Amy's Story, Part 4

Part 4

            This is the last installment of what I shared at my church in early December. 

At a women’s ministry meeting in November, talk centered around our Christmas brunch which was coming up fast.  Mainly, we didn’t have a speaker.  Several women had been asked but we didn’t have any takers yet.  Sitting across the room, my friend Gina looked at me and said, “You should share at the brunch.  Who knows where you’ll be in the spring.” She’s right, I have no idea where I’ll be come spring or where I’ll be living when the next women’s brunch at Shiloh Bible Church rolls around. 

When Gina made her suggestion, I did what I usually do when I’m uncomfortable, I laughed and changed the subject.  I’m really good at it.  But, I was thinking I wanted to share at the brunch and I felt God had something for me to say.  Instead of trusting Him, saying “Yes. I’d like to do that,” and moving on, I kind of freaked out.  I talked to my husband about it, emailed a friend who I knew would be honest, and felt like crying for most of the night.  Then, as I prayed, God asked me, “What’s the word I gave you this year?”

My "enough" necklace

I had always thought people who had a “word of the year” were so cool and together.  I tried to drum up a word of the year several times before. Though I could come up with something fairly interesting, I would promptly forget and I never wrote the words down. So, I was delighted when God actually gave me a word of the year in 2017 and again in 2018. This time I remembered them, they stuck. 

My word for 2018 was Enough.  That word took on different meanings over the months.  To start with, God told me He was enough for me – all I need.  His provision is enough, He sees and answers my prayers before I speak them.  God then moved on to tell me that I am enough.  My story is interesting enough.  He created me like I am for a reason.  He didn’t make me less than. He would provide all I need to have and all I need to be through Himself.  I don’t have to strive and wonder if I am enough.  It’s already accomplished.  It’s done. 

Then as my boys’ high school graduation neared and I didn’t know what life would look like on the other side, God’s word took on a new tone.  As I whined to Him in prayer about my sorrow and the uncertainty in my life, God said sternly, “Enough!”  Enough with not trusting, enough with second-guessing.  Enough!  So, in the midst of my freak out about doing this talk, God said again, “Enough. Just do this thing, Amy. It’s ok. I’ll tell you what to say. I’ll take care of it. Just step out and share.”

2 Corinthians 9:15 was the verse for the event where I first shared this story, “Thanks be to God for His inexpressible gift.”  Our gifts are a reflection of the inexpressible gift God has given Believers in Christ.  When we share our gifts, whatever they may be; a shoebox you pack or a meal you prepare or a talk you give at a ladies’ brunch, you’re sharing what God has given you. 

It says in 2 Corinthians 9:10 as we pour out, God will pour into us and supply us with what we need so we can continue to give.  I got a laugh out of chapter 9 verse 7 when I was thinking about this talk, “Each one must give as he has decided in his heart, not reluctantly or under compulsion, for God loves a cheerful giver.”  While I’m cheerful as I share now, I certainly wasn’t as I was stepping out to agree to speak.

High School Graduation

All of chapter 9 in 2 Corinthians is about gift giving. Paul covers how the Corinthians were supposed to offer their gifts. They were good at giving. Paul bragged on them for being so generous. Paul essentially wrote this letter to say, “Hey, I told the church in Macedonia you would help them and, what’s more, you would want to help them.  So, I’m writing to warn you that an opportunity to give is coming. AND, when you do this amazing thing, guess what?  The Macedonians will be so blessed they’ll long for you and praise God because you met their needs.” It will be like a child getting a shoebox from Operation Christmas Child and praising God for His blessing and provision. You packed the box and sent the box.  But, God gets the glory.

I love this commercial from Apple.  It’s less than 3 minutes. Take time to watch it.  Here are the lyrics to the song in the video:

Wake up and smell the coffee
Is your cup half full or empty?
When we talk, you say it softly
But I love it when you’re awfully quiet, quiet

You see a piece of paper
Could be a little greater
Show me what you could make her
You’ll never know until you try it
You don’t have to keep it quiet

And I know it makes you nervous
But I promise you, it’s worth it
To show ’em everything you kept inside
Don’t hide, don’t hide
Too shy to say, but I hope you stay
Don’t hide away
Come out and play…♬

“Come out and play” by Billie Eilish

In this video, the girl wrote the story. She thought it up, typed it out and hid it away. God gave her that gift, but she wasn’t willing to share it. When her pages were blown into the town, people were blessed by what they read. When we share our gifts, we’re blessing others too. 

