Mommy Does Not Talk Through the Bathroom Door

Pulling back the Iron Curtain to view real life behind that Iron Curtain...

The pounding on the door seemed urgent. (But wait; let us back up in the series.)

Part One: The Night Mr. Vice President Came to Visit

Part Two: Feeling Like a Failure

Now, Part Three in one family's story of life behind the Iron Curtain:

Mommy Does Not Talk Through the Bathroom Door

The pounding on the door seemed urgent. Early in my journey of motherhood, I established a simple rule: Mommy does not talk through the bathroom door. This day, in spite of the knocking, I held fast to my decree.

The presence on the other side of the door attempted to dismantle my principle, but I refused to waver. Mommy does not talk through the bathroom door.

When the little fist refused to stop, I finally relented, and spoke. “What is it you need? You know Mommy does not talk through the bathroom door.”

The response startled me. “Mommy, I want to talk about what that man said.” The gentle voice of my little boy let me know this would not be an ordinary conversation. “What do you mean?” I asked.

“You know, the man that came here and talked about scuba diving?” 

The man he referred to was Mr. Vice President. The evening he mentioned was the infamous crisis -riddled night. “He talked about how to go to heaven. What did he mean?” 

Emerging from the bathroom, I met the sincere eyes of a small, inquisitive child. “That man who talked about scuba diving, talked about heaven. What did he mean?” His genuine questions held eternal significance.

Shifting gears and putting aside an overloaded to-do list, my son and I sat quietly and conversed. I embraced the divine appointment to share further of the glorious message of Jesus, how He died on the cross to pay for our sins. 

Our earlier dinner guest—committed to being a fisher of men—indeed, spoke in our family devotional about scuba diving. But he also spoke clearly about God’s love and Jesus' death on the cross, and the invitation to know Him and go to heaven.

So apparently, while I managed a crisis downstairs involving shrimp in the kitchen and managed a crisis upstairs involving goldfish in an aquarium, God was at work watering the seeds sown in the heart of this young boy. My, my, imagine that.

Now, on this quiet 1984 April afternoon in communist Warsaw, Poland, the anointed words Mr. Vice President invested were coming to fruition. A young boy whose parents were undercover missionaries living behind the Iron Curtain persistently sought the Savior. 

A few more days would pass before—in the midst of yet another crisis—the little fellow would indeed bow his head and ask Jesus into his heart. 

[That will be Part Four.]

Living with Eternal Intentionality™

Often, the opportunity to share the gospel comes at an inconvenient moment. When have you experienced this to be the case? 

Listening to the Voice of Our Clock

Tick-tock, tick-tock…

A soothing sound with a dependable cadence creates a stabilizing backdrop to the vibrant life pulsating throughout our home. Our 45th wedding anniversary approaches, and I give fresh thought to this anniversary gift Larry and I gave each other when we lived in Germany’s Black Forest. With a certificate of authenticity attached to its back, our clock is destined to be an heirloom.

The wooden timepiece first christened a wall when all three children still resided at home. From its place of prominence, the clock reminded us it was time to attend graduation of our firstborn, time to leave for the airport for her to attend university, and then, time for her to come home for that first visit at Christmas.

Later, the clock played its role in letting us know it was time for our family to move from Germany and relocate into the geography of Eastern Europe. The time had come for us to pack up and pull away from an idyllic rural setting with Wanderweg’s, apple orchards, and pastoral hillsides to follow the will of God and the call of God on our lives.

Mounted on the wall of our living room in Budapest, our clock marked the hour for our family’s Sunday Afternoon Tea, the sacrosanct time in our week to stop, savor our relationships, enjoy conversation with each other, and read aloud from a classic. The ticking in the background gave us the sense of “all is well.”  

True to its calling, our clock marked the time for more graduation ceremonies, more trips to the airport, and more good-byes as our next two left for university placing an ocean between us. The clock waited for Larry and me to return and to strike the hour beginning our empty nest. 

Sometimes the gentle rhythm of our faithful friend offered the only sound in this home which once bustled with boisterous laughter, and with voices calling out on the stairway, asking what to wear, what’s for dinner, or who’s joining us for dinner? At acute times of loneliness, Larry and I were grateful for the clock’s comforting balm; it supplied a quiet melody in what would have otherwise been a painfully silent set of empty walls.

Then, still marking the seasons of our family’s journey, this clock struck the hour for our young adults to return home with a special ‘someone’ for us to meet. The time was nigh for them to begin their own homes, to hang their own clocks, and to start their own families.

