Woody's 2012 Complete Guide to Christmas Gift Giving

Even diehard fanatics like myself must eventually make the transition from the Thanksgiving season to "what comes next." Once you have eaten all the turkey leftovers you can find in the back of the refrigerator, it is finally time to face the music - Christmas season has arrived. With that in mind, I would like to turn our thoughts this morning to the true meaning of Yuletide -  buying gifts as fast as you can because you spent way too much time savoring the joys of Thanksgiving!

Admittedly, gift buying can provoke a certain amount of tension. You want to make reasonable decisions and stay within your budget. Still, you want to make sure you communicate your love and concern for the people with whom you are sharing. After all, we all remember the wallet Grandma bought for us when we were ten years old and how we promised ourselves we would NEVER give something like that to people we cared about.

So, today I present to you the first official "Woody Roland Guide to Christmas Gifts":

If you live in the States, you should consider truck stops as a possible source of quick gifts for those you love. Seriously. Besides the GPS navigational packs for the men in your family, you should remember that it may be one of the only places you can still get CDs of Porter Wagoner singing with a very young Dolly Parton. Su once found a great gift for our grandson, Jonathan, at a truck stop - an official Buckee Beaver cap (I neither am nor could make this up!). Remember, there should be no negative stigma attached to shopping in truck stops. After all, Ummu Bradley Thomas, the founder of the Freddie Bell Jones Modeling and Finishing School in Denton, Maryland, says, "Even road maps make a perfect stocking stuffer for children." 

Once again, I really am not making this up. 

Although I have not lived in the States for a long time, I have observed there is now a Walgreens or CVS on almost every street corner. It would seem they would be an excellent place to pick up the right gift quickly. Admittedly, in Texas both of these stores run excellent specials on Blue Bell ice cream. However, as much as I like Blue Bell and believe it is the perfect gift for all occasions, it tends to "go soft" when you wrap it and place it under the tree. Still, according to Kerry K. Taylor, creator of the frugal shopping advice site Squawkfox.com, drug stores are a good source for cheap cosmetics for teenage girls. Ms. Taylor identifies these as "the perfect stocking stuffers." For the record,Justin Bieber's perfume "Someday" is now four dollars cheaper at Walgreens than Target. However, when tempted to buy it, please remember that wallet Grandma gave you. Please... just put it down... and back away slowly. You don't have to do this.

It is not necessary to live in the States to know that online gift buying beats even truck stops and corner drug stores for convenience. According to a survey commissioned by CashStar, a digital gift company, many people are now making their holiday purchases while in unusual life situations. Favorite locations for doing holiday shopping are during business meetings and, despite warnings about texting and driving, while stuck in traffic. Perhaps the most disturbing statistic is that 16% of the Christmas gifts purchased online are bought while in the bathroom. I wish I was making this up! 

Since the whole reason we give gifts at Christmas (besides rescuing capitalism) is the gift that God gave us when He sent His son, it might be worthwhile to think of what gift we could give back to Him from our rather limited resources. Seriously, what are some things we could offer God as we walk through the Advent season - something better than a wallet? A few quick suggestions:

1. Recognize His place in this holiday season and very literally humble our hearts - after all, He really is the reason for the season. It is not about us. It should be focused on Him and His gift.

2. Repent. That's right. We don't talk a great deal about repentance anymore. However, there is a great deal of that we need to do during our lifetime. In my experience, repentance is usually a process rather than an act. However, it begins with a decision to quit going our way and start going His. Christmas seems like an excellent time to reflect on those things which have entered into our lives this year and have produced some distance between us and God.

3. Give Him your time. There is many ways you can do this - studying the Scriptures, prayer, serving others, etc. Every intimate relationship requires time. Let's give Him some of ours this year.

4. Obedience. This is probably related to repenting. God is pleased when we choose to obey Him... no matter what is happening around us.

5. Faith, especially during the challenging times. Throughout history God has been glorified when men put their faith in Him. It is not uncommon to have to face dark personal times during the holidays. If you are struggling this year, making the choice to trust in God would be a precious gift to give the Savior. 

Admittedly, my short list of gifts to give to God is not very convenient. Each one of them would deeply impact the way we live during this Christmas season. However, on the bright side, they could help us avoid buying Justin Bieber's latest perfume or, even, his singing toothbrush. Really. As you know, I couldn't make something like this up.

Six Weddings and a Funeral

In preparation for a trip to California for the wedding of our co-worker, Suzie Duncan, an interesting topic of conversation came up. Su asked me if I had performed more funerals or weddings. To tell you the truth, I couldn't remember. There was a time in Bolivia when I probably did three funerals to every wedding. However, working with lots of young people in Costa Rica has meant performing many more weddings than funerals.

