TWO VERY DIFFERENT BIRTHS (A Christmas Morning Rambling)

THE REASON FOR THE SEASON

The Doctor's Announcement

 “You are two months pregnant!” Such was the pronouncement from the Indonesian doctor that examined me.

Don and I were thrilled. We had been married three years. I was already a few years past my 30th birthday and had fears that we might not have natural children.  We had talked about adoption.

The news about the coming baby got quickly bruited about among the Reyes and Major families. Letters flew across the ocean rejoicing at this coming event. There was a bit of concern, though, we were thousands of miles away in Indonesia, a foreign country.  How do we do this?

We had to find a doctor and a hospital that we could trust. Having a first baby at my age was a definite concern. We’ve heard of Mongoloid and Down Syndrome babies born to older mothers. Most of our missionary friends would go to the American Baptist Hospital in Kediri for their health issues. This was about a day’s bus travel from Surakarta where we lived. We decided to check it out.

The Baptist Hospital in Kediri

Dr. Kathleen C. Jones, Director of the hospital, was a kind, American missionary who had spent most of her working life in Indonesia. While waiting for her, we took in the physical condition of the facility. It was very well-kept, clean, with well-trimmed bushes and seemed like freshly painted buildings. The staff moved about with much efficiency and politeness.

As she took her seat across from me, Dr. Jones took my hand and said, “Let’s pray,” and she prayed for this coming baby. Wow, what an assurance of protection and care.

She told us things we were to expect, examined me and said the baby showed all signs of A-1 health. However, she made a very strong suggestion that we have a Plan B. Babies are known to defy their birth schedule and because we were so far away from the hospital, we should check out local hospitals just in case we had a schedule-defiant baby. I was alarmed. Don and I wanted to have this baby in an American hospital where we were sure we were going to be taken care of well.

We went home and despite our strong intention to have Kristy in the Baptist hospital in Kediri, we felt it would be wise to take the counsel of the good doctor, after all she knew babies better than we did.

Off to Brayat Minulya (In an Indonesian pedicab)

On a Sunday night, my waterbag broke. Were we thankful we took Dr. Jones’ advice! Off we went in a pedicab to Brayat Minulya Hospital in our city (This was an Indonesian hospital run by Dutch sisters. When Kristy was growing up and would be confused as to which was her right and left hands, we would attribute it to the confusion surrounding her birth – born of Filipino mother and American father and in a Dutch-run hospital in Indonesia!) On a beautiful Tuesday sunrise, our 8 lbs. 12 oz Kristy was born – beautiful and healthy. Mother and baby, waited on and pampered by a staff of Dutch sisters and Indonesian midwives, stayed 8 days in the hospital. And to think of all our concern about how we would give birth to this baby in a foreign country!

Two thousand years ago, An Angel's Announcement

²⁹ Mary was greatly troubled at his words and wondered what kind of greeting this might be. ³⁰ But the angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary; you have found favor with God. ³¹ You will conceive and give birth to a son, and you are to call him Jesus. ³² He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, ³³ and he will reign over Jacob’s descendants forever; his kingdom will never end.”  (Luke 1:29-33 NIV)

Off to Bethlehem (on a donkey)

A few months later, a teenaged unmarried mother-to-be riding on a donkey led by her fiancé, traveled miles to comply with a government requirement of a population census.  This was also going to be her first baby, but it was going to be a very special one. She knew from the start that this was no ordinary child. I can’t even imagine what thoughts she had as her life circumstances seemed to have gone out of her hand completely. She was pregnant though she had never known a man. Nine months along and here she was traveling to Bethlehem. (Present day airlines will not have allowed her on their plane!) Did she think of what lay ahead like most would-be mothers do? What kind of a baby is this? Then, they couldn’t find an inn where they could lodge. (I would have had an intense discussion with Don. “What do you mean ‘I can’t make any motel reservation’?” and “did you check out the hospitals on the route to Bethlehem, just in case. . .?”) And as baby Jesus was born in a manger, I wonder, how Mary must have felt. This baby is the Son of God, could God have not found better accommodations for His Son?

Only God could put together a scenario such as this. And for what reason? I don’t know. I have my opinion, but it really doesn’t matter.

In a nutshell, the life of this One, born in a manger, is told by Dr. James Allan Francis in the following poem written during the early 1900’s.

One Solitary Life

He was born in an obscure village, the child of a peasant woman. Until He was thirty, He worked in a carpenter shop and then for three years He was an itinerant preacher. He wrote no books. He held no office. He never owned a home. He was never in a big city.

He never traveled two hundred miles from the place He was born. He never did any of the things that usually accompany greatness. The authorities condemned His teachings. His friends deserted Him. One betrayed Him to His enemies for a paltry sum. One denied Him. He went through the mockery of a trial. 

He was nailed on a cross between two thieves. While He was dying, His executioners gambled for the only piece of property He owned on earth: His coat. When He was dead He was taken down and placed in a borrowed grave. 

Nineteen centuries have come and gone, yet today He is the crowning glory of the human race, the adored leader of hundreds of millions of the earth's inhabitants. 

All the armies that ever marched and all the navies that were ever assembled and all the parliaments that ever sat and all the rulers that ever reigned – combined - have not affected the life of man upon this earth so profoundly as that One Solitary Life. [1]

Years ago, I chose to follow this Son of God, who has made a world of difference in my life. Have you ever thought of what you would do with Jesus? You see, He is either the Son of God as He claims or the biggest liar or raving lunatic. Ever thought of that? A penny for your thought this Christmas day.

















[1] Accessed on the Internet at www.konig.org on December 24, 2013

The "Why" Question

                                              Beautiful Palompon, Leyte

The last few days have been very difficult.  The pictures of Haiyan’s deadly assault on the Philippines haunt me. 

"God must have been somewhere else. Or that he forgot that there is a planet called Earth," said Rodrigo Duterte, Mayor of Davao City, as he brought medical aid to Tacloban, the city hardest  hit by the typhoon.

Speaking to reporters, Mayor Duterte said the people of Tacloban "have no electricity, no food, no water, all their dead are on the streets, the survivors are looking up at the heavens." . . .

"There is no local government functioning. Those that they depend on - the police, the army, and even the social workers of the government - all of them are victims, all of them are dead. Even the police and the army there are dead," he said.[1]

At night as I lay in my comfortable bed, snuggled under warm blankets, I see pictures of those sleeping on the wet streets littered with what remained of what used to be homes and proud city buildings. In the mornings, I make breakfast of freshly toasted multigrain bread spread with cream cheese accompanied by crisp bacon slices and hot newly brewed coffee.  I hear the cries of “We’re hungry.  We have not eaten in three days.” I dine at a fine restaurant, and I ask myself, "Is it right for me to do this?"

