Monday Morning Faith
Page 25
How many times had I thought or said the same thing? Too many to count. So why was I still wracked with unhappiness and guilt that I didn’t share Sam’s passion?
Maybe … maybe in retrospect, I wasn’t so bad at it after all. I had made one friend — Poo. She’d even said my name. And the village children seemed to like me.
I sighed. “Oh, Nelda, you should have been there. I held story hour one afternoon and it was hilarious. I tried to act out the book Curious George Flies a Kite. Of course the children thought I’d lost my mind. I was jumping and hopping and pretending to be a monkey flying a kite.” I broke out laughing. “I fell once. They all burst into laughter!”
“They didn’t understand a word?”
“I don’t think so, but they enjoyed the story anyway. But oh, Nelda, let me tell you about Poo.”
“Poo?”
“This darling little village girl — ”
“Her name is not Poo.”
“No — I mean, I don’t know. That’s what it sounds like when her grandpa talks to her, so that’s what we call her. She latched onto me and followed me everywhere I went. It was crazy. Then one day this dog — this mean dog — treed everyone in the village. We sat in palm trees until late afternoon and then …”
I went on for the better part of an hour, and the more I talked, the more I missed Sam and the little girl who lived so far away from my world.
When I finally fell silent, Nelda reached over and covered my hand. “You love that kid, don’t you?”
Her observation shattered my reserves, my carefully constructed wall. For so long I tried to tell myself that the child didn’t matter. Or Sam. But they did. They mattered more than I could say.
“I’m beginning to realize just how much,” I whispered. “You know, at first the child was such a pain. Everywhere I went I tripped over her, and then somehow everything changed. She no longer bothered me, and I found myself watching for her every morning. Did I tell you that she and Bum stood guard at the Millets’ hut to prevent the villagers from stealing my stuff? Poo has such a capacity to love. No matter how I behaved, she still loved me. Isn’t that remarkable?”
“Remarkable.” Nelda smiled. “Very few of us ever find unconditional love, except from God. What about Sam?”
Silence hung between us for a moment, then I gave in. “I love him with all my heart, mind, and soul. I wish I didn’t.
I’ve prayed to be released from the love I feel for both Sam and Poo; I can’t force Sam to choose between God and me, and Poo doesn’t belong in our society. She needs to be with her people.”
Nelda’s features softened. “I’m sorry, Jo. You and Sam seemed so right for each other. You’re sure there isn’t a way this can be worked out?”
“I’m sure.” It would be easier if I didn’t wake up every morning from dreams about betel palms and sunrises and sunsets and thatched huts and a very caring and compassionate doctor.
She frowned and consulted her watch. “We need to go.”
Emotionally drained, I gathered the napkin and pizza remains and disposed of them in the trash. Just talking about Sam hurt.
That evening I opened the mailbox and fished out a handful of envelopes. One postmark caused my breath to catch in my throat. Another letter from Sam. And I still had all the unopened ones he’d sent while I was in the hospital. I dropped the house keys and purse on the hall table and carried the mail into the den. Holding the envelope for a moment, I realized I was still unprepared to read the contents. Would I be able to absorb the pain? I was certain he’d accepted my decision, but I was just as sure he’d be angry that I had left and refused to answer his earlier messages.
Drawing a deep breath, I slit open the envelope and drew out the single sheet of paper. The note was short and unassuming. He missed me and he was praying about the situation.
I sat there, my eyes burning with unshed tears, wishing I could hold him close, tell him once more that I loved him. But one show of weakness on my part and Sam would be tempted to turn his back on the village and come home to me. I couldn’t let that happen.
Then a new thought occurred — one I had never considered. Sam was a dedicated man. Would he turn his back on his work, or had he meant something different when he spoke those words the day they loaded me on the plane to Port Moresby?
