Robbed Again!

Padre Julio, about whom I have blogged previously, Skyped me from Colombia this morning. He had been robbed again -- the second time in three months that someone broke into his car and took everything. This time the thief took both Fr. Julio's personal computer and the computer that belongs to the organization he founded, Por Amor a Los Ninos de Colombia (For Love of the Children of Colombia). It had recently happened, and I guess when he Skpyed me, he was at an Internet cafe, trying to figure out his next step and wondering where and when the good from this would come about!

I suppose I am a fairly appropriate person with whom to share this kind of news. After all, in addition to my regular muggings, I have been robbed on a few occasions. The first time washed away any sentimental affiliation with things. We had moved from Montana to South Carolina, where I was undergoing my initial military training, and had then gone on to California, where I was to be permanently stationed. (Of course, in the military one must realize that a "permanent change of station" is anywhere in length from six months to three years -- so much for permanence.) While I was in South Carolina, we had left many of our possessions, including my wedding ring (long story), in storage in Montana. After the move to California, I asked for annual leave, and we made a difficult and long trip back to Montana through the snowed-in Sawtooth Mountains, over which we had to creep with our tires in chains, only to find out that everything had been stolen. There was absolutely nothing left. Bit by bit, we replaced everything, except the wedding ring. I do not wear one to this day, but most people know immediately that I am married. There have been other times, each with its own special characteristics, but the most recent was finding upon return from two years in Jordan that our RV, in which we had been living in an isolated area on a mountain river in rural California and which we had left in the possession of a neighbor, had been broken into and everything stolen, including the door from the refrigerator, the air conditioning (leaving a hole in the roof), and all the wiring. The neighbor, it turned out, was wanted for kidnapping (her own child, in a divorced situation) in Louisiana and had been forced to return there. And then there was the house that we lost. We had rented out our primary residence when we moved from Pennsylvania to Washington, DC years ago. For years, the tenants paid the rent, taking out any money they needed for repairs, and renting out a second apartment that was part of the house and keeping the rent in exchange for taking care of the property. It was a great arrangement until they suddenly went incommunicado and stopped paying rent. Our attorney learned that the father, the sole breadwinner, had lost his job and was on welfare but had not conveyed that to us (perhaps we could have worked something out). When the attorney told the tenants to pay the back taxes or leave, they left, taking everything they could, including things that belonged to us. Then, to make sure that there was nothing left, they took an axe and broke every window and chopped down all the stairs. Oh, well, it was only a house.

Any time I might consider that I have problems, I recall the life of my best friend from college. Coping with a bubble baby (no immune system) and a child recently diagnosed with diabetes, together with a husband dying from cancer for whom doctors held little hope, she locked her house and left for her home city where the doctors were better able to treat her husband and her mother could help with her two children. Six months later, she returned with her husband in remission, planning to continue on with her not-so-easy life and found her house ransacked. Nothing of any value, including sentimental value, had been left. (The whole story is rather long and has an amusing, well, at least, a lighter, outcome; I have posted it on Mahlou Musings.)

I think the moral to these stories is that life is too short and too complicated to worry about possessions. Possessions, in the long run, do not really matter. (I don't think that is just the Franciscan me speaking. I think it is really true.) In the long run, we may never recover our possessions, but, in my experience, God will somehow turn these experiences into something that is good or something that gives good: good from bad, the story of my life and of the lives of many people I know.

Our earthly goods may be taken from us, in my case over and over. But that is not important. Our soul cannot be taken from us; we have to give it away of our own free will. Our hope cannot be taken from us; we have to give up on our own for God will always hold out to us a branch of hope. Our happiness cannot be taken from us for while we may not be able to control what is done to us, we can control how we react to it (as the aphorism goes).

Sure, I have been robbed, but I choose to let those things go, forgotten in past days that I am not going to relive, anyway. I choose happiness. Always. My happiness does not lie in having good things. It does not even lie in having good news. Rather, my happiness lies in the fact that the universe is bigger than I, that God is greater than I, and that, as we are told, all things will work together for our good. That does not mean that my life has no sorrow. Certainly, it does. Considerably much of it, truth be told. However, sorrow does not preclude happiness, just as happiness does not preclude sorrow.

The robberies I experienced gave me a very different outlook on life -- a more positive one and one less burdened with the need for things (now I can use more of my money to help others because I no longer feel a need to "buy" fine surroundings). The robbery my friend experienced led her, too, through the intervention that she sought, to the ability to cope with three difficult medical situations, and today both children have outgrown their medical problems and are married adults with families and her husband is still in remission from cancer. Good in the long term is something to be anticipated for Padre Julio as well. In the short term, however, please pray for him and the children of Palomar.

Monday Morning Meditation #10: A Tendency to Whine

Back in the land of the living (many thanks to all for their prayers and to God for His kindness), I have forged forward in the book of Exodus to the point where the Israelites, with the help of God, have left their Egyptian bondage, crossed the Red Sea, and are now living in the wilderness. And now, being in the wilderness, what is the first thing they do? Start complaining! Where will we get something to drink?, How will we eat? they ask. God provides them with water, manna, and quail, but in some quarters the complaints continue.

Reading: Exodus 15-17

Meditation: Having lived in that same wilderness a few years ago, spending time with a Bedouin family, eating what the family ate -- goat, sleeping where the family slept -- on the sand, sheltering with what the family sheltered -- a marvelously protective goat-hair tent -- I can understand the concern of the Israelites. Surrounded by sand, with an occasional plant (Now how did that get there?), and some deep dry channels where the spring runoff had long since passed through the sand dunes, one might indeed wonder where survival would come from. However, the Bedouin do survive. Donnie and I did survive right along with them. (Of course, today there are more options about how one survives.) Each time the Israelites whined, God provided, as He still does today when we whine and even when we do not.

What is there in our human nature that replaces what should be an attitude of gratitude for what God has done and does do for us with whimpering and whining for what we would like to have that is more or bigger or better or shinier or more expensive or more glittery? Why is it so difficult to be happy with what we have, which, in many cases, is more than many other people have, especially if we look at the poorest of the poor on this planet?

When "bad" things happen, why do we ask "Why me?" Should we not instead be asking "Why not me?" Ironically, even as an atheist, I never asked "Why me?" when it came to our children's birth defects. Somehow I knew that united gene pools can sometimes produce less than optimum results, and that is just a fact of life. More important, always, was the question "How do we live with this?" or "How do we fix it?" or "How do we at least make it somewhat better?"

If we can accept whatever lot we have in life, without whining, without telling God what it is we want Him to do for us, and instead abide in Him and see what He can and will do to make all things come together for our good, I think we will be very surprised by God's creativity in turning bad to good, into giving us far more than we would have dreamed of asking, of answering our prayers before we even say them. I have seen that happen so often that I fully trust God to produce miracles whenever they are needed to serve a higher purpose.

And that is far as I can go with you on this Monday morning. I must retire to prayer to ask God to keep me from whining, to express my regret for times in the past when I have been ungrateful or demanding, to give thanks for His great kindness in giving me more than I deserve, yes, in spoiling me, and to offer praise for the marvels of which He is capable and which He has shown our world.

After that, I will spend some time in contemplation, hoping and trusting that this great God will continue to infuse me with a desire for nothing except for His presence and an attitude for gratitude whenever I am granted that favor.

I will now leave you to your prayer and contemplation.

