Old Testament Humor

Reading the Bible is always an adventure. Sometimes a passage touches me in a way it never has before. And sometimes it's just plain funny.

Have you read the story about Balaam lately? -- Not the part about the talking donkey, the stuff that comes before that. Balak asked Balaam to come and curse the people of Israel, but Balaam said he could only say what God told him.

"No problem," Balak said. (My paraphrase) Balaam, after all, had a great reputation for passing out curses and blessings. He set Balaam up on a mountain over the Israelite camp, made all the proper sacrifices, and let his prophet do his thing.

His thing, though, was to say what God told him to. And God told him to BLESS Israel, not to curse them. Bummer for Balak.

"Whoa, Whoa, Whoa!" Balak needed a curse. Instead of finding a different curser, he tried to tweak things enough to confuse God. He set Balaam up on a different hill, one with a little bit worse view of the Israelite camp. That should do it.

No such luck. Another blessing came out of Balaam's mouth.

No problem. Just move him again, this time so he can't really see anything more than a little corner of their camp. Now, since the Israelites couldn't see him, he should be able to lay down that curse.

Ready, go.

Hello. What kind of god did this Balak expect? Obviously he thought God could be tricked, easily, like if he hid behind a handkerchief, God wouldn't know he was there.

Peek-a-boo.

You now what, though? God knew where Balaam was all the time. He knew where Balak was, too, and where his people were (not only their tents, but their hearts). You can't beat God at a game of hide and seek. He's always "it" and he knows where everyone is hiding.

Tomorrow or Saturday...

As of Thursday evening, the counter on my blog is at 29,965. Who will be #30,000? Will it be you?

Let me know if it is!

You Can't Get There from Here

When they say "you can't get there from here," they're talking about downtown Portland. As we got into the car, I said it out loud...as a joke. That was before I drove the scenic tour of Portland, forced ever further from my destination by signs that read,

NO TURNS
BUS ONLY
ONE WAY
NO TURN ON RED
LEFT ONLY
NO LEFT TURN
ROAD WORK AHEAD
LEFT LANE CLOSED

You get the idea. The poor people I was driving around must have thought I just dropped in from another planet. Obviously, I didn't know any of the local customs. I can understand having one way streets in a city. I can even understand dedicating 2 of the 3 lanes to bus and MAX lines. I don't understand why, when there are only 2 2-way streets, you can't turn off of one and you can't turn onto the other.

It was a wonder, but we actually made it to OMSI, Powells (I forgot my gift card. Guess I'll have to go again), and McMennamins, and back to the train station before their train was leaving.

Quite the 2 hours. Thanks for the adventure!

You Win

We were playing a game with the youngest the other day to distract her from her "tired legs" on a hike. You know the game, the one where someone says the name of an animal and the next person has to think of an animal that starts with the last letter of the previous word.

Here's how the game went...

mom: elephant
dad: tiger
kid: rabbit
mom: turtle

...You get the idea. Add in about a hundred animals to fill a half hour or so, including pretty much any animal you could think of. Ideas were running thin...

kid: finch
mom: hippopotamus
dad: skunk
kid: um... Kentucky Fried Chicken!

Game over.

Collateral Damage

A phone call from Dad at 11:30 last night sent me slogging out to the garden to cover all the baby plants in case a frost hit. Despite the hubby's insistance that it wouldn't come down to our level, I took the "better safe than sorry" approach and covered tomatoes, eggplant, herbs and peppers with every bucket I could quickly lay hands on. To his credit, the hubby who didn't believe in the project, came out and handed buckets across the fence to me in the dark.

Weather forecast was wrong, hubby was right. No frost.

However, the late night project brought some collateral damage - slugs!!! They cozied up out of the cold under the lips of all those buckets and died peacefully in their sleep.

Hooray for the false alarm! Hooray for collateral damage!

On Blogging

Didn't Churchill say something like this about blogging?

Never have so many had so much to say about so little to so few.

That's how I'm feeling about this blog right now, like it needs more direction, more streamlining, more purpose. What would you like to see?

Encore!

Once in a while, as I'm plugging through life trying to get the necessaries done, I get to check off something on my "bucket list." For me, that list of things I want to do before I die includes a lot of big ticket items--travel to foreign lands, learning other languages, getting a doctorate, making a difference in the lives of the people I meet.

