Missed Opportunity

"You are a bright spot in my life like the color of the flowers and you  are missed when you aren’t here."

The doorbell rang. I stopped breathing. The doorbell rang again. I froze.

Sitting at my antique roll top desk, submerged in emails, I felt light-years away from the sound coming at my front door. Figuratively speaking, I was somewhere over the Atlantic flying home to my native land. This first day post international travel found me nursing a jet lag hangover, and wearing my virtual office attire (aka robe and slippers). My body had arrived, but my soul had not.

Three options presented themselves, like multiple choice: 

1. Go to the door, open the door, and face the embarrassment
2. Go to the door, talk through the door, and minimize the embarrassment
3. Don't go to the door at all; completely eliminate the embarrassment

Face? Minimize? Eliminate? You guessed it; option number 3 won. I elected not to go to the door. After all, it could be Fed Ex, Terminix, UPS or the US post. None of these needed a greeting. So, positioning myself where I could see the top of the person’s head (which I did NOT recognize) I waited until the human left. Only later did I painfully discover that the missed opportunity was actually a dear friend whose company I not only desired, but needed. She dropped by as a surprise to welcome me home. In her wake, she left a lovely bouquet of flowers. Her text read, "You are a bright spot in my life like the color of the flowers and you are missed when you aren’t here."

Grrrrr…. Shame on me. I felt so stupid. 

Missed opportunity

Imagine if I had gone to the door. Squeals of excitement would have exploded for all the world to hear. The virtual office attire would have been a non-issue…this was my friend! How incredibly kind of her to come by; after all she was 50 miles from her own home. Missed opportunity. Pulling her inside, I would have immediately grabbed her coat, started the electric kettle, and set about making Afternoon Tea.

Confident of her desire to hear about my recent trip, I would have talked ninety miles an hour, updating her on God’s work in southeast Africa. Details - lots of details - from the lives our co-laborers in South Africa, Ethiopia, Zimbabwe, Zambia, Kenya and Madagascar. With uncommon eagerness, her heart would have been in her listening...she is like that. Stories fresh off the press and off the plane would emerge - stories of:

1. Faithful leaders surging forward for The Kingdom using soccer balls, basketballs and golf balls
2. A pair of believers praying all night for God to deliver food for the participants of a sports festival (The hundreds of participants had arrived, and the food had not.)
3. Specific answers to prayers she prayed for the devotional I taught                        

 ... if I had just opened the door. But I did not. I ducked, dodged, and decided to wait for the caller to leave.

Missed opportunity

Let's face it. Life often involves a missed opportunity, and you and I must decide how we will respond. Life moves on, but do we? Sometimes the opportunity is small; sometimes it is large. (Another time I will tell you of the missed opportunity for an Afternoon Reception with Laura Bush.) Yet regardless of size, the first step forward is raw honesty. This behooves us to delete from our vocabulary such phrases as:

Ohhhh wellll...

Big deal, who cares?

It doesn’t really matter...

I didn’t care anyway…

Not true! I do care. It does matter. So therefore, how do I rebound?

Getting past the power of the punch of a missed opportunity involves incorporating two In’s into our lives and our thinking. Two In’s enable us to move on. These In skills are needed both at the time you and I experience a missed opportunity, and each time in the future when we recall the missed opportunity. 

In everything give thanks. (I Thessalonians 5:18) God has instructed us to thank Him. We Believers miss the opportunity to move ahead when we refuse to stop and simply submit our experience of disappointment into the loving Hands of an understanding God. 

In acceptance lies peace. (Elisabeth Elliot) It happened. Opportunity knocked at my door – literally – and I missed it. I am faced with resistance or acceptance. This is not being fatalistic, rather realistic. 

Having shared this, you can be assured the next time my doorbell rings, I will think on the words from Ephesians 5:15-16: "Be very careful, then, how you live - not as unwise but as wise, making the most of every opportunity..." Yes!

Living with eternal intentionality: How about you? When is the last time you missed an opportunity? How did you recover?

Our Communication Crisis Behind the Iron Curtain

Imagine life without iphone, Instagram, text, Twitter, WhatsApp, or Skype. Only decades hence would these luxuries exist.

In previous posts, My Agonizing Question That Refused To Be Answered and The Day That Stays With Me Forever, I described the grip of Martial Law that strangled life out of the population of Poland. The abrupt military takeover, December 13,1981, led to ongoing agony in everyday life. Roadblocks, document checks, curfews, and vehicle searches became painful restrictions. For more than 18 long months (December 13, 1981-July 22, 1983) the repressive military regime sought to crush the political initiative by keeping a lid on the ever-boiling caldron. 

Communication with the outside world remained severed. Phone calls - even letters - were prohibited. Certainly, there was no iphone, Instagram, text, Twitter, WhatsApp, or Skype. Only decades hence would these luxuries exist.

As undercover missionaries, we faced a unique challenge: how could we let our families know we were safe? (And, actually, we were safe. As long as we remained under the radar, we lived life as normally as a double life could be lived.)

We needed a solution. Driven to resolve this communication dilemma, we prayed, and the Lord gave Larry an idea. After listening intently to his plan, I agreed he should proceed. So, one cold, cloudy March day, he bundled up David, our almost two-year-old son, and put him in the car. Their destination: the office of the Minister of Communication.