If you pick this up as a weekly devotional activity, please share with me and others your own thoughts about the message of Exodus 15-17 or any other scripture that you choose for meditation. Feel free to export the image of the mission church; maybe some time in the near future my Internet-inept self will be able to figure out how to use the Mr. Linky buttons. In the interim, you are welcome to use the image and share the meme of Monday Morning Meditation for starting out the work week closer to God.

Have a good day and a spirit-filled week, and may you find a host of blessings for which to be grateful.

Malaise and Urgent Call to Prayer

Perhaps readers have noticed that I have not posted in several days. Please do not blame me. Blame that German germ that accompanied me home from Garmisch. It is amazing how long and how far adrenaline will push off an illness, but ultimately the germ wins, at least for a while. (The German medicine did help, but when I ran out of that, the American medicine did not help; maybe germs are nationalistic.) So, I have spent 30 hours non-stop sleeping. While I rarely sleep, I do when I am ill. It's a way of turning 100% of everything over to God. Can't worry or do much while asleep! (I slept through Saturday vespers -- I am sure that God will forgive me for that since He was taking care of me at the time.)

I am not in much shape (yet) for blogging, but I do want to bring to your attention something important for those prayer warriors who read my post. Andrew (who is listed on my prayer list) has encountered an infected surgical site following his brain tumor operation, and friends are holding an on-line prayer vigil for him at noon PST on Sunday (probably today by the time you read this post). If you would like to join, please see the full information here.

And, now I tumble back into bed for a few more zzz's prior to Sunday mass, which I do expect to be in good shape for it. I am already much better. Sometimes sleep can do what chemicals cannot!

P.S. I am now truly awake -- almost a FULL day later. Thank you for your prayers for me. God seems to have taken care of me again. I imagine I must be one big headache for Him, but He never gives up on me. I would ask you to continue to pray for Andrew, whose picture I have now added above, as well as for others on the prayer list to the right. They are all experiencing frightening things that most of us never will have to face. They need God with them.

Blest Guest Wednesday #1: Stand Back and Let God Work (Anne Bender)

Since early August, it has been difficult for me to post regularly although I have somehow managed not to let more than a few days go by between posts. Considering that my crazy travel schedule is definitely going to continue for a few more months, I have come up with an idea for bringing a little sanity to the blogging part of my life: ask for help. For that reason, I am asking some fellow bloggers to write posts for me on Wednesdays, hence the name "Blest Guest Wednesday." As today's "Blest Guest," I asked Anne Bender, who writes a blog that I follow closely: Imprisoned in My Bones - Releasing My Inner Jeremiah. As you will see here, she has several children; two of her sons are considering the priesthood. Her stories are uplifting and insightful, and I thank her for the touching one she wrote for today's post. (Oh, the image of a priest's hands is hers, too, and can be found on her blog.) Here is her post:

When things seem really bleak, and I feel full of worry and stress over little things, God always seems to find a way to pull me out of myself and remind me of the important and meaningful things in life. It seems to me, that his favorite way of doing that is through my children. When I’m aware of how He works in this way, I can only stand back and let the tears of astonishment overflow from my heart and fill my eyes.

Jack is ten years old, and will be eleven next month. He is in the 5th grade. But to me, I can’t ever imagine him as anything except a sweet and innocent little boy and I’m amazed every time I realize that he’s growing up so fast. He was born with developmental apraxia of speech, but we didn’t realize he had this disorder until he was two years old and wasn’t talking. The apraxia means that in his mind, he knows what to say, but something breaks down between his mind and his mouth, and the words don't come out, they stay kind of stuck in his head. It was extremely frustrating for him. So, just before he turned three years old, he began speech therapy, and he continues to require this weekly service. Of course, he really speaks very well now and most people can understand him and don’t even realize that he has this disorder. I am most aware of it when he is sick or tired and that's when his speech becomes more garbled and difficult to understand.

Jack works very hard to overcome this difficulty. Most of the time he is a very quiet boy and he easily disappears in our loud and unruly family. When he is stressed, he can barely express himself except through tears. But when he is relaxed and happy, he can turn into a real chatterbox, especially if he is talking about the current sport of the season. I always thought that God gave Jack the gift of athleticism to compensate for his speech difficulties. As he began his school career, I worried that he would be teased because of the robotic way he spoke and that friends would be few and far between. But Jack found a way around his speech difficulties by bringing a ball of some sort to school every day. Other children always gathered around him to play and he quickly became quite popular. Nobody cared about whether or not he spoke well because he was fun and kind. He included everyone in his games and shared well with others.

Whenever the talk of future careers would come up in our household, Jack always spoke of a career in sports that is typical for most boys. Whether the season was football, baseball or basketball that is the sport he wanted to play as a professional when he grew up.

Until last year, that is. Then Jack started expressing an interest in the priesthood. I didn’t pay too much attention thinking he was just copying his older brother John, who is feeling called in this direction. And when I would watch him fidget in church, constantly checking his watch to see how long the Mass lasted, I would completely disregard the possibility of priesthood for Jack.

I like to visit the Seminary Library, and when I’d take Jack with me, he began to ask the librarian for books about the priesthood. She would apologize to me because she didn’t have much on the subject for younger children. I always said, “It’s ok. He really doesn’t read much anyway, you’d just be wasting your time hunting some down. As soon as we get home, he’ll be outside playing instead of quietly reading, because that’s what Jack does best.”

But this week God had a surprise for me. Jack had an evening with a few hours unattended while the rest of the family was busy with other activities. He told me that he spent that time looking at our Seminary’s “Think Priest” website. I smiled and told him what a good boy he was and that I was glad that he was interested in that, and then sent him off to bed. I didn't give it another thought.

Last night I received a phone call from our Associate Pastor. Fr. Dennis asked me if I knew that Jack had sent him an email. (I didn’t.) He told me that Jack had complimented him on his All-School Mass Homily and then said that he wanted to be a priest. Fr. Dennis said the email surprised him because Jack never says a word to him in person, he won’t even crack a smile, but rather is always very serious.

I went outside to find Jack racing up and down the street on his scooter and told him that I wanted to talk to him. He immediately assumed he was in trouble for something and the tears began. I assured him that he was not in trouble, but that I just wanted to spend some time talking with him. He sat on my lap and I asked him about the email to Fr. Dennis as I wiped his tears away. He said yes, he had sent it. He also sent one to our Pastor, Fr. Dave, our friend Fr. Don, who is the Rector at the Seminary and to Mr. Wisniewski, the school principal. He said he established his own email address and told all of these men that he wanted to be a priest and was wondering if they had any tips for him. He took me to the computer screen and showed me his list of sent emails, and there they all were, just like he said.

Now it was my turn to cry. My mind raced with questions. Could God really be calling two of my four sons to the priesthood? What moved Jack to send these emails without telling me his intention? Will this desire for the priesthood last or is this just a phase that he is passing through? Does God really send the call to priesthood to such young boys?

I watched him closely at Mass this morning. I saw him fidgeting with the eraser that was in his pocket during the homily. I saw him looking intently at Fr. Dave during the consecration. I noticed him smile and wave at Fr. Dave during the sign of peace. My heart is pondering the wonder of it all, but I know that all I can do is stand back and let God work. After all, Jack has always been His child, long before he was my child. In the end, it will be God’s will that wins. It will always be God’s will.

Oh, the Unpalatable Food of Parents of Special Needs Children

I did not think I would have time to blog tonight/today, but it appears that I do since I am up "eating," following a phone call. The call came right in the middle of the night as I snoozed away here in Germany. Donnie, the husband. Well, Donnie would not have called me at this hour had there not been a dramatic need, and there was.