      Some friends we met in Palompon

Don and I went to Palompon, Leyte in 2009.  We were there to see a close friend from college days who later was my co-teacher in Mindanao for over four years.  As she retired from her teaching career, she opened a student Center in her home for young high school and college students.  She has been inviting Don and me to join her in ministry in the Center.  As we prayed and considered Palompon as a possible place of service,
we spent a week checking it out and trying to find out how we could fit in.  We met wonderful new friends - students working hard at getting an education to help them have a better future, volunteers and staff giving of their time and energies to help young people prepare for more effective and productive lives.  Then there was a new friend who took care of our meals so wonderfully and made sure we always had good hot coffee when we
wanted it.  We found out we shared a common love for coffee.  In the last few days we tried to find out what has become of them.  We found out that Palompon was probably the second hardest hit city by the typhoon.  Finally, a friend from Iloilo sent me a message.  My old college friend was safe, but that’s all she could tell us. 

I don’t want to ask “Why, Lord?”  I keep telling myself, “God is sovereign."  I may not understand this, but I trust His heart, and His heart is nothing but good.  He has His reasons, known only to Him.  I get reminded of my Facebook posting two years ago.                                  

 Whenever one begins a question with "why," he should realize that the answer must necessarily be theological, not scientific. Science can deal with the questions of "what" and "how," sometimes even with "where" and "when," but never with "why"! The "why" questions have to do with motives and purposes, even when dealing with natural phenomena. ("Why does the earth rotate on its axis?" "Why do we have mosquitoes?") Even though we can partially explain such things by secondary causes, we finally encounter a "first cause," and then the "why?" can be answered only by God.[2]

 

 

---

[1] ABS-CBNnews.com posted at 11/12/2013 12:56 pm accessed 11/17/2013 

[2] http://www.icr.org/icr-devotionals/"Days of Praise" accessed 8/14/2011

 

FOR WANT OF A CLOTHESLINE

Remember this old children’s nursery rhyme?

For want of a nail the shoe was lost.
For want of a shoe the horse was lost.
For want of a horse the rider was lost.
For want of a rider the battle was lost.
For want of a battle the kingdom was lost.
And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.

On a Basement Stairway, Queens, New York. 1981

 “I’m afraid we don’t have that option,” Don’s voice was firm but gentle as he responded to my quiet ranting. I was angry and I was hurt. I felt ignored and insignificant. We were seated on the bottom step of the stairway, arguing quietly trying not to be heard by my sisters.

 “But you don’t love me anymore. You’ve been ignoring me. How many times have I asked you to put in a new clothesline? I work so hard. I wash the clothes, I cook, I clean house and take care of the children and all I ask is for you to put in a new clothesline, and you’ve been ignoring me,” my voice was beginning to rise a few decibels. ”We might as well part ways.”

I was asking for a divorce over a clothesline! And I was dead serious. I felt his refusal to do as I have asked was a symptom of a deeper problem – he didn’t care for me anymore.

We’ve just been back a few months from a 3-1/2 year missionary term in Indonesia. For various reasons we had to come home a half year earlier than what our first term should have been. Don had a health problem that the local doctors couldn’t diagnose and they wanted to do exploratory surgery. We were advised by our Board to come home. My father died two years earlier and my mother seemed to have given up on life. My sisters felt that our coming home with the grandchildren would help her get over her grief. We left Indonesia with every intention to go back, but soon we found out we couldn’t. We were at a loss. We thought missionary work in Indonesia was going to be our lifework. We were completely clueless as to what we were to do. Don’s health issue hadn’t been resolved. We were without jobs, home, car or money and we had two little toddlers to take care of. My sisters were very generous in trying to help us get on our feet. We were living with them temporarily. We knew God would
take care of us, but we felt so uncertain about the future. Don and I have always had a strong relationship through the many stresses of the early days of marriage and adjustments. On the second year of our marriage, we left for Indonesia and together we learned to adjust to the Indonesian culture, learned the language, and grew into a ministry among various groups of the society that we found ourselves in. We were constantly learning and adjusting to each other, to our new environment and later on, to parenthood. Being an interracial marriage had its built-in problems, too. But no matter how difficult our circumstances were, the “D” word was never uttered between us. We never thought of divorce as a solution to even the most difficult crisis we’ve faced together. But strangely, on this particular day, seven years into our marriage, I was bringing it up – because Don hadn’t put in a new clothesline for me!

Missing Nails, Losing Relationships

Most marriages break up over money, some because of meddlesome in-laws. But it is amazing how relationships break up over some of the most petty things. Sometimes the smaller issues lead to bigger ones, or the accumulation of the smaller complaints eventually become insurmountable bigger crises.

 “I can no longer take his horrible snoring,” said one wife I know who keeps a separate bed and bedroom from her husband.

I once listened to a young girl narrating a litany of complaints about her former husband which included the fact that he never folded, hung, or put away clothes after washing and drying them.  

Sometimes it is not a marriage, but a friendship, or a family relationship that breaks up because of hurting words said in an unguarded moment. Then pride gets in the way of resolving the problem. Sometimes it’s stuff like – “We were not invited to their daughter’s wedding!” This last one actually happened to us.  Our friends had moved and never gave us their new address!

14,235 Days Later

Every now and then I look back to that scene on the basement stairway and smile to myself. How silly could I get! I was ready to throw away a 7-year marriage over a clothesline. I am thankful that Don very gently, but determinedly reminded me that our commitment to each other was for a lifetime. That made a lot of difference. Through the years we’ve grown together (and not just in girth!). I believe we have come to understand each other better, and have a greater appreciation for each other. In a few days, we will be celebrating our 39th wedding anniversary. I think I’ll keep him. He is a good man, a Godly man. And oh, yes, there was a deeper problem about his not putting in a new clothesline. It is the same reason he does not like IKEA. He is not a handyman. When God passed out that talent, he was absent.

Happy anniversary, Don. It has been a good ride with you – two wonderful children, much-loved son and daughter-in-law, five awesome grandchildren; three countries and 3 states of residence; 468 months; 14,235 days; 341,640 hours. I pray that there may be many more with you.

A Continuing Love Affair

Forty-four years ago on this day, October 12fth, the Northwest plane carrying my

parents, my sister Ruth and I landed at the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport. Looking out my window I was full of mixed emotions. What will this new adventure mean? Where will it lead to? We were leaving the country of our birth and where we were raised, coming into a country that  we have only heard and read so much about.

Seattle-Tacoma International Airport

As we got into the terminal we followed the crowd and got in line with some folks waiting for their turn at the immigration desk.

“Returning residents and American citizens, please follow me,” an official-sounding lady announced.

My father stepped out of line and we followed him. He was an American citizen and returning resident. There was no line at all for us. We were processed through and off we went to our gate for the connecting flight to San Francisco.

On the way a couple of very nice looking young men stopped Ruth and me to ask where Gate #26 was. In response, we giggled, “Sorry, but we don’t know. We’re new here.” They thanked us nonetheless and went on their way. Ruth and I felt good. Did we really blend that well with our new environment? Huhm.

It was a very short flight to San Francisco. Ruth and I made like we were really seasoned travelers. The truth of the matter was, this was our first flight outside of the Philippines. We were very much impressed with most everything we had experienced so far. Soon we were landing. Another peek through our window, but we couldn’t see anything but the runway and airport personnel scurrying to and fro. We could also see those little vehicles that shuttle between the terminal and different spots on the tarmac. In a few minutes we were deplaning and then into those passenger tubes that led to the gates of the terminals.

