The First Week

A week ago today my book Tangled Strands was launched on CreateSpace, and it has been an interesting week. The biggest highlight was late yesterday when I found a box on our front stoop—copies of it had arrived! I am mostly speechless as I hold it in my hands or look at it.We ran into a number of complications trying to get the Kindle version up, but we finally succeeded with that, too.

Along the way for both versions, there were frustrations. Some of them were technical complexities, some were slip-ups, and despite the multiplied efforts of several people, a few flaws still snuck through. Thankfully with a print-on-demand program, we’ll be able to get those fixed.

The main thing that needs to be said at this point is that without my daughter Lynée Ward, it would never have happened. From her learning about the up-to-date popularity of self publishing to the hours we spent screen sharing on Skype as we worked out the details, it was an unforgettable mother-daughter experience. Amazing the technology that made that possible. I’m thanking the Lord for both it and especially her. We agreed at the end that of course we’re glad we finally succeeded and finished it but that we will miss the shared experience.

A verse in my Bible is dated in the margin 1987, and another cross references back to the first one. I clearly indicated that I was claiming them for my writing projects (this is only one of them), but year after year I went back and had to write “not yet.” Frankly I came to doubt it would actually happen. There is barely any room left in the margins to write that it has. I’ll save giving the references to those verses for a future blog when I can talk a bit more about them.

Note from the Author

Finally my story, a full-length Christian novel, has been launched and is available. Here's the first part of the saga of its background. You can find Tangled Strands at https://www.createspace.com/6918620

I first heard the song “Transformed” in the early 1950s and liked it so well that the words and music stuck with me. A dozen or so years later in the 1960s, the main characters of this story were born in my head during a stay at a Michigan lake. In the 1970s in South America I wrote multiple pages of back story.

In the early 1980s, I acquired my first computer. Little by little, I transcribed the pages of back story to the computer and began drafting more of the story.

I drafted it in all kinds of places. In the back seat of a car on a cross-country trip, I “wrote” some important elements in my head and scribbled a few notes to remind me when I got home. Many evenings while driving a stretch of Interstate to and from a teaching job, I would compose in my head, then transcribe to the computer when I got home.

In the 1990s, I puttered with it some more, adding another key character and making first attempts at a sequel. At some point, I considered the story complete. A handful of family and friends read it and said they liked it, but a publisher I approached was not interested.

In the mid-2000s, I decided that if I were ever to do anything with it, I needed to get serious about some training. In 2005 I attended my first Christian writers’ conference and got my first lessons in fiction in a class by the renowned Christian writer Angela Hunt.

I learned several startling things. I spent the next decade learning how to incorporate those style elements into a number of rewrites of the story. I hope you enjoy it. If you have feedback, you can write me at esthergrossts@gmail.com.

Getting Close

I've been thinking for weeks—actually three months—that it was about to happen. 

In November I was confident it would be ready for Christmas.

But no. 

Well, surely in January when the proofreader friend finished with it. 

But still no. One delay led to another. 

Even when we thought we were ready to submit it—and actually did submit it, it turned out to need another round of not only proofreading but a bit of editing. And that led to an unexpected major edit that I hadn't anticipated doing but that I feel really good about.

So what am I talking about? 

A life-long project, one that has at various times been pursued intermittently, for a while seriously, and then again laid aside for what turned out to be several years. 

But a few people kept bringing it up. Why didn't I do something about it?

By now you’re impatient with me because I’m not saying what it is. You’ll have to forgive me because I don’t want to make an actual announcement about it until I “see the whites of its eyes.” It would be devastating to announce it and then have it go down the tubes after all.

So I’m asking you to tune in your ears and keep watch with your eyes even as you forgive me for still holding back. 

Resolutions vs. Goals

New-year occasions are famous for resolutions, and resolutions are famous for being broken. Rather than resolutions, I like to think instead about goals. What do I want to do differently in the days ahead than I have been doing? 

I see a goal as different from a resolution. Resolutions get broken, and that implies failure. I see a goal as something I set my heart to do, but if I slip up, I haven't "broken" anything. Instead of looking on it as a failure, I can simply refocus, look for ways to do better, and press on, perhaps with help from what I learned in the "slip-up."

Which brings me to one of my goals for this year. Ever since I discovered archaeology in college, I have loved the Old Testament, and over the years I've become pretty familiar with the New Testament epistles. One thing I haven't focused on in recent memory is the life of Christ, so that's what I've decided to focus on this year. I plan to do it with something I've long known about but never used--a harmony of the gospels. 