Doah, our mentally retarded youngest, had had an altercation with someone at work and had become violent (tried to bite). So, the staff, together with the owner of Doah's group home, was asking to increase his epilepsy medication. This is a considerable set-back since we had only two weeks ago convinced the doctor to begin weaning Doah from this medication based on the fact that he does not have epilepsy, has never had any kind of episode remotely similar to epilepsy, and does not have a violent nature. In fact, we were quite persistent about making the attempt to wean him from the medicine once we found out that the doctor had tried no alternatives to addictive medicine. Her reason: He is on MediCal insurance (state insurance for handicapped individuals in California -- no other insurance company will take him because he is a definite risk), which allows only 15 minutes a visit and a limited number of visits. So, she told us that all she has ever had time to do is measure the amount of medicine in his blood and re-prescribe and that is all she ever plans to do. (You have to admire the doctor's honesty.) If we want alternatives, they take time, and we would need to find another doctor. However, she could not recommend one because none that she knows is willing to work with MediCal patients because the payment is so low. Fortunately, she was willing, reluctantly, to try to lower the dosage of one of the addictive medicines Doah is taking.

I am not a doctor although sometimes I joke that given all our kids and grandkids with serious birth defects that I have earned an honorary medical degree. Well, obviously not so. I have no idea whether the fact that Doah has had this medicine in his system has caused some changes that show up in violent actions as a side-effect of withdrawal or whether Doah with age (now nearly 30) has become unable to handle some of his emotions. Whenever he is with us, he is happy-go-lucky, and the times that he has been frustrated, he has generally released a 20-second flash flood of expletives that dries up as soon as I look at him and say his name sternly or with disappointment, depending upon the circumstances.

Here is a new wrinkle, and from half a world away I have no way to analyze the situation accurately. Reluctantly, I agreed to have him return to full medication. Frustrated, I complained to God about it and heard this little voice say: "He is my child." Oh, yeah, that's right. I am not in this alone anymore, like I was when I was an atheist. I have a Helper, a Supporter who actually loves both Doah and me. I felt a comforting stroking which I don't know how to explain: sensation without sensation. But that reinforced my understanding that God will take care of this one way or another.

Now, though, I cannot go back to bed. I am ravenous. I rummaged around my emotional refrigerator and found what I am hungering for: a huge piece of humble pie. I will finish that, and then I can get some sleep. Tomorrow will be another day. Meanwhile, I don't have to worry about Doah. God is doing that.

Monday Morning Meditation #9: Give Me Proof!

I may well be the slowest Bible reader in the world. Another week, another chapter. So many thoughts and images come to mind that I do not want to speed through anything. In chapter 4 of Exodus, which is where I have been living this week, there is much to think about. This is the story of Moses's encounter with God and God's request of him to go to the Pharaoh of Egypt and demand that the people of Israel be released. Quite a tasking, and Moses is a bit overwhelmed by it, as I assume anyone would be!

Reading: Exodus 4

Meditation: Reading this passage, I could not but notice Moses's concern that he had no proof that he had spoken with God. He feared that no one would believe him. Let's face it, if someone today were to relate a similar experience, there would be immense skepticism. No wonder those who have had an extraordinary spiritual experience become a little reluctant over time to relate it. (I have met people who have been favored in this way, but the skepticism with which they meet numbs their tongue, much in the way Moses's tongue was numbed such that Aaron had to speak for him.)

I, too, find myself cautious at moments about the experience I had in being overwhelmed by God's presence, but with God's support, I plunge into the story anyway. Some people believe me; some don't. It truly does not matter since I don't have to lead anyone across the Red Sea. I know what happened. God knows what happened. I share, and the rest is up to the listener/reader -- and God.

I find it interesting that people are more willing to suspend their disbelief (to use Aristotle's terminology) when it comes to all kinds of far-fetched tales related to psychic events, horror stories, fairy tales, and faulty journalism, but if the story is about God, they want proof. This statement is, of course, the pot calling the kettle black since I did test God (unfairly and with far greater temerity than I would now have) when I demanded that if He existed I wanted to feel His presence. (Whew! I have learned over time that His presence can be so overwhelming that it pins me to the spot, but you know, naivete will take you in directions that even angels fear to tread.) And then of course there were the two miracles I asked for as "proof." It only took one to chase me into church; however, God in his great kindness granted both, much as He gave Moses signs to give to the Pharaoh, has given me many miracles since, and has led me to see ones that He had blessed me with earlier but to which I had been blind. I no longer ask for proof, and I am embarrassed that I ever did -- but I guess God has run into that attitude more often not.

And that is far as I can go with you on this Monday morning. I must retire to prayer to ask God to increase the depth of my "willing suspension of disbelief," to express my regret for the times in the past that I demanded proof and, before then, when I failed to see even when I had proof right in front of my eyes, to give thanks for His great kindnesses to me in spite of not deserving them, and to offer praise for the depth of His patience and love even in the face of my disbelief and the disbelief of so many who have ultimately followed and obeyed Him.

After that, I will spend some time in contemplation, hoping and trusting that this great God will continue to infuse me with that which is difficult to believe -- and I will try to become better at believing.

I will now leave you to your prayer and contemplation.

If you pick this up as a weekly devotional activity, please share with me and others your own thoughts about the message of Exodus 4 or any other scripture that you choose for meditation. Feel free to export the image of the mission church; maybe some time in the near future my Internet-inept self will be able to figure out how to use the Mr. Linky buttons. In the interim, you are welcome to use the image and share the meme of Monday Morning Meditation for starting out the work week closer to God.

Have a good day and a blessed week, filled with all good things -- and may God increase your trust so that you do not need proof anymore (if indeed you ever did).

Falling in Love with Some Special Churches

Since today is Sunday, and I have just had a round of visiting churches -- one for mass (St. Martin's in Garmisch, Germany) and Seekirchl in the Alps where I walked with Austrian friends in the afternoon and yesterday receiving a tour of St. Sophia's in Kiev courtesy of a Ukrainian colleague who is also an architect -- it seemed appropriate to talk about churches today.

You probably recognize this church as the one that accompanies my Monday Morning Meditation blogs. This is one of the California mission churches founded by the Franciscans. Since I have joined the Secular Franciscan Order as a candidate, this church has special meaning to me. It is not gilded or ornate in any way. It is not exceptionally large although it does have three aisles whereas most of the mission churches had only two. The floor is uneven, and one can even find animal prints in the tiles. The old pews get dusty; I know because I volunteer to clean them periodically. There is something very special about this church, though, that draws me twice on weekends and whenever possible on weekdays. I I have never failed to sense God's presence in this church -- and neither has any guest I have taken there. One feels that God loves being in our church. Perhaps that is why in more than 200 years, the church has never been without a priest or missed a mass (quite a feat considering the offering of daily masses and 5 masses in 3 languages on the weekend). And perhaps that is why on nearly any given day, if you drop in, you will find someone kneeling at one of the icons, at the altar railing, or in one of the pews in prayer.

