SICK!

5 January 2014

Dear Phyllis,

Akemashite! Omedeto gozaimasu (It has opened! Congratulations). Whatever that means. All of Japan is locked into this traditional New Years greeting for the first few days of the new year. I have often wondered at it, but perhaps their greeting isn't much different than our compulsively saying “Happy new year.”

All that being aside, this has been an unusual akemashite (opening) for me. For the first time on many years I have begun the new years with my toes pointing vertically. A week ago last Saturday (Dec 28), I had a good day working in my shop, but towards evening I just didn't feel right. My usual practice is to have a major clean-up in my shop every Saturday night so it is clean on Sunday and ready to go on Monday. But as I sat there looking at tools scattered all over the place, and piles of saw dust and shavings on the floor, I just didn't have the heart to clean it up. After a brief supper, I couldn't think of anything I wanted to do more than go to bed, which I did at 7 PM. By 7 AM the next morning it was obvious things things were not normal in the temple, as I had been coughing nearly all night. I told Pastor Kichikun that was I felt the Christian thing would be more to stay home than go to church to share my affliction.

Pammy had gone to see her sister in Lampan for the weekend, and didn't get back until Monday evening. This gave me a sharp reminder of what life is like being sick, with no one to live with, and lovingly care for you. The first half was very empty, and the second half gave me a new appreciation for her.

My attitude towards sickness is to forget it. I seldom get sick, and if I do, I just ignore it. My energy level was extremely low, but I was able to keep moving and get a few things finished in the shop. But try as I may, a running nose and hacking cough won the argument that I had a cold.

For ten years the Homongs fraught the North Vietnamese to a stand still in northern Laos. Every year during the dry season the North Vietnamese army would advance with their heavy equipment. Then, in the rainy season, when the NV couldn't move their equipment, the Homongs would drive them back with guerrilla tactics. This work very successfully to the point that some American advisers became encouraged that they might win the war.

That was pretty much the way my health was going except I wondered when there would be a clear cut victory. It was sort of a draw between the cold trying to catch me, and me trying to deny that I had a problem. Rather than getting better, for five days I never got dressed, and, several afternoons, I couldn't bring myself to do anything but go to bed.

After this had dragged on for many days, with no viable change, I became somewhat concerned that it could turn into pneumonia. I have had pneumonia four times, and this is a good approach for it. Monday, Pammy was going shopping, and asked if I wanted her to buy some medicine for me. “No! I don't need medicine.” She was complaining that she was coming down with the same thing that was keeping me flat, but her fluctuations were more hourly. She was on deaths door step in the morning, but fine by noon and the rest of the day. I told her it was fine to buy something for herself, but I don't take pills. She did buy some delicious chicken for me which I greatly enjoyed. But then she tried a sneaky trick of wrapping three pills with a nice piece of chicken. That didn't work. So she tried the same stunt burying three pills in some sticky rice. After a prolonged struggle, to keep peace in the house, I took the pills with some hot tea. I feel most medications deals more with altering the symptoms than curing the sickness.

Jane Fadel once lamented, “I wish I could get sick enough to go to bed.” She was always battling some sort of sickness, but never enough to knock her out of action. With five boys to take care of, duty demanded that she stay on her feet, keep cooking, and keep the household running. I am somewhat like Jane, in that I am not sick enough to really call it sickness. There is a blurred line between sickness and laziness. I fear I am more in the later cataloger. Unlike Jane I don't really have anything demanding that I keep going. When I don't have the energy to work, it is easier to get horizontal. I was supposed to teach two days last week, but told Singha that I thought the greatest blessing I could be to the children was to stay away from them. Gary wanted me to work full time last week but I waved off of that. I don't know what to do this week. Today was the second day I didn't go to church. The condition in my lungs has varied very little. The persistent hacking cough has stayed pretty much the same. Physically, I feel slightly stronger today, and there is little reason for not joining the normal work force of people who don't have the luxury of staying home. But I would like to get this thing knocked out.

Amy Carmichael wrote, “No one can empathize with a frog being crushed under the point of a plow being drawn through the earth except another frog. And so, dear fellow believer; writhing under the severe hand of discipline of our loving, and yet stern heavenly Father, I write to you as one frog to another.” There is little to say that it is a blessing to be sick, but this momentary experience of the Lord pulling the plug on me has given me a new appreciation for people who do walk with the heavy pack on their back of physical affliction. David said, “Before I was afflicted I went astray, but now I have kept Thy Word. It is good for me that I have been afflicted; that I might learn Thy Statutes.” (Ps. 119:67, 60). There is something to say for afflictions, and it would be best if I might profit from this.

