Posts Tagged ‘life’

DECEMBER 15, 2025 ARCHIBALD THE ANKLE UPDATE

December 15, 2025

It’s been a little while since Archibald has weighed in. After 6 weeks post injury and 5 weeks in an ankle brace, Archibald now has an orthopedic walking boot. The X-Ray this week indicates there is some healing; however, when I move wrong, I have mild pain. Is there any motion in the fracture if I accidentally put weight on the foot? That’s tough to say. Hopefully, the walking boot is going to stabilize things further; however, it remains to be seen whether I will be able to return to work before Christmas.

Guaging healing by the lack of pain is quite difficult for two reasons: first, I naturally tolerate a great deal of pain; second, I have suffered with fibromyalgia for more than 22 years, resulting in a baseline of pain before adding any pain from an injury. My natural response to pain is blunted.

As I continue to whirl around the house in a wheelchair or hop around on one leg, grasping the furniture, I also continue to make new observations. It’s shocking how many parts of our household are not handicapped-accessible. I continue to have to move things down to a level where I can grasp them from a wheelchair. I have learned to use the rubber chairs in our dining room to scoot around by resting my left knee on the chair while I propel myself with my good foot. I am also becoming an expert at bathing in one of those chairs with a towel under the chair to catch the rinse water. Having a chair with a back on it is much more stable than the shower chairs sometimes used in America.

When we went into our regional capital of Tamale on Thursday, I quickly learned that most public buildings are not handicapped-accessible. Even places that have wheelchair ramps have short ramps too steep for the average wheelchair operator.

The wheelchair I am using is made of light metal, and I doubt it would stand up to long-term use. I continue to wonder why someone in Ghana does not take up the production of simple sturdy wheelchairs as well as bicycle wheelchairs. I am certain there is a big need for such things, particularly in villages. Yet another item that should be produced locally is elbow crutches with molded fittings, rather than fittings that pivot. Those pivoting fittings can constitute a hazard when trying to take the crutches off or put them on.

For now, Archibald and I are continuing to use the wheelchair with limited use of the crutches. I just wish fractures came with gauges indicating healing-25%, 50 %, 75 %, etc.

Despite remaining in the house, I am still working, still taking calls from Kids Ward and NICU. Bob is still handing out breakfast biscuits to the kids on the ward. And we are still helping settle bills for medicine, hospital stays, and transfusions for indigent patients.

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ARCHIBALD THE ANKLE UPDATE NOVEMBER 26, 2025 CRUTCHES!!!

November 26, 2025

One of the many lessons Archibald the Ankle is teaching me is the value of various kinds of crutches. Several years ago, we helped Taala Ruth, a young girl with terrible orthopedic problems. Eventually, Taala reached the point that she can walk without crutches, even though she has undergone a Girdlestone procedure, removing the ball of her left thigh bone because of infection, and has a fused right knee due to infection, injury, and malnutrition at a critical time. It was only a few months ago that Taala gave back her elbow crutches, the same crutches I am now using.

For those needing crutches, elbow crutches are far superior to those with cross pieces that fit in the armpit. The danger of armpit crutches is that if one leans on the crosspiece, one can easily put too much pressure on the nerves, damaging them permanently and making it impossible to use the hand and forearm. A trick with these crutches is for them to be short enough that there is at least 2-3 inches between the armpit and the top of the crutch. All the patient’s weight should go on the hand grips and not on the top cross pieces. The advantage of armpit crutches is that they are simple and easily manufactured, making them the predominant type of crutch in rural Africa.

Elbow crutches depend on pressure on the hand grips with the elbow supports keeping the upper arm stable. But not all elbow crutches are created equal. When we looked for crutches for Taala Ruth, we got the best ones we could; however, they have mobile clips that fit around the upper arm. Threading one’s arm through these clips can be difficult, and removing the crutches when entering a vehicle or sitting down can also be difficult. There are more expensive kinds of elbow crutches that have a rigid support molded and attached to the crutch. Such crutches are easier to handle because they are less tricky when the user wants to put them aside.