A colleague and I, both visiting Garmisch, Germany for work reasons and having the weekend free, decided to attend mass prior to a day of separate sightseeing, he in town and I in the Austrian Alps with friends. We misunderstood the times and ended up at St. Martin's as the early mass was ending, so we returned an hour later. I am so glad we did return. St. Martin's is a beautiful church, with frescoes and ancient, straight pews built in such a way that one wonders if the early parishioners spent the entire mass kneeling -- the kneelers are considerably more comfortable than the pews. We were not there for comfort, however, and we certainly found something far greater. The parish is well-priested. Three priests presided, two sisters from the local convent did the readings, and I could not count the number of acolytes. Were our parish that rich in religious leaders! We seemed to have stumbled into the church on an important day, the 50th anniversary of the founding (with American help!) of the local convent. The homily was wonderful even though I understood at best 60% of it because my German is rusty. That mattered little because the touch of God was in that place -- and my sense of God's presence and my love of being in it is not at all rusty!

Seekirchl in Seefeld, Austria is the church that heads this post. It is so charming in winter that I had to include the winter picture (above at the top of the post) even though today was a crisp fall day. The church inside is tiny, holding perhaps 40 people at best, there being only 5 rows of differently-sized pews on each side, each holding 3-4 people. Built in the 1600s, the church has charm and history. I was told by my friends with whom I was walking about the Alps, having taken a train ride there from Germany in the early afternoon, that it is a working church but services are held only in the morning. Well, maybe next time...In the interim, there was no need for a live mass to know that God spends time in this place.

St. Oswald's, also in Seefeld, Austria has been made into a museum as a result of an incredible event that took place there. As the story goes, on the night of Holy Thursday 1384, a knight named Oswald Milser attended mass at this church. A man of great arrogance and pride, he approached the high altar with his sword drawn and a band of intimidating armed men, demanding the large host, the one normally reserved for the priest, for himself. The frightened priest handed him the host, and Milser remained standing as he took it. However, as soon as he had the host in his mouth, the knight sank into the ground up to his knees. Pale with terror, he grasped the altar with both hands, leaving imprints that can still be seen. The knight begged the priest to remove the host from his mouth. As soon as it was done, the ground became firm beneath him again, but the host turned blood-red. The humiliated knight rushed to the monastery of Stams, confessing and repenting his sin of arrogance. It is said that the knight thereafter befriended the poor and became a great servant to God. Anyone who ever has any doubt that God is present in His churches would do well to visit St. Oswald's and check out the fingerprints.

St. Sophia's church, in my mind, is the perfect one with which to end. Given the Mongol invasion, which wiped out much of Kiev, a history of battles, and the communist regime which destroyed a number of the churches in the USSR, it is amazing that St. Sophia's Cathedral is still standing. After the communists blew up St. Michael's church, the people of Kiev begged the Soviet government to leave St. Sophia's untouched, and the government, surprisingly, agreed. Perhaps it is not surprising, though, that the government agreed and that St. Sophia's outlasted the other churches. On one of the arches near the iconastas are written the words: this church shall never be moved. Hm...Seems like those words foretold God's centuries-long protection of this very large, two-story, beautiful church.

Yes, I know that where two or more are gathered together in His name, God is present, and I usually feel that presence. However, being in God's presence in a church where His people have worshiped Him for centuries always strikes me as an incredible blessing bestowed by God, who has known all of these who have loved Him throughout time and who is allowing me into their midst, even if I do not deserve to be there.

7 Quick Takes Friday #2

I did not really think that I would (1) have time to do the 7 quick takes today or that (2) I would have seven things to mention. I was wrong on both accounts. I love it when I am wrong about such things!

1. I might as well jump in up front with the confession: I spent a day of physical and spiritual debauchery last Saturday prior to leaving for Kiev just a couple of days later. In the morning, we picked up Doah at his group home, then he, Donnie, and I honored the invitation of one of my employees to attend an Assyrian (Chaldean) festival, associated with his church, in a city to the north of us. We had some great Middle Eastern food and managed to observe the Sheikhani (a fun but tiring circle dance associating with the town of Sheikhan) but escape before becoming a part of it. (Usually I get pulled into it, and then everyone gets to laugh at my two left feet.) We got back to our home town just in time for our Saturday Roman Catholic mass and immediately after mass left for a town to the south, about an hour away, arriving just as the sun was setting, i.e. perfect timing for iftar (the Muslim breaking of the fast – it was still Ramadan), to which we had been invited by one of the supervisors who works for me.

2. One of my colleagues traveling with me had made the arrangements at a four-star hotel here in Kiev and was excited about seeing it, getting to soak up luxury. I did not have the heart to tell her that five-star hotels here are like good (but not necessarily luxurious) hotels in the USA and four-star hotels are less than one would expect in the USA. Four stars means that you do get those little soaps and shampoos that I like to bring back to the homeless shelter (they are the perfect individual size). You also usually get a hair dryer and a real bed, not a couch-like bed. Other than that, one would not call it anything special. My colleague was disappointed, but it was about what I had expected, and I am happy because I do have access to Internet here although I have to pay by the minute.

3. I had forgotten how much walking one does in a former Soviet country. Public transportation is excellent, and you can get anywhere very inexpensively, but you do walk – between transfer stations, to/from the nearest metro, etc. Yesterday we had great difficulty finding a place we were supposed to visit because we had poor directions, and neither of our phones worked so we could not call. (With cell phones universally available, the pay phones have all but disappeared from the streets.) By my calculation, we walked more than three hours all told, and I ended up very sore. I guess I need to do more than just think about getting in shape. After all, this body belongs to God as much as it belongs to me, and I don’t want to be someone who forgot to tend God’s property!

4. For those of you who have been following the story of 19-year-old orphan Katya of Tula, she needs some help. We still do not have her in the USA where she can be helped. Everything seems to be on track, but Russia is a country where business takes place slowly. Now, she has lost much of her hearing (in addition to her sight). She must raise $1000 for the kinds of hearing aids that she needs. If you have spare change or know someone who is looking for a good cause, this young lady is a good cause. The person to contact about Katya (whose real name is Tatyana Tusova) is Ken Wilcox at Orphan Cry.

5. If I had any doubt that sitting beside Maxim (the Ukrainian who thought I was Russian and then, realizing that I was a foreigner in a somewhat unknown land, offered to have his driver take me and my colleagues to the hotel after dropping him off) on the plane was pure coincidence, then that doubt was removed this morning, when the driver, Volodya, popped up out of nowhere as we were leaving the hotel. He happened to be driving by and stopped to confirm that we wanted to be picked up at 4:00 in the morning tomorrow as we had indicated when he dropped us off two days ago. Volodya’s surprise appearance comforted us because we had found that our cell phones for some reason do not work here even though they were supposedly turned out and had not been able to reach Volodya to confirm while running around town. We would have called from the hotel in the evening, but we did not have to; here was Volodya in person! While we could also have called a cab from the hotel, knowing that we will not have to deal with an unknown company in the middle of the night but will have someone reliable waiting for us is one of those extra-nice spoiling I seem to get from God from time to time without knowing why. I did not do anything to deserve anything special, but what a nice feeling to have it happen!

6. The next thing I have to do before tumbling into bed this evening early in order to leave at oh-dark-hundred is to translate a letter Fr. Julio sent to me from Colombia. It won’t take long; it is an update to the sponsors of children in Colombia. (And, by the way, Padre Julio is always looking for more sponsors as there are many children in need of help in Colombia.)

7. And now I am going to stop so I can translate the letter and get some sleep for my wee-hours-of-the-morning trip. Germany, here I come!

In the event that I am incommunicado over the weekend, I wish all of you a great weekend – restful and spirit-filled!

