That Saturday night seemed like any other. It began raining around 5:30 p.m., like it had for many weeks during this extreme rainy season. Even though I had a scary experience with running into some flooding while taking a friend back up to school around 8:30 p.m., I was able to get home and had no idea what other terrors would transpire that night. Our family awoke the next morning to the disturbing news that a severe flash flood and landslide had happened not long after we had gone to bed. Houses had been swept away, and thousands of people were displaced. Those who had lived in the valley behind the school climbed the school hill in search of safety, but many of them had lost family members as well as their homes.

The next week was a blur as our mission community worked hard to care for the needs of the refugees who had fled to the school. Some cooked, some sorted and distributed donated clothing, some cleaned bathrooms. Others from Indonesian churches brought clothing and stayed to help. Several restaurants from the local community brought delicious meals for the refugees. Each time a new group would show up, it made me want to cry. There was something beautiful in their coming to help. It made me feel like we weren’t alone trying to care for the needs of these hundreds of people. God was there. He was sending help. He was sending comfort. He was answering prayer.

As the week went on, I lapsed into doubting God’s goodness. There was so much suffering, so much loss. More stories surfaced each day. How could God allow such suffering? I finally just told Him how I was feeling. I had tried so hard to be strong and to keep a good perspective. But immediately I felt a release. I just needed to be honest about my doubts. And then I could feel Him close to me again, like He actually enjoyed working through my doubts with me. He reminded me that through the hard things and the hard times, we get to see God’s heart. I thought back to all the people who had come to help and bring comfort to the destitute, and I realized I had seen His heart—even through the flood.

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One perk of serving with MAF in Papua, Indonesia, is the beautiful beaches. We don’t go often, since getting to our favorite beach requires bouncing over potholes for an hour, scaling narrow heights as the road winds down to the ocean, unloading all our gear from the car and pitching it into a local boat for a twenty-minute trip to “Middle Beach.” By the time you do all of that in reverse, plus cleaning all of your gear, it’s a full day’s event. But, when we do go, enjoying the white sand, aqua water and colorful ornamental fish always proves a refreshing break from noisy city life in our town of Sentani.

This particular day, my eighteen year old son C.J. and I were out snorkeling. I hovered weightlessly over an earth-toned anemone that housed a resident family of clownfish, almost squealing in delight as I noticed a tiny baby clownfish, hardly big enough to be seen.  C.J. swam up next to me and touched my arm. I popped up, still entranced by the clownfish.

“Don’t panic, Mom, but I just saw a shark.” C.J.’s voice had a steely intonation.

Thankfully, our family had some experience, years before, snorkeling in a different place in Papua that had reef sharks. Most of the time they didn’t seem to pay attention to us. That is the only reason I didn’t panic and bolt to shore. But, still, I didn’t like the thought of seeing one at this beach since we’d never seen one here before.

As we snorkeled our way back to shore, pausing here and there to look at the rainbow fish darting beneath us, C.J. was always behind me. Finally, it dawned on me that he was going to make sure that no shark would get me from behind. A calming comfort washed over me. I didn’t have to fear that somehow that shark would decide to come after me. I had a protector. I had a rear guard.

I was immediately reminded of the verse in Isaiah 52. And suddenly I understood what it must feel like to have God as our rear guard. Always vigilant, protecting, and making sure that nothing was going to surprise us from behind. What comfort we can take that God not only goes before us, but He also has our back.

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Thanksgiving has just slipped by silently in Indonesia. MAF doesn’t take Thursday or Friday off because Thanksgiving is not celebrated here. This year we gathered with several MAF families on Friday evening for a traditional feast, replacing turkey with chicken. For the first time in several years, frozen turkeys showed up at a store in the neighboring town, but with a price tag that translates to $70.00 US, chicken tasted just fine.

I was recently reminded of a different kind of thanksgiving: a sacrifice of thanksgiving. Two months ago our community gathered at church on a Sunday morning, giving part of the service to remember the life of a beautiful 21-year-old girl who had grown up here in Papua.  Her parents were missionaries, and she had been in the States going to school when an automobile accident tragically claimed her life. Our mission community mourned deeply for her. During our time of worship that day the tears flowed freely, yet hands were lifted to the Lord in praise. In our sadness, we brought a sacrifice of thanksgiving to the Lord.

