Engagement ring sacrifice

This is the second of two posts my Grandpa titled “The Beginning of the Sudan Mission,” written about the years before he and my Grandma left for Africa (which they did in 1918).

At the next annual meeting of the Lutheran Brethren in Grand Forks, the interest in the mission had increased and the delegates decided to spread information about the mission, and work up interest among the people. I was called to travel in the interest of the mission, at which time I had much encouragement and many happy experiences.

At that time, the interest of the Lutheran Brethren Schools Foreign Bible Mission Society was very high and encouraging. Many of the students gave all that they could and sometimes even more than they were able to. One pastor in particular contributed considerably to the Bible School China Mission Society. When the offering was taken, he never gave less than $100. I visited his church one time and his wife, in her original way, placed a bill, larger than ordinarily given in the offering, under my dinner plate, and I knew that it was a contribution to the mission.

I had many such encouragements during my traveling for the mission, and before the next annual meeting, enough money had come in for the mission to send my wife and I to Africa. When we gathered for the following annual meeting, everyone realized that this was from the Lord and it was decided that the Lutheran Brethren should take up a mission in Africa, which for many years was called the Sudan Mission.

My wife and I at that time had joined the 59th Street Church in Brooklyn. These years of depression were hard times, even in New York and Brooklyn, but the people were much interested, and gave liberally to the mission – especially the girls working in the city. (This was because at that time there was very little work to be had, for the man to make money.)

Three years ago when we visited Norway [most likely in 1959], I heard about a couple whose interest in the mission back then had been so great that even when they were engaged to be married they gave up the buying of an engagement ring and gave that money to the mission. Even today, many are giving freely to the cause...

I am inspired by the Norwegian couple’s passion, yet it's clearly not the typical variety of passion - at least not the kind that's found in a romantic flick. It was their great interest in the African mission that led them to make a sacrifice of love toward a cause they believed in. How romantic is that?! In this age of big weddings, who would ever consider foregoing an engagement ring? Yet does anyone doubt that this sacrifice brought the couple great joy? And likely many blessings besides?

As I think about traveling to Africa in late January, I can’t help but remember a prayer from my youth: “Please God, don’t send me to Africa!” Seriously, with missions in my family history, I feared this... I loved God and wanted to please Him, but I really did not want Him to want me in Africa!

My high school girlfriends have reminded me of this prayer, with a smile, as they see my excitement for the upcoming trip. Granted, I’m only going for a couple of weeks, but nevertheless, I’m using every drop of vacation time to do so – and I can’t wait! While I don’t think this necessarily qualifies as a sacrifice, I do know it is now a great interest, which is bringing me much joy to explore, and to seek God’s will regarding...

Whoever is reading this – please allow me to ask, with kindness: What is your passion? Is there a great interest in your heart? And, have you considered this interest might be a God thing? He may be calling you to some work or sacrifice which will bring you great joy – and blessing to you and others, as well. I encourage you to explore, and seek God’s will regarding it!

The first dollar

The next two posts are from a section Grandpa titled “The Beginning of the Sudan Mission.” And to any newcomers – this is from a document my Grandpa, a missionary to Cameroon, Africa, beginning in 1918, dictated just months before he died in 1963.

While attending the Union Mission Institute in Brooklyn, NY, I met and got acquainted with two Danes. They, like me, were interested in the Sudan Mission. They had attended some mission courses in Denmark given by the Danish United Sudan Mission and had not gotten to go out to Africa for that mission. When they came to America for further education, their mission board was not much in favor of sending them out under them. As I had at the time no prospect of being sent by our mission, we planned and talked about organizing a mission together after the pattern of the Santal Mission. But as it happened, one of the men became ill and died in one or two years time, and the other man then applied to a mission in Liberia, and went out under that mission.

In the Lutheran Brethren things developed also (so that they finally decided to take up the Sudan Mission). In 1915 at the annual meeting in Fergus Falls, several missionaries were being sent to China. The mission board, who knew my desire to go as a missionary to Sudan, sent an inquiry to me asking if I would consider going to China if they called me. To this I had to reply that my heart was fixed on Africa and I could not at that time give it up.

During the annual meeting some of the leaders of the Lutheran Brethren had been thinking it over, and before the meeting closed, a Pastor suggested that perhaps this was the Lord’s guiding that the Lutheran Brethren should take up a mission field on the continent of Africa. A number of others also gave the thought much consideration.