I believe there is a tendency to remember the sad funerals and the funny weddings. As perfect as many want their wedding day to be, most of the humorous things happen because of mistakes being made. For that reason alone I like to think that I have helped many young people begin their marriages with a smile on their face.

I remember one poor groom making desperate facial gestures to me toward the end of his wedding service. I had no idea what he was going on about, but, from my perspective, we were through. After presenting the couple for the first time in public (always an honor) and watching them walk down the aisle, Su asked me why I didn't have them kiss.

A few years ago, when I was back in Bolivia, this same man introduced me to his 20-something daughter by saying, "This is the missionary I have always told you about!" It would have been interesting to know what he had told her - interesting, but not really necessary.

More than once I have forgotten the names of the young couple standing before me. This is probably not as bad as forgetting the starting words of the Lord's Prayer - which I have also done - but it does create a moment of awkward tension.

Thinking of awkward moments, weddings have their share of those, and I am not responsible for all of them.

I once waited an hour and a half after the official start time for the bride to show up for her wedding. Really. The parents of the groom kept coming up to me and pleading for me to do something. Apparently there had been a hair-dressing debacle - far out of my realm of pastoral responsibility.

This happened another time when a bride experienced what could best be described as "a strategic undergarment failure." Since Su had already begun playing the prelude when this occurred, it may have been the longest wedding prelude on record! After using up all the wedding music she had, Su started playing through the hymnal. At one point she realized that she was playing "Poor Pilgrim."

The wedding of the daughter of the Brazilian Counsel in Bolivia to the son of conservative Baptist missionaries had its own moments. A half hour before the wedding was to begin the missionary approached me and asked if it was true he was going to have to dance at the reception with the counsel's wife. When I responded in the positive, he said, "Well, pastor, this means you have to teach me how to waltz." Since my own dancing skills have been generously characterized as "remedial level," I assure you this presented certain challenges.

Su and I once sat at a wedding reception table between the groom's committed socialist parents and the bride's career military parents. Fortunately, the socialists only spoke Spanish and the officer and his wife only spoke English. I believe this was the day I learned about the concept of "creative translation."

Of course, funerals can have their own share of awkward moments. At my first funeral in Bolivia I was told after already beginning the graveside ceremony that it was the pastor's responsibility to screw the lid down immediately before the committal. It became painfully obvious to everyone that I was a real novice as I did the best I could with a borrowed coin. I have never gone to a funeral in Latin America without a screwdriver since!

Without a doubt you need to pray for us and for Suzie's wedding this week!

Hey Guido! We Have Some Gum!

In an age when most of you will read this note within a day of me writing it, we had an interesting mail experience this week.

On Thursday Susan went to the post office in our little town of San Isidro de Heredia to pick up the mail. We ("we" meaning Susan) always pick up the mail from our box. Costa Rica has no street names and, therefore, no house addresses. This makes home mail delivery a bit challenging.

Challenging, but not impossible.

Some mail actually arrives to us with this address: "1.1 kilometers north of the principal bridge in San Isidro, the black gate three meters high, directly across the street from Cusuco's Bar." This is much better than our former address in Tres Rios. That one was more like: " The old road to Tres Rios, 50 meters east of the electrical sub-station of the ICE (power company), 25 meters north, 25 meters east, 25 meters north. Ask for the tall, bald gringo."

It is hard to come to the place in life where you have become a geographic landmark.

Anyway, Susan went into our little post office where the postmaster (and only employee), Andrea, greeted Susan with an anguished look and the words, "Oh, I am so glad that it is you!" Andrea and Susan usually get along very well so, at the very least, her anguished look caught my wife's attention.

Long story short: It seems that over two years ago Andrea took a short holiday. I vaguely remember the fellow that took her place during the vacation. Unlike Andrea, he wouldn't give me the mail if I showed up without the key for the box. He also apparently put our mail in someone else's box. Now, after two years, that family had finally gotten around to getting the "misdelivered" letters and packages back to Andrea and the Costa Rican postal system. Now, we were looking at letters that some of you had lovingly mailed in 2005!

It is good to know that Arvid and Coleen are not mad at us. They did in fact give us their new mailing address when they moved. Of course, we wondered why the prayer letters we sent them kept coming back with: "Undeliverable: no forwarding address." That didn't seem like Arv. The 2006 Calendar with beautiful photos and Scripture verses that Dick sent us also finally arrived. It seems a shame to not put it up on a wall someplace. To the rest of you who wrote, I would simply say, "I hope that all of us DID have a good 2006."

Although, come to think of it, I believe that is when this current U.S. presidential election began in earnest... it couldn't have been THAT good.