And that reminds me...in recent days, for various reasons, I've been spending time in some other Scriptures (Colossians 1 is a powerful favorite). So...I need to refocus and get back to my goal of studying the life of Christ.

Made the Connection!

Well, I connected with her for over an hour yesterday afternoon. We had two whole lifetimes and 62 years to catch up on! What fun that was, and I know it will be into the future. Since we're both on the "over-the-hill" side of things, we know it won't be another 62 years, but we'll enjoy every one that the Lord gives us.

I'm teaching my new Bible study at the assisted living center this morning, and I would appreciate any and all prayers. I've chosen to study Old Testament characters, starting with Abraham, and this morning we'll be talking about Sarai and Hagar and the second major covenant that God made with Abram when he changed their names to Abraham and Sarah. 

May God bless your day!

Lost Friend FOUND!

I just found a friend I've been looking for for years—unfortunately, we haven't connected yet because her phone line is busy this evening. We were teenagers in boarding school together in Florida in the early 1950s. I was an MK from Africa, and she was one from Alaska—strange combination perhaps, but it never mattered to us.

It turns out she wrote me several Facebook messages in spring and summer of 2015—but I never saw them and am not sure why they are just now showing up for me. A strange situation for sure. When I finally connect with her, I'll write some more about it here.

They Did It!

The question around our scattered family this morning was "Did you stay up to watch until the end?" 

When I wrote the blog about our family and the Cubs last week, the question was whether they could do it. I'm not going to recap the series here—the media has more than done that. I just want to talk about last night. I know family members were watching in at least five states—and that they were messaging each other through the whole thing!

With the Cubs' good start that went on for several innings, and knowing that baseball games go on for hours, I began wondering early on whether I would be willing to sacrifice my bedtime to see the end. Of course if they won, I would be thrilled to watch it happen— but if they lost, it would be simply too sad to watch. At the same time, I was sure I had family members who, if the Cubs won, wouldn’t forgive me for not sticking with it.

So I decided I would brave the late hour, especially since the Cubs had a good lead—but then…. Cleveland tied it up in the bottom of the 8th—argh! My husband stayed up through the top of the ninth when it started to sprinkle, but when Cubs did not score then, he too came to bed. So much for a dream…

I ended up not able to sleep. I kept turning my mind to other things, like favorite Christian music, but it kept drifting back to Chicago, where I was imagined them trying to deal with the devastating disappointment they were going to have to live with all winter long. 

Finally at 11:40 I got up to take a pill. I figured by then everything was over. Imagine my amazement when my sister’s first Skype to me this morning was “So they did it up big!” Say what? Turns out that if I had turned the TV on while I was up getting the pill, I would have likely have caught the end of it!

Am I crushed? Definitely not! The only important thing is that they won, and as always the media has shown plenty of what I missed. Yay, Cubs! 

Thought about you a lot, Grandpa and Daddy!

Afternoon Musings

Today our Tennessee city is breaking an all-time November temperature record. We will hit 88 or 89 this afternoon. Do you suppose Fall heard my complaints about the pending loss of summer and managed to slip me a little extra? Truth is, I am enjoying a couple of little extras. One is a gorgeous sunflower that has grown up under our bird feeders. So bright and cheery in the sun, both afternoon and early morning.

Another is a poinsettia that hasn't figured out that it isn't in the tropics. Whereas poinsettias are famous for their bright red foliage, I've never had one in the US that turned red again after the initial flowers are gone. This little guy is trying to. He was a gift plant back at Christmas last year. I kept him in through the winter but put him outside in a larger pot come warm weather. Now his leaves are trying to turn red! Today I moved him to a spot where he will get more hours of sun during the day. Too bad I didn't do that a week ago. I wonder how far those leaves will get before the inevitable freezing temperatures descend on us.

This Sunday our church is celebrating its forty-fourth anniversary. We still have a handful of charter members, though we lost at least one other one to Glory recently. We found this church when we first moved here a decade and a half ago, and we haven't gone anywhere else. It's a good church, but we haven't been growing. Hopefully that is going to change as we're on the verge of adding a minister of education and programs to our staff.

I mentioned in my returning post a couple of weeks ago a long-term "project" that might be coming to fruition. I've spent a good bit of time on it since then, as has a family member, and it is now in the hands of someone for final (hopefully) finishing touches. Confusing? Here's a hint: The cover is close to being finished, and the next thing I need to focus on is getting an ISBN number for it. Again, stay tuned.