The following summer, I taught Vacation Bible School in Superior, Wisconsin. I had a very fine opportunity to draw a large map of Sudan; it covered half of the classroom wall. There was considerable interest among the school children. Several dedicated their lives to missionary work. During my stay in Superior, someone recommended that I go to Bayfield, Wisconsin and conduct a series of meetings. While at Bayfield, an elderly lady, when she heard about the mission, gave a dollar for it. That was the first dollar that was ever given to the Sudan Project.

While I’m titling this “the first dollar,” and think it’s really cool that the first dollar toward the African mission was truly and simply one dollar, I gotta tell you I’m stuck on something else I read in this section. It’s that my Grandpa’s heart was fixed on Africa (end of his second paragraph, above). As I typed this, I couldn’t help but gulp, and ask: “What is my heart fixed on?”

At the Don Miller conference in Portland last month, one question that Don asked participants has stuck with me (even prior to reviewing my notes, which I’ve still not done...). “What do you want?” Don asked. He even wore this question on a t-shirt at one point. I’m not particularly fond of this question. In fact whenever I’m asked it, I tend to either squirm or get teary. It seems that either 1) I don’t know what I want, or 2) I know but am reluctant to admit it because then I may actually allow myself to desire it and, potentially, to be disappointed.

Grandpa knew what he wanted (to go to Africa) and stuck to it, even when a church board asked if they could send him to China. At the time, he didn’t have another mission option, but his “heart was fixed on Africa. “ He had confidence that there was a reason God placed Africa on his heart, and he stayed true to this conviction.

I’m really thinking that I need to: 1) figure out what I want, and/ or 2) admit what I want and risk disappointment, trusting that God has placed it on my heart for a reason. I’ll admit I’m somewhat envious of Grandpa’s fixed heart… Yet nobody is stopping me from fixing my heart on something. Except for me. So I’ll start with the obvious want. I want a heart that knows, and is willing to declare, what it wants.

Paradox of persecution

Another of Grandpa’s stories from his early days in Cameroon, Africa – back in the 1920s…

In the spring of 1928, I made an extensive trip up the Logone River to Ham, Djouman, Ere and Kim. From Ere, I crossed over the low swampy country to the west, and arrived on the other side of the village of Kolong in the Kelo district.

Here lived a big African chief who called himself the King of the Banana. (The name has no relation to the banana plant, but this tribe was known to outsiders and foreigners as ‘banana’. This was because of their greetings. Whenever they met, they greeted with the word ‘banana’ which means ‘my friend’.) This chief prided himself by having a large lion in a den which he fed one goat every day.

When we brought the gospel to those people, the chiefs of lesser rank opposed the gospel because they knew they couldn’t keep on subduing and oppressing their people as they had done before. So they brought their complaint before the head chief saying that the Christians would not obey them and pay taxes. Consequently the chief put the Christians in a form of prison and they were persecuted.

When a preacher from America visited our field in Africa, I took him up to this place. There must have been more than twenty prisoners at this time. I pleaded to the chief, of course, and he released some of the Christians. But in time, he put others in prison again. This continued until the Christians finally fled across the river into another district. Here many of these groups of Christians settled down and today make up the bulk of God’s people in that district.

This we may compare with the persecution of the church in Jerusalem when people fled to Samaria and other places; and the gospel spread as never before. Not only in the case of the church of Jerusalem is this true but the whole of church history tells about the spreading of the gospel because of persecution.

We have continually tried to tell this to the national Christians, and they have been willing to suffer for Christ’s name in order that the gospel might go out to others. Persecution of the Christians has never stopped the spreading of the gospel. Many countries have been evangelized through the persecution of Christians in those localities.

The past year or so, I’ve become intrigued by the number of paradoxes that exist. I even started a list many months ago to begin keeping track of them. (But I didn’t keep track very well and am not sure where that list is... Nevertheless, I continue to notice them, and it seems my list would be pretty long by now.) The African Christians in 1928 were part of a paradox. For as they were persecuted and stopped from sharing the good news about life in Christ, the result was that the good news spread. It’s a reminder that when God’s Spirit works in hearts, and His Word is shared, not only can persecution not stop it, but it will likely advance it!

The real thing

Finally getting back to Grandpa’s stories... He’s speaking about his early days in Cameroon, Africa – in the 1920s.

