Ever Nearer

An Enemy has Done This

2019-02-04T20:48:00.000-08:00

Before I’d turned the key in the lock of my front door, I noticed that something was off. Someone had been digging around in the potted plants on my front porch! Large clusters of sunflower sprouts burst out of my pots. Dirt was scattered everywhere!

That was strange. Neither my friend Elise, who had stayed at my house for a day or two while I was gone, nor my landlady seemed to be gardeners of that… uh… caliber, and both seemed in possession of their sanity. I couldn’t help thinking of the Bible verse from a parable on planting seeds that “an enemy has done this!” (Matt 13:28). Just who was this enemy?

I cleaned up the dirt, pulled up the offending sunflower sprouts, and tried my best to comfort my parsley and basil plants. Then I went to finish unpacking my car.

Over the next several weeks, it happened repeatedly. One of my parsley plants died. I cleaned dirt off my porch again and again. I started seeing little eruptions all over the yard.

“It’s a squirrel!” my landlady told me. “He’s obsessed with stealing seeds from the bird feeders and trying to store them for winter. It’s kind of cute, isn’t it?”

Although not sure that I could reconcile the death of my parsley plant as being part of something “cute,” I had to admit that the obsessive resident rodent was amusing. Eruptions of sprouts graced the compost pile, random pots, and the garden: Places on our lawn swelled and buckled with the burden.

Suddenly, I felt sorry for the squirrel. He was trying so hard to prepare for winter, but his hoarding would grow into plants that would die far before it got cold. But my compassion for him didn't stop me from ruthlessly weeding his handiwork from around my plants.

Over the next few weeks, I stopped seeing as many sunflower sprouts. The squirrel’s behavior drifted out of my mind.

One day, I went down to the garden to see what fruit I could gather for breakfast. To my surprise, I noticed this:

As I continued walking through the yard, I noticed lots of sunflowers blossoming in the most obscure places. I never would have thought to plant seeds in many of those places; the soil quality seemed too poor.

I cut some to put on my table.

Feeling somewhat humbled, I enjoyed the blossoms that my irritating “enemy” had planted in less than ideal soil.

Of course, my squirrel planted sunflower seeds and sunflowers were what grew; and the squirrel wasn’t truly my enemy. But God promises something amazing and unnatural against my true enemy who has sought to plant evil in my life. Isaiah 55:13 reads “Instead of the thornbush will grow the juniper, and instead of briers the myrtle will grow. This will be for the LORD's renown, for an everlasting sign, that will endure forever" (NIV).

My true enemy has planted many evils in my life that have worried and vexed me. I’ve often feared that those evils will grow into something terrible! But God promises that if I commit the garden of my heart to Him, weed as best I can, and seek Him, He can bring good out of what my enemy intended for evil.

I don’t know what happened to our crazy squirrel. If he made it to winter I'm sure the bird feeders are a pretty reliable source of food for him. Hopefully he learns more productive and less destructive habits in the future. Yet wherever he may be, I hope to always remember the beautiful lessons he gave me of God’s power against the planting and plotting of my real enemy.

This Would Never Happen

2018-08-23T15:43:00.000-07:00

He moved my chair with his foot, and when I looked back he grinned at me.

I wasn’t particularly happy to be sitting in front of my P.E. teacher, who was the trumpet player in the elementary school band at my church school. The trumpet blared loudly in my ear, and I was disgusted by the spittle he occasionally released from the hollows of his instrument. Why couldn’t the clarinets sit behind me?

But I was pleased that he had noticed and smiled at me. Rehearsal started, and I forgot the exchange as I focused on finding my part. And fortunately for me, that was the first and last time my teacher paid me any special attention.

Shortly thereafter, the news broke: My teacher had invited two girls from the seventh and eighth grade classroom over to his house and sexually assaulted them.

He, fortunately, lost his job. The school brought in a psychologist to talk to all the students at chapel.

I still remember the psychologist standing in the front of the gymnasium with two colored lumps of clay. I don’t think he used the word “sex,” but he talked on and on how the clay, once it was mixed, was really hard to unmix. He demonstrated his point artistically as he took the blue lump of clay and began to work it together with the yellow lump of clay.

All of us in sixth grade and below were puzzled. Of course, we knew that something very serious had happened, but as we left chapel that day we whispered to one another: “What did he mean?” “What was he saying?” “Why didn’t they talk to the classes about this separately?” “We don’t get it, and it doesn’t really matter to us!” We also mimicked his serious demeanor and motions mixing the clay, then capsized into fits of giggles.

I had seen pictures on the news and in the newspaper of my P.E. teacher on trial, but as the years passed some of the details faded. In college I was curious, and typed his name into a search engine.

What I found shocked me.

My P.E. teacher was a known sexual predator.

…dismissed from his previous post… father high up in church leadership… friends with the conference president… transferred to my school after choking a girl on campus…

I remembered my chair moving, his grin, and I shivered. Leadership knew? And did NOTHING?

Although there were many details I didn’t remember about the events of my sixth-grade year, there was one thing I did remember clearly. When the story of my P.E. teacher hit the news, the Catholic Diocese superintendent in our city appeared on the TV screen and declared: “This would never happen in our church!”

My parents snorted and disagreed with him.

And multiple events in the following years disproved his statement. Just what inspired that Catholic superintendent to say what he did that day? Was he ignorant? Or did he feel confident the victims would never come forward, intimidated by shame and the authority of the abusers?

Whatever his motive, I pondered his statement for many years. How nice it would be to say that certain evils would never happen! Yet it seems that the subtle denial inures us to the presence of transgression and paralyzes us to respond when it occurs. None of us are above sin, and thinking that we are is further handicap. Perhaps better to focus on learning to recognize the signs that it might happen or is happening, and having a plan in place to prevent or address it when it does.

Fortunately, we are learning. I’ve been thankful for movements like this one from my church’s headquarters and this one by some friends on Facebook.

I wonder if the leadership in my school back then thought that it would never happen, even with all they knew (or chose not to know). Who would have ever thought that it would happen at my tiny private Christian school?

And yet somehow, it happened; and the first person to flirt with me was a pedophile.

Tell Me the Story of Failure

2018-05-29T10:23:00.000-07:00

Last summer I wrote an article that friends passed along to an editor, who requested to publish it. You can read it here on page 20 of the June 2018 issue of Adventist World.