                I could have told you a lot more about each of these parts of my life, and maybe that’s my real gift to you, that I didn’t.  But, I hope you’re encouraged to be bold and brave to share whatever gifts God has blessed you with.  Share joyfully and whole-heartedly. I can’t wait to be blessed and encouraged by you!

                Thank you!

Amy's Story Part 3

Part 3 

We’re heading into the home stretch here.  The first two parts of my “story” were marriage and missions.  Today we move on to “motherhood and moving.” 

            Motherhood – As our time living and working in Austria came to a close, Bobby and I were longing for children of our own.  After we arrived back in the States, we began trying to have a baby. Our journey to parenthood wasn’t easy. The waiting felt eternal.  At times it didn’t look like we would be able to have kids at all and I began wondering what kind of plan God would have for me if that were the case.  It would be a completely different life than the “mom life” I had imagined and ached for.  But, then, God decided to bless us with not one, but two baby boys at once.  Now, 19 years later, I thank God almost every day that I get to be their mom.

First Year of Flag Football, Fort Worth, TX

          Allen, our oldest by 23 minutes, and very much the typical first born, is majoring in aviation flight science at Western Michigan University in Kalamazoo, 10 hours from Bloomsburg, Pennsylvania.  He’s in Air Force ROTC, plays ultimate frisbee and plans on a career as an Air Force pilot.  He sees himself flying an attack plane that swoops in to combat areas providing support for those on the ground.  I’m so proud he wants to help and protect others, but there are times I wish he wanted to be something safer, like an analyst or a teacher.

             Davis, our easy going second born, is working in Auburn, Alabama as a bank teller.  That’s 15 hours away FYI.  He plans on attending Auburn University in the fall, where Bobby and I met.  He says today that he wants to major in accounting, like his dad.  He’s been changing his mind about a lot of things lately, so we’ll see what he says tomorrow. Davis enjoys his independence and has grown up surprisingly quickly during this gap year.  He’s figuring out exactly where God may have him in the future, but in the meantime, he’s learning to play guitar and endearingly spends a lot of time with his grandparents and Great-Gram.

Senior Pictures, Bloomsburg, PA

             From the beginning, Bobby and I agreed I should be home with our boys as much as possible.  So, I was the one to put them down for naps and make their lunch.  I was the one playing with blocks on the floor and filling up the plastic pool in the backyard.  I picked them up from school every day and heard what they made on their spelling tests or the funniest joke ever they heard that day.  We even homeschooled these two little guys from the end of 3^rd grade until the middle of 9^th grade.  It was a gift to be the first to see Allen’s fascination with the military and battles and history come alive as we read A History of English-Speaking Peoples by Winston Churchill.  It was fun to read poetry to the boys and have Davis say from where he was laying on the couch, “Poetry makes me feel really relaxed.”

 

             But, by far, the biggest blessing of being a mom was hearing a 4-year-old Allen say, from the backseat of the van on the way to swimming lessons, “Hey Mom, how do you ask Jesus into your heart?”  I was blessed to walk both Allen and Davis through what it meant to live their little lives for the Lord. Bobby and I continue to walk with them as they struggle and grow in making their faith their own.

             The next greatest blessing of being a mom is being able to sit across the table from my two 19-year-old young men and realize they’re two of my favorite people in the world.  I actually like them.  I enjoy spending time with them and prefer their company to almost everyone else.  That is a true gift.

             

             When Allen and Davis were making their plans for high school graduation and talking about what came next for them, I didn’t handle it very well.  We had taught them they could go anywhere in the world God called them to go and do anything God called them to do, with our blessing.  But as they started talking about Michigan and Alabama, I wanted to take it all back.

Baby Allen

Baby Davis

               Once again, I saw a great application in the TV show Once Upon a Time.  In this instance, Rumpelstiltskin is married to Belle from Beauty and the Beast.  (You just have to go with me here. Don’t over think it!)  Anywho, Rumple and Belle have a son named Gideon who has been accepted to some sort of school.  Rumple and Belle are proud of Gideon and watch as he begins excitedly gathering his belongings to leave. As Gideon leaves the room to continue his packing, Rumple looks at Belle and says, “I didn’t think he’d be leaving so soon.”  Belle says, “We’ve had Gideon for 18 amazing years.  Years filled with life and adventure.  Now it’s time for him to find his own.  He’s ready.”  And Rumple replies, “But what if I’m not ready?”