Remember that my condition is not permanent. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving in the U.S. and I am deeply grateful for many things:

  1. I am grateful that my injury was minor and that I should heal within a few weeks without operation.
  2. I am grateful that the pain is reducing daily. The pitfall is that I might forget and put more weight on my injured leg than I should.
  3. I am grateful that my injury demonstrated the fact that obstructing a public path with a log might lead to disastrous injuries. Had a local motorcycle rider hit that log, he could have flown off his bike, landing on his head and snapping his neck, dying instantly. I do, however, agree that our local motorcycle riders and motoking drivers constitute a public menace. Controlling these people is a big problem.
  4. I am grateful that we had crutches at the house and that we were able to secure a wheelchair.
  5. I am grateful that I am able to maneuver around our home.
  6. I am grateful that I am able to rest. Until my injury, I had not taken annual leave.
  7. I am grateful that I am learning to handle videos and to convert Power Point presentations into videos for upload onto Youtube.
  8. I am grateful for the loving care my husband and our friends give me daily.
  9. I thank God that because of my injury, I will be able to celebrate Thanksgiving without worrying that I might be called to an emergency at the hospital. I cannot tell the numbers of holiday celebrations that have been forfeited or postponed because of my work. I have also been able to attend two weddings without interruption due to my injury.
  10. I thank God that He continues to care for us and to provide. Despite my injury, we are still helping support patients and their families with medicines, blood, and feeding.
  11. Most of all, I thank God for sending His Son Jesus Christ to live as a sinless man, to die for all of our sins, and to defeat death, hell, and the grave! Because He lives, we live also.

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ARCHIBALD THE ANKLE UPDATE NOVEMBER 20, 2025 OF POWER TAKE OFFS AND WHEELCHAIR BRAKES

November 20, 2025

I learned to drive tractors when I was 10 years old, and one of the many lessons Dad taught me was to respect the power take off. The power take off shaft sat below the platform holding the driver’s seat. We connected power take offs to mounted corn pickers, self-unloading wagons, and a host of other implements.

The power take off transmitted power from the tractor to such things as snapping rolls on corn pickers, the rollers that gathered in the corn stalks. Another potential disaster was self-unloading wagons. These wagons had an auger at the base of the wagon that would steadily feed the grain out a spout. In the days when small feedlots were operating, many farmers would drive these wagons along feed bunks, dumping feed for their cattle. Disabling the power take off was not a big deal; however, there were many people who were so impatient that they would stop the tractor but not disengage the power take off. The results of this impatience were disastrous, leading to loss of fingers, hands, arms, feet, legs, and sometimes even life. Anyone foolish enough to be riding on top of a load of feed when the power take off was engaged was simply begging for a horrific injury. Some people have been injured or killed when their clothing has caught in the rotating power take off shaft.

In an effort to keep weight off Archibald, my injured left ankle, I am scooting around our house in a cheapie wheelchair. This morning as I was exiting the bathing room, scooting one of our blue rubber chairs to the door, and then transferring to the wheelchair, I began considering the potential for disaster if the brakes were not properly set on my wheelchair. To set the brakes, I must pull back on two levers, one over each wheel. While those maneuvers only take a few seconds, there’s a real temptation to leave the brakes off in hopes that the wheelchair will not suddenly scoot out from under me, leaving me to crash on the floor. And as I was reminding myself of the absolute need for patience, I remembered the lessons of the power take off.

Isaiah 60:22 tells us, “…At the right time, I, the LORD, will make it happen.” Many times, we want progress and results and we want them immediately. Sadly, most of us are far more likely to pray, “Lord, give me patience NOW!!!”

Somehow, we don’t think that the God who has spoken the universe into existence with a single word, the God who has created us and who knows us better than we do ourselves, that same God doesn’t really know what He is doing and should obey our whimsies and demands. We are so impatient that we are unwilling to take the smallest steps to ensure our own safety, such as disengaging the power take off on a tractor or setting the brakes on a wheelchair. Many of us are so ungrateful that we blame God when disasters strike, even though we have failed to take the necessary steps to prevent them.

This morning, Archibald and I have made it safely through the bathing room and dressing areas and are now ensconced in the sitting room, where we will spend most of the rest of the day. (Chair yoga is becoming a thing!) But I continue to pray for all those who must use wheelchairs-and tractors with power take offs, that we all will have patience so that our foolishness will not result in disasters.