Willing to Go Nowhere

2018-04-30T11:28:00.001-07:00

Petra and I started praying together when we worked in Gimbie. We both burned out that year. She got better and went back to Ethiopia: I didn't. For me, healing has been a longer path and I haven't gone back overseas. But Petra and I have continued our prayer partnership.

As we've processed our burnout over the years, we've discussed some of the unspoken cultural norms of service-related work that contributed to our burnout. One of those was the worth=work fallacy. I know for me, I valued myself based on my work and contribution to the mission, and that ultimately led to my burnout.

Realizing that God doesn't value us the way that we value ourselves and each other has been healing. My overvaluing of work was actually a form of idolatry. It's brought a lot of peace to know that God values the devotion of my heart more than what I do. God creates us differently, for different purposes, and with different capacities for work. When we follow His will, we accomplish more by obeying His sanctioned rest than we do by striving to fill each moment with productivity. And although I consider a good work ethic important, sometimes God calls us to stay behind.

Over the years, Petra and I have prayed together through several deserts in our lives, both literal and figurative. During that time, Petra began to sing. She sent me her songs, and I began writing them down and playing around with accompaniments. But I'm not as fast as Petra: I currently have over 60 songs on my computer that she has written or translated. So God sent Laurel and Chantée to help.

Over the last year or so, we've been praying to know if God would have us create better recordings and sheet music of these songs so that we can share with a wider audience. An understanding of burnout and the pride that can accompany God's work has made us cautious. And as we've researched over the last several months, we've realized it may be a bigger investment than we initially thought. This has seemed daunting at times, as Petra and I are both finishing up graduate school and Petra has two small children. We have committed to be willing to go forward or to go nowhere, wherever God leads.

A couple of weeks ago, my good friend Trudy visited my area with her family. Her son Jonah excitedly agreed to make a music video for his cousin Petra's song. Jonah was three when I worked in Ethiopia with his family. It has been so fun to see the strong, talented, and compassionate young man he is becoming: The first day that we filmed, he turned twelve!

We hope you enjoy this video. If you are interested in hearing more songs from our desert experiences and how God is leading in our ministry, please sign up here. We would appreciate your input and feedback in comments below or on Facebook!

Willing to Go Nowhere

The Ballad of a Vine

2018-04-21T12:37:00.002-07:00

To a circle of trees was clinging
The tendrils of a vine:
The fashion of its leaves and trailings
A shady arbor fine.

Then one sad day those trees did quake
As shaken by a gale.
The viny tendrils were made to break,
And their support did fail.

Though fell the vine, remained some clinging
Affixed to branches low:
Then one appeared and tendrils flinging,
The vine was cast below.

Beneath the circle of trees there lay,
The ruin of a refuge.
The leaves once nourished to waste away,
Cast aside as refuse.

The eyes of many a friend did see
The struggling plant disclaimed:
But, lo, none lifted a hand to free
The needy plant from shame.

With song of heav’n and a flash of light,
An angel did appear;
And gathered the vine from hopeless plight
For God is always near.

“Stand toward heaven, entwine about God,”
Bid the angel holy.
“Thou art shaken, free from man’s defraud,
Rest upon God wholly.”

On God never one did lean in vain,
His mighty arm will hold
The weakest child above man’s disdain
Securely in His fold.

So when mankind neglects God’s mission
And justice man withholds
We’re free to act on His commission
Our tendrils God upholds.

(Adapted from Testimonies, Volume 1, page 583)

Written in My Heart

2018-04-13T08:29:00.000-07:00

It’s night time and I can’t sleep. I lay in bed, listening to my heart beat.

Suddenly, I have a profound thought: The right side of my heart is smaller than the left side of my heart!

This is immediately followed by a second epiphany: The right side of my heart pumps blood to my lungs where it is given oxygen to nourish my cells and keep my metabolism going, and the left side of my heart pumps that nourished blood to my body.

I’ve heard these facts multiple times in my medical training. But I was never struck by these facts quite like I have been this week.

See, I’ve been pondering God’s law. Specifically, I’ve been ruminating over the multiple occurrences where Jesus humbly sought to serve proud and argumentative humans, while at the same time fulfilling the law that begins with the injunction “to have no other Gods before me” (Exodus 20:3).

How is it that Jesus seeks the lowest place, while commanding the first?

This is possible if the Ten Commandments, so solemnly given to a recently enslaved people, aren’t really a list of do’s and don’ts, but are actually outlining a love response. His law shows what it looks like to respond to the nourishment and provision I've been generously given.

The first four commandments show my response directly to Him, who fills me. The latter six manifest how His love shines through me to others as I share His gifts. The heinousness of sin is my failure to respond to such perfect love and fullness of provision. This is death.

As I’ve contemplated the law from this perspective, I’ve prayed more fervently that God would write His law on my heart (Prov 3:3). But what if He already did?

Because the right sight of my heart is a bit smaller than the left side of my heart. It takes in the blood cells from my body that have given their oxygen to my body’s cells, and pumps them into the lungs. There, when I breathe, precious oxygen is restored to those blood cells. This gives my blood life. Is not prayer called the breath of the soul? And don't the first four commandments outline my response to God?

This oxygenated blood is then taken to the left side of my heart. It’s a little bit bigger. The left side of my heart takes a small amount of that oxygenated blood to nourish its own tissue, and pumps out the rest to share with my body’s members. Don't the last six commandments outline how I show love in relationships?

As I relate to Him in love, God gives me new energy and life to love others. When I run out of things to share and become weary, I come back to acknowledging Him. I breathe up a prayer of thanksgiving: He again infuses my cells with new life. And the cycle repeats.

It’s a balance of give and take, written there in the tablets of my heart. The beauty of God’s law is just waiting to be discovered. And while I’ve been praying that God will write His law in my heart, I’ve realized I can instead praise Him, for He has already laid a solid foundation.

“My son, forget not my law; but let thine heart keep my commandments…” ~Proverbs 3:1

When Compassion Dies

2018-03-21T06:28:00.000-07:00

“I… I just feel like I abandoned my boys,” my face contorted in sorrow as the tears burst forth. I had just returned from a summer working at an orphanage in Bolivia, taking care of seven boys ages 7-10. The day I left, one had peed his pants and another wouldn’t tell me goodbye. I felt personally responsible for their grief.

Caitlin took me in her arms and hugged me while I cried. I don’t remember what she said, only that her gentle presence gave me companionship in my sorrow, and that her enduring ear and kind eyes radiated compassion. It was the first time I remember allowing someone to touch me when I was upset.

