middle and outer ear infections, and he went up to our beloved roof, with its three square meters of peace and tranquility (and several potted plants), only to discover that someone had painted those pots. And the rocks in the pots. And even the plants themselves.
That never happened to me in America either.
Don’t get me wrong—plenty of surprising things did happen to me in America. Like the time a Canadian goose blew itself up when its wings touched two nearby power lines in our yard. Or the time a different Canadian goose attacked my leg while a dog the size of a pony jumped on my back. (That was in my neighbor’s yard, by the way.)
But back to surprises in Cambodia.
Our boys wailed about our painted plants. I was at the end of myself. That week I had dealt with more sickness in the family and fought off more discouragement than is usual for me, and now, my roof, my precious stronghold of sanity, had been vandalized.
But with Otto Koning’s Pineapple Story at the front of my mind, we set out to solve the mystery of who, and more importantly, why.22 Next door to us is an orphanage, and there is an old man who lives there. All day long he lounges on a hammock on the roof, watching television and smoking cigarettes. Occasionally he does some odd jobs around the place.
The neighbor children told us that this man painted our pots and plants and rocks, but none of them seemed to know why. The adults were a bit more helpful, laughing embarrassedly at our questions. This man is apparently bored and likes to make things look nicer. While we were at the seaside with my parents, he took the opportunity to improve our rooftop view.
I thought it would be common courtesy to ask before forcing home improvement projects on someone else. But it wasn’t very long until I could see the humor. “My neighbor painted my plants,” I’ll say. And when you ask me why my neighbor painted my plants, I’ll say, “Oh, because he thought it would look better.” You might ask if it did look any better, and I’ll say, “No, not at all.”
The neighbors asked us if we wanted him to paint them again, perhaps all one color? (He originally painted them yellow and white.) We said yes, white is best. (Actually, unpainted is best, but. . . .) And I did have some hope that our pots would get better when we saw him outside this week, painting three tables white.
We played badminton and frisbee on our roof today. And those pots, they were one color, all right. They were one hundred percent yellow. (Surprise! A darker shade of yellow.) But we enjoyed our roof just as much as we did before our neighbor painted our plants.
22. Otto Koning was a missionary who planted pineapples in his yard. They took three years to grow, but before he could eat any of them, the nationals stole them all. This happened several times, and he was always angry about it. Only when he gave up his “right” to eat those pineapples to God could he stop being angry. The nationals noticed his change in behavior, and he started to have success in ministry.
When Friends Do the Next Right Thing
by Elizabeth
What do we do when the people we love do the next right thing? What if that next right thing leads them away from us?
When we say yes to God, we must often say no to the places we already know. And when God leads us overseas, we enter a communal life that is punctuated by goodbyes. Just like an airport, the missionary community endures constant arrivals and departures. But God is the travel agent here, and he hardly ever places anyone on the same itinerary. Perhaps we knew this uncomfortable truth before we said yes; perhaps we didn’t. Either way, though, we must now live with the consequences of our obedience.
And I, for one, sometimes grow weary of it.
These expatriate friendships of ours tend to grow swift and deep, and ripping ourselves away from those friendships is painful. This summer, I have to say goodbye to two friends whom I love and respect and will miss terribly. And I am still somewhat in denial.
I have never had any doubts that they are following God where he leads them next. They are doing the next right thing. Even in the leaving, they are doing the next right thing. They are honoring their friendships and saying their goodbyes thoughtfully and tenderly. They are setting up ministry for the workers who will follow them. They have listened to God, and they are doing what he says. But they will leave a gaping hole in my heart and in this city, and they can never be replaced.
What am I supposed to do when my friends do the next right thing?
I actually don’t know what I’m supposed to do. But I know what I do do: I grieve, because when a member of the international community leaves, all hearts bleed. The hearts of the leaving, and hearts of the staying. There is just no stopping that.
So I grieve for myself: it’s hard to say goodbye to people I love. I grieve for others in the community who must also say goodbye: these goodbyes are their losses too. I grieve for the ones leaving: they must say goodbye to a life they know in order to build a brand new life somewhere else.
And I also grieve for people who have not yet come to this area of the world—people who are making plans to live and work here, and even people who haven’t considered it yet, but will someday. I grieve that they will never know the wonderful people who have been such an integral part of the international community here.
So what can we do, as the body of Christ? We are all involved in sending, receiving, and being his workers. How can we provide smooth takeoffs and soft landings for our brothers and sisters?
When our friends leave, can we say goodbye with love? Can we send them on their way with our blessing? Can we give ourselves the space to mourn these losses? Can we keep our friends in our hearts, our minds and our email inboxes, no matter where they live in the wide world?
When we leave, can we accept loving goodbyes and understand how utterly we will be missed? Can we depend upon God—and His people—to help us settle in our new home? Can we open our hearts to new people and new places, while still remembering those who love us from afar?
When new missionaries arrive, can we welcome them wholeheartedly, even though we know we will most likely have to say goodbye to them some day? Can we tell them where to set up their utility bills and show them where to buy furniture and help them fill their refrigerators?
When churches send out new missionaries, can we send them with our love and with our support? Can we resist the temptation to pull our hearts away too soon, in an attempt to ease the coming pain? Can we never cease to pray for them?
When missionaries return to their passport country, can we welcome them? Can we open our arms, hearts, and homes wide to returning workers? Can we listen to their stories without judgment, and extend much grace in a time of great unsteadiness?
We were never meant to walk alone. So can we, as the global church, be Christ to each other? Can we need each other, and can we be needed? Can we cushion each other’s pain during goodbyes and hellos? Can we do these dreaded transitions with bodies spread across the world, but with hearts beating as one?
Outlawed Grief
by Jonathan
Living abroad is an amazing adventure, but it comes with some baggage. And sometimes the baggage fees are hidden, catching you by surprise, costing more than you planned. You thought you had