They were all there – my sisters Lu and Josephine, and her husband and little Ariel and Sarah Jane. We hadn’t seen each other since they left the Philippines about four years ago. There was a lot of kissing and hugging and excitement. What a tremendous reunion!

A Victorian Flat

The car ride from the airport must have taken no more than 25 minutes. So this was what a freeway was like. Everyone was going the same direction and there were no traffic lights. Then we took an exit and ended on a street. My brother-in-law, who was driving, made some turns and soon we were on Church Street.

“There, “ Lu says, “is our flat.” She had to explain to us how a “flat” was different from an apartment.

We walked in and I was impressed. Nice wall-to-wall carpeting and French doors, too. The dining table had all kinds of fruit in a tray – great big red apples, grapes, pears and oranges. Wow, we only had those in the Philippines during Christmas time. They were so expensive there that we had them only for special occasions.

As could be expected, there was a lot of catching up to do, and a lot of stories to tell. At the end of the day my sisters told us they were giving us a special treat the following day. They were taking us to a popular restaurant for lunch. And so, our first day in the United States concluded with thoughts of exciting experiences that would come with tomorrow.

A Very Special Restaurant


It was with much anticipation that we all piled into my sister’s car that would take us to the very special restaurant on Mission St. that she promised us. She pulled into the parking lot and led us into the restaurant. There was a tall pillar with the sculpture of a dog’s head. Why, in the world do they have that statue there? “Doggie Diner” the sign said.

Ruth and I were looking very puzzled but we kept quiet. Lu and Josephine were now laughing. Lu announced, “Welcome to Doggie Diner, a famous American institution!” This was our first American hotdog experience. Thus, was our introduction to life in these beautiful United States.



Into the American Way of Life
    
There were many things to learn. How to ride the buses. Yes, you just drop your coins into the coin boxes. There are no “conductors” like our buses in the Philippines would have. No inspectors to check your tickets. There are designated bus stops. You can’t just yell out “Para” (“stop” in Tagalog) to get off. You don’t go jaywalking either. The streets were not noisy with honking horns like in Manila. Horns are used sparingly. Grocery stores are mostly self-served. You pick your purchases, put them in your cart and check them out at the cashier’s. And do not try to sample the fruits or any other products like the way you do in Philippine markets. Definitely do NOT.  

Americans have strange ways. If they don’t know your name, they will call you “dear” or “honey.” And little children call older folks by their first names. And on and on the learning went. Some lessons were plain to see, but others were more subtle.

The First Job

Two weeks later, my sisters thought it was time for Ruth and me to look for work. Josephine took me to ABAR Employment agency on Market St. I must have looked ridiculous. “Fresh off the boat” must have been written all over me. San Francisco was into the first days of Indian summer and there I was with my faux wool dress-length coat! (This we bought at a second-hand store in Pasay City in the Philippines a few weeks before we left.) We talked to a very nice lady, Dorothy, who told us that she would try to place me and that I would not have to pay any fee. My future employer would pay for it. She gave me a series of what they called “Wonderlit” tests that evaluated language and Math skills. Then she gave me a typing test which I failed miserably. Dorothy told me to practice typing and if I didn’t have a typewriter, I could rent one, practice for two weeks then go back to the agency. I did as she said and she tested me again. This time I passed. I could hear her call a few places and then minutes later, she told me I had an appointment at an insurance company for a job as a rater.

I went to the office of the Yosemite Insurance Company at 726 Market Street. The personnel director took me to the office of the Supervisor of the Underwriting/Rating Department and introduced me. As I sat at his desk the Supervisor told me what the company was about and what my responsibilities would be if hired. He asked me a few questions, and tested me with the “Wonderlit” tests I had been given at the agency. After about 20 minutes the interview was over. I went back to ABAR to wait for the result. Dorothy called the Supervisor to ask for his decision. As I listened, I knew I had the job.

 “Didn’t I tell you, didn’t I tell you?” I heard Dorothy excitedly say, “And she does not even have an accent!

I had and still do have my Philippines accent, but I don’t think Dorothy heard it because she was such a nice and kind lady. She knew I needed a job and she was determined to help me.

And thus began my adventure in this adopted country, and a love relationship that started with stories from my father and continues to the present day – 44 years later.

A VIGNETTE

 I was alone in a little room where the office supervisor had led me. I sat at the word processor, earphones on, attempting to transcribe the tape freshly handed to me ten minutes earlier by the neurologist. I thought I heard the tape say something about alpha waves, theta waves, delta waves and a general slowing of brain activity, etc. I tried very hard to catch every word as I carefully typed it. I kept pressing on the repeat pedal of the transcriber, making sure I heard the words accurately. I was nervous and had a difficult time keeping my fingers on the right keys. It did not help that a young resident doctor behind me was pacing the floor. As I loaded the tape on the transcriber, he very kindly told me not to mind his presence, take time and just do what I could to give an accurate transcript.

This was my first day at the Department of Neurology of a University Hospital in
Ohio. I was working as a Kelly Girl at various offices and this was my second assignment with the company. What possessed Kelly Girl to give me a medical transcription job, I would not understand. But I needed a job. Though I had never had transcribing experience, didn’t know medical terms except what I have heard from doctors on my own personal visits to them, I bravely took on the assignment. We needed the money desperately. I did know the difference between an EKG (electrocardiogram) and EEG (electroencephalogram), but I was definitely unqualified to transcribe an EEG reading, nor any kind of medical reading for that matter. As I sat waiting for the audio tape, I remember trying hard to remember the parts of the human body that I learned from Zoology 1 in college, focusing intently on the brain area. There were very few that I could remember. Words like the lobes of the brain, cranium, occipital, and frontal came to mind, but not much more.

I tried to ignore the sound of the resident doctor’s pacing, but it was difficult. He had explained to me that this EEG reading belonged to a young man who was shot and was fighting for his life. It would tell the doctors whether his brain waves showed life or not and with this result, the family would have to make a life and death decision. I wondered if this doctor knew that I was a complete novice at this.

After about half an hour of this excruciating ordeal, I handed the printed transcript to the doctor, who rushed it to the neurologist in charge, who in turn read it carefully and went off to the patient’s room.

At the end of my day, I trudged off to the bus stop and boarded my bus, ready for my 15-minute ride home. I was completely discouraged and exhausted physically. When Don came home from school, I told him how I felt so inadequate for my job which was supposed to be for three months. I told him that if things didn’t get better, I would just have to quit. I didn’t think I could do a good job of it. As usual, Don was very understanding and left it to me to decide what was the right thing to do.

It was with much trepidation that I returned to the hospital the following day, prepared for whatever consequences awaited me. That was a horrible job of medical transcription I did the day before. A few minutes after I arrived, the Department Manager appeared at my door. This was the boss of the office manager who assigned me the job the day before.

“Raquel, would you be interested in a permanent position with us?” she asked.

I was dumbfounded. I thought I heard her offering me a permanent position, but all I could say was, ”I beg your pardon?” as if I didn’t understand what was said.

“I said, ‘would you be interested in working with us permanently,’’ she repeated.

“Why, yes, of course, yes,” was all I could say.

