I spend a lot of time waiting these days. Waiting for the bus. Waiting for FedEx. Waiting for OTR carpools. Waiting for water delivery. Waiting for laundry to dry. Waiting for translation. Waiting for Daryl. Waiting in line for groceries. Waiting.

Funny thing about waiting in a foreign land–it’s not like waiting for a checkup in the doctor’s office back home or teeth cleaning at my dentist’s. For those things I usually take a book, a favorite magazine and a nice cup of coffee and actually enjoy the wait. Waiting in that way is different. No real worries like, “Did I misunderstand my appointment?” “Am I sure I’m waiting in the right place?” “What’s holding things up?” “What am I missing here?”

Waiting in a foreign land is more difficult than in one’s native country. Why? Well there are two main reasons: one, if you don’t speak the language you are a deaf, illiterate mute. Secondly, you can never rest while waiting in a foreign land because you are constantly looking for cues, clues, watching others, ‘on alert’ in case an announcement is made and the crowd moves. In a foreign land you are always defining, redefining, interpreting and most of all guessing about what is happening. And thus waiting becomes a bit of a…well…uh…a stressful thing!

For example, waiting for the bus. Is it supposed to come on time? Yes. But it doesn’t always. That’s okay because everyone else is waiting too. But when you are used to having your own car and getting in and going—well, let’s just say… it’s an adjustment.

Next, there’s waiting for FedEx. At home your cousin ships you a package from Dallas to Kansas City. You track it online; it’s get there on time; it’s delivered; you sign and voila you got your package. But in a distant land, things might be a little different. Say, the FedEx tells you that you cannot have your package because they don’t know exactly what’s inside it. Okay. You’ll need to come to the FedEx office (by taxi because no bus goes that way) and sign some papers, pay some cash and then they’ll give you the next directions. In some ways it is very similar to a kidnapping situation. Kidnapper: “Bring the cash, don’t call the police, come in a disguise to a specific location we’ll disclose later and then wait and we’ll give you your next directions.” Hmmm…

So FedEx location found; paperwork signed; payment made, but wait a minute! “What? I have to go to the airport? Why? Oh to pay another fine at the Medicine Bank and get a receipt and then, bring it back to you (is someone Punking me? Where’s Ashton Kusher?)”.

So ya go to the airport (walking is a great way to get to the airport when you don’t have luggage). Ya go to the Medicine Bank where, well there’s a line. Uh huh. And then you pay and get a nice green stamp on your receipt and ya walk back to the FedEx building (still in a disguise) and give them your nice stamped receipt and they say, “We’ll deliver your packages on Monday between 11:00 and 5:00 and we need you to be home to sign for them.” So guess what? Yes. More waiting. (It’s here that the kind FedEx employee Lena went into a bit of a frozen shock when I asked her if I could catch a ride home in one of the FedEx trucks making deliveries). “Umm no I don’t think that is okay, ” Lena stuttered. “Why?” I asked. “I don’t know,” she replied and I went outside and yes, waited for a taxi.

While in Klaipeda teaching my class for LCC this weekend (I do this once a month) I hear about a minivan that takes passengers to Vilnius for just a little more mula than the regular bus and it only takes three hours compared to the regular four and half to five on the big bus or train. “Three HOURS!” I’m thrilled and say, “Get me on one of those.” So I go and I get on a minivan heading to Vilnius. It’s supposed to leave at 12:00 NOON. But I’m there a quarter ‘til 12:00 and they say I have to wait because they need more passengers and we’ll leave at 12:30 at the latest. Still faster than the slow bus or train, so I say, sure no problem. I’ve got a good book. I read my book on the minivan. The driver gives me an apple. I eat it. I’m reading thinking of all the things I’m going to do at home because I’m saving nearly two hours using this minivan. Yippee!

And then it’s 12:25 and no one is on the van. No one says anything to me of course because I don’t speak the language. Then it’s 12:35, 12:40, 12:45—now it’s too late to catch the big bus or even the train. It’s 12:50. Who can read and get lost in a book now? I’m having to watch every single movement of the driver or anyone passing by the minivan.

I’m wondering if that apple might be dirty or something because my stomach is churning and I really am not feeling too well. And I’m thinking if I had taken the big bus I’d be on my way by now.