Our Family and the Cubs

We have five generations of Cubs fans in our family. It started with my grandfather. We don’t know at what point he became a devoted Cubs fan, but we’re safe in guessing it was early. He was 28 when the Cubs last won the World Series in 1908, and he was 65 in 1945 when they last played in the World Series.

Devotion to the Cubs started early in his family, too. A letter in the family-history files was written by my grandfather’s son, our uncle, during his overseas service in WWII. Even from the battlefront he was asking about the Cubs!

Grandpa lived another eleven years after that ’45 World Series, and that is where my memories come in. During the mid-50s, shortly before he died, I have a clear picture of him leaning over his little radio at the kitchen table listening and being vocally animated. I even remember his being enthusiastic over the fairly new player who was doing good things for the Cubs—Ernie Banks!

My dad, Grandpa’s son-in-law, was also a devoted fan. Though he was dignified and generally on the quiet side, we who knew him remember how he too could get vocally excited about the Cubs. Some of his grandsons and great-grandsons still do.

A few of us in the family like to see the Cubs win, but we don’t always keep track of what is happening with them as much as some of the others. There’s even been some disillusionment with things like the huge sports salaries of today—which of course would totally blow my grandfather away! But there’s definitely enough enthusiasm among us to claim the five generations.

My closing story happened late this summer. My son’s two boys, now in college, are members of that fifth generation. This summer for their dad’s birthday, they pooled their funds and took the three of them all the way from Tennessee to Chicago to see a Cubs game in person. One of them had already stated on his high school graduation card that his goal was to live long enough to see the Cubs win the World Series!

Despite what may or may not happen in the next week, I’m counting on his living a lot longer than that!

Saying Hello to Fall

I’ve long heard people report enthusiastically that fall is their favorite season. There are many reasons, like a break from the summer heat, kids going back to school (some mothers are sad about that), and of course the vivid fall colors.

I’ve tried through the years to agree with them, but it just doesn’t happen. That could be because I’ve lived a third of my life, including my childhood, in the tropics, but that’s not all it is. With air conditioned homes and churches, I don’t mind the summer temperatures that much, and I’ve always been more on the cold side personally. (I use the little bathroom heater for my showers even during the summer because of the AC vent in there.)

A big reason I can’t get excited about fall is that I love color and I love flowers so much, and I am so sad to see them wilted and dead after the first frost. Our community landscaper has done a terrific job this summer with three rows of tall blossoms in three solid colors at the entrance to our subdivision. These days I’ve been sadly anticipating when they would be hit and laid low by frost.

It turns out, apparently, that professional landscapers don’t wait for frost to bring on that sad sight. We haven’t had frost yet, so I was surprised this week to find the colored flowers gone and three rows of two-inch, drab little pansies in their place. What a letdown! In a couple of days, however, I started thinking of the pansies as brave little soldiers who are going to have to sit there and endure the winter, whether mild or severe. Yes, they too are God’s creation, and I need to respect and appreciate them, though not in quite the same way as the brightly colored ones of summer.

What helps the most is to remember that all this has been clearly planned by God.

           “While the earth remains, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat,

            summer and winter, day and night, shall not cease” (Genesis 8:22)."

Yes, it’s all part of a divine plan, and we (including me) are the beneficiaries.

But I imagine you won’t be surprised to hear that spring is still my favorite season.

Starting Anew

I’ve been looking back over the last four years since I wrote in this blog, thinking about things worth remembering. The most important is that my husband and I have celebrated five more anniversaries since then (58 now), and we are both so thankful we still have each other. We’re in the same home we moved into new when we made the move from Dallas in 2003, making this the second longest time we’ve been in one place in those 58 years..

Not surprisingly, some things have changed. We no longer have the two sweet pets pictured on this blog. Of course tears have been shed, and of course we have a couple more—a dog with short hair who doesn’t need to be washed and cut and a fat kitty who loves to tip things over (even water glasses), pull things down (dishtowels from their rack), and hates closed doors.

The biggest highlight of the last four years took place in late summer of 2013. Ever since we were young, Fred and I had agreed that “someday” we wanted to make a trip out west. In early August it occurred to us that “someday” had probably come, and we quickly made plans. We got a great tour of Rushmore with friends who retired there. We loved Glacier Park even without snow. During the first half of the trip I enjoyed saying I’d lived on four continents but never been to Yellowstone; can’t say that any more, and we topped it off at the beautiful Tetons.

