Round 3 part 8

A friend said to me recently: “You don’t look like you have cancer.” Or several friends have said to me on the phone things like: “Well, you sound so much better than the last time we talked.”

Our greetings in the USA are really perfunctorily responses. “How ya doin?” “ Good. And you?” “Good.“ Most times we are in such a hurry that we do not really want the details about that person’s health.

So, when someone asks me how I am doing, I have begun saying “I am just ok.” They do not usually ask me any further questions. I could tell them about the piercing pain in the left side of my face or tell them about how all the medications I am taking four times a day make me dizzy and fearful of falling. I could also tell them about the painful lesions and ulcers in my mouth and throat.

While it is true that this third round of cancer took away my smile and the feeling in the left side of my face and mouth, my cancer has not and will not take away my life-long effort to develop a loving heart for people.

I realize that these friends referred to above were just trying to say encouraging words to me, and I greatly appreciate all the awesome ways that family and friends have helped me.

Many of my friends and even two of our four children have battled and beaten cancer. And some friends have succumbed to their cancer. I have been able to live for 12 years after my prostate cancer and five years before we knew the salivary gland cancer had returned with a vengeance.  

The big challenges that I am dealing with now are ”How can I help others who will follow me with this kind of cancer?” and “How can I help someone who is afraid to even say the word cancer.” “Will I be able to show my children and my grandchildren how to die as a believer in Jesus Christ?

My team at Emory has been working hard to get me into a national trial that will have 116 participants. This morning, we received word that I have been accepted for this clinical trial. There were many factors in my getting into the trial but one of the requirements is to have recurrent salivary gland cancer that has the protein HER2 at high levels (HER2-positive) and that has spread outside the salivary gland and cannot be removed by surgery.

Some would ask, “Why do you want to participate in this clinical trial?” My response would be, “Why not?” My cancer is not going away unless God decides to perform a miracle. This cancer will take my life eventually. It is not curable even with the treatments. But research scientists are not going to find a treatment that is curative unless they have these clinical studies.

This morning, we received notice that I will have my first infusion on Friday, December 20 at Emory Winship Cancer Center. This treatment I am choosing will not heal the cancer. Presently there are no treatments that will heal all the cancer in my face and neck. I am consoled by many scripture passages that my friends and family have sent to me. Today I am living by this one:

“For I am the Lord your God
   who takes hold of your right hand
and says to you, Do not fear;
    I will help you.” Isaiah 41:13

 Am I afraid? That is a big “yes” for things like I do not know what to expect from the infusions. Once I have my first infusion, I will be more comfortable with the second one. Generally, I have a high level of tolerance for pain, but I HATE to throw up, and I understand that I have a lot of that coming in the next 18 weeks.

I am not afraid of dying. I want to live, but only as many moments that God has planned for me. I heard this recently: “Ain’t nobody getting out of this world without dying!” I am confident in my relationship with Jesus Christ to say my last breath in this world will launch me into the presence of God.

***I promise to do my best to continue to publish these blog posts and not to wait for three weeks to send the next epistle in this blog.  

Round 3 Part 7

“When you come to a fork in the road, take it.” I have been a fan of Yogi Berra since I was 10 years old. His influence on me drove me to be a catcher. I loved that position because the catcher controls the whole team.  He is the only player on a baseball team who can see every player on his team without moving his head.

During the past couple of weeks, we have been facing a lot of forks in dealing with my third round of cancer. I say “we” because I would miserably fail in making the right decisions without Cheryl in my life. Our kids and their spouses have been troopers with this health challenge. They are changing their schedules to make sure that one of them drives (or flies) us to our appointments. And they are not just serving as drivers, they are participating in our discussions and asking hard pertinent questions.  

Allison, Cheryl and I came to a fork in the road this past week, and we took it. We have chosen Dr. Dung Shin of Emory to be our team leader. We had consultations with physicians at three different medical centers: Winship Cancer Center at Emory, Wake Forest Baptist Medical Center, and Fred Hutch Cancer Center at the University of Washington.

At our meeting on Tuesday, we decided to enroll me in a clinical trial at Emory. I will be having six infusions over an 18-week period. During the treatment Dr. Shin will be consulting with physicians from the other two medical centers.

In the past month we have dealt with 12 physicians about my cancer. None of these oncologists could help me with what would seem to be a minor issue to resolve. I have three places on the inside of my left gum where small pieces of bone have broken through the skin under my molars, and small pieces of sharp bone are rubbing against my tongue. Most of my oncologists agree that this is a problem that has roots in the proton therapy that I had in 2020.

My tongue makes hundreds of movements against my gum each day to the point where a lesion about the size of my fingernail has taken up residence. My dentist felt sorry for me and gave me a prescription for a bottle of Lidocaine. The medicine does just what you would expect—it temporarily deadens the skin, but the irritation and pain continue.

I have learned that when you are dealing with oncologists you can assume that for every ailment there is an assigned oncologist for that malady. We are praying the Lord sends the “right” physicians and other staff to work on our case.

After Dr. Shin and his nurse practitioner finished telling us about the clinical trial, we learned that I would be the first patient that Emory would work with on this treatment, and there will be about 116 participants from the USA.

We are not afraid even though there are a lot of things that we do not know about this clinical trial. Just a few weeks ago when we first learned that another round of cancer was well established in my neck and face, we proclaimed Joshua 1:9-10 as our battle cry. We know that this trial is not curative, but I will fight until the Lord lets me know that He is ready for me to transition to eternal life with Him.

P.S I will be posting updates and new information at this website:  www.jameslarrycox.com

Round 3 part 6

This trip to Seattle did not go as expected. After five hours of meeting with four physicians from the Fred Hutch Cancer Center at University of Washington, Cheryl, Jason and I came away disappointed that we did not get very far down the “Git ‘er done” road.

We had expected to get affirmation that would put me on a fast track with plans to get us ready to return to UW cancer center for treatment. That did not happen. We were impressed with the facilities, all the different types of treatments for my cancer, and with the facilities staff and medical staff.

But the physicians said that we should go back to Emory for another biopsy. Before any kind of treatment is specified, the physicians must compare the samples that were taken in 2020 with a good present sample.

What we do know:

·     I definitely have cancer in inaccessible places mostly at the base of my skull.

·     This cancer is causing all the pain in the left side of my face.

·     The cancer may be a different strain than the tests revealed in 2020.

·     Once our medical team knows more about my 2024 type of cancer, the physicians from Emory and UW will collaborate to recommend a treatment plan.

·     Any treatment is not curative, but palliative.

 The BEST thing we know is that God is in control, and His plan is perfect.

P.S. Kudos to anyone who has read this post to the end. I have talked with several people who regularly read my blog asking them if I should continue posting about my cancer experience, and all of them affirm that for the present I should continue writing about this journey.

Thank you to anyone who continues reading.

Round 3 part 5

Joy in Waiting

I just have not felt like composing another blog post these past two weeks. I look in the mirror and I don’t see anything on my face or neck that suggests cancer has spread across the left side. Of course, there is the scar that I have from my neck dissection in 2020. And a small scar located on my lower lip where a physician cut and stitched to pull my lower lip down and to keep me from chewing on it.