Waiting and watching and wondering and yes, a little bit of worrying.

Finally at 1:10, a nice gentleman comes to the minivan (not the driver) and tells me that he wants me to go in his station wagon. He’s waiting for two women who will go to Vilnius and I can ride with them. He says all of this in German because it’s the only foreign language he speaks. Do I understand him? No. But I follow and I get in the station wagon and I wait. And finally the two women come and it’s 1:20 and we’re on our way out of Klaipeda. If it takes 3 hours I’ll arrive in Vilnius at the same time as the big bus! Okay. I’m okay. We head out of town and about five minutes into the drive, the station wagon pulls over. Seems there’s a kid of a friend of a neighbor who wants to ride with us. We pull off the side of the highway and wait and finally the young college student arrives with his Dad. They kiss good-bye (tearfully). The kid climbs in the back of the wagon. We start off (it’s now 1:35) and we’re driving and driving and no one is talking because well, no one knows each other, and then the driver asks, “Anyone want to stop for coffee?”

And we do.

I make it home 30 minutes later than if I’d taken the big bus. I do a load of laundry because I don’t have a dryer and I need the sheets to dry before Daryl comes home on Tuesday. No I’m not kidding. I’m literally waiting for laundry to dry as I am writing this.

But here’s the thing. The Bible says a whole lot about waiting. For example, “They that wait upon the Lord will renew their strength and they will mount up on wings like eagles. They will run and not be weary; they will walk and not faint.” Teach me Lord to wait.

Psalm 130:5, “I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in his word I hope.”

Waiting has become a good thing for me. I’ve learned to pray over the people around me; to take notice of the woman at the bus stop, the taxi driver on the way to FedEx, the young man in the back of the station wagon. In the U.S. my life is filled with busyness and I drive myself to and fro; I plan this thing or that, but here in our precious land of calling Lithuania I have no control over bus schedules, FedEx packages or even my laundry. I am totally and completely in the Lord’s hands and if I believe in Ephesians 2:10, which I do, then I’m waiting (and walking) in some kind of good works that God prepared for me before the foundations of the world were laid. So, my waiting is part of His plans for me. I find myself praying over people I would never have known without the long line. I find myself praying in the Spirit over the neighborhood, the building, or even the bus station where I’m waiting. And in some strange way I’ve found a peace in the waiting—a release that there’s nothing I can do to speed things up. Also I have the privilege of trusting in God every day for every need and every unexpected moment. Waiting has helped me live out Psalm 131:2, “But I have stilled and quieted my soul; like a weaned child with its mother, like a weaned child is my soul within me.”

Efficiency of time, control over my schedule, ability to make things happen—all of these things are gone for me, but there in place of those things I find grace, mercy and an overwhelming peace in the waiting.

This is why those that wait upon the Lord will have their strength renewed.

So life in Lithuania is a lot about waiting. But it’s also about a minivan driver sharing his lunch with me, a FedEx employee emailing me and thanking me for being kind to her. It’s about choosing to take the train (which is five hours long) and finding out on a packed Friday train to Klaipeda, the young woman sitting next to me is the best friend of one of my students! And both of them seeing the miraculous in that.

No Car. No Conveniences. No Control. But ample opportunities to see Jesus move and to experience the Lord God Creator holding my hand while waiting and giving me His peace. Peace.

We are one week from leaving for Lithuania and we still don’t have a place to live. But I keep humming the Christmas carol, “No crib for a bed…” Even the Son of God on His advent to earth didn’t have a place to live. That strikes me as so strange. It wasn’t like God didn’t know He was sending Jesus to earth during a census. That’s so odd to me. Is there a lesson in that? Probably.

I’m still struggling with certain aspects of leaving the U.S. We kept our grandsons for several days last week and I found myself crying at every funny phrase, every hysterical expression, every tender moment. How can we leave such precious ones behind? Will they forget us?

I found myself saying a bad word on Monday when I dropped something on the floor. What a mouth I have! And yet I want to use this same mouth to proclaim the Good News of Jesus to the lost. I’m such a weirdo.