              That was me.  My kids were ready for their next adventure, but I definitely wasn’t.

              

              Moving – One of the reasons my children were ready to go out into the world is that Allen and Davis have had to move a lot.  Because of Bobby’s job, Allen, Davis and Bobby have each survived five big moves in nine years.  We lived in Alabama until the boys were almost ten.  Alabama is “home” for me.  It’s where we gather for holidays and where extended family live.  

              Then, we lived in Fort Worth, Texas where I learned to grind wheat and bake bread and we began our homeschooling adventure.  One day while living in Fort Worth Bobby came home and said, “What do you think about moving to Nebraska?”  I answered very graciously, “Nebraska?  I’ve never even wanted to visit Nebraska.”  But we loved it there where everyone is a University of Nebraska fan and has at least one red car.  We lived on five acres with a beautiful barn where we held an English Country Dance one Saturday night in November.  

Norfolk, Nebraska in Front of THE Barn

        From Nebraska we moved here to Pennsylvania where I learned there are some people who THINK the Sound of Music is a Christmas movie, and if you take mashed potatoes and wrap them in dough it somehow becomes a meal, called pierogies.  Pennsylvania is where I’ve had two knee replacements and where my children will come for class reunions for the rest of their lives. Pennsylvania has also shown me there is yet another beautiful place on this earth where God has gathered a warm, dedicated and loving group of Believers to encourage my heart.

Allen Photo Bombs My Vance's Apple Dumpling Picture at the Bloomsburg Fair

             Each move has been a blessing in its own way and each has given us lasting gifts – church family, friends, and adventure.  But it is never easy to leave.  And It’s never easy to arrive.

              

              I said at the beginning of this story, I wouldn’t be here with you today if God hadn’t decided to change my life.  He saw me, a curly-haired, Southern, 15-year-old girl who just wanted to do ballet and twirl her baton.  He orchestrated my life to lead to this exact point, at this time, with you.

Amy's Story Part 2

                Previously, on AmyLocks, I shared the first part of a talk I recently gave at my church.  Here’s part two of that story.

                My adult life in a nutshell or gift box can be summed up in four words: marriage, missions, motherhood and moving.  Today, we’ll talk about the first two.

                Marriage. My sister, Sumarie, graduated from Auburn University in Auburn, AL about three months before fall quarter my freshman year.  Our Daddy owned a duplex just off campus where we each took a turn living.  When I got settled into 320 Genelda Avenue, I was pleased and surprised to find I had inherited not only Sumarie’s furniture, but also several of her friends. One of those friends was Andrew, a brilliant engineer, who was getting his masters in astrology, I mean, astronomy, and was under direct orders from Sumarie to “take care of my little sister.”  Andrew would occasionally show up at my house and invite me to eat at Arby’s, go see the free movie on campus or play tennis.  On one of these outings, Andrew introduced me to his cute roommate Bobby.

Apparently, Bobby was mature enough to overlook the immaturity of Amy Bass, the loud, silly freshman.  I was a very excited and overscheduled Auburn student and had to refuse Bobby’s first offer of a date because of another commitment.  But, Bobby persisted and asked me to see Up With People about a week later.  That date was followed quickly by evenings getting yogurt at The Railing or watching the aforementioned free movies, or seeing Twila Paris in concert. Auburn University offered lots of great free events in the spring of 1990, at God’s direction I have no doubt.  Bobby never would have asked me out so often if he’d had to pay for dinner and a movie each time.  He says he knew it was love when we went on three dates and he spent less than $5 total. 

Three years to the day after that first “Up With People” date, Bobby and I were married at my hometown church. The ceremony was much too long and there were way too many attendants.  My hair and the sleeves of my wedding gown were huge, but oh! what a perfect day. We celebrated our 25 anniversary this past May.  It has been mostly blissful.

While in college, I attended a Bible study taught by Betty Thomas.  Ms. Betty taught a bunch of headstrong, college-educated women that the Bible says wives are to be submissive and respectful of their husbands.  That was a tricky line to walk in the nineties and even more so now.  She told us that God blesses the obedience of such counter-cultural behavior.  I chose to trust her, at the time, but now I’ve lived it and she’s right. If I hadn’t spent two hours every Monday night of my college years sitting on the floor of Ms. Betty’s well-vacuumed home, learning what it meant to be a Godly woman, my marriage to Bobby would have been even rockier than it sometimes was.  Marriage hasn’t always been easy but after this quarter of a century spent together I’m blessed to be able to say that Bobby Britton is not only my calmer, wiser and better half.  He’s also my best friend. 

