Emotions of Haiti—Part 2: Fruit Flavored Gum(revised)

     I know a simple thing like fruit flavored gum shouldn’t be an emotional thing.  In fact, I would be highly likely to tease someone who gets emotional over fruit flavored gum.  It’s silly, really.  It’s GUM.  Seriously, what could there possibly be to get emotional about?  The best tasting Juicyfruit ever?  An amazing new Bubble Yum raspberry flavor?  Come on, you can’t think of a scenario that involves getting emotional over fruit flavored gum.  So why would I possibly be so fixated on fruit flavored gum? In fact, why did I take about 300-400 pieces of fruit flavored gum to Haiti on my last trip?  That’s right; I took 8 jumbo containers of it.  I took enough for every kid at the orphanage to have at least two pieces of it. Why did I try to bless so many with fruit flavored gum?  And why is it an emotional thing for me?   

     It stems back to my first trip, in July this year.  It was hot.  “Shoot you in the face hot” was how Travis Kaiser, our leader described it.  He was right.  Sweat poured off me even just sitting there doing nothing.  Those sweet orphans would come up to us and wipe down our arms, our faces, and our sweat-soaked hair, pushing it away from our foreheads and eyes.  They would say ‘sweaty’ with thick Creole accents trying to care for us, fanning us with their hands or anything else they could find.  For many people not used to that kind of closeness and touch, it was a little awkward at first.  It was awkward for me, and I don’t mind a little reassuring touch or a hug every now and then.  The last thing I want when I’m dripping sweat from every pore is to have someone touching me.  But when we looked at their faces, their genuine concern for our discomfort, we saw the love in their eyes.  We couldn’t help but enjoy their sweet efforts to comfort us, wiping and fanning.  We had arrived on a Saturday and met them in the afternoon.  Saturday night we showed the first half of a movie we brought.  I sat next to my two kids on the floor, dripping sweat, trying to avoid contact to minimize the extra body heat from them.  We could only watch half of the movie that night because it was getting late and Sunday was church day.  On Monday night, after our 3^rd day there with the kids, we returned for the second half of the movie.  After 3 days of bonding, hugging, and loving on the kids, there was no avoiding contact during the movie this time.  I sat down on the pew in church and motioned for my girl, Sonjua, to climb on my lap.  How could I deny her?  As she watched the movie her eyes riveted to the screen, I noticed she was chewing gum.  I wondered where she got it, since I hadn’t given her any.  Maybe the team that was there the previous week had given it to her.  I looked back at the movie trying to focus on it and ignore the sweat pouring down my legs into my shoes, down my back inside my shirt, and down my cheeks dripping off my chin.  I shifted my position on the hard pew, trying to get more comfortable.  Sonjua looked over at me as I shifted.  She saw the sweat coming down my cheeks and wiped down my hair and cheeks.  I smiled at her and turned back to the movie, enjoying her sweet, loving attempts to comfort me.  As I watched the movie she blew on my face to cool me.  It was surprisingly effective, feeling cool and comforting.  How sweet!  And then I smelled her breath, her sweet fruity-gum breath.  My eyes started to fill with tears.  This little angel who I was supposed to be encouraging and comforting was comforting me!  She was blessing me, ministering to me in my sweatiness. 

At that point, something came back to me, something Joe Knittig had said to us at the Crazy Love banquet at church the previous December, when we had confirmed our family’s decision to come to Haiti.  Joe had described the dynamics of ministering to orphans like this.