This is not the first time we have had interesting mail stories in Latin America.

Once, during a de facto military government in Bolivia, our mail was "held" for three months and read by intelligence agents. I had to visit with a major in the national police force to find out how my mother was doing. He told me she had a summer cold, but was getting better.

When we did start getting mail it wasn't always "all there." One day our daughter Krista received a card from her grandmother with five sticks of gum neatly taped inside. When I picked up the mail and looked in the already opened envelope, I could see the outside wrapping of those sticks of gum still taped down - without the gum inside! My indignant father blood boiled over. Someone was going to take responsibility for stealing from my
daughter this expression of her grandmother's love.

I marched to the office of the director of the post office and demanded that I be allowed to speak directly with him. When he finally came out from his cubby-hole, I think he knew he was in trouble. With righteous anger evident both in my voice and demeanor, I let him know my opinion of people who would steal from a child. I cannot remember if I properly translated the term "lower than a dog that sucks eggs," but I think he caught the gist of my thoughts.

Finally, when I had to take a breath, he said, "Mr. Roland, I know what happened! I can explain it." His apparent willingness to take responsibility stunned me. I waited to hear how he was going to investigate and deal with this evident malfeasance among his employees.

"Mr. Roland we have had this problem before." He held the envelope up in the air and declared with great conviction, "It is my firm belief that the Mafia in Florida is responsible for stealing this gum."

To this day, the image of two swarthy-looking guys with guns holstered beneath their Armani suits opening greeting cards makes me smile. "Hey, Guido. Look what we have here... chewing gum!"

Without saying another word, I turned on my heel and walked out of his office.

Seriously, we want to thank all of you for your correspondence with us. It is a great encouragement to us... no matter when we receive it.

H2O

People in Latin America do not need as much personal space as most of you in the United States. Men in Minnesota greet each other face on, and then turn to create a 135 degree angle from the front of each other's bodies. This is often the key moment when corn prices (the most intimate topic good friends share about) are discussed. Texans tend to come in a bit closer for the actual handshake, but separate for the conversation. I suppose this makes it easier to draw a concealed weapon if there is any untoward disagreement.

Men in most of Latin America have been known to stand so close to each other during conversations they actually touch.

This may be why I do not meet many Minnesotans in Costa Rica.

Of course, we do not raise much corn, either. Conversation topics would be severely limited.

Toward the end of this week, I have noticed that people are standing a bit off from me. It is rather like they are finally developing a sense of awareness to my birth culture. I have to admit it seems a bit odd. In fact, when they can, they are also beginning to stand upwind from me.

I should explain that during the last week, we have not had much water. Truth be told, I have not had a shower since Monday. I am not sure, but this could be why my Latin friends are developing cultural sensitivity at this late point in our relationship. Bio-diversity sounds good on the Discovery Channel but tends to smell a bit raw up close and in your personal space.

I should also explain that Costa Rica is at the end of its dry season and apparently we have used up all our water.

Because our water supplies are low, we are also low on electricity. The entire central valley is experiencing rolling blackouts. The government says they should only last for three hours at a time. However, we have been through several six and seven hour periods without power. The government also says the blackouts should not impact hospitals, schools or tourism. Still, the hospitals are turning away new patients; schools are in the dark; and, tourists are bumping and sniffing their way through the darkness like anyone else.

Besides the national concern about personal hygiene, I think many people are taking this with good grace. We may not smell too good, but we are all in this together.

Our current situation became a bit surreal when Susan and I drove by a mall with electricity and decided to take a few moments to observe each other in the light. As we walked hand in hand (with a healthy distance separating us), we both began to notice the background music. Without really thinking about it, we began to sing with the ersatz piano music. "Wonderful grace of Jesus, greater than all my sin..." By the time we reached the "rolling sea" in the chorus we both began to wonder who was choosing the music for the mall.

Of course, at that very moment all the lights went out.

Fortunately, we were near the exit, could smell the others around us and made it to our car without too many difficulties. Besides that, we went off with the knowledge that His grace would be with us... wherever, however and to whatever depth of ocean or however shallow the reserves.

May He be a real light to your path in this coming week.

Stuck In The Eighties... Again!

I am going to confess something in this email which is going to disillusion some of you. I wish there was an easier way to do it. However, sometimes you just have to say something.

So,...

I do not enjoy much popular music from the 80's. There are occasional songs that speak to me, but they are few and far between.

There! It is finally out and I feel better for it.