We’re trying to get packed and I am fretting over what to take, what not to take, what we’ll need, what we don’t know we’ll need and over and over in my head like a loop tape I hear the scripture, “…think nothing for what you shall eat or wear for your Heavenly Father knows what you need….”

My heart rehearses wrongs that have been done to me and wrongs that I have done and a darkness starts creeping into my life. Worry takes the place where rejoicing should be. Fatigue takes the place of where rest should be. Sorrow takes the place where joy should be. I begin doubting myself and what I am doing; who I am and where I am going. And it all makes me wonder why on earth I ever thought I could be a missionary! What on earth do I have to offer anyone? And the honest answer is: nothing—in and of myself.

And then I remember…missions isn’t about me. It isn’t about who I am or what I can or cannot do. Missions is about Jesus and His grace working through my life. His truth overcoming my doubt and fear. It’s never been about me. It should always be about Him and His power working in me and through me. The Bible is full of imperfect men and women being used by a perfect God to fulfill His will here on earth. And so I fall toward the cross and I ask once again, maybe for the 10, 950th time, for forgiveness and for the blood of Jesus to wash me clean. I ask once again to be filled with the Holy Spirit and to be filled with the love of God. I ask for grace.

Missions isn’t about me feeling good; it isn’t even about me fulfilling some plan of God for my life. Missions is about obedience to Scripture to take the love of Jesus to a hurt and dying world. It is about me asking God to love my city of Vilnius through me; praying over the little country of Lithuania. It is about me asking God to touch my students’ lives, doing the best job for them I know how to do and trusting God to do everything else. It’s not about me having a place to live, the right clothes to wear, whether or not my hair looks good, my weight is right, or even if I’m happy. Missions is allowing God to use us, simple jars of clay, to show forth His glory; to be His hands and His feet and to allow the mysterious transubstantiation of Christ living in us–Christ the only hope for humankind.

And so we go, even without a place to live. We ask that you pray for us to be found faithful. We leave Wednesday, August 17th. We go in our weaknesses, crying out to our Heavenly Father to show Himself mighty because when we are weak, then He is strong.

Thank you for all your love, support, gifts, prayers and kind emails. I’ll keep you posted on what’s happening. In the meantime, we rejoice because we know our Redeemer lives! Peace.

Sorry guys. I think I promised not to use my blog for newsletters and self-promotion! Ugh. But again, I’m up against a timeline and so wanted to let everyone know how God has answered prayers and opened doors. Please forgive the format.

Abraham heard from God at Ur. God spoke to Moses on Mount Sinai. Paul had that Damascus Road experience. And Teri McCarthy? Well I heard God as I was coming out of the ladies’ room at Vilnius Pedagogical University. (Of course you did!) It was May 12, 2009. Daryl and I had just met with university officials working to place IICS professors in Vilnius, the capital city of Lithuania.

After our meeting, I went to the ladies’ room. When I came out, the bell rang dismissing classes. Suddenly I was caught in the helter-skelter of students running to and for; from one class to the next. As I stood there everything went kind of slow motion. I started hearing students’ voices clearly and distinctly. My heart started racing. I stood there for what seemed like minutes, but was actually just seconds. But something happened to me in those brief moments in that crowed hallway and I was deeply moved; forever changed.

I stumbled through the crowded hallway and fumbled around until I found Daryl waiting for me at the top of the stairs. I was crying (big surprise). He took my hands and asked if I was okay.

“These are my students, Daryl. This is where I belong. I have to teach here.”

When I spoke those words to Daryl it seemed an incredible impossibility. We had no executive vice president at IICS at that time to manage the office and general operations. We didn’t know how we could uproot our lives in Kansas City and move overseas. And yet the pull on my heart was so strong, it was almost physical.

That was two years ago. And on May 14, 2011, I received a contract from Vilnius Pedagogical University’s Department of Philology to start teaching September 1st— this fall!

I wish I could adequately communicate my excitement! God is faithful; He answers prayers; He still directs us and guides us; He still upholds us with His victorious right hand (Isa. 41:10)!

