Descent of a Comfortable Silence

 

Photo Credit: Jim McClelland

Jim McClelland and I are cruising along Highway 95 in Nevada, after our trip over Interstate 80 out of California, as we work our way to Eagle, Idaho. We are in his new-to-him truck pulling a 24-foot enclosed trailer as he and Shirley begin a new chapter in their lives, not a chapter they would have necessarily written for themselves, at least not with all the plot twists it’s taken to get them this far. 

During our 12-hour trek through the high desert, there is plenty of windshield time with snowcapped mounts surrounding us. While we have plenty of talking to do to catch up on our lives as we trundle along, we allow ourselves some periods of silence, a silence as rich in solitude as two people can have sitting next to each other.

There is comfort in the occasional silence that suffuses the cab of Jim’s truck that only comes in our being the best of friends. I am assured of Jim’s acceptance, I don’t need to fill the time with talk just to delight him, make him like me more, or prompt him to make a statement of undying devotion to our friendship. It is there, not taken for granted, but present in the silence, even as I type the draft for this post.

I want this sort of comfortable silence with Jesus Christ, my Lord. Many people talk about Jesus being their friend or ‘being a friend of Jesus’. I admit to having a problem with that terminology for myself. I am too busy working on having Him be my Lord and my King to seek friendship. It’s all semantics, I know, but semantics are important to me. I would like to sit with Jesus in a comfortable silence even as He is my Lord and assured of His acceptance with no need for me to say things to him to delight Him, make Him love me more, or to elicit a statement from Him so that I know He cares for me. A silence where I don’t ask of Him anything; no pleas for forgiveness (as much as I continue to need it), no appeals on behalf of friends or family (as much as they need it), and no adoring words of praise from me (as much as He deserves them all the time).

There is a hierarchy of assurance, a depth to certitude from thinking, to feeling, to believing, and finally to knowing.

To sit with Jesus in a comfortable silence is to be known by Him and to know Him. I would love to have that day descend on me. I dare say, if it happened, I would not likely recognize myself the next time I looked in the mirror.

In His grip and as always, on the Potter’s Wheel,

jerry

Photo credit: Jim McClelland

 

An Idaho writer's nook courtesy of Grandma Virgie, Jim's grandmother

It Will Find You...

 

I have spent the whole day running from it, ducking into anything to hide from it, evading it at nearly any cost. Like from Dodgeball, “Dodge, duck, dip, dive, and dodge.” I poured myself into useless phone apps in the predawn hours. I read the L.A. Times, mostly for the funny pages. I did crossword puzzles to distract myself because I work a puzzle, I get zoned in on it.

Then I inundated myself by waking up hibernating projects. I took a writing piece to the next stopping point and handed it off and still the worry nagged at the edges of my heart and mind. I worked on digitizing old VHS tapes of my grandfather’s 8mm film reels. The device I’d been successfully using crapped out on me so I drove them to a pro with a next step of viewing Cindy’s and my VHS tapes to do the same with the ones we want to preserve. The old DVD/VHS player didn’t play the tapes at all and I was stuck again. To prove the stupid box is connected right I stuck in a DVD and it played masterfully. I let Silverado play through getting lost in western gunfights and awesome dialog. Still, it was always in my periphery. So clearly was it in the edge of vision, I almost cursed the talent that helped me steal hundreds of passes and disrupt even more plays on the basketball court.

I stayed off social media because of Facebook’s constant reminders of past posts on this day four years ago, three years ago, two years ago, last year. I forced myself not to group text; “let them be”, I told myself.

Grief.

The simple definition for this unfathomable process is a deeply poignant anguish caused by bereavement. This is the “it” that has been dogging my tracks today on the fourth anniversary of my mom’s death. The honest truth is that grieving her loss, which followed so closely the loss of my dad, provides a one-two punch that is difficult for me to slip and get in an offensive rhythm of my own. Most days I can dance around the ring and trade blows while staying on my feet and scoring a few touches of my own. I can get things done that need doing, do things that I enjoy doing, and tackle responsibilities that, while I’d rather do something else, I can do them anyway.

What I find most effective is staying toe-to-toe with grief when it enters the ring and face it for what it is. Sometimes it is even better to get close, close enough to get into a clinch and wrestle with it. The only referee for me in a fight like this is Jesus. He can pull us apart and send us to our corners, give me a standing eight-count when I need it, and keep the fight fair. The problem with a bout like I had today is that when I run, hide, and avoid the conflict, my Referee can’t act and I end up exhausting myself. Fighting grief is best done as a tag-team match with our closest of confidants.

We handle grief in our own ways and wrestle with it and grapple with emotions that are as individual as our fingerprints. I don’t recommend running from it nor do I suggest we engage with it to the point it consumes us. Do not deny it, it will only build up to a breaking point. Don’t fill the void with excessiveness or stupid things. Playing hide and seek on a blank canvas surface surrounded by ropes designed to keep combatants together is not a productive approach.

When I spend too much time with pointless mechanisms to handle losses, I end up not being an effective person; I don’t love right and I don’t serve effectively, and these things lead to a self-loathing whirlpool. Breaking the hold with these things weighing us down is doggone difficult and many times we need help in getting back into the flow of life. Reach out and tag them in to help.

