The Question on the Playground

The sunshine felt like warm chocolate being poured over my head. Like a bear emerging from hibernation, I was emerging from what meteorologists labeled the 100-year winter. For months I had been sequestered away in a land known for its deep dark winters. Today I savored the wonder of being outdoors in a city where freedom was the norm.  

Along with the frigid temperatures, my soul had experienced its own winter. I was pregnant with our third baby and the pregnancy was extremely difficult. Twice I had spent two weeks bed ridden in a communist hospital, where creature comforts were painfully absent. Morning sickness gave way to a threatening miscarriage; I ached for a healthy baby. The pages of the calendar turned, ever…so… slowly; and just as slowly, I made incremental, wobbly steps toward my second trimester. 

Now I stood in this public playground absorbed in watching my two little children play, and enjoying the simple peace that comes from simply feeling better. The long-awaited break from the intensity of living a double, covert life had arrived. We were out from under the grip of the Iron Curtain for a few days of respite. 

Then it happened. Like a missile, I was hit with The Question from my colleague. Initially, the stinging question just hung in the air, and then it made its menacing way to lodge in my fragile psyche. 

“So what do you think the Lord is teaching you?”

These 35 years later, I can assure you the real problem was mine, not hers. Yet, in my vulnerable state, I was starving for encouragement. I did not need a sermon, a seminar, a suggestion or even sympathy. And I definitely did not need this question. I needed solace in the form of understanding. 

My situation was serious. I was not doing well physically, spiritually, or emotionally. I had no idea what The Lord was teaching me, and I was too afraid to ask Him. That left me not knowing how to answer her. Somehow, I felt an answer was expected, even required. I failed the test, but made a note, going forward, never to ask a hurting person in the midst of their suffering to articulate what God is teaching them.

Decades hence, from this side of the question, I suggest four realities:

1. In difficult circumstances, it is difficult to ascertain what God is teaching us. 

2. In difficult circumstances, it is does not matter what God is teaching us.

3. In difficult circumstances, it only matters Who God is. 

4. In difficult circumstances, a shoulder, not a question is needed.

“Lord, I shudder to think of the times I have made the hurtful mistake of asking this hurtful question. Please keep my mouth closed when I am tempted to ask rather than listen.”

Question: Have you ever been asked this painful question in the midst of a difficult season? How did you respond?

4. Turkey, We Went Through Fire and Water

But You led us to a place of abundance. (Psalm 66:12)

“Hold the plucked bird over the gas flame of the stovetop to remove the remaining fuzz on the flesh.” Disgusting. 

I should have been thankful to even have a turkey. In the rest of the world, turkeys are fed and fattened for December, not November. This reality required a trip to the Farmers’ Market in downtown Warsaw where we made arrangements to buy a turkey ahead of schedule. 

The week of Thanksgiving, we returned to collect our purchase. Dodging puddles, we shoved past shoppers and merchants, and trudged down the narrow concrete aisle of the make-do shelter where villagers came to sell their wares. Past the pickle barrels, past the potato bins, past the slabs of hanging pork, we eventually reached our provider near the end of the row of stalls. 

Our “agreement” was ready and waiting.  Right there before our eyes, shabbily wrapped in pieces of newspaper, sat our pitiful, scrawny bird. It was dead. But barely. The head was cut off, but “the rest” was left for us to do. Where was U.S.D.A. at a time like this?

We paid the prearranged price, collected our prize, placed him in the trunk of our yellow Fiat, and drove him home to begin the process of making him presentable, and yes…edible. 

“Hold the plucked bird over the gas flame of the stovetop to remove the remaining fuzz on the flesh.” Now the singed odor of burning flesh permeated every crack and crevice of our small home. With it, my appetite for a feast, and my attitude of thanksgiving were steadily losing altitude - all because of this turkey.

When we gathered around the dining room table on Thanksgiving Day, the disgusting ordeal was still too fresh. The End Product was on the platter, but my mind was elsewhere. I nearly gagged at the Technicolor memory of that nasty bird on the newspaper at the market, riding in the trunk of our car, and hanging over the flame in our kitchen. I choked down my portion and refused seconds. I was thankful all right, very thankful, to be done. 

Imagine how I felt when another year rolled around, and once again, we needed to make plans for Thanksgiving. Time had done little to erase my memories of the disgusting ordeal. With zero options, we reserved another turkey at the Farmers’ Market. Another chapter in the saga of “How to Celebrate Holidays Overseas” was about to be written.

In the surge of life, the upcoming raffle at David’s kindergarten hardly got my attention. What was being given away? A turkey? An American Butterball from the Embassy’s forbidden-to-outsiders Commissary? Oh sure, we will buy a couple of tickets. I’ll even pray, “Lord, please let us win the Butterball. Please.”

“Debby, Debby, I was looking for you!” The late Saturday afternoon sun was behind her as Sandra, David’s teacher, jumped out of the taxi, and came running to greet me. We were just leaving the restaurant, and I was busy making sure our little children were safe in the confusion and chaos of traffic. At first I didn’t even realize she was calling my name. And why was she so animated?

“Debby, we just had the drawing, and guess what! You won! Your family won the prize of the American Butterball Turkey!” 

The American Butterball Turkey. Did she say we won? No. No way. I was stunned. How could this be? My shock and amazement gave way overwhelming gratitude. God really did hear my prayer. He really did care about such an insignificant matter as a turkey. 

This year the difference in preparation was enormous. Rich aromas of this buttery baking beauty were a stark contrast to the previous smell of singed flesh. We relished each peek into the tiny communist oven, which was nearly too small to house the trophy. 