There was a revival or awakening among the nationals in Bosgoi. It was remarkable, in that it was no respecter of persons. Pagan priests like Dangdang and Fokna, old men like Frumsia and old women like Pata; young boys like Ole and Haune, Semdi and Ware; wild warriors like Pirsu; bright and intelligent boys and girls who learn to read and write in a few months; unintelligent men who felt it was impossible to learn – all these were accepted equally in God’s great salvation. This is undoubtedly what Paul meant when he wrote to the Romans, “I am not ashamed of the Gospel of Christ, for it is the power of God unto salvation to everyone who believeth, to the Jew first, and also to the Greek.”

This awakening in Bosgoi illustrates this truth that it isn’t by knowledge or intelligence, but whosoever believeth on Jesus is saved and transformed from the children of wrath unto new creatures in Christ Jesus. This awakening wasn’t confined to the village of Bosgoi only; it spread from home to home, village to village; it spread westward to the villages of Hoyang and Dachega where scores of people were converted. The gospel took hold especially in Dachega and soon there were 100 members added to the church, many of them young people.

It was a real joy to come and visit them when they had their meetings – Sundays as well as prayer meetings. There was wonderful fellowship among the children of God. Later, the gospel spread across the lake and through the woods and brush country until eventually it reached Gounou Gaya. From there it later could spread to the surrounding areas…

Grandpa’s words remind me of the power of God’s Spirit working in people’s hearts, preparing them and calling them to hear the truth and accept it. Grandpa did the physical work of going and speaking, but as cool as I think his going and speaking was – it was his God who changed people’s hearts. It was God who brought people the joy of being free from the power of sin and death. Grandpa went to share the good news, and trusted God to use His truth to change hearts.

And how does one know this heart changing is real? For me, the last paragraph says it all – “there was wonderful fellowship among the children of God.” Unless you’ve experienced that fellowship - brought by the Spirit of God - first-hand, you can’t imagine how great it is.

I had that fellowship with the pastor on the plane to Denver (previous post); I had it at the Portland conference with women from Branson and Phoenix, who I met for the first time; I have it with a man from Cameroon that I’ve never met except by email and phone (he’s in the states getting his PhD so he can go back and teach in a Cameroon seminary). I could go on and on…

It’s both fun, and reassuring, to read that Grandpa witnessed that fellowship immediately among the new believers in a 1920s Cameroon. This is not something that can be manufactured; it’s the real thing.

In this together

I'll get back to my Grandparents' stories very soon... My call to write their stories actually was a significant reason I decided to attend a conference in Portland - the one I mentioned in my very first blog post - and one I'm about to walk to in a few minutes. Before I leave, however, I'd like to post something I wrote this morning...

I’m in Portland right now, snuggled in a terry robe in my hotel room, praising God for this journey. While I’m super excited to be in Portland, the journey I’m praising Him for is so much bigger than this trip. It’s the journey of my life, which is mapped out in a tapestry that I will not be able to view the completed result of until eternity. Yet I get glimpses of it now... Snippets of a small section of the tapestry here and there… Glimpsed views of intertwining, colorful and pleasing combinations of threads that are being lovingly stitched together to create a piece that is so amazing, and so thrilling to see, that it will cause every viewer to fall on their face and worship God. It’s an expansive piece of artwork which includes the lives of all of God’s current and future children – those who accept His salvation – and live with Him forever.

Yesterday on the way to Portland I got one of those snippet views of my thread... My day began at 5 a.m. CST and ended at 10:30 p.m. PST and is a day I’ll never forget – for many reasons, and many thoughts and conversations – but one in particular stands out and wants to be shared. It was my first flight from Minneapolis to Denver. I found my window seat in a smaller, United plane and got out a book, wondering who would be joining me in the aisle seat, and if it would be a silent, reading flight, or one with conversation. A very pleasant looking man – I'm guessing in his late thirties, but I’m a terrible judge of age, claimed the seat and sat down. We exchanged hellos and then he commented on the book in my lap, and our two-hour, non-stop flight and conversation began.

This man is a pastor, come to find out, and he’s on his way home to Tucson, after officiating a wedding in Minnesota. I told him I was on my way to a Donald Miller conference in Portland and he has read Don Miller, so camaraderie began and we launched into a conversation that was largely about authentic Christianity and what that means and looks like in today' world. We discussed our passion to engage believers in loving, and interacting more with our world, and ways to do that. He told me of some cool programs at his church that are reaching out to partner with the secular community in various non-faith specific efforts, and of a program within the church that makes it easy for people without church backgrounds or beliefs to see what following Christ is all about, in an easy, non-judgmental and open way.