“If you take all the people of the world and line them up in a single file line according to their wealth, these orphans are at the far end of it, among the poorest of the poor, with no one to speak for them, no family or caretakers.  If you’re blessed to live in America, you’re somewhere at the other end of the line, among the wealthiest in the world.  You’ll step out of your place in the line and go to the end of the line, thinking you’re going to save these orphans, but they’ll save you.”  
He was right! Here I was, coming to bless these kids and being blessed.  Coming to love and comfort them, but instead feeling more love and comfort from them.  Sonjua didn’t have anything more than a few clothes and that gum, but she was blessing me beyond measure trying to cool me and comfort me.  That sweet fruity breath was the first time it hit me that week, but there were many more lessons from Sonjua and her amazing friends.  They taught us how to love through spending time, smiling, touching, and hugging. Those things meant far more to them than anything we could give them.  This fact was emphasized when some from our group went into one of the boys’ homes and found a trophy case of toys, Frisbees and balls hung from the ceiling.  These items had been given to the kids by previous teams, intended to bring them happiness through play.  Instead, they were hung from the ceiling as a reminder of the love of the givers behind the gifts.  After a few days around those orphans, you realize that Joe was right, almost prophetic—those orphans showed us that things don’t matter, people do, and the most important thing is a relationship with Jesus.  They loved Jesus and praised Him like I’ve never experienced before.  Even though they had almost nothing to call their own, those kids were happier than most kids I know in America.  My thinking started changing that night, with one little blast of sweet fruity gum breath.  I’ll never be the same, Sonjua and her friends saved me.  Things don’t matter to me like they used to, and relationships matter so much more. 

            
     I challenge you to take up Joe Knittig’s challenge, to step out of your place in line and go to the end of the line, to spend some time with some of these sweet orphans in Haiti or anywhere else you have opportunity to go.  You won’t regret it—they will save you too.  Oh, and one more thing, you may want to take some fruit flavored gum.

Emotions in Haiti (Part 1)

     My eyes welled with tears many times on this trip.  I'm not an emotional guy.  I don't cry at weddings or funerals usually.   I don't get easily angered or upset.  In fact, I’ve even been told by my wife I'm not expressive enough.  I've been chastised before for not showing enough excitement over many things that she shares shares with me.  I think most husbands have probably experienced that.  My brother-in-law gave me some good advice shortly after we got married.  He said all new husbands need to "learn to do cartwheels."  Most men fail to show enough emotion in response to things we see in life.  I'm a typical guy in that respect, fairly reserved and quiet, and even a bit analytical.  So why do I feel my emotions bubbling up at so many things in Haiti?  Why did I cry so much on my first trip in July, and want to cry even more this time?  Rather than trying to analyze it, let me just share some of the events and let you react for yourself. 

     This was my third trip.  It was Sunday afternoon.  We were coming up the hill for the first time on the trip, our first greeting of the children. I had witnessed many things before, including the orphans greeting us as the bus (aka the Chuck Norris) rolled up the hill.  The children know the sound of the bus coming.  They gather near the school buildings and outside the medical clinic, some of the closest buildings to the road.   The jump and down excitedly.  Many run alongside the bus, racing it all the way up the road and round the corner of the church, where it will stop to let us out.  They don't know who is on the bus yet, they haven't met this group.  That doesn't dampen their enthusiasm.  They crowd the bus as it stops to let us off, barely making room for us to step off, grabbing hands, arms, and the edge of your shorts and pulling you off, eager to hug and greet, to give and receive love. You can overhear exchanges of 'what is your name?' being spoken by kids with Creole accents and our team recriprocating and often struggling with their beautiful Haitian names.  The kids don't care what you call them as long as you hug and love them.  A few of them have recognized familiar faces and fight through the crowds to get to their special friend.  Bigger hugs and even more passionate greetings are exchanged among those bon zanmi yo(good friends).  I’ve seen this before, it is wonderful to experience. 

     All of those things bless me as I watch from the back of bus, waiting my turn to get to the door.  There are some children walking around the bus looking in the windows to see if they can find a familiar face.  I see Mikenson, one of the oldest and tallest boys there, a kind and helpful young man. I call out his name and we first bump through the open window.  I see many other kids I know and I call out their names and wave to them.  It feels so good to be back.  My boy Kevinson sees me and jumps up and down excitedly.  He races around the bus towards the door to get in line to grab me when I come off.  I see Kettley, my wife Joy’s special friend from the summer.  She was the tough girl, an older teen and very standoffish when we saw her this summer, until she met my wife Joy.   She had an attitude and an edge to her.  She would mock Joy.  Joy would say mesi (which means thank you) to the kids for something they said or did.  Kettley would mesi (meh-see) with a pronounced attitude (when said that way, it means ‘whatever!’), trying to get under Joy's skin.  But Joy made it her mission to break through to Kettley.  Joy would give her "Meh-see" right back, with more animation.  The older teens around would crack up at that, and eventually Kettley cracked a smile.  Kettley picked an attitude fight with Joy and lost.  She warmed up to Joy, letting Joy love her and by the end of the week they were inseparable.  Kettley cried much when Joy left.  A picture that still brings tears to me is Joy and Kettley saying goodbye, with Kettley's hand pressed against the outside of the bus window and Joy's hand from the inside.  When three of us from our family came back in October, Kettley asked where Joy was.  When we told her Joy didnt come this time, she went off by herself to cry.  This time, Kettley's face split into a wide grin as she saw me and she hurried around towards the door to greet me too.