            Missions. Close to the end of the three years Bobby and I dated, he told me was having a struggle with God. God had asked Bobby if he was willing to give up everything for Him. At first Bobby honestly admitted he wasn’t. Over time, however, Bobby realized he was willing to submit completely.  As a result, Bobby was praying about going overseas as a missionary. I had just spent a summer on a missions trip of sorts.  I was a “Peace Intern” with the Disciples of Christ denomination which meant I travelled across the country talking with high schoolers about peace with justice issues.  Through that journey I learned I didn’t want to go off and have adventures then come home and tell Bobby about them. I wanted us to experience things together. So, Bobby decided to wait until we were married and could pursue missions as a couple.

About a year after our wedding, Bobby and I started a long application process with International Teams (IT), a small missions organization based near Chicago, IL. During conversations with IT we were given several options regarding where we could serve.  Did we want to help plant a church in Spain or work with refugees in Austria?  We chose Austria and joined the Baden Area Refugee Team.

We spent two years in Baden doing some of the hardest work I’ve ever done. It was emotionally draining. The definition of a refugee is ”a person who has left their home out of a well-founded fear of persecution.”  What that definition doesn’t tell you is how scared and desperate and sad a refugee can become.  As a refugee in “the system”, you’re applying for asylum in other countries and trying to document the reasons you left your homeland.  You’re interviewed extensively by officials in a language that probably isn’t familiar to you, but mostly, you’re just waiting, sometimes for years.

         

           The team we worked with tried to make that waiting a little easier.  We offered coffee bar nights where people could gather and drink coffee, of course, but they could also play chess and checkers.  Men gathered to watch the Jesus film in one of over 50 languages and receive a Bible in the language that spoke to their heart.  We held weekly kids clubs where we shared Bible stories and snacks and games with the refugee children.  We had women’s times where we ate together and did crafts and the women could get to know each other. 

Bobby with some rowdy boys at Kids' Club

At one of these women’s times, I sat with a Kurdish woman from Iraq named Noksha.  She didn’t speak English, I didn’t speak Kurdish and neither of us spoke much German which was often the common language between us.  I had the fun job of “translating” for Noksha that day.  A different story could have made my life easier, but on this day a missionary friend shared from Mark 5:24-34, the woman with the issue of blood who, in her hopelessness and desperation, waded into a crowd of people to touch the hem of Jesus’ robe. She craved comfort and healing. In order to get the point of the story across, I used lots of simple German words and a great deal of acting. At one point I was lying on the floor by our table and I made sweeping arm gestures through the whole thing.  Yeah.  That was fun.  I wonder what in the world Noksha thought I was trying to tell her.

           

           But, most of our work involved visiting with refugees in their rooms or in our home.  We shared stories and food and culture with each other. We also shared the intense joy and relief our friends felt when accepting visas to travel to their new home, or the devastation and anguish they experienced when denied asylum yet again.  We offered these people all we had which was hope in a relationship with Christ.  We reminded them that Christ cared about people from Iran or Afghanistan or Sierra Leone who had to leave home and family to travel a difficult and costly road to an end they couldn’t see, just as He cared for the woman in Mark who touched the hem of his robe.

           

           Three people we grew to love were Alina, Hamik and Sissian, a young couple with a three-year old daughter.  Bobby and I spent a lot of time with them, sharing dreams and hopes, and enjoying each other’s company.  This is the one refugee family I still hear from because we’re friends on Facebook of all things.  Alina, Hamik and Sisian eventually got asylum, then citizenship here in the US.  They’ve both completed their educations, have good jobs and now that same daughter, the one I remember being so tiny and bright eyed, is in her first year of dental school in California.

I loved being a missionary and was sad when God called us back to the United States.  I felt competent and useful in Austria.  The ministry was a good fit for me and I loved working so closely with our team; a group of people who’s values and priorities so closely aligned with my own.  I’m so thankful I fell in love with a man who had missions in his heart because I know I would never have attempted such an adventure on my own.

Sandwich Fight

My kids recently had a fight over a chicken salad sandwich.

Seriously, a chicken salad sandwich.

At one point I feared the disagreement might come to blows so I almost threw the coveted sandwich into the yard.