Thankful Thursday #1: A Grateful Heart in Kiev

Since it has been a brutal day for me, having spent more than three hours on foot (taking the metro and marshrutny taxi -- the express mini-bus -- does not eliminate a lot of walking in Kiev), more time in chairs meeting with people, followed by facility tours (more walking beyond the three hours), very little down time, and limited Internet minutes, I have decided to join the Thankful Thursday crowd this week because I am thankful for so much these days. More information about two-year-old Thankful Thursday meme can be found at the website of Grace Alone. So, here is what I am thankful for today.

• In keeping with yesterday’s post, I would have to say that I am thankful again and again for all the times that God takes care of me. I have come to rely on that, whether at home or traveling the world. After all, the entire world is home to God.

• On a pragmatic level, I am grateful for the purse-size Korean hand-fan that I purchased on a whim in Korea; without air conditioning here in Kiev and with the temperatures soaring to unseasonably high levels, I am putting that little fan to good use.

• I am grateful for people who let me know when I have made their lives easier; for example, the young professor who was assigned to be my escort when I visited the university told me she did not sleep at all the night before because she was anxious about our meeting, but once she had met me, she really enjoyed the time we spent together and was quite relieved that things turned out differently from what she had worried about; a hug took away any remaining reservations.

• Of course, in recent days, I am thankful for the health of Shane and Nikolina (and even Nathaniel and Doah, who have had their small issues); we could have lost them both, but we were reprieved (once again, spoiled).

• This week I joined Face Book (under my real name) and found many old friends there, including a number of high school classmates; I also have found new friends; for every single person, I am grateful.

• We got a little bit closer to finding Ksenya this week, and I am very grateful for that.

• I had lost contact with my friend from Austria, and up she popped on my email the morning I was leaving for Ukraine and Germany; I would have been shouting distance from her and not have seen her; instead, after mass on Sunday, we are going to meet in Austria, in the Alps, just across the German border for lunch; I have not seen her for nearly ten years!

• Recently, one of my employees at a branch site became very ill (cancer) and used up all his sick leave, with no end in site; I donated two days of leave to him and asked all 400 of my employees, if they could, to follow suit with one hour or however much they could afford; the payroll clerk tells me that we got many donations (some went straight into the system without going through her so I only know about those anecdotally and some I don’t know about at all); I am very proud of my employees and very thankful for their generosity.

• In the same vein, I am pleased and grateful that nearly all the managers I supervise understand the difference between doing things right and doing the right thing and consistently choose the latter; it makes the working atmosphere so much better.

• I am also grateful that I no longer have any non-believers among the managers in my division; that was not anything I caused or planned; rather, I assume that God is spoiling me again.

• I am grateful that God intervenes in my work place, creating miracles and positioning people to help one another.

• And finally, coming back to where I started this post, I am grateful to God for being in all the strange and familiar places to which I travel so that I am never alone, never without help, and never without someone to talk to.

For what are you thankful this wonderful Thursday?

God Took Care of Me Again!

Just a quick post today because I am not even sure which day “today” is. I need to hop into bed for about four hours of sleep before getting up in the Ukraine to a new day, a day full of meetings and work. It is still Wednesday afternoon in the USA, if my telephone clock is correct. So, I will label this a Wednesday post, make it short, share one of God’s small mercies for which I am always (well, at least usually, thankful), and go to bed.

I came into Kiev this evening (actually, early this morning) with two colleagues. Neither was from the Ukraine and therefore not aware of how to handle the taxi situation from the airport – how to tell which ones were safe, how to gauge the price, etc. Fortunately, we did not have to know anything. The young man sitting beside me and I got into an interesting conversation. He told me about how he got into working in Germany albeit being a Ukrainian. Then he asked me how it was that my fate brought me to the USA. For a minute, I thought I had misunderstood something in Russian, then I realized that he had just paid me a huge linguistic compliment. I explained that I had grown up in Maine. He still did not understand and asked how my parents had gotten to Maine, at which point I told him I had only a Russian tongue and not a drop of Russian blood. He laughed at his erroneous assumption that I was a Russian emigrant to the USA, and then, realizing that I was a foreigner in a strange land (not entirely strange, but it has been 15 years since I was last in Kiev), he offered to share with the three of us his company’s driver. What an easy way to get to the hotel!

I gave him my email address and asked him to keep in touch. He may. It seems like quite a repeat of my meeting with Eddie Pareiras of Campinas, Brazil. Once again, without my even asking, God took care of me. How otherwise would one explain the perfect seatmate on the plane? Luck? Okay, I suppose one could. But such luck twice, in two different hemispheres? I think luck may be, as someone once said, those times when God chooses to be anonymous!

Yippee! I’m off to bed, wishing you all a blessed day, evening, night…whatever it is where you are!

Monday Morning Meditation #8: Certainly, God Will Be With Us

Another week has passed, and in slow manner, I have finished another chapter. Moses has now grown up and is tending sheep when he sees a bush on fire but not being consumed. Intrigued, he checks it out to find God there with a tasking for him.

What is it that they say about curiosity? Well, I'm sure God would have found him one way or another, anyway. I have learned that when God has a tasking for you, there is no way out except to do it, and that seems to be what Moses found out.

Moses found out something else, too: if God tasks us, we have help. God never abandons us to carry out the tasking unaided. Obviously taken aback and feeling inadequate to the task, Moses asked God, "Who am I, that I should go unto Pharaoh, and that I should bring forth the children of Israel out of Egypt?" to which God replies, "Certainly, I will be with thee."

Reading: Exodus 3: 11-12.

Meditation: Reading this passage, I immediately recalled the moment 16 years ago that I was tasked with rescuing a dying child artist from a remote little townlet in Siberia. Shura, a young teenager with spina bifida in a part of the world that had nearly no antibiotics, was already a published author and artist when I first heard about him. He had had two exhibits of his art work at the renown Dom uchenykh (House of Scientists), and a documentary film had been made of his life. I have no idea what Shura's role is supposed to be in this world. Nor does he. However, God clearly wants him alive. The number of miracles, serendipities, and downright people-pushing that God did on Shura's behalf is mind-boggling. I cannot relate them all here because there are so many. I will at some future time (not distant future) post Shura's fuller story on The Clan of Mahlou blogspot, but that will have to wait for now because the story has so many details. The story is the framework for the first two parts (of three) of Blest Atheist; obviously, it is a complex story. (Where God gets so highly involved, I don't think complexity and mystery is avoidable.)

Here are the major ones:

1. I was introduced to Shura's plight by his godmother in a serendipitous meeting in Krasnoyarsk, where she was the head of a delegation of teachers from Shura's home town, Akademgorodok, who attended a two-week seminar I was teaching at the behest of the Siberian Regional Ministry of Education. It turns out that we had a common mentor -- my consultant at the Academy of Sciences in Akademgorodok had been her graduate advisor at Novosibirsk State University.

2. It quickly became clear that I was supposed to take care of Shura. God did not seem to care that I was an atheist at the time. He tasked me, and I had no choice but to obey. (Well, I suppose I did have a choice, but I kept getting pushed so hard that I simply became caught up in a whirlwind of miracles with no time to think about backing out -- some of that story can be found in an excerpt from my book on Mahlou Musings.) People would tell me that I was being used. When I would remonstrate that this was not possible because I was an atheist and believed that everything that was happening was a matter of coincidence, they would tell me to hush and just keep following along, and basically that is what I did, not even knowing why I did it.