Once in a while, an experience comes along that's so simple, so pure, I never would have thought to put it on my list. But as soon as it happens, I know it was supposed to be there, to experience that moment and to feel just a little more alive.

4 minutes. Me, my violin student and a room full of strangers.

And Itzhak Perlman playing the Theme from Schindler's List. No microphones or amplifiers, just the pure, sweet notes of the master violist telling the story of his people through his art.

4 minutes well-spent.

Encore.

Snooze Button

It's time to plant the garden. There's nothing in the weather forecast that agrees with me, just an internal alarm clock that tells me I need to plant NOW!

My first clue should have been the garden center. My daughter, the nursery cat and I were about the only ones hanging out in the vegetable section. And the cat wasn't buying. A bored worker wandered by every few minutes, glanced at the group of plants I'd chosen and stated, "Nice selection!" with great enthusiasm.

12 tomatoes
3 green chilis
1 eggplant
1 dill
1 rosemary
and a set of walla walla sweet onion starts

All sitting in the garden waiting for the downpour to end so I can put them in the ground.

Methinks I need to get my internal clock tuned up.

Something From Nothing

After a major fiasco of a garage sale when we moved back to the states several years ago, I refused to ever hold a garage sale again. We had puzzle pieces and straight pins all over the lawn, people dickering over the 25-cent price tag on a lead crystal vase, and women pulling on items of clothing they wanted like they would in a Black Friday sale on a B movie.

No more garage sales.

The problem is, what do I do with all the stuff I'm taking out of my house. Most of it goes to the church garage sale where it will be converted into cash to purchase supplies to build houses in Mexico. I'll even go work at this sale--that doesn't bother me. It's having MY stuff aired in front of the world that I can't stand.

I took 3 boxes of books out today, crossed a couple of bridges and found the Powells warehouse. Picture a warehouse full of bookshelves, books on every shelf, with a busy little army of Northwesterners pushing cartloads of books up and down the aisles to be shelved. One of 6 warehouses that feeds the Powells physical and online stores, it was a bibliophile's delight.

Only the books in the warehouse are not for sale... at least not at that location. If you want to handle to books, you have to visit one of their stores.

I walked into the warehouse with 3 boxes of books and walked out with 1 box and a Powells card loaded with $98.

Mission accomplished. Anyone want to go to Powells?

Purging

I've finally come to grips with the fact that we are in this house to stay. So, instead of dreaming of how to increase our floor space, I'm decreasing our belongings...

Starting with books.

15 apple boxes full of books have made their way off the shelves so far... 5 for storage, 4 for the church garage sale, 3 for used book stores, and 3 boxes of homeschool books to sell to younger families.

I know I'll miss some of these books. I'll hunt for them and won't be able to find them. But then, I've been doing that already. It seems when there's a book I really need to lay my hands on, it's gone into permanent hiding. At least now I can blame my purge instead of my memory loss.

Henri Matisse is Dead

This probably doesn't come as a surprise to you since the French artist passed away in 1954. But for those of you who haven't met him, Henri Matisse (Henry, for short) was also the name of my youngest daughter's beta fish.

He lived a long and happy life... for a fish.

I'm not sure if it's a sign that we're raising the girl right or a sign that she is heartless, but the mourning period lasting about 22 seconds. Then the shovel came out and she picked the perfect spot to bury him, right beside the 2 frogs she had for about a day last summer. She didn't even flinch when she shoveled the dirt over that ever-open eyeball.

I don't think I could have done it. I'm sure someone else in the family always officiated over my hamsters' funerals while I sobbed into my handkerchief. I remember moping through a whole day of school (3rd grade) when Fluffy died. (And using his untimely death as an excuse for not participating in class activities.)

It's been almost an hour now.

She's campaigning for another pet.

Pavlov and Turkey in the Straw

The ice cream truck just went by, singing Turkey in the Straw at the top of its electronic lungs. Kids from miles around hear the song and, instantly, their mouths start to water. Nothing could taste better on a barely warm spring day than a Sponge Bob Push-up, drastically overpriced at $2 a pop.

