To Everything, There is a Season

We're here! It's still hard to believe; I keep pinching myself. So many thoughts, dreams, details, joys and frustrations are swirling through my brain. Before the trip one of my biggest sources of anxiety was not having a real project on my plate after we arrived. I kept picturing Doug busily working away while I twiddled my thumbs.

But God must have been tired of my whining, for He answered this prayer request even as we approached Pietermaritzburg (PMB) for the first time. Ross, the president of the new seminary, and his lovely, bubbly, energetic wife, Shayne, were narrating our journey from Durban's airport to our new city. I was interjecting questions and exclamations about the native flora whizzing past us. As we all chatted Doug and I discovered that our anticipated domicile, Flat #10 in student married housing apartments had morphed into a REAL HOUSE with a REAL YARD! Shock of shocks and delights of delights. The more Shayne described our home to me, the more I was silently thanking God for His good and gracious gifts. I used to joke the I wanted to be a yard gal when I retired, and now, I was to have dirt to play in! This was beyond my wildest dreams! I started peppering Shayne with questions about what grows here and what is currently blooming, when Ross suddenly asked if gardening was a passion of mine… "You could say that!"

It seems the seminary has several garden spaces planned, as Ross explained. I was immediately sucked in and blurted out, "I would love to help!" The best part is the proposed vegetable garden, to supply the seminary's canteen (cafeteria), as well as train the seminarians in several different gardening methods used in poverty-stricken areas. There are to be two other components of the garden space; all three will tie together to sustain God's community in body, mind, and spirit. (HA - just like Faith Community Nursing does!) Ross recounted how he had been struggling to find someone to head up the garden project. "I think God has just answered another prayer and dropped you into that spot!"

I couldn't have been more thrilled! I still have goosebumps, but probably the temperature has more to do with that. Yesterday I worked on the beginnings of my experimental "door frame garden", using a small area off the patio. This method nourishes the available soil with a layer of compost materials, followed by a layer of newspaper, and topped off with the indigenous soil broken up to a finer texture to cradle the seeds. PMB soil reminds me of that carol, "In the deep mid-winter…Earth stood hard as iron…" PMB sits on a deep layer of shale. The dirt is red-tan, very shallow, and stains everything. Unfortunately I was wearing my only tennis shoes. They are trashed, not to mention my socks. As per usual, we learn by doing. It took me five hours of hard labor, using a pitch fork, sharp spade, plus lots of sweat, to dig up a 5'x2' area. Yes, I was wearing my sun hat and sun block. I still have serious roots to hack saw through before I can begin the layering process. Now, I can't wait to get to a nursery to select my seeds, or pips, as we say here. My hands are a wreck, not to mention my aching back, but I have a smile on my face.

God is good, all the time. Here Doug and I sit, huddled in a shared blanket, listening to African music on our new (well, everything we have here is necessarily new) radio/CD player, thanks to an international adaptor plugged into this crazy 3-pronged outlet. (Of course, some plugs have 3 prongs, some 2 prongs, but in different sizes.) We are looking forward to Skyping with our family and have memorized the well wishes inscribed on the rendering of our church, a gift from our choir. Our evening activity is playing Bananagrams. (Thanks, Mary Webb.) We are a world away from you, but with the push of a button, our greetings and love for you can zip through space in a flash. It reminds me of our access to our loving Father with whom we can chat even more simply, no buttons necessary. May His grace and peace settle on you all tonight. He's got the whole world in His hands.

Living It Up in South Africa

Behold our lodgings. As soon as we tidy it up a bit, it will seem like home. Meanwhile all thoughts of starting a more simple life among the locals evaporated during the first few hours.

After two days in Joburg, we took a short (expensive because of excess baggage weight) flight to the new King Shaka airport in Durban where we were met by Ross Olivier and his wife, Shayne. Ross is the president of the seminary. They have begun to take us through the maze of South African living with great patience and humor.

We were thinking that the address we were given was where we would be living - among the seminarians in a block of flats. The address was actually the temporary office of the seminary. And it was essentially uninhabitable. The office is now located in the new building about a mile away. Instead, we are in a house owned by the seminary, by ourselves, furnished, with kitchen, running hot and cold water and electricity. It has enough room for guests, so make your reservations. The "hut" in the photo is actually in the back yard as a sort of covered patio.