Just so you know, I love chicken salad. It's one of my favorite things. We have a long, lovely history, chicken salad and me. At the bridesmaids' lunch before my wedding, guess what the hostesses served? You got it, chicken salad. I once worked for a caterer where one of my jobs was to mix chicken salad in a huge Tupperware container like the ones that hold your Christmas decorations or your kids’ toys. When I was newly married, fell in love with a deli in Montgomery, Alabama because they served a sandwich called a chicken salad supreme.

So, believe me when I say I know good chicken salad. But, this wasn't it. Even when it was fresh two days before, it had not been very good. After 48 hours in my refrigerator, the bread was stale on top and soggy on bottom, the lettuce was limp and the chicken salad was just okay. It definitely wasn’t worthy of a squabble.

Thanks How to Feed a Loon

But there we were standing around the kitchen island. The so so chicken salad sandwich sat in its take out container in the middle of us like the last seat in an angry game of musical chairs. The boys were about to dive for it any second.

I tried to reason with them.

I reminded them how old the sandwich was and how undesirable it had been on its first day.

I asked them to think about how silly this whole thing was and how mature they are, usually.

Reason did not prevail. One kid ended up accusing me of “always” being on his brother’s side. The other one gave up and let his brother have the silly sandwich. I’m sure his lunch, whatever it was, was much more satisfying. I ended up frustrated and angry and left the house rehearsing how terrible these kids of mine are and whether I should have thrown the sandwich in the garbage or made them share it alternating bites brother to brother.

I was terribly disappointed with these two otherwise grown-up-ish 18 year olds. Arguing over a sandwich? Come on. I think the frustration was prompted by fatigue and hunger, but you can’t blame everything on being “hangry”. At some point you have to rise to the occasion and act sweet and giving.

But, I didn’t act much better. I gave in to anger and frustration. I was demanding and easily provoked, not understanding and kind. Not a great example.

Though my desires may be bigger and more complicated than a chicken salad sandwich, I still want what I want when I want it. I often struggle to trust that God has a plan and that it’s good, especially when I’m faced with something I want that I’m not getting. I sometimes want to dive for what I want, clutch it to my chest and yell, “Mine!”

This whole predicament reminded me of a story.

Do you remember Abigail in the Bible? She had a husband who was bad news. I Samuel 25:3 says her husband, Nabal, was harsh and badly behaved. He was rich and had lots of stuff, servants, goats, and sheep. Plus, he was blessed with a wife who was “intelligent and beautiful.” Even so, he wanted what he wanted and was selfish to boot.

David, who would soon be king, asked Nabal for a favor. He had previously protected Nabal's flock and servants and now he asked Nabal for provisions for his men. It was a feast time and David knew Nabal was already planning to celebrate. David didn’t even specify what he wanted. He just asked Nabal to “give your servants and your son David whatever you can find for them.” (1 Samuel 25:8)

Nabal refused. He wanted to use what he had for himself regardless of David's kindness to him in the past. Nabal had his reasons. They were just foolish.

The story goes on with a threat from David, a cry for help from one of Nabal's servants to Abigail, and a brave meeting between Abigail and David.

While I'd like to think I'm like Abigail - brave, smart and pretty, I think I'm more often like Nabal. I'm selfish and short-sighted. And, I don't have an Abigail to clean up my messes.

I could have called my children Nabal #1 and Nabal #2 on the day of the sandwich fight. They were so foolish, silly and angry. Peace eventually prevailed, but I want there to be no reason for peace to be restored. I yearn for peace to rule and reign. I wished for Abigail to ring my doorbell that day and tell us not to fight. She would have had fresh, delicious chicken salad sandwiches for each of us. I wanted one of my kids to play that role for the other, not in grudging exasperation, but in love and gentleness.

They didn't and they probably won't and there will be more stupid fights in our future. We don't want to be “wicked men that no one can speak to” like Nabal, but sometimes we will be. I just pray that those “Nabal” days will be interspersed with many more “Abigail” ones. I pray for kindness and wisdom to prevail.

And, next time, I pray the chicken salad is at least worth fighting for.

(For the best chicken salad recipe ever, look here.)

Amy's Story Part 1

Recently, I shared my “testimony” at a ladies’ brunch at my church.  Some of you have mentioned that you couldn’t be there, but would like to hear what I had to say.  So, here you go.  AND, so I won’t feel so self-centered and egotistical, share your story in the comments.  I’d really love to hear from you!

I’ve broken this into several parts and added things I wanted to share but just didn’t have the time for.  Come back next week for part 2!