As many of you know, Daryl and I moved to Klaipeda, Lithuania, last August to teach at LCC International University. It was Daryl’s first time to live overseas and he did very well. We loved it there. Klaipeda is a great place to live. Our students were talented and they represented 24 nations! But I started having health issues. Eventually, we realized we had to come back to the States for surgery. On our flight out of Lithuania, my Dad passed away. We got news of his death while waiting for our connection in Copenhagen.

Immediately upon arrival in the States, we had to prepare for my Dad’s funeral. After the funeral, I stayed with my Mom three weeks. These events postponed my surgery, but during that time an OB/GYN—a good friend and an IICS board member—recommended a new type of surgery that was less invasive and required less recovery time, but required me finding a new surgeon. Again, another delay. Finally, on February 22, I had surgery and it went very well. I was up and running within days. I praise God for good counsel from a great friend and for an excellent surgeon.

While home, Daryl and I started talking about our long-term plans in Lithuania. As much as we love Klaipeda and LCC, infrequent flights from there added several hours each way to Daryl’s travel back and forth to the U.S. There are more flights in and out of Vilnius. Add to that an IICS professor, Dr. Steve Garrett and his family, lives in Vilnius. We liked the idea of an IICS team in the capital city. Steve is starting a center for Christian Studies that will serve all the universities in the area. That is a project we’d both like to be a part of. After much prayer and deliberation, we decided to try and find work in Vilnius. Of course, my experience at VPU in May of 2009 gave me a strong sense of calling there.

I asked Steve Garrett to walk my CV over to the English department at VPU and ask if they’d be interested in hiring me for the fall. After the meeting, Steve emailed me that it didn’t look too promising. The powers that be needed to have a meeting and then they’d decide if they could use me. Their last words to Steve, “We’ll be in touch.” Yeah, like that’s gonna happen.

Honestly, I struggled with the news but said to the Lord, “Not my will Lord, but Your will be done.” Within 24 hours I heard directly from the dean of the philology department asking me if I’d be interested in teaching starting in September. By May 14—two years almost to the day of my hallway experience—I received my contract in the mail to teach at VPU! Somebody say “AMEN!” God opened doors.

So yes! We are heading back to Lithuania this August. Vilnius Pedagogical University is a major state-run, teacher-training institution. There are 12,500 students enrolled—the majority from Lithuania.

I’ll be teaching two master’s level classes and one undergrad class of seniors. Philology comes from Greek, meaning the love of language. My department is part historical linguistics and part literary text analysis. My students will be future English teachers, translators/interpreters, as well as future linguistics professors. In addition, the university has invited Daryl to be a guest lecturer and present a lecture to the English department each month. I think that’s good for him and good for the university.

We thank you all for your prayers and amazing support! Thank you for all the lovely cards and emails while we’ve been back! Each gift, each prayer and each kind word really ministered to our hearts. Thank you. God has been good to direct our paths, open doors we only could have dreamed of, and to provide us time back in the States with our Moms, kids, grandkids and extended family. We are grateful. God always makes a way!

The university pays me a stipend of $600 a month, but none for poor Daryl. They also don’t provide housing or airfare. But we trust God and are willing to do whatever it takes to serve Him in Lithuania. We ask that you pray for us to be powerfully anointed to share the love and hope of Jesus Christ with our students at VPU. Thank you so very much for standing with us through your prayers and support. We are very grateful.

Vilnius Pedagogical University

Annie Dillard makes a very interesting distinction between freedom and just being loose in her book An American Childhood. Daryl is reading this book to me as part of our evening ritual. Dillard’s phrase, (used to describe her father that quit his job to travel the river), keeps rolling around in my head, “He wasn’t free so much as loose.”

So I have to ask, what’s the difference between free and loose? I think it’s a very important question. It makes me think of the Chinese legend about the Jealous Empress and the Favored Concubine.