“OK, then,“she said with some finality, “We’ll have to keep you as a Kelly Girl for three months because that’s their rule. Then we will change you to permanent personnel. Congratulations.”

I couldn’t understand what had happened. I was so confused and thrilled at the same time that when I got to the bus stop that afternoon, I boarded the first bus that was there, not realizing that it was going the opposite direction from my home!

To this day, I don’t understand what happened. I don’t think I was hired because of my abilities or any other logical reason. I hear people talk about “God things.” I believe it was that – a God thing!

RIDING THE 8X MUNI

A Muni Bus Stop

Walking up Bryant Street, I got to where it came to 6th Street where I made my turn for the one-block walk to the bus stop. The little bus stop was not there when I used to work at the Hall of Justice some 20 years ago. But there it was complete with digital readings that inform riders of the bus schedules. It said the 8X to Bayshore & City College was arriving in 7 minutes. Soon there were three of us waiting for this bus and a Muni Inspector and a driver who would take his shift from the driver of the oncoming bus. I fingered my 3 quarters in the pocket of my jeans, making sure they were there. It only costs 75 cents for seniors fare.

My 8X Muni Bus

Not bad, I see the 8X coming to the stop almost to the minute of the schedule. Soon it crossed 6th Street and pulled over to the curb. It was packed. It stopped a ways from where I stood, and the last of its three doors opened to let me in. However, not knowing the bus riding drill, I ran to the front door and got on the steps. The Muni Inspector yelled at me. “Wait.” She wanted me to let the replacement driver on first. I obediently got off the bus. I followed the driver back on the bus. He yells at me, “Board through the back door.” My goodness, don’t these people know how to talk normal? Just because I have lots of gray hair does not mean I couldn’t hear them without their yelling. So, again, I got off, went to the back door and squeezed my little body in between the other bodies packed in there like as they say, sardines.

 

The bus lumbers on to the Harrison Street freeway on ramp. In between bodies, I stick my hand out to one of the poles that had a few others hanging on to it. My short arms couldn’t reach up to the hanging straps. In about 10 minutes we got off the freeway and on to San Bruno and Felton. San Bruno has become sort of – Chinatown
extension with Asian grocery stores, produce stores, bake shops and restaurants. We made a left turn and the bus pulls alongside the curb. Passengers get off. I made a quick look to see if there were any seats vacated. Aha! A senior seat. I plop down on it and my feet dangled a few inches off the floor. I’m 5-foot tall and there are not many of those inches in my legs, so my feet tend to dangle from these Muni seats.  

When you’re a senior citizen, you can get away with some things like staring. I am a nosy one, so I look at the passengers. I visually examine the plastic grocery bags they carry. You know, those ones that you get mostly from Asian stores. This way I find out what they have just purchased, or what would be for dinner tonight. I see a young college student gripping the handle of her suitcase. I wonder, is she going home to San Francisco or is she coming back to school from another state? Sometimes I make up stories in my head. There’s an old Chinese couple arguing. I don’t understand a word of what’s being said, but I think the wife is getting the better of the argument. Their stop was Bayshore and Arleta. He got off first leaving her behind, way behind.

The bus made a right turn onto Sunnydale and a few more passengers got on. A young Asian mother with a cute, little boy no more than 5 years old, sat two seats away from me. The little boy sat next to an old Asian man, possibly in his 70’s. He looked at the old man and smiled at him. The old man smiled back. Then the boy put his hand in his pocket, fumbled with something and pulled out a piece of candy which he offered to the old man. The old man smiled and held up his hand as if to say “No, thank you.” The little boy smiled again and held the candy closer to the old man’s face. He would not take a “no.” Finally, the man took the candy, unwrapped it and put it in his mouth. The boy and the old man smiled at each other. And that was that.  

I was prepared to dislike having to take the bus. That was three months ago. It had been awhile since I’ve taken public transportation in the City. I have now become somewhat of an old pro at it. When the driver drives the bus clear to the very front end of the bus stop, I know he wants me to go to the third door and board there. I then get on, wriggle my little body in between other bodies to find a pole I can hang onto. I’ve also learned to spray a little perfume on me before I leave for the bus stop. This way, I have a more pleasant scent to make the journey home with. I’ve also met some very friendly people. They are regular riders and they now recognize me when I get on. More often than not, my gray hair would get me a seat. I become witness to everyday dramas of life. There was a handsome black man in his thirties talking on the phone to his wife, who wanted to buy a car. He asked her all kinds of questions. I admired his patience and tact as he tried to make sure she didn’t buy the car just because “it looked nice.” Then there was a young lady who gave me her seat soon as I got on. I thanked her profusely. She said, “I’m close to my stop, anyway.” I watched her but she just hung on to the strap. After awhile someone got off and she got a seat. Then a couple of European tourists got on. Again, she offered her seat to the wife. Soon the passenger next to me got off; the young lady took his seat. I told her how gracious she was, having given up her seat twice. “Oh, that was quite ok with me.” Then we got to talking. She told me where she lived and how fortunate she and her husband were to find affordable housing in the city. They were fresh immigrants. We both got off at the same bus stop. She lived half a block away from me. 

Taking the 8X bus has been quite interesting. People continue to interest me.  I don't think there is anything more fascinating in the whole creation than people.  Oh, yes, I’ve seen and met some crummy people, too.  They are more difficult to write about.

 

TAKEAWAY FROM "JOBS"

On Steve Jobs Film

Last night Don and I went to see “Jobs,” a film on the life of Steve Jobs, a man probably deserving to be canonized as chief saint of computerland. As the world knows, he has brought changes to our way of life. We wanted to find out what it was about the man that made him accomplish so much. As the film progressed, I began to be uncomfortable with what I was watching. If the film could be believed, this was a man obsessed with a purpose, a noble one, but somewhere along the way, the noble purpose took over the man.  

“You have changed,” Steve Wozniak (portrayed by Josh Gad) said emotionally, “You are the beginning of your universe, and the end of your universe and it is a very small world.”

The character in the movie portrayed Jobs as visionary. He saw way into the future, very much ahead of the pack. And as he worked to bring his vision to reality, he let nothing get in the way of that process. He had to have absolute control. People became mere tools in his hands, and when he was done with them, he was done with them.

The Pursuit of Success

I have met people who are cut from the same cloth as Jobs has been portrayed.  They, too, have climbed to great heights and in the eyes of many, have attained success. They are unfeeling, hardhearted and brutal in pursuit of their goals. I see people destroyed, hurt and broken in the wake of their quests. There have been tributes and accolades heaped on Steve Jobs for the impact he has made on our world. Rightly so. Probably, he would not have been able to do as much if he were less ruthless. I don’t know. I think there are many who would disagree with my discomfort about the manner Jobs accomplished his goals. Times have changed and paradigms have shifted. The old belief that the end does not justify the means has become passé to the younger generations. Years ago, seating in my journalism class, I listened intently to my professor, a well-known newspaperman, emphatically say, “Your responsibility is to get the news, the facts of the news by any way you possibly can.” Then he added, “You have to get the news, by hook or by crook.”

Lost Award-Winning Moment?