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ARCHIBALD THE ANKLE UPDATE November 19, 2025-BATHING AS AN OLYMPIC SPORT

November 19, 2025

If you were able to prance into your shower this morning and bathe to your heart’s content, thank God! Today Archibald and I are describing the challenges of getting clean while wheelchair-bound.

My first challenge is selecting clean clothes and deciding what I might wash while I am bathing. This activity requires my transferring from the wheelchair to my bed, close to my dresser, reaching for clean clothes, and placing them in a safe location in the wheelchair. Bob has bought me a nice cloth bag to hang from the back of the wheelchair, so that helps.

Next, I maneuver my wheelchair out of our bedroom and into our bathing area-no mean feat because these corridors were not designed with the handicapped in mind. I cannot enter the bathing room with the wheelchair, so I transfer to one of our blue rubber chairs, being careful to stabilize the chair so that it will not scoot out from under me. This transfer requires putting on the brakes of the wheelchair, placing my good foot in front of the chair, grabbing the arms of the chair, and then kneeling with my injured leg on the seat of the chair. I can then scoot the blue chair back into the bathing area, taking care to put a large towel on the floor to catch the water I am about to spill on it.

Bob brings warm water each morning and pours it into a small bucket sitting in the corner of the shower stall. Using a traditional sponge, what used to be called a sap), I scrub myself, mostly sitting in the chair, and then scoop water from that small bucket, pouring it over myself and allowing the towel on the floor to absorb it. I figure we can buy more towels a lot more cheaply than for me to have an operation. I dry myself off with another towel, hanging it on the towel rack, and then turn, placing my knee on the center of the seat of the blue chair and scooting back across the floor to my wheelchair, where I will get dressed and replace my ankle brace. When I am fit, I can bathe in 5-10 minutes; this process takes nearly 20-30 minutes. And I must rinse out the clothes I slept in before leaving the bathing area.

Why am I bothering to document my minor struggles? I continue to emphasize that my condition is temporary; if I behave wisely, I hope my leg will heal in 6 weeks. But all over the world, millions of people are trapped in wheelchairs with no hope of release. When the house we live in was built in 1996, nobody thought about handicapped accessibility. Some of the doorways in our house are so narrow that it’s all I can do to get the wheelchair through without injuring my hands as I push the wheels. If anything I write helps raise awareness so people will build houses with wider doorways and larger corridors, it will be worth it. Never assume that because you are young and active today, you might never need a wheelchair or crutches. And you might find yourself caring for a crippled loved one. As the tro-tro sayings tell us, “No condition is permanent.”

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NOVEMBER 17, 2025-In Memoriam: Russell Lowell Bjorling December 1, 1950-November 17, 2021

November 18, 2025

My brother Rus, his wife Carol, and his daughters, Elizabeth and Amanda

“I am a bear of little brain.” Winnie the Poo

The date should have meant more to me. All day, I kept wondering what was special about November 17th? Oh my heart! Four years ago in August 2021, we returned to America because my brother-in-law Tink was dying from complications of Agent Orange. God brought us back just in time, for we spent only two days with Tink before finding him dead in his house. But we didn’t realize that one of my brothers was also struggling with health problems.

My brother Rus loved Jesus, his family, and animals and farming. Rus was brilliant, a born comedian with impeccable timing, and a passion for learning, whether it was scientific facts or Bible studies. Rus was also a teacher, and one of his students shocked an Israeli guide when she began pointing out landmarks while on a trip to Israel. “Where did you learn all this?” the guide asked. “Oh, my Bible study teacher taught me,” was the answer.

There have been two times in my life when I have noticed small things about a loved one’s health that later turned out to contribute to their deaths. When my parents visited me in the fall of 1979, I noticed my mother had developed “paper money skin,” typical for someone on steroids. Although I attributed it to aging, I was more correct than I realized, for even then Mom was developing small cell lung cancer that made its own steroids. The immune suppression from that cancer allowed the development of fungal brain abscesses that eventually killed Mom several months later.

When we stayed with Rus and his wife Carol, we went for a walk in a nearby park, and I noticed that Rus was behaving like someone with chronic lung disease. Little did I realize that Russ’s lungs had suffered major damage after years of exposure to hog dust and ammonia fumes from poorly ventilated hog confinement setups. (Years before that, one doctor looked at Rus’s chest x-ray and said, “Well, if you’ll give up smoking, your lungs might improve.” Rus looked at the doctor aghast and replied, “But I’ve never smoked in my life.”)