      But these aren't the greetings that brought tears to my eyes.  We had two special greetings that day.  Jeannie and JC Swafford were with us on the trip.  Jeannie had been here twice before on medical trips.  She and JC are members of Parkway Baptist, but Jeannie had jumped in with Longhollow on previous trips to use her medical skills.  She had just received her nursing degree a couple years ago, specifically obtained to help with mission work.  Actually, Jeannie had more than jumped in.  She and JC had begun the process of adopting one of the orphans named Sheldon.  He is 5 or 6 years old, all boy with lots of energy and a big smile.  This was JC's first trip and first time meeting Sheldon.  Video cameras were rolling to capture this special moment.  I'll confess I missed most of that exchange because I was near the back of the bus, witnessing a second special greeting.  Seth Huber was also on the trip.  He and his wife Rachel had begun the adoption process also, adopting little Bobby, a 3 year old boy who is arguably the cutest of the 'little guys' at the orphanage.  Bobby is a bit moody at a times and very difficut to coax a smile out of.  He doesn't like having his picture taken and doesn't speak much.  When he does, his favorite word is 'no'.  (In other words, Bobby is in many aspects, a typical 3 year old.)  Seth had made the trip in May and bonded with Bobby.  Rachel had just met him on the November trip.  I happened to be stuck in the back of the bus as people were trying to unload through the crowd of excited children when I looked out the left side of the bus and saw Seth finish hoisting Bobby up through the open window.  Bobby had a smile on his face like I've never seen before.  He looked at his dad, smiling as big as I’ve ever seen him smile.  He leaned into him and looked around at the chaos of children snatching adults, content that he already had his adult, his dad! (This was surely a rare feeling for him since the little guys struggle to get through the older kids to grab an adult before anyone else gets them).  When I saw Seth holding Bobby, matching the huge smile on Bobby's face with one equally big, the tears welled up.  What an immense privilege to witness such a special moment.  My eyes got blurry behind the video camera as I tried to get a good shot of them together.  As I reflect back on this moment, it strikes me that we will all experience this one day.  We will escape our troubled existence in this world when He comes to take us home.  I have no doubt my smile will be as big as Bobby's was that day. 

A Soccer Game, and a Big Deal

I went to a youth soccer game Sunday, and it was a big deal.  Soccer games happen everywhere, every day.  I know that’s no big deal.  I’m not trying to say it was a big deal that I went as in Me, “The-guy-who just-doesn’t-like-soccer”.  I know, I know, it’s the most popular sport in the world, and it’s the fastest growing sport in America.  You can quote all the stats to me--I still just don’t like soccer.  Maybe I’m not smart enough to understand the nuances of the game, the strategy and skill required.  Maybe I’m insecure because I never played it as a kid and I’m no good at it.  Maybe I just can’t get past the dramatic flopping and faking injuries that happens on the soccer games I see on TV.  Whatever the reason(s), I just don’t like soccer.  And I went to a soccer game today.  But that not the big deal.  I went because I knew someone who was playing, several someone’s in fact.  Our boys from the orphanage in Jeremie had their first ever church league soccer game, and THAT was a big deal—a huge deal in fact. 