3. God prepared me with the basic skills I would need: the ability to speak Russian (at one time, my major in graduate school) and the knowledge of spina bifida care (my younger daughter Noelle being a child with spina bifida). In fact, Noelle's doctor in Washington, DC was the person who was most instrumental in helping to get Shura into the US, filling out all the embassy's medical documentation. Clearly God started that preparation long before I ever heard about Shura, who was born half a world away a year after Noelle.

4. When the consular officer at the US Embassy refused to give Shura a visa, two diplomats stepped forward on my behalf (for Shura). They were my former students. More pre-planning?

5. When US hospitals would not operate on Shura without a $50K deposit and evidence that we would be able to pay the anticipated $500K bill (it turned out to be closer to a million dollars), we went looking for funds and were directed to a billionaire, John Kluge, who responded with a check for $500K (and later with another for the same amount) and tickets to the hospital of his choice, University of Virginia Hospital. We later learned that we had sent our plea to an unforwardable address in Virginia (a follow-up thank-you letter was returned to us), and yet within three days Mr. Kluge had received it at his correct address in New York. Moreover, the clinic coordinator at UVA Hospital was a former art instructor -- she recognized Shura's talent and was able to get him a residency at the Virginia Center for Creative Arts. She also took him into her home when it became clear that he would be spending more time in Virginia than in California; she had a son the same age, and the two boys became friends. During his stay in the hospital and after, Shura was befriended by a cardiac surgeon from the Ukraine who spoke Russian and was on an internship at UVA Hospital. The surgeon acted as Shura's interpreter and advocate and, later, American father. He even got eventually got US residency although that had seemed impossible when we first met him. Hah! Nothing turned out to be impossible in Shura's case. I have found that when God lets you be part of His miracles, the word, impossible, disappears from your vocabulary.

6. At a Tuesday evening pre-surgery moleibin (special intentions prayer during mass) for Shura at the Russian Orthodox Church in Washington DC, we met the overseer of the INS. He had worked late, knew that there was a mass that day, and "for some reason" felt compelled to stop in on his way home. He had not been in that church for over a year because he had moved his residence to Baltimore and attended church there. I am told that since that evening 16 years ago he has not been back. This wonderful man introduced himself after the mass, gave us his card, and offered to help in any way and ultimately assisted in getting Shura the long-term permission to stay in the USA that he needed to ensure his good health. We thought that he was a very special Good Samaritan. We only learned how very special he was several months ago with the publication of a book about an unusual icon and the identification of this man's son as the recipient of an incredible miracle. The boy had become blind, and his parents, ethnically Jews and spiritually atheists, were desperate to help him in any way possible. Grasping for straws, when they heard that the icon that weeps myrrh and causes healing would be at a church nearby (the same church that conducted Shura's moleibin), they took their son there. Myrrh flowed and gushed onto the floor. The priest anointed the boy's eyes with it, and the boy saw. The parents converted on the spot. Years later, the father was able to pass on God's blessing to his blind son by helping Shura, the lame son of another man.

There is much more to the story and even a follow-on story of a blind orphan with brain tumors who will be coming to the US as a result of her benefactor learning about Shura, contacting me, and my experience in working visas through the embassy coming to the rescue. The Russian doctors had given Katya of Tula only five years to live, and she wanted to die with relatives, the only ones she has being two brothers who were adopted by a family in New Hampshire a dozen years ago. Just when it seemed that it would be impossible to bring Katya to the USA all of the key players (the benefactor, me, my connections with and at the US Embassy, and Katya's nurse) all ended up in Moscow last August 6. None of us knew in advance that any of the others would be there, and I personally had earlier had no reason to go to Moscow, but suddenly I was needed as a consultant for an educational matter there. Subsequently, when Katya's Russian doctor refused to sign the paperwork to allow her to travel, that doctor mysteriously disappeared from the clinic and a new, more helpful doctor appeared in her place. Katya will be here soon, and now, after consultation with doctors in Boston, it appears that she may be coming to the USA not to die but to live. The doctors in Boston think that they can remove all the tumors.

There is too much complexity to these stories to include all the details here. I would simply ask two questions: (1) Could anyone of sound mind claim that all of these things were mere coincidence? and (2) assuming that this was a tasking from God, is there any doubt that He kept the same promise that He made to Moses: "Certainly, I will be with thee."

And that is far as I can go with you on this Monday morning. I must retire to prayer to ask God to keep using me for these marvelous plans of His to help the people of this world for I so very much enjoy being part of those plans, to express my regret for any and all pushes, nudges, and opportunities that I have missed as a result of my sometimes contrary and somewhat obtuse nature, to give thanks for these waves of miracles which God has washed over so many people in the cases of Shura and Katya alone, and to offer praise for the unimaginably skillful way in which God works to bring good from bad, to network dozens of people and institutions to help just one injured lamb, and to make the unbelievable real.

After that, I will spend some time in contemplation with this wonderful God who does not care who we are, who will use even an atheist to help the hurt and lost, who equips us to accomplish whatever task He has set before us, and who is with us every step of the way, moving forests, mountains, and every other obstacle so that we might complete His tasking successfully and in full confidence that our trust in Him is never misplaced.

I will now leave you to your prayer and contemplation.

If you pick this up as a weekly devotional activity, please share with me and others your own thoughts about the message of Exodus 3: 11-12 or any other scripture that you choose for meditation. Feel free to export the image of the mission church; maybe some time in the near future my Internet-inept self will be able to figure out how to use the Mr. Linky buttons. In the interim, perhaps you are welcome to use the image and share the meme of Monday Morning Meditation for starting out the work week closer to God.

Have a good day and a blessed week, filled with all good things -- and may God task you with something wonderful! No need to fear: He will be with you. He has promised it.

The Boy in White

For some time, I have wanted to post about the boy in white, but I have hesitated because the story appears in my book, Blest Atheist, and I have generally posted excerpts from that book and my other publications on Mahlou Musings, rather than here. There are differing audiences between the two blogs, but I think the story can also appeal to readers of this blog. So, I will summarize the story here. You can find the longer, more complete story that is closer to the original in the book on Mahlou Musings.

The story of the boy in white intertwines with many of the leitmotifs of this blog. I began this blog with discussions of abuse (physical, sexual, and emotional) and blessings, and the story of the boy in white, which comes from my childhood, contains these leitmotifs as well as hints of the supranormal/angelic, which have also been discussed here at various times. Here is the story in brief:

On one bright, cold winter day, I dragged my sled three houses down our New England street to our neighbor’s teton-shaped hill, where all the children in our area of town gathered to race down to the mostly untraveled country road below on sleds, cardboard, or whatever else was available. I pulled my sled up the hill, waving to the other children in the neighborhood but mainly concentrating on the anticipated thrill of the ride. We were a community of children in the sense that we all knew each other, but our sport was an individual one. We did not share adrenaline-spurred shrieks of fun, but rather we quietly felt the thrill that defined the fun of New England downhill sledding.

That afternoon as I was pulling my one-person wooden sled up the hill a third time, I noticed a young boy, clad all in white and definitely not adequately covered for the sub-zero temperature that rosied our noses as they protruded from the scarves wrapped around our necks and faces and tucked into the hoods on our coats. I puzzled over the boy in white only momentarily as I mounted the hill and then the sled and began my third downhill run toward the road. Suddenly, about half-way down the hill, the boy in white, well blended with the surrounding snow in my visual field, began moving across the path over which my sled was about to speed.