Now we are learning how to buy food and cook using the metric system, open a bank account (2 days), get a land line (not yet), buy cell phones (3 days), deal with faucets where the hot water is on the right of some of them, and some on the left side, and figure out which of the dozen or so keys to this house work. We've also looked for cars and I think we found one provided the Bank of Tampa gets the $$ wired. Getting used to driving the hilly roads on the left side of the road is upon us. As well, the little Toyota we are getting has a left-handed stick shift. The turn signal is on the right and the wipers on the left. Otherwise, it's a walk in the park.

And there are the wonderful things. This is a beautiful city. It is very dry during the winter and we can only imagine what it will be like in the spring. The weather is nearly perfect. We were able to get an appointment with our new Dr. with a call on Mon. and an appointment the next morning. We have taken walks around the neighborhood and the university athletic fields across the road. No more flat surfaces for awhile.

A couple of days ago Peter Storey stopped by to welcome us. We sat outside on the patio and had tea……really. He remembered that the start to the journey of being here began nearly 3 years ago at a place named "Bertha's" where we had lunch together in Peter's hometown of Simonstown, just south of Cape Town.

The lady who waited on me at the bank was Indian. There is a very large Indian community in this city. I asked her if there were any good Indian restaurants here. After consulting her mother about the best one's, she e-mailed me to invite us to her mother's home for "real" Indian food.

There are malls here. There are malls in the U.S.. They are indistinguishable.

We think the Rays have lost just one game since we left on the 20th. If that's all it takes, we're glad to help.

Our first day at the seminary will be Wed., Aug. 4. While Ross has discussed only briefly our assignments, we are already very excited about the possibilities.

I will be managing the field education program. From what little I know, it will be challenging and involve a lot of interpersonal contact. As well, he is considering having me teach an eleven week course on the laws of the Methodist Church of South Africa. What?? But the more I think about it, the better I like it.

The best thing about this corner of South Africa? - the hospitality, curiosity and joyful attitude of so many of the people we have met. Of course, there are the others, living on the margins, but what happens at this seminary and what we do here promises to set into motion a flock of religious leaders, equipped to address the needs of their congregations and communities. It is a high honor to be a part of it.

To Everything There is a Season

We're here! It's still hard to believe; I keep pinching myself. So many thoughts, dreams, details, joys and frustrations are swirling through my brain. Before the trip one of my biggest sources of anxiety was not having a real project on my plate after we arrived. I kept picturing Doug busily working away while I twiddled my thumbs.

But God must have been tired of my whining, for He answered this prayer request even as we approached Pietermaritzburg (PMB) for the first time. Ross, the president of the new seminary, and his lovely, bubbly, energetic wife, Shayne, were narrating our journey from Durban's airport to our new city. I was interjecting questions and exclamations about the native flora whizzing past us. As we all chatted Doug and I discovered that our anticipated domicile, Flat #10 in student married housing apartments had morphed into a REAL HOUSE with a REAL YARD! Shock of shocks and delights of delights. The more Shayne described our home to me, the more I was silently thanking God for His good and gracious gifts. I used to joke the I wanted to be a yard gal when I retired, and now, I was to have dirt to play in! This was beyond my wildest dreams! I started peppering Shayne with questions about what grows here and what is currently blooming, when Ross suddenly asked if gardening was a passion of mine… "You could say that!"

It seems the seminary has several garden spaces planned, as Ross explained. I was immediately sucked in and blurted out, "I would love to help!" The best part is the proposed vegetable garden, to supply the seminary's canteen (cafeteria), as well as train the seminarians in several different gardening methods used in poverty-stricken areas. There are to be two other components of the garden space; all three will tie together to sustain God's community in body, mind, and spirit. (HA - just like Faith Community Nursing does!) Ross recounted how he had been struggling to find someone to head up the garden project. "I think God has just answered another prayer and dropped you into that spot!"