Why do we do what we do? What we do comes from who we are. Who and what we are come from the totality of what we bring with us when we are born and the experiences and influences that shape us.  An influence on me came from a Reader’s Digest story I have read as a kid about a journalist/photographer covering the accidental death of a 3-year old girl. The girl had gone behind the truck her grandfather was driving. Unaware of her, the grandfather put his gear in reverse and backed up, running over his granddaughter. As he got out of his truck, he saw her, picked up her limp body and carried her into the house. By the time the photographer arrived at the residence, a group of neighbors and media people had gathered on the front lawn making it difficult for him to take pictures. He worked his way to the back of the house and found the kitchen door unlocked. He quietly opened the door and went in, but hesitated to take another step. Right in front of him was the picture of grief. The little girl’s body lay on the kitchen table with the grandfather seated next to her, his face buried in his hands. He recognized that the emotional scene before him presented an award-winning photo. He prepared his camera and as he started to work on its focus, he stopped, put back his camera in its case and quietly left the grieving grandfather with his granddaughter. Given the golden opportunity to shoot an award-winning picture, the photographer made the decision not to use another person’s grief to make a name for himself. He may not have become an award-winning photographer, and in fact, I don’t even remember his name, but as he shared this story many years ago, a little girl in a little city in the Philippines decided she would like to be the kind of person he was.

CHOICES

A Happy Old Maid!

I must have been 6-years old when I decided my ambition in life was to become a happy old maid. I was going to be a career woman and will show the world that a woman’s life fulfillment did not consist merely in getting a husband and bearing children. Where my 6–year old brain got this idea escapes me.

As I grew up, went to high school and off to college, I thought I’d be a prize-winning writer (a Pulitzer will do) or a well-known defense lawyer, a lady Perry Mason, who will defend the wrongly accused defendants in court. I read and wrote with these goals in mind. (I used to read more in my younger years, and started writing as a young kid, getting my first essay published in a nationwide magazine when I was 14.)  In high school I was picking up causes in defense of classmates or friends who were too timid to speak for themselves before teachers. I was argumentative and always had to have the last word in any discussion. Needless to say, this gave me both a good and a dubious reputation.

Kawayan Camp, Murcia, Negros Occidental

But something happened in my junior year in college. I went to a Christian camp in Southern Philippines for a month. While there, we studied the book of Romans in the Bible’s New Testament, written by the Apostle Paul. Before the camp was over, I made a choice that caused a pivot in my life. This Jesus that I knew from my church experience as my Savior has to be more than that. I read and learned that He bought me at a very high cost. Having accepted Him as my Savior, I thought the whole of me then belonged to Him. The Apostle Paul (and I have no reason not to believe him) says, “You have been bought with a price. You are no longer your own.” If so, then I will live my life the way He would want me to.

Choices make up our lives. Each morning we wake up we actually make choices as to how we respond to things that come our way through the day. Most of the time, we do not have control over what comes our way, but we choose how we respond to it. Geraldine Jones, a character created by the 70’s late comedian Flip Wilson, made the line “The Devil made me do it” famous. We can always justify our poor choices by allowing other people or circumstances to control us. But the truth of the matter is no one can choose for us UNLESS we abdicate this authority to someone else. (Personally, I have stopped saying things like “He made me angry” realizing that no one can make me angry unless I give him control over my emotions.)

That summer of 1960 was the year I made the biggest choice I’ve ever made in my life, and thus impacting all of the other choices I make in my life. The dreams of becoming a famous writer or a crusading lawyer vanished, rather I have become willing to do the bidding of the One who died for me and purchased me with His own blood. And coming to think of it, it has been a wise move. If I were to make my own choices, I would make them based on limited information because I have a finite mind and don’t see all that need to be seen to make correct choices; whereas, the One I have trusted to make my choices has all that. It has been quite a journey, but now that I have more years behind me than I have before me, I am thankful I made that macrocosmic choice that has defined the many microcosmic choices that I have had to make through life. God has given me a life partner who has put up with me so well and has helped me become a better person. Through this partnership we have been blessed with children and grandchildren who have given us so much joy and enrichment. We have been led through experiences that I could never have imagined for us even in my wildest dreams. Some are awesome; some are hurtful and painful but all part of what make life interesting.  Choices, life is all about choices.



MY FRIEND'S STORY

How do you find the word that means Maria?
A flibbertigibbet, a willow the wisp, a clown . . .
Many a thing you know you'd like to tell her,
Many a thing she ought to understand
But how do you make her stay and listen to all you say
How do you keep a wave upon the sand?
Oh, how do you solve a problem like Maria?
How do you hold a moonbeam in your hand?

 From: http://www.metrolyrics.com/maria-the-nuns-lyrics-e-sound-of-music.html ]

She could have been a Maria von Trapp, but she couldn’t sing worth anything. But she had shades of Maria. She was always late for everything. Rules were never enough to define her behavior. She was a clown. It gave her so much delight to make people laugh. Like Maria, she would not make a very good nun. Unlike Maria, she could stay and listen, but was wont to do whatever she wanted regardless of what you say. Somehow, being contrary gave her pleasure. If she were a fish, she would be a spawning salmon, swimming upstream.

Opposites

The first few times I met her, I made up my mind to stay clear of her. She was glamorous, beautiful, moved about like a model, dressed and accessorized like one. On the other hand, no one can ever accuse me of being as attractive as she was. Not only did we look, move and behave so unlike each other, she represented the young; I represented the conservative, traditional values of the old. Until a few years ago, I didn’t know that she, too, decided, to stay clear of me; in her words, a goody two shoes.

We were legal assistants at the District Attorney’s Office, preparing and processing documents for criminal prosecution. I was totally amazed at how she worked. I kept a very clean desk, and everyone knew that my file folders and desk drawers were so organized. There was hardly ever a stray piece of paper on my desk. My pencils, post-its, paper clips, stapler, etc. were always where they were supposed to be. I was methodical and deliberate. She, on the other hand, had a desk that always looked like a tornado had just blown through it and deposited scraps of paper from everywhere. How she ever found the warrants, briefs or complaints she had to prepare or have prepared was a constant puzzle to all of us. Whenever we received our assignments for the day, most of us would immediately get started. Computer keys would be clicking away and papers would be shuffled, typed complaints would be stapled and correctly labeled. While the rest of us would be engaged with our business so furiously, she would stroll about in our work area and out to the hallways, like someone taking a promenade in the moonlight. But, she always got her work done on time and seemingly without effort. This drove our supervisors crazy. She wasn’t doing her work as they prescribed!

A Moonbeam?

She knew so many people in the 7-storey Hall of Justice that housed the Police Department, the County jail, the District Attorney’s Office, the Sheriff’s Department, Courtrooms, and the City Coroner’s. A five-minute walk with her through the hallways can easily turn into 20. She knew and was friends with the judges, the custodians, the secretaries, lawyers, police officers, etc. If she had run for political office, she probably would have won. But she was a contrary sort. Although a San Franciscan, she once told me that if she was watching football and the Niners were playing, she would cheer for whoever they were playing against, just to annoy the San Franciscans in the room. When she came to see us in our gated community, she wouldn’t bother to punch the entry code. Instead, she would wait for someone coming out, and then drive her car in through the “out” lane. She would send me emails in phone text knowing full well that I couldn’t read it and plain hated it.