“Get out of the way!” I yelled. I was as much annoyed at his being in my path as I was afraid of hurting him. He stepped back, and I briefly caught his sad look as I zipped past.

The memory is old and the details lodged in the mind of an 8-year-old whose perception of the world had moments of extremism. Therefore, I will not insist that every detail was precisely as I remember it today. What I do remember precisely, however, was being shaken by my own unkind words. I hurried home, towing my sled and a bundle of regret and concern. Somebody had to help the boy in white! He was wandering through the New Hampshire cold with no coat! He would freeze on the hill or anywhere else in our neighborhood. He seemed so oblivious to his surroundings and to the cold. He must be poor, indeed, I thought. We did not have much when we were children, but we always had warm clothes, and we were always bundled up, displaying a “cared for” look.

“Ma,” I called as I dropped the rope of the sled and ran into the house. “There is a boy on the hill without a coat. He is going to freeze! We have to help him!”

“Well, let’s go,” she said. I could not point him out through our window, so we set off for the hill. By the time we got there a few minutes later, however, he was nowhere to be found. We looked farther afield, but we saw no lad in white. Ma asked some of the other children, but none remember seeing him. I was at a loss to explain to Ma why he was not there, but she was not angry this time. In spite of her inability to love her children in an altruistic manner -- indeed, she was a highly abusive parent, one frequently emotionally out of control -- whenever someone in the greater community needed help, Ma was always jolly on the spot. Those two seemingly mutually exclusive attitudes — cruelty to her children and kindness to the community — made it difficult for us children to understand Ma. It also made it difficult for the community to understand our reaction to Ma for the community’s experience of her has always been positive.

As for the boy in white, I never saw him again. My friends insisted that he never was there, that he was a figment of my imagination that had frozen in the cold and was hallucinating snow images. Not a boy in white but a boy of snow. Still, I can see him today as clearly as I saw him on the hill so long ago. Today, I wonder if he was not there to teach me a lesson in kindness, in neighborly love — and to reveal perhaps why Ma may, indeed, live in grace, in spite of all her earlier cruelty and self-absorption for when there was a need for a Good Samaritan, Ma was usually the first volunteer. Perhaps God was using her, too? If God could use an atheist, as I was for so many years, then perhaps a believer with a temper, like Ma, might also be a potential instrument.

The long-ago lessons of the boy in white, unspoken lessons that allowed my subconscious, rather than conscious, mind to develop a morals-based value system, also showed me two important things that have dramatically shaped my life. First, I realized that day that there were two faces to Ma. That provided the foundation for the forgiveness that God required of me years later and which came easily once God pulled me out of my beloved bramble bushes. What God forgave me, I can certainly forgive others. Where God took me back, I can certainly take back others. Tit for tat gains nothing for no one. Forgiveness heals. That is one of the great lessons God has taught me on more than one occasion.

The second conclusion I came to all those years ago on the hill was that unless I was careful I would grow up to be the same hothead as Ma: my instinct had been to yell at the boy in white. Certainly, I did not want that. From then on, I worked hard to be the opposite of Ma. (Of course, I would tell her so from time to time when she was in the middle of beating, kicking, biting, or otherwise abusing me, and that did nothing to endear me to her; rather, I usually got an extra helping of the physical abuse as a result of my “big mouth.”)

How young I was when the boy in white crossed my path! Decades later, I can only conclude that God has always been with me. I have just been slow in seeing the linkages. I am grateful that now I can see them. Once again, God is spoiling me (and I love it).

7 Quick Takes Friday #1

I have followed Jennifer's 7 Quick Takes Friday at Conversion Diary for a while now, and considering the limited amount of time for posting I have this week, I decided to take her up on her encouragement to her blog readers to post a similar short weekly review. So, here goes.

Saturday. Better known as the day I learned that I was no longer young, on Saturday I accompanied study abroad students up the mountains in the southernmost region of South Korea, seeking out Buddha carvings on cave and rock walls and pagodas of the Silla dynasty. For the rest of the time I was in Korea, I could barely walk! Lunch was Korean style, sitting cross-legged on the floor. That was painful! Then, just to make sure I could not move, one of the people who had accompanied the students, a Tae Kwon Do instructor, insisted that I "learn a little" of this martial art -- of course, in front of the whole group, and of course I was not very good, especially with legs that no longer worked! In the evening, I had made it back to Seoul (the bullet train took only 90 minutes), where, via a friend, I was invited to attend an Oktoberfest at the Grand Hilton, with a real oom-pa-pa band from Bavaria and dark German beer, arranged by the general manager who hails from Germany.

Sunday. A friend took me to the International Catholic Church where the host is dipped into the wine; there was no alternative. Ouch! Our local beloved Fr. Ed would be aghast! (Question to the Catholics who read this blog: what is the practice at your church?) I was introduced to the church members at the end of mass by the Hilton general manager (small world!). After that I attended the church's annual BBQ. Talk about good timing! And they say there is no such thing as a free lunch! Then we walked all over Seoul and in the evening had dinner with other friends I had met from the church. We ate Korean style, cooking our own meat on a grate over burning coals that the waiter at the loved-by-locals, hole-in-the-wall-restaurant-with-delicious-food in the Itaewon district changed for us periodically. After cooking small pieces of meat, we dipped each in peppered oil and rolled it up in lettuce and basil leaves again and again and again. I ate too much!

Monday. I met with the administration (dean, vice-dean, and staff) of the university where the students are studying, gave my candid (positive) feedback of their program, and went to a cross-legged lunch with them. Ouch, ouch! After that, I was able to sit quietly at a theater and watch a performance of Nanta (Cookin') -- a marvelous farce that includes audience participation (all I had to do was catch and throw balls -- yes, no legs involved), cooking utensils as musical instruments, and a lot of good fun. The troupe has performed internationally in 26 countries, so maybe some of you will get a chance to see it.

Tuesday. I traveled with one of my senior managers by bus to Osan, where we have a branch office. Lots of issues to be fixed there, and the senior manager will be coming back regularly. I might also go back in early 2010 to make sure things are on track.

Wednesday. I left Seoul mid-afternoon to return to California. I arrived in California early Wednesday morning, thanks to crossing the International Date Line. What a weird feeling! I had most of the day to live over again. I lived two Wednesdays! I am still trying to wrap my head around that! I cannot even answer the question, "what did you do Wednesday morning," with one simple answer! I found out upon return that our son, Shane, who recently had surgery for a ruptured appendix (the day he brought his daughter Nikolina home from the hospital after spinal surgery) is well enough to go to work on Saturday! Hooray! The doctor said Shane came within two days of dying. Praise the Lord for his full and quick recovery! God continues to spoil the Mahlou clan! (And I would be horribly remiss not to thank the readers of this blog who have been praying for both Nikolina and Shane; your prayers are being answered, and I am grateful to you for them.)

Thursday. Punishment time for some of the fun I had in South Korea! I arrived to 672 emails! My assistants had done a good job of handling all the major tasks while I was gone, except for completing a realignment of our directorate with the reassigment of a manager who took it as a punishment that he would have a new boss (whom he does not like). I am still working that issue! I finally dragged myself home at 8:00 at night (another 12-hour day).