The procedure worked, but it also pulled my swollen cheek in such a way that I bite the cheek with my molars while eating. Sometimes I pinch my swollen face on the outside to pull the inner cheek away from those hungry grinders. My dentist gave me something that he said would block the inner cheek from the molars. Dentists use these triangular pads to protect the inner cheek while doing work on the molars. That got me excited because I have only eaten in a restaurant a few times over the past few months. I tried the pads at home a couple times, but I could not completely close my lips while chewing.

My dentist recommended that I see an oral surgeon about removing the scar tissue on my inner cheek. For a moment my dentist did not remember that I have greater health challenges to deal with. For about ten seconds after he talked about me taking care of the scar tissue, he said, “Well I suppose you better wait on the scar tissue because you have a more urgent problem to take care of first.”

Americans annually spend 37 billion hours waiting in line, according to the New York Times. Think about all the wasted time in traffic, supermarket waiting lines, pharmacies, doctors’ offices, traffic lights, etc.

Waiting is a part of everyone’s cancer experience. We cancer victims and our families, our friends, and our work colleagues dread the waits.

Waiting to find out if I have cancer felt like an endless cycle of anxiety and uncertainty. Each passing moment was heavy with what-ifs, as thoughts race through my mind, oscillating between hope and fear.  From previous experiences in a hospital waiting room with family or friends, I have learned that the silence of the waiting room seems to amplify worries, and every tick of the clock feels like a reminder of the unknown. I like to have family or friends waiting with me to give me company while waiting. But my wife knows me well. If a road is blocked by construction or a wreck, she knows that I will not give away 5 minutes of my life to wait. I am always looking for a detour. Granted some of the detours took longer than the original blocked road, but at least we were moving and we saw some awesome farms.

The waiting at home for lab results was just as difficult. I tried to stay busy or distract myself, but the weight of the situation lingered, shaping my thoughts and emotions. In those moments, I found myself grappling with questions about my life, my health, and what the immediate future might hold. I prayed for a good report, but braced for the worst.

Once my cancer was confirmed, my mind went into high-speed mode. I had already decided that I would not waste any time I had to live. My mission is to embrace life more fully as I walk with the Lord and serve Him and others in the name of Jesus.

After five years in Round 1 and after three years in Round 2 my medical teams respectively each told me that I was cancer-free.  I reflect on my current diagnosis as a reminder to appreciate and enjoy everyday moments.

Am I angry that I am now in the midst of my third bout with cancer? No. I trust God leading my life. I believe that all a person’s life is expressed by knowing some facts about the season we are presently in. Life is a series of seasons. Some seasons are short, and some are long. Some are just awful, and some are very positive.

Through these past two seasons of recovery from cancer and now during this third round of cancer, I focus on the recognition and expression of joy. My doctors have told me that this cancer is aggressive, and it will end my life. Who wants to be around someone who seeks pity because their cancer is terminal. That is not the path that I will pursue during this season.

I will be looking for opportunities to recognize and celebrate joy. Joy is all around us. We sense it in the sunrise and the full moon. Joy may be the deepest thing in the universe. And it may be a lot more important to our lives than we think it is.

Joy energizes. It’s for today, not someday. Over the past month, several members of my family and friends have come to visit Cheryl and me. With each of them I have tried to express optimism, humor, playfulness and stories. We shared stories of past adventures. We laughed as joy makes life feel more meaningful and even helps us cope with stress. Joy is the flip side of anger. I want my circle of family and friends to know that they can trust that God has a reason and a plan for us as we walk through the seasons of our lives. 

“Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.” 2 Corinthians 4:16-18 NIV

Cancer Round 3 part 4

While we were arranging appointments for me this past week and getting my medical records together, I started practicing what I said I was going to do—living as if every day was my last instead of spending a lot of time thinking about dying. It’s been a great week. Dozens of text messages, lots of email, gobs of phone calls, and several cards in the mail came our way. Several of our kids and grandkids have come for visits. Our granddaughter, Emma, spent four days of her fall break at our home.

This past week we played cards and board games with the grandkids. We watched grandkids in their soccer games. We celebrated Jordan getting an internship with an accounting firm for her last semester in the spring. We rejoiced with Shelby getting her first job out of college with the Indiana Highway Patrol as a CSI. We prayed with Darby about her health challenges that kept her out of college this semester. Madelyn was home last week from New Orleans Seminary, and we enjoyed time with her. We attended Naomi’s volleyball game where she and the other seniors were recognized. We booked a vacation house for next summer on Lake Hartwell for all 27 of our family. Libby worked with me in my greenhouse. We celebrated two birthdays this past week. It has been an amazing week, and I expect each week will be just the same.

When I received the confirmation that my salivary gland cancer had popped up its ugly head up again, a retired cardiologist friend in southern California told me that I needed to go to the research/teaching hospital that had the best reputation for treating my kind of cancer. We started with what we already knew. I had two surgeries by our local ENT surgeon, and I was treated with proton therapy at Emory University for Round 2—the neck dissection and proton therapy for the high grade mucoepidermoid carcinoma in 2020. I am also being treated for Blepharospasm at the Emory Brain Center.

We wanted a second opinion, so a very good friend in Winston-Salem, NC, who is on the medical center board arranged for us to get an appointment quickly at Wake Forest Baptist Medical Center. We are grateful to the medical team we saw there as they were the first to actually see the cancer in an MRI.

God sent us an angel through our friends at Wake Forest Baptist. Dr. Ed is a retired chair of Radiation Oncology. He has taken a keen interest in my case and has done significant research, and he and other physician friends have informed us that the best place for us to go for treatment is the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Center at the University of Washington Medical Center in Seattle. I will have a biopsy done on November 6 at Emory as the physicians at UWMC need that to determine if they will use targeted therapy, immunotherapy or neutron therapy. UWMC has the only clinical neutron therapy system in the USA. 

Having three different bouts with cancer, here are some things I have learned:

1.       Get the facts about your cancer diagnosis. Ask questions. Take a family member with you. Information is power.

2.       None of the “coulda woulda shoulda” and more of “no regrets.” Don’t waste time worrying over what is already past. Live in the present and enjoy every day.

3.       Tell everyone who is interested that you have cancer. You do not want to walk this journey alone. The more people who know about your health challenge, the more people who will be praying for you.

The greatest lessons I have learned are from the encouragement, prayers, and shared Bible verses from family and friends. These have been the greatest prescriptions that I have received.

Cancer Round 3 Part 3

Terminal. Rare. Uncurable. Aggressive. Embedded.

Cheryl, Allison and I were in the room reserved for us at Emory Cancer Center to get reports from the scans that I had earlier in the day. We were told that our appointment would last 3-4 hours. We knew that we would be meeting with 2-3 oncologists after they had discussed my high grade mucoepidermoid carcinoma with a panel of other specialists.

I was diagnosed with my Cancer 2nd Round in October 2019. But in the examination room number 63 at the Emory Cancer Center, we were waiting for a prognosis. In a visit with our physician in North Carolina, he identified a tumor and showed us the abnormality on his pc. We were expecting the tests and scans that we had would reveal more information on how to deal with this tumor.

But sitting in room number 63 and waiting to hear from the panel of professionals, what we wanted to hear was statements like these: “We are certain that we can contain this cancer with immunotherapy.”  “We are recommending that you have proton therapy directed toward the area above the submandibular from the middle of your chin to the area in front of your left ear.” “The cancer is confined to a small area in front of the ear, and we have decided that the best course of action would be a gamma knife procedure.”