I concentrated. What had he said? “I don’t know, Johanna — ”
Finally, feeling old and tired, I got up and went to the kitchen to stand at the window and stare out on the cold spring evening. Saginaw was home. Mom and Pop were here, Nelda was here. Why then did I feel so lacking, so misplaced?
The answer was clear. I didn’t belong anywhere anymore.
I fell into my old routine without a hitch. Some days it seemed like I’d never been gone. I hadn’t answered Sam’s note, and my emotions ranged from resentful to shame. I wanted to write him, but what could I say? I’d walked away from a wonderful man who loved me without telling him I was giving him up so he could serve the Lord. I had left without telling him the truth.
I started eating with Mom and Pop at The Gardens once or twice a week. My parents made a big fuss over me; I could see concern mirrored in their expressions.
“Johanna, how would you like some Sara Lee cheesecake?” Mom asked as I walked her back to her apartment Thursday evening. “I bought it just for you. The kitchen staff will be happy to serve you.”
She was trying to put some weight on me, but I liked the leaner me. I had more energy and looked better in my clothes. “Maybe later, Mom. Right now I’m stuffed.”
“You’re not getting anorexia, are you?” Her face puckered.
I laughed. “Not likely. Didn’t you notice how I put away the Swiss steak and mashed potatoes and gravy? I’m eating plenty; I just don’t want to regain the extra weight — it’s too hard to get off later.”
“You were never overweight. You just looked healthy.”
“And the doctor said I’m healthy now; in fact, he released me this week. I don’t have to go back for six months.”
“Wonderful!” She focused on a vase of fresh flowers in the hallway, and my internal alarm went off.
“What?”
“Well — you know how we’ve been after you to tell us all about the trip. Pop and I took the liberty of inviting a few guests this evening in hopes that you’d agree to give a brief talk about Papua New Guinea.”
“Oh, Mom. Without asking me? How could you?”
“And if I’d asked, would you have agreed?”
“No.” I was stuck; she’d hound me to death until I did it. “Okay, I’ll give a talk. Where?”
“In the activities room, anytime you’re ready. I think everyone is waiting.”
“Real sure of yourself, weren’t you?”
“I was counting on you being an obedient daughter.”
I laughed and followed her to the activities room, where Pop was entertaining the group with his Rodney Dangerfield routine. His face brightened when I walked in the room. “Here she is, ladies and gentlemen, my beautiful daughter, Johanna.”
Beautiful? In my father’s eyes, maybe, but I appreciated the lift his words gave me. He motioned to a narrow wooden podium, and I walked over and stood behind it. I adjusted the microphone, cleared my throat. “Good evening. I’ve been asked to speak to you tonight about my Papua New Guinea experiences.”
The assembled group was quiet, attentive, absorbed in the topic as I began my talk. I started with the plane ride over and then progressed to spending the first night at Port Moresby. To my surprise I found myself laughing with everyone else about my escapades.
“The villagers we worked with have a keen sense of pride.” I pushed my glasses up on my nose with one finger. “In their transactions, for instance, they don’t barter. The goods being traded are not shown or examined, but when the arrangements are made the exchange is expected to be worthy of all promises made by both parties. If a man trades some of his betel nuts for a bundle of tobacco, he expects a certa
in amount of tobacco. It’s a mystery how each seems to know how much tobacco is enough. If he considers the exchange to be inadequate he has no recourse, but you can bet that in the future he will refuse to deal with this particular person and do his business with another trader.”
A white-haired, scholarly-looking man wearing gold-framed eyeglasses lifted his hand.
I acknowledged the gesture.
“Then you are saying that the villagers observe a code of honor among themselves?”
“They do.” I frowned, reconsidering the question. “Let me say that they’re blatant thieves with others, but among themselves they are forthright and honest.”
Now that I looked back, I realized how silly it was of me to get so upset over trivial possessions. Had I really had a meltdown over two old safety pins, for goodness’ sake? No wonder Sam thought I was mercenary. Stealing wasn’t right, but now it was clear to me that the villagers meant no ill intent. They saw something they liked and took it, having no idea what such an act meant in our culture.