The Empress hated the Concubine because she was the Emperor’s favorite. The Concubine was always happy and singing and she was a beautiful dancer. Every night the Emperor would ask the Concubine to dance and sing for him. She was doted on by all of the Palace because she was pleasant and kind and happy and beautiful. The Empress was beautiful too, and of excellent royal breeding, but people didn’t dote on her. So in a fit of jealousy and anger she had the Concubine kidnapped and hidden away in a prison-like fortress many days’ journey from the Capital. On occasion the Empress would secretly venture out to visit the Concubine, but she would always find her singing and she noticed that the guards and keepers had become tender-hearted toward their charge. Here in the prison the Concubine was once again doted on and loved. This enraged the Empress and she commanded all the personnel to ignore the Concubine and not to speak to her. She hired spies to insure that the Concubine was kept in total isolation. But even then, when the Empress would go to check on the Concubine, she found the woman happy, pleasant and always singing. The jealousy and anger so ate away at the Empress that she cruelly ordered the beautiful Concubine to have her arms and legs removed and her torso placed in a plain clay jar. Once the horrible deed had been performed, the Empress could not restrain herself but had to see the Concubine. The Empress was certain she would find the Concubine fearful, grief stricken and miserable, but instead she found the Concubine jarred up, her head the only thing exposed, singing more beautifully and sweetly than ever. The Empress flew into an outrage. She shouted at the jarred Concubine, “How can you sing? How can you be happy? I’ve cut off your arms and legs and you are in a jar! You are imprisoned and bound. Your freedom is forever gone! Your beauty is forever gone! Your life is over! How can you sing?” And the Concubine replied, “Which of us is imprisoned? Your anger and jealousy have made much more of a prisoner out of you than me.”

One was free and the other was just loose.

Scripture tells us that “He who the Son sets free is free indeed.” Jesus told the woman who was bent over with an infirmity, “Woman thou art loosed…” (Luke 13, KJV). TD Jakes wrote a book by that title. Here I guess free and loose are synonyms. But in everyday English I think there’s a difference. A very big difference. One is a state of mind; the other a state of being.

Freedom is a funny thing. Some theologians believe we can be free from sin. I’ve yet to experience that here on earth (nor have I met anyone who is really free from sinning).

We talk a lot about freedom in America—Freedom Fighters, Operation Iraqi Freedom, Freedom of Speech, Young Americans for Freedom, Freedom of Information Act. Yup, we like our freedom.

But what does it mean to be free? Can we be free without responsibility? Is freedom a mindset, or is it a condition? Maybe a little of both. I know for me personally it’s not permanent. I can be free one day and in total bondage the next. I refer to bondage as addictions, unforgiveness, memories we can’t get rid of, attitudes and habits we just can’t seem to change. I think freedom is more of a state of mind than a state of being. I’ve been to churches in countries where the government took away individual freedoms—no human rights—and yet the congregation was freer than any I’ve ever seen here in the States.

Freedom is a choice we make. A choice to forgive. A choice to forget. A choice to do the right thing and those choices sometimes must come daily. Freedom isn’t as much about where I am as who I am. Freedom isn’t about governments or human rights or the ability to come and go as I please. Freedom is about doing the right thing even when it’s hard; freedom is about making choices that are hard and complex and often costly. Freedom is about dying to the flesh and the old carnal nature. It’s about decreasing that Christ might increase. It’s about giving over control to the Holy Spirit and asking Him to sanctify me, purify me and to search my heart. This kind of freedom makes me think of Jesus’ words when He is quoting Isaiah, “The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to set the oppressed free…” (Luke 4:18).

And even though it’s hard and perhaps complicated I do want to be free–really free and not just loose. Peace.

Some things I’ll just never understand this side of heaven. A friend said to me recently, “I don’t want to go to hell over a mystery.” I know exactly what he was saying even though I believe once saved always saved. If I edited that statement and made it mine it’d go like this: “I don’t want to lose my love relationship with Abba Father and His peace that passes understanding just because I can’t figure out why He said no to something I earnestly asked Him for.” Yeah. That’s more my take on it.

Daryl and I love Lithuania. I can’t explain loving a piece of land. We love the people too, even though we don’t know each and every one of the three million there personally. But I can definitely say I love the ones we met. I love teaching and my students carried me away into one of the sweetest dreams I’ve ever known. But…and in my life there are some pretty big buts…

My body started going through a process that every woman in the world can relate to in one way or another. I thought my process was pretty well complete and I was on the road to freedom. But no! Things got worse in Lithuania. My body went out of control and I had to miss classes, didn’t have the energy to get involved in off-campus activities and some days I couldn’t even leave the apartment. Migraines set in. Some days I felt the gates of hell were trying to prevail against me. Sound melodramatic? Maybe. But no matter what I tried I couldn’t get on top of the problem. Every day I would read the Bible story about the woman who said of Jesus, “If I can just touch the hem of His garment (Luke 8:43-48).” I prayed. I fasted. I cried out to God. I asked my closest friends to pray with me and of course my family and things just got worse. By November 1st, I knew I was going to have to return to the States for surgery. I couldn’t see any other way out.

