Shout joyfully to the Lord, all the earth.  Serve the Lord with gladness; come before Him with joyful singing.  Know that the Lord Himself is God; it is He who has made us, and not we ourselves; we are His people and the sheep of His pasture.  Enter His gates with thanksgiving and His courts with praise.  Give thanks to Him, bless His name.  For the Lord is good; His lovingkindness is everlasting and His faithfulness to all generations.  Psalm 100

Longing to raise children with a hunger to glorify God’s name among their people, we tread a fine line between providing them our best and turning them into spoiled adults uncomfortable in their own cluture.  As much as I love my home country and state, I don’t want to raise “good little Americans,” foreigners here in their own land.  Naturally, though, I impart to them pieces of my culture, shaped in part by my nationality.  I pass on to them a mixture of good—like fluency in English—and bad—like taking for granted abundant blessings.

For the second consecutive November, I let my American side run wild as I leave to my children a purely American legacy:  the gift of Thanksgiving.  Together, we read a book chronicling the dedication of the pilgrims and their absolute trust in the sovereignty of God.  Their Christ-exalting testimony challenges us with each page we complete.  And thanks to the Wards, a missionary family from Texas, we savor an unsurpassed feast.  This year, they also introduced us to flour bombs, flour-filled napkins that explode in a cloud of dust when they hit their intended target.

In the midst of such unbelievable goodness, my favorite Thanksgiving memory simmers warm and sweet steeped in the pre-feast morning tea around our dining table.  We each shared one thing for which we thank God this year.

Gogou:  I thank God for healing all our sicknesses.

Gogou scrapes 16 pounds of pumpkin.

Mamang:  I thank God for bringing Esther to us.

Mamang and Gogou load the flour bombs for war.

Sister Victoria introduces Esther to the joys of pie on her first Thanksgiving. We'll leave the baking up to her next year.

Chingmi:  I thank God for providing our Hindi teacher.

Chingmi applies his creativity to the pie crust.

Nelson: I thank God for completing our NGO registration.

This is what we call the joys of parenting...They work; we eat...

Chon-Chon:  I thank God for sending Jesus to die on the cross.

Chon-Chon peels potatoes for vegetable soup to nourish us after a long day of pre-Thanksgiving baking.

Angamla:  I thank God that no one in our family died this year.  (This one seemed strange to me at first, but Angamla is no stranger to death, losing both of her parents and a baby brother.)

Angamla prepares the pumpkin to add to the pie shell.

Jodi:  I thank God for bringing Angamla and Chon-Chon here, for helping us through our first year of school, for my family, for our family vehicle.

May we live this entire year with thankful hearts, in awe of His everlasting lovingkindness and eternal faithfulness.

So teach us to number our days, that we may present to You a heart of wisdom.  Psalm 90:12

The scene around Gogou’s thirteenth birthday cake brought tears to my eyes.  Surrounded by my husband and five children whom I love so dearly, my heart simply overflowed.  I watched this young man excitedly blow out his candles with a tinge of sadness.  I missed out on the first eleven years of this wonderful boy’s life.  Thus far, God has graciously granted me two years of Gogou’s delight in simple things like decorating a tiny Christmas tree, his harmonica and guitar talents that fill our home with praise, his questions about the Word and hunger to know the things of God.  I thank God for blessing my life with Gogou.  But as he cut his football (soccer) birthday cake, I realized the sheer brevity of my time to invest in his life.  In a few short years, this new teenager will be a man, ready to set out from the safety of our humble nest to conquer the world.  The challenge of making each day count stared me square in the face, demanding my utmost attention as never before.

Two days later, Nelson and I found ourselves taking inventory of our small office/guest room after a robbery.  The thieves stole some computer and electronic equipment and a few items of clothing.  We refused to allow the loss to discourage us, grateful that our greatest treasures—our children—remained unharmed.  Still, Nelson spent a night in the office, armed with our huge butcher knife, ready to teach any returning looters a lesson.

We had just studied Luke 12:39-40 as a family.  Jesus explains that the head of a house would wait with a butcher knife if he knew the hour of the thief’s arrival.  But because we don’t know when the thief will come, we must live each day in readiness.  Likewise, Jesus urged His followers to be ready for His unexpected return.  In essence, He said, “Live your life to make each day count.”

