One Page at a Time

The Bible College girls worshiping before I shared my testimony.

         A book can only be read one page at a time. Everyone reads at a different pace--some skim the pages quickly while others read with intense focus and patience. I fall into the second category. I read and notice how each word is interconnected in the big picture of what is going on. Whatever your reading style, there is no way to know how the story unfolds without reading one page at a time.

        The grieving process, like a book, can only be worked through one stage at a time and like readers, everyone approaches grief differently. When my father died in 2009, I was obviously devastated by his death, but as time proceeded and seasons dissolved into the next, I began to grieve over the life my father lived more than anything. At the time of his death my father did not have even one friend. He had no possessions--only his music and a few filled notebooks. He did not have a job, a car, or even a driver's license. He was severely ill and completely reliant upon his mother with whom he lived with. His life itself has caused me more sadness than his death itself. Perhaps that is because I found peace in the fact that he wasn't ill and feeble anymore.

         I have worked through the grieving process one page at a time, but at the beginning of a new chapter I only found that the previous chapter hadn't completely resolved. I was still grieving his life because I thought of all the potential that could have been and the friends that could have at least been there for his funeral if he had had any. How could a life so empty be full of purpose?

        While in India, I had the honor of sharing my story with the Bible college ladies. I felt inadequate. How could I share something with them when I knew most of them had faced far more than I ever would? I set my fears aside, though, and breathed in deeply. "God, I'm open to what you have for my time with these girls." I shared about the difficulties my mom and I had when she was a single parent doing her best to provide for us. I explained that my father and I didn't reconcile until he was very ill and then, we only had a few short years of getting to know each other before he passed away. I spoke about how he came to peace with God before he died and that I will always be grateful for that.

         In the depth of my heart I felt a peace as I shared; for the first time I realized the true value of a life. God showed me that my father's life surely did have purpose despite lack of material goods and human relationships. It was because of God that I was half way around the world sharing not only my story, but also my father's story. A story that had to be read one page at a time to appreciate the ending. It was through every sentence, every word, and new page that God orchestrated peace and redemption for my father's life. My father did have a life worth living because the very air in his lungs was put there by God. He lived with divine purpose that he couldn't see at the time--a purpose that I couldn't see without turning the page. His life was valuable and he fulfilled a purpose long after his life ended. The students heard of God's faithfulness and deliverance in my life--a story that didn't unfold without the reconciliation with my father. My father helped shape more good things in my life than bad.

Some of the Titus Women and Bible College students from the meeting.

         Later in the week, I shared my story again with about 70 Hindu women (Titus Women aspect of the ministry). My father's life and death was a testimony to women that don't even know God yet. I looked into the faces of the Hindu women--all of them were there that day to make and sell handmade items so that their families may be provided for. As I looked out at each of them I believed in faith that one day all of them in God's perfect timing will turn the page to a new chapter--one of God's salvation, freedom, and peace. 

       The story we all begin with is one that we try to write on our own. Circumstances beyond our control tear out pages here and there--causing people to tell us our story isn't worth reading. God sees the divine purpose he has created in us and he replaces what has been torn.

       In many ways, India was the beginning of a new chapter for me. My heart was filled with a love for the people that can't be easily described. Their faces were ingrained in my mind and the immense need for God was etched on my heart. A new chapter is being written and just like any book worth reading, it will be written one page at a time.

     

Paradox

    There was no way that I could have been prepared for India. We landed in New Delhi and the airport welcomed us like any other we had traveled to around the world. The terminals were lined with seats filled with people of different nationalities. The signs to baggage claim looked just like the ones in Washington D.C. and London. We passed easily through immigration and retrieved our bags from the luggage carosel.

    When we went outside and our host met us, the Delhi air invaded my senses. The air smelled like sulfur--like a match that had been lit and then blown out. With the line of taxis waiting, the outskirts of the airport created somewhat of a comfort zone. Set aside from the smell, the surroundings were similar to the taxi queue at Heathrow airport. Cars bumper to bumper and drivers eager to take you for a spin and empty your pockets with each turn. We soon boarded the taxi and it transported us further into Delhi and into the unfamiliar.

     The streets were crowded--a sea of taxis, rickshaws, and motorcycles intertwined like fibers of a rope--so close that one began where the other ended. People and stray dogs freely walked between the cars and into oncoming traffic. Liter blanketed the sidewalks and runoff areas where the sidewalks met the road. Many homeless people slept on the ground and on top of a low standing wall. They laid beneath a piece of plastic, cloth, or nothing at all. Poverty and wealth were illuminated beneath the golden orange hue of the street lamps. On one side of our taxi there were people making a small fire outside of their home built of old tires and torn plastic. On the other side of our taxi, a white Mercedes cut into traffic. Both the white makeshift plastic "roof" and Mercedes seemed to glow in unison for just a moment beneath the light. In a moment, both were gone and the taxi drove us into a new paradox.