It was our first day in Jeremie.  Our flight had arrived earlier in the day and we had settled in and unpacked at the guesthouse.  We had come to the orphanage around 1 in the afternoon to visit with the kids for a while, just to build some bonds and love on them.  Around 3 O’clock, several of the older boys began to appear in soccer jerseys.  They were very sharp jerseys--dark purple with white numbers and a cool design, very official looking.  They were excited.   You could see how proud they were to have on the jersey and be a part of a team.  Every kid that has ever played a sport can relate.  That first time you put on your uniform before your first game.  You want to show it off.  You want people to see you in that uniform and know you’re a part of a team.  You want people to ask you about it.  Orphans or not, these kids were no different.  In fact, they seemed more excited than most kids to wear a uniform.  They were milling around in the church building in uniform, with the other kids checking out their uniforms and asking them questions about the team.  I wasn’t exactly sure what was going on, whether they were showing off, or had a practice.  Eventually I got distracted.   ‘My kids’ wanted my attention, so I wandered outside the church with them.   I had passed out some gum and was hanging out with them when I saw the boys on the soccer team start walking off down the road.  I saw Pastor Lionel and Dou Dou talking so I went up to them and asked where the boys were going.  They explained the boys had their first soccer game today.  I was excited to hear that they were playing their first game ever today.  Dou Dou said it was not far, just down the hill.  He asked me if I wanted to go.  Of course I wanted to go, but I was a little torn at first because I didn’t want to miss time with my kids too.  I asked Dou Dou if I could take a couple kids with me.  He said the older ones could go, if they were dressed properly.  I pointed to my girl, Sonjua and he looked her over as a Dad inspecting his daughter’s outfit before she goes out in public.  He said something to her and she quickly ran off to change.  I chatted for a minute with Dou Dou and she reappeared in a different, more presentable outfit.  We held hands and walked down the hill towards the game with several other members of our team and a few more of our kids. 

When we got to the soccer field, I was surprised.  It wasn’t anything like the any of the soccer fields I had ever seen.  I’m not sure what I was expecting, but that wasn’t it.  It was bare and sparse without a blade of grass.  The field was mostly patches of baked dirt and bare rock.  It was fairly even, which was impressive, and had a semblance of lines all around the edges and outlining a goalie box.  Upon closer inspection, I realized the lines were made of some of the lighter colored rocks crushed up into powder carefully placed.  Around the entire field was fence.  It consisted of a wall of small poles and woven with palm branches, stitched tightly together so no one could get through or even see into the field.  Only one entrance was available at the corner of the field.  I later learned this was the gate so they could charge admission (7 cents per person).  Someone from our team graciously paid for all of us.

Sonjua and I found a place along the small space at the edge of the field, watching our boys warm up for the game.  They looked sharp in their uniforms, having fun showing off as they warmed up.  I checked out the other team, kids from another church nearby.  They wore red ‘uniforms’ consisting of various types of red t-shirts, mostly solid red although one or two had some writing on them.  Their numbers were drawn on the backs with a sharpie.  How ironic that our orphans looked so much sharper and more organized in their matching purple uniforms.   Our goalie even had a sharp goalie uniform.  

Pastor Lionel gathered our boys in the corner to talk before the game, away from everyone else.  He was calm and smiling, projecting confidence.  He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the atmosphere.  Several more of the older girls from the orphanage showed up, all dressed properly.  I’m sure ‘Papa Dou Dou’ had given them the once over before letting them come down the hill.  By the time the game was about to start, it was getting crowded on the one side of the field, so Sonjua and I went to the other side of the field where there was a little more space between the fence and the edge of the field, and not many people.  The boys finished warming up and Pastor Lionel gathered them one more time.  After a few more words of encouragement, they huddled and prayed with one of the older boys leading the prayer.  They lined up at midfield with the other team side by side, giving a clap of salute to the fans present.  By now, about 30 of our orphans were there, plus most of our mission team.  There were another 20 or 30 people there to watch too, family members and kids from nearby.  The ‘press box’ played music and the kids swayed and danced on the sidelines. 

Finally it was time to start.  I’m not enough of a soccer expert to give you an assessment of the skill sets or the quality of team play, but it was fun to watch.  There were some talented players on both teams, and the ball went up and down the small field quickly.  Our goalie, Johnny, made a few big saves, then the ball went to the other end, and one or our boys scored.  I wasn’t prepared for the celebration.  Our whole team ran to the center of the field jumping and hugging.  The orphans watching on the sidelines jumped up and down, over and over, hugging and screaming.  Some of them ran onto the field too.  Even Sonjua, who is often very quiet and reserved, was jumping up and down at my side hugging me and celebrating with the boys as they came back to the sidelines.  Those kids were downright giddy.  I felt tears of joy for them well up in me as I celebrated with them, at the same time kicking myself for not having my camera ready. 