I couldn't have been more thrilled! I still have goosebumps, but probably the temperature has more to do with that. Yesterday I worked on the beginnings of my experimental "door frame garden", using a small area off the patio. This method nourishes the available soil with a layer of compost materials, followed by a layer of newspaper, and topped off with the indigenous soil broken up to a finer texture to cradle the seeds. PMB soil reminds me of that carol, "In the deep mid-winter…Earth stood hard as iron…" PMB sits on a deep layer of shale. The dirt is red-tan, very shallow, and stains everything. Unfortunately I was wearing my only tennis shoes. They are trashed, not to mention my socks. As per usual, we learn by doing. It took me five hours of hard labor, using a pitch fork, sharp spade, plus lots of sweat, to dig up a 5'x2' area. Yes, I was wearing my sun hat and sun block. I still have serious roots to hack saw through before I can begin the layering process. Now, I can't wait to get to a nursery to select my seeds, or pips, as we say here. My hands are a wreck, not to mention my aching back, but I have a smile on my face.

God is good, all the time. Here Doug and I sit, huddled in a shared blanket, listening to African music on our new (well, everything we have here is necessarily new) radio/CD player, thanks to an international adaptor plugged into this crazy 3-pronged outlet. (Of course, some plugs have 3 prongs, some 2 prongs, but in different sizes.) We are looking forward to Skyping with our family and have memorized the well wishes inscribed on the rendering of our church, a gift from our choir. Our evening activity is playing Bananagrams. (Thanks, Mary Webb.) We are a world away from you, but with the push of a button, our greetings and love for you can zip through space in a flash. It reminds me of our access to our loving Father with whom we can chat even more simply, no buttons necessary. May His grace and peace settle on you all tonight. He's got the whole world in His hands.

A Swing Through the South - Part 3

Our road trip over, we reflect over the last two weeks and where it fits in the scheme of things. For one thing, it satisfied some overdue promises, none of which should have been delayed that long.

Our three destinations involved about 3/4 family and 1/4 friends. That seems to be about right. Some relatives we had seen within the last 6 months. Others not for 30 years or more. Taken all together, it was a time for grounding, a reminder of where we came from, who we really are, and what we are about. But trying to write about all that might be as tedious as being exposed to twenty-nine consecutive episodes of Dr. Phil or a first time reading of Joyce's Ulysses. I'll save it for my post-missionary period. But there were things and encounters on our Southern Swing that moved us deeply.

Aside from the discovery of the old house on Pensacola beach one of the most surprising places was Houston, TX. We had successfully avoided being anywhere near Texas until this trip to see my brother and sister-in-law. Houston is beautiful and, by the end of the stay, converted us. Texas is maybe ok after all and as long as you don 't have to drive to work.

We stopped at the Vicksburg battlefield where one of my great-grandfathers, George Clarke, had fought and surrendered. He was undeterred and re-enlisted. Two hours east from the battlefield is the home of George Clarke, Decatur, Mississippi. Decatur is not exactly Houston. My mother was born there, one of 10 children. (Her mother was the daughter of George Clarke.) Nine of ten had children their own, resulting in my having a lot of cousins. (see photo for 6 of us.) I first came here when I was 4 or 5 years old. Not a lot has changed since. The Clarke-Venable Baptist Church (yes, the same Clarke) survives and grows. Many of my relatives lived on or near the same road. Many still do after careers that took them from a massive aircraft carrier in the Persian Gulf to oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico (not the one you think). Though I had not been there for 30 years, it still felt like home. What you do or did matters less than who you are, a descendent of a long line of Smiths and Clarkes. The ancestors are buried close buy. Much of who am is derived from deep roots in this remote and beautiful place. While I probably will never live here, it is still home.

During our brief visit with Cheri's brother Bruce in northwest Mississippi, we drove to two nearby locations that speak volumes about who we are as Americans. About 20 miles east from Bruce's residence is the small town of Oxford, MS, home of Ole Miss. Once a bastion of white privilege, today one sees students from around the globe meshing unnoticed into the fabric of the community. About a mile from the campus, set far back from a quiet street is Rowan House, home to William Faulkner. The residence is a portrait one of the great literary forces of the 20th century. A Nobel Laureate, Faulkner's palate was a segregated south. In his novels and short stories, he used the rural landscape and its people to teach us about the nature of man, worts and all.