For me, part of being found holy and blameless at the Lord’s appearing means fully relishing this fleeting life and the lavish gifts from His hands.  I must constantly battle to choose the eternal over the temporal.  I don’t know when the thief will come to snatch these gifts away, so I must not waste a single moment.  If I knew I would draw my last breath tomorrow, would I spend today cleaning my house or reading the newspaper?  No doubt I labor to joyfully complete the mundane daily tasks that come with managing the gift of my home.  But for this season of life, the dust piles a bit higher, the cobwebs grow a bit thicker, the newspaper crosswords sit undone, the blogs go unwritten while I delight in watching Mamang and Chon-Chon learn to ride bicycles,

discussing a Bible passage with Gogou,

playing Chinese checkers with Angamla and Chingmi,

marvelling as Esther masters sitting,

and sipping late-night hot chocolate with my husband.

Lord, please teach me to live this day, its number known only to You, with passion and purpose.

Off to snatch a little time with Esther as we try another feeding of mashed rice and formula…

How great is Your goodness, which You have stored up for those who fear You, which You have wrought for those who take refuge in You, before the sons of men!  Psalm 31:19

Shame on me!  I posted the last entry on our blog eons ago—way back in January.  Do I even remember how to do this?

As encouragement to get back on the horse, I sit and joyfully browse through our photos from the past few months, amazed by the goodness our gracious Lord stored up for us.  Indeed the storehouses overflow!  And I realize I’m really not that ashamed of my failure to blog—I’ve simply been savoring His overwhelming goodness rather than sitting in front of our computer.  (My laziness in emailing many of you also testifies to that fact!)

So please rejoice with us in the great goodness of our God as He displays it upon the precious faces in these photos.  But, O Lord, please keep us from the danger of loving the gifts and forgetting the matchless Giver.  Please draw us to take refuge in You, Jesus, the very face of absolute goodness.

Our stray cat Roberta (named after the girl at the center of a love triangle in Swiss Family Robinson—thanks Friesens!) chose Lele’s empty drawer under the bunk beds as the birthplace of her three kittens.

Good things often come in small packages.  We celebrated His goodness wrapped up in our little man Mamang on 23 March, the day Nelson left for a two-week trip to the US.  Mamang, how we thank God for you!  We thank God for giving you life and for allowing us the privilege of raising you.  We stand in awe of His hand in weaving us together as a family.  We love to hear His name proclaimed in praise from your sweet lips.  May God satisfy you with His lovingkindness that you might sing for joy and be glad ALL of your days (Psalm 90:14)!

Mamang’s nine-year-old body needed a break after relishing the continual flow of God’s goodness.  Battleship, a new bag in his favorite orange color, and birthday guests—what more could a super-extrovert ask for?

Such adorable faces surely point to a loving Creator.  I marvel at His infinite ways…

The arrival of Papa Doug and Nana Shirley ushered in four days of nonstop goodness:  tattoos…

and crafts with Nana Shirley;

a day at the (AIR-CONDITIONED) Cosmos Mall arcade;

a feast at Khana Khajana, our favorite restaurant, and the chance to fro Uncle Rhoman’s lovely locks;

and a puppet show prepared to honor our beloved Papa and Nana.

God granted us the delight of showering dear friends with His goodness through opportunities to practice hospitality.

We welcomed Uncle Bhola, a humble man who works with Tiny Hands in Nepal.

We shared our kittens with Aunty Trish, even though she and her husband are hard-core Texas Longhorn fans.  They minister here in Siliguri, focusing on the discipleship of church leaders who they pray will in turn disciple their church members.  Their passion to see others become more like Christ stirs us to press on in whole-heartedly seeking Jesus.

Everyone surprised Aunty Jodi by spoiling her on Mother’s Day.  My mouth still waters when I think of the luscious chocolate cake I devoured.

We spent one final afternoon treating Aunty Laura to a mini-concert, lunch, and our last no-bake cheesecake before she returned to the US.  She served with Aunty Trish’s family for a year, homeschooling their 14-year-old daughter.

Uncle Rhoman lived with us for a month while he worked on Tiny Hands projects in the area.  So naturally, God’s blessings flowed from him and spilled over onto him, like a never-ending fountain of goodness.

