Grandma's remarkable story

Tonight, my 89-year-young mom and I had dinner together at my house. As we finished our meal of stuffed French toast and coffee, I pulled out a bunch of old notebooks and documents and we started poring over them together. I’ll share more from these documents in the days and weeks ahead, but I want to begin with the one that brought tears of pride and affection for my dad's mother - my grandma.

It’s written by my grandpa, Berge Revne, about my grandma, Herborg Revne, sometime after her death in 1960. And it confirms what I felt deeply as I stood at her grave in Kaele, Cameroon last year: she loved her Savior very much.

My Wife (by Berge Revne)
She was the first white woman to enter and to reside in North Cameroon and in the Colony of Chad.

She was the first white woman to speak Fulfulde in that whole region of Central Africa.

She was the first woman to bring the Gospel to the women of North Cameroon and Chad.

She was the first mother with her two-month old white baby to travel up the Benue River to Garoua in an African dugout canoe, and from there, ten days over land on horseback or walking.

She was the first woman to plant flowers and fruit trees on eight new mission stations which we were privileged to begin the work on, and to build the first huts or houses.

She was the first woman to witness to the women and children in these places.

In short, most of her missionary career was a “first” – in other words a “pioneer” and yet she never made mention of what she had accomplished. The love for the work and joy in doing it urged her to continue until her days were finished.

If this isn't an example of stepping out of one's comfort zone for Christ, I don't know what is. This woman made an investment in people which continues to this day and into eternity... Fifty years following her death, I observed fruits of her labor in Cameroon last year. And I know God is using her remarkable story to inspire me to write a better, God-honoring, story with my life.

Grandma Herborg died before I could speak the word Grandma to her. If she only knew how humbled and honored I am to call her My Grandma...

The ugly maple

Some people compare the seasons in nature to four seasons of a life. When you’re very young, it’s the spring of your life; when you are old it’s the winter; and summer and fall are in between. Instead, I like to think we go through many seasonal cycles in life – not just one. And right now I think I’m in an early spring...

This realization came this afternoon when I was out on the front deck, drinking in the sun’s warmth and vitamin D. It’s an unbelievably balmy Wisconsin day today – 80 degrees Fahrenheit – and spring doesn’t officially begin until Tuesday! As I leaned my head on the back of the wicker chair and looked up at the sky through the branches of the yard's lone maple tree, I noticed something: the tree looked ugly.

Okay, so maybe trees don’t have emotions, but if this tree did, I think it would be feeling sad right now, at least concerning how it looked. Its branches don’t show any signs of green. Rather, they are an ugly gray-brown color. And at the ends of the twigs that shoot out from the branches, are roundish, thorny-looking, dark gray, berry-shaped blobs – that are far from pretty, or handsome. They aren’t even the slightest bit cute. So it’s difficult to believe that beautiful green leaves will one day soon emerge from them. Except I know it’s true because I have seen it happen year after year...

Today I wanted to say to the tree, “Hang on there old maple. In a few weeks you’re going to be looking quite lovely. You know those ugly, itchy, prickly things that are annoying your twigs right now? Well, hidden inside are lovely green leaves. You’re going to be beautiful!”

I then noticed the state of the rest of my surroundings... The grass isn’t pretty right now, either. It’s still clumped down from winter’s snows, and is wearing a sprinkling of dead leaves – ugly remnants of autumn’s long-past glory. The trees in other yards are all looking gray-brown and lifeless, too. There are no beautiful flowers in planters, and the human houses and streets look neglected from winter’s cold, dark, season. Yet, it’s next to impossible to miss the incredible hope that is in the air right now. I was anything but depressed as I soaked in the sunshine and let the warm breezes whisk my cares away.

Personally, I’m identifying with the ugly parts of spring. I’m not seeing any green growth in my life today. There’s no visible, lush, shade-providing, inspiring evidence of what’s flowing through my veins. There are no apparent signs that the ugly blobs of whatever is trying to ooze from God’s work inside of me is about to emerge green and beautiful. I do hope and trust this will happen - with all of my heart...but not because I’m making something beautiful. (I can’t even control results from my very best intentions!) I can trust this only because He is making something beautiful. His glory must burst forth. The ugly tree will soon be gloriously green.