Next was Memphis, a short drive to the north. We found Beale Street by following the sound of blues weeping out of the clubs that line the street. But the place that spoke to our souls and displayed the heartbreak of a generation - was the National Civil Rights Museum.

The museum building wraps around the Lorraine Motel, scene of the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. But is contents was much broader.

* The first exhibit is about discrimination . . . .incurred by Hispanics, Poles, American Indians, Chinese, Japanese, women, immigrants and people of color. Black discrimination was only part of the story.

* The faces of African-American visitors under 50 were compelling - their eyes widened in long stares at pictures and film of white men brutalizing black men. Groups arrived in matching teeshirts There were church groups, and family reunions centered around the museum.

* The walk through the exhibits ends on the second floor and looks outside and over the balcony of the motel. Two rooms have been reconstructed to show just how they looked that terrible night in 1968.

* The museum is not about King, but about anyone who has suffered the sting of discrimination, including those who literally gave their lives to right a wrong deeply ingrained in American society. As well, there was a large exhibit about Ghandi and the principal of non-violence, and, in a nod to the international problem of discrimination, a tribute to Helen Suzman who, for 13 years, was the lone white parliamentarian to oppose apartheid in South Africa. It left us humble and acutely aware that racial discrimination is poisonous and not confined to any one race.

It was a good plan to spend about 2 weeks on the road. We found treasure in the South - monuments to soldiers who died on American soil, the resilient strength of our family, the lasting love of friends and landmarks that remind us of the past but also affirm how we as people can make this a better place, even if one person at a time.

Swing Through the South - Pt. 2

AHHH -- The South. It's been my observation that Tampa cannot rightly qualify as The South, although the accent of true Tampans fooled me at first. But Louisiana, Alabama, and Mississippi are the cradle of Southern living, the real deal. This trip back to Doug's roots has been my only prolonged exposure to the gentile hospitality and importance of family wedded with food and church that embodies this region's philosophy.

We have tried over the years to attempt daily low fat/carb/volume eating, with one of us having considerably more willpower than the other… In the wake of recent obesity research publicity, I was eager to find that The South was on board with the rest of the country.

Backroads are more interesting than traveling the highways, and since we aren't under our usual time constraints, we are availing ourselves of this luxury. The Louisiana byways were blanketed in dark clouds and intermittent rain as we tooled through arrow straight pine and oak tunnels broken by occasional crossroad communities. Our stomachs signaled lunchtime when we spied a log building boasting many cars. Why eat generic when you can taste the local culture? The Riverhouse Lodge, Alexandria, La., sporting a fishing decor complete with outboard motors hung between the booths, did not disappoint.

We were greeted by an energetic gal who quickly explained the deal. With the three main courses so many sides and breads and desserts and drinks were included that my little brain stopped comprehending. I guess my eyes gave me away. She smiled, "You won't go away hungry!"

Behind the cafeteria line, the wide-bodied cook, complete with her bandanna, was scooping up generous portions, impatiently waiting on my choices. Overwhelming comes to mind. I ended up the heaps of meatloaf, 3 inches thick, mashed potatoes, gravy, stewed okra and tomatoes, lima beans and sausage swimming in gravy. She was ever so disappointed that I refused the corn bread and yeast rolls and grits. Puddin' was a requirement. I inquired about the salad bar. "Oh, that's included." The pale lettuce couldn't have passed as a green vegetable, so I added a few carrots and cherry tomatoes for conscious' sake.

Did I say overwhelming? Doug's plate was also groaning as we dug in, feeling like we were taking part in some food network reality show. The rest is history, evidenced by my ever burgeoning abs. And this was just lunch.

In Vicksburg, MS, we lurched from our Holiday Inn Express into torrents of rain, to find the recommended eatery up the road a piece. Of course we had no umbrella. After the mad dash in, I was so soaked that my chair was still wet when we finally left. It was freezing in that A/C, a condition I'll not likely experience in SA.

