It was our first big conference at Christar. Mark was standing at the back of the room talking to some guy — a rather shaggy looking guy named Brian. Turns out he had lived in the place of my birth and governed my high school alma mater. He spoke Pidgin English and knew people I knew. On top of that, his wife was a counselor (as is my husband) and they were involved in missionary member care.
Almost every Saturday for the past three years, my father has walked through my front door for a weekly visit. We sat on the couch, drank tea and chatted about our lives.
One year during home assignment, we put our sons in a private Christian school. We thought the environment would be less of a shock to our MKs used to life in Indonesia, but that proved not to be the case. How hard it was to watch both of them struggle—adjust to culture, make friends, understand idioms, wait for invitations, figure out this new life. I grieved for my boys. I wanted to take away their hurt and pain. I just wanted them to be happy.
I don't actually remember when I first met Lori. One day, she and Ben just showed up at our church. And they wanted to be our friends, so Mark and I started hanging out with them, sharing our stories and doing life together. Little did I know what a blessing I would receive in Lori. … Continue reading A Tribute to My Friend
I was standing on the banks of Lake James in Angola, IN while my friend lay dying many miles away. As the water rippled up to the shore, the waves of grief washed over me. The November wind blew strongly in my face and through my pants, harsh and cold like the disease that ripped … Continue reading Grief and Love
The thing about suffering is that we can always downplay our own by finding someone who suffers more than we do.