So, on December 11, 2010, Daryl and I headed back to Kansas. We lifted off the tarmac at Palanga airport by 2:35 in the afternoon. What we didn’t know was that my Dad went to be with the Lord at that very moment. My Dad died as we were leaving Lithuania. Nothing prepares one for that. My Dad and I had talked through all the possible scenarios before I left. He assured me that Daryl and I needed to be on the mission field. I assured him that I loved him and we said the Big Good-Bye before we left in August because we knew his health was failing and that “theoretically” it might be the last time we saw each other. But theory and reality are two different animals. My Dad’s dying without me being able to say one last good-bye was difficult beyond my wildest imagination. It cost and it was painful.

Sometimes I struggle with what has happened to us these last few weeks. Have you ever seen those reptiles on nature shows that thrust their tongues to ridiculously long distances and zap a fly? With lightening speed they bring their victims back to their mouths and the little fly has no idea what hit him. I feel a little like that lately—pulled from the students and country I love.

Please keep us in prayer. I’m scheduled for surgery on February 22. I’ll only have an overnight stay in the hospital and should be back to normal in two weeks. No biggy. I’ll be glad when it’s all over.

So what have we learned? What are the deep and life-changing spiritual lessons we learned in all of this?

1. It’s been good to be back home with my Mom and family. I had the luxury of staying with my Mom three weeks after Dad’s funeral. A miraculous and beautiful healing took place between my Mom and Dad before he died. My Mom radiates from that healing—a choice to forgive and a choice to ask for forgiveness. It was a great three weeks and I am so thankful I could be with her and my sister immediately after my Dad’s death.
2. Our house didn’t sell, so it’s good to be back getting the house ready to sell and finding a new, smaller place to move. We are literally getting our house in order. That’s good.
3. It was more important than either Daryl and I realized that he be onsite to help with the transition in leadership at IICS. Stan Wallace became the new EVP on November 8, 2010, and transitioning leadership in an organization isn’t an overnight task. So, it’s good for Daryl and Stan to be able to do whatever is necessary to make the transition a smooth and successful one.
4. And probably the most important lesson I’ve learned is that I feel more called to the overseas classroom than ever before. My heart aches to be back with the students and life in Lithuania. I grieve not being there every single day. This time back in the States has just convinced me more than ever that I am called to be an overseas missionary—plain and simple.

SO WE ARE HEADING BACK IN AUGUST! This is very important to take note of. We are going back and we’ll go back better than ever—healthy, house in order, obligations met and ready to love Lithuania for Jesus more passionately and more intensely than ever before.

Until then though we have lots to do. I was asked to write a chapter in a big ol’ book on teaching English from a Christian perspective. I am thrilled with that invitation! Also, I’ll be helping with the IICS orientation of new professors in July. I’m speaking at Oklahoma Baptist University the end of April and East Texas Baptist University the first week of April. Those are all good things that I really look forward to. I’m also trying to edit and clean up a manuscript I’ve written. It’s a collection of all my old-maid missionary stories called The Adventures of a Dandelion Gatherer. We are eager to head back to Lithuania. Thank you all for your prayers, letters, notes of encouragement and the financial support. I am so blessed and encouraged by the financial support we’ve received. Those funds have been placed in my IICS Lithuania account and are there waiting for me until we head back. We are so grateful and blessed.

And finally, please forgive the long delay in writing this update. Some days I just couldn’t think about putting down the words. Now I have. If you have any questions or concerns or you need more information, please call me or email me.

