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The World is Still Round!!! And because of that we're going to bump into each other sometime or other.

 

     All of us were immigrants at one time or another. Perhaps it was our parents. For my family, it was a very tangled story.  One of tragedy, intrigue, bitterness, fear and hatred, which they tried to cover up for many, many years.  They family records are now sealed off.  But not before I discovered the truth. 

 

     The reason I write about it is not to boast, nor to shock people.  I don't write about certain details from my family's history or even my own life for the mere thrill it gives to me.  For one thing, as long as the world has existed it's been dangerous to be Jewish.  For that matter, it's dangerous to be human.  For some reason, other humans have this pentiant for hating others, and devising every way possible to destroy each other.

 

     There are so many things we can love about how God made us. He made us in His image, after all, in the beginning. In His likeness.  Kind of like we talk about a baby--"Oh, he looks so much like his dad!" He isn't his dad, just like we can never be God. But because of the beautiful traces of our God's handiwork, we can see how we have a little bit of his vast intelligence, love of learning, artistry, passion for life, emotion, etc.  Wait, does God have feelings? He certainly does.  And the fastest way to make Him both angry and to hurt Him the most deeply is to take someone He loves both like a son, creation and spouse, and destroy it.

 

     That's why one running theme of my books is hatred.  Hatred and racism destroys. God is holy, and is far more powerful than any hatred or racism.  Would you like a God with the power of millions of nuclear bombs to judge you because you hated another human being?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Immigrant Background

 

 

     My father's family is English. Certain family traditions, like 11:00 a.m. and 4:00 p.m. tea time and snack, as well as cheese fondue and games like coquet and Confusion, have been part of our family culture for many years.  That is the cozy, comforting aspect of the British-Welsh culture of my dad's family.  Fireside singing, riddles, jokes or just plain silence.  Another aspect of their British lifestyle was the quiet, easy-going, don't-talk-about-your-problems attitude.  If there's a family problem, or something to bicker about smile, shut up and either go do something else or take a vacation. Above all, don't get into arguements. Unless they hurt your pride.  Then you can insult the person you dislike in a clever way to vent your feelings as long as you keep a smile on your face.

 

     Mom had to get used to that a little. She came from a typical Italian-Russian, Jewish/Gypsy combo firecracker mix.  Her family was pretty much like the pizza her mother made every Friday night. A mysterious bottom crust which we didn't know was regular German-French as they said or what I just told you.  A carefully smoothed over layer of family tales which they told her to make up for what should have been the truth--about the wonderful country upbringing her mother had (hiding the fact that there were lots of mysterious details about her life in town, and the Hebrew family traditions she laughingly said were "just things her grandparents told her").  Then came the hot peppers--all the very very loud fights--followed by lots and lots of cheese, carefully sprinkled to hide any faults--all the kisses and flattery.

 

     When both of them got together, after many late nights of talking, my parents decided to learn from each other instead of divorcing.  Dad could learn from Mom how to face the problems and talk about them instead of simply walking away and shutting up.  Mom learned from Dad that it was really okay to be who she was, and she didn't need to hide anything. God made her Jewish, and mild Dad loves his hot pepper wife.  Dad also learned to like very spicy Italian food, and Mom found out she actually could relax and didn't have to keep the house Shabbat-clean, like her mother had.

 

     In our family history, Dad has been in the Navy, so we've done a lot of travelling and we absolutely love to eat food from all over the world.  We enjoy people who speak very good English and people who can hardly speak any, simply because they have something they can give to us, in the love and the smile on their faces, as well as the experience which is hidden in the lines on their brow.  

 

     When homechooling, my mother found every opportunity to say, "Now, what did you learn from their family today? What did you find special? Is there something we can do too?"  Our field trips took us everywhere from local museums, to the college pond to feed ducks, to the neighbor's house for dinner, to old downtown where all the antiques were located.  We learned something from everything and everyone.

 

     Another good field trip is called the Bookshelf.  I've learned more than anything else from books, when I couldn't go somewhere firsthand.  But you can't believe everything you read.  So you've got to really pay close attention to details.

 

     Our travels, food experiences, cultural explorations and people we've known have found their way into my books, as you might likely see. They've also challenged me to personally branch out to touch others for the sake of Jesus Christ.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

     What can you learn from someone else? Your immigrant neighbors?  Your co-worker? Even--shock!--your family members?

 

A Little Field Trip to Africa

 

     I thought I'd share a little from some dearly beloved friends I knew way back in my childhood, who made a deep impression on me.  Moses is now in Heaven, martyred for his faith. Although I've lost contact with her, I'm sure Mary is still serving the Lord, just as my favorite missionary author, Patricia St. John did.