Mind vs. heart

For the past few months I’ve had an unresolved battle going on in my mind…or is it my heart? The conflict, which I haven’t quite resolved yet, is over which rules: our mind or our heart? Does our mind (which I describe as our thoughts and knowledge) direct our heart (which I describe as our feelings and passion) or does our heart direct our mind? Or is it some combination of both? And why do I seem to need to know, anyway?

As one who can over think anything, even over-thinking, I’ve got a desire to, once and for all, defend, or else reduce my analytical practice. So that answers the last question... But it wasn’t until something I heard on American Idol recently, that I finally devoted some time and conversation with a friend to begin to truly sort the first question out. More than one Idol talent contestant this season has received feedback from judges that he or she needs to “stop thinking” when they are performing, and to instead, apparently, “sing from the heart.” “This was not your best performance,” one judge said, and another followed with, “You were thinking too much…you’ve got the talent…just sing!”

I found this somewhat frightening to hear... I’ve dabbled in music my whole life, so I totally agree that mechanical perfection alone is not perfection. If music is to be great, emotion must be involved. But what about outside of the music realm? I mean, I definitely don’t want sterile, even if technically perfect, results in life. (And my results to date aren't technically perfect, anyway...) I don’t want mechanical, or strained, or boring. I do want passion, and glory to God. I do want to move people...to be a positive influence. Could I be over-thinking things and sabotaging the God-pleasing results I’m seeking to accomplish?

Well, all this thinking led me to a scary question... Is it time to trust my heart more? To act, create, and simply and generally be more out of feeling and passion? If the Spirit of Jesus is in me, and by the grace of God, He is, can I simply be, without so much striving, worrying, analyzing, and…thinking?

So, honestly, I do feel a need to think about this some more. Yet my heart is telling me I may be on to something. And I have to say it feels good...

Armor of God

I've found there's only one way to approach each day as a follower Christ... It’s to get up every morning and put on the armor of God. I visibly go through the motions, when I remember, which may seem childlike and silly, but I’m a visual person, so it helps me think about the words I’m saying and to have a little fun with it too.

When Abby was visiting a month ago I taught it to her one morning. We started by putting on the belt of truth. (I get dressed in the order I read in Ephesians 6:14-17.) Her eyes immediately lit up at this need to use our imaginations. I knew she’d love this. Then we draped ourselves from head to toe in God’s righteousness, ending that sweep of our hands flowing in the air from head to ankle, inches from our body, by putting on shoes of peace. Immediately and abruptly we then stood tall, and boldly pushed our left arms straight out from our bodies with our hands held in high-five position for the shield of faith. We finished with our hands making an upside-down “V” for the helmet of salvation, then exuberantly raised our right arms high in the air with our fingers pointing, as we yelled, “and the sword of the Spirit!”

It was fun. We did it a couple of times together that morning so she could learn it, and then went on our way... Well, a couple of weekends later she was back at my house, with her mom and brothers this time. I came downstairs after showering and dressing and saw that she and Sam were engrossed in a Clifford video. Now they, like most kids I know (including my sons, years ago), get so engrossed in videos that it practically takes an act of God to bring them out of the fantasy and back to reality. Well, I guess it likely was an act of God this day because when I walked into the room, Abby turned away from the TV, smiled, tilted her head knowingly and said, “Grandma, did you remember to put on the armor of God?” I was shocked and speechless for a second or two. Not only had she remembered, but she broke out of Clifford’s exciting story to ask me if I remembered! And she caught me. I had forgotten.

I love children. They are so genuine and eager, and not too little or too big to be awesome followers of Jesus.

This blog features stories about God’s faithfulness through generations. It began with stories of my Grandpa and Grandma Revne as they pioneered to northeast Cameroon to tell people about Jesus and His love and plan for them. And while they were serving God far away, one day a granddaughter was born and I came into this world. And even though I hardly knew my grandparents while they walked this earth, I feel I know them so well now. Yet the story continues... Now I’m the adult. Not in Africa (right now, anyway), yet walking with my Lord through this life. And now there's another granddaughter. This time it's Abby, and there are six more dear young children. And with all of this life come stories, and stories, and stories...

I continue to get up each day and, when I remember, visibly put on the armor of God. I’ve found it’s the best way to walk through these days. It begins with the belt of truth…