As the celebration died down, and the game resumed, it dawned on me that there was something much more to celebrate than a simple goal in a game.  These kids had no family.  They had no one to be there to celebrate the milestones of life.  I thought about all the things that I have celebrated with my kids in supporting them—their first day of school, their games in various sports, their accomplishments in school and in life.  For most of these kids, they had never had anyone around to do that, or at least, not recently.  It was likely the first time any of them had even been on a ‘team’ or had a team of their own to support.  So their celebration was more than just a goal in a game, it was a celebration of belonging, of connection, of being a part of a family and a ‘team’.  They had so much more to celebrate than that game.  I marveled at how God can connect with people in such a hopeless situation, orphans in the poorest country in the western hemisphere, now brothers and sisters in Christ celebrating their family’s accomplishments.  These kids belonged to a family, the family of Christ.  They were brothers and sisters and proud of their family’s accomplishment.  At that realization, I celebrated a little harder with them.   

As I treasured these thoughts and the joy of the experience, the other team scored a goal.  It didn’t matter to me.  In fact, it didn’t matter that the other team scored again and our team was down 2-1 at halftime.  We had to leave and I already knew the final score—our kids had won.  The found Jesus and were a part of His family.  And that made them all winners.  I am proud to be call them my teammates, my family, my brothers and sisters in Christ!

Haiti Round 3: The Adventure Begins-Buckle Up!

It seems every Haiti trip has at least one transportation challenge. On our first trip, one of our team had some issues getting her ticket issued when we were leaving Haiti and returning home. I saw the concern on her face as she had to go back to the counter several times times, that "please don't strand me in Haiti" look. Then relief when they finally straightened everything out. We also ran into a fun transportation challenge when the road to Jeremie was blocked on day due to 'construction'. We waited 30 minutes or more while they 'fixed' the road, then ended up having to split the group and make 2 trips everywhere in a van because the bus couldn't make it thru the construction spot in the road.
On our October trip, we started with a thud as the flight from Nashville to Miami was cancelled. We ended up renting vans and driving to Atlanta to catch an early flight from Atlanta to miami the next day, only putting us a few hours behind original schedule. When we got to the guest house, the bus wasn't running and we had to be shuttled around in an suv. Dou Dou was driving the van back from Port Au Prince at the same time, and he was stopped bry a flooded river. He had to stay in the van for a day an a half until the water went down.
So with that kind of experience in 2 trips, I expected some kind of a logistical challenge on this third trip. Even anticipating some kind of curveball, I was a little surprised that I was the one facing the hurdle, and right out of the chute. As I handed over my passport tom the lady at the ticket counter, he lady behind the counter scanned it and starred at her screen a minute, a confused look coming over her face.
"Morris? I don't see you on here, could it be under another name?".
"No, it should be under Morris."
"Are you sure you're flying with American?"
"Yes, I'm sure. There is a group of 12 of us going to Haiti on a mission trip".
"I'm sorry, I don't have a Morris listed."
The voices in my head reassured me, pushing back the urge to panic. 'Ok, take a deep breath, you're GOING on this trip Mike. You've prepared, paid, and packed. This will work out.' I got Tami Heim our coordinator, and asked her for to help with a confirmation number. She got out the group information and the lady at the counter pulled up our group on her screen.
"Hmmm. Yes, I see your group, Longhollow right? Nope, no Morris here."
Another deep breath, 'don't panic, stay calm'.
"Ok", I said, "Can you tell us who you do have listed there and we'll compare it with our list?"
She started reading "I have two Heims, two Kings, a Mayo, a Michael, a ..."
"Wait", I interrupted. "A Michael?". Looking at Tami, she nodded.
"There is no Michael in our group.". Tami said, "I'm sure that's it".
The lady looked back at her screen. "It says 'Hugh Michael'".
Phew! "That's it, that's got to be it." I said, showing her my passport again,with my full name- Michael Hugh Morris. Someone had obviously read it wrong and gave my name as Michael Hugh or rather, Hugh Michael. It took another 15 minutes or so to correct the my name on the trip down and back. As the lady was correcting everything, my friend and fellow Haiti junkie, Brian Jackson, who was admittedly jealous that I was going and he wasn't, started teasing me.
"You're not going! You have to stay home with me." I smiled and resisted then urge to say something un-Christian. Finally, I breathed a sigh of relief when she handed me my corrected ticket information and boarding passes. Not even one hour into the trip and we've already had our first bend in the road. Wow. If the trip is going to start this way, what else are we in for? A voice in my head responded, "I don't know, but you better buckle up...Hugh."