 

     I was about five years old when we were attending a Presbyterian church.  While Dad took classes in seminary to become a minister, we struggled along, barely making ends meet financially.  We never have been wealthy, and our financial state has only gotten worse over the years.  But that's okay.  Wealth isn't what life's all about anyway.

 

     Attending seminary with him was a tall man with coal-black skin from Nigeria, named Moses.  He had the dearest, biggest, pearliest white smile I'd ever seen.  He didn't ignore a little five-year-old girl like most of the men, who had their heads in the clouds.  As soon as Dad introduced him to our family, he shook hands with each of us, and stooped down to my height.  "Why, what a lovely little girl! How are you, missy?"

 

     He had a deep African accent, throaty and beautiful.  There was a scar on his face, and I kept staring at that scar, frowning.  It gave me the saddest feeling in my stomach.  I reached up and traced it with the tip of my finger.

 

     He caught my finger in his trembling, dark, muscular hand, and kissed it.  "Oh, sweetheart. Don't feel bad about that.  I got that because I love Jesus.  That's something to be happy about!"

 

     I looked at him quizzically, with a shy smile.  Suddenly, I thought he was the most handsome man I'd ever seen.

 

     He noticed the look in my eyes, and he whispered, before he stood up again, "I'll tell you about it sometime."

 

     My heart tugged.  He couldn't stand up yet.  What if I never talked to him again? It sounded like a casual question, but to me it was the deepeset question I could think of because somehow I knew it had to do with some hurt down deep in his heart.  "Do you have a little girl, sir? And a wife?"

 

     Moses' eyes grew sad.  "No, sweetheart.  They're with Jesus."  He kissed the top of my head.

 

     Later, Moses came for dinner to our house.  I think Mom fixed spaghetti.  Afterwords, he took me on his lap, and told me stories of his life in Nigeria; Bible stories, everything. At five years old, I was in love. :)

 

     Years later, I learned that Moses went back to Nigeria as a missionary pastor, and was killed for his faith.  It's a good thing you can't see me right now.  I can never tell Moses' story without crying.

 

     Mary was a missionary nurse to Eritrea.  She worked for tireless long years, ministering to the sick.  On furlough once she came to visit us.  It put the other Presbyterian women's noses out of joint, because all of them were wealthy, and wanted to have the celebrity over to impress Mary with their hospitality.

 

     Our family served her a humble meal of meat and potatoes, and she leaned back and sighed with contentment. After dinner ​Mary brought out the most beautiful array of handcarved wooden animals, hand-woven grass baskets and other items like stationary.  I was enraptured.   Because of Moses' stories, I had begun every night to pray for the believers in Africa, and also for Moses for when he traveled back.  To see some of the handiwork from African women, even if it wasn't from the same country, enthralled me.  They were so full of color, character, and love.  Mary's remark to us was, "I know your family will appreciate these.  The rest are too happy with all their American riches."

 

     The visit went on, and I, the shy little five-year-old, had not mustered enough courage to tell Mary I wanted to talk to her alone. At last I whispered the request to my mother, who told Mary, and Mary made a special little tea party just for the two of us before she left.  The Holy Spirit had been speaking to my heart about loving Jesus so much that I must tell people about it.  I brimmed over with a special love for the children I saw in Africa, from missionary photos.  Mary smiled as she answered my shower of questions and told me quietly, "You know, your burden to be a missionary to Africa is very special.  I would keep praying about it.  Maybe someday, Jesus will answer that prayer and help you meet some people who need Jesus.  Or maybe there are some African people who live here in America.  Did you know that the people with dark skin here, have relatives who came from Africa?"

 

     Mary's quiet, loving servitude, and her colorful descriptions made me love both African people (who stand around singing as a way of relaxation), and all the people of the world.

 

     Lastly, I'd like to mention my favorite missionary nurse, Patricia St. John.  Brought up and home schooled in Great Britain, she was the child of a loving couple who taught their children the ways of the Lord from cradle up.  Her mother dedicated each of her children to the work of the mission field in infancy; her father was a world-traveling preacher.  As a young woman, Patricia lost her fiance, so she accompanied her brother and later his wife to work in Morocco, through establishment of a hospital.  Her good humor and love of others endeared her to the local people, and she traveled many tiring miles for the sake of the gosspel.  Later, upon her return to England, she published children's books, many of which included actual children she had known from her encounters around the world. You will love this lady! Her books are not just for children.  From Bible stories retold to true stories of ragged homeless waifs in other lands, your heartstrings will immediately be tied up by her colorful themes of love, forgiveness and mercy. Read her books:

 

A Trip to the Fields

Click here to see a half-hour video of Joni And Friends' internship helping disabled children in Africa. 

"Cause 4 Life"

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