Life is strange. It makes me think of Epaphroditus (Philippians 2). He raised all his support, sent out his newsletter, had the big commissioning event at his church and went to minister with super missionary Paul. But poor Epaphroditus had to go home due to illness. The poor bloke had to go back home. Maaaan. Do I ever know how he felt. Thanks again for your prayers. Thanks for your support and most of all thanks for your grace concerning my very late update. Peace.

On December 11, 2010, my Dad went to be with the Lord. His time of death is estimated at 6:35 AM (CST) on that Saturday morning, the exact moment that my and Daryl’s airplane was lifting off from the Palanga Airport in Lithuania heading back to the States to see him. He was 77 years old.

I am rerunning this blog post from February of this year in honor of my Dad. But with an important postscript: My Dad made things right with his family before he died. He found peace, love and forgiveness. My sister said his face changed, his spirit sweetened and his words of affirmation were like honey poured forth. He and my Mom experienced true healing in their marriage those final weeks of his life. His last day on earth he couldn’t take his eyes off of her and could only mouth the words, “I love you” to her. We thank God for Dad’s life, his healing and now his perfect renewal. Daryl said that when my Dad looked upon Heaven he said, “Finally, a city that’s built right!” Amen to that.

Mourning isn’t just about loss of life. We can also mourn the loss of a dream, the realization that a situation isn’t going to get any better. I realized lately that I’ve been in a state of mourning—grieving actually over something that simply isn’t going to happen.

We as human beings are pretty much who we will always be by the age of five. I’m basically who I was then—bigger, literate, with more experience, but I’m not that much different from when I was five years old. I still get very impatient waiting in line; I still like to get my own way and I still struggle to keep my finger out of my nose, my nose out of other people’s business and my hands to myself. Yup. Pretty much the same.

Also, I keep hoping and believing with the bright-eyed, unrealistic optimism of a five year old that things will get better in my relationship with my Dad. I have just recently come to see, now nearing 51 years of age, that things with my Dad aren’t gonna get better. I’ve had to die to the dream that my Dad is going to be joyful and loving and affectionate and full of affirmation. My Dad is aging, rapidly. Mini strokes have left him struggling to make connections and unable to care for himself. Sometimes when I visit him he’s clear as a bell. Others, not so much. This is the final chapter of my Dad’s life. He falls frequently so he’s in a wheelchair. He’s angry and frustrated and wants to go home and who can blame him? I see him fading, slipping away and along with him goes the too idealized, warm and fuzzy daddy/daughter relationship I’ve always longed for and yes, craved. This is simply out of the question. There’s no funeral for unfulfilled dreams. Just the harsh emptiness they leave behind when they’ve evaporated. Gone. Done. And then mourning begins.

So, what remains? Well, I have a Dad I can be very proud of. For the most part my Dad was a genius. Glimpses of that still break through on occasion. (He recently named every airplane, gave its year of manufacture and its purpose. Didn’t miss a one simply by looking at their photos). Every Boeing 700 series you get on my Dad designed the air conditioning systems and the emergency inflatable slide (something he designed for the Apollo spacecraft after the Apollo 1 tragedy in 1967). My Dad was a part of the design team for all the Air Force Ones up through Bill Clinton. He was once ranked the most sought after aeronautical engineer in the country in 1969. He could build anything and he did all things with great perfection. He did things with excellence. My Dad was hard working. In all his professional life I knew him to take only one vacation. It was not unusual for him to work 80 to100 hours each week.

I got an email a few years ago from a retired US Navy admiral in Florida wanting to know if I was related to Troy I. Hodges who served in the Korean War. “He was the best damn cartographer I’ve ever worked with!” He wanted to know if Dad was available for a project he was working on off the coast of Florida.

Dad was brilliant. He was tireless. He didn’t hug. He did punch me in the arm occasionally. He never said congratulations, good job or I’m proud of you. He did ask me to always try harder and to not bask in successes but move on to the next thing. He taught me how to tie a knot, ride a horse, wallpaper flawlessly, drive a stick shift, really wash a car, make the perfect sandwich, write left handed without smearing the page. Everything I learned from him I learned to do well. He didn’t tolerate slackers!