By the time we landed in Denver, it was clear to me, and I’m fairly sure to him, that our seat assignments had been no accident. God’s Spirit had been with us and I was encouraged and full of joy from chatting with this brother in Christ. Yet there was to be an added reason for joy…

As our plane arrived at the gate and people began stirring and gathering their carry-ons, the lady in the seat directly in front of me turned around, and her husband, slightly, as well. They were probably in their late sixties/early seventies (again, I'm a poor judge of age) and she said, “I’m sorry, but I have to tell you that I’ve been listening to your entire conversation. When you started talking, I thought to myself, ‘now this is something I’m interested in,’ so I tuned in and have listened to it all. I want to tell you that it really blessed me (her eyes were a little moist at this point), and I want to say thank you.”

This was awesome… To realize that you can talk for two hours to a virtual stranger, and bless another, unknowingly, is surely a God thing. We smiled at her and thanked her for telling us and then the Pastor looked at me and asked, “What was that one key thing you said to me again?” I thought a second, and said, “Oh boy, I don’t know if I remember - why don’t we ask her?” and smiled at my joke, as she was now part of our conversation. She said, “Oh yes, you told him: ‘Don’t settle!’” And we all laughed – as she was right. Then he and I exchanged business cards, and we all said our goodbyes.

It strikes me now, in a big way, that later today I will attend the conference – the reason I took this trip. But as I do, I’m very aware that the reason I think I may be doing something (i.e. attending a conference in Portland) may or may not be the primary reason. I think I’m out here to become a bit more inspired in my quest to live a better story with my remaining days here on earth. Yet even as I’m seeking to live a better story, God is working through me to help me – live a better story.

As I make my way out of this comfy hotel bed and into this new day in Portland, I’m excited to see the city and attend this conference. But especially, to see what God has in store next... I can’t wait to meet Don, the author and conference host/speaker, and people who will encourage me, and who I hope to encourage, as well. Yet this event is simply one more tool, one more needle, if you will, which is being used to stitch the amazing tapestry God is creating. The highlight of my trip may have happened before I even landed in Denver...

May God bless and encourage you my dear friends and family who are reading this,and have encouraged me in this journey so much more than you could know! Your blog, and live, comments mean a lot! And if there’s someone I don’t know who is listening in...I appreciate you, and ask that God will bless you, too. Welcome to the story – which you are all, also, very much a part of.
Always,
Annie

How to die (part 4 of 4)

The last lesson Dad taught me concludes with this post... It was written in 2003, not long after Dad went home.

When I looked at the body of my Dad lying in the nursing home bed and realized, so quickly and certainly, that he was no longer in that body, I felt lonely, and the mourning began. But strangely, with the tears and sorrow, and the dull ache that was spreading through my soul as I began missing the dad of my life, another emotion was about to emerge – one I hadn’t fully expected.

After Mom, my sisters, and I hugged and cried for awhile, a nurse knocked on the door and peeked in. We told her that he had gone and she cried and hugged us. She said she could tell he was a wonderful man and she was so sorry for our loss, but was glad he didn’t have to suffer any more. While the funeral home was being called to come and take Dad’s body, we gathered his personal items together, and I seized this opportunity to make a visit to the ladies room.

When I closed the door and had a moment alone, it suddenly hit me. Dad was home! He was with His Savior. He had crossed over into eternity right before our eyes. He had run the race, fought the good fight, and won. “You did it Dad!” I cried. I was suddenly smiling, and tears of joy were streaming down my face, mingling with the tears of sorrow from moments earlier. “You did it! You’re home!” I said over and over as the reality of his triumph sunk in. It was indescribable joy.

July 13, 2003 was my Dad’s – Harold Revne’s – last day on this earth. It was exactly two weeks from the day he, Mom and I prayed in their living room that he would go. Only two weeks…the miracle had happened.

July 13, 2003 was also Dad’s first day face to face with his Savior. Suddenly eternity and heaven seemed amazingly close, and extremely welcoming.

My Dad taught me a lot throughout his life, but his last lesson was the greatest one of all. He taught me how to die. What lesson is more important? Since the Garden of Eden, we are all sentenced to die. On the very day we were born our bodies began their countdown to death. Death is the most certain event of our life, yet how many of us truly prepare for it?

Dad taught me that there’s only one way to prepare for eternity. You must accept the sacrifice of Jesus’ death on the cross. Getting that right is the most important thing in life. If you don’t get it right, you may very well “gain the whole world, but lose your soul.” Preparing correctly for eternity isn’t tricky, and no one is excluded from the offer of God’s grace, but ignoring it or thinking you are above needing it is both common and, frankly, scary. Dad taught me that there is absolute truth, and he taught me to find it in God’s word.