It’s always sunny...up above the clouds

(from October 2009)

So there I was, shell shocked with the news, staring out the window of the plane as we taxied towards the runway.  I was fighting the waves of emotions coming at me—for the third time in nine months I had received news that I’d lost a sister.  I had been in Charlotte, North Carolina for a three day training session.  I was having breakfast before the second day’s session, when I got the call that my sister Kris had died.  Now I was sitting on a plane, waiting to taxi towards the runway and fly home to Nashville.  It was rainy and gray outside, the wind blowing a steady rain around as I watched.  It didn’t surprise me that it was raining.  I remember hearing my mother-in-law tell of a missionary lady who had lost her husband and partner of many years.  She was so sad and she prayed, “Lord would you please let me know you’re sad too?”  The answer came--it rained a torrential downpour for the next three days.  Joy also remembers a particularly tragic funeral a couple years ago.  A teenage boy had died in a car wreck over the summer.  His funeral was on a hot summer day, and with no rain in the forecast, it burst into an unexpected downpour the afternoon of his services.  Earlier this year, a friend from church lost her husband.  We went to the visitation Sunday afternoon and got rained on coming out of the funeral home.  And last year, a police officer who worked security over the pre-school and children’s area at church died.  His funeral was one of the grayest, rainiest days I can remember.  It wasn’t a surprise that gray, dreary rain surrounded the days around Kris’ death.  It seemed fitting.  In fact, it seemed like we had a very wet and rainy year in the Nashville area, which seemed ironically appropriate, at least for me personally.  Losing three sisters in nine months called for lots of rain in my mind.  In fact, it rained or snowed for both Nancy and Kris’ deaths.  Nancy’s death came in January in Illinois.  I drove from Nashville to Morton, Illinois through a terrible snow and ice storm.  The ice storm was so bad and so widespread that my sister Kris and her husband Jim were without power for days in Arkansas.  They had to stay in a hotel the entire week before they traveled to Illinois for Nancy’s funeral.  (I remember very pleasant weather around Kathy’s death in August, but that would spoil my point so I’m omitting it as an anomaly).  Now Kris had died and it was raining again.  It would end up raining most of the eight hour trip to Arkansas on the following day and over half of the trip home.  I think rain and death will be permanently connected in my mind. 

Anyway, like I said, I was staring out the window at the gray rainy weather, fighting back tears and trying to get my mind to grab onto something other than the grayness and the sadness.  I was in one of those mental places where lots of thoughts are flying through your mind, but you can’t seem to lock in on any one of them.  We sat on the taxiway for an extra ten or fifteen minutes waiting to be cleared to take off and I just stared out into the rain.  I watched pretty fall colors being suppressed by the wind and rain, ripping colorful leaves off the trees and driving them to the ground, blowing them down before their time.  I remember thinking the leaves were just like my sisters, beautiful and meant to be enjoyed, not driven down before their time so others couldn’t enjoy them.  The captain broke into my thoughts for a moment, announcing we were cleared to take off.  I watched the ground speed by, the wet leaves becoming a blur as we gained speed.  Finally the nose lifted and we broke free, giving me a wider picture of the wet grayness below.  I continued to stare out the window, again my mind refusing to lock in any one thought and deal with it.  Suddenly we were in the clouds and then a moment later we broke through them into bright dazzling sunlight.  I angled my head away from the window because the sun was so bright.  I squinted out the window, feeling the warm sun on the side of my face as I looked out.  The clouds that had been sending down dreariness and rain looked so fluffy and white as I looked down on them.  Clear blue skies filled the horizon as far as I could see.  It felt good to feel the sun on my face.  I found myself wishing that I could’ve tapped into that feeling earlier in the year, and then it dawned on me, like a child flying for the first time, it’s always sunny up above the clouds.  What a comforting thought.  Even when it seems like the rain will never end, the sun is still up there, as warm and comforting as can be.  I thought of Little Orphan Annie singing “the sun will come out, tomorrow”.  What strange comfort the sun provided to me.  It was like a warm hug from God, letting me know He is still there.  I then took the analogy further, thinking that looking down from above, it’s easy to remember the sun is there and waiting, but when you’re underneath the clouds feeling the rain, it’s easy to forget about the sun or even doubt if you’ll see it again.  I looked down on the clouds—they looked so white and fluffy and harmless from here.  It was hard to imagine they were responsible for such depressing gray conditions.  I looked closer—it was impossible to tell from above whether it was raining under those clouds or not. 