But we were not prepared to hear from my radiation oncologist that this cancer would bring to a finish my earthly life in a few months. Cheryl, Allison and I were in shock. Allison recovered quicker than her parents, and she asked several good questions.

As I was thinking how this could be true, the doctor left our room, and we all looked at each other with dismal expressions. You know how everyone at some time(s) imagines this scenario: you have been told that you have a few months to live, and you begin to think about what you will do differently during those months. I have played out that scenario at least a few times during my lifetime. But, sitting in room number 63, this was no imaginary scene. This was the real thing.

My first thoughts after hearing those words were about Cheryl, and they were trivial thoughts: How will she make it without me? There will be no one at home to welcome her when she has been grocery shopping. Who is she going to sit with in church? Who is going to hug her like I do?

Then my mind turned to thinking about the things I used to be able to do. In the past month my ability to work landscaping our yard or working in my greenhouse has gone from 4 hours to 15 minutes. I must stop and rest for 15 minutes before resuming my work. I thought about some plans that we have made  for the family that may not get fulfilled. The realization that I would be leaving my family and my friends. Then, my heart derailed the mind, and I decided to focus on improving the quality of my life instead of trying to prolong it. Get out of the mindset of dying and focus on living. 

My children all know that I am a fighter and some of them want to tell me, “Dad, you just can’t fix everything.” And I certainly cannot fix round 3 part 3. But I will look at what I can control and not what I cannot. I will focus on things worthy of my time and energy. I will continue my routine of listening to the Bible, spending time in prayer, walking, working, visiting with family, setting dates and events in the future to look forward to, and encouraging others.

“I have received full payment, and more. I am well supplied, having received from Epaphroditus the gifts you sent, a fragrant offering, a sacrifice acceptable and pleasing to God. And my God will supply every need of yours according to his riches in glory in Christ Jesus.” Philippians 4:18-19 ESV.

Cancer Round 3 part 2

Many friends reached out to me to respond to my “Cancer Round 3” post, and I am grateful for such an outpouring of encouragement and prayer.

Some said that I was being vulnerable, and I accept that because many people when diagnosed with some type of cancer do not even say the word “cancer.” I have heard some say the “C word” or “the big C.”

I truly am not afraid of the future for I know who holds my hand when I die and walk into God’s presence for eternity. But in this missive, I will go full disclosure and expose where I hurt.

First of all, I would leave behind Cheryl, the love of my life. We have walked through some challenging times living in difficult places overseas and in the states, but we have faced every challenge hand-in-hand, trusting in God’s leadership in our lives.

I know I may not live to see all our grandchildren launched after their high school experiences. With Naomi and Caleb graduating from high school next spring, we will have been a part of eight grandchildren finishing high school—that’s half of the grands. We love getting family together so much that Cheryl prepares lunch every Sunday, and we will have between 13 and 18 of our family eating lunch in our home. Sunday afternoons are a special time for playing games and learning what has happened in their lives during the past week. Some go to one of the bedrooms and take a nap, and some doze in a chair or on the sofa in our family room. But our home is a destination for all our family, and it is our joy to provide a safe and loving space for them.

I have a fear of lack of control. Once I heard the diagnosis from my doctor at Wake Forest Baptist Medical Center, my mind started working in warp speed. We have done this two times, so it will be easy. But the doctor went on to say that the tumor is imbedded in such a way that surgery is not a possibility. Then before he could say there is no chemo treatment because this cancer is so rare, my mind had already started focusing on what can I do or where do we go for more answers to questions that are unanswerable. My mind was spinning, and my heart was telling me to be calm.

I have a fear of the powerful treatments that will be proposed. The most pressing question for me is would there even be a treatment plan? If there were a choice, what would we choose. And the intensity of the treatments. What would the side effects be?

But I am an optimist. A friend who lives in Palm Springs, California, is a retired cardiologist. A month ago he gave me some advice. He said that I needed to choose an academic institution to treat what we suspected at that time to be some type of cancer. Last week I received a call from Emory Winship Cancer Center. They have scheduled a meeting on October 8th called Multi-Disciplinary Panel. The physician who led the team when I had proton therapy treatment at Emory is leading the panel of physicians who will review my diagnosis and possibly come up with a treatment plan.

Having another cancer season makes me love each day as if it is my last. I am more sensitive to loving on my family—especially the great hugs I get from all my grandkids and seeing them more regularly.

The greatest fear I experience every day is not about cancer. I fear that my actions, words, body language, or something that I write may not honor my Lord Jesus Christ.

And whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him. Colossians 3:17

Cancer Round 3

After experiencing some strange symptoms such as facial paralysis and pain over a few months, in July a friend helped me get connected to a specialist at Wake Forest Baptist Medical Center. At my appointment this past week, the doctor diagnosed the problem and the radiologist confirmed it—cancer. The submandibular salivary gland cancer has manifested itself attached to the trigeminal nerve in the left side of my face.

In 2012 I had proton therapy to treat prostate cancer, and I have had no problem related to this cancer. In December 2019 I had two surgeries: one to remove the submandibular salivary gland and another to remove 19 lymph nodes. I had follow up proton therapy at Emory for six weeks. All has been well since I finished my treatments until the news this past week that the cancer had raised its ugly head once again.

This time around my Wake Forest doctor says that there is not a chemotherapy formula for this cancer since it is so rare. He will consult with my radiation oncologist at Emory to determine if my proton therapy treatment covered the area immediately above my mandibular. This doctor told us that once an area is radiated it cannot be radiated again. I have read some research that with newer and newer technologies, some medical experts have re-radiated certain areas such as the pelvic area and the head and neck. And, who knows? A chemo cocktail may have been used effectively in another medical facility.

The Lord knows me well. He knows that some lessons from Him must be repeated or given to me in bite-sized pieces.

In 2012, I had  first proton therapy treatment at the University of Florida’s Proton Therapy Center in Jacksonville at Shands Hospital. A friend let us use their beach house and we actually had a “radiation vacation” for those six weeks of treatments. We had the most relaxing and fun time during those six weeks.

In 2020, we chose to have proton therapy for submandibular salivary gland cancer at Emory’s new treatment center. The American Cancer Society provided a motel room for me to stay in Monday-Thursday nights while getting my daily treatments in downtown Atlanta.

Receiving a cancer diagnosis can be a profoundly life-altering experience, often bringing a sudden and intense awareness of one’s vulnerability. My first two cancer diagnoses each launched a long, emotional journey involving traumatic medical procedures, cycles of hospitalization and recovery, and then the fear of possible relapses and thinking about end-of-life care. 

The first proton therapy treatment was so easy that I did not think as much about my vulnerability. But, before I finished the treatments, one of my colleagues undergoing treatment passed away, and I began to realize that the treatments were not 100% guaranteed. In addition to the proton therapy the second treatment involved two surgeries including a neck dissection where they started the incision behind my left ear and cut along the line where the neck meets the shoulders. The incision continued to the right side of my trachea as the surgeons had to cut out the right side of my thyroid gland. After the surgery one of my family gave me a mirror to look at the incision. It looked like my head was attached to my body by a plethora of staples and those nasty-looking drains that were among the staples and stitches. The first look at that ugly incision made me realize that this was serious business.