God's Appointment

But God decided that she needed me and I needed her. He put us together working as Shop Stewards for our Labor Union. As we fought for issues that concerned our fellow employees, we developed a friendship that lasted over 30 years. She moved into my life and my family’s, watching and supporting me raise my children, marry them off, having grandchildren, changing jobs and retirement. I grew into her life watching her get married, lose her father, then her mother, her divorce, early retirement and through the many illnesses and legal troubles she navigated.

She started coming to my church and one day decided to accept Jesus Christ as her personal Saviour, to my great surprise. She would study the Bible with us. She developed friendships in the church. She found her niche and filled a modern “Dorcas” type ministry. She would organize parties for birthdays, anniversaries, or just for anything that she felt needed special celebration. She loved people and was great at making them feel significant. She had a driving ministry. She would drive for people who didn’t, taking them to doctor’s appointments, shopping trips, excursions to San Diego or to special services at other churches. She quietly found people who couldn’t return the good she did for them. She regularly bought and took groceries to a fellow employee who was having medical and financial troubles even when she, herself, was in dire financial straits. She helped elderly friends who could no longer do their personal banking and legal paperwork, spending hours and days with them. When my husband resigned from his pastoral ministry almost 20 years ago, she faithfully continued to ask us to pray for anyone who needed prayers. Long after we’ve left the church, she decided that we needed a Bible Study together, so she would come to our home every Friday and she and I would have a study and prayer together. She’d come for dinner with us and stay for the night.

My friend had a presence that could not be ignored. She had a big heart and a great concern for people. Sometimes they exasperated her, but most of the time she exasperated them with her contrary ways. But there never ever could be a question as to her love for them. Her niece, Shannon Caimol writes:

 

      See, she loved being around people, especially her family and friends. She would  
     do anything for us. She often went out of her way just to make sure that we were
     okay and that we had everything we needed. And she always gave us money, which
     was cool. With her help, we never wanted for anything. She was so generous, and
     not just with material wealth, but also with her time and spirit. This was a person
     who dedicated her entire life to helping others. I could always count on her to be
     there for me when I needed her. And even when I thought I didn’t, she was still
     there anyway.

     She always gave her best, and although she wasn’t perfect, she loved us more than
     we could ever imagine. We used to get into arguments all the time and anyone that
     knows her, knows she had a bit of a temper. She was opinionated and feisty to say
     the least, but that was a part of who she was and why we loved her. She always
     spoke her mind and was unapologetically, herself. I didn’t always agree with her
    ideals but I admired her courage and conviction. She was one of the people who
    challenged us the most, but we could never doubt the fact that she loved us fiercely. 

     I want you all to truly honor her memory. Not just the good times but also the times
    when she drove you nuts. Like the way she sent text messages that were barely
    readable and the way she always talked about her favorite TV shows, like “Dancing
    with the Stars.” I'm gonna miss those conversations. I'm gonna miss the hilarious. 
    I'm gonna miss the way she popped up unexpectedly at our houses and complained
    about all of our pets. I'm gonna miss everything about her. She was truly the heart
    of our family.

This was the story my friend, Corrah Caimol, wrote with her life. Authentic. She was her own person. There was so much she taught me. On Friday, June 28, 2013 at 9:30 am, she was on the phone with a mutual friend. At about noontime, she was found slumped at the wheel of her brother’s truck, unconscious. She was taken by helicopter to the closest hospital. She stayed in a coma. “Heatstroke,” the attending physician pronounced. On Sunday, June 30th, she “waltzed” her way to the presence of Jesus, and in Shannon’s words, “possibly, joked and carried on with some cute angels on the way.”
  

   How do you find the word that means Corrah?
     . . .
    How do you keep a wave upon the sand?
     . . .
    How do you hold a moonbeam in your hand?

From Carmen Gaerlan: Will remember d happy moments we shared with d gang!!! Dining out, get-together activities in church as well as surprised parties, shopping and ur kulitan blues w/lady G!! And lastly ur text messages which sometimes cud hardly read!!! Love you so much!!!

From Emmie Alcantara: : You are a wonderful friend, never to be forgotten.

















               

STORIES FROM LIFE

Westminster Abbey



I love stories. I love the different ways they come to me. Sometimes they are passed on by friends; sometimes by family. Some of them are written; some make their rounds by word of mouth. But sometimes they come through photos in family albums, and currently, through social media. I am quite technologically challenged, but I have learned enough to allow me to Facebook. I have not really learned the language except I know what “lol” means. When I read FB posts and look at pictures, I imagine stories behind them. I ask, “Why did he say that?” “Why does she talk about forgiveness all the time?”

This past weekend I went to a Goodwill store. Thrift stores interest me. They are full of stories. I find old family albums full of photos and wonder why no one was interested in keeping them. On this day, I saw two big beautiful paintings which looked very similar and with these were two beautiful antique-looking end tables. They probably came from the home of a senior citizen who had just passed away. Whoever it was had excellent taste. I would have bought the paintings except our little condominium has run out of walls for hanging more paintings.

Cemeteries are full of stories. A few years ago, Don and I visited the most famous of
them all, Westminster Abbey. It was a walk back into history. I would have loved having a week just to explore this hallowed ground. I stood before the coronation throne, silently carried on a conversation with the first Queen Elizabeth, who reigned over England’s golden age. I more than glared at Charles Darwin’s grave for trying to rob the Creator of the glory that belongs to Him.  It felt so unreal to walk in between the graves of the rich, very famous, very gifted and very powerful, icons of many, and indeed worshipped by some. I recalled stories told by Charles Dickens and thought about the milieu in which he lived. Lines of poetry from Tennyson, Shakespeare, Shelley which I have committed to memory years ago came rushing back to me. I’ve seen and touched graves of men and women who have made history and have helped shape my present world, men and women who were bigger than life.

My favorite part of Westminster Abbey, Poets' Corner, can be found in the South Transept. It is the burial place of writers, playwrights and poets; the first poet to be buried here was Geoffrey Chaucer. Then there were Alfred Lord Tennyson, John Dryden, Robert Browning, etc. Many writers, including Dr. Samuel Johnson, Rudyard Kipling and Thomas Hardy were also buried here. Charles Dickens' grave attracts particular interest.

By the time we got to sit down at the end of the day to take in the Vespers at the Westminster Abbey, we felt overwhelmed by the whole experience. We stood on hallowed ground, final resting place for these illustrious dead who have left their mark not only on England, but throughout the world. Once more their stories came alive.

Each one of us is a story.  Do you ever wonder what kind of story you are writing with your life?  I do. 

HUSBAND, DAD, GRANDPA

               

Young Don

The Introvert

A classic introvert, quiet (sometimes extremely quiet for my taste), voracious reader (Amazon.com must love him so!). Says, “split a Pepsi with you”; hoards chocolates in fear that another depression might come and the country will be out of chocolates. Analytical (this wife complains, “Oh, Don, must you always wonder how many angels can stand on the head of a pin?”), cautious (always wants to have his ducks in a row). “Great guns!” is the strongest exclamation you would hear from him; needs at times to get away to reenergize; very deliberate. Forgets names but remembers faces; loses things but never his way when driving. Loves deeply but never wears his deep affections on his sleeves. Never showy and hates to call attention to himself. Authentic.