It might help some of you to better appreciate this when you realize that I am a child of the sixties. Well, truth be told, I am really a child of the fifties, but I am talking about the music with which I identify. My sister, Janet, gets a special feeling when she remembers Pat Boone. I get that same feeling when I hear Cream or the Byrds. If I remember correctly, the only lyrics my brother Harlan memorized were from Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire". I doubt that makes him an aficionado of music from the 21st century... he liked Johnny the first time he was popular.

You could also understand me better when I explain that Susan and I (with the girls) spent all of the 80's in Bolivia. In those years, La Paz was not a real hot spot for current music crazes. I guess we just missed the eighties the first time around.

However, we did not have the same good fortune this weekend!

We spent the past several days in Honduras where we visited with Michelle Crotts, one of our IT missionaries. Michelle is involved in developing a ministry to the prostitutes on the streets of Tegucigalpa... a challenging task. We had not told many of you about the trip beforehand because we were simply not sure about it until the day before we traveled. All the details fell into place at the last moment and we were able to make a long-prayed for trip to see the progress in Michelle's work.

During our visit with Michelle we took her out to eat several times. Through years of experience, I have found that a good pizza can sometimes be as encouraging for a lonely missionary as a pastoral prayer. In each and every restaurant we visited in Honduras the sounds of the 80's were coming through loud and clear. In fact, everywhere we went it seemed like the soundtrack from an early Tom Cruise film was following us. In a roadside restaurant outside of Tegucigalpa we ate to "Take My Breath Away" and "Danger Zone". Going into a store with Michelle we heard, "Hot Summer Nights" by Miami Sound Machine. Standing in line at the airport it was "Playing with the Boys" by Kenny Loggins. I half way expected Mr. Cruise to walk by us in his "Top Gun" costume.

Thinking of standing in line, we almost found ourselves stuck in the 80's. After checking in and waiting for our departure on Sunday afternoon, we were told our flight had been canceled. A quick trip back to the check-in counter and a two hour wait in line only produced the advice from the airline that "you can't get here from there." Maybe tomorrow. Maybe not.

Maybe the guy waiting on us had never met someone as tired of the 80's as me!

After another 45 minutes of "dialogue," it was determined that the airline did have it within their power to send us on a flight to San Pedro Sula, a city in the northwest corner of Honduras. They paid for our hotel stay and got us on an early flight to Costa Rica today (Monday). After several more adventures, including an hour-long trip on an aircraft I could not identify but suspect was manufactured at some distant date in Russia; we made it to our hotel. The airline had provided coupons for supper. So, even though it was late, we decided to take ourselves and our vouchers up to the steak house on the seventh floor. There, we were treated to a wonderful view, incredibly tough meat and... an 80's music sound track!

Talk about taking my breath away! It was a hot night and I definitely identified with the term "danger zone"... we were about to be overwhelmed by the 80's.

After waking up at 3:30am we are now back in Costa Rica. We are already in the midst of a busy week that includes teaching, hosting and counseling. This weekend we go to Orosi to perform the wedding of Jeffrey Prieto, one of our Formación students from last year. We value your prayers and partnership with us as we continue to minister throughout Latin America.

Fidel in Heaven

My, oh my. Where have I been?

With me, the better question might be, "Where have I NOT been?"

With the best intentions of getting myself up to date and after having read some very deep and ponderous blogsites, let me provide you with a joke.

Fidel Castro dies and arrives in heaven. Through some confusion dealing with issues like belief and faith, his name is not on the approved list. So, St. Peter sends him to hell.

When he arrives in hell, Satan personally receives him and says, "Greetings Fidel! I have been waiting for your arrival. I really can say, "Mi casa es tú casa." Fidel astutely replies, "Gracias, Satan. However, I should probably go back to heaven because I left my suitcases there." "Don't worry, Fidel," replied Satan, "I will send two of my demons to pick up your personal things."

When the two demons arrive at the gates of heaven, they find that St. Peter is having lunch and the gates are closed. "Doesn't matter", one says to another, "Let's climb the wall and we will not have to bother anybody." As they begin to climb the wall, two passing angels see them. The first angel turns to the other and says, "It wasn't ten minutes ago that we sent Fidel to hell and we already have a refugee problem!"

Paying the Price in the Department of Motor Vehicles

Today, I am spending my morning in the offices of the Costa Rican equivalent of the Department of Motor Vehicles. Once again, it is time to renew my driver’s license.

Well, that is not completely true.

It was time to renew my license in March. June was “way past time” according to the gentleman at the first desk I approached. So, he politely, but firmly, added a 5,000 colon fine to my driver’s license fee. I did not argue the legal technicalities.

Since the process to renew my license can require several hours of waiting in four separate lines, it provides a unique opportunity to reflect on life and what I am doing with my own. The fact that Susan and I are celebrating 31 years of marriage today probably adds to my reflective nature.