    Poverty and wealth seemed to move together fluidly in the same culture. We arrived at a hotel and again, I eagerly yearned for something familiar. We found that our room, set aside from a few differences, was a lot like one in the states. I found comfort in that as we went to bed. I laid there trying to process all that I had seen. Taxi horns and barking dogs echoed outside. The air conditioned room and sound of traffic made me feel that I could be anywhere in the world.

    Morning came and we left the hotel at 6:00 a.m. with our host and taxi driver. The drive to Agra to tour the Taj Mahal took hours and the journey threw us both into culture shock. I was in shock more than Matt since he has had previous exposure to a culture other than one in the Western world. Daylight revealed much more than the night before.

    The most beautiful colors I have seen adorned women in saris,traditional Indian tops and scarves. Mosques and temples appeared often with gods for sale at roadside. My heart sank as I saw a woman praying to a god set on a makeshift altar just at the corner of the street. She had such an expression of desperation on her face. Although I only saw her for a moment in passing, the look on her face will always stay with me. I though of how her god could not hear her and suddenly I became aware that India was not spiritually impoverished, but rather robbed of the Truth.

    In that moment I had no idea how often that woman's face would appear to me again and again.

Your Funeral

    I remember the day that my mamaw passed away. I was eight and when I was told that she had taken her last breath and that she was in Heaven I did the only thing that I knew to do--I ran away. I ran through the flower garden I had helped her plant. I ran past the pond that I had helped her dig with my pink plastic shovel. I cried and I ran until someone caught me and wiped my tears away. 

   Her funeral was simple. I don't remember who gave the eulogy or if anyone did, but I do remember the smell of pink carnations and the feeling of deep sadness I had in my stomach. I couldn't understand how life could end so quickly.

   Fourteen years later, my father passed away. I did the only thing that I knew to do--I ran away. This time I didn't run through beautiful flowers and I wasn't caught by anyone. I ran hard and fast; as I did I lost pieces of who I was. There were no projects like gardens and ponds to remind me of him. We hadn't really "known" each other that long so there were only letters he had meant to give to me that I found in his room. When I found them, I held them to my chest as if they were gold--they were heavy and weighted my heart down.

   As we get older, we learn to do something very well--hide. We hide behind denial, careers, family, social circles, religion, and good intentions. I hid behind the hurt that had been placed on me. Hiding behind hurt is in a category all in its own--it takes effort of our very soul to keep up the facade. 

   I gave the eulogy at his funeral. It was only about six sentences written on crumbled lined paper. As a writer and as a daughter I felt ashamed--there had been no words to express how I felt. My eulogy expressed my forgiveness and a promise--the promise that I would always remember him fondly and try to love others as he had loved me.

  Mamaw didn't have a huge social life and wasn't part of a community outside of her family. She didn't have many friends, but she was a best friend to her six sisters. She didn't have a career, but was a stay-at-home mom. Mamaw wasn't a perfect mother and had demons in her past, but she found redemption. 

  My father was ill for the last several years of his life. He literally didn't have any friends because most were addicts and had passed away from years of abusing their bodies. My father never had a career or even a job and wasn't always there of me, but he reconciled his past and God gave him a future--even if it was one in Heaven and not a healed body and fresh start here on earth. 

   I chose to write about these two people because by earthly standards they didn't really accomplish much during their time on earth. Neither held a career, had a 401K, traveled, were involved in their community, or even left inheritances behind. What was to be said about them when they crossed from this world and into the next? They both found peace with God--neither in a dramatic conversion and traditional setting. Nevertheless, they found God and they found peace.

  When all was said and done--when breath left their lungs and their hearts failed to beat--what remained valuable about their lives? The flower garden was filled with more memories than lilies and roses. It was there that I felt my Mamaw's love and felt special enough to help her. Helping her dig the pond made my small hands feel capable of change and empowered me to give all of my effort. My father's letters are something that I will always have to remind me of what true love is--an ongoing effort and commitment despite all odds. My last photo with him at my wedding reminds me of the beauty of forgiveness and the promise of healing--whether on this earth or in Heaven.

 This life isn't about the things we leave behind nor is it about the reputation that is etched on our headstone--it is about the hope we have etched on people's hearts. We are meant to leave so much more than material things--lessons learned and instilled in our children and those we love, the genuine love that we held for family and strangers alike, thankfulness and joy that make us live beyond ourselves. 

  

  I eventually stopped hiding. I ran again, but into a place of solace and peace. The pain remains at times, but I dropped my disguise and exchanged it for something new--life--my one chance I have been given on this earth. 

    The flower garden has overgrown, the pond is dried up, and the letters remain in a box. Everything that matters is etched on my heart and will one day be passed to my children.

  I've been given another chance to truly live today. You have been, too. May we live as if living requires effort and that we have everything in the world that matters to leave behind.