Another analogy crossed my mind—the tapestry.  Many pastors have shared in sermons that life is like a tapestry, from the back a mess of crossed threads and intermixed colors, none of it seeming to make any sense.  That’s what we see from our view.  When you turn it over and see it from God’s view, it makes a beautiful picture.  As I looked down on the clouds, I didn’t see any beautiful picture.  I just saw fluffy white clouds lit up by a bright sun.  I couldn’t tell what the clouds were doing, what grand purpose they were serving, or anything else that might have mattered.  Funny thing about the tapestry analogy, you have to not only have God’s perspective, you have to see with His eyes.  You have to be able see things as He does, even if you have the right perspective. 

I happen to be colorblind.  I’m not colorblind so bad that I can’t tell red from blue, just colorblind enough to fail those stupid colorblind tests (and my wife’s tests for putting an outfit together.)  You know, the ones where they say “Look at these dot patterns and write down the numbers you see.”  Numbers?  What numbers!  It’s a bunch of dots!  I know other people who are completely colorblind, as in wearing one brown sock and one black sock to work if someone doesn’t catch them before they get out the door.  I think we’re all colorblind to a degree when it comes to seeing the tapestry of life.  We struggle and struggle to get around from our side of the tapestry, to see it from God’s view, but even then we can’t make it out.  We may be enlightened to understand a part of a situation, or see how God is working in someone’s life, but it still doesn’t make complete sense.  I remember understanding some ways God worked when my dad died in 1991.  God used it to help us grow closer together.   We drew strength from each other and from being together.  He helped me, as a 24 year old young man in my first year of marriage, grow up and take on responsibility as the man of the family (even though I had 5 brother-in-laws around).  God used my oldest sister Kathy to come alongside my mom and be many of the things dad was to her: a calming, steady voice in difficult times.  She became the quiet leader of our family in dad’s absence and the glue that held us together.  My 3^rd sister Nancy’s research into our family history became so much more important to us.  We wanted to know more about how and where dad grew up and his family.  My 2^nd sister Kris’ humor kept us lighthearted and laughing, even when our hearts were heavy.  I even saw many of the ways God blessed my mom and dad in his final days.  I remember Dad and I went to breakfast one morning before he decided to retire in 1991.  He talked through all the pro’s and con’s of it with me and asked what I thought.  I remember thinking “He is treating me like a friend, wanting my advice.  Wow!”  I don’t remember what advice I gave him, but he ended up retiring in May.  His employer of 42 years, Caterpillar, held a retirement dinner for him and two other colleagues who retired that year.  I remember a specific part of his retirement speech.  He said it was very gratifying for him to have moved from a parenting relationship into a friendship with each of his kids.  How cool was that!  My dad called me his friend!  I look back on that speech after his death and see it as God’s way of telling us that dad’s work was done in our lives.  He didn’t need to teach us anymore as our parent and instructor.  That didn’t mean there weren’t plenty of things I still wanted to ask him.  To this day, I still wish I could ask him things.  I viewed that comment as more of an insight from God that Dad had told me everything I needed from him. 

Some other things that I observed after Dad’s death—he and mom got to go to Colorado, their favorite vacation spot in the world in July of 1991.  They spent a week there at a family reunion with his side of the family.  Dad was the oldest of nine and many of his brothers and sisters and their families were there.  It was the last time he would see many of them, but what a great time they had.  They had such an enjoyable last visit together.  He and mom ended up buying a time-share in Estes Park, a beautiful two bedroom vacation home they were going to enjoy together.  They scheduled two weeks in October and invited Joy and me to spend a week with them.  We came out and had a wonderful week together.  One of my favorite pictures is of me and my dad sitting and laughing on the front porch of that vacation home.  Joy has that picture in a framed ornament that hangs on our Christmas tree every year.  We had such a great week together.  I remember the last time I saw him, we had a big hug and told each other we loved each other.  We always did that, especially after his first heart attack in 1985.  Mom and Dad were still at that vacation home in Colorado, enjoying a second week with their best friends the week dad died.  They had done all their favorite things together, playing cards, sightseeing and shopping.  Dad and his friend Bill had even played some golf.  If you could have asked my dad how he wanted to spend his last days, he couldn’t have written a better script.  The outpouring of love and support at his visitation and funeral blew me away, too.  I saw so many people that I had never met who had been impacted by his life.  We felt so much love from the support of family and friends.  I could see God at work in those events and in the days to come in our family.  I could see part of the “why” in Dad’s death and its timing.   

