I’ve had the sense that the Lord brought me here for a reason.
Please keep me in your prayers as I travel back to Oxford this Thursday. I have had many chances to be exposed to Covid-19 since my last test a week ago (including Sunday mass with a full church, all the windows closed because of the air-conditioning and only half the people wearing masks) so I would appreciate your prayers that I not get sick and that I not get anyone else sick. I try to wear my mask “religiously” . Please pray for Lebanon, for our friends and for the Church here. Through these stories I think I’ve touched on at least 4 of the 5 crises that are plaguing the country. But more importantly, I’ve tried to share with you the voice and experiences of the people here whom I love. Blessings.
Deuteronomy 31:2-3, 6 Moses said to the people, “The Lord has told me, ‘You will not cross the Jordan River.’ But the Lord your God himself will cross over ahead of you. . . Joshua will lead you across the river, just as the Lord promised. . . So be strong and courageous! Do not be afraid and do not panic. For the Lord your God will personally go ahead of you. He will neither fail you nor abandon you.”
When Karis was fourteen, she wrote in her journal:
March 9, 1998 Hebrews 11:4, “By faith Abelstill speaks, even though he is dead.” Oh, Lord, isn’t that one of my greatest goals?! To speak. To be heard, to have a voice in other people’s lives, to STAND FOR SOMETHING, even when I’m gone. For people to rejoice when they think of me, to say I see God in her. You have promised I will fulfill a purpose in You.
If you have read Karis, All I See Is Grace, you know that when she was sixteen, God gave her a promise and a prophecy, a north star to guide her the rest of her life.
The Promise: “Seu Amado está guardado.” Your Beloved is chosen, reserved, saved, protected, hidden, or set apart—the word “guardado” in Portuguese has multiple shades of meaning.
The Prophecy: “You will be a door many nations will walk through to find Christ. You will be given a key to this door.”
Through multiple life-threatening crises, she believed she would not die until the Promise and the Prophecy were fulfilled. For example, at 21, after her first transplant catapulted her into severe rejection and overwhelming infection, she wrote:
Oct-something 2004 I won’t stay ugly. I’ll grow into some new form of beauty and wellness. Why do I know that? Why do I know I won’t die? Because there are unfulfilled promises. It’s so simple when I remember that. Surely my friends recognized Your grace in me and were enchanted by that. That is when I can enter their lives and touch and interact. That is when the knowledge that I will leave an impact is joyous.
Shortly after her graduation from Notre Dame, confined to a wheelchair because her hip had collapsed and facing surgery considered high risk for anyone immunosuppressed, she said:
May 2008 Soon I will be able to walk, and dance; this is my hope. I have Your promises to stand on. Meu amado está guardado. My life is to be somehow a door to the nations; a key will be given me. So, I will survive the hip replacement surgery. Or at the very least, You will use this short life I have lived. That seems huge enough comfort not to fear taking the next step: I shall not fear evil. Nothing bad can happen to me. Though I die, I die to You as I have lived to You.
Did God fulfill the Promise and the Prophecy? At the end of the book I discuss that question, and I won’t spoil it for you if you haven’t yet read the story. But I think, like Moses who couldn’t in the end do all he dreamed of, the Karis book can be like Joshua was for Moses, helping fulfill God’s promise. Very soon, Karis’s own words will be available for Spanish and Portuguese speakers as well as English.
On my next post, I’ll tell you about recent events in the life of “Anthony,” whom Karis believed to be her Beloved of the Promise. Today, I want to tell you more about this one way I believe God is expanding the fulfillment of the Prophecy, through Karis’s words and story translated into Portuguese and Spanish. How appropriate, since Karis’s five languages were part of the “key” she was given while alive. They allowed her to communicate Christ’s love to people who, like her, gathered from all over the world in Pittsburgh hospital waiting rooms.
Here is some initial feedback from Mexicans and Brazilians who helped me with translating and editing the text of the Karis book:
Margarita: This book has enormous potential for ministry. It was a privilege to participate in its translation into Spanish.
Elisa: Every line of this book is an invitation to dive into life with courage, faith and joy, without fear. Invitation accepted!
Ari: Prepare to learn to see the world through the lens of grace. Don’t be surprised if Karis breaks your heart and makes you smile, both at the same time.
I’ve seen God “crossing over” ahead of me to bridge into these languages. He opened a door to publish with Editora Betânia in Brazil after they initially said no. He provided excellent translators and editors in both Portuguese and Spanish, and the money to pay them. Friends prayed and believed in these projects when I was discouraged.
Now, I ask you to pray with me for the Holy Spirit to personally “cross over” into the hearts of those who read the book’s message of hope and grace. That message is more relevant than ever, as people around the world struggle and suffer through the multi-pronged challenges of our days. Pray they will find, as Karis did, amid trauma, loss, and grief, the gift of God’s love:
Sep 23, 2007 My bones are decaying. And with them, I fear, my spirit. Teach me to love, Master. May they say this of me when they say nothing else, when I am gone: she loved me. God loved me through her.
Thank You, Father, for the vision You granted me of the woman breaking her perfume over Your feet. Teach me to accept the brokenness of my clay jar that used to contain so much joy and articulation and grace. Teach me to offer it up anew each morning.
And for this new vision—You with arms outstretched to hug me to Yourself, my wounds on your body . . . I will treasure it always. May it grow in me until I begin to really understand Your love for me. For the world. Your fellowship in our sufferings and the grace of our fellowship in Yours.
The Portuguese may not be published until next year. Editora Betânia hasn’t yet given me a date. But Karis, Todo lo que veo es gracia should be available on Amazon within a couple of weeks! I’ll let you know! Start thinking about who you know who speaks Spanish . . .
Matthew 17:6-7 [At the Transfiguration] The disciples were terrified and fell face down on the ground. Then Jesus came over and touched them. “Get up,” he said. “Don’t be afraid.”
Last night I finished the rough draft of my first novel, Horse Thief 1898. Then I tried to sleep, but my novel-world was still too much with me. After trying to “turn over and go to sleep,” as my dad used to instruct us, I gave up and returned to my laptop and read back over the last few chapters, tweaking here, adding there, rearranging the order of events in a couple of places.
Finally, glancing at the clock, I realized I needed sleep. I decided to read a chapter of someone else’s novel, in that moment less compelling to me than my own, to get me out of the Horse Thief world. It worked well enough to get me back to bed. But then, as I tried not to touch my husband (he’s a light sleeper), touch is what I kept thinking about. How important touch is to Cally. How it hurts her togo long periods without a friendly embrace. And then—how devastating the abusive touch that upends her world. And how much, after that, she desperately needed safe touch in order to begin to heal.
I thought too about a part of Karis, All I See Is Grace, near the end of the book. I’ve just read through the entire manuscript in Portuguese, as I prepare to submit it to a Brazilian publisher by the end of this week. Writing about the day before Karis died, I noted, After our family time with Karis, I moved her leg to make it more comfortable, and her skin split. Even the gentlest touch caused immediate bruising. I had cared intimately for this body for more than thirty years, and now my touch was no longer a blessing; it only did her harm. I could do no more for my precious girl. Father, take her home.
As I turned over (again) and tried to sleep, I breathed, Thank you, Lord, for taking her home. Jesus’ touch never causes harm. It only brings healing.
Horse Thief 1898 ends with touch. It is both the culmination of a long separation and a promise of more to come. As I tried to sleep, I found myself writing in my head the beginning of the next book in the series, which will be Cally’s healing journey. But no. I’ve promised myself I’ll catch up on other parts of my life before plunging into book 2. There are others who need Jesus’ touch, even that mediated by the imperfection of my hands.