Prayer Circle at the Flagpole
L to R: Karissa, Saralyn, Me, Joel, Caitlin, and Nicole

There are many other memories I have of Caitlin: making calzones in her kitchen with friends; loudly singing “Take the Name of Jesus with You” as we skipped up the biology trail at Southern; reading her Dear People e-mails; uplifting a capella hymns at Bible Study and Hymn Sing; praying together at the flagpole; escaping together with Phoebe to hike, belting out “Shall We Go for a Walk Today?” after sitting too long in Bachelor’s nursing classes.

It’s not a coincidence that many of my memories of Caitlin involve singing. Her rich alto could harmonize beautifully with anyone, even those that couldn’t really carry a tune. I loved that about her, her ability to beautify and support the weaknesses of others.

Her cancer diagnosis surfaced right after I got back from Africa. All of us began praying fervently: Caitlin was dearly beloved. I was cautious to call her because I was sick too, from overwork and repeated sickness. I knew she’d be compassionate, and that would take energy that she needed to get better. I prayed for her every day, called her occasionally, and poured over updates from friends.

Covered with Prayer and Promises

Miraculously, she recovered. A few months later, I finished a quilt for her with messages from many of her friends. Each square was a beautiful representation of the way she had touched a life. Friends gave it to her and sent me a video and pictures.

In August of 2012, we learned that her cancer had recurred and metastasized to her lungs. It was a death decree, and Caitlin decided not to do more chemotherapy and radiation. She moved up to Maine to stay with mutual friends.

In February of 2013, my parents divorced. I thought of Caitlin, and the grief of a split family that she had also experienced. I didn’t want her to know my parents had divorced, and I told everyone not to tell her because by that time, it was clear she was dying.

One weekend in March, I was visiting my friend Laurel in medical school and we got an e-mail: Caitlin wouldn’t make it much longer. She wanted to hear from us. One by one we called and told her we loved her, were praying for her, and said our last goodbyes.

She died a few days later. I was devastated.

There was a memorial service. I couldn’t make it. I still wasn’t well, so I watched online.

Resting at a School of Nursing Event

A few weeks later, my cat died. I held her as the vet pushed in the medication to end her life, and the feeling of her body sagging in my arms haunted me. I kept thinking of Caitlin, and that feeling of life just slipping away.

After Caitlin died, many of our friends wrote beautiful tributes about her. I wanted to write a tribute for that compassionate friend of mine, but I couldn’t find any words that year or for a long time after. And as I’ve processed her death over the last five years, I still don’t know what I can say to accurately reflect my experience.

Caitlin unlocked something in me that day when she held me as I cried. Something that I needed and wanted, but didn’t know how to receive: The touch of love when I was hurting.

And when she died, it seemed somehow that compassion had died a little bit, too. Her open ear and kind peaceful eyes, her enveloping hug, her rich harmonizing alto: All of it such a beautiful testament to the true meaning of love. The year she died was so difficult for me that I missed her all the more, because I knew she would understand.

As I’ve reflected on her influence in my life, I’ve come to better comprehend the compassion of God and understand in a deeper way what Jesus’ death meant.

Jesus spent His time on earth in a ministry of compassion, touching those whom others would not; healing the leper, the blind, and the paralytic. He had time for the littlest of children and looked lovingly on even His enemies. His disciples watched Him stoop to the lowest position possible to serve them as they strove for superiority.

And then, Jesus died, His body tortured by sin’s cancer. That kindly, honest, empathetic presence… gone. The love in His eyes, the gentle touch, drained away as His body sagged with the finality of death.

To His disciples, it must have looked like compassion had died, too.

And that’s what sin does, this terrible thing that our forefathers chose to rule our world. It kills compassion and beauty, draining with finality the life of empathy and everything truly good.

But although Caitlin died, her influence in my life awakened something that continues to grow. The compassion she had didn’t come from herself, it came from Jesus. And although He died, He lives again. The seed of love that Jesus planted and tended in Caitlin’s heart, He can grow in yours and mine too. Thus Christ’s compassion can live on in the hands, eyes, and ears of all who want it there, just as it lived in Caitlin.

I’m confident that one day soon, Caitlin will live again. And until I see her, I petition God to tend that seed of love in my heart, because I want a part in helping the compassion that so touched me to live on.

Today it has been five years since Caitlin died. You can read her last Dear People letter here. My prayer is that you, too, will open your heart to trust God unreservedly, and that Caitlin's story will serve to fertilize the beauty that God wants to grow in each one of our hearts.

Embroidery by Linnea. Used with permission.

A Place to Lay Your Head

2018-03-18T09:59:00.000-07:00

By the time I notice, she’s slouched in her seat to the point that she’s almost parallel with the pew though not quite laying down.

The lady behind her has dementia; she’s reaching forward to try and adjust her blue-green scarf to better cover her slumping form.

The family in front of her glances back concernedly, worried that the degree of her slouching may indicate a stroke.

“Is she okay?” I hear someone whisper.

When the petite pianist with soft gray hair at the end of her pew notices, she stands up. She walks to the other end of the pew, sits down next to the lady, and scoots up close.

The lady wakes up. She’s fine, just tired. The pianist pats her own shoulder invitingly:

You can sleep here if you want.

The pastor finishes his sermon: it was a good one, and he’s an energetic preacher. But the sermon I have seen speaks to me more forcefully than anything anyone could say from the pulpit.

When someone falls asleep in church, there’s usually some degree of shame involved. In fact, I’ve seen audience members called out for falling asleep during a sermon or presentation. People snicker and point. But what if that person is exhausted by persistent insomnia? What if they’re a single parent working two jobs to support a family? Or a night shift worker who's trying to maintain church attendance despite their awkward work-week schedule?

What if falling asleep during church is just a manifestation of an overburdened weary soul? Is it not a better and more powerful sermon to offer someone a safe place to lay their head? To offer them love and understanding?

Jesus says in Matthew 8:20 and Luke 9:58, “The foxes have holes and the birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay His head” (NASB).

Later in a parable He says, “Truly I say to you, to the extent that you did it to one of these brothers of Mine, even the least of them, you did it to Me” (Matt 25:40 NASB).

Will you offer Jesus your shoulder?

Bands of Wickedness

2018-03-08T07:32:00.000-08:00

“Oh! Doctor, I almost forgot!” she says suddenly, straightening her posture. “I was wondering if it’s okay with my disease if I get my ears pierced?”