The initial shock and fear can be overwhelming, as the reality of the diagnosis sets in and the future becomes uncertain. This moment often strips away the illusion of invincibility, revealing the fragility of life. It can lead to a deep introspection, where one grapples with feelings of fear, helplessness, and the need for support.

My family has walked alongside me during the first two bouts dealing with cancer, and they will be right beside me through this third challenge. But in the end the first two experiences drew me closer to God, and I expect this third journey to bring me even nearer to my Lord.

During the first two experiences I claimed Joshua 1:9 as my treatment verse, and I will claim it again for Cancer 3. But I will add another verse for this go round. Jeremiah 32:27 says, “Behold, I am the Lord, the God of all flesh. Is anything too hard for me?”

Body Language

I was giving some tips to one of our granddaughters today about being interviewed for a job. I talked primarily about the importance of body language.

After that phone call, my mind wandered across the years, and some interviews among the hundreds that I have had with prospective team members stood out. For example, the young lady who wore spiky heeled shoes that were obviously new and were rarely worn. She was obviously uncomfortable with the shoes as her feet fidgeted constantly.

I recall a young man who wore no sox to his job interview, and he crossed one leg over the other. I hired that young man and later told him: “Do not dress for the job you have but for the job you are pursuing.”

I have hired some people who were not the most qualified for the open position, but their chemistry matched that of our staff with whom the candidate would be working. 

The interview actually begins when you enter the building, greet the receptionist, and sit down in the waiting room. When I interviewed a candidate, before we began our conversation, I would take the interviewee around the office and introduce her to our staff. After the interview, I would ask our staff things like “Did you have a positive or negative reaction in your brief encounter with the candidate?” “Give me one positive remark and one negative remark about the applicant.”

Body language goes far deeper than fidgeting with your ring or pen, biting your lip, picking at a hang nail, crossing your legs or arms, letting your eyes wander around the room, or smelling like a perfume or cologne bottle.

Here’s my take on the importance of body language in a job interview:

First impressions matter, and your body language plays a crucial role in shaping whether that initial impression will be positive. Body language is more important than your resume or references.

In a job interview, body language is critical for making a good first impression and can have a big impact on the outcome. Aside from vocal responses, the way you present yourself physically reflects confidence, professionalism, and passion. Maintaining good posture, making eye contact, and giving a firm handshake can all indicate that you are engaged and prepared.

Negative body language, such as slouching, avoiding eye contact, or crossing your arms, may indicate apathy or insecurity. Overall, learning positive body language can help reinforce your qualifications and make you a more memorable candidate, complimenting the strengths emphasized in your resume and responses to the interviewer.

Dale Carnegie has penned a lot of good stuff about relationships, and the following quote from his book “How to Win Friends and Influence People” is good advice for not only a job interview, but for life.

“Become genuinely interested in other people.

Smile.

Be a good listener.

Make the other person feel important—and do it sincerely.

No matter what happens be yourself.”

Jim

New requests were coming in every week for vaccinations for cattle in the Diabo region of Burkina Faso (known as Upper Volta at that time). Phil was a Journeyman who was serving with us, but there was too much work for us to get around to all the requests. I decided to write a job request for an agriculturist to help us.

I carefully prepared the job description so that anyone with some farm experience could fill the request and come to help us. While Phil and I were in Ouagadougou to buy supplies, Phil dropped me off at the Post Office so I could call our office in the states.

Placing an international phone call was an ordeal. You had to stand in a long line of people, but thankfully not all of them were going to place an international call. When it was my time to give my call request, I asked the clerk for an international operator to call the USA. He told me to be seated in the chairs along the wall.

I took a seat along the wall per the clerk’s instructions. I watched as the clerk called out some names who were in front of me in the line, but also some people who were behind me in line. Since the line was still very long, I went to a window that sold stamps. I asked the clerk why some people who were behind me were getting to make their calls before me. He said, “We work hard in our positions, and you know that we do not get paid very much.”

I knew exactly what he was talking about: I did not tip the clerk for his hard work in getting me an international operator. In this case a tip meant a bribe. In all the years that we lived in West Africa, I never gave a bribe to anyone, and I was not going to start with this guy. So I sat down in my chair along the wall and waited another hour until the clerk told me to go to one the phone booths.

My call was finally connected. I learned that our company was going to send us a young man named Jim who had just completed his master’s degree in mechanical engineering. I was happy about Jim’s degrees in engineering, but I had to know if he had any farming experience. The consultant at our home office told me that Jim lived on a farm while growing up. That sounded even better than the engineering degrees. Someone who had grown up on a farm would be very valuable in our agricultural work.

When the day came for Jim to arrive, I drove to Ouagadougou to meet his flight and bring him to our home which was about a three-hour drive depending on the number of stops by soldiers or policemen. When we were settled in the Land Cruiser, I started asking Jim about his story. His dad had passed away while Jim was in college. His mom lived in northern Virginia. Jim had secured a job with General Dynamics in Texas, but he delayed starting to work so he could have a mission experience.

Finally, I asked Jim to tell me all about living on a farm while growing up. Jim did not immediately respond. There was such a silence that I wondered if he was not feeling well. Jim quietly said, “Well, I once visited my uncle’s farm in Canada.” I was stunned. I had high expectations of how this young man would contribute to our cattle, sheep and goats vaccination programs.

Fortunately, Jim was a fast and eager learner. On Jim’s inaugural trip to vaccinate some animals, he was surprised to see the corral which was made of thorn bushes that were piled up to create a circular “fence.” The corral was big enough to accommodate about 25 cows. We had no head gate or other corral equipment, just thorn bushes. Phil and I led two teams of helpers who would help us throw the cows down on their side and control the cow’s feet while Phil or I would render services to the cow. Every cow would be vaccinated, some would have a wound that needed attention and sometimes sutures while some males needed to be neutered.

Jim worked with me a while and then he would work with Phil. Early in the day I heard Phil laughing out loud. It was rare that you would hear Phil laugh out loud as he was a quiet, reserved young man. I hollered at Phil and asked what was so funny. Phil yelled back at me, “Jim just asked me what is the difference in a bull and a steer?”

Before the end of that day, our agricultural student worker not only understood the difference between a bull and a steer, but he also actually made a bull become a steer!

Despite my low expectations for Jim because he was not a real farmer, God had other plans for him. The four months that Jim worked with us in Burkina Faso solidified Jim’s calling to serve in international missions. After he completed his commitment to serve alongside us, he began his job in Texas, and he started taking some courses at Southwestern Baptist Seminary. He met Penni who would become his soul mate and the mother of his three children. Cheryl and I shared marriage counseling with them, and I led their wedding ceremony.

Jim and Penni and their family have been serving as workers in Central Asia for thirty years. Jim has been like a member of our family since he served alongside us in Burkina Faso. It has been a great joy to walk alongside this beautiful family as they have served God obediently and served others in the name of Jesus.

Bonsai

After my first year of college, I served as the summer youth director for a church in Greenville, Mississippi. After my second week of working for the church, the pastor’s wife invited me to have lunch with them on the next Sunday. My mama did not raise a fool, so I quickly accepted the invitation. I knew that a good home cooked meal would beat the PB &J sandwich I would be having at the room I was renting for the summer.