Does not like IKEA because they make him put things together; avoids doing dishes like the plague; has a love-hate relationship with the telephone; thinks his wife is silly when she buys cut flowers rather than flowering potted plants. Loves music, and really good music, but music does not love him (music teacher’s statement “I think you may be tone-deaf.”); likes birds and birdwatching (was so pleased to find out that he shared this hobby with John Stott, the English theologian).

A Passionate Love for God

But these are not the qualities that I have found of great significance about Don, rather

Kristy & her dad

it has always been his quiet, passionate love for God. I have always known that God was his first and great love, and I would be a distant second. That was fine with me. (Besides, there is just no competing with God!) If that could be passed on to my children’s DNA, I would not have given them a better gift. I know though that this love for God was not passed on to my children through their genes, but through the model that Don has been to them. Shortly out of high school, Matthew had a confrontational exchange with me over issues. It was very painful for me to hear what he had to say. He told me how I lost him when he was in junior high, because I was so busy with things at work and my involvement in political things. Amid my tears, I heard him say, “I want to be like my dad. My dad does a lot of good things quietly, without letting people know.”

The Model

A pastor’s life is not the easiest. As we raised our children, we had our share of fears. We relied heavily on God’s assurance that He was with us. The pressure of raising a pastor’s children as normally and as close to the scriptural way, in a culture that more often than not, conflicts with God’s ways, weighed heavily on us. Don’s being pastor of a small, interracial church also had its unique demands. But God as always, was faithful. Our lives have been the richer for everything He has allowed us to experience.

If imitation is the highest form of flattery (I rather want to say “compliment”), I think our daughter has flattered us.   She, too, chose a pastor’s life when she married a man who has the same passionate love for God as her dad. She and her husband have been pastors to young people for about ten years of their 14 years of married life.

                                                         Grandpa Don & Haley
Have a very special
Father's Day, Don, and to all the fathers out there!

PARADIGM SHIFTS & HEROES

 
Childhood Heroes

A red cape. That was what Matthew wanted, so he could swish it around his little body, pretending he was Superman. I can’t remember how old he was at the time. But I did make him a red cape. It was fun for him for awhile, running around our hallway and living room, just like the man of steel did, but no, he was not allowed to stand on the dining table. (Mom’s usually have high tolerance levels, but there are limits, you know.) Superman was my son’s hero, for awhile. Then came Spiderman. Yes, he had Spiderman bed sheets and pajamas. Then there was Indiana Jones.

Kristy and her young friends spent countless hours watching the Anne of Green Gables series. Whether Anne became a model, I don’t know, but I sure hope that there were some strengths in that young lady that Kristy found worthy to emulate. I know that like Anne she has become a voracious reader.  But her dad is quite a reader, too, so she may have been influenced by both.  Like Anne, she majored in English Literature and was also into drama.

Did you have models when you were growing up? We used to call them heroes. I had several. I used to have the picture of a young Filipina in her WAVE uniform. I had it scotch taped on my closet door. I so admired her. She looked so smart, pretty and had an air of confidence about her. I wanted to be a WAVE in the US Navy just like her.

Five Missionaries to the Auca Indians

On January 8, 1956 five young American missionaries were killed in the jungles of Ecuador. They were young men, in their prime, bright, energetic, with their whole lives ahead of them. Rather than pursuing careers that would guarantee easy, comfortable lives, they chose to commit themselves to sharing their Christian faith with people in the jungles of Ecuador who had not heard the name Jesus. I was so impressed by their commitment. Jim Elliot, one of the men, had said, “He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose.” The picture of five dead bodies sprawled on the beach of Curaray, Ecuador still lingers in my memory. (We have recently met one of the men who were entrusted with the task of bringing down the bodies from this jungle scene. Fifty-eight years later and he still talks about this very difficult task as if it happened only yesterday.)

Hungarian Freedom Fighters

On October 23, 1956, the Hungarian revolt led by young students against the totalitarian Communist regime, was in all the newspapers. I remember looking at the picture of young students standing before Russian tanks that were about to mow them down. I thought why were they doing this? In my youth, I had not quite understood that indeed there were causes worth fighting for and dying for, one of which was freedom. 

Paradigm Shifts and Heroes

These young men’s courage, commitment, selflessness and purposeful pursuit of causes bigger than themselves touched me deeply. And so, the hero of my younger years – one who looked really impressive and pretty in her uniform, was slowly displaced by the missionaries to Ecuador and the young Hungarian students fighting for freedom. I was beginning to grow up. My paradigms were shifting. And they have continued to shift. As a young mother, I looked at other mothers; as a Pastor’s wife I found Catherine Marshall, wife to that famous “Man called Peter.” I admired her and her mother. We named our daughter after her mother (but changed the C to K to make it easy for our Indonesian friends to say.) Now, past these milestones, and into the winter years, I look at Caleb in the Bible, a model of a man. He was one of twelve men sent by Moses on a reconnaissance team to the land promised by God to the Israelites. He was one of only two who gave a truthful report. As a result Moses promised him that the land on which his feet have walked would be his inheritance and that of his children forever, because he had followed the Lord his God wholeheartedly. Forty years later and at 85 years of age, he declared to Joshua who succeeded Moses as leader:

 I am still as strong today as I was in the day Moses sent me; as my strength was then, so my strength is now, for war and for going out and coming in. Now then, give me this hill country about which the Lord spoke on that day, for you heard on that day that Anakim were there, with great fortified cities; perhaps the Lord will be with me, and I will drive them out as the Lord has spoken.” (Joshua 14:11-12 NIV Bible)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

IN THE COMPANY OF THE YOUNG

A Trip to Costco

Yesterday I went to Costco, shopping with a young friend, probably less than half my age. He is supervising young summer missionaries in the City and I was helping him pick up groceries and supplies. He shared some stories as we drove the 20 minutes to Costco. He told me how he, from Georgia and she, from Virginia, met in New York. They fell in love, got married, came here to do graduate work in a Bay Area seminary. We talked about their struggles as a young seminary couple with not much money, settling in a culture away from what they knew and unexpectedly having a baby in the midst of their adjustments to the new environment, etc. This brought back a lot of memories. Some 30 years ago, Don and I went through the same experience. We traded stories about God’s faithfulness through the financial struggles and adjustments to marriage, having babies and living in a different culture and environment. Soon we were at Costco, grabbing one of those flatbed carts, we maneuvered our way through the aisles to get the paper plates, paper cups, groceries, household cleaners and the rest of the items on his list. We talked about what 12 young college kids would like to eat. Yes, tacos, spaghetti and meatballs and on and on we went picking up ingredients and chips, snacks,etc. Chocolates, young people need chocolates. It was fun shopping, especially because we were not spending our own money!