"It's the ice cream man," they shout, scrambling for their own money or begging their mothers for some. They flock to the street, waiting to satisfy the craving they didn't even know they had.

I keep a constant supply of fudge bars and twin pops in the freezer for just such an occasion. For the same price as indulging a momentary craving for a minute, I can fill the same craving in all my kids for a week or more.

I don't respond to Pavlov's call. Not when it sings "Turkey in the Straw" (which I find immensely annoying). I must admit, though, that the theme song for the NPR news quiz makes me want to take a walk. And I suspect they put the milk at Safeway right by the donut case for a reason.

How 'bout you? Do you have any pre-conditioned responses?

Where in the World?

A handful of you will know where I've been and perhaps the same number will know why.

Butterfly Kisses

This butterfly must have recognized this as a child who loves flying creatures. Owls, bats, juncos- even starlings- all flying things deserve to be fed, admired, and studied. She caught a glimpse of a crow carrying nesting materials this afternoon and ran inside to write it down. The great blue heron, the chickadee and the bald eagle have earned their spots in her life list book. Everything but flies and bees are to admired and encouraged.

She deserves a butterfly kiss.

photo credit: Aunt Dana

Go with God

It doesn't take as long as you'd imagine to get used to being in a new place. After a few minutes, you stop flinching when cars pass you on the "wrong" side of the street. Funny signs seem normal and the way things are done are the way things are done. New flavors become the norm and the body adjusts to temperature and time zone.

We've been back in the States a couple of weeks now and the memories of our voyage are already fading. I think God must design us this way, to adapt to where we are and let the places we've come from recede in our memories if not in our hearts. How else could we survive? Otherwise, we'd be pining away for the places we are not.

My heartfelt thanks to all those who helped make our trip possible. Your participation in God's timing was a great reminder to me of how things beyond my control are never beyond His control. Many thanks also to the Koonces, Crowsons, Hammonds and Crockers, the Martins and Cashes, Kibi and his family, Charles and all the others who opened their homes and lives to us.

Wherever you go, go with God.

Strangers in a Strange Land

Can you imagine being displaced from your home, being driven from the land and the country and the family you love to a new country? Angelique doesn't have to imagine it--she's living it. Far from the people she loves, in a country where no one speaks her language, she can't even find the ingredients to cook the foods she loves and has to settle for the blander fare of Uganda.

She and I made an instant connection the first time I visited her home, both of us thrilled to find we shared a language and were able to speak and pray together in French. Both of us strangers in a strange land who found a connection in our foreign-ness. At church the next day, when the whole congregation split into groups to pray together, she was left sitting in middle of the room, alone. Edwin nudged me to go pray with her, so I did again.

The topic of prayer was "what has God done in your life to show you his goodness?" A tough question for her, I thought, since I already knew part of her story, about her health problems that kept her in the hospital for months and about how her daughter that came to care for her died on Christmas Day.

She didn't hesitate, though, to share the goodness of God. "He's healed me," she said. "Before, I was so sick, needing care and medicine all the time. Now, it is like I am healed. I can take care of my family again."

We spent a day with her and, as we left, she hugged me and begged me not to come back and see her, perhaps to move to the Congo and work with her, planting seeds for God's kingdom and--above all--to not forget her.

Don't worry, Angelique, I won't forget.

He Did Not Meet My Expectations

On the news this week, they announced a program in which Congo residents can trade in a contraband weapon for $50. The problem?--They can turn around and buy another one on the black market for $25. So foreign aid agencies can fund the war with a 2 for 1 special.

With stories like this one, or stories about how ebola and AIDS were born in the jungles on the Congo (formerly Zaire) and spread along its trade routes, you can see why I harbored some pre-conceived ideas about what people from that vast country might be like. Not that I knew I held these prejudices (I honestly don't think much about the Congo in my daily life) until I met someone from there who blew away any idea of what that country and its people must be like.

Meet Kibi.

He lives with his wife and family in western Uganda. He's a refugee, a history professor, and one of the best Bible teachers I've ever met. His wisdom comes from study--sure--but more so from his collection of difficult life experiences. Not that he brought it up or dwelt on it, but Kibi and his family have been displaced from their home. They had to leave their house, their possessions, their jobs, their family.