Oh, how we smile when we think of Aunty Mary!  She selflessly loved our neighbors’ children Elizabeth and Liana for the past year, freeing Uncle Mathew and Aunty Crista to continue their church-planting work.  We marked the Fourth of July with Aunty Mary, complete with marshmallow cornflake treats and S’mores.  She wrote a special note to each of us before departing for America just a few days later.

If His gifts are so wonderful, how can my mind even begin to comprehend the goodness of God Himself?  Indeed, how great is Your goodness, which You have stored up to overflowing for the Hesed family! 

Yet you do not know what your life will be like tomorrow.  You are just a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away.  Instead, you ought to say, “If the Lord wills, we shall live and also do this or that.”  James 4:14-15

We seized the vaporous final moments of 2008 to read through our Hesed Family Prayer book and see how God answered throughout the year; to sing songs of praise and worship to Jesus and pray for the year to come; to gorge popcorn and watch a Winnie the Pooh Christmas video; to don newspaper hats and glow bracelets just before the clock struck midnight.

(We also learned that glow bracelets look funny in a photo when we forget the flash.)

We adopted Gogou’s village New Year tradition, adding a twist of our own.  Instead of leaving the front door open and shoving plates under our bed while praying for God to fill them with sweets before we awoke, we turned our newspaper hats upside down and placed them under the Christmas tree.  The boys prayed earnestly before they fell asleep.

We welcomed 2009 by rushing to the tree and delightedly discovering our newspaper hats filled with sweets lying next to a host of shiny, unmarked gifts; greeting our brothers and sisters in Christ at church; observing with awe Uncle Nelson’s “tent-making” skills (thanks, Grandpa Bob, for the multi-purpose fishing rods!); devouring our sweets while we enjoyed a slide show of our favorite photos from 2008 beneath the cover of our tent; “roughing it” overnight on the living room floor (Nelson and I let the boys tackle that one alone).

In the midst of this fleeting life, we thank God for so many precious minutes, hours, days, years.  Such unsurpassed treasure awaits us, yet He pours so much incredible goodness into the journey.  In His presence is fullness of joy, both now as the countdown marches on and when we bask in His glory for all eternity.

So before another moment vanishes, we savor the countdown today.  And Lord-willing, by this time tomorrow I’ll embrace two tender girls again.  Lord-willing, we’ll talk and talk over the pretty pink cake the boys and I ordered today.  Lord-willing, we’ll celebrate Christmas again, finally tearing into those tempting shiny presents that still sit beneath the Charlie Brown Christmas tree.  Lord-willing, we’ll tuck two tired travelers into newly-painted beds.

And I will thank God that this life is but a vapor because His goodness simply overwhelms me.

And she gave birth to her first-born son; and she wrapped Him in cloths, and laid Him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.  Luke 2:7

We opened no gifts for Christmas this year.  Our first Christmas with Chingmi and Mamang.  Our first Christmas in Siliguri.

For weeks before the big day, we begged God to show us how He wanted us to celebrate.  Our church planned four days of festivities in honor of the holiday season.  First came Christmas Eve, a seven-hour afternoon/evening of church service, games, and caroling.  Christmas trailed shortly on its heels, reserving three hours for another church service and a feast.  New Year’s Eve and Day followed a similar pattern.  Growing up in Burwell, Nebraska, Christmas meant a short candlelight service at church and an intimate, relaxing time at home with family.  The mere thought of four days of endless activity simply overwhelmed me.

Yet we longed to start new family traditions centered on the real meaning of Christmas.  Why is it that we so often spend Christmas at church rather than finding those people who don’t know the hope of Christ and sharing the wonderful news of His birth with them?

I spent one of my most meaningful holidays in South India during my second year of teaching.  My neighbors invited me to be part of their special meal, an outreach to Hindu friends from a nearby village.  They prepared delicious food to honor their guests but saved the Greatest Gift for dessert.  Rather than fill us with Christmas goodies, they took the opportunity to share the story of Christ’s unique birth and the sinless life He lived and died that we might spend eternity with Him.