“I would love it if you got your ears pierced,” the doctor begins. We had discussed several changes that she’d been making. She was doing much better, but still a bit hesitant to make other changes, unsure of her ability to follow through.

“In the Bible,” he continues, taking a cue from the crucifix around her neck, “…when someone had their ears pierced, it was a symbol that they were really committed to someone or something for the rest of their lives. And I know that if I see your ears pierced, it will be because of your lifetime commitment to a healthy lifestyle. So it will make me very happy to see your ears pierced” (see Exodus 21:6).

We’re all chuckling as we walk out of the room. Outside, the doctor turns to me and says, “Well, I’d never thought of it that way before!”

I hadn’t either. In fact, my whole life I’ve been taught that wearing jewelry is evidence of backsliding and an unconverted heart. But what the doctor said to the patient is in the Bible: Could both be correct?

That weekend, I study.

I look through history, and see how Abraham’s servant adorned Rebekah with earrings and bracelets as a symbol of her marriage (Gen 24:22-30). The Israelites, when leaving Egypt, were commanded to ask for the Egyptian’s jewelry and place them upon their children (Exodus 3:22). Proverbs 25:12 says “As an earring of gold, and an ornament of fine gold, so is a wise reprover upon an obedient ear.” Solomon adorned his lover with rows of jewels and chains of gold (SS 1:10-11). Protestant history notes that the Waldenses sold jewelry, and were thus welcomed as merchants where they would have been scorned as missionaries (Wylie, bk. 1, ch. 7).

Clearly there is nothing innately wrong with jewelry. But having seen a lot of judgment and criticism of jewelry-wearers within my church, I keep studying to try and find the basis of this prejudice.

I don’t find a strict prohibition against jewelry in the Bible. What I find is that my attire shouldn’t be beautiful because of my jewelry, clothes, or hairstyle, it should be from my character (1 Peter 3:3,4; 2 Timothy 2:9). I also find a pervasive theme throughout the Bible of self-sacrificing love. In a Bible Commentary on 1 Samuel 7, I find this quote that I think encompasses the foundation upon which my church has based its abstinence of jewelry wearing:

“There are many whose hearts have been so hardened by prosperity that they forget God, and forget the wants of their fellow man. Professed Christians adorn themselves with jewelry, laces, costly apparel, while the Lord’s poor suffer for the necessaries of life. Men and women who claim redemption through a Saviour’s blood will squander the means entrusted to them for the saving of other souls, and then grudgingly dole out their offerings for religion, giving liberally only when it will bring honor to themselves. These are idolaters” (SDA Bible Commentary Volume 2, 1 Samuel 7).

It’s not that jewelry is bad: It’s that nothing is to supersede our love of God and bind us from helping one another. Then I cringe. Because although I’ve spent my life abstaining from jewelry wearing, I have invested in items to clothe myself or adorn my home that I probably didn’t need. At times, I’ve taken more than I’ve needed, while my brothers and sisters in Christ have gone hungry.

Somehow, my culture has reduced this beautiful concept of self-sacrificial giving and become a community that will ignore your Arctery’x jacket and BMW; but this same community will give you a side-long glance for wearing a cheap bracelet purchased from a widow trying to support her family with her business.

Something is terribly wrong with this.

My point is not that we should expand our judgment of others’ outward appearances to include costly apparel and nice cars. My point is that we’ve isolated jewelry wearing to such an extent that it’s been reduced to legalism. Isn’t that what happens when we make an act of self-sacrificing love tradition? The goal isn’t to avoid hanging something around my neck or to judge the spiritual condition of someone who does, it’s to get rid of unnecessary things and focus on helping others. A subtle cultural shunning actually works against the true character of love, because what we really want to do is inspire others by our example.

I don’t know if that patient got her ears pierced and how she is choosing to view her earrings if she did. But I hope that if she did, she sees her piercing as a symbol of her binding commitment to the one who was pierced for her. I pray that she knows more deeply the God who has gifted her with the knowledge and ability to live an abundant life, and that she is often reminded of His love for her. And I hope that love with which He fills her life will flow out unrestrained to others in her community.

I know that for me, her appointment that day brought me a deeper understanding of what defines “bands of wickedness.” I hope that for me, too, I will see the ways that God has gifted me with the knowledge and ability to live an abundant life and that I’m constantly reminded of His love for me. Has He not given to me a Man, more precious than gold (Isaiah 13:12), that I might be clothed in His gems and garments, finer than earth can bestow? Has He not given me liberty, the very essence of faith (D’Aubigne, b. 9, ch. 1)?

Regardless of your jewelry convictions, I hope you understand just how valuable your life is to Him who set you free. May we, instead of being encumbered by the traditions of men, live to understand the beauty of the Sacrifice made on our behalf and lay aside every weight as we seek to bring the message of freedom to our neighbors, friends, and enemies.

“Behold, ye fast for strife and debate… is it such a fast that I have chosen? A day for a man to afflict his soul? …wilt thou call this a fast, and an acceptable day to the LORD? Is not this the fast that I have chosen? To loose the bands of wickedness, to undo the heavy burdens, and to let the oppressed go free, and that ye break every yoke? Is it not to deal thy bread to the hungry, and that thou bring the poor that are cast out to thy house? When thou seest the naked, that thou cover him; and that thou hide not thyself from thine own flesh?” (Isaiah 58 KJV).

This Fight

2017-11-25T09:57:00.006-08:00

What would it be like, this fight?
If bullets were added to words,
The spray of gunfire to arguments.

How many’d die in this fight?
If bulleted words piercing hearts
Drained life-blood from nourishing souls.

How plain the evil of fight -
When death and disfigurement seen
Steal joy away and orphans from play.

Yet evil’s the covert fight –
No less the results of its war;
Casualty for superior gain.

Will you defer from this fight?
And tossing those weapons away,
Side with the right to surrender life?

Memory Cards

2017-11-19T11:45:00.000-08:00

It's Isaiah 53, and sadly, it's not finished. Fortunately, the entirety of God's plan doesn't rest on my memory cards. Fwef!

My high school Bible teacher my Junior year made my class memorize Isaiah 53, NKJV (thanks, Steve). If I remember correctly, I think it was our final exam: all we had to do was write it down from memory.

Recently, I was cleaning house and tossing old things when I re-discovered these cards I made to study for my final exam. The colored pencil I used has faded slightly and my contact paper lamination is a bit flimsy, but my art skills and funny little stick figures make me chuckle. And, as memory cards are apt to do, they brought back a lot of memories.