Even though it’s been only four years, we’re at a different stage now. Not long after the trip, the arthritis in Fred’s back deteriorated to the point we could no longer have made that trip. He can no longer walk the neighborhood and he’s been told he shouldn’t drive in the dark, but he still keeps up with our finances and most of his “chores.” I still walk several times a week but not as far as I used to, and I’ve had three small surgeries in the last six months.

I have several projects to keep me busy, including writing my parents’ missionary story from the field letters my grandmother saved. I’ve recently committed to teaching a Bible class in a new retirement home in our area. And I have the possibility of a project I’ve toyed with most of my adult life actually coming to fruition. I’ll keep you posted.

Leap Year

I just figured out today that I was born in a leap year. It wasn’t much worth noting because I wasn’t born until June. It made a little more difference when my oldest child was born in a leap year. Her due date was six days after the 29th, but she decided to make her appearance five days before. Even there, it didn’t really affect anything.

The time it most closely affected my life was in the early days of this new century. On February 29, 2000, I was diagnosed with cancer. Even then I could see some comedy in it—I would have an anniversary to mark it only every four years. That’s the way it’s been, and that’s been fine with me.

How does one celebrate an anniversary like that? I suppose that depends on what has happened in the years between. In my case, I can only rejoice and praise God that I’ve had no more recurrence. I’m taking a number of medications (including for atrial fibrillation and Graves disease), but nothing related to cancer. I do some things right in my eating habits, and that’s good, but I could do a lot more. I’m making some fresh attempts this year.

If I were dealing with a return of the dread disease, I’m sure it would be different, but I’m not going to think about that. And that’s not head in the sand; it’s reality. When I was waiting for the final diagnosis (and on a few other occasions in my life), I said I was preparing myself for the worse. That wasn’t a lack of faith. I said, “If I get good news, I’ll know how to handle that without special preparation.”

I feel the same way about my current situation and blessing. Yes, I realize the analogy is the opposite, but I still believe the same. That’s because I have faith and confidence that if I should have to deal with it again, my Heavenly Father who saw me through it the first time would be right there with me again.

I did have a thought this new year that I’m quite sure I’ve never had before. Having passed the three-quarter century mark during the past year, it occurs to me to wonder …

When Leap Year rolls around again, will I still be here?

The next thought I had surprised me. You know, that really is possible and not that far a stretch in these days.

“My times are in Thy hands” is as true today as it was thousands of years ago when first spoken.

Postcards

I got a special packet in the mail this week. My cousin Joy sent me a collection of postcards which I believe came through her mother. All were written by someone in our family to someone in the writer’s family. Most, but not all, recipients were also our family, such as when my grandmother or grandfather wrote to her parents or his mother—i.e., my great-grandparents. Dates on them ranged from 1907 to 1944 during the War. Almost all carried 1-cent stamps.

One was written to my great-great-grandmother in August 1909 just four months before she died. It’s from a nephew of hers who years later planted in me the first germ of love for genealogy. He has an interesting handwriting—surprisingly tiny for a man, and quite neat, but so far I haven’t been able to decipher all of it. He says he wants to see her “so bad”—I wonder if that happened before she died in December?

The front of that card is special because it is of the North Chester Church which was my grandfather’s first pastorate where he met and married my grandmother, and where generations of my ancestors attended, out there in the countryside northwest of Grand Rapids, Michigan. In the little bit I have dabbled in painting, I have done a small painting of it, steeple and all. In our recent trips up there, we’ve been sad to discover that the top part of the steeple is no longer. Our guess is that when it deteriorated too much, it was too expensive to rebuild as it had been, so they just finished it off with something simple.

One postcard is a cartoon sketch written to my other great-grandmother by her stepson. It’s postmarked 1908 and shows a guy in the bathroom with suspenders down, splashing water on his face from the commode while he complains, “Goll darn this old wash basin anyway. The water runs out before I can wash my face.” Methinks there’s a bit of a history lesson there somewhere.

My grandfather was a preacher who traveled a lot, and many of these postcards are a testament to that. One is a picture of the Old North Church in Boston. I’m impressed with how often in his travels he wrote to his in-laws and how he never failed to address them as “Dear Father and Mother.”

Two priceless postcards relate directly to me. One is of a broad street in Paris in late 1938. My parents and I (age two) spent seven months there while they studied French in order to continue their mission work in the French colony of French Equatorial Africa (as it was known before independence divided it into four separate countries). My mother wrote on the back that the penciled arrow at the far end of the street was the point from which my father had taken a picture of “our street.” She also wrote, “We go down the steps right across from there the other way to get our groceries—around the lower street.”