Marriage has a way of encouraging personal reflection, doesn’t it guys?

Not long ago, someone asked me why I had “given up my life” to be a missionary. I found that to be an interesting question. One that certainly deserved some contemplation… at least, it seemed like it deserved thought while waiting to have my photo taken for my new license.

I believe what was really behind this person’s question is the growing lack of understanding in society, as a whole, of people giving their lives for any purpose that does not involve personal gain. How are you going to benefit? What is the bottom line? These types of questions do not combine well with the missionary lifestyle.

It seems like anyone willing to give their life for a cause is suspect. He or she must be a radical, a religious fanatic or worse. The idea that some causes are worth our lives seems to belong to a simpler, far-off time. Either that or the idea of giving your life for a cause has become the sole prerogative of Muslim radicals.

Thinking of simpler times took me back to the classic story of Mucius, a Roman patriot.Unfortunately, Mucius is almost forgotten today. It could be because his name sounds too much like mucus to seriously inspire the imagination of Jr. High boys. Or, it could be because his type of dedication and willingness to sell his life for the cause is simply out of date.

When Porsena, the Etruscan king was laying siege to the upstart city of Rome, one of the roman youth named Mucius snuck out of the city and made his way into Porsena’s camp. While looking on from the sidelines, Mucius saw an important-looking person surrounded by officers and giving orders. Drawing his conclusions and dagger, Mucius ran to the gentleman and buried his weapon in the stomach of what Mucius took to be the king.

Unfortunately, for both he and the victim, Mucius had killed the king’s personal secretary. For his punishment, King Porsena sentenced young Mucius to be burned to death.

Before the soldiers could carry out the sentence, the boy made this statement to the king: “I came to kill you and failed. You may execute me for that. I will not weep at the honor of laying down my life for my city.” As he continued, he stuck his hand into the nearby flames and shouted, “Do not rejoice, but see the determination of a Roman. For after me will come another, and another, and another.” While he made this impressive statement his hand burned in the flames. According to tradition, Mucius didn’t flinch or otherwise respond to the pain.

King Porsena was absolutely stunned by this young man’s virtue, dedication and manly courage. In fact, he was so impressed that he ordered the soldiers to set Mucius free.

As you can imagine, Mucius’ hand was useless from that day on. Because of that, the men of Rome gave him the nickname of Scaevola, or “Lefty”. It seems that Mucius bore his new name with a certain pride and it commanded respect for years to come.

Men (and boys) like Mucius are hard to find these days. They were men who embraced the risk of the moment because they were dispensable; the cause was not. They believed that some causes are worth the ultimate sacrifice.

Well, having paid the sacrifice of waiting in line, I now have my new license in hand. Once again, my photo makes me think that I may be deader than King Porsena’s secretary. It is time to get back to San Isidro and take my lovely bride out to eat.

Revenge of the Rupiah

As I begin this note, I am sitting in the airport in Jakarta, Indonesia, and I am a defeated man.

By way of explanation, I should tell you that Susan always counts up the various national currencies in my pockets when I return from a trip and places them in envelopes for me to use the next time I return to a particular country. Occasionally, she reminds me that I will probably not have a great need for this currency in the future. This quiet (and gentle) reminder has provoked in me the almost pathological desire to end my visits in a country with none of their currency in my pocket.

Nothing. Zippo.

"Don't change what you don't need." This is my traveling motto and I live by it.

I arrived in Jakarta on Thursday to visit with some IT workers in this country. They have been doing a great job continuing to respond to the needs of those hurt in the tsunami of a year ago in partnership with Habitat for Humanity. They are also beginning to build relationships into which they
hope to share Jesus.

Since I was only going to be in Indonesia for a few days, I decided at the airport to only get the equivalent of $50 (U.S.) in the local currency. I figured this would be enough to take my co-workers out for a nice meal or two and make sure that I could pay for all the taxis. It turns out that 50 dollars is worth about 500,000 Rupiah! I can assure you that in a country that still has coins worth less than 500, that is a pocketful of currency.

This morning I thought I was well-positioned to reach my goal. I had to take a taxi to the airport and I still had 104,000 Rupiah burning a hole in my pocket. I knew the taxi to the airport would charge me somewhere around 100,000. I knew that Susan was going to be proud of me. There would be
almost nothing left to put in the dreaded Indonesia currency envelopes.

Unfortunately, I had forgotten that in Indonesia the passenger pays for all the tolls while in a taxi. I have no idea if my driver was circling the airport or not, but I must have paid 7 tolls in route. I was starting to sweat bullets... I didn't think that I would have enough for the fare.