Title Card

Verse 1

The back of every card has additional memory help.

Verse 2

Verse 3

Verse 4

Verse 5

Verse 6

Verse 7

Still not sure what happened to verse 8: "He was taken from prison and from judgment, And who will declare His generation? For He was cut off from the land of the living; For the transgressions of My people He was stricken."

Verse 9 (there's supposed to be a red X over the DECEIT in the mouth).

Verses 10-12 remain. I found a little sketch I had made of thoughts for verse 10-12.

So... guess I need to finish it.

One day soon, hopefully. It's amazing how easily the memory returns.

When It's Too Heavy

2017-11-09T11:23:00.000-08:00

She’s bent over from years of carrying an unseen burden, her body wracked with pain. Slumped over in her wheelchair, her body shakes as great sobs emanate from deep within her being.

Such a miserable picture, this poor woman. I stand beside her, gently stroking her shoulders.

I bend down, and quietly offer to pray with her.

She agrees, then says “You know, my friend, she says that God has a plan for me suffering this way.”

“But Jesus loves you!” I exclaim. “God didn’t design for you to suffer and it’s not His plan for you. But this is war! Things happen because we have an enemy and we’re fighting against sin.”

She begins to sob again. I continue, “Jesus came to lift our burdens. The whole message of the cross is that you have an empathetic Savior. They say that what killed Jesus was not physical pain, it was the emotional pain, guilt and shame, and Jesus wants us to be free from that - He bore it for us. Often, it’s harder to bear guilt and shame than the physical pain.”

Her family member nods in agreement.

“You know, they say that God never sends us more than we can handle. But I just don’t know…” she says, wiping her face with a tissue.

I pray for her, asking that God will give her strength, send her encouragement, and give her doctors wisdom. Then the ambulance arrives.

A few days later, I’m studying the crucifixion and notice something I haven’t seen before.

Jesus didn’t carry His cross. Simon did.

Jesus carried the sin of the world, the terrible guilt and shame that we deserve, to His death. But His flesh failed Him. His humanity couldn’t carry the physical load. When He collapsed into a miserable heap, unable to go on, Simon was there. Simon saw the suffering of Jesus as He struggled under the weight of our guilt and shame, and was willing to help with the physical burden.

As I look back on my life, I can see that God has sent me Simons in my times of need. People who remind me that they have seen Jesus bearing my guilt and shame to the cross and that I can let go of it: people who have helped me with the physical burden of life when I’m too tired to go on and it’s just too heavy.

Don’t carry your load by yourself. When you’re pushing the limits of human frailty and your burden seems too heavy, examine your heart. Is there something you need to repent of so that you can relinquish the heaviest part of your load to your Savior? Or perhaps, in a moment of self-reliance, you have snatched your burden back.

But maybe, your load is just too heavy for you. That’s okay – it’s not failure to feel the limits of humanity or to need help. Ask God to send you a Simon. But be prepared: Simon may not look like what you're expecting!

Or maybe, your load is lighter. Look around: if you have beheld the burden of Jesus on your behalf, perhaps God is calling you to be a Simon for someone else.

I think there are many days when the burden is too heavy for one. God’s plan is not for us to be crushed beneath the load that we have brought upon ourselves by sin; rather He desires that we might understand His love better as we learn to help one another and point each other to the way of escape that He has provided.

I don’t know if I’ll see my struggling friend again. But if I do, I want to tell her about Simon, and how his experience with Jesus shows us that heavy burdens weren’t made to be borne alone.

The Night I Ate Glass

2017-11-04T19:58:00.002-07:00

It’s Friday night and I arrive at my friend Shama’s house hungry. She tells me that there’s some pasta left over from lunch, and I’m excited to try it. It’s complete with cauliflower and homemade vegan grate-able cheese from her sister-in-law Becca's blog. I dump it from a plastic container to a glass bowl and put it in the microwave to heat up.

It’s time to head to vespers, so I grab the bowl and slide in the backseat of the car next to Mrs. Eller and continue eating. It's yummy!

We pick up another church member.

As I’m eating, I suddenly hear a crunching noise. I use sea salt a lot, and I’ve often found it to be a bit gritty, so I don’t think much about it. I swallow.

But the next bite was even more crunchy!

“Shama? There’s something gritty in here…” I try pulling the gritty part out of my mouth and the street lights illuminate the culprit.

“Glass!!!” Mrs. Eller gasps.

We turn on the light, and there’s other shards of glass in there too. Thinking of the glass I’d already swallowed, I stop chewing and I can tell my eyes are getting big.

“Well, spit it out!” the church member next to me exclaims.

I spit it out, and then notice it’s a funny color. Blood.

I keep spitting blood. Mrs. Eller looks in my mouth with the light on her phone and finds a cut on my tongue. I can’t feel it. She has a prayer. Then we call Beaver, Shama’s brother, who is an urgent care nurse practitioner.

He says that as long as I had swallowed a small piece of glass, it’s probably okay. My tongue should stop bleeding soon, and would likely heal quickly. If I develop any symptoms of gastrointestinal bleeding I should go to the emergency room.

Fortunately, it’s now been over a week. I haven’t had severe abdominal pain, a fast heart rate, black or bloody stool, or bloody vomit.

We finally figure out how the glass got in the food. It wasn’t Shama’s good cooking, and the dish itself wasn’t broken. But the smaller glass dish stored inside of the dish I was eating out of had a splintered edge, and we conclude that must have been the source.

So… in no particular order, a couple of the things I've learned from my experience that you can apply as shallowly or as deeply, as concretely or as abstractly, as you like:

It’s best not to eat in the dark, and to pay attention to what you're eating.
It’s amazing how you can’t always feel the damage something is doing, only have a vague feeling that something is wrong.
Strange things happen, and things can change in a moment. It’s not very fun to ponder unknown possibilities.
Eating glass is really dangerous, but almost impossible to trace as it wouldn't show up on X-ray.
If you’re going to eat glass, make sure it’s leaded glass, because that will show up on X-ray (thanks, Dr. DeRose, for that one). I guess I need to develop an appetite for crystal.
The tongue wounds quickly and heals quickly, but once it's past the tongue it might have a bigger impact and the outcome is a lot more difficult to measure.
I am so thankful for the protection of God and that the body is designed to heal, because this could have had a poorer outcome than it did.