I arrived at the pastor’s home, and they had invited another guy who was about 10 years older than me. I learned that Joe worked for a company that was building a gas line through the area.

The Pastor’s wife brought several dishes to the dining room table. It smelled good, but I could not identify a couple of the dishes. I was eating some kind of mushy green stuff with cheesy gravy and a dish with ground hamburger. I got that green mushy stuff down with an ample serving of cheesy gravy. That did not go unnoticed. The Pastor’s wife said to me that she would prepare some more cheese sauce if I wanted a second helping of the broccoli. I ate my first broccoli that day.  

At that point in my life, I had not been exposed to many of the culinary choices that many other people had. I was just a guy who loved mashed potatoes and gravy, biscuits with butter and jelly, purple hull peas and boiled okra with cornbread, and of course fried chicken. We also ate a lot of corn, tomatoes in season, butter beans, chicken and dumplings, ham, pork chops and chocolate or lemon pie.

Later that afternoon, I had to ask Joe the name of the main dish. He laughed and made fun of me, but he later confessed that was only the second time he had eaten broccoli. I learned from Joe that we had eaten a ground beef casserole. That casserole was also a first for me. I asked him what those grayish dark slices of soft something were. He laughed and told me they were mushrooms.

I thought that is what they looked like, but I had never eaten mushrooms so I kinda ate around them. I had read in the encyclopedia in high school that most species of mushrooms were either poisonous or dangerous to eat. The end of this story is that sauteed mushrooms with a bit of onion is one of my favorite dishes.

After lunch the pastor escorted Joe and me outside. He had several dozen tiny trees and shrubs on shelves in his backyard. He called them bonsai. He explained to me that bonsai is an ancient Japanese artform of controlling the size of the plants by periodically cutting away some of the roots and branches of the tree or shrub. I had worked in our family garden since I was knee high to a grasshopper, but this was my first introduction to bonsai.

When I returned to college classes in the fall, I continued to work at the church every weekend. One Sunday when I was invited to lunch at the Pastor’s home, I asked him to show me his bonsai plants. He groaned and I wondered what I had said that resulted in his total disdain at my request to see his bonsai. After he cooled down, he said that a crop-duster—an airplane that sprays chemicals on the large farm crops—had overshot the cotton field behind his house and the defoliate chemical had killed all his tiny trees.

I did not blame him for being angry, as he had worked for ten years nurturing them, and in a moment, they were dead as a doorknob.

Fast forward about 40 years, and my stepmother-in-law was downsizing, and she knew that I loved house plants, so she offered to give me her 40-year-old Ficus bonsai. I kindly thanked her for such a great gift. I also noted that as long as she is living my job is to keep that tree alive.

That first bonsai was about 3 feet tall and 3 feet wide, and it would take up significant space in our house. I had previously owned three Ficus plants, and I had learned that they do not like to be moved around. Find a happy spot for them and they will flourish. A metal glass topped table in our sunroom is my giant Ficus’ home in the cold months, and a table on the front porch is its warm months home.

One of the fun things about owning bonsai plants is that over the years you get to shape them. Each spring I give my bonsai a haircut. I cut the new growth buds off, and over the ensuing months until haircut time, I trim leaves and small branches that do not conform to my desired shape.

As I prune my bonsai, I always think of John 15 and particularly verse 2: “Every branch in me that does not bear fruit he takes away, and every branch that does bear fruit he prunes, that it may bear more fruit.”

To grow spiritually, find purpose, and maintain a healthy relationship with Christ, we must remove negative influences and diversions from our life. If we choose to prioritize God and place Him at the center of our life, we cannot continue to pursue worldly practices that don't correspond with godly values.

Forums

My first introduction to open air markets was in Tours, France where locals had a flower market every Saturday. Of course, there were many markets in our city, but this one was our favorite. Some of the ladies at the market liked seeing Jason and Jeremy who were three and two years of age at that time. The vendors would give the boys a flower. We felt obligated to buy flowers from the lady who gave flowers to the boys.

We vacationed in France a couple of years ago, and our favorite flower market was still there. I am sure that the vendors in the flower market would not call their market a forum, but that’s what it is.

The roots of the word “forum” are from ancient Roman culture. The original meaning was a public space where legal and civic activities took place. For centuries, the Forum in Rome was the center of day-to-day life. But now there are only ruins where the famous Roman Forum thrived. Other cities in the Roman Empire had their own forums, but the one in Rome is the most famous and the most visited today.  

The Greeks also had their forums, but they were primarily used for celebratory military processions. Nevertheless, most cities in Russia and the former Soviet republics have a commons area among huge apartment complexes. These commons areas serve as a place for talking with friends, playing games, exercise, walking the dog, etc.

While living in Burkina Faso, the larger villages would have their markets once a week. Diabo was the seat of our local government, and a market was held there every third day. Half of the vendors would pay a fee to display their goods to sell in a small booth, while the other half spread their wares on a piece of cloth or on the ground. Men would walk to these markets together while telling stories to each other, and likewise the women would walk together and share all the latest news in their village or compound.

Every trip to Ouagadougou we would shop at the Grand Marche. The Grand Marche is a melting pot of cultures, with influences from various ethnic groups in Burkina Faso. It is held every day from dawn to midafternoon. It is the heart of the commercial activities of the capital of Burkina Faso. It is a feast for the senses as one can smell the exotic spices used in seasoning, while the eyes are filled with beautiful cloth of every possible color and the taste buds are aroused by sampling the “riz gras” or the traditional dish of millet with an okra and pepper pottage.   

When we lived in Surrey in the UK, we enjoyed going to the Commons near our home. It was a green space for relaxing, talking with friends, playing chess, picnics, jogging, walking, etc.

Church services and activities are a place to get together for fellowship. Tens of thousands of virtual clubs are available now for opportunities for socializing and making friends with common interests. Clubs include garden, civic, chess, scouts, sports, Bible study, writing poetry, photography, antique cars and trucks, coin collecting, and stamp collecting and on and on. The only official club where I am a member is the Atlanta Stamp Collectors club—albeit, not a good member as I rarely attend meetings because who likes to drive across Atlanta?!

I play pickleball every Thursday. It is not a formalized club, but a bunch of men have a Bible study at 7am every Thursday, and then we play pickleball. We probably would not designate our group as a club, but before the Bible Study and afterwards we get in a lot of talking about various topics.

Today the possibilities to get together in person have been diminished. Covid made it impossible for people to get together in person, so we were forced to meet virtually. Many clubs including the famous Toastmaster International, allow online meetings. That is most interesting to me as this club helps people overcome the anxiety of getting up in front of an audience.

Fewer and fewer people do not even know their neighbors’ names. There are so many distractions. After all, wouldn’t you rather build a city on your device than go on a picnic with family and friends. We have lost that sense of building community around us.

The concept of fellowship extends beyond mere physical presence. It involves a deep, spiritual connection. Most churches have a fellowship hall or fellowship room or an activities building.

We all have that sense of belonging, camaraderie, community, and fellowship. Believers in Jesus understand that our voids of that fellowship are filled and fulfilled in Jesus.

“That which we have seen and heard we proclaim also to you, so that you too may have fellowship with us; and indeed, our fellowship is with the Father and with his Son Jesus Christ.” I John 1:3

Nostalgia

No Wi-Fi. No telephones. No fax machines. No pagers. And this was way before any mobile phones.