Fortunately, the tolls, taxi and treasure (sorry, I have been listening to Chuck Swindol sermons) all came together at a perfect moment and I walked away from the driver with only 5,000 Rupiah in my pocket. This looked to be the beginning of a wonderful international trip.

Once inside the airport I began to consider the possibility of sending one of my carry-on pieces as checked baggage. It occurred to me that this might save my back and also make the trip easier. The only problem was that this bag has no easy way to secure it. Fortunately, there was one of those places to get your suitcase covered in plastic sandwich wrap. When I asked the price he said, "25,000 Rupiah."

Have no fear. I still had 10 Singaporean dollars in my wallet. So, I changed them and received about 80,000 Rupiah. I was not concerned. I could always buy a soda. Besides, the Singapore envelope would now be empty, as well. Yes, sir. This was shaping up to be a good day.

When I went to the check-in counter I was informed that I would have to pay a 100,000 Rupiah exit fee. If you are doing the math, you realize that I only had 60,000 in my pocket. This meant a return trip to the money changer where I found out that the smallest U.S. bill I could change was a $20. I walked away from the window holding almost 260,000 Rupiah!

I was beginning to feel desperate. The currency situation was slipping out of my control.

Having paid my exit fee, I went through immigration to the international side of the airport. Upon looking around the stores, the solution to my problem became obvious. I would do what people with too much disposable income (a very appropriate term for the infamous Rupiah) do throughout the
world... I decided to buy a coffee at Starbucks.

Unfortunately, after ordering the largest coffee they produced AND a cinnamon role, I STILL had 70,000 Rupiah. They were beginning to call the flight and I was feeling desperate! I could almost hear Susan asking me when I planned my next trip to Indonesia.

Running to my gate, I spied a possible solution. A souvenir shop! Although I almost never buy this type of thing, I spotted something that I knew Susan would appreciate... a finger drum. Susan enjoys playing rhythm when I play guitar. This would be great. In my opinion, it HAD to cost more than 70,000 Rupiah.

To make a long story short, I am now in Singapore waiting for my flight to Hong Kong. I am walking around this elegant airport with a hand-carved Indonesian drum which I am not at all certain the U.S. customs folks will allow into their country. My pockets are full of 1,000 Rupiah notes (the only change the fellow in Indonesia had available). I am hungry and have almost no Singaporean currency. I refuse to change any U.S. cash for fear that I will fill up the Singaporean envelop back in Costa Rica.

All in all, the Euro is starting to make a lot of sense to me.

Grandma Rode A Pig... Backwards

I am growing weary of serious stuff on this blog. So, I am including another classic story for your pleasure.

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I have always wished that I had been there the day that my grandmother rode the pig…backwards. It seems like I should have been present for such a momentous occasion.

I would not make something like this up. It really happened and I am pretty sure that Grandma Roland would not rest well if she knew that I was sharing this story with you.

My grandmother was what, in those days, was referred to as a “holiness woman.” She believed that what you did, said and wore were important reflections of your actual state of grace with God. Riding pigs was not considered to be a normal part of the holiness experience. Especially in a dress, in front of a man…even if he had been your husband for 40 years. It certainly wasn’t something that you talked about with others.

It seems that my grandfather had asked Blanche (Blanche being Grandma Roland’s name) to help him get an especially difficult sow separated from the rest of the pigs. All he asked her to do was stand in the door between the swine and dairy sides of the barn while he got the rest of the herd to run outside. As most of her companions escaped to the pig pasture, the sow in question became rather excited and looked for alternative routes of escape.

Now, one of the characteristics of older holiness women is their absolute abhorrence of jeans, slacks or pants. They share the general understanding that if God had meant a woman to wear trousers He wouldn’t have invented dresses. With that in mind, my grandmother had gone to the barn in her normal clothing.

I personally believe the sow may have had a genuine conversion experience when it saw the light below Blanche’s hemline and between her legs. The pig went for it as a sinner seeking salvation…on her knees.

When the sow could see clearly on the other side of my grandmother, it spied something that must have warmed its heart every bit as much as John Wesley’s on Alderstreet…an open barn door. There could have been no finer sight and there was no stopping it now.

As the pig went between Blanche’s legs, it lifted up. At the same time, Grandma’s dress stretched and tightened down. Without a great deal of forethought, my grandmother found herself riding a pig backwards about to experience what was on the “other side.”

Considering that he had been trying to corner this particular sow, it was probably good that my grandfather chased through the barn and out the door after my grandmother and her newly acquired steed.

Once the pig was free of the barn it ran up the road to the other farm buildings. When it got to the lawn area between the orchard and the house it began to run in circles with my grandmother still mounted. She cried out, “Joe, Joe!” (Joe being my grandfather’s Christian name).