Larry and David drove to the center of Warsaw, and parked outside the ominous gray fortress-like government building. “Come son; let’s go in and talk to the man inside.” 

‘The man inside’ happened to be the Polish Army Colonel, who now held the position of Minister of Communication. During Martial Law, military leaders confiscated civilian functions, and executed extreme restrictions. These were not normal times, and this was not a normal appointment.

Unannounced, Larry entered the outer office where a military receptionist sat guarding entrance to the closed wooden door beyond. In Polish, my husband asked to speak personally with the Minister Colonel. Without hesitation, the receptionist ushered Larry, with David in tow, into the austere office behind the closed door where the oversized Colonel occupied an oversized seat behind an oversized desk.

Strategically, Larry placed David to sit ON the right hand corner of the Colonel’s desk. Introductions were brief; the conversation went like this:

“Sir, I have come with a request. My family and I live here in your country; I am a student in Foreign Trade at your Economics University. My little son here has grandparents that live in America. Sir, do you have grandchildren?

Reply: Yes. Yes I do.

Sir, do you like to hear from your grandchildren from time to time and know that they are safe?

Reply: Yes. Yes I do.

Sir, I am here today to ask your permission to send a telegram once a week to my son’s grandparents in America to let them know that he and his sisters are safe living here in your country. Your current law forbids us to contact them; we cannot speak with them by phone; we cannot mail letters to them. They have no way to know that their grandchildren are safe. 

Then, the bottom line: Will you grant me this permission?

Silence. Deep Breaths. More Silence. Larry wiggles his toes inside his heavy winter boots. David swings his little short legs off the edge of the desk. The Colonel strums his stubby fingers on the arms of his wooden chair.

OK. (Pause.) Ok. I grant you this permission. You may send one telegram once a week from here within my office. My assistant will check the communication each time before it is transmitted. But you must ONLY speak about the children. You are not allowed to go beyond such communication, or you will forfeit this privilege.

Done. Leave fast before he changes his mind. Thank you, Samuel Morse. And Thank You, God.

“The king’s heart is in the hand of the Lord…” (Proverbs 21:1) Yes, and so is the heart of the Communist Colonel.

Whew…

Who Am I Really

Greetings from wonderful and warm South Africa. Larry and I are here to participate in life and ministry of our Athletes in Action leaders in this nation.

Meet Dayle Rogers, my friend, colleague and guest writer of this week's post. Dayle describes herself as wife of one, mother of six, nana to nine and counting, grateful follower of Jesus, lover of people, words and fun. She works at Lake Hart in Orlando, the international headquarters of Cru. With Cru, she serves as a coach of women going through transition, a job she loves and appreciates. Follow Dayle at her blog tip of my iceberg . Now for her post...

I love those ads for Ancestry.com where people find out the specifics of their heritage. It’s fascinating how we’re often not what we thought we were.

Being in Prague, Czech Republic for a week gave me a little insight into my ancestry.

Mom is a full-blooded Czech. Which makes me half Czech. On Dad’s side, I’m English/Irish and Native American.

I’d not thought of it much before. I knew Mom’s parents immigrated from the former Czechoslovakia. Dad’s grandmother was from the Cherokee nation. It all felt rather distant from who I am now.

Until last week. I got to be in the country where my grandparents grew up and began their family.

The beautiful historical buildings in Prague reflect a challenging history of differences of opinion. Much had to do with religious preference. Catholics didn’t like the Protestants, and the Protestants just wanted to be left alone. Both sides had followers who were tortured or burned at the stake for beliefs others didn’t agree with.

 In this last century, the area was invaded and occupied by the Nazis beginning in 1939. Many of their landmarks stayed intact in spite of the bombing at the end of the war. They had three years of independence. Then they were occupied by the Soviet Union.

Until the wall fell in 1989.

Three years later, the Velvet Revolution happened, when the country split with no guns being fired. Politicians did the fighting.

This is a people who’ve withstood a lot of turmoil, often unwanted leaders. And they’ve kept their pride. Their sense of strength and determination.

I saw that in my Grandmother. In Mom. An unwillingness not to be pushed around. Not to agree just because everyone else is doing something. A tenacity to be who they were. Strong.

I get where my stubborn stick-to-itiveness comes from.

A beautiful country with deep pain. Not easy to get to know.

I stood in the middle of Old Town Square with my sister and friends. Taking it in. It was part of who I am. Heritage. Ancestors.

But I found I was nothing like these people. Their history has led them to struggle with trusting others. What they’ve been through makes it difficult to believe in God. Or even want to talk about Him. They doubt first. They wouldn’t be seen as a warm, inviting people.

Struggles and challenges have molded them, given them a tough veneer. I’ve had the benefit of people I trust in my life. Safe people. People who had my back and believed in me.

So who am I? Really?

I’ve a heritage that reflects the impact of those who’ve gone before me. DNA that shows I’m from different people groups. Stories that mirror the difficulties and joys of those who are no longer here.

Who I really am is a child of God. Made in His image, as all people are, I have the opportunity to reflect Him. His glory.

The rest? My heritage adds color, cohesiveness and richness to who I am. It’s my story, what’s unique to me.

We all have stories.

Our identities? That says more about our character, our integrity. What we’ve done with our choices. Decisions.  I’m part Czech, part Native American, part English/Irish.

All God’s.

What’s in your DNA?