I am blessed and a bit nervous to share my “sister story” with you.  I think of all your beautiful faces and I know there are so many women who’s stories I would love to hear.  But, I’m hopeful as you read this you’ll be encouraged to say, “You know, I could do that.” And, maybe you’ll be the next person we get to hear from.

Because you know we all have a story to tell, something remarkable to share, even if we don’t realize it.  I love a TV show called Once Upon a Time.  In that show all these fairy tale characters are thrown together in overlapping relationships that often don’t at first make sense.  For instance, in an episode I recently watched Alice in Wonderland is talking with Rumplestiltskin.

At this point in the story Alice is a troubled, lonely girl and “Rumple” is a city detective trying to help her.  But, Alice instead wants to help Rumple.  He tells her she’s confused, but Alice answers, “No, I’m not confused.  I finally understand.  I just had to see the whole picture, the whole story.  See, we all have stories.  I have a story…Even you, Mr. Weaver (who we know as “Rumple”), have a story.  And it’s a thing of beauty.”

Rumple, or Mr. Weaver, continues trying to interrogate Alice about a crime she witnessed and offers again to help her if she’ll just talk to him.  Alice says, “The answer is right here.  We’re all pieces of the same puzzle.  But without each other, it’s impossible to see the big picture. “

That’s like you and me.  We’re all parts of a puzzle and we all fit together, our stories intertwining for a reason.  It’s no mistake that I ended up here or that you did either.  We’re supposed to fit together somehow.  Sharing our stories, who we are, is the only way to figure it all out.   

I’m not from Pennsylvania but I’ve called Shiloh Bible Church home for about four years now.  It’s my privilege to share a gift with you and that’s the tale of how I ended up here, how my piece of the puzzle begins to fit in with yours.

I grew up in Lanett, AL, population 6,271.  My dad owned the local hardware store and my mom was a dance teacher.  When she and my dad had me, their second daughter, my mom hung up her tap shoes and stayed at home to raise her children.  When I began going to school my mom became a kindergarten teacher at the First Baptist Church.  It was a pretty idyllic childhood.

Little Amy

I grew up in church, but didn’t realize Jesus’ love for me was personal, that He had a plan just for me until I was a freshman in high school.  Through the influence of my Spanish teacher, a majorette instructor, and a book I randomly chose off the shelf of my school library, I turned to Jesus and offered my heart to Him.  I was sitting on the couch in my living room, tears streaming down my face as I asked God if I could really be His.  It was so simple to become part of God’s family.

But, as most stories go, things weren’t necessarily simple or idyllic from then on.

Hang on!  There are twists in the road ahead.

People Not Policy

I’ve been thinking about refugees a lot lately. In the late 90s my husband, Bobby, and I were missionaries, working with a team in Austria who tried to meet some of the physical needs of the never-ending stream of refugees while sharing the love of Jesus with them.

I wanted to write something about the refugees and friends we met in an effort to remind myself, and maybe you, that refugees are people, not policy.


Our Assyrian Family


I don't remember officially meeting them, but their smiles will stay with me forever. Big, toothy grins under slightly hooked noses. Gorgeous olive complexions and rounded happy cheeks. Sara had jet black, frizzy hair. Her mother, Khava, had a grey ponytail, braided down her back, the crown of her head always covered with a scarf, knotted at the nape of her neck.

Refugees from Iraq, they proudly claimed the ancient city of Nineveh as their home. Sara's brother, Yosep, had the same frizzy hair as his sister, only in a bright red version. Certainly, there's a grand, historical story that explains why a Middle Eastern man would have red hair. I looked it up but can’t find a logical explanation. Sara’s father was not with them. Though I know he passed away years before we met, we never really talked about what happened to him or what he was like.

I also don’t know exactly how or why they began their refugee journey. All I know for sure is that Sara’s family is traditionally Christian. If you remember your Bible stories, the city of Nineveh was saved by Jonah’s preaching, post-belly-of-the-whale. The people of Nineveh accepted God’s love when implored to repent.

Ninveah, Iraq

Assyrian Ninevites still cling to this tradition and that probably doesn’t make the predominantly Muslim country of Iraq happy. In 1933, the Iraqi government called for attacks on Assyrians which resulted in 3000 Assyrians being slaughtered. Friction over religion, tradition and culture continues to this day. Sara and Khava descended from this long line of traditionally Christian people who kiss their Bibles after reading them, but don’t know much of what is inside. In fact, I'm not sure they could distinguish their personal spiritual journey from the Assyrians we read about in the Bible.