Jesus Knows the Heart

2017-10-26T08:21:00.000-07:00

“Lord, I won’t deny you,”
Peter claimed.
“I’ll follow to the end
and bless your name.”
But Jesus knows the heart
Every struggling, failing part
And His knowledge
Doesn’t change His Love for you.

“No! I do not know Him!”
Peter vowed
Pressured by the wildness
Of the crowd.
And when the rooster crowed
Peter saw the eyes of Love
And forgiveness
Pierced his heart like naught else could.

“Lord, you know I love you,”
Peter said.
"I want to feed your sheep
and tend your lambs.
But Lord, you know my heart.
Every struggling, failing part.
And I repent;
Please take my heart and make it Yours."

Flowers in Africa

2017-09-19T15:12:00.001-07:00

Trudy planted flowers in Africa.

At first, I thought it foolish.

Flowers don’t feed the hungry. They don’t assist in surgery. They don’t shield from the rain, nor warm the shivering. And while we struggled at the hospital to maintain running water for our surgical suite, stock supplies for the dying, and keep ourselves afloat, Trudy planted flowers.

I remember the ones by the chicken coop. Purple cosmos, bursting dainty and wild in front of the wood and wire.

And despite my initial criticism, I was drawn to them. They were beautiful.

When so much else of our campus was chaos and survival, Trudy’s flowers bloomed carefree, stretching toward the sunshine and drinking satisfying draughts of moisture. There was peace in their testimony to Trudy’s careful tending.

Of course, they weren’t entirely useless. They provided pollen for the bees to make honey, supporting an ecosystem I couldn’t see. But bees can pollenate squash blossoms and guava flowers instead. Those would contribute more directly to the food supply; the bees didn’t need the ornamental blossoms.

As the years have passed, Trudy’s cosmos remain prominent in my mind.

Perhaps this is because I needed the lesson they bore. Something with such a commonplace offering, thoughtless of its talent and the size of its contribution, pouring out its life to stretch toward the sun. It didn't even know of its beauty.

I needed that. I spent way too much time in Africa worried about what I needed to get done and how I could be more productive. Somehow, before I knew it, the flowers in my life were dying. I was starving for lack of their “small” contribution, surprised at just how much I needed them.

After I came back from Africa, I collected beauty. Snatches of melody, the crunch of an apple, the cool ocean breezes, and the unfolding of Grandma’s miniature roses. I’m learning to dwell there, to bring the peace of what God has made beautiful by His faithful tending, to others by my small contributions.

Trudy planted flowers in Africa.

Thanks, Trudy. I didn’t know it then, but I needed them.

A Strutting Contradiction

2017-07-30T08:34:00.001-07:00

I buy used journals at thrift stores.

It’s amazing how many people will write one page, then never again. Or how many of the journals have nothing inside at all. I guess journals make a nice gift, but not everyone has the personality for journaling. I buy them to use as prayer journals.

My current prayer journal is a bound hardback. It’s more ornate than I would probably choose, but it was less than $3 and completely unused. There’s a beautiful peacock on the front amidst a cluster of flowers, with gold embossing and elaborate borders. Behind the peacock, there’s a gold embossed frame, studded with blue and purple glue-on plastic “gems.”

In the frame, the Bible verse is scripted, “Love is patient, Love is kind 1 Corinthians 13:4.”

When I bought the journal, I was happy because it had a Bible verse on it. I’m still happy about that.

But after I’d been using it for a while, it struck me funny.

Love IS patient, and it is also kind. Perhaps peacocks are patient and kind, but my experience with them is limited to the characteristic shriek I hear from a neighbor's yard at random times of the day. I always imagine them strutting around, head held high, trying to be noticed in the mating game.

If you know the rest of I Corinthians 13, love does NOT parade itself. Which makes my journal cover a bit of a contradiction. Embossed peacocks are the gold standard of parading one’s self.

Love is a beautiful thing, but it is self-sacrificing rather than self-aggrandizing. The conflict presented by my journal cover made me think – how often do I ignore some of the characteristics of love and highlight others? Or worse yet, how often do I proclaim the characteristics of love while practicing differently?

Every day when I open my journal to pray, I chuckle a little. Then I ask God to help me, to give me of His patience and kindness, and that He would work through me so that my actions would be harmonious with all His characteristics of love, not just some of them.

But I’m pretty certain that because I’m human, there are still moments when I am definitely a strutting contradiction.

The Wronged Righted

2017-02-18T11:45:00.001-08:00

It’s after a long shift that I pull up in front of an Asian restaurant I frequent in Auburn. A large plate of harmoniously flavored veggies and tofu increases the likelihood that I will eat on nights like tonight when I am tired. And I especially like that this particular restaurant does not use MSG.

I order, then settle myself in one of the chairs at the front to wait. Looking out into the darkness, I see a homeless couple sitting on the sidewalk, backs resting against a closed storefront. Odd bundles, jackets, and plastic grocery bags surround them as they feast hungrily, joyously, from Chinese take-out cartons.

I look around the restaurant. It’s busy, but not full. Intently conversing patrons murmur over steaming food in the gentle ambiance. On the wall beside me I see a framed newspaper article about the owner, an immigrant from Asia, beside awards the restaurant has received. A candy dish beside me encourages patrons to partake in exchange for a donation to benefit sick children. A small sign in the corner says, “We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone.”

My food arrives in a brown paper bag so I move toward the register. But before I get there, the homeless man enters.

The cashier looks up, her countenance changing.

“What you want now!” her accent cannot hide her disgust as each word staccatos heavy off her tongue.

His jovial jaunt is momentarily disrupted, but he regains composure and announces, “We’ll have the Teriyaki Chicken!”

He proudly smooths out his bills and hands the correct payment to the cashier. She takes the payment, opens the cash register, and deposits it there, each movement punctuated by an inner fury that startles me. She jerks her head toward the door.

“Wait outside,” she barks harshly. He quietly complies, and I’m happy to observe that his step has not lost its bounce. For him, it’s probably the meal of the month.

I wish that what happens next did not happen: I quietly pay for my food and leave. I drive home, stunned and sickened.

I think of this incident repeatedly. Every time that I want veggies and tofu, that people ask about good restaurants in Auburn, or that I see homeless people on the streets. I wonder if they are often treated in the dehumanizing way that I observed that night. It’s one thing to refuse someone service; it’s another to take their money while insulting human dignity.

I also try to rationalize: maybe, as an immigrant, the cashier has suffered the hatred of others based on her appearance, and just doesn’t know a better way. Maybe she’s been really wronged by someone homeless. Or maybe… but wait, does expressing hatred like that ever have an excuse? We all have a choice, right?