Today, this faithful friend graces yet another home, and furnishes intrigue for this next generation. With grandchildren snuggled in our arms, we wind its gears, we gaze upon its pendulum, we smile and listen to its chimes. 

I treasure this possession. Standing like a sentinel in one address after another, our clock has announced celebrations, relocations, transitions, holidays, lonliness, and growth. In an odd sort of way, this clock has functioned as a heartbeat, going with us in our multiple moves and making home happen wherever we lived. More than a just keeper of minutes and hours, it has been a steady voice reminding us:

Time never stands still. 

Life moves on.

Relationships remain our greatest joy.

He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart... 

(Ecclesiastes 3:11).

Teach us to number our days carefully, so that we may develop wisdom in our hearts.

(Psalm 90: 1 HCSB).

Tick-tock, tick-tock…

Living With Eternal Intentionality™

What is one lesson time has taught you?

How are you redeeming the time as you move forward in life?

Feeling Like a Failure

Pulling back the Iron Curtain to view real life behind that Iron Curtain...

[Part One: The Night the Vice President Came to Dinner]

Part Two: An interlude into the account 

Upon entering our home, Mr. Vice President interacted with our three pajama-clad children, and I busied myself putting his lovely bouquet of roses into a vase. Having the entire focus of such a kind man seemed to bring out the best in our munchkins. He held their rapt attention and spoke of his own three children, their dogs, their home in a distant land, and a recent opportunity—of all things—to go scuba diving.

Before the younger Thompsons said goodnight, we invited our dignified guest to read their bedtime devotional to them. This request did not exist in isolation, rather, it stood as a tradition in our family. Living a dual life as undercover missionaries in a Communist nation required us to use our home as command central for most of our clandestine activities. Thus, many of God’s choicest saints walked through our front door, and we believed their influence was a blessing to be harnessed. Typically, we invited the guest to read the Bible and pray with our little people before they shuffled off to bed.

This particular evening fit with our pattern, and Mr. Vice President gladly engaged. While reading the story, he also, simply, clearly and warmly, shared the Gospel, the message of salvation. After prayer, I led them upstairs and tucked each into bed, two in one room, and the oldest in another.  

On this night, I wasted no time in the routine. Hug, hug, kiss, kiss, sweet dreams, sleep tight, night, night. I pulled the door closed behind me, and blithely descended the stairs. Children in bed…guest in living room…Debby in kitchen. All is well.

But not for long.

In Part One, you recall, my entire meal ended up in the garbage. And, between entrée number one and entrée number two of the ghastly concoction, I nervously made an appearance in the living room to assure the pair of gentlemen, my husband, and Mr. Vice President, that all was well.

Now, upon leaving the living room, and before returning to the crisis in the kitchen, I thought it wise to check in on the sleeping angels upstairs.

Oh, my word. Nothing could have prepared me for the naughty behavior playing out behind the door of that bedroom where two of our three children slept. No, the two were not under their covers; they were not even in their bunk beds. Who knows how long they had been at their mischief. 

In partnership, using a small tea strainer, my offspring were having a jolly good time with their own version of "go fishing" as they—one by one—lifted their fish out of the aquarium to study their anatomy. With water around them on the floor, these two were a colossal mess. Yes, they were small children, but they knew better.

Whoa! My circumstances were rolling over me, and I had no plan for backup. Downstairs an international guest sat in my living room waiting for a home cooked meal, which was now tossed out. And Upstairs I had two wet, naughty children standing wide-eyed with a mess of dead fish around them.

Compartmentalizing my horror, I placed motherhood on hold and shoved them back into bed with a promise to deal with this, and with them, in the morning. I closed the door, left the Crisis Upstairs and returned to the Crisis Downstairs.

Tiptoeing past the living room door, too traumatized to go in, I reentered the kitchen, the scene of the original Crisis. Feeling like a failure as a hostess (for good reason), and feeling like a failure as a mother (for good reason), I took a deep breath, and looked at the communist clock on the wall. This was the 1980’s behind the Iron Curtain, and there was no such thing as takeout pizza, or for that matter, takeout anything.

I begged God for composure just to keep going. “Lord help me,” was my fervent and genuine prayer. The angel of the Lord camps around those who fear him, and he delivers them (Psalm 34:7). The Word of God and the Spirit of God worked overtime on my behalf in the kitchen, and as you know from Part One, the evening eventually came to an end.

At least the rice was good.

[Part Three to follow.]