On the Paul and Marisa front, Paul showed up the other day with one of the most amazing testimonies I have ever heard. Eighteen years ago Marisa had a son by a rat. Her husband was as bad as they get. He was abusive and a drug dealer. Needless to say that marriage didn't hold, and the boy wound up living with the father. The poor kid had no chance. His father raised him in the drug industry, and was training him to be a hit man to kill enemies. The lad saw that there was tremendous money to be made at his finger tips, but he also saw the rougher side of that life.

Marisa had lost all contact with him and hadn't seen her son in many years. After she got saved, she bean to pray over the devastation of her previous life, and started praying for her lost son. Shockingly, within a few days she suddenly got a call from him asking if he could come to live with her. Marisa was thrilled, but Paul wasn't too euphoric. The kid was just plain NG (no good), and it was doubtful how he was going to make out in their home. But they would give it a try. Not surprisingly, Paul concerns were fully justified. The shock of moving from a drug/big-money home to living in a severe Christian environment, where there was a zero tolerance for the slightest sin, and a military regimentation of daily prayer and Bible reading was pretty hard on him. Quite predictably, he couldn't handle it, and blew out. Paul was delighted to have him out of town.

But then three months later there was another amazing turn of events, when he called saying he had repented, changed his name to Mathew, and wanted to come back. Indeed he did seem like a new boy. He joined with the other kids who had a craving for Bible study and intense prayer. He was a good guitarist, and enjoyed leading the daily times of worship in signing. It looked like he was going to make it. But DNA was against him.

Marisa had always lived a very hard life. She was eight when she and her family were immersed under the Pol Pot's, Khmer Rough, in Cambodia. Her father was a wealthy man, but burned their money lest the Pol Pot soldiers discovered who they were. They were farmers in Cambodia. Her father gave his rifle to Marisa's older sister with the instruction, “If any soldier comes to this house, shoot him.” She did. They buried the dead soldier, but realized the intense danger, and knew they must flee from Cambodia. It was a year and a half later that they finally made it to Thailand, but Marisa lost two brothers who were killed by the Khmer Rouge. From the time she was young she always had to work very hard, which had developed in her a military level of work ethic; and she demanded that from everyone else in the home.

Mathew wasn't raised that way. He was a lazy kid who had never done anything but push drugs. By training and by DNA he was just horribly under motivated. He was just a lazy kid who loved to sleep and hated to work. Oh my goodness, life was hard on him. Paul said it took all the self-control he had to keep from killing him. Marisa said he was a bad example to the other young people in the home. Just staying there was cliff-hanger. A couple of times he came over here to pour his heart out to Pammy. He had to have someone he could talk with. There is nothing wrong with Paul and Marisa except they have an extremely high standard for Christian living, and they have very little tolerance for anyone who doesn't come up to that level. If someone isn't up every morning at 5:00 AM calling on the Lord, with intense weeping in prayer, have an insatiable craving for the Word of God, and work like a beaver all day “they don't love God”. Mathew was always in that category – “he doesn't love God”. Of course, Paul and Marisa are right, but being, at best, a lukewarm Christian myself, I could easily identify with Mathew.

Finally the last day came. Mathew became defiant. I agreed with Paul. They had no recourse but to put him out. And Mathew was delighted to get out from under that meat grinder of ridged Christian discipline. He moved in with a friend and became a drag on that home. Apparently he stayed in this area but had no contact with Paul and Marisa. I agreed with Paul. I saw no hope for him. He was just plain NG incorrigibly lazy.

Then six weeks ago they had a totally unexpected phone call from him saying he had repented and wanted another chance. I was surprised that they allowed him back, but was no too optimistic for his future.

Last week Mathew was at Macro super market shopping with his mother. Marisa had to go to the bathroom, and Mathew was pushing the shopping cart around getting things. Out of the blue, an old man, who was a total stranger, walked up to Mathew and in very decisive language said to him, “You are born-again and a very good man.” Mathew was stunned to receive this from a man who he had never seen in his life. Shortly after that, Marisa was walking out of the rest room when the same man walked up to her and forcefully said, “Your son is born-again and is a very good boy.” Marisa was stunned. She asked, “How do you know who my son is?” The man wouldn't respond to her question but reemphasized that he was a good kid.

I thought I had heard it all, but this is a new one for me. When Paul told me that story, I thought there is only one possible explanation. That had to be an angel. Paul said that was Mathew's position, and Paul felt the same way. I have never heard of such a story, but it doesn't surprise me. After being hammered for so many years that he was NG, that was a needful message for Mathew to hear. And Paul and Marisa have given him so little slack, it was necessary that the Lord send a special messenger to give them this message that he is born-again and is okay. If the Lord says he is a good boy, I guess everyone else will have to come on broad and believe he is going to make it. Me too.

Have a happy, holy, and spiritually prosperous Christ-centered new year,

                                                                                                               bill