For Adolphus

From his biography, A Life For Africa.

This morning I had to research the first Presbyterian missionary to Cameroon during the latter part of the 19th century. Stick with me.

From his biography:
"...with his eyes shut he could see the uplands broadly plaided with alternating fields of winter wheat and plowed land, could point to the dip in the rounded hills where Pine Creek runs, or where the Little Mahoning marks a gap between forest trees..."

I got to this point and fairly shouted at my boss, "HE WAS FROM NORTHERN INDIANA COUNTY!" This is where my parents live. Rural. Not flashy.
His name was Adolphus C. Good. He was licensed by the Kittanning presbytery in 1881. He not only established the church in Cameroon (then a German possession), but opened a school for boys. Adolphus died at 38.
The effect of this life was enormous, though it appears he never got any accolades during his lifetime. The only biography I could find was the one published in 1897. He was even overlooked in the Foreign Missionary publication when he left for Africa, though he fulfilled the denomination's measly quota of one new worker each year! In fact, there's no mention of him in any publication for the first four years of his service. Ouch.
So enormous was his impact, though, that we got a call this morning from a pastor in Cameroon wanting to know the history of the Presbyterian churches in his country. He figured a random Philadelphia church would know the missionary because of the way it affected his entire country.

If you think your life is small, think of Adolphus.

"Carl, You're Going To Hit It!"

Cue The Good, The Bad And The Ugly theme.

In the summer of 1964, the legend goes, my father, his brother John, and his cousin Glenn were groggily slumped in the backseat of my grandparents' '58 Buick station wagon, headed into Carlsbad to see my great-Aunt Anna and Uncle Al. My grandpa was driving and my grandmother was asleep in the front seat. All were looking forward to the end of a long journey across the desert.
Did I mention that it was 1:45 a.m. and pitch-dark except for the car's headlights? It was the sixties, when men were men and drove beastly station wagons at odd hours out west.
My Uncle John picked up the story here and said that they were approaching a small bridge with a red reflector on each side. Suddenly out of the quiet darkness came two deep gasps for air and the unforgettable shriek, "CARL! CARL! You're going to hit it!"

I've always loved this story, not only for the comedic value (and my father's chortling while telling it) but for the glimpse into how fear affects us.

Fear. Fear because of incorrect perceptions or being caught unawares. Sometimes it's justified fear. Uncle John said that to be fair to Grandma, you had to look at the events from earlier that day. In the scorch of the late-evening twilight as they left Vegas and headed out across the desert, Grandpa passed a tractor trailer on a steep up-grade, causing all passengers to become instant believers in the possibility that this trip might never end in Carlsbad, but out on a lonely two-lane road in the middle of nowhere.

This past week I've been thinking a lot about how to move forward in spite of fear. Let's be clear: I'm not advocating a '90s No Fear bumper sticker mentality. The fear of the Lord (Psalm 111:10) seems to be a good thing, to say the least. My prayer is that I never let fear get in the way of serving God.

(Many thanks to Uncle John for his keen memory of the story's details.)

A Coffee Pipeline

Forget the Alaska pipeline. Decent coffee for all!

It's cold and rainy today in Philadelphia. I made my way to the El in the tinkling, freezing rain at 6:30 this morning and picked my way down the slippery, still-quiet streets to work. Days like this make me miss Spain even more and strengthen my resolve to get back. Lord, give me the strength to live out Philippians 4:13!
Since we're hosting a preaching conference this morning, I made a gallon of (horrendous) coffee for the arriving pastors. I mentioned to a friend that we needed to build a coffee pipeline from Spain to the United States, if only to ensure a steady supply of acceptable java. I think a number of the staff would endorse this idea.

A Big Adventure

A marker on the Way of St. James.

Yesterday it was made public that the executive minister is leaving our church in the next couple of months. He is beloved and supremely gifted in his work. He's leaving on an adventure. Going south, more specifically.

Although it's sad to let him go, the events of the last few days have strengthened my own faith. Marion isn't a 20-something with no obligations. In many ways, he's picking up and going along on a hobbit's adventure.

As I keep clawing my way toward Spain (sometimes it feels like I'm hanging on by my fingernails!) it's neat to get a glimpse of the similar yet diverse journeys God is leading people on. Onward!

Feliz Nochebuena

Shannon decorates our Christmas tree.

The classical guitarist brushed his hand over the strings and the lush, poignant sounds of "What Child Is This" reverberated through the sanctuary. My ears perked up, waiting, wishing...and suddenly the guitarist flicked his hand back and and the music took on an Andalusian flavor. YES!
"This is my people's music," I whispered to my friend Kelsey. Little accents of my beloved Spain are sweet reminders of what I'm working toward. On this night of nights, I'm convicted to remember the reason why I want to go back to Spain. It's Jesus. And cliche as it might seem, it's all about Him. No more, no less.

Young and Educated in Europe, but Desperate...

A friend sent me this article yesterday.
Pray for the creeping hopelessness that seems to surround Europe, especially Spain. Economic improvement won't bring peace in people's hearts and rest for their souls. Only Christ can.

"Where did you learn English?"

The question took me aback, and I almost spilled the coffee I was pouring for her. I straightened up and looked at Esther, the wife of one of the Colombian church planters. I laughed and explained that I was American. Her eyes widened in surprise. After witnessing a conversation between her husband and me, she had simply assumed I was Spanish.
Busted.
Excited at being pegged as my favorite people group, my pride quickly took a tumble when I couldn't remember a correct verb tense.
Busted again. (Side note: Why is it so difficult for me to remember the preterite?)
As I inch along toward my goal of getting back to Spain, pray for the Lord' continual refining.