But I mourn a warm, fuzzy, cuddly, affectionate teddy bear of a Dad. I wish he and I could have been closer—bonded. I wish he could have been kinder, more affirming, but he did provide for me. He kept lovely roofs over my head and beautiful clothing on my back. He helped me buy my first car and took me on my first flight in a small airplane. (He was a licensed pilot). He also did something incredible—he always financially supported me year-after-year while I was on the foreign mission field. “Teri, you do what you believe God has spoken for you to do and I’ll take care of the rest.” And he did.

Did I get the Dad I always wanted? No. My Dad was distant and harsh and sometimes even violent. He had his own demons to battle. Even now as he sits in the wheelchair at the VA Center, weak and thin, he can still be very intimidating. His mind works more accurately than not. His piercing blue eyes still shine brightly. He still has his Paul Newman good looks and his stubborn personality. Same prejudices, same opinions, same strong will—after all, those are the very things that make him…well…him.

But here’s what I have, this is his legacy to me: God has used my Dad in my life. God has actually spoken through him. Which is a curious thing. My Dad drank, too much at times. He smoked and still sneaks a cig every chance he gets. He cursed like, well like the sailor he truly was. (He was a member of the elite Navy SEALS during the Korean War). But once when I was preparing to move to Moscow something amazing happened. War broke out in the capital city in August 1991. I was holding a ticket in my hand to fly out on August 26th. I was packed. I had a teaching contract. I was ready to go. But the news coverage of this upheaval in the USSR looked ghastly. There were tanks on the streets. The Russian White House was burning. Gorbachev was out. Yeltsin was in. The city was in total chaos and I was scheduled to be there in four days. I was in my room rethinking my suitcase when my Dad came in. He burst through the door and was shouting, “I forbid you to go to Moscow! It’s too dangerous. It’s a battle field there. It’s not necessary for you to take such a risk. You’re not going!”

I didn’t know what to say. I believed with my whole heart I was to go to Moscow. I also believed that as a single woman (I was 31) my Dad was the authority over me. (Too much Bill Gothard? Maybe.) I always tried to obey him or at least comply. I stood there in my room that day conflicted, dumbfounded. So I said, “Okay Dad. I won’t go. But one day you and I will stand at the Judgment Seat of Christ. He’s going to ask me, ‘Teri, why didn’t you go to Moscow?’ and I’ll answer, ‘Because Lord, You said I should honor my father. And I did. He told me not to go.’

“What will you say Dad? ‘Cause if you’re gonna make a big decision like this, you’d better be prayed up and know for certain God’s will for my life.”

He started to say something. Then he stopped. And he left the room.

Four hours later my Dad came back in my room. His face was covered with tears. (Quite unusual. I didn’t remember seeing my Dad cry before). He struggled a little to speak. Then he said words I will never forget, “Teri I’ve been praying and I’d rather you die in the center of God’s will than to live safely outside it. You can go to Moscow. I give you my blessing.” And I went.

When I was a little girl my Dad had a supernatural experience with God. He was on the way home from work and God spoke to him. Very clearly God told my Dad to commit our entire family to missions. (My parents never told us this story when we were kids. I heard it from my Mom the day before I left for Moscow). He got home and told my Mom what had happened. That very day God had also spoken the same word to her. The very next Sunday, my parents and we three daughters walked the aisle of our small country Bible Baptist church and my Dad dedicated us as a family to the foreign mission field. Cindy was nine. Denise was eight and I was five. That was Sunday. By Wednesday night Denise had died as a result of inoculations.

My Dad never mentioned it again. It was never talked about and something inside him was forever changed.

So I mourn. I mourn the loss of ever having a warm, cuddly, papa bear of a Dad. I mourn the affirmation and praise only a Dad can give his daughter. I long for the closeness and the comfort only daddies can give to their little girls. But we who follow Christ are not like those without hope. My hope and joy-filled expectation is centered on this one truth: my Dad and I will have a perfect, blessed and wonderful relationship in Heaven! He’ll be whole and new and healed from all of his hurts and frustrations. He’ll be free to love and to receive love. He’ll be shiny, bright and he’ll be everything God intended him to be in the first place. And so will I. So, there it is. And in the meantime I have a Heavenly Father who has promised to meet my every need and lovingly allows me to call Him Abba. Daddy. Peace

Serving in Klaipeda, Lithuania, with LCC International University