At least two years pass. I’ve never been back to that restaurant. I don’t want any part in supporting an establishment that treats a paying customer in the way that I observed that night.

And every time I drive by, I’m ashamed that I didn’t speak up. That I silently accepted her hatred and behavior when I knew better. That in saying nothing, I gave my stamp of approval.

Those who have helped me in life are not the ones who explode in anger or hatred, feeling freedom to give full vent to their feelings as the cashier did. They are not the ones who remain silent in the face of injustice, awkwardly unsure what to say or do as I was. They are the ones who in the face of anger, hatred, and silence refuse to let the purpose disappear from their steps and calmly assert their presence. Like the homeless man.

When will our culture stop making the victims be the strong ones? When will we reclaim our voice, calm and firm, to speak on behalf of the wronged?

I know for me, it was in the wrong that I was righted: it has been as I have been wrong and wronged, gaining understanding as both a perpetrator and a victim, that I have come to understand the importance of advocacy.

I heard that once long ago, Jesus healed a man who was deaf and mute. I’m not deaf, though sometimes it’s been easier to pretend that I am, as the cashier’s words that night seemed to fall on deaf ears. Nor am I mute, though I’ve often been silent when my words were needed, as they would have been that night to defend a precious human soul.

But if Jesus healed a man who was deaf and mute, that means that He can heal me, too. And my prayer is that next time I am faced with a situation like that, I will find my voice.

“Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves,

for the rights of all who are destitute.

Speak up and judge fairly;

defend the rights of the poor and needy.”

Proverbs 31:8, 9

I Am What I Am

2017-01-03T11:40:00.001-08:00

If I were to take a class in philosophy, I would need a patient teacher. I've discovered at times that I can be a little slow to understand basic concepts, and so I'm thankful for the people in my daily life that take the time to teach me through repetition and don't over-complicate things for me.

Recently I engaged in a deep philosophical discussion with my friend Bethany's almost 3-year-old daughter, Alyssa. Bethany and I were driving through town running errands and chatting about recent happenings in our lives, when suddenly a small voice pipes from the back seat:

"I'm a goat!"

"Oh!" I reply. "You're a goat! What do you say?"

"I say I am a goat," she states emphatically.

"Oh! Okay!" I try again. "If you're a goat, do you say 'maaa, maaa?'"

"Nooo!" she protests loudly. "I say I am a goat!"

"Ohh! You are a goat!" I chuckle in realization, sharing a side glance with Bethany as we both grin hugely.

"Yes!! I am a goat," she settles down in her carseat, finally satisfied that I now understand.

Sorry, like I said, I'm a little slow. It should be noted at some point that this incredibly talented child is fluent not only in English, but also in Spanish and Portuguese. I'm glad to have such a patient and gifted teacher that's willing to go over the basics with me over and over despite my lack of linguistic skill and gaps in reasoning.

I've been realizing that I have a tendency to read into things. Hopefully I overcome that soon.

**Image from grit.com via http://www.offthegridnews.com/how-to-2/7-reasons-your-homestead-needs-goats-not-cows/

Healing In Its Wings

2016-10-02T09:42:00.000-07:00

I have a new favorite hymn.

It was written in 2000 by Glenda B. Schales.

I found this song on a CD I recently purchased by the Narrow Way, members of a fascinating group of Christians who believe sacred music should not have accompaniment. Although I do not believe that, I really appreciate the simple and direct manner in which they sing. You can find the (shape note) sheet music here, although the copy is somewhat blurry.

Healing In Its Wings

O, Father, I do sin,

And my heart breaks deep within;
For You have sought me,
Yet I turn away from all Your loving care.
So often do I fall,
Yet You reach out again,
Lifting my burden
That is more than I can ever bear.

Through your Beloved Son,
There is grace so undeserved;
How can I ever
Sin against the One Who makes my heart to sing?
Create a heart so clean
That like you I may be
As light of morning
Rises up with healing in its wings.

My broken contrite heart
Is so worthless in my sight;
But You restore it,
Give it peace and joy to love and follow You.
O, may I ever strive To live pure in Your sight,
Filled with Your goodness,
Free to glorify and honor You.

Red Streaks and Black Beards

2016-06-20T18:59:00.000-07:00

Friday I sit on my bed, reading.

Feeling something on my arm, I look down. A spot of petechiae surrounded by redness I identify as a bug bite, but no creature in sight. I haven't seen one like this before, so I decided to to put a bentonite clay poultice on it.

But by Saturday morning, the red spot has widened and streaked to my armpit despite multiple poultice changes.

So I go to urgent care. They give me a shot of Rocephin without Lidocaine - ouch. And a prescription for oral antibiotics.

I keep putting poultices on it. I switch to charcoal. Charcoal and I have a complicated history. I'm not fond of the fact that it stains and tattoos if given the chance. But it's great for stomach upset, acne, and bites. I even use it when... shhh... I'm forced to get the flu shot.

The red streak is still there, but it is fading slightly. Finally.

But I am having some strange side effects. At least acne is not one of them.

Before And After

2016-06-15T12:33:00.002-07:00

"I had a growth removed yesterday," a patient told me.

Yesterday I decided it was time for me to do the same.

I think this is the first time I have ever paid for a haircut...

So you can see the back - it kind of flipped out on it's own. She said she could cut it shorter and it would flip in, but I decided to leave it.

Becoming Native

2016-06-05T18:19:00.000-07:00

After I made this recovery gift for my coworker, she came to me with a request.

"Can I commission you to make a nativity set for me?" she asked.

Doubtfully, I stared at her. "A nativity set?"

I thought of shepherds, angels, a baby, the three wiseman, and how many hours of work it would be. And there ought to be at least one animal in my opinion.

"Well, think about it, and let me know. But no pressure."

Several days later, I told her I would. After further communication, I realized she only expected me to make a Joseph, Mary, and Baby Jesus. But she was elated when I started to talk about wisemen, shepherds, and an angel too.

And today, I finished it. Mostly. I still want to make stands for them, so they can stand on their own, as well as find staffs for the shepherds and Joseph. But - they're done.

So there were shepherds, abiding in the fields, keeping watch over their flocks by night...

And suddenly, an angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them.