We’ll never know how Rus was exposed to COVID, but in early November 2021, Rus came down with COVID pneumonia. That was a time when controversies raged over proper treatment as well as vaccination, and horror stories about bad side effects of vaccination were beginning to appear. Would it have helped had Rus been vaccinated? Who knows? One of our friends at church had a 43-year-old son who was a computer programmer…until a COVID vaccination damaged his brain so severely that he could no longer do his work. The big problem for Rus was the previous lung damage. Adding COVID to chronic lung disease proved more than Rus’s body could handle.

By the time we learned of Rus’s illness, we were already in Texas, preparing to leave America November 10th for Ghana. Our dilemma was real, for Christmas was approaching, and at Christmastime, our mission hospital in Saboba was-and remains-one of the few facilities at which patients could get operations in our area. We discussed the situation with Rus and his family and prayed fervently. Finally, we chose to return to Saboba, realizing that we might have seen Rus for the last time on earth.  

Rus died with his wife and daughters around him on November 17, 2021. At Rus’s funeral they played “I’ll be Waiting on the Far Side Banks of Jordan.” Here are the lyrics:
“Far Side Banks Of Jordan”

I believe my steps are growing wearier each day
Still I’ve got a journey on my mind
Lures of this old world have ceased to make me want to stay
and my one regret is leaving you behind

If it proves to be his will that I’m the first to go
And somehow I’ve a feeling it will be
When it comes time to travel likewise don’t feel lost
For I will be the first one that you’ll see

And I’ll be waiting on the far side banks of Jordan
I’ll be waiting drawing pictures in the sand
And when I see you coming I will rise up with a shout!
And come running through the shallow waters reaching for your hand

Through this life we’ve laboured hard to earn our meager fare
It’s brought us trembling hands and failing eyes
I’ll just rest here on this shore and turn my eyes away
And then you’ll come then we’ll see paradise.

And I’ll be waiting on the far side banks of Jordan
I’ll be waiting drawing pictures in the sand
And when I see you coming I will rise up with a shout!
And come running through the shallow waters reaching for your hand

For now, Rus is waiting on the far side banks of Jordan. But we do not mourn as those who have no hope, for we KNOW our Redeemer lives and that one day, we will all be together in heaven. So Rus, keep waiting. God still has things for us to do here, but one day, we will cross that Jordan and we will be together with Jesus for eternity.


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IN MEMORIAM BILLY GENE PROCTOR SEPTEMBER 22, 2025 PART 3 COMMON SENSE IS NOT COMMON! AND NEITHER IS KINDNESS! BILLY HAD AN ENDLESS SUPPLY OF BOTH!

September 25, 2025

I’ve said it before, but one of the things we appreciated most about Billy Proctor was his endless fund of common sense. These days, we keep realizing that common sense is anything but common; in other words, getting good advice that actually works is a major challenge.

In a previous generation, those in the military rejoiced when they encountered recruits who were farm kids, for these people had not only learned how to work diligently but they also were used to coming up with practical solutions on the fly. Billy P. was that kind of a guy-someone who could analyze details, identify fundamental problems, and devise practical workable solutions. We can’t count the number of times we would call Billy, posing problems, and Billy would always come up with solutions. If Billy couldn’t come up with solutions himself, he would seek out advice or ask leading questions that would aid us in finding solutions.

Billy was also incredibly kind. Billy’s mama had raised him right, so he was a true Southern gentleman who would be polite under all circumstances, even when someone was trying to insult him. Even when Billy found himself engaged in an argument, he remained calm and courteous. Billy was also genuinely kind to all those around him. Repeatedly, we would learn that Billy had quietly helped someone or that Miss Carla and he were volunteering in an outreach to those in inner city Memphis or in some other helping ministry. The Proctors were faithful supporters of the efforts of Getwell Church to aid the community. It was also common to find the Proctors carrying food to shut-ins, offering rides to those needing transport to church or doctors’ appointments, etc.

As a faithful member of Getwell Church, Billy also helped represent us to the church at large and to several Sunday School classes. We can only pray that God will raise up someone to continue to spread our story at Getwell.