Friday. That's today. Just dawning here in California, and I need to crawl into bed for an early start at work. I will not have to work into the evening. I am having an early dinner with a former employee, who missed receiving her "goodbye mug," my traditional parting gift for employees, because I was out of town and could not give it to her at her farewell lunch. After dinner, I get to take the little soaps and shampoos that I collected from the hotel (one bottle of shampoo and one bar of soap always lasts me at least a week so I bring the rest back with me) to the homeless shelter in the town where Shane lives. Then, oh yes, I get to see him, Lemony, and my grandkids! Yippee! What a great way to end the week! And there is one more thing to be thankful for. This is the day (9/11) that brought so much sadness to so many, yet one of Lizzie's friends was spared. He worked on the 107th floor of the World Trade Center, but he "accidentally" overslept that morning. Hearing his voice when he called Lizzie to say he was okay was like seeing new flowers growing in a forest after a forest fire. Praise God that life continues! May the souls of those whose fate was not to escape rest in peace! And may God bring peace to their families!

That's a-l-l, folks! And now I am going to try to get the Mr. Linky at Jennifer's site to work and then flop into bed for a few hours before the sun tugs me out of it all too early. Have a good weekend!

The Jobs God Would Not Let Me Have and the One He Insisted I Take and Keep

Only four years ago now, I was peacefully and happily working in Jordan, a wonderful country -- ancient, holy in history, and friendly. Then, I got a fateful (not fatal, but at moments it did seem so) phone call from a former boss. He had just been selected to a CEO position and was asking me to come back to the States and work as one of his four direct reports. I would be responsible for national and international operations. Hm. It was intriguing, but I was already working internationally, shuttling between Bahrain and Jordan in order to help out the division in Bahrain which had lost its head person, and doing occasional consulting in any one of two dozen other countries. Hm. I wavered, mostly toward the status quo of the time.

Then, my boss in Jordan, an Egyptian of grand proportions and even greater temper, learned about the phone call, and the full fury of an Arab slighted fell upon me, loyalty being the number one trait that Arabs expect from friends and employees, at least in my experience. He immediately tore up my contract. He would not allow me to leave him; the only way I would be leaving would be if he sent me away, and he was doing just that. It was odd that he found out about the phone call. Only two people knew, and both insisted that they had not told. I had no reason not to believe them and still have no reason not to believe them. I am now pretty certain that my boss found out because God wanted me back in the USA for two reasons: (1) to find Him even though I was not looking for Him; and (2) my current job -- and I am still trying to figure out why God wants me in this particular job but have reached the firm conclusion, given a preponderance of evidence, that He does.

There was only one problem with this scenario (for my boss): I had already been paid for the quarter, so I got a 3-month vacation. However, there was nothing my boss could do about that. He left for Egypt, his residence, and returned in a month for his one-day monthly visit. By then, he had calmed down. We met, in the Arab way drank tea before broaching serious matters, and then settled down to discussing "the situation." I asked why he thought I would choose the USA over Jordan; I might very well have chosen Jordan over the USA. He seemed puzzled about that at first, talked about how I was "leaving him" (yep, I was right about the loyalty bit with him), and finally commented that he would be in his hotel room until the morning if anything else came up that I would like to talk to him about. We parted civilly. There was almost a sadness in the air on his side. Months later, I realized that in the Arab manner of saving face he was letting me know that he would like me to come back but that I would have to be the one to take the first step. I know that. I had lived in the culture long enough to read between the lines, but I did not. I took everything at face value, in the American way. Why? I have been called a "cultural chameleon;" I am known for being good at understanding the unspoken communication in other cultures, yet I failed to recognize something that I knew very well. I ask again, why? In retrospect, I think God must have clouded my thinking because He wanted me in the USA.

I began rapidly opening doors in Jordan, and I had lots of help. I had become well known there and had acquired enough respect for being a good teacher and a good administrator to have a number of job offers. I taught at the top university in the country for fall semester, which ended the day before I left Jordan for the USA (yes, I did ultimately take the job there/here).

Every door I opened in Jordan was closed. No, make that, every door I opened was slammed shut. Every person who tried to help me moved unexpectedly. Seriously. One professor and one administrator were moved by their organization to Bahrain, and one dean was recycled back into the faculty (it was the appropriate time for that to occur); but then he had the opportunity to teach in Lebanon, and off he went.

In the interim, I kept being pushed in less than subtle ways toward the USA job. First, given that I had no contract and every possibility for staying in Jordan dried up as quickly as it appeared, the job in the USA did not look all that bad. Actually, it was a very good job. While I was hesitating, the starting salary offer increased by 20%. That sweetened the pot, but I was still pretty intent on staying in Jordan. Then, I coincidentally (?) ended up at a conference with the most senior leadership from the organization, ran into them quite by chance (?), socialized a bit, and they urged me to put in my papers. I did -- one day before the deadline. That turned out to be a problem because they needed my transcripts from Russia, where I had completed my PhD. Oops! I assumed that this meant I should continue looking for jobs in Jordan, but no, the USA organization extended the deadline, quite coincidentally(?), by three weeks, just enough time to get the transcripts. As soon as the transcripts arrived, I was interviewed and shortly thereafter a firm job offer was made. At the same time, the contract of my husband, Donnie, was terminated in similar fashion to mine. Well, as I have learned, when God says "no," God means "no." So, with the USA job offer being the only one I had in spite of the fact that never before have I had any trouble cultivating job offers, back we came to California.

And within six months God entered my life as a Force to be reckoned with. (For details, see my conversion story.) And now, more than three years later, God has pretty much taken over my life!

After two years of working in my current position, I began looking for another job for several reasons: (1) the lure of a higher position and higher wages and (2) a bit of an ethical dilemma associated with one of the projects I supervised -- I disagreed strongly with the position of the organization. Once again, I quickly found another opportunity, a vice president position close enough to home that I would not have to move and with a salary that would be equal to a 25% raise. I was one of the top three candidates, and on a Wednesday interviewed.

I felt confident after that interview -- one usually has a sense of the success (or not) of an interview. However, clearly God had put me at my current position and wanted me to stay there. Things started happening again. First, every single day about once an hour one employee after another would come in, tell me how much they liked working with me, explain how much I belong here where I am, and share some story of some difference I had made in their life (usually something minor such as previously hating to come to work and now loving to come to work -- well, I suppose that is not all that minor). Here was something new, and I began to feel some obligation to these people. Second, on the Saturday after the interview and knowing nothing about my job search, Fr. Barry showed up at my door with an article related to the ethical dilemma I was facing. I had discussed it with him on a couple of occasions; he is my spiritual barometer. He told me that he thought that I was in a very good position to help the ethical dilemma be resolved and that I should keep this in mind whenever I was troubled about it. (He was stunned to hear about the job interview.) Third, just to make sure that I had no choice (because sometimes I do have to get conked on the head in order to hear/see God's direction), the job for which I had interviewed went away. Poof! The Board of Directors decided that they did not need an executive VP, given the current economic climate.

Financially, through all of this, God took care of me. Consider that my contract in Jordan had been paid three months in advance and that my current job began a mere two weeks (travel time) after the end of those three months -- and because I was also teaching during the fall semester, I got more than two weeks of extra pay to cover those two post-contract-expiration weeks. As for my current position, not only was the starting salary increased by 20%, but when the organization found out that I had been interviewed (there seem to be no secrets at work), my supervisor put through a 25% retention incentive, the maximum allowed by organizational regulation, and so my current salary matches what I would have made had I left. Amazing!

So, it would seem that here is where God wants me (for reasons only He knows). Therefore, here I will be until directed elsewhere.