This year was so different--the pain was bewildering.  Losing Nancy, Kathy, and Kris in the past nine months sure didn’t make sense to me.  When Dad died, we all had each other and we still lived in fairly close proximity to one another—we worked through it together as a family.  Now we were scattered across the country--Arkansas, Illinois, Indiana, Tennessee, and Maryland.  Mom was devastated from losing three children.  (A person may not be shocked to lose their spouse, after all, there’s a fifty-fifty chance it will happen to every married person.)  She told me, “It’s hard seeing your kids die, Mike.  I never thought when I was having all those babies that I’d see them die before I did.”  God in His wisdom took Kathy, Kris, and Nancy home in the same year and I couldn’t understand even a little of it.  Nancy was still mom’s child to worry about, the only one of her children that was unmarried with no spouse to care for her.  Her health had gotten so bad in the past year of battling Hepatitis C and the complications that go with it that she was in a nursing home.  Kris was a faithful friend to mom, calling her every Sunday to talk about whatever was new under the sun, sharing favorite sermons and music they had recently heard.  And Kathy was mom’s main source of support over the past 18 years after Dad’s death.  That was just Mom’s perspective on the losses.  I had seven nieces and nephews that had lost their mothers, and two brother-in-laws that had become widowers.   

My perspective was every bit as painful.  Nancy was one of a kind, like a second mother to me when I was younger.  She was “my favorite sister” when I was growing up.  She loved me and spent more time with me than my other sisters.  I know it wasn’t because she loved me more than they did, she just had more time to spend with me and was more interested in me than they were at the time.  Kathy was my advisor.  She was going to share her parenting wisdom and help me get my three kids through the teenage years, as she and her husband Jan had done such an amazing job with their four kids.  She was the leader of the family, always gathering us at her house, keeping us together and taking care of mom.  Who could help mom like she did?  How could I take care of mom from Tennessee?  Even as I tried to call mom more after Kathy died, I realized how bad at being Kathy I was.  And Kris was such a good listener and such a great comedian in the family.  She could make fun or herself and us and keep us from getting too uptight or depressed.  She could also offer spiritual wisdom and comfort—she listened to sermons and read books more than most of us.  She was an encouragement to many of us.  She made it a point to tell Joy and I what a great job she thought we were doing with our kids.  I was looking forward to spending more time with Kris after Nancy and Kathy died, she was just what I needed, what we needed to help us through these times.  Now she was gone too.  How could I lose all three of them in one year?  In nine months?  That didn’t make even a little sense. 

But as I stared down at the clouds again, trying to figure out what was going on under them, I remembered, like the tapestry, no one has God’s full perspective and vision when it comes to seeing things clearly as He does. Things will never fully make sense until we are with Him in eternity.  Strangely, that thought comforted me as I looked down.  I didn’t have to make sense of this loss, of these losses.  That was God’s territory.  I just have to trust Him that He has a plan and that the tapestry does make sense.  It will make a beautiful picture someday.   I may not be able to see or comprehend it until I get to Heaven, because I’m colorblind.  We all are.  And that’s ok.

It the meantime, the sun was shining bright and warm on my face, still up here above the clouds.  It felt good and I closed my eyes and stopped looking down trying to figure things out.  For that moment, it was good just to enjoy the warmth of the sun and not try to understand everything under it.  I appreciate the sun and sunny days more now than ever, like God’s reminder to me that He still loves me.  But when it rains and life hurts, I remember that the sun is still up there, above the clouds.  I remember that God still loves me, cares for me, and has a plan for my life, even if things don’t make sense to me.