Billy was a faithful friend. Until the last few years of Billy’s life, he got together weekly with a group of men to eat lunch at a local restaurant. There were also the men who attended early morning Bible studies and prayer groups, a passion Billy shared with my husband Bob whenever we were staying with the Proctors.

Billy was a CPA’s CPA, someone so passionate about figures and reports being complete that he couldn’t stand to do shoddy work. This passion for correctness was evident in every task Billy tackled. Billy generously applied his talents to helping us manage our finances, multiplying donated monies to fund a host of projects at our mission hospital. Had we adequately compensated Billy for his work, he would have been a millionaire.

We continue to pray for Billy’s family and friends even as we grieve our own loss. The Navajo Indians have a saying that someone is a “valuable man,” meaning that individual’s contributions to society are immeasurable. By anybody’s standards, Billy Gene Proctor was a valuable man. Our loss is heaven’s gain. Rest well, friend, we’ll see you at the feet of Jesus.

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IN MEMORIAM BILLY GENE PROCTOR SEPTEMBER 22, 2025 PART 2 PRECIOUS MEMORIES

September 23, 2025
  1. Precious mem’ries, unseen angels,
    Sent from somewhere to my soul;
    How they linger, ever near me,
    And the sacred past unfold.
    1. Refrain:
      Precious mem’ries, how they linger,
      How they ever flood my soul;
      In the stillness of the midnight,
      Precious, sacred scenes unfold.
  2. Precious father, loving mother,
    Fly across the lonely years;
    And old home scenes of my childhood,
    In fond memory appear.
  3. As I travel on life’s pathway,
    Know not what the years may hold;
    As I ponder, hope grows fonder,
    Precious mem’ries flood my soul.

As the movie “Driving Miss Daisy” ends, the theme music continues to play, and scenes from Hoke and Miss Daisy’s relationship flash across the screen. That’s how I feel remembering Billy Proctor. The sweet pictures just keep coming. The music in the background is country Gospel with fiddles, banjoes, and guitars.

Billy loved to travel. After spending three years working in Mexico at the beginning of his career and traveling throughout the United States for Terminix, Billy was a travel specialist who had more practical tips than the average web site. Billy could tell you the best times to travel, when to catch the red-eye specials, when to use your frequent flier miles, and when to hold on to them. Back when travel agents were still available, we used Billy’s friend Harriet on many occasions. In his work, Billy also traveled extensively through the South and was an expert on the best local restaurants. We fondly remember one place near Morgan City, Louisiana, housed in an old airplane hanger that had outstanding Cajun food.

Eventually Billy became the head of the IRS Division of Terminix and it was a tremendous shock when he went in to work one morning at the age of 63, only to face a horrible choice: move to Chicago with his division or take early retirement with a retirement bonus. Billy chose to remain in Olive Branch, preferring to practice as a CPA with a select clientele. While that choice was difficult, it gave Billy the freedom to cherish children and grandchildren and to travel more extensively. Meanwhile, Carla continued to work as a social worker facilitating adoptions for several more years, creating many happy families.

Billy, and Carla became globe trotters. Israel, Scotland with the Edinburgh Tattoo, leaf tours in the fall-Billy and Carla did it all. It was no surprise when I learned that Billy and Carla were two of the few wedding guests who made it to a destination wedding in the Florida Keys, for that was typical for the Proctors.

Billy was a passionate follower of Jesus Christ. Living close to Getwell Church allowed Billy the chance to attend men’s breakfasts and Bible studies as well as small group meetings with Miss Carla. For many years, Billy was involved in the financial affairs of the churches he attended-first at Faith United Methodist and later at Getwell.

One of Billy’s most endearing characteristics was his enormous fund of common sense. As a Mississippi farm boy, Billy never “got beyond his raising” but always remembered the practicalities of situations. We frequently used Billy as a sounding board for a variety of decisions and always found his advice to be sound and helpful.

As the days go on, there will be more visions. For now, we can label these glimpses as more precious memories.

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REFLECTIONS ON TIME AND HOW THERE’S NEVER ENOUGH OF IT

September 18, 2025

September 18, 2025

Today would have been my sister-in-law Roxanne’s 75th birthday. Sadly, Roxanne died two days ago. We knew Roxanne was in failing health and we desperately wanted to be with her one more time, but events in the mission hospital where we work in northeastern Ghana precluded our leaving, and time caught up with us. We comfort ourselves with the fact that my husband Bob called his sister every night, asking about her day, praying for her, and exchanging corny jokes from old TV programs. Roxanne’s death underscores a point: We can never spend too much time with those we love, for one day time runs out and we are left to mourn by ourselves.