It is at this point that Grandpa Roland committed a serious matrimonial error.

Rather than trying to reach over and somehow get Blanche off the pig’s back, he stopped and laughed. Not the delicate “I am afraid I have caught you at an embarrassing moment” laugh, but the “this is too funny to be true” kind of laugh that only tends to infuriate real holiness people. After all, humor is a bit too close to sin to be tolerated comfortably.

My grandmother realized that she should have never allowed herself to be used in such a way. Finally, as the pig completed one more circuit, she leaned over and fell onto the grass.

I have been told and can easily believe that she didn’t talk to Grandpa for two weeks.

One of the reasons that I wish that I had been there the day that Grandma Roland road the pig is that it became one of those stories that would always be repeated when Grandma was just out of hearing range. I can still see my uncle (who was not present when it happened) telling the story and laughing so hard that he cried. If grandma had caught him telling it, he would have cried in a different way.

Stories were always part of our family. Almost every Sunday of my childhood we either “went visiting” or, had some someone come and sit with us for awhile. Once the food had been consumed, the price of milk discussed and the latest news communicated, the stories would begin. There were no rules about who could tell the stories (we all knew them by heart), but there were always some who were known for telling the right stories in the right way. My Uncle Phil could tell a story. Uncle Jim could tell the funniest stories with a straight face (He also had a pair of great-Grandfathers named Ole Olson and Sven Svenson, but that is a whole other story). My father could tell stories that were so funny or so sad that you could get choked up either way.

My grandfather could tell stories. Of course, he never got to tell the one about Grandma on the pig. At least not within earshot of her.

It has been occasionally said of me that I tell stories.

While some people intend to subtly insult me when they say that I am a “story teller”, I take it as a compliment. I follow the tradition of my uncles, father and grandfather. More than that, I believe I follow the tradition of God.

Eugene Peterson wrote, “ The biblical story comprises other literary forms – sermons and genealogies, prayers and letters, poems and proverbs – but story carries them all in its capacious and organically intricate plot. Moses told stories; Jesus told stories; the four Gospel writers presented their good news in the form of stories. And the Holy Spirit weaves all this storytelling into the vast and holy literary architecture that reveals God to us as Father, Son and Holy Spirit in the way He chooses to make Himself known. Story. To get the revelation right, we enter the story.” (“Leap Over A Wall”, Eugene Peterson, p. 3)

I like what John Eldredge wrote in The Sacred Romance: “Life is not a list of propositions, it is a series of dramatic scenes…Story is the language of the heart. Our souls speak not in the naked facts of mathematics or the abstract propositions of systematic theology; they speak the images and emotions of story.”

I wish I could have been there the day Grandma Roland rode the pig, but I am especially glad that I was there when the story was told…again and again and again. Each time she lived again with all of her personality traits, religion, rules and life force. If reincarnation exists it is only in the stories that we tell.

An old Scottish missionary in Bolivia once explained the Lord’s Supper to me in a way that finally made sense. He said that what Christians call Holy Communion is nothing but the continuation of an old Middle Eastern tradition. After a man died, his friends would gather together on a regular basis to enjoy a special supper where the main topic of conversation would be their deceased companion. Many times, in the midst of the stories and humorous accounts, the deceased man would almost seem to come alive again in their midst.

That is what the Lord’s Supper should be! Stories that make Him come alive.

I am not ashamed of occasionally telling a few stories. I admit that I love seeing people’s eyes open up in surprise or crinkle in laughter at just the right moment. It is who I am and it is who the people I tell stories about once were.

In some ways, my whole missionary adventure these past 23 years has been a story. It certainly has been an adventure. It has also been fun, challenging and occasionally a little frightening.

Of course, all of this reminds me of a story…

Classic Story: Adventure At Ralph's

The following is a story from several years ago which people have asked for...

I have just returned from Manila where I met with the other members of International Teams' Executive Team. The meetings were long, but profitable. Sometimes people think of all this travel as some type of adventure but I really think you can find as much adventure in going to the local grocery store.
I know I did.

On Friday night, I arrived at Los Angeles International Airport after 25 hours of travel. At the airport I made a phone call to friends of ours, Al and Nancy Mendez, who live in the L.A. area. They weren't home, so I left a message, telling them I would be staying at a nearby hotel, grabbing about six hours of sleep before continuing my journey to Costa Rica.

As I walked into the hotel to check in, one of the two young ladies in reception said, "Oh, Mr. Roland, a lady just called for you." I responded, "Great! That must have been Nancy." The young lady who had taken the phone call said, "No, I believe it was a Susan." To which I responded, without thinking, "Oh, that one is my wife."