So we set out to model this in our home this year.  Being new to Siliguri, we don’t know many people.  I am unaware of any soup kitchen in which we can serve (don’t know if those exist in India at all), and we don’t know the language spoken by most of the local people (only Nelson speaks Hindi, which most people understand).  So we invited the first people we could think of to our home for a Christmas feast:  our landlord’s niece and nephew.  They may be rich materially, but they lack the Greatest Treasure of all.  And God, in His grace, allowed us to share His Greatest Gift of love—wrapped in human flesh—with these two children, our boys’ first friends in Siliguri.  At the same time, He wrapped our Christmas in loving memories that far surpass any gifts we could possibly fit beneath our Charlie Brown Christmas tree.  (How I wish I had that movie to show to my family!  You’ll understand why when you see the photos…)

I’ll let the boys speak for themselves as they share their favorite Christmas memories from 2008…

Gogou:  I liked decorating the tree.  (This truly became a family project.  None of the boys ever had a Christmas tree in their home.  We didn’t want it to become just a secular trend.  So we made ornaments in circle shapes to represent coins and diamond shapes to represent jewels.  We decorated the tree with shiny bead necklaces {thanks, Darla Ruth!} and the ornaments and topped it with a crown to remind us that Jesus is the King of kings, worthy of our most priceless treasure.)

Chingmi and Mamang:  We liked the scavenger hunt.  (For Nelson’s gospel presentation, we wrote Scripture references on stars, stuffed each in a box, wrapped them, and hid them around the compound with clues leading to each gift’s location.  After finding all the gifts, the boys and their guests rushed back home and plopped down in front of the tree.  One-by-one, they each opened a present, and Nelson read the corresponding  Scripture, unfolding God’s marvelous plan for the ages.  The boys enjoyed this activity so much that they played “hide-and-seek” with various household items throughout the rest of the day, coming up with rather obvious clues for the whereabouts of each item.  And okay, I guess we did open a few gifts this Christmas after all!)

Gogou, Chingmi, and Mamang:  We all liked singing around the bonfire.  (We had no idea just how abundantly God wanted to bless us this year!  The boys had prepared a song for their guests.  So once they tired of “hide-and-seek” with various household items, they filled the rest of the afternoon with multiple choruses of “Lord, I Lift Your Name on High.”  Can it get any better than the five of them singing the name of Jesus?  This led to our guests asking their grandmother {the head of our landlord’s family} if we could start a bonfire in the evening.  The children gathered leaves and sticks, and Nelson ignited a blazing fire.  We sang Christmas carols and our favorite worship songs.  Our next-door neighbor boy arrived home in the midst of the fun, so we asked him to join us.  We roasted marshmallows and ate smores.  Now that’s what I call “exceeding abundant beyond what I can ask or think.”)

Our favorite food from our Christmas feast…

Gogou:  beef curry

Chingmi and Mamang:  fried chicken

(Yes, we must make special mention of the food.  In true Kuki fashion {Gogou’s tribe}, Gogou loves beef for Christmas—or any occasion—and lots of it.  Nelson loves Kentucky fried chicken.  A friend shared her recipe with us, and Nelson jumped at the chance to try it for Christmas.  This proved to be a wise decision as Chingmi and Mamang couldn’t get enough of it.  Note our heaping plate of fried chicken in the bottom right corner.)

Thanks for wrapping our Christmas in your friendship and prayers.

May God wrap your 2009 in His unfailing love…

And the Word became flesh, and dwelt among us, and we beheld His glory, glory as of the only begotten from the Father, full of grace and truth.  John 1:14

The small wooden plaque adorns our boys’ bright purple bedroom wall.  It once decorated the bedroom I shared with my sister growing up in Burwell, Nebraska.  “God is love,” it proclaims.  A tender, compassionate Jesus surrounded by eager children brings the simple words to life.  I imagine Jesus gently scolding His disciples, “Let the little children come to Me,” and warmly welcoming wee ones as they bounded into His open arms.

This childhood treasure, which I now share with my children, caught my eye the other day as I left the boys’ room.  And one fleeting glimpse set my heart to pondering in these days before Christmas.  As sleep threatened to overtake me once I snuggled beneath our bedtime blankets, I wondered what stirred Jesus to respond so strongly to His disciples’ irritation at the interruption in their plans.  Surely, He loved each precious child because He Himself created each one in His own image.  But could it also be that no one identified with “the least of these” more than Jesus, the King of the universe who left heaven to be born as one of them?