We first left America for Ghana in 1988. Through the years, we have lost parents, step-parents, and siblings. We were blessed to be in the U.S. and spend time with my two brothers-in-law before they died. On the other hand, we left America in November 2021, knowing that my beloved brother Russell was dying with COVID pneumonia. If that statement sounds harsh, you must realize that Christmas was approaching and at Christmas time our small hospital is one of the few facilities along the Eastern Corridor of Ghana where people can get emergency operations. While others celebrate, my colleagues and I work long hours under less-than-optimal conditions. (Recently, when we ran short of knife blades, we were making skin incisions with the tips of hypodermic needles.)

Even living in the same town with friends has not prevented us from taking them for granted until it was too late. Charles Talan was one of the finest theater (OR) nurses with whom I have ever worked-an absolute genius and a wizard linguist who spoke perhaps twelve tribal languages fluently. Sadly, Charles battled several health problems during his last few years, and when he collapsed at home one morning, all I could do was to pronounce him dead from a brain hemorrhage once he had been rushed to the hospital. Joshua Beso was one of Charles’ contemporaries, a hard-working man who headed our public health program for years. Again, Joshua suffered a heart attack and died while we were out of town.

I could go on to mention many others. Live long enough and your deposits in heaven far outweigh the number of friends and relatives you have left on earth. What is my point?

I’ve told the story many times, but it’s still worth a re-telling. My small home town in northwestern Illinois is graced by two sets of railroad tracks that have served the major rail network for more than a century. At one point, the sensor for one of the crossing gates developed a problem, resulting in several fatal accidents as unsuspecting motorists attempted to cross in the paths of speeding trains. One morning, it was raining when an elderly farmer living southeast of town tromped into the kitchen, leaving muddy tracks on his wife’s freshly mopped floor. Fuming, the wife fussed at her husband and he gave some smart aleck reply and then left for town. Sadly, that exchange was the last time that lady saw her beloved spouse of more than fifty years. As the husband was crossing the tracks, a speeding train totaled his vehicle, killing him instantly.

After hearing that story, my husband and I have made it a practice to tell each other “I love you” and kiss whenever we are parting for any reason. I’m sure we entertain the staff on the Kids Ward at our hospital, for my husband brings biscuits (cookies) to the kids in the mornings and then kisses me good-bye before returning to the house.

My late mother always said that it was a waste to send flowers to a funeral and that she would rather have people send her the flowers while she was alive to appreciate them. I heartily agree! Write that letter! Send that e-mail or text message or WhatsApp! Make that phone call! My husband called his sister every night, and now he wishes for just one more conversation, one more opportunity to tell her he loves her. The Ashantis say “Nkwa hia,” life is precious. Appreciate those around you while you have them and tell them you love them, tell them they are valuable people whom God loves.

If you are so blessed as to be able to spend birthdays or holidays with loved ones, do it! One of the hardest things we must face is all the family celebrations we have missed because of our work in Ghana. The unfortunate result is that even when we are back in America, family members forget to invite us to events because we have dropped off their radar.

When you spend time with people, you are investing in them. Turn off your cell phone or leave it somewhere and concentrate on the people around you. Don’t lie to yourself that Facetiming is the same thing as being physically present with someone; it’s not. People need physical contact-touching, patting, hugging-and no electronic media can offer that.

This Adinkra symbol is the Sankofa bird, a symbol of forgiveness and also the idea that you can go back to right a wrong or to find something you have lost. Sadly, when someone dies, the idea of Sankofa no longer applies. Death means it’s too late to repair that relationship or to say those loving words or to give that gift.

In closing, I would also like to encourage those of you with relatives serving overseas for any reason to keep those relatives in the loop. Missionaries go because God orders them to, not because they hate their families. Those serving in the military are equally under orders and must obey. We have not left you because we hate you but because we are under assignment from a higher power. Remember us, for we remember you and long to be with you. And treasure those around you, for one day, you will look but they will be gone.

Nkwa hia!