Still full from lunch, we opted to share the fried catfish (when in Rome…) with the steamed broccoli, being the only "healthy" option in print. First the ubiquitous basket of crackers and toasted breads accompanied by two bowls of dip. My entree was the house salad. Our waitress set a saucer-sized plate before me with a sprinkling of lettuce, albeit green, a halved cherry tomato, a one inch slice of onion, and a tiny weeny corn on the cob. Another surprise. My honey mustard dressing came in not one, but two dishes, thankfully on the side.

Then came Doug's order. With the ordered catfish (four pieces), came french fries, hush puppies, a large plate of fried onion rings, and yeast rolls with real butter, of course. The steamed broccoli had to be the piece de la resistance. The sought after green was obliterated with melted cheese, and, underneath, swimming in butter. Who knew? Of course I couldn't let my husband suffer through this challenge alone.

And what does our Lord have to say about all this?? "What one sows, then shall one reap." I'm sure that's in the GOOD BOOK somewhere.

DISCLAIMER: Doug doesn't have an overweight member in his family. I couldn't help but notice at the recent reunion dinner where 25 cousins, aunts, uncles, and assorted grandchildren gathered to fete us, I held the heavy-weight title.

ROAD TRIP: Swing Through the South - Part 1

After a year of packing and a frantic two weeks of preparation, our belongings were picked up and carried away within a few hours. For the next month, it's life in a suitcase.

On July 1, we left town under the protection of summer clouds. Almost immediately, an enormous sense of freedom replaced the anxiety. A few hours later, I found a place I had thought about since I was a child.

In 1956, our family and some friends drove from Indiana to Pensacola where my Aunt Naomi lived. Uncle Bud was a caretaker at Fort Pickins National Park. It was adjacent to some sort of military base. The original fort dated back to the Civil War and once held Geronimo prisoner. The Park was located on a long thin strip of sand separating the bay from the Gulf. For a kid, this was paradise. We played in the dunes, walked and fished from the beach. I remember wading into some shallow water at night hunting for flounder. The crowds were miles away at the beach resorts. We had, in effect, our own private mile of beach and adventure.

A major perk of my uncle's position was a large, old house that was provided by the park. It was about the only civilian building there. A big New England style house, it dwarfed the more traditional Florida beach homes of the day. Tall, with angular gray bleached gables, it could be seen from a far distance. A broad porch on two sides held back the relentless sun. Boys from Indiana burn easily and quickly. There was little air conditioning in those days, and certainly none in the house, but we fell asleep easily from exhaustion.

Pensacola is about half way between Tampa and Houston, our first destination, a good place to stop for the day. We had time to drive to Gulf Breeze and turn onto the beach road. I knew it would not look the same. The number and height of the condos seemed misplaced. A couple of miles down the road, there was a lonely gate and a small building to collect your $8.00 to enter the Park. We balked at the price, but the nice attendant asked if I had a Golden Passport, i.e., a free pass to any national park. Good thing I carry mine around.

The road beyond the gate, windswept with sand, divided the beaches , desolate save a few pieces of equipment and oil clean-up people. It was obvious that the military presence no longer existed nor were any of its buildings left. We continued along the quiet road. I began to think that the old fort may have been demolished. There were no above ground improvements except the signs telling us that shore birds nesting.

Then, unexpectedly, we spotted a tall building with gables and a big porch. There it was, alone on the white sand - a piece of my childhood - set apart from any notion of ordinary life. It was dirty white, but we found evidence that the original gray wood had been painted, confirming my memory of it. The porch held our weight. To the left, we looked at Pensacola Bay. To the right, the heavy surf of the Gulf.

The breeze and the memories are still there, in and around that old house where I once spent one of my last weeks as a child. So many things are gone from those years - my elementary and junior high schools, a large section of the downtown in the city of my birth, the old movie theaters and drive-ins, Crosley Field, and the old Elks Country Club where I caddied. Yet somehow, this isolated but grand and aged building remains, serving as a registration office for the campsites at the end of the thin peninsula.

I should mention that the old fort is still there but appears to be unattended, and is being reclaimed by the sand and wind.

The circumstances behind the existence and use of the house are not known to me. It doesn't matter, for to me, it is an event of grace, another step in the preparation before our final departure in two weeks.