Sara and her mother did not feel safe in Iraq. In fact, the fear they felt in staying where persecution against Christians might any day become violent and deadly outweighed the peril they would face in making a journey to Austria to become refugees. This journey would be secretive and uncomfortable and long, over 2000 miles. They were probably hidden and scared. It was illegal to leave Iraq without permission. This trip to freedom and a new life would cost most of their savings, days of travel time, and all their courage.

They made it to Austria, but the road to a new life continued. Like most refugees Sara and her mom would have a long wait before they were granted citizenship in any nation.

When I met Khava and Sara, they were living in a hotel in the tiny village of Altenmarkt, Austria. The hotel had been converted into refugee housing with one family occupying each 10 x 15 foot room. Sara’s room had two beds, a table and four chairs, a small wardrobe and a chest that doubled as a kitchen counter. The wardrobe easily held their few belongings. On their “counter” rested a hot plate with one burner, a couple of pots, and a plastic container to hold dirty dishes. In the bathroom down the hall, they washed themselves, dishes and some clothes. It was shared between ten rooms on their floor.

Though it was difficult in these conditions, Sara and her mom loved to cook. They taught me how to make dolma or stuffed grape leaves filled with rice, meat and vegetables. Khava chopped faster than anyone I had ever seen and wrapped her grape leaves so tightly you could not unroll them even to see what was inside. She laughed and laughed at my first attempts at this Mediterranean delicacy, my floppy dolmas so easily distinguishable from hers. She would laugh at them still today. My grape leaf rolling skills have not improved.

I loved the dinners Khava and Sara served in their tiny room. In fact, I loved them so much that I tried to write down the recipes to replicate at home. Sara's English was amazingly fluent but she had trouble keeping the words “chicken” and “kitchen” straight. Her slips made my recipe writing hysterical and confusing. “Come into the chicken” she would say, or “then you add the kitchen.”

Briyani

Besides dolma, my favorite Iraqi dish was called briyani, a delicious conglomeration of rice, meat and vegetables, cooked together then piled on a platter, family-style dining at its best. In the tiny kitchen of Sara and Khava, my husband, Bobby, and I learned that meat could be used as an addition, a flavoring, rather than the main part of a meal and he loved it as much as I did. It was amazing what they could do with that one-burner hot plate.

Initially, I saw Sara and Khava as a ministry opportunity, just two more faces in the long line of refugees needing help and understanding. But over time, they became my friends. They observed me, knew when I was overwhelmed, and cared. Not only did they care about me, they cared about Bobby and knew I might not be taking care of him or myself the way they thought I should.

One evening after a hectic kids’ program with refugee children, I visited Khava and Sara. We chatted and drank tea. Though I suspected the tea might keep me up past my bedtime, I knew it would also keep me awake on the twisty, dark, thirty-minute drive home. I needed that. My life had become an endless progression of activities, prayer letters, and tiny cups of Turkish coffee with piles of sugar cubes. I often felt tired and frazzled, needing naps more often and zoning out during the rare times alone with my husband.

After a relaxing but short visit with Sara and her mom, I gathered my belongings - coat, scarf, backpack, and car keys. As I fumbled my way toward their door, a conversation in Assyrian broke out and the two women jumped up, bustling. Sara asked me to wait a moment. I paused with my hand on their doorknob, silently praying I could make it to the car before anyone else I needed to visit laid eyes on me, delaying me for another hour, another visit, another cup of tea. While visiting and friendship evangelism with the refugees was crucial, at this moment I really just wanted to go home and go to bed.

As I stood there, Sara and Khava began packing a shopping bag. They loaded it with metal containers, bowls covered with plastic wrap and something soft wrapped in paper towels. Then, Sara handed the heavy bag to me.

“You take this home to feed Bobby,” she said.

“No!” I protested, knowing they had sacrificed money and time to make the delicious smelling meal that was being thrust into my already full hands. I spent a few more minutes protesting uselessly. That bag was going home with me whether I liked it or not.

Realizing I was outmatched I sighed and said, “Thank you so much. I never have time to cook.”

Sara smiled and translated what I said to Khava who laughed and said something back. Sara laughed as well, then gave voice to her mother's words, “My mother knows this.”

I might have been called to Austria to help people just like Sara and Khava, but that night, they helped me.

For the care and concern Khava showed for Bobby and me, we labelled her “our Assyrian mother.” She looked out for us, was protective and did everything she could to provide a respite for us in the room she and Sara called home. Though I was there to help them and others like them, a genuine friendship developed and grew. It blessed me so much then, and the memory of how they served with what little they had blesses me today.