True, we all entered this world through our mother’s womb in the form of a helpless infant.  We crawled through challenging childhood and walked through awkward adolescence to emerge a glorious adult.  Yet I too often allow the big cares of my big world to erase the memory of those first days and years to the point that I see children as simply another task to manage in my important schedule.

Every Christmas, we celebrate “the Word become flesh.”  We sing carols announcing, “Veiled in flesh the God-head see,” and “Word of the Father, now in flesh appearing!”  Jesus donned tiny hands…and eyes and ears and nose and feet.  He could have appeared as a valiant hero riding down in His magnificent chariot to rescue us-not a difficult task compared with speaking the entire universe into being.  But instead, He chose to enter this world through the womb of a peasant girl in the form of a helpless infant.  He crawled through challenging childhood and walked through awkward adolescence.  And He forgets nothing.

As Jesus held the children in His mighty, loving arms and blessed them, did He remember His mother’s touch?  Did He recall childhood hurts like scraped knees or petty name-calling?  Did He look ahead to the day He would die to redeem their soul and open to them eternity in His wondrous presence?

I don’t know the secrets of Christ’s heart, but I do know this:  Christmas marks the birth of Jesus as a baby boy in a stable in Bethlehem.  He created each dear child in His own radiant image.  He died to ransom every child from the bondage of sin.

For some reason still unknown to me, He graciously grants us the amazing privilege of loving and serving and shepherding and clinging to a house full of tiny hands not unlike His own.  Oh, may we drive them into Your open arms!

17 December 2008–Sorry so slow to post!

But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.  Romans 5:8

“I love you, Mamang!”  Nelson’s spontaneous proclamation as we finished our dinner stunned me.  Growing up in a typical Indian home, Nelson rarely heard these wonderful words, especially from his father.  As a result, he rarely speaks them to our children, choosing instead to follow his father’s example of expressing love through actions such as providing for them, spending quality time together, or challenging them to give their best. 

Mamang’s silence in return stunned Nelson.  Though he usually withholds such affectionate phrases, he still expected Mamang to respond in kind.  I warned him to be prepared for a long wait.

As we began this adventure of children’s home ministry, I anticipated our children would come from varied backgrounds.  Knowing some bear painful emotional scars, I temper my love with patience.  When each child is ready, I eagerly wrap my arms around him or delight in hearing her call me “Mommy.”  Some may never reach that point, but still I must not allow a day to pass without assuring each one-each precious blessing-that I love him.

I undertook my quest from Gogou’s first night with us over a year ago.  I felt a twinge of fear, realizing he could easily reject me.  But my heart could not squelch my overflowing love for this quiet little boy as I tucked him into bed.  “Mung pharasee.  (Good night.)  Eina nangbu nungshi-I love you, Gogou.”  I long for the day when he will reciprocate, but for now my heart finds sweet contentment in Gogou’s tender smile and twinkling eyes as he pulls the blanket up to his chin.  His face tells me he is home.

After only a week in our home, Chingmi unleashed a symphony of love with the first sweet bedtime, “Aunty, I love you.”  Three more children followed suit.  Sometimes they surprise me at random moments, requesting my attention with a simple, “Aunty.”  My “What” receives “I love you” in reply.  Gogou and Mamang remain the only holdouts in exchanging “I love yous,” and they are our only children who have one living parent, even though their mothers abandoned them and make little or no contact.

This discussion prompted Nelson to investigate the matter further.  As we learn about our new surroundings here in Siliguri, I find even greater delight in learning more about the three boys who made the initial move with us.  Nelson asked each boy if anyone in their life ever told them, “I love you.”  Their answers startled me.

Twelve-year-old Gogou remembers no one in his life directing those words specifically to him.

Eleven-year-old Chingmi recalls a village neighbor who verbally expressed love to him and his siblings, but he never heard those words from a member of his family.

Eight-year-old Mamang’s grandfather often exhorts him not to forget God and vigorously shakes his hand in greeting or when parting ways.  But the vocabulary of Mamang’s family reserves no place for the word “love” according to his memory.

One evening shortly after these revelations, Chingmi playfully initiated a bedtime debate (no doubt trying to prolong the inevitable).

“Mung pharasee.  Eina nangbu nungshi-I love you, Chingmi.”