I talked for over an hour, reliving my weeks on the mission field, sharing about the children there and my illness and long recuperation. I even hung around later, shaking hands and answering questions. The residents seemed fascinated, and I was so glad I could add joy to their faces — take them where they’d never been and would never go.
“Will you be going back to the mission field?” one elderly resident asked.
“No, I won’t.” I amended the statement. “I’m praying about it.”
A little lady holding on to a walker grasped my hand. “We’ll be praying for you and Sam and the missionaries.”
“Thank you. That means a lot to me.” And it did. More than I could explain, even to myself.
Later when I unlocked my front door, my mind was still on the talk. Why was I able to relay the villagers’ needs when once all I saw was flies, dirt, poverty, and thieves? An idea stirred inside …
I might not be able to serve on the mission field, but what would prevent me from telling others about mission work and the people who did serve? Area churches might be willing to adopt the Papua New Guinea village and offer financial help. There were other nursing homes in the area — other seniors who would welcome the break in daily monotony.
My heart pounded and I caught my breath. Was it possible I could be part of Sam’s work, even if I couldn’t share his life on the field?
The next day I made a quick trip to the mall and did something I’d been thinking about for weeks: purchase gifts for Poo. I had fun choosing books, fragrances, and lip gloss.
That last item was a bit over the top, I knew, but young women here loved it. I added some candy and, remembering how she’d liked my necklaces, picked up a couple of those and some hair clasps.
When I got home I packed the items to mail, smiling as I imagined the little girl’s excitement when she received her package in the mail. It probably would be the first she’d ever received. She’d enjoy these little offerings so much, riches for a little girl who had nothing. I enclosed a picture of me so she’d know who sent the treats.
Before I dropped off to sleep that night, I spent a long time in prayer. I prayed for the villagers, for Sam, of course, for Bud, Frank, Eva, and Mary, and for Poo.
As the days passed, I mailed a couple more care packages, this time to the village children. Small trinkets — candy, rings, flashlights, and three dozen batteries. On a roll now, I boxed and mailed a few personal items like scented soaps, lotions, and sunscreen to Mary and Eva.
The day I got a thank-you note from Poo — written by Sam — I circled the date on the calendar in red pen. At least he was still speaking to me. Kind of. I answered the note and continued to send packages. Each time, Sam wrote back, and the messages between us grew more personal. The door I had closed when I left was beginning to open again — a little.
I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.
June turned into July, then August. I had started giving a monthly program at the nursing home on foreign missions, and I’d spoken to my church and to Sam’s church about the Papua New Guinea work. I was in the process of becoming an expert on the subject. Slowly, but surely, I realized my attitude toward the people had changed. I no longer saw them as barbarians, but as souls for whom Christ died. God’s children in need of salvation, medical help, someone to care.
One day at the library Nelda saw me poring over a missionary’s biography. She crossed her arms and grinned. “Well, lookee here. First miracle I’ve ever witnessed in person.”
I glanced up. “What do you mean?”
“Johanna Holland, girl librarian, thinking about becoming a missionary.”
“You think that’s what I have in mind?”
“Isn’t it?”
“No. I’ve told you; I’m not called to the mission field. I’m interested in the work that missionaries do. And I can’t deny that the children are of real interest to me.”
“Did I hear right? I remember when you thought missionary work sounded unnatural, that you couldn’t understand how anyone could leave civilization to live in places like Papua New Guinea.”
“I know. And it is true, mission fields, most anyway, have horrible living conditions. But there’s a lot of beauty to be found too. Like sunsets and sunrises and watching the moon turn the lagoon to silver, listening to the night birds calling from the jungle. The children — the precious little souls — ”
“Uh-huh. It doesn’t hurt a bit that Sam Littleton’s still over there, does it?”