This may not have been an earthshaking experience, but I have begun to really savor experiences like this because I always come away enriched by it. When I was younger, relationships that crossed racial, age and gender barriers intimidated me. Crossing these barriers frightened me. Sometimes because of this fear I have deprived myself of experiences that could have enriched my life, and I’m the poorer for it.

The Paralegal Class

Amazingly, my life has taken a turn that took me from my birth country to the United States, transplanting me in a different culture and among a different group of people. My interracial marriage was another barrier breaker. And as I have become older the fear of relating to younger people crept in on me. How do you relate to people half your age? Though I have worked with some who were younger than I, most of my co-workers were more my age.

However, a few years ago I took a paralegal course that put me in a classroom of more than 30 students with all but one, were the age of my children. I was late on the first day of class and I remember how intimidated I was to see all the young faces that stared at me as I entered the room. But as we struggled together through the intense two-full day sessions every weekend for a number of weeks, memorizing legal terms, turning in homework and papers researched and written in-between regular work hours and sometimes through the wee hours of the mornings, constructing legal briefs and doing legal analysis of cases, we got to know each other. Soon it no longer mattered to me that I was old enough to be mother to my classmates. And the truth of the matter is, I don’t think my age mattered all that much to my classmates either.

Seminary Studies

After I retired from my job, I enrolled in a Seminary to study theology. I was encouraged by my experience in the paralegal class. Again, I felt out of place in this school, with the students half my age. How do I relate to them. How do I keep up academically with these bright, energetic young folks? But soon I got to know some of them. We sat together in classes. We’d meet in the library as we did research and wrote about Tertulian or Augustine, Karl Barth, or Spurgeon, or the history of the church, etc., etc. We sat in chapel together, and in the student lounge, having our sandwiches, or lunches from MacDonald’s or the nearby Panda Express as we tried to catch up on last minute readings before class. Every now and then, we would have personal discussions as we walked to our cars in the parking lot or on the way to the library. Some confided problems they were struggling with; some joyfully shared their excitement at starting church ministries. Some I’ve prayed with about choosing life partners. A young couple away from their families, found out they were having their first baby. I was so thrilled for them as they shared this news with me even before they were able to tell their families.

My young friends from the paralegal class have moved on, some have decided to go on to law school; some are employed in law firms in the City. I know of one who is with a law firm in Chicago. My young friends from the Seminary are serving in ministries in different states of the US; others are preparing for foreign missions assignments. My life has been enriched by my friendships. Every now, and then I say prayers for my young friends – friends who turned me onto Facebook, helped me study for quizzes and energized me as I shared in their excitement for the future.

OF MAMMOGRAMS AND ULTRASOUNDS

A Doctor’s Finding

I saw the concerned look on her face as she physically examined my right breast. “I feel a dense area right around the nipple,” she said quietly. She continued in a much softer voice, almost a whisper, “but maybe it’s just fiber.” 

Dr. Yuen has been our doctor after our former doctor retired. She took over Dr. Lo’s practice. She was quite fresh out of medical school, but came very highly recommended by Dr. Lo. He wasn’t mistaken. She has now been our doctor for over 15 years. She has seen us through my daughter Kristy’s nearly ruptured appendix, Don’s two angiograms/angioplasty and had even taken out a stud earring that dug deep into my ear lobe years ago.  These days she monitors our hearts, cholesterol levels, reminds me all the time to take my medications and warns me against donuts, frappuccinos, cookies and pies.  

Now this. A lump in my breast. It took me sometime to process what Dr. Yuen told me. I decided to keep this to myself, but consistently talked to God about it. I was not praying that God take it away, but that His will be done. But, if my opinion mattered, I did mention to Him that I would certainly rather not have cancer.

As Dr. Yuen ordered, I immediately made an appointment with the Breast Center. However, it took several days before I could be seen. It was only by God’s grace that I was able to function as normally as I did in the intervening days without breathing a word of my problem to anyone. So many thoughts were running through my mind. I had plenty of questions. Why would this happen, and what would happen to us. Our lives would be terribly altered. 

Always a Clean Bill of Health Until . . . 

I have been blessed with excellent health until about 8 years ago when I was diagnosed with diabetes 2. Other than this, I’ve never had any major health problems. Before the diabetes, I’ve never had to take medication on any regular basis. I have quite a low threshold for pain. Though I’ve had blood drawn countless times, it still scares me. Dental visits are plain torture regardless of how simple the procedure. I have often wondered how I would respond to a major medical crisis. I’ve seen one of my closest friends, a woman ten years younger than I, succumb to breast cancer after a five-year battle. That was a pretty frightening picture. I saw a pretty, bright, vibrant and lovely person slowly disappear into the shadows as her body was subjected to chemotherapy, radiation and the ravages of the disease. Then I thought of what would become of us. Here we were just a short time into our retirement.

I am reminded of how fragile life is.  Life holds no guarantees. I flippantly make appointments, schedule activities, promise attendance at events, expect each day to be pretty much like the day before.  But I do not hold even an hour, a minute nor a second of life in my hands. When day breaks and I awake, I look out the window and think of all the things I have planned for that day, without any thought of possibilities that could change those plans. In a minute, in the twinkling of an eye, things can change. I feel as if James, the brother of Jesus was personally saying to me, “Now listen, you who say, ‘Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money.’ 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 vanishes.” (James 4:13-14 NIV)

The night before my appointment with the Breast Center, I decided to tell Don what Dr. Yuen found. “Would you like to pray about this?” he asked, taking my hand. And we prayed together.

At the Breast Center

It was a bit overcast and chilly in the City. As we walked in to the Breast Center, I headed to the receptionist and handed her my prescription from Dr. Yuen. As she read the “found a lump on right breast” she looked up at me as if trying to read my thoughts. Very kindly, she told me the technician would come to get me in a few minutes. Sure enough, a smiling and friendly technician came, informing me that she was doing the mammogram. After about 10 minutes of x-rays, I was told to wait in the dressing room, while she gave the results to the radiologist. He would then decide whether further diagnostic ultrasound testing would be necessary. A few minutes later a nurse came to get me and led me to another examination room. She also introduced herself to me and explained the procedure. I lay quietly as she did the ultrasound testing. I could see the monitor partly and the expression on her puzzled face. She was very methodical and took much care as she scanned my breast with the wand. Soon she told me to wait as she conferred with the radiologist. It may have been just 15 minutes that she was gone but it felt like eternity to me.

 My thoughts were interrupted by the nurse’s footsteps. She had a smile on her face. “Mrs. Major, you are all clear.” Then she gave me a pink slip that had the information. Though I understood clearly what she said, I had to confirm what she meant. They could not find any evidence of a lump!

Thankful to God for this answer to prayers, relieved and a bit numb from it all, I got dressed and in a few minutes, was back to the reception room where Don was waiting for me.

 “Negative,” I told him with a smile. And then we just got quiet. We both knew how life-altering a contrary finding would have meant.

 It was raining as we got out of the Center, and we did not have an umbrella. As we felt the raindrops, Don asked, “Are you okay walking in the rain and getting wet?”

Looking up at him and meeting his blue eyes, I smiled. “I have just been spared from breast cancer, do you think a little rain will bother me?” Then we headed to the Starbuck’s across the street for steaming cups of black coffee.