They gave up everything they had for a chance at safety.

Three times.

He's had to fight for legal status in Uganda so he could get a job and, now that he has one, the school does not pay him what they owe. He keeps working, hoping they will eventually straighten out their finances and give him his back pay. But he's philosophical about it. At least he's got an employment record for the future if the money never pans out.

You'd think that kind of life would make you bitter, or drive you to despair. With Kibi, though, I got the sense that it made him stronger in his faith, that it gives him a constant reminder or where home really is. I watched his affection and patience toward his 4-year old grandson who he will raise as his own since the boy's mother died. Her last wish to her father was that he would teach the child to know Jesus just as he had taught her. I don't think I've ever seen another man in Africa treat a child so tenderly.

God doesn't look at the outside of a man, but at his heart. If God ever hosted a beauty contest, I have a feeling this humble man from the Congo would be a contender.

From the Land of Good Stuff

A box of Oreos. A jar of parmesan cheese. A bag of Craisins.

Simple pleasures, but when they come as gifts of love from back home, they can lift your spirits.

One of the funnest parts of our trips was presenting each of the families we visited with a suitcase full of goodies from home--205 pounds in all.

Members from our church pitched in everything from Kool-aid packets to homemade pillowcases, golf balls to bath gels, Tillamook cheese and a whole lot of goodies from Trader Joe's.

Goldfish crackers for the kiddos. Dark chocolate for the mommies. And a special favorite for everyone: York Peppermint Patties.

Thanks to our church family for helping us take the taste of home to loved ones far away.

Getting There

We arrived 15 minutes before our 4:45 a.m. bus departure, but where was the green bus that was supposed to take us to Mbarara? Nowhere in sight. The only bus outside in the parking lot was already pulling away.

It turns out that just because you purchase a ticket on one bus line at a specified time doesn't mean much at all. We hopped on the bus that was pulling away. The more stops we made as we circled through Kigali and out into the countryside, the more I realized that everyone but us understood how the bus "schedule" works in Rwanda.

Instead of a direct line north, we were stuck on the milk run, the bus that stopped at every "station" and bench along the roadside. We didn't even cross the border into Uganda at the correct crossing. Instead, we ended up at a small outpost at the end of the pavement. We dashed from Rwanda to Uganda in a downpour so fierce it took days for my sweatshirt to dry. The books I carried at the bottom of my basket will never be the same.

As we sped along the slippery mud roads that clung to the side of mountains, I reminded myself, "The bus driver does this all the time and he's not dead yet." No one else seemed to mind--no one but Edwin, who flinched every time he looked down the aisle out the front window at oncoming cars, bikes, and pedestrians. I looked out the side window at banana plantations, fruit stands, and an extraordinary number of cell phone businesses in what certainly felt like the middle of nowhere.

When we finally reached pavement, I had to laugh at the first sign I saw. Hand-painted on the front of a building... "Thank the Holy Spirit Merciful God Design Company." Amen to that. The store owner must have named his business after taking the bus.

In Mbarara, we looked for a connecting bus to Fort Portal. No luck. It had already gone. We ended up in a matatu instead, East Africa's taxi alternative.

The joke goes like this:

How many people can you fit in a matatu?

Answer: One more.

And they did. 9 on my row including this boy who sat on my lap against his better judgment. Up to 26 in all in the narrow Toyota van. The more people you can cram inside, the more the driver and his conductor make.

Despite being wet and squished, it was a good day. First up over the mountains where tea plantations stretch in ribbons of brilliant green over one hill and then the next. Then down into a valley so flat and lush I imagined dinosaurs roaming its basin. We didn't see dinosaurs there, but did catch glimpses of elephants, buffalo, impala, storks, and a baboon who barely lost a game of chicken with our taxi. Start and stop, start and stop, over a thousand or more speed bumps and into Fort Portal just in time for dinner.

Radio Silence

We taxied up to Fort Portal, Uganda, on Friday - a definite African experience, but we arrived none the worse for wear. Internet here is slow and the house we're at doesn't have wireless, so I don't plan to blog again until we return the the States.

Watch for a new post on Saturday. Meanwhile, pray for the work in Fort Portal.