When finally ready, we took photos standing around our roasted royalty. Carving the 14-pound mega miracle was quite the ceremony. The atmosphere was particularly festive as seconds and even thirds were passed around the table. Through all of the excitement, I was quietly overwhelmed with gratitude. I couldn't get over the fact that this turkey was a gift from God. The Words of Psalm 34:4 seemed written just for me: “Delight yourself in The Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart.” This Thanksgiving, Disgust was transformed into Delight.

Three Cameos of Kindness on Display

The previous day’s ride of 200 kilometers was painfully fresh in my mind when the alarm made its rude announcement. Time to get up came way, way too early. Just the day before we traveled a mountainous road riddled with craters-size potholes. I rode in the back seat of the small car feeling every hole before it happened, as it happened, and after it happened. Now we were to do the painful, arduously slow journey in reverse. 

It was our privilege to visit numerous national conferences in our geographical area of responsibility in a concentrated period of time, but this commitment did not allow us the luxury of staying long in one place.  We were constantly on the move. Today we would go from Ukraine to Romania, all in a day’s journey, beginning right here, right now.

Thus, the obnoxious noise of the alarm clock left no option but to move without thinking. I remember how heavy the door was when we emerged from the building, a former Soviet sanatorium. The misty August morning smacked us in the face with a jolt. The silence was as heavy as the fog as we made our way to the vehicle prearranged to drive us back to the airport. 

And there she was. Wearing her white baseball cap and offering a smile, she was standing on the curb beside the gray, Russian-made vehicle. 

I was incredulous. “What on earth are you doing here? It is way too early for you to be up,” my question breaking the cushion of quiet in the predawn morning.

I will never forget her response: “ I came to tell you goodbye.”
I. Came. To. Tell. You. Goodbye. Her statement redefined friendship for me. In an extremely selfless gesture, she demonstrated love, appreciation, and value in an extraordinary way that touched way down to the fabric of my soul. No fanfare, no flourish…just friendship.

Thank you, Cymp.  That August morning in the mountains of Ukraine, you raised the bar of friendship with an act of kindness that is forever etched in my mind.

                                                                              ~

Again, a shocking noise, this time in the middle of the night, was not nearly so pleasant. Larry and I were in Siberia, near Lake Baikal, the world’s deepest lake, for a winter Bible conference with our staff serving all across Russia. 

The conference was invigorating with its unique outdoor winter activities in God’s glorious creation.  The frigid temperatures and the volume of snow only served to enhance free-time activities. Tubing at night down steep hills at blistering speeds, riding snowmobiles through pristine birch tree forests like unto Doctor Zhivago, spinning donuts in vehicles across frozen Lake Baikal, all served to make me feel like a teenager again. Traveling with Larry to minister together to our dear and far-flung co-laborers presented the best of the empty nest.

And then…in the middle of the night…the phone rang. The piercing shrill did nothing to disturb Larry, who slept like a bear in hibernation. This one was for me.

 “Debby, this is Matt.” I immediately recognized the voice of my son-in-law, husband of our oldest daughter. This could not be good.
“I am sorry to wake you, but I needed to call and tell you Grace, (our youngest daughter, his sister-in-law), has been in an accident. She is essentially ok, but her car is totaled.” 

Distance screamed at me. Every missionary lives with the reality that a phone call can change everything. This one surely did. Forget the conference content; forget the winter wonderland. My world just caved in. My young adult daughter was alone in Denver, alive but traumatized with a totaled car, and I was in Siberia, literally half a world away.  Despite modern transportation, the nearest airport was still endless kilometers miles away, and connections were hardly hasty. 

Then, without my even hinting, he asked the question for which I am forever grateful: “Debby, would you like for me to get the next plane and go to her? I can do that.”

Tears. “Oh Matt, could you; would you?”
With his answer of “yes” he set himself apart in an indescribable category all his own.

Thank you, Matt. When I felt stranded and helpless, you flew into action. You did the one thing I could not do, the only thing I wanted to do. At your own expense, you flew to Grace to be the Hands and Feet of Jesus. Bless you.

                                                                           ~

One more. The dark December day was riddled with chaos. The military of The Soviet Union was massing at the borders of Poland, and the entire nation was at the standstill of Martial Law. What came before, and what followed after are details saved for another story. For now, I am compelled to describe an act of kindness demonstrated by my dear friend Gosia. 

Our three little children were noisily running around almost unattended to. People were entering and leaving our home like a revolving door. All communication was cut by the government, necessitating face-to-face conversation.

Larry and I were feverishly making plans to fulfill a prearranged commitment to my parents, sharing a European Christmas. Would we be allowed to travel? If so, would there be enough gas? How could we possibly get on the road in time to cross the Polish-Czech border before it closed at 10pm? Threatening unspoken questions hung suspended in the air.

I looked up from the uncontrollable chaos to see Gosia with her husband Roy walking through our tiny door. “I have made a meal for you. You need hot food before you travel.” With that statement she proceeded to open pots of steaming meat and vegetables to minister to our physical need. Where she got the food, I can only imagine. How many military checkpoints she and Roy traveled through to reach us, I can only guess. What she did without to ensure we had enough was never mentioned. 

Thank you, Gosia. Your sterling example of commitment has stood the test of time. You taught me that day, “As you have done it unto one of the least of these, you have done it unto Me.” Wow. Pause. Thank you so very much.   
                                                                             ~

From these three stories a pattern emerges:

•    Kindness trumps schedule, comfort, and personal agenda 

•    Kindness involves sacrifice

•    Kindness speaks a language all its own, and communicates on a level nothing else can or will

•    Kindness is defined in a moment, at the very moment it is needed

•    Kindness is contagious. I want to be like them!

“Oh God, this Thanksgiving, please make me a person of kindness. After all, it IS a Fruit of Your Spirit.”

Question: What personal act of kindness have you experienced that made a lasting impression?