Communication was all by mail service when we lived in West Africa. The only practical way to send us a letter or a package was by air mail. If a package of goodies from our parents or friends was sent by boat mail, we may or may not even have received the mail or package. Custom officers and laborers in Upper Volta (now Burkina Faso) were bad about opening packages and taking anything they desired.

When my grandparents passed away, I did not know about it until 5-6 weeks later. By the time our family would hear our condolences in an air letter, it would have been almost three months after their passing.  It was hard to grieve for the passing of loved ones in a timely manner when you lived in the bush of Upper Volta.

One of the young men who worked for us would go to Ouagadougou on a Moped about once every 7-10 days to buy a few things and take our mail to the post office. He would go to the “Tennessee House” to pick up our mail that had arrived in our post office box in Ouagadougou. This house had a couple who were long term volunteers who would serve as the host and hostess for the volunteers when they arrived in Upper Volta and when they departed. All volunteers had to serve for a minimum of 30 days, so we would let them have a weekend in the middle of their 30 days to go into Ouagadougou and relax at the Tennessee House, buy souvenirs, and just kick back and enjoy real toilets instead of the latrines.

We tried to have mail sent to our government office in Diabo which was just two miles from our home and volunteer camp. However, it actually took longer to get to us than when our folks sent mail to the mission’s post office box. When someone would mail us a letter to Diabo, they addressed our mail like this: “Cox, Prefecture of Diabo, Upper Volta.” Sometimes it would take 6 weeks to get an air mail letter from the USA.

Some of the baby boomers will remember air letters. They were a light blue colored piece of paper smaller than a regular 8 ½” by 11” piece of paper. The postage was printed on the air letters, so one could buy air letters at a post office in the USA. The only place in the country where you could buy air letters in Upper Volta was at the Ouagadougou post office and the Bobo-Dioulasso post office which is in the far western part of the country.

We could write on one side of an air letter and about one third of the other side. One third of that same side of paper was reserved for the address. After writing the air letter, you fold it according to the directions printed on the air letter, and then seal it with a lick (that is what people do not do anymore!!). The air letter was also lighter than an envelope and a single piece of paper. It was cheaper to purchase them from the post office for the cost of the postage that was printed on the paper, plus a nominal fee for the paper.

So the airletter was the best deal. We wrote very small so that we could get a lot of information on the air letter. Recently, we have been reviewing some of our old air letters as well as those that our family sent to us. Looking at these letters brings nostalgia and good memories, but they also substantiate some facts that we have been guessing at when we talk about the past with each other or with other family members.

Looking back, I wish that we had sent more mail with Upper Volta/Burkina Faso stamps on the envelopes because I am a stamp collector. Not many people collect these stamps.  

I started collecting stamps when I was 10 years old. However, as an adult I was an inactive collector, but now that I do not work full-time, I have enough bandwidth to work on my stamps. Granddaughter Libby, who lives next door to us, has been helping me with my stamp collecting.

I started this story with some negative thoughts, but here’s to claiming the positive: good memories, nostalgia, receiving mail from family and friends, writing air letters to family and friends, and now rereading those letters that we sent to the USA.

Remembering is good for the soul, but we must not focus on the past. The future is right in front of our eyes and our heart.

Allowing nostalgia to take over a person might result in a variety of counterproductive and hurtful actions. One way to become disconnected from reality is to live in the past. We ought to be involved in the here and now while also anticipating the future.

“For behold, I create new heavens and a new earth; and the former things will not be remembered or come to mind.” Isaiah 66:17

Thanks

Our daughter-in-love, Kimberly, texted us this morning and asked us to call when we both could talk with her. Even though we had two preschool grandchildren in our home eating breakfast, we called right away. Kimberly and her family have had so many health challenges during the past year, so we expected to hear a report on either her health condition or that of one of the girls.

We were wrong. She talked about how hard it was to have lived in Tajikistan 25 years ago. It was a dark time in their lives, and Kimberly struggled with living there. But she was resolved in knowing that was the place that God wanted them in that season. She was struggling with learning the language, and their fellow workers were not very friendly, so she and Jeremy were lonesome for companionship with other English-speaking friends. One day while she was walking in town, a man stopped and tried to convince her to get in his car. It seemed that everything was piling up against them.

Certainly, Satan was working on her and trying to get in the middle of her life. But Kimberly resisted all of this and decided to not ask the Lord for anything, but to only give thanks to Him. God heard her thankful heart and led her through this dark period.

We were wrong about Kimberly’s call this morning. She did not mention any life challenges that they are having right now. She asked us if we would join her in not asking the Lord for anything today, but simply to give thanks to God for all that He has done for us.

We were honored that she would ask us to participate with her.  We agreed. Today we will only give thanks and not ask God for anything. After all, I Thessalonians 5:18 says, “Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.”

Would you join us and only be thankful today?

Here are a few more verses I have cogitated on this morning about saying “thank you” to the Lord:

“I will give thanks to the Lord because of his righteousness; I will sing the praises of the name of the Lord most high.” Psalm 7:17

“And whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through Him.” Colossians 3:17

“Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace. And be thankful.” Colossians 3:15

“Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good; his love endures forever.” 1 Chronicles 16:34

“Enter His gates with thanksgiving and his courts with praise; give thanks to Him and praise His name.” Psalm 100:4

“Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good; his love endures forever.” Psalm 107:1

“You will be enriched in every way so that you can be generous on every occasion, and through us your generosity will result in thanksgiving to God. This service that you perform is not only supplying the needs of the Lord’s people but is also overflowing in many expressions of thanks to God.” 1 Corinthians 9:11-12

Uncle Junior

When I first started dating Cheryl in college, she did not tell me much about her family. I had introduced her to my family when we went to my home for a weekend away from school. Sometime after that I traveled the 2 hours north to Memphis to meet her family.

I was not really nervous as I always enjoyed meeting new people, plus I was already falling in love with Cheryl. Meeting her mother was a breeze. I think she loved me before we met. Her sister, Robin, was five years younger than I was, and although that is not much spread in years, when you are 18 it is a huge difference. I did not get to spend much time with her brother as he was not at home much.

At 6’3” and about 230#, her dad was a bit intimidating just in size and demeanor. But as I got to know him he was just a gentle giant.

During subsequent visits I was around more of Cheryl’s extended family. I was surprised that her cousins called her dad “Uncle Junior.” Her dad, Maurice Franklin Keathley, Jr. was the oldest of four sons. I felt awkward because I did not know what to call him. I started out calling him Mr. Keathley which is the proper southern etiquette.

Mr. Keathley played handball at an athletic club in Memphis, and occasionally Cheryl’s brother, Randy, would play with him. Randy was 17 years old, and he was a hulk. When he shook my hand it felt like my hand was in a vise.

One Saturday while I was visiting Memphis, Mr. Keathley invited me to play with him and Randy. They outfitted me with handball gloves and told me the rules and I was off playing. I played hard like I do at all games, but they slaughtered me. They chuckled at my efforts, and I did not know how to take that, but in the end, I resolved myself to getting beat up on the court every game. After all, they had massive hands and I sported small hands that were not accustomed to slamming a small hard black ball up against a wall.