“Aunty, what does “I love you” mean?”

“It means ‘Eina nangbu nungshi.’  Good night, Chingmi.”

“Aunty, what does ‘Eina nangbu nungshi’ mean?”

“It means ‘I love you.’  Sleep well, Chingmi.”

“Aunty, what does ‘I love you’ mean?”

Round and round we went until I turned out the light, another faint “What does ‘I love you’ mean” following me as I retreated to our own bedroom.  I pondered that lingering question until sleep overtook me.

First John 3:16 echoed to me throughout the night watches and continues to this day.  “We know love by this, that He laid down His life for us…”  Christ died for us not when we reached perfect obedience or got our act together.  He gave His very best for us when we were at our worst.  While we were still pitiful, ugly, unlovable sinners.  As we ran far from Him, striving to control our own lives.  Christ demonstrated His love to us through the act of laying down His very life.  His sacrificial death and redemption of our wretched souls vividly illustrate every line of love He whispers to us through His word.  When we read “For God so loved the world” or “God is love,” we can clearly see what love is.

I shared this lesson with the boys the following morning during our Scripture time that begins each school day.  What an amazing privilege God grants me in reflecting this truth by daily loving my family. Oh, how often I fail!  But may this imperfect taste create within them a thirst to drink deeply from the unending Fountain of love, Christ Himself.

Lord, please grant me strength to daily lay down my life for these dear children that they might truly see the love that so freely falls from my lips.  Ultimately, may my love drive them to You, my Source, the Author of all-satisfying, perfect love.

10 December 2008

The Lord is the portion of my inheritance and my cup; Thou dost support my lot.  The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; indeed, my heritage is beautiful to me.  Psalm 16:5-6

I’m quite behind in harnessing all the thoughts running wild in my head.  I long to share the details of God’s hand in our life through posts about this winding road upon which we tread; where His plans are taking us, our girls, and our boys; our third and final “last day of church”; and my gratitude for our helper Sana.  However after nearly two weeks of stalling here in Imphal, God seems to be moving us out rather quickly.  That means one final packing push so we’re ready when He finally commands, “Go.”  It also means we lose internet any day now.

Before God grants me an extended time of writing the old-fashioned way in preparation for going back online again in Siliguri, I must share these final thoughts on God’s blessings here in Manipur.  I jotted this list late one night, kept awake by tears shed for this land I called home for nearly sixteen months.

I admit a growing sadness even as I look forward to life with tile floors, real kitchen counters, and running water.  I just can’t imagine life without basking in the beauty of the hills enveloping us…

…or the graceful bamboo dancing in the breeze. 

Who will rub Mai-sang behind the ears or between the shoulder blades just as he likes it or reward him for mastering “sit” and “stay”?

Living in an area with greater access to luxuries like running water or stable electricity, I wonder if I’ll be captivated by regular glimpses of women returning from nearby wells balancing vessels on their head…

…or be amazed by the brilliance of the moon on nights without power.

Within the last week, God added these gorgeous views to my list of favorite things about Manipur.  I will miss these afternoon walks around our neighborhood with my boys, allowing the majesty of God’s creation to wash over me.

The Lord has drawn His lines for me in a variety of places:  Burwell, Hastings, and Lincoln, Nebraska in America; Hosur, Tamil Nadu in southern India; Imphal, Manipur in northeastern India.  No matter where He leads, He reveals pleasant gifts through this unchanging truth:  He is the portion of my inheritance and my cup.  Indeed, He is beautiful to me.  He is my favorite gift of all.

A snack for all seasons: winter popcorn feast

For by Him all things were created, both in the heavens and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities—all things have been created by Him and for Him.  And He is before all things, and in Him all things hold together.  Colossians 1:16-17

Have you ever stopped to consider the unique nature of an individual kernel of popcorn?  Chances are you don’t think twice about the crispy white treat you contentedly munch during your favorite movie unless, like me, you must ration the stash that made it into one of your two fifty-pound bags allotted by the airline to transport your worldly possession from America to your new home on the other side of the world.  We can find popcorn in India, but the outrageous price places it beyond the budget of the majority of her residents.  So as a family, we choose to wisely steward the cheap, large bags brought from the States.