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TRIAL BY WEDDING – JUNE 27, 2025

June 27, 2025

As friends announce their children’s or grandchildren’s weddings or their wedding anniversaries on Facebook, I think back to some of the weddings I have endured. Two weddings stand out.

WHO’S THE DONKEY, OR HOW DO YOU KEEP FROM HAVING HYSTERICS IN CHURCH?

The first wedding took place on a hot summer day in my small Midwestern town. Two of my friends were getting married on the same day, and Mom and I should have attended the wedding for one friend and the reception for the other. Mom chose for us to just attend the wedding that was closer. Mom had grown up during the Depression, and those Depression-era kids didn’t waste money; spending the gas money to attend a second wedding was beyond Mom’s comprehension.

We were happily ensconced in a local church, listening to the organist, also a family friend and an accomplished musician, play a thirty-minute prelude. Unfortunately, one of the selections the organist chose was a medley of old songs, one of which was “Donkey Serenade.” Imagine Mom’s and my surprise when we suddenly heard the organist begin playing a song with these words, “There’s a song in the air
But the fair senorita doesn’t seem to care
For the song in the air
Oh, I’ll sing to the mule
If you’re sure she won’t think that I am just a fool
Serenading a mule…”

Call us weird, but at that point, Mom and I both lost it! Was this unfortunate choice of music an editorial remark on the bride, the groom, or the entire wedding? And who was the donkey? I looked at Mom; Mom looked at me, and both of us grabbed our white lace handkerchiefs to smother our giggles. We would have left the church; however, just then, the bride appeared and the organist began playing the wedding march. Hopefully, those around us thought we were weeping tears of joy….

SWEATING ON THE RIVER-AN ORGANIST TAKES ON PURCELL AND PURCELL LOSES!

It was a breathless August night in Burlington, Iowa, a factory town on the Mississippi River. My boyfriend and I had accompanied his parents to the wedding of one of his cousins. The church was not air conditioned, and the heat and humidity were so high that we were all sweating heavily before the wedding even began. A beloved aunt from Indiana had been asked to play for the wedding; unfortunately, Auntie was NOT an accomplished musician. After fumbling through the standard wedding music (likely the big notes versions), Auntie chose to close the program by playing an organ version of Purcell’s Trumpet Voluntary while the congregation filed down to the church basement to congratulate the happy couple.

There were several problems with that basement. Only one room in the basement was air conditioned, and one had to pass through that room to reach the un-air-conditioned fellowship hall where the main reception was to take place. Being no fools, the wedding couple chose to stand in the air-conditioned room to receive their guests, assuming the guests would then pass on to the fellowship hall. But once the first guests realized that this room was the only one that was comfortable, they were in no hurry to go back to suffering in the heat and humidity. This reluctance created a foot traffic bottle neck in the air-conditioned room.

Meanwhile, back in the main body of the church, the congregation was exiting VERY slowly. Having had to drive for nearly two hours to reach the church, we had the misfortune to be sitting at the very back of the church, and the congregation was exiting from front to back. As time crept onward, our ears continued to be assailed by Auntie’s wrestling match with Purcell. In that match, Auntie won and Purcell emphatically lost! “Dah, dah, dah de dah, dah, dah de dah, dah dah dah, !#*&!,  !#* &! ,!#*&! Yes ! You guessed it! Those last three notes in the main theme of the piece? Auntie couldn’t find them, but she succeeded in hitting the SAME WRONG NOTES over and over and over and over and over and over! Auntie was nothing if not consistent. Think of the most irritating sounds you have heard-fingernails on a chalk board, the neighbors’ cats having a fight, someone with a ginormous bass speaker in their vehicle circling your block ad infinitum, microphones screeching in a huge meeting space-none of those sounds could compare with the cacophony of Auntie murdering poor Mr. Purcell’s previously beloved music. Even though we were at the back of the sanctuary, we left other unfortunates to continue to suffer, and Auntie did not disappoint, persisting in repeating her fingering mistakes.

By the time we finally made it down to the basement, the happy couple had already cut the wedding cake; in fact, all we got for our suffering was a few crumbs, plus some nuts and some mints. We didn’t even get any of the punch made with lime sherbert, pineapple juice and ginger ale. The bride’s sisters who were responsible for the reception had obviously underestimated the number of people who would attend as well as their thirst. While we were waiting to exit the sanctuary, those fortunate enough to make it to the basement earlier had drained every bit of liquid available. The only thing left for us to do was to congratulate the couple and leave on our two-hour return journey, hot, tired, hungry, and thirsty. I think we hit a root beer stand on the way home.