That event reminded me of yet another time, many years ago, when I attended a retreat for mothers who had lost children. The loss of our own daughter, Hannah, was still a painful wound in our lives. What stands out most in my memory from that retreat were the times of worship. I was in a room filled with ladies who had each endured the pain of losing a child. I had never experienced worship like that before—each of us, in our pain, honestly making a sacrifice of thanksgiving to the Lord. It wasn’t easy, but it was powerful. It was the most real and honest worship I have ever experienced.

In our dark times, may we be willing to “sacrifice to [the LORD] with the voice of thanksgiving,” like Jonah did from the blackness of the belly of the whale.

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Living on an island in the Ring of Fire also presents its challenges, like earthquakes that can break undersea fiber optic internet cables. Just like that. Poof. Then you’re back to slow speeds, or even no internet at all for a month or two. We are blessed that MAF has a backup VSAT system, but for other missionaries and the local Indonesian community, there aren’t many options when the cable breaks.

That morning happened to be a Saturday. My husband and I and our youngest son Ryan had made a plan to go to the local coffee shop (this is also a newer thing in Papua, which we all enjoy a lot!) and get some hot drinks and a plate of pancakes to share. There were SO many cars and motorbikes out front that we had to park down the street.

It seemed particularly loud and cheery inside the coffee shop as Indonesian patrons were animatedly conversing. At one point, my husband Dave said, “You know, I wonder if it’s so crowded and loud because the Internet is out.” Sadly, just as we face diminishing face-to-face conversations in the West because people are engrossed in their phones, Indonesia faces the same challenge.

It hadn’t even dawned on me that perhaps the lack of internet was to blame for the loud conversing that morning. Perhaps there are some advantages to an injured internet.

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Yesterday was a slightly traumatic day for our household here in Indonesia as our male lovebird, Fifi, (Yes, there’s a story behind that name) suddenly died. We lay the little cardboard box containing Fifi in the ground and my husband scooped dirt over it as tears welled up in my eyes. “I hate death,” were the words that came to my mind. Each shovel full of dirt brought back memories of burying our five-year-old daughter Hannah almost 14 years ago.

As I pondered my thoughts about death, I realized I was reticent to admit how I was feeling.  Immediately, God reminded me of something He had taught me during my first battles with depression about 15 years ago. Somewhere in my younger life I had never learned that it was okay to be honest with God. I thought I needed to come to him already put together, with my raw emotions stuffed inside rather than blurted out in His presence.  I really didn’t think He would be okay with my negative emotions.

During Hannah’s illness and the grief following her death, God gave me plenty of practice at my new skill of being transparent with Him. I was surprised that He wasn’t put off by my emotions, even when I was angry with Him or didn’t like what He was allowing to happen in my life. In fact, somehow by being honest with Him, it drew me closer to Him. I was truly learning to be in relationship with Him. And now, years later, I needed a gentle reminder.

So, I stopped and admitted to God that I hate death. And I was reminded to daily bring my feelings honestly to the Lord—even when they have to do with a little bird.

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I sighed, but as I walked to the door, I recognized this woman. She was older, and her net bag hung down her back filled with bananas. She was a kind woman who sold good fruit that she raised herself. She looked very poor, dressed in a simple skirt and old blouse, with no shoes on her feet. She lowered her net bag onto the cement and showed me her bananas.

“How much?” I asked.

“Twenty thousand Rupiah,” she whispered.

“I’ll take that one. ”I reached down to pick up a large hand of bananas.

She picked up a smaller one and offered it to me as well. “No,” I said,” I just want this one.”

She kept softly repeating something, and I finally realized that she was saying, “This is a gift for your service here.”

Humbled, I took the extra bananas and thanked her. Here was a woman who had nothing – except these bananas she had raised to sell – and she was giving me an extra one. I was struck by her deep generosity. It stood in stark contrast to my own jangled attitude. God’s Spirit and His love wafted from this woman, almost as tangibly as a beautiful scent. I was greatly blessed by two hands of bananas.

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The words of this hymn were recently illuminated to me. A few weeks ago, we took the visiting U.S. team that comes to do our yearly MAF Family Conference to the village of Nipsan so they could get a taste of life in a remote Papuan village. I was looking forward to learning the history of this area. What I didn’t know is how that history would change me.