As a result, I worked hard to stretch my portion when we popped a batch for afternoon snack last week, replacing our usual tea with a refreshing glass of water on a particularly hot day.  I chewed slower than usual, savoring each crunchy bite.  And for some unknown reason, I studied as I savored.  As suddenly and unexpectedly as electricity returns in Manipur, a new revelation hit me.  Like snowflakes or fingerprints, I’m willing to guess that no two kernels of popcorn look identical.  I noticed some pieces look like fluffy white clouds.  Others looked like a bloated octopus, with the hull as the head and the white portion as bulging tentacles.  Some appeared as a brown egg with a white chick just beginning to emerge.

Who thought of all these crazy shapes?  Our wonderfully creative Lord of the universe ordained each kernel.  Does that sound absolutely insane?  Colossians proclaims that “all things have been created by Him and for Him…and in Him all things hold together” (Colossians 1:16-17).  Not a single detail of life falls beyond His control.  Why would God care about popcorn compared with the grand job of running the entire universe?  When you pause for a mere moment to think about all the popcorn that has been, is being, or ever will be popped in movie theaters and homes around the world and realize that each kernel is unique, how can the magnificence of the mind of God not render you speechless?  Popcorn glorifies God!  Like all things, His vast mind thought of it, His authoritative voice spoke it into being, His powerful word upholds it.

My musings didn’t end with popcorn.  Think of how many snowflakes currently cover the earth, from the North Pole to snow-capped mountain ranges to Antarctica.  Could you count the flakes that have fallen or ever will fall?  Surely we couldn’t even count them, yet God created each one unique.

In His love, God filled the garden of Eden with a myriad of fruits and vegetables for man to enjoy.  Has the variety of produce choices offered by your supermarket ever surprised you?  And yet that’s barely a taste of God’s bounty.  Our children constantly ask, “Aunty, what is the English word for sebot, yongchak, or nobab?”  Each time, I answer, “I don’t know.  I never saw one until I moved here to Imphal.”

How did God think of all the animals?  Could you ever in your wildest dreams have imagined an elephant, with its huge floppy ears and garden hose nose?  And just as with vegetation, God created some animals unique to certain parts of the world.  For example, this region of India boats the famous dancing deer—the sangai—and the one-horned rhino.

Even if you remain oblivious to the world around you, just look at yourself.  After enduring multiple miscarriages, I more thoroughly appreciate all of the variables that must perfectly merge for the creation of one human life.  Isn’t the human body amazing?  I can see and smell and run and hug my children and kiss my husband and write this post and digest my rice and pull my hand away from a hot pan of popcorn.  God keeps my clumsy mass of atoms and molecules and cells in motion so that apart from Him I cannot even draw my next breath.  Such knowledge should take my breath away.

And yet knowing all of this, I still hurl question after question at Him as we prepare to move to Siliguri.  Jesus, please help me rest in the knowledge that I am Yours.  If you care enough to create unique kernels of popcorn, surely every detail of this journey is secure in Your hands.

And behold, there was a woman in the city who was a sinner; and when she learned that He was reclining at the table in the Pharisee’s house, she brought an alabaster vial of perfume, and standing behind Him at His feet, weeping, she began to wet His feet with her tears, and kept wiping them with the hair of her head, and kissing His feet, and anointing them with the perfume.  Luke 7:37-38

Continued monsoon rains ushered in the month of August.  But the month marked the end of birthday season at Hesed Home.  June and July brought a downpour of birthdays, showering us with memories to warm our heart even as the monsoon rages into September.

“Are you excited for your birthday?” I asked Gogou as he counted down the days to 11 July, his special day.

“Yes, Aunty,” came his simple reply.

“How did your family celebrate your birthday before you came to live here?” I investigated further.

“My mother never celebrated my birthday,” Gogou matter-of-factly answered.

Two months later, this conversation still pierces my heart.  I praise God for granting us—so inexperienced, mistake-prone, and undeserving—the wonderful privilege of celebrating Gogou’s birthday for the first time in his twelve precious years of life.

Just before I turned out the lights on Angamla’s 13 July birthday, I drew close to her top-bunk bed, pressed my lips to her mosquito net, and softly asked, “Angamla, what was your favorite part of your special day?”