And wise men from the east, seeing the star, came to worship Him. I am sure one of the wise men was Ethiopian... even though Ethiopia is in the south any kingdom with such wise men must be multicultural :-)

And they found the babe, wrapped in swaddling clothes - I haven't quite made a manger and wasn't sure how, so at this point, Baby Jesus doesn't have one. But He looks awfully cute nuzzled in Mary's arms with Joseph standing protectively over them.

And for a close up of the faces...

I have had so much fun making them! The little wooly sheep I wasn't sure if I could needle felt turned out so cute and cosy. The wise men have sculpey pots actually containing frankincense and myrrh that I got at the health food store, albeit the gold is fake.

All their little clothes are removable, because I was always sad when I was little and you couldn't remove their clothes and change them. They all fit neatly into the little box they are standing on, and I made a fabric bag to slide the box into to ensure it stays closed.

I have had so much fun making this set, I might make another... But with school starting soon I might have to wait and see how much time I'll actually have!

A Meaningful Thank You

2016-03-13T10:35:00.000-07:00

"Hallo!? Hallo?"

"Hello?" I answer.

It's a sunny winter Friday morning and I'm at Sears waiting for my oil change, tire rotation and alignment to be completed.

"Ah, yes, hallo! This is a call from Liberia. Is this Kelesey?" The lady's voice is fuzzed by the long-distance connection, and there's a small child crying in the background.

"Um, yes, this is Kelsey." I almost hang up, wondering if it's some sort of phone call asking for long distance money wiring.

"Yes. You send us some books, perhaps with Dr. Gillian?"

"Books? ...oh yes, books!" Suddenly, I remember the books. I had just started my job at as a home health nurse, and my office was getting rid of a bunch of nursing related books and manuals. My friend Becky had just been leaving for Liberia, where she was going to be working at a hospital and nursing school. I asked her if she wanted them, and when she said yes I'd saved them for her. And then I didn't think about it again. It had been almost two years since I'd sent those books.

"Yes, I did send some books! I'd forgotten about that! But I sent them with Becky, not with Dr. Gillian."

"Ohh! Sister Becky..." she says thoughtfully. "Well, I am just calling to let you know that we got them and thank you for sending them."

Thank you? She called me on an expensive long distance line all the way from Liberia just to say thank you? Two years later? After their country was ravaged by an Ebola epidemic?

Wow. I've donated a lot of things and money overseas. But I don't believe I remember ever hearing about it again or that the people received it.

"That is so sweet! You are so welcome. I really appreciate your call!" I say sincerely.

"Okay. Thank you. Have a good day." The baby is still crying in the background.

"Yes! Happy Sabbath!"

"Happy Sabbath."

Click.

Security

2015-08-26T19:50:00.000-07:00

Great hills may tremble and mountains may crumble,
God's lovingkindness remaineth secure;
Peace He will give to the contrite and humble:
Thus saith the Lord- His promise is sure

Though peace be shattered by war's agitation,
Though change and tension give birth to great fears,
God still remains an unshaken foundation,
Strong to support us through turbulent years;

Strong to preserve us in moments of danger,
Strong when frustration and frailty increase;
Strong to equip us for loving the stranger,
Strong where our human resources may cease.

Teach us, O Lord, Thy commandments to ponder,
Help us to heed them wherever we roam,
Waiting the day Thou shalt call us up yonder,
Trusting Thy promise to carry us home.

~Pearson and Leech
Bergen Ma Vika

Sue

2015-08-23T18:52:00.000-07:00

I carry bags for the homeless in my car. When I see her sitting in the alcove entrance of a closed boutique, I pull over and grab one.

Rolling down my window, I ask her if she would like a bag.

“Oh, no, thank you,” she refuses sweetly. Then, gesturing to the bench beside her, “But you can have a seat if you like.”

“Thank you,” I say. “But I’m on my way home from work and I have errands to run.”

I drive off to the grocery store a mile a way, but I can’t get her out of my mind.

Kelsey, you should have accepted her invitation. The thought repeats, and I drive my car back. Pulling to a park at the curb, I ask her if I can still accept her invitation.

She pats the bench beside her, and I sit down on the dimly lit porch with Sue and her shopping cart. She’s eating oyster crackers and offers me some.

A broom leans on her cart, and she tells me that she likes to sweep. “I love to sweep. It gives me something to do, people appreciate it, and it’s flexible. When I feel like it, I can just sweep!”

Sue also tells me about her life, but she’s guarded.

“I used to work for a certain church,” she says. “But I kept seeing how they treated women, and I finally decided to leave.”

“But when I left, they told me they’d kill me. So I came here. I lived with someone for 6 years, but now I just live here and there.”

I ask her if she was a member of a particular church and she’s startled because I’m right. I reassure her that I am not affiliated with that church, but that I am Christian and love the Lord.

Through the course of our conversation, she alludes to psychiatric hospitalizations, stating that they once picked her up on a street corner. I tell her I’m a nurse, that I’ve been working at a local clinic.

Then she slides off her shoes and shows me her feet.

Her worn tennis shoes have eaten ulcers into her skin. Around the ankle, tender raw red tissue endures exposure to the continual chafing of her sneakers. There are other wounds on her toes, and her legs are swollen.

“Oh!” I gasp. “Is there a reason your legs are swollen?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugs.

“Well, I would strongly suggest that you go to the doctor. You could go to the clinic I work at, or you could go to the ER. But you really need to take care of those wounds. They could get infected.”

She starts when I suggest the ER, so I give her directions to the clinic, which isn’t far from the ER. I'm guessing for her, the ER usually means psychiatric hospitalization.

“Sue, I have some socks in the car, in that bag, that I’d really like to give you. It will help protect them from the rubbing of your shoes.”

“No, it’s okay,” Sue is reluctant to take anything. “I have some socks, here.”

“Well, I have some water in the car too, and I would really like it if I could wash your feet and put clean socks on. Because the ones I have are brand new and nice and clean."

“Okay, I guess,” Sue agrees hesitantly.

Daylight has disappeared, and I wash her feet by the bulb on the storefront as couples walk on the sidewalk below us, on the way to shared evening meals and full bellies.

I carefully clean her wounds and use her old socks to dry her feet. She denies the wounds hurt, which just elevates my concern.

I slide the clean socks on her feet and advise her not to do too much walking, again telling her that she needs to have a doctor look at her feet.

She nods.

We pray.

I slide back into my car seat, somehow feeling that the dust that has been washed from my feet rather than the other way around.

I wanted to give Sue some stuff to help her situation. There was definitely stuff that she needed.

But what she preferred and needed more was a listening ear and a moment of my time.