The last time I saw Sara and Khava they were in a new apartment on the outskirts of Vienna near the Vienna Woods. It reminded me of church camp, lots of brown wood, dirt, and trees. They had actual bedrooms instead of sleeping and eating and cooking all in the same room. They had room for a couch, a huge luxury.

Bobby and I knew we were soon leaving to come back to the U.S., so we visited “our” Assyrian family one last time. After cooking dinner, visiting and eating, we walked down a dark path to our car. I turned for a last look at these precious friends. They were still standing by their front door waving and smiling.

We lost touch after that… Refugees move a lot. I wish I knew where they are now. I like to think they are still smiling, mothering someone new, and loving their permanent home wherever it may be.

After We Broke the TV

It occurs to me with greater and greater frequency that my children will soon leave home. Seeing them for days in a row and having mundane conversations about what's for dinner will be a treat I look forward to on holidays and college breaks. Though it will be the height of grownup excitement for them, it will be terribly sad and weird for me. So, I want to make the most of the short time I have left with them living under my roof. I want to laugh and talk and hear what they're thinking. I want to tell them what I'm thinking and that I'm praying for them.

Though Bobby and I sometimes hit the mark with this parenting stuff, sadly, our television often gets in the way. We get sucked into the TV and the couch and before we know it, bedtime arrives.

Things to do after you Break Your TV:  1.  Play Outside!

I read a lot about TV viewing when my children were little. No one thinks excessive television is a good idea. In fact, too much screen time proves harmful to a child's brain development and health. So, when the boys were little I religiously monitored their TV viewing. There was a point in their very young lives when I allowed them one video a week. A week!

But, I have been much less zealous in recent years and I have always been much more lenient on myself. At times, the energy required to cope with life seemed much too demanding. The situations vary, but my response is the same: escape. Sleep, TV or really good books have done the trick for me. None of those was too bad, right? No, but the excess of each of them made me less of who I was created to be, not more. That's not what I want.

Are we, as Americans, more and more prone to “vegging out”? Is it just me? Why do I do that? Habit? Sure. Stress? Maybe. The pace of life or the constant-ness of the world? I can't go 20 minutes without my phone feeling the need to tell me I received an email. I get daily updates from the White House and a guy named Brad who tells me where all the best deals are.

2.  Blow Bubbles!

With life swirling so uncontrollably, I often feel the need to sit very still, pick up a remote control and watch someone else live life. I blame this on “Brad” and the White House. I sit in my spot on the couch where I'm magically transported to another time and place where beautiful people a.) have no problems at all, b.) solve their problems in under an hour, or c.) have issues, but at least they're funny.

I know excessive screen time is bad for a developing brain. It's not doing wonders for my old brain either, but I wonder what happens to the health and development of the family when you watch too much TV.

In our family, we neglect to talk about stuff, and when we don't talk about stuff problems build up. We've got to have a break, at least occasionally, to clean out and kick start communication.

I sometimes want to get rid of our TV, like break it with a hammer or chunk it out the window. Bobby and I didn't have a TV when we first married and we lived without one for two years on the mission field. But, honestly, I like an occasional Netflix marathon and Bobby would go mad without March Madness. So, I just want to break our TV occasionally.

Years ago, Bobby had this brilliant idea. He thought we should come up with a list of activities to do once you Break Your TV. He suggested putting one of those sticky things on the TV that make it look like someone broke your window with a baseball. We talked about it and thought of ideas. We did it occasionally. But, as it often happens, we let it slide.

With college looming and children who have busier social schedules than I do, I can't afford to let it slide any longer. Once a week, I'm going to do it. I'm going to break our TV. 

That doesn't mean we can sit around surfing the webernet.  We will do something together - play a game, take a hike, make dinner.

3.  Read a Book!

 Now, who's with me?

While I could do this alone, I really don't want to. I need help and support and ideas.

I'll let you know how it goes with us. If you give this a try, can you let me know how it goes with you too?

I'd love to hear how you handle the television with your family. Are you not really worried about it? Did you get rid of your TV a long time ago? Do you watch only the news and Netflix? I am positive some of you out there have this down and have great input and wisdom to offer. I'm counting on you!

"I can’t make the point often enough that television is not the enemy of the family but because of its content; it is the enemy of the family because it devours precious time."

Crunchy Cons by Rod Dreher