The one that touches my heart the most is dated Aug. 24, 1938. It predates the Paris street one perhaps by only a few weeks. It boasts of being an “actual photograph” of the ocean-going vessel, the S.S. New York. My grandmother writes to her parents:

“Dear Ones – We are here in N.Y. and this is the boat they sail on tonight. We have been all through [it]. It is hard to see them go, but God’s Grace is sufficient. We had a good trip here & and a fun time at our [mission] conference in Cory [PA]. We leave for home tonight. Love, Fern.”

“It is hard to see them go,” she said.

I’m so glad they didn’t know that, because of the War already brewing, they would not see us again for seven years.

Loss

Loss is an inevitable part of life. It comes in all shapes and sizes, from the aggravating loss of misplacing your keys to the devastating loss in the death of a spouse. For some losses, such as the keys, we have to blame ourselves. Other times the blame falls on others—the drunk driver who caused the accident. The most painful times are when we want to blame God.

In recent times we’ve watched loss stick up its head for us and many in our lives. Last summer we had to part with the sweet little dog we had loved for twelve years. A friend had her marriage and family snatched away from her. (Though it was a step-family, she had been very close to them.) A former coworker watched his wife lose her valiant fight against a tumor in her brain. Most recently, a young couple, ecstatic over the prospect of twin girls, lost one of them at 32 weeks and but for the quick skills of the doctors would have lost the other one. At every occasion in this little girl’s life, someone will be missing.

Loss hits us in other ways, too. Loss of vision causes confusion, struggle, and sadness. Loss of freedom brings pain, not only emotionally, but sometimes physically. Loss of a limb, or even the temporary use of a limb, can slow our world down in frustrating ways. Loss of an opportunity can set us back and pile up frustration. Loss of a dream can leave a hollow, gaping hole in the spirit.

How we deal with the losses in our lives often defines our character. If we stew, rant, or wail, we may release some emotion—but it seldom changes or improves anything. If we close up, pull into a shell, and hold the rest of the world at bay, we nurse the loss and keep it alive. If we strike out and strike back, we risk destroying relationships and perhaps opportunities.

A strong, foundational faith in God can be an anchor when dealing with loss. Having faith that God knows what will be best frees me to accept a loss without debilitating hopelessness.

I learned something about loss when we brought my precious daddy to our home for what turned out to be the last fifteen days of his life. The better the relationship, the more pain you will suffer when you lose it. Yet I’ve never found anyone willing to trade the good of the relationship for hurting less when it was gone.

May God grant give us strength to face the losses of life with courage, wisdom, and confidence in His divine ability to help. May we deal with them in ways that make us people of God and our world a better place.

Time

Time…it’s a merciless taskmaster, isn’t it? When we’re very young, it seems to crawl. The birthday, or Christmas, or the trip to grandma’s—all seem like they will never arrive. All efforts to speed them up fall short. On the other hand, as every senior knows, the longer you live, the faster time seems to move. The appointment you’ve been thinking was next week is suddenly upon you. The bill you were putting off paying is now overdue. The week is just getting started—and oops! You find yourself at the end of it.

Years ago I came up with what I decided is a logical reason for why life feels this way. Think about it. When you were five years old, a year was twenty percent of your life. By the time you reached ten, a year was only ten percent of your life, and at twenty years, it was only four percent. At age fifty, a year is down to only .02 percent of your life. No wonder it seems to flash by more quickly! I’m not sure how scientific that reasoning is, but it makes sense to me.

No wonder God urges us in Scripture to “number” our days (Ps. 90:12). The reason given for that urging is that we might “gain a heart of wisdom.” My, how we all need that!

These days I find myself feeling like the final moments of an egg timer. The sand is moving faster and faster, and the amount in the top half is shrinking visibly. The difference between an egg timer and real life, however, is that in the timer I can always see exactly how much is left. In life I can’t. I have no idea whether God is going to give me five more years, or fifteen—or only five more weeks.

My heart knows that I don’t want to know that number. To know it was short would put immense pressure on me to accomplish things I know I both need and want to do before I check out. If I knew it were long, I’m sure I would find myself stressing about whether my body will serve me that long, what will happen to dear family members—not to mention what might happen in this teetering world.