When grief taps you on the shoulder and challenges you to meet in the parking lot, turn ever so calmly, look it in the face, and take grief on right there. Don’t screw up the rest of your day worrying over meeting a bully later.

In His grip,

jerry

Holm is Where the Heart Is

 

Isaiah 43:2 - “When you go through deep waters, I will be with you. When you go through rivers of difficulty, you will not drown.”

In my last Calvary’s Thread post, ‘Adrift’, I wrote about drifting along the current of a river without tiller or oar and speculated that I might be able to lean over and hand paddle my along. Jim McClelland suggested in a comment that by hopping in I could “enjoy the truths of the discoveries along this particular journey.” Part of my reply to Jim was that I am more effective as a swimmer than a drifter, or something along those lines. As effective as I can be while propelling myself along the river of life, I need respite from the currents and chills of the water. I need rest and a place to do it. I believe I found such a place and I know of a handful of others. Holm.

Holm, as Webster describes it, is a small island or inshore island. It’s a British term and those folks seem to have cornered the market for alternate words for an island such as: ait as in ‘a little island’ or eyot a variation on ait. I prefer ‘holm’ to the alternatives, it feels warmer and more inviting to me.

When my sister Denise moved to Merlin, Oregon and shortly thereafter my parents, we took summer trips to visit them nearly every year and with few exceptions, rafted down the Rogue River. For twenty-five years we took these floats using inflatable kayaks, paddle rafts, and drift boats. We encountered small islands, or holms, along the way downstream. They provide sanctuary for birds to nest to be safer for their eggs and young. Canada Geese, Mergansers, Teals, Mallards, and other waterfowl use the island to pull up on and sun to restore body heat and to nest. Songbirds and waders (Green and Great Blue Herons, and various Egrets) wade off the holms to hunt for fish and frogs. The islets are not Edens as there is predation from the sky from eagles and hawks. Otters, playful as they are, eat pretty much what they can catch. Still, there is a measure of sanctuary and peace, the birds can breathe and relax a bit.

Bass Lake, the ancestral home of my mom, has a couple of islands – one toward the upper third of the lake where the Madera County Sheriffs operate from. The other island is down near the dam. Both islands are submerged when the lake is full with the only evidence as either the Sheriff’s tower or the vegetation sticking up above the water. Likewise, both islands are accessible by walking when the lake is at its lowest point. The island near the dam is bisected by a boom, in the old days of true log construction but nowadays made of rubber coated tubes filled with floatation materials. Nearly from the day we could walk we would see how far we could get before falling off the boom and into the lake. It became a rite of passage when we could swim along the boom out to the island or take our inflatable rafts to it. These were our Huck Finn moments.

My dad and I sometimes rowed out and fished around the island. I miss those times of quiet conversation as we tried to lure trout and bass to our hooks. Whenever I see the island, I remember those times and I am warmed by the memories of them. It is a holm to me.

A week ago, as I wrote this, I was at holm with Jim and Shirley McClelland, free of the river’s currents, rapids, and rocks. A place of peace and sanctuary. I feel at home at their place, always. I rode my motorcycle up to see them, hang out with Jim with his various errands, and take in a Giants’ game at Oracle Park. As arduous as my ride up was (I’ll need to write that story for Iron Side Up) I needed a place to catch my breath. The ride provided me space to think and pray about things and then push them away to pay attention to the road. With Jim and Shirley, it is as though no time has passed and we pick up where we left off. I love them for it.

Mike and Van Schermerhorn’s place is another holm, and island of respite. The last time I was with them I had rented a trailer to help Mike move a patio set to a friend of theirs in need. As with Jim, it seemed that no time had passed and we picked up where we last saw each other. Mike and Van bought lunch for me which we had shared with friends of theirs. They needn’t have, the warmth in sharing in their kindness was more than enough payment. I love them for it.

My sisters’ places and kids’ homes are places we stay that offer the same sort of comforts of love, joy, and peace – they are places to rehab my soul. Holms in the river, though with the grandkids the times are more otterlike than completely restful.

My prayer for you, my encouragement to you, is that you find your holms. And those that you already know, pay them a visit and heal a bit from the rush and keep a weather eye out for new holms.

In His grip,

jerry

Biblical river references:

Psalms 46:4 - "There is a river, the streams whereof shall make glad the city of God, the holy place of the tabernacles of the most High."

Revelation 22:1-2 - "Then the angel showed the river of the water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb."

Genisis 2: 20 - “A river flowed from the land of Eden, watering the garden and then dividing into four branches.”

Adrift

 

Living waters have a current, an ebb and flow to them, sometimes unseen, as from a hidden wellspring, a source beyond the ken of human senses. Living waters are not distilled nor sterile. The currents bringing them to the ponds and headwaters contain nutrients, the outgoing currents take the waste of the living organisms downstream to be consumed by still other creatures or cast of in the effervescence of the streams.

The waters I seem to be on are not some stagnant pond, putrid with waste and polluted by mankind. And so, adrift as I am, I have at least this one thing left, that my