During one of those handball games, Cheryl’s dad told me to stop calling him Mr. Keathley as he said that was what I should call his father, Maurice Franklin Keathley, Sr. That was a dilemma for me—what was I going to call him? Calling him Maurice just did not seem right. Finally, after being around him more and feeling more comfortable, I tried out calling him “Uncle Junior.” That stuck until we had the first grandchild in their family, and Uncle Junior became “Papaw.”

With each visit I learned more about Cheryl’s family, and I was intrigued with her grandparents who turned their home baked pies during the depression into two huge factories producing nationally branded pastries.

Like many baby boomers, I like hearing stories about World War II. Uncle Junior enlisted in the army as a second lieutenant just as the war was ending. He was assigned to Germany as an officer in the Nuremburg war crimes trials. He lived in a former Nazi officer’s home in Nuremburg during his assignment at the trials.

Uncle Junior told me fascinating stories about the prisoners. When the prisoners had a request, they had to write a message for the guards with a small piece of paper and a stubby one-inch pencil. The most commonly requested item was medication. There were three different colored pills that the prisoners were allowed to take: one for stomach problems, one for aches including head, neck, and limbs, and one was a sleep aide. All three pills were placebos.

Uncle Junior collected some of these hand-written notes, and today, Cheryl’s sister has possession of these relics. He interacted with some of the most famous of all the Nazi leaders including Hermann Göring, Reichsmarschall and Hitler’s deputy, Albert Speer, the Minister of Armaments and War Production, and Rudolf Hess, the Deputy Führer of the Nazi Party. Goring somehow hid a cyanide capsule from the guards, and he committed suicide the night before his scheduled execution by hanging.

On our trip back to the states from Burkina Faso in May 1987, we scheduled a two-week layover in Europe to meet Uncle Junior and his wife to tour a few countries. While visiting Germany, we went to Nuremburg, and after 40 years, Uncle Junior was able to take us to the house that he lived in. When we approached the main entrance of the building where the trials were held, the doors were locked. We went to a side door, and Papaw was able to get someone to come to the door. He explained to the German gentleman who understood some English that he wanted to show us the courtroom where the trials were held. The gentleman explained that the courtroom was only used for capital crimes and that it was not open to the public.

After the gentleman discovered that Papaw was one of the guards at the trials, he allowed us into the court room where Papaw gave a great history lesson to us. In the corridor outside the courtroom, Papaw found a photo of himself in one of the pictures from the trial. After that, the gentleman was extremely polite and hospitable with us and allowed us to see much more of the buildings.

Antique or Vintage

We were at a lake house on Lake of the Ozarks with some friends. It was a 40-minute drive to the nearest town, so when we went to town it wasn’t just for a grocery run, but we would eat a meal and then have another activity like visiting the local ice cream shop or on one day we visited some antique shops.

One of the shops had the words “vintage” and “antique” in its name. I was curious about the difference between the two words, so I started a conversation with the person working in the store. I discovered that she was one of the owners, so I asked her about the name of their shop. “What’s the difference in antique and vintage?” I asked her. Her reply did not satisfy my curiosity: “Six of one, half dozen of the other!”

Well, I was not satisfied with that response, but we continued talking and it looked like she did not understand the difference. So, being the curious farmer that I am (OK, so I don’t live on a farm anymore, but I have a greenhouse because farmers need to get their hands in the dirt.), I had to do a little research on these two words.

I have learned that to be classified as an antique, an item must be over 100 years old. There is apparently no set age for declaring something vintage. The word literally means “of age.” Most people who are in the antique and vintage business, the lady in Kansas excluded, say vintage items are at least twenty years old. So, apparently anything between 20 and 99 years old is vintage.

I have a German hand-made clock from the 1890s, so it is an antique. We bought a clock in Germany in 1987, so it is a vintage clock. But I have my great-grandfather’s clock that dates back to the 1920s, so is it antique or vintage?

Some vintage items like corning ware and Pyrex dishes make a reintroduction into our culture. Even though those companies are still making new products there is a great demand for vintage stuff. Paper straws are back. And records and record players. Some companies are making repro vintage record players—we have one!

Remember the pressure cooker that was in everyone’s kitchen 40 years ago? I think they were phased out because of all the new safety regs. My mother used hers all the time. When we cleaned out her kitchen after her passing, we disposed of the bottom of her old pressure cooker. She used it until she moved to an assisted living home. Now many homes have an Instant Pot which is an enhanced version of the old pressure cooker.

Some of my grandkids joke with me about being an antique. From now on, I will be quick to correct them and state that I am certified vintage!

While traveling in the mountains of North Carolina several years ago, we saw a sign on the side of the road: “Antiques made to order.”

By the way. A couple of online thesaurus lists “Vintage” as a synonym for “antique.” So the lady in the antique/vintage store in Kansas was correct: Six of one, half dozen of the other!

Seydou

Unlike most village men, Seydou was a strong young man.  He lived in the village of Silmitenga very near our home in a remote area of southeastern Burkina Faso. During the seven years we lived in that area, I had a lot of village men working with me, but Seydou was the strongest ever.

Before we received a well drilling rig, villagers in our area had hand-dug their water wells. Twenty-five inches of rain fell each year in our area of the Sahel, but most of it came within a 14-week period. It only took a downpour of a 4 “rain to cause many of the hand-dug wells to cave in. During the next dry season, the villagers would have to hand dig another well.  

When we arrived in the area, we started selling villagers cement at a reduced price so that they could cooperatively afford to line the walls of their hand-dug wells with concrete. We supplied the concrete molds for the wells.

The challenge with a hand-dug well was keeping the walls of the well straight so that we would not waste cement filling in the crooks of the wall of the well. While the well was being dug, I would visit the well sites almost every day to make sure that the walls of the well were straight. To do this I had to be lowered into the well while sitting on a five-gallon metal bucket. Recognizing that many of the village men wanted to hold the rope to lower me into the well and knowing that most of these men weighed about 130 pounds, I decided to hire Seydou to ride behind me on my motorcycle to visit the well sites. I instructed Seydou to always tie the end of the rope around his waist and serve as the anchor of the rope.

Since most people have never descended into a hole in the ground 2 meters wide (about six feet), they don’t realize how the opening appears to be the size of a softball when you are 75 feet underground. It is not a safe place for someone who is claustrophobic. But I felt safe as long as Seydou was holding the rope for me.

William Carey is known as the father of the modern missionary movement because of his advocacy for foreign missions and his willingness to be among the first to go to another country to live and serve as a missionary. His best friend was Andrew Fuller who had the same theological training that Carey had and the same passion for foreign missions.

Before leaving for India, Carey famously told Fuller, “I will go down into the pit, if you will hold the ropes.” Fuller stayed in England and held the ropes by serving as president of the Baptist Mission Society from its founding until his death in 1814. 

Not everyone is called to serve in another country, but all believers are called by the Lord to hold the ropes while others go down.

Fee Mail

An Ivoirian doctor where we lived in Abidjan had diagnosed the possibility of a problem with my spleen and referred me to a surgeon. I had pains up under my rib cage on my left side for two weeks, and this doctor was the second opinion that I had received from Ivoirian doctors.

I was not ready to succumb to the knife of an Ivoirian surgeon, so we decided that we would travel up country to an American mission hospital in Ferkessédougou. It was a long journey for a doctor’s visit, but it was worth it for peace of mind about next steps for the pain I was experiencing. Ferké, which is the common shortened name for the town, is in the northernmost part of Ivory Coast.