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REMEMBERING CHRISTMAS 2010

December 25, 2024

The story begins in the 1950’s. It’s a summer evening, and a little girl rides in the pickup out to the hog pasture with her dad. As the girl’s father checks the feed and water, the little girl runs around the hog pasture, looking for any pigs that appear sick. Then that same girl runs back from the hog pasture for the sheer exhilaration of running.

Now it’s a winter evening, and the little girl is up in the haymow, throwing down hay and straw for the beef cattle and the milk cows. Later, the girl might help milk one of the cows by hand, straining the milk into a ten gallon can and then carrying that same can down the hill to the farm shop to await the coming of the milkman in the morning.

Now the girl is a few years older. It’s a bitterly cold winter morning, but the beef cattle need silage, so the girl and her brothers are chipping frozen silage out of a pit silo to feed the animals. No matter the time of year, those creatures depending on human help must be cared for regularly. No matter the time of year, the lesson remains the same: care for those depending on you, giving your best efforts, no matter the circumstances. And those lessons never fade…..

It was very snowy that Christmas of 2010. Although we had been back to America the previous year, I felt a sense of urgency to be home for the Christmas of 2010. That fall we had learned that my dad’s heart was beginning to fail, likely from scar tissue from an old injury he suffered during a car accident in 1955. So we came back to the U.S., spending Thanksgiving with family in Long Island and then moving to Illinois, where we stayed with friends. But when we attended the Christmas Eve service at Immanuel Lutheran Church, Dad suggested that we stay with my stepmother and him. It was snowing heavily and Dad and I wanted to attend the early morning Julotta service at the Colony Church in Bishop Hill once more.

At the Lutheran Church, Dad sang “Hosianna!”, a traditional Swedish Christmas hymn, while I also sang a solo. While I can’t remember what I sang, I will always remember Dad standing up before the congregation, his bright tenor voice now fading with age, (he turned 88 that Christmas Day), and singing to honor his Lord and Savior and all those relatives who had gone before him and who had worshiped at that church.

That Christmas Eve, my husband and I snuggled together as we slept in the room that had been my Grandpa Edmond’s when he was still with us. We accompanied Dad to Bishop Hill for Julotta service, the candles burning brightly at the Colony Church. I think Dad read the Christmas story in Swedish that year, as he had for so many times previously. And once more, we sang the glorious hymn “Naer Juldags Morgen Glimmar,” (When Christmas Morn is Dawning.) When the organist played “Hosianna” on the foot pedal organ, Dad and I both sang.

That Christmas was Dad’s last Christmas on earth. Dad died December 16, 2011. I didn’t return to the U.S. for the funeral because it was Christmas and I was the only doctor for the AG Hospital, Saboba. During Christmas, most of the district hospitals in our area that are manned by one doctor find themselves without a doctor as the doctors return to their home villages. I honored my commitment to my patients to honor the man who taught me that I should always care for those depending on me.

Now it is Christmas 2024, 14 years later. The house where we slept that night has been sold out of the family. Both Dad and my stepmother have been with Jesus for years, celebrating Christmas in heaven. The Colony Church is in dire need of renovation, and I pray for someone to help. We’re spending this Christmas in Saboba, as we have so many other Christmases. In a few hours, I will go to the hospital to check on the pediatric patients, who are my special joy and delight. This Christmas, we have three children, siblings from a single family who got burned when one of them played with matches too close to a pile of cotton. Their parents had gone to the farm, thinking all would be well. I sent T-shirts to the kids yesterday to help keep them warm. I will continue to pray for complete healing for the kids and for their parents, for this farming year, we suffered from droughts followed by floods and many farmers couldn’t harvest anything. We are already helping the parents buy food and medicines.

What would I say to Dad this Christmas if I could? “Dad, I’m still keeping the faith. I am still caring for those creatures God has sent me, and I will continue to do so as long as God gives me strength. Happy heavenly birthday, Dad! I love you! And Merry Christmas!”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RaSw0ei26wg&t=83s (When Christmas Morn is Dawning)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K3YsgUGZmr0 (Hosianna)

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