Sometimes it doesn't help to try to explain your way out of the situation when you receive that type of look.

My stomach told me I was hungry. I'd noticed a restaurant around the corner called "Woody's." For some reason, that seemed to be the right place to go, but I had no U.S. cash. So, I decided to go out to "Ralph's," a grocery store a couple of blocks away with an ATM.

I ignored the expressions on the faces of the hotel staff as I walked through the lobby. Once you've lost your testimony, it's hard to get it back again.

Between the produce and bakery departments, Ralph's had two ATMS's and one of those fancy direct phone lines that allow you to connect directly with a bank's 24 hour customer service. I began to take my bank card out of my wallet when it slipped out of my sleep-deprived fingers.

I can still see it as if it were in slow motion: it bounced twice on the counter, twisted in the air and went directly into the slot for trash. The slot that is purposely made small so that no one can see your checking book balance or account information… the slot that human fingers cannot get into!

I turned to the couple using the second machine and said dully, "My bank card just went into the trash slot." The lady responded [and I am NOT making this up!], "Like wow! That was so totally incredible!" Her husband had the common sense to only say, "Whoa, dude!"

I told you I was in California, right?

I knew the only man who could help me at this point was the manager of Ralph's Grocery. I asked one of the cashiers to page him for me. As I got back to the machine, I heard an announcement over the P.A. system," Would Mr.----- please go to the ATM by produce? There is an emergency."

Apparently, she had detected my level of desperation.

The manager arrived within a few minutes. The surfing couple was still with me and she immediately began to explain what had happened. The manager responded [and once again, I am not making this up], "Bad luck, guy."

I was starting to feel a need to go into my cross-cultural communication mode.

Mr.----- did eventually inform me that I would have to call the bank on their customer phone line because he did not have the key that would open the trash bin. I do not want to go into all the details, but I will say that I spent over an hour on the phone. I spoke to one customer service rep and two supervisors. The last one was on the east coast. The best advice they could give me was that I could either leave the card in the trash and hope the people who found it would destroy it, or, I could try to bang the machine with my hand which would set off an internal alarm. This would either summon the people who usually serviced the machine or bring the police. If it brought the police, I would probably be arrested.

Even in my jet-lagged state, I knew there had to be another, more optimistic, option.

It occurred to me at some point in my conversations with the supervisor on the east coast that I might be able to get something very thin down into the slot. So, after politely declining her suggestion to set off the alarm, I went back to the manager of Ralph's and told him that I was going to try to get my card out myself and didn't want any of his employees calling the police when they saw me working on the machine. He responded, "Wouldn't think of it, man."

Somewhere in cosmetics I found two long, thin nail files. For some reason, the flashlights were in the liquor department. I decided not to ask the manager why. When I went up to the counter to buy my new tools, the young lady who checked me out asked, "Are you the dude that is trying to break into the cash machine?" Obviously, my reputation was growing.

With flashlight in mouth and two files in hand, I peered into the slot and saw my precious card! It was right on a pile of paper that had kept it from falling into the deeper abyss of the trash bin. It was almost within reach.

"Almost" is the key word here. I found that my newly purchased nail files were about 1 1/2 inches too short.

Back to cosmetics for a package of emery boards and a side trip to house supplies for some duct tape. Somehow, I just knew my luck would change if I had duct tape. Once again back to the check out line. This time I distinctly remember one in the growing crowd using the term "old guy" in reference to me.

Is no one in California over 40?

I managed to duct tape two emery boards to each of my nail files. Once again the flashlight went into my mouth and my tools went into the dark slot. This time I actually got the card between my manufactured pincers and began to draw it up. I was almost home... when the card was almost to the narrow slot it slipped and fell back into the trash, this time deeper than ever.

I don't think that I have mentioned that a crowd had formed around me. I think I was actually developing a bond with the motorcycle guy with his rather obese girlfriend in the motorized cart. They were at least as old as I am. I may not be an intelligent missionary, but I am persistent. I wasn't going to fail in front of such a cloud of witnesses. I redid the file/emery boards/duct-taped pincers so that the ends had duct tape with the sticky side out. Manipulating this contraption with the very tips of my fingers I was able to once again get a hold of my precious card. This time it came up to the dreaded slot where I was able to twist it and grab it with two fingers.

People clapped. I am not kidding.

All told, my adventure at Ralph's only took two hours. In the meantime, Woody's had closed, along with all the other nearby restaurants. However, my rather extensive exploration of Ralph's had revealed to me the location of those wax covered donuts I like. You know, the ones where they make the wax look like chocolate. I can assure you that I didn't try to explain to the hotel receptionists where I had been.

I had the feeling they wouldn't believe me.