Without hesitation, she tenderly replied, “My pink, love-sign (translation:  heart-shaped) cake.”  I chuckle as no answer better fits my everything-pink girl.

She slipped me the sweetest note the following day, wrapped in a scrap of shiny paper that had adorned one of her few gifts.

“Dear Aunty, I love you so much and I thank you for celebrating my birthday.  I love you, Aunty.  From Angamla.”

I keep it safely tucked in the book I’m currently reading—wrapping and all—to cheer me on difficult days.  How can such pure gratitude not make you smile?

Of all the delightful remembrances, one magical moment from Lele’s 17 June birthday ignited days of intense pondering.  In the weeks leading up to Lele’s big day, sadness overtook our “firecracker” as his family—older siblings, uncles, aunts—failed to phone us even once to see how Lele was doing during his first seven months in our home.  Our five other children all received at least one phone call or visit from extended family.  More than any other gift, we longed to give Lele the assurance of love for his birthday.

Our family and friends in the US began birthday traditions of phoning or sending an e-card.  The bakery made a mistake on our cake order, so we savored a cake twice the size of the one for which we paid.  The cake arrived at our home a bit smashed after enduring the trip from the bakery through a monsoon downpour tied to the back of Nelson’s motorcycle.  Yet when I lifted the cover of the box to reveal the slightly mashed and sagging red (Lele’s favorite color) love-sign (translation:  heart-shaped) cake, he exclaimed with awe, “Oh, it’s beautiful, isn’t it, Aunty!?”

Lele thrives on attention, but he didn’t fully know how to handle being king for a day.  When he reached the point of overflowing joy, I caught a glimpse of how my life should look when I truly delight in the Lord.

Apart from our family, only three guests attended the birthday festivities:  our neighbor children Mahaiwon, Aboy, and Sophy.  They brought Lele’s only brand-new, fully-wrapped gift on his actual birthday.  He opened it near the end of the night, triggering the eruption of delight.  For the first time in all of my years of birthdays, I saw the honoree so overwhelmed by love that he spontaneously squeezed five rupees into the hand of each guest as he bid them farewell.  He had received most of the money from birthday well-wishers.  He earns only two rupees per week as allowance.  Five rupees times three guests equals fifteen rupees:  nearly two months of daily chores.  Yet Lele gave so eagerly, so whole-heartedly, so delightedly.  He was neither requested nor coaxed.  Delight forced him to share his joy.  Delight compelled him to give lest he burst.

I cried.  And pondered.

John Piper calls it “the dangerous duty of delight.”  He uses the illustration of arriving at his own door on his wedding anniversary bearing roses for his wife.  What if he responds to her “You shouldn’t have” with “I had to; it’s my DUTY”?  How much more would he touch her heart by proclaiming, “I brought you these roses because there is no one I would rather love.  I long to be with you above everything else, and this is how I show my delight.  You are so wonderful that simply being with you brings me such joy.”

The Bible portrays this shameless delight through a woman of bad reputation in Luke 7:36-50.  So overwhelmed by the love of her Lord, she showered her Savior with costly perfume and wiped His feet with her hair.  What stirred such a tribute?  In verse 47, Jesus explains that forgiveness of great sins inspires great love.

So when I really pause to consider the matchless gift of my salvation, how can I complain or argue, squelching delight?  Consider His redemption, His ransom, His rescue of my wretched soul, saving me from eternity separated from Him.  Consider His all-surpassing perfection, holiness, beauty, wisdom, faithfulness, love, righteousness, goodness…man cannot create enough words to capture His incomparable, unique nature.  How can I do anything less than explode in rapturous delight as strong and constant as a monsoon downpour?  How can I obey any less than going where He sends and serving as He calls?  How can I, like Lele, offer anything less than my all, including the very gifts from His sovereign hand and my life itself?

The fourth verse of the great hymn “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross” conveys my heart much more eloquently and succinctly than my own rambling words:

Were the whole realm of nature mine,

That were a present far too small;

Love so amazing, so divine,

Demands my soul, my life, my all.

Footnote:  Somewhere in the midst of Gogou’s birthday dinner, the neighbor children revealed that Girly suffered the same horrible fate as poor Chubby (see “Remembering Chubby” post).  What was that about hating life in community?  Even birthday season holds its share of unpleasant memories…