We stayed in an old mission house built by Dutch missionaries, we worshiped with the people of Nipsan in their church on Sunday, and took communion with them. One night we ate supper together and listened to several of the village men tell the story of their first response to the Gospel; they rejected it. In fact, in the early 70s, the people of Nipsan rose up against a number of Papuan evangelists who had been left in charge of the mission while the Dutch family was on furlough. They murdered the evangelists and their families, and cannibalized them. To hear it told seemed like a distant story, but later my friend showed me an old book published by the Dutch Mission that told the story, complete with many pictures and the names of the evangelists that had been killed. Somehow seeing them in photos and reading more about their lives made it so much more real to me. And reading how they were killed made me horrified inside.

I felt a loathing for the people who had done this. At that moment I realized that, if I were one of the Dutch missionaries, I would have had no desire to go back into Nipsan. I was immediately struck to the core by the love of God. God loved those people—even when I did not. He loved them back then, and He loves them now. He loved them enough to continue to pursue them with the message of His Son. And because of His unrelenting, unchanging, unconditional love, the people of Nipsan know Him today. I was challenged and invited God to help me grow to love like Him.

* (Lehman, Frederick M. “The Love of God.” 1917)

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Just as our pilots here verbalize “committed” when they get past their abort point for landing, I realized I was “committed” as I rounded the corner. The tight lot was stacked with cars, each neatly backed into a row against the back wall with inches to spare between each one. I kept going forward, and pulled straight in to the last remaining spot, not sure how I would be able to back out and turn around when we had to leave.

Later, as we prepared to depart, a man in a red uniform approached. In Indonesian, he politely suggested that I might allow him to turn around the car for me. I realized he was a valet, and probably had way more experience in maneuvering cars in tight situations than I did. So, I agreed. In a few minutes, with the help of other workers, he had magically maneuvered the vehicle to where it was facing the other direction, ready to go back up the steep incline and out of the parking area. I breathed a sigh of relief.

As I got into the car, I thanked God, and I felt Him gently whisper that He had just illustrated to me how much easier things can be when I am relying on His strength, and not my own efforts.

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“Let’s just go and check it out,” my husband encouraged. So, we followed them to the trail head. My hopes lifted when I saw a wide, easy path that looked like a road. But, our guide, a Papuan boy spending the day with our friends, swiftly turned off of that road into the jungle.

The narrow path quickly became sloppy and muddy, and overcrowded with ferns and jungle foliage.  There were several large pipes and rocks that we had to scramble over. We all offered our hand when someone needed help. My friend Natalie and I reminded ourselves that “getting away” in Papua was never an easy thing. I learned that Natalie had also been hoping for a low-stress day.

Our Papuan guide kept assuring us it wasn’t much farther. Natalie and I looked at each other knowingly.  “That could mean another hour or ten more minutes,” we joked. Finally we settled at a little spot by the stream that was refreshing and beautiful. Natalie and I decided to wait there and let the men and kids go on to the waterfall. We thoroughly enjoyed the stream with its refreshingly clear water bubbling by.  Being there was worth the hike.

Our experience reminded me of Jesus’ teaching about the narrow and wide roads. The wide road is easy and yet, it leads to destruction. The narrow road is hard, but it leads to life. For those of us who are on the narrow path, let’s remember to encourage one another along the way. It will be worth it!

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And, as C.J. grows and expands his horizons, I can see what she means. His problems aren’t so simple anymore. I’m sure those of you who live in the States with teenagers can relate! I can’t just bandage his knee and make it go away. His issues need to be discussed and processed through. Sometimes we as parents, no matter what continent we’re on, need to make decisions in love, with the big picture of our kids’ lives in mind that hurt at the same time.

A few weeks ago, we had to make one of those decisions. It wasn’t anything bad he was doing, he was just overdoing a good activity to the detriment of his homework. So, we decided that he needed to stop that activity on school afternoons and save it for the weekends. Now, mind you, a part of C.J.’s heart was tied up in this activity. And that hurt him to take it away, and it hurt us to watch him hurt too.

God used that parental hurt to remind me of how He feels about us when He allows us to go through painful things. He’s not being spiteful or aloof. He loves us like a father, and it hurts His heart when we hurt. But, He also has the big picture in mind, and He is always working for our good. And He is willing for us to go through pain if it is for our best in the end. That’s what love does.

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