Was the woman reading my thoughts? “That has nothing to do with it.” I closed the book with a snap. “God hasn’t called me to full-time mission work.”
“He may have, honey, in a much different way than you think. God’s still in business, you know.”
Color flooded my cheeks and I measured her words.
“That’s silly. If he wanted me in Papua New Guinea he’d have kept me there.”
I had no intention of admitting it to Nelda, but something was happening inside me. Something I didn’t understand. I was called to the mission field. A miracle? A burning bush complete with booming authoritative voice? No, but there was a softening within. A willingness — no, a need to support those who devoted their bodies, souls, and minds to the work in the field.
My calling might not be the same as Sam’s, but I was starting to understand — finally — that it was a valid calling all the same.
Sam’s letters came on a regular basis now. He mentioned how his days were long and tiring, the clinic was always full, and the work still rewarding. He’d decided to stay on awhile — much longer than he’d first anticipated. I knew why. He didn’t want to come back and face me. He asked about my health, and it thrilled me to know he still cared. The essence of the man came through the written word. Always the same, just Sam, gentle, unassuming.
A man of God.
A man I still loved with all my heart and soul.
A man denied to me. I dared not forget that, even for a moment.
Nelda approached my desk one morning. “I guess women are women, no matter where they are.”
“I suppose.” I frowned. What did my crazy friend have on her mind now?
“Those villagers, the women, they don’t need T-shirts and high-heeled shoes, I know. But can we purchase Bibles in their language?”
“No. Their language hasn’t been translated yet.” Hadn’t she been listening to me?
“Oh, right.” She stood, hands on her temple. “Well, we should be able to do something to make their lives better. You know what, girlfriend, I’ll bet if we talk to the women at church we could come up with some nice things to send over there. Postage would kill us, but hey, I’m willing.”
I smiled and touched my friend’s hand. “You know, Nelda, you’re a real nice person.”
“You just finding that out?” She took my arm. “Come on. Let’s visit the ice cream shop. Too bad we can’t send thirty quarts of rocky road to Papua New Guinea.”
My life had evolved since I’d come home. My faith had grown stronger, and yet I was beginning to see my life was like Scripture indicated — a vapor, a brief puff of breath on a cold morning.
And more important, what I did with that vapor was my choice.
I pulled out of the library lot after work Monday evening. Bright sunshine filtered through leaves turning vibrant golds and browns. I’d exited the parking lot every evening at this hour for twenty years. Traffic was usually light, not a car in sight. I pulled out — and suddenly the air filled with the sound of skids, a horn blaring, and squealing brakes. Events happened so fast I didn’t have time to think. I caught a brief flash of car lights in my peripheral vision, an angry face, and a man shaking a fist at me. The car swerved, missing the driver’s side of my car by a hand’s breadth. Stunned, I sat in the middle of the intersection, unable to move. The car had sped on, but fear incapacitated me. I spotted oncoming lights and heard the sound of car horns again. My heartbeat hammered in my ear.
Springing to life, I mashed down on the gas and careened into the left lane. Dear Father! I could have been killed! The oncoming vehicle had barely missed me, and at the speed he was traveling, the impact would have been …
Words from Scripture filled my mind: “Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then …”
And then. I smiled. And suddenly I knew with such clarity it took my breath away. I knew what my vapor would count for.
“Thank you, God,” I whispered. “Sorry I took so long.”
TWENTY-FOUR
So, here I was, Johanna Holland, halfway across the ocean on a 747, on my way back to Papua New Guinea to tell the man I loved that maybe I wasn’t called to full-time mission work, but I was called to love him. Maybe I wasn’t called to live on foreign soil, but I could keep the home fires burning in Saginaw, Michigan. If marrying Sam meant a long-distance union, I could live with that. I could accompany my husband on shorter mission trips and enjoy my work with the children during those trips. And when we were apart? I could pray for Sam, encourage him, and support him in whatever endeavor he chose to represent God.