But the fact that I don’t know beyond this day or hour creates its own kind of stress. All of it waves in my face that one profound word – TRUST!! I admit I’m not doing very well with it these days. I’m not worrying much about “bucket-list” things that so many talk about. I’ve had an incredibly rich and rewarding life. But I do find myself stressing about whether I’m accomplishing the things God wants me to be accomplishing at this time, this year, this month, tomorrow.

Everything in me knows that God has it all under control. He knows exactly what lies ahead. I’m so grateful for that, and I am grateful that I do not know any more than I do. Twelve years ago when I had cancer, we found and posted on our bathroom door a sign that said, “Don’t worry about tomorrow. God is already there.”

We’ve moved to another home in another state, but the sign is still on our bathroom door—only now it’s the bathroom my husband uses. Maybe I need to put it where I can see it even more often.

Another New Year

Today my grandfather would be one hundred thirty-two years old. He was fifty six when I made him a grandfather—a year younger, come to think of it, than I was when I became a grandmother. A year or so from now, I’ll be the age he was when he died—but I expect to stick around longer than that.

Back to the new year. When I was young, I was very sentimental about seeing an old year out and a new one in. That has worn off a bit with the years. What I still really miss is the New Years Eve services we always had in our churches up north. We would gather at 9 in the evening, have an hour of games or a movie, then an hour of refreshments and fellowship, and finally an hour with a devotional talk and communion. Yes, I do miss that.

New years are time to make note of milestones. A big one for me every time the calendar rolls around is that I chalk up one more year free of cancer. This year (if God keeps it at bay again) will mark a dozen years for me. An interesting twist is that 2012 is a leap year, and I got my diagnosis on February 29, 2000. I could say it is only the third anniversary, but I guess that would be facetious. Seriously, I am most grateful, and this year I am determined to keep my eating habits on a healthier level.

And then there are the new-year resolutions. Like most people, I have a mixed record. I know that some folks, after years of failing with resolutions, resolve not to make them any more, but something in me can’t seem to help it. I don’t know if it’s because there’s always so much in my life that needs improvement, or that I’m such a visionary, or simply because I enjoy setting challenges. My vision for 2012 is a big one, big enough and close enough to my heart that I’m not ready to share it too far afield yet. The good thing about it is that it’s one that will be accomplished in “pieces,” so even if I don’t accomplish all of it, I know I’ll accomplish some of it, and that will carry its own measure of success. Maybe after I accomplish a few of those pieces, I’ll feel like talking about it.

As for 2011, over all it was a good year, though the one sad thing was very sad. Losing our sweet doggie after twelve years was tough, but some members of our extended family had a very tough year in far more important ways. Through God’s grace and strength, they have kept clinging to Him and taking one step at a time. May God give us all grace to do that in the year ahead.

A bright spot in 2011 was that I signed with an agent—but so far that hasn’t resulted in my getting a publisher. I’ve resurrected another of my writing projects that was tucked away for many years, but truthfully, I don’t know what God’s plans are for either the fiction or the nonfiction. I’m just trying to stay tuned.

At least one of my resolutions for 2012 is right here before me—I have restarted my blog. I could beat myself purple for letting it languish for seven months, but I am resolved that blogs are supposed to be our servants, not our masters. We’ll see how it goes.

Above all,the one thing I know is that my life and those of the ones I love are all in God's hands. Whatever happens will not be a surprise to Him, and He will walk with us through it--whether it brings laughter, satisfaction, challenge, or tears.

How Great Thou Art

Have you ever heard of a bride standing in her wedding dress, facing up a staircase, and leading a choir?

Now you have because that’s what I did the afternoon I got married.

In those days, in the fifties and sixties, overseas missions had almost no high schools on the field, so most teenagers had to attend boarding schools in their home countries. To help meet that need, for ten years my parents made a home for our mission’s teenagers in Wheaton, Illinois. Because of all the maple trees on the two and a half-acre property and because our mission was Mid-Missions, we named the home Mid-Maples. Many years, we had twenty or so around our two large dining tables for every meal. During the early years, I was attending college there in town, so I was part of that large family.


We were a mission operation, and the imagination of many folks and churches was captured by those young people who were separated from their parents, at least for one year and some for as many as four. The year my parents furnished the home, before the arrival of the teens, churches got the vision to supply the mountain of linens that would be needed, and each year at Christmas they asked for sizes and wish lists and sent boxes and boxes of gifts.