The first four hours of driving was on a two-lane asphalt road with lots of donkey carts and pedestrians traveling along the side of the road. The last six plus hours of the road are unpaved, but there are fewer obstacles alongside the road and fewer police roadblocks which could take a lot of time to deal with.

The boys were four and five years of age, so everything was an adventure for them. However, there was not much to do in the hospital compound guest house, so we loaded their bicycles in the back of our Peugeot station wagon with a couple suitcases and a supply of food and water and headed to Ferké.

One of the American physicians saw me early the morning after our arrival and by noon he had a diagnosis: torn cartilage in my ribs and a case of malaria.

We had just taken this same trip the month before when we made a three-week trip from Abidjan to Niamey, Niger. We had a week-long meeting in Ouagadougou, and I had to deliver theological education by extension textbooks to Ouagadougou and Niamey, so we made it a long family trip.

Traveling at that time along West African roads provided little opportunity to stop for food along the way. Of course, there were always the vendors on the side of road who built a fire and cooked some stringy meat and killed the taste with ground dried hot peppers. So, picnics out of the back of our station wagon were frequent and popular with our family. Cheryl could always pack just the right foods for a tasty meal.

A problem with stopping on the side of the road for our picnics was that we would always attract a crowd of village kids. We would stop at what we thought was an isolated spot with no villages around, but then to our surprise, a gaggle of kids would soon converge on us. Many times, they were hungry, so our compassionate and generous sons wanted to share our food with them. We would have no garbage as the village kids would claim every scrap of paper, tin can or plastic container.

Traveling in rural areas of West Africa could get boring. After all, one village would look just like all the others, so the boys would quickly get bored. We would count mopeds or donkey carts or gendarme roadblocks or at more exciting but rarer times elephants or monkeys or other wildlife. So we had to come up with creative things for the boys to do in the car.

Once we were trying to teach the boys “Do-Re-Mi” from the Sound of Music. We would sing it over and over until the boys had learned the lyrics. But learning the words does not necessarily mean that they understood the meaning of the words. A couple weeks after we had been traveling and singing “Do-Re-Mi,” Jason asked his mom, “What is a fee?”

Puzzled, Cheryl tried to get some context and asked him where he had heard that word. He replied, “You know, like a fee-mail deer!” That took some explaining. She thought she had pretty well explained the meaning of male and female when Jeremy chimed in, “Yeah, like when we get letters, that’s mail.” So, Cheryl tried again going through the entire song and explaining every word of it.

It was a good lesson for us that words have meaning, and it was important that we take all the time we needed to teach our children the importance of using the right words at the right time.

The best lesson about the meaning of words that we tried to instill in our children was “What you say flows from what is in your heart.” That comes from Luke 6:45: “A good person produces good things from the treasury of a good heart, and an evil person produces evil things from the treasury of an evil heart. What you say flows from what is in your heart.” (NLT)

Joy of Receiving

The hardest years of our lives were not while living in another country, but they were two years in the USA.

We had a great first term serving in Cote d’Ivoire, but the Lord made it clear to me that I was supposed to be an agricultural missionary. This was pre-email, so I shared that news with our leadership in an air letter.

 After a couple weeks, one of my leaders replied via letter stating that I could not be an agricultural missionary because I did not have a degree in agriculture. I thought that was very strange since I was already doing some agricultural work in Cote d'Ivoire on the side and started a church with farmers during our first term..

I befriended some farmers in Adjame’, a small town outside Abidjan, and helped them with some agricultural best practices with chickens, rabbits and gardening. Some of them became believers, and we started a church in their community. I did that without an agricultural degree. Most of my relatives were farmers, and I grew up helping them.

Nevertheless, we replied to our leadership that we would still be going back to the states on a four-month furlough, and that we would not be returning to the field right away because I was going to pursue a graduate degree in agriculture.

We stepped out on faith because I would be a full-time student and could only have part-time jobs to support our family. We thought about Cheryl going back to work full-time, but her teacher’s certificate had expired, so that meant that she would have to take a job most likely earning minimum wage. After doing some calculations, her take home pay would be minimal after we paid for childcare.

I took jobs working on the university sheep and horse farm, speaking or leading  music in any church that would have me, raising vegetables to sell in a local market, bottle feeding dairy calves and selling them to high school 4-H Club members, and raising sheep for Arab Muslims to buy and butcher on the land where we parked our mobile home.

During our leave of absence to pursue that degree, God provided for us and taught us many lessons. One of the lessons was totally relying on God to provide the next week’s groceries. We had already served one  term as international missionaries, but it was in the USA that I learned that important lesson that God is the provider, not me. I am supposed to do my best to take care of my family, and God will provide for all our needs.

The Lord taught us a huge lesson about giving and generosity. Other people recognized that our family of five was struggling at times during those 18 months. We received unexpected gifts of money and food from church members, family and friends.

It was difficult for us to receive these gifts until God taught us this principal: you are not a good giver until you are a good receiver. No matter how wealthy a person may be, they need to be a gracious receiver of good deeds and acts of generosity.

Today, we are well taken care of, but if we receive an unexpected gift, we start thinking that the Lord wants us to find someone else to help. There is nothing like the joy of giving. And to experience this joy, we must also practice the joy of receiving.  

Stories

At the time we lived among village people in Burkina Faso most of the adults never had the opportunity to learn to read and write. We started a literacy program before their language had ever been written.

We used volunteers from the states who came and stayed a minimum of one month to work with us and teach villagers to read and write. The volunteers did this without speaking their language, but they used phonetics to teach them.

I admired the village people so much for many reasons, but one of those was that they were oral learners. The history of their people was passed from one generation to another by stories that were memorized. Their memorization method was repetition. Parents would begin telling stories to their children at an early age.

When we first started working with these villagers, we did not have the well drilling rig that would later provide hundreds of wells. We could only help them with their hand dug wells. As we went each day to monitor the digging, we would share a Bible story because stories are a part of every culture. This is especially true among illiterate people. After a few weeks some of the villagers wanted to know more about this Jesus person in the stories.

Nothing stirs the heart like a story. When we ask people what they remember the most about a sermon, we most often hear that they remember a story more than anything else. I do!

Stories have a unique power to convey deeper truths and resonate with people on a personal level. This method of teaching, which Jesus masterfully utilized through parables, can bridge the gap between understanding and internalizing spiritual lessons.

Jesus used parables because they were effective in communicating truth. His stories were contemporary, contextual, and the characters were real. His stories provoked thought and encouraged transformation.

The Apostle Paul affirmed the value and power of our stories when he wrote in 2 Corinthians 3:2-3, "You yourselves are our letter of recommendation…known and read by all. You show that you are a letter from Christ…written not with ink but with the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets of human hearts." This image highlights the power of personal testimony and personal experience in communicating the truth of the gospel.

Storytelling is the personal account of our life experiences and perceptions. It might be communicated in brief sentences or revealed through probing inquiry. Storytelling takes many forms, but whatever it is, it has a profound effect on those who hear it.

Incorporating storytelling into the teaching of Scripture can enrich the learning experience by making biblical principles more relevant, memorable, and compelling.

Stories communicate values via real-life examples. What better way to teach your values to your kids and grandchildren!