As I watched Dad pass to the other side of eternity, it was confirmed to me that the message my faith is clinging to is true. It is truth from an almighty and loving God, and not simply a human concoction. Dad’s peace during those last moments, when he could no longer respond to us, but clearly heard us, is something I will never forget. I know I will remember it when it is my time to cross over, and it will ease my fear. Death is ugly. In fact, I don’t think there could be much, if anything, worse than the physical dying process of a body. It’s Satan’s last hurrah. It is the final horrid outcome of sin for mortal beings. But Dad did not die alone. He died in the presence of, and with the help of, his Savior who knew exactly what he was going through – and comforted, and helped him. And Dad did not stay dead. His soul was immediately with the Savior he trusted, in heaven. He left his dying body, with the promise of a new, eternal one, in an eternal place.

Since we are all sentenced to die, is any lesson greater than learning how? Is any preparation more important? Thank you, Dad. Thank you, God.

So it’s now seven years later... I’m seven years older and closer to my own death (although I hope it’s a long time from now!). I am comforted even now by what was impressed on my heart when Dad died. When things get rough, and they will, and at the seemingly very worst of life – I know that I will not be alone. The Savior I am trusting will carry me through and bring me home. Where the best part of my life will begin and never end…

How to die (part 3 of 4)

The last lesson Dad taught me, continues (written in 2003, shortly after he died.)...

The next day, Monday, Dad was moved to a nursing home. That Friday I got another call at work saying, “You might want to come; it may be soon.” Dad’s family again gathered around him, singing, praying, looking into his loving eyes, and wondering how many gazes we had left. As we said good-night to him, he kissed each of us, raised his arm in a parting wave, and smiled. We marveled at his display of love for us while in such discomfort...

I returned the following afternoon and spent a couple of hours with him. They were miserable hours for me – I can’t imagine what they must have been for Dad. All I know is that the whole time I was in his room (the only one there at the time) I was silently pleading with God to take him home and release him from his pain and discomfort. I sensed he knew I was there but he seemed to be sleeping or perhaps in a semi-conscious state. He was clearly miserable as he coughed, and breathed with difficulty. I cried, pleaded with God, and wondered how long it would be…

That night at home I felt so helpless from not being able to ease Dad’s pain and discomfort. I was discouraged. I desperately wanted to do something to lift his spirits, or to whisper comforting words to him, but it seemed all words had been used up and there was nothing left to say or do. As I wandered around the house, trying to accomplish meaningless tasks, my mind was continually on Dad. Suddenly, seemingly miraculously, God gave me perfect words for him. I had this urge to drive to the home and immediately share them with him to see if they would bring the comfort I was sure they would, but I decided to wait until morning.

I woke up on Sunday morning slightly relieved that Dad hadn’t gone during the night because I now had some new, hopefully comforting, words to give him. In fact when I got the phone call that morning saying that he may be going and we should come quickly, I really wanted to get there in time to talk to him. When I arrived, my Mom and sisters were already there. We hugged, with tears, realizing that this would probably be the morning we had both dreaded and anticipated. Dad’s eyes were shut and he did not seem to be responding to us but the nurse told us to talk to him anyway, because "hearing is the last sense to go." I’m so glad she told us that. It was all the encouragement I needed... I placed one of my hands gently over one of his swollen hands and my other hand rested on his cold forehead. Then I leaned in, close to his left ear, so he could hear me.

“Dad,” I began, with the words whispered to my heart the night before, “I don’t know what you must be going through right now, but there is someone who does. It’s Jesus. He died - on a cross - so he knows exactly what you’re going through. And He can help you. And He didn’t stay dead, and you won’t either. He rose from the dead and you will too. Not because you’re such a wonderful man, though I think you’re pretty wonderful, but because you’re trusting in Him. You’re saved, Dad. Don’t let Satan tell you otherwise. You’re saved, and you’re going to be with Jesus.” Then I added, “And don’t worry about Mom, you know we’ll take care of her, and Jesus will too, like He’s taken care of you.”

As tears streamed down my face, I sensed God’s truth was releasing Dad and he was letting go. I quickly turned to Mom and my sisters and said, “I think he’s going.” They immediately came closer, as they had stepped back to let me speak to him. We gently covered his hands with ours, and Mom caressed his cheek. We quoted Bible verses out loud, said some spontaneous words of prayer, and with many tears said our final, loving good-byes.

Each breath became farther apart from the last one and then, in a minute or two, there were no more. Dad had gone home.


(Next post...the best part...)