When we had an invitation to visit one of these interested churches, we decided to put together a program. The young people from different countries dressed in typical clothing of their countries and sang in the languages they had grown up with. We wanted to use our theme song, “It Will Be Worth It All,” so we prepared it as a group number with the young people singing parts. I became the designated choir director, and we ended up many Sunday evenings traveling to churches within driving distance to present our program. In time, we added other musical numbers. One of those was a song fairly new to America in the 1950s—“How Great Thou Art.” My dad would close the meetings with a meditation on godly young people.


I was a senior in college the year serious romance and a diamond ring came into my life. Because most of the young people stayed right through the summer, our August wedding became a huge family affair—especially since we decided to hold it right there in the large Mid-Maples house. In my wedding dress I came down the front stairs with my Daddy, and Fred and I said our vows said in front of the big picture window with the bamboo-print curtains. Some of the guys served as ushers, other directed traffic outside the house, two of them lit the candles, and three of the girls served the cake and refreshments in the big side yard afterwards.

I don’t remember whose idea it was to use “How Great Thou Art” as one of the music numbers for the service. The kids gathered in the front hall at the top of the stairs, and I stood in my wedding dress facing up the stairs, unseen from the seventy-five people in the living room and dining room below. From there I led them in singing, and it turned out pretty well.

That hymn would probably have meant a lot to me all these years even if we hadn’t used it like that in our wedding, but because we did, it has meant even more. It is a great song with great truth and has become an icon of music for many in our Christian faith.

Memorial Sunday for Last Year's Flood

We had a special and touching church service this morning. It was framed as a memorial to the big flood a year ago this weekend when we had fifteen inches of rain in 48 hours. The pastor told how a year ago about fifteen people (that included us) had made it to church when he realized they needed to cancel it. Fifty families in our church alone were affected to some degree, at least half of them losing everything.

In the children's sermon he held up the visual he had planned to use for the children that Sunday a year ago--it was a framed picture of Noah's Ark. The point he made with it is that the first thing Noah did after coming out of the ark and that traumatic experience was to worship the Lord.

We had two testimonials--one from the lady who ended up organizing much of the effort as our church served for a month as a disaster-relief center for the community. She said she never got over the joy of watching someone leave with a smile after they had come in completely beaten down. The other came from a couple who lost everything in the flood (I don't mind telling you there were tears with that one).

The choir sang a thrilling arrangement of the song, "The Anchor Holds."
The anchor holds though the ship is battered;
The anchor holds though the sails are torn;
I have fallen on my knees as I faced the raging seas.
The anchor holds in spite of the storm.

We sang "Great Is Thy Faithfulness."

Our pastor brought an excellent message from Ps. 40:1-3 and Ps. 93, including these verses: “He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; he set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand. He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God. Many will see and fear and put their trust in the Lord.”

Especially in light of what has happened to so many in our same part of the country this past week (over 350 dead from tornados), it was touching, sobering, and a powerful reminder that our Anchor does hold in the face of the storms that come our way in this earthly journey.

New Challenges (Part 5)

When we turned up a school year without enough kindergarteners to justify a full teacher just for them, I was offered the opportunity to “float.” A number of my previous class of kindergarteners needed speech therapy; would I continue the work I had begun with them the year before? Sure. Because of my interest in writing (I don’t remember how they knew about that), would I be willing to teach a time slot three days a week of creative writing to the fifth and sixth graders? I would. Besides, interestingly enough, I had taught several of them in kindergarten a few years before. In addition, I could be available to be something that was a luxury to that setting—a substitute teacher within the school system itself.

That year worked out well, and in the course of it I substituted in almost every grade, including what we then called junior high. Meanwhile, the visa situation became tighter, and it didn’t look hopeful for securing enough teachers for the following year. During break times in the teachers’ room, we would joke about the first grade teacher covering K-2, the one who then had 3-4 would cover 3-5—and Esther Gross would cover 6-8! We all laughed together.

Then one day our principle (by then a personal friend, of course) called me in privately and said, “We’ve been joking about taking different classes next year. Would you consider teaching 7-8?” She wasn’t kidding. I said I’d have to think about it.

My teaching certificate covered K-8, so no problem there. But those two grades were different from kindergarten in more than just student ages. For one thing, they were a double grade. Both grades were taught in the same room by the same teacher. That of course was not a new concept in American education, but I had no experience with it. When I had subbed in those classes, I did okay. Maybe . . . If they could find someone else to teach math and science, I could probably handle English, social studies (ancient and American history), and Bible.

But . . . but . . . what if I couldn’t handle it? What if I “blew it”? What if I did a horrible job? As I thought and prayed about it, God had a message for my heart. If this was something He wanted me to do, then my task was to obey and do it. The consequences—how it turned out—were His problem. So I agreed.

Remember the kindergarteners I had again in grades 5-6 for creative writing? Many of them were now in junior high, so I taught them once again—and at the end of the school year, the principal gave me the pleasure of handing them their eighth-grade diplomas.

I don’t remember when I noticed that God again “grew me into” the job He had for me. I had decided to become a kindergarten teacher after I had children of my own that age. And what did I have now? Children of the age I was being asked to teach. My youngest would be an eighth grader in my class. Junior highers were not the terror to me that they had been years before when my only experience was with little ones.

And what that rule that students had to call their teacher “Mrs.” even if she was their mother? I remember fretting some about that over the summer. How hard would be it be get my son to do that? It wasn’t that he was a difficult kid, but I never found the courage even to mention it to him. The new school year started. A couple of times, Don Paul called me Mom, but no one paid any attention.

Then one day he wanted my attention and couldn’t get it. After calling me Mom a couple of times, he tried “Mrs. Gross.” His classmates busted out laughing. So . . . that was the way it was, was it? Apparently at that age, his classmates expected him to call me “Mom.” Anything else was strange and comical. The rest of the year proceeded without any further attention to the matter, and I never breathed a word about it to the principal. I wonder if now, thirty years later, I should refer her to this blog . . . .

After nine school years in Colombia, we ended up back in the U.S. for good. I continued working with the Children’s Education Department another sixteen years, writing curriculum and later doing layout and editing of newsletters that went to our people overseas. I did some moonlighting teaching English skills to students in a community college, and eventually I taught fellow missionaries in many workshops.

So my teaching career ended up (with the exception of high school) spanning from kindergarten through adults. It has been humbling to watch God lead me step by step and give me joy all along the way. I enjoyed each thing I did, yet when God nudged me on to something else, I never looked back with regrets.

And to think I started out not knowing I would like to be a teacher!

Mixed-Culture Teaching (Part 4)

So given the fairly unorthodox way I came to the teaching profession, what did my teaching career look like? How long did I teach, and did I actually teach kindergarten as planned?

The answer isn’t a simpler yes, or no, or a number. I did teach kindergarten, the two years in the States and four years at the mission school in South America. I loved it. Teaching in a mission school has some interesting twists—such as having behavior problems with a five-year-old in morning class and then playing volley ball next to his father at 5:00. Parent-teacher conferences were interesting. That first year I went to Linda’s class for a conference on my first-grader’s progress, and she came to me for one on her kindergartener’s. That happened several times over the years with different students and different fellow teachers.

I faced a couple of cultural adjustments I didn’t expect and have never forgotten. I still remember my shock when the principal came into my classroom to remove the American flag. Yes, he acknowledged, we were mostly Americans, but we were guests in a foreign country. Someone had realized it was not appropriate to fly the American flag in our classrooms—and I soon understood that.

Another shock that lingers is when parents of one of my five-year-olds objected to a Halloween song I was teaching the kids. I don’t remember the song now, but it was a very common one, undoubtedly about spirits or something spooky. The parents objected because out in the jungle village where they worked to translate the Bible, evil spirits and spooky things were not make-believe. I complied, but it took a bit longer before I fully understood. I’ve come a long way in my feelings about Halloween since then, and I have a completely different perspective now.

Even mission schools within the same organization can come to different conclusions about school matters. Though we were both in the tropics, our school did not have all the same practices as our counterpart two countries over. While they allowed students to come to class in bare feet (often standard attire in the tropics), our school decreed that they wear shoes. I have fond memories of those rubbery sandal-type shoes we bought locally down there. In rainy season one could hardly arrive anywhere without muddy feet—so we would just turn on an outdoor faucet, stick one foot after the other under it, and continue on our way with clean feet and shoes.

The atmosphere and relationships at a mission center are usually informal and close. Children become much more attached to adults than they would in their home country and often use the terms “Aunt” and “Uncle” with first names. In the school referred to above, students were allowed to use those same appellations with first names for their teachers, but those setting policy in the early days of our school felt it would be important for discipline and lines of authority for students to use titles of address, like Mr. or Mrs., when in school. (Outside of school, of course, they could use any term they wanted.)

This became especially interesting when a teacher had her own child in her class. This happened a couple of times in third and fourth grades, and yes, the eight or nine year old referred to his or her mother as Mrs. Whatever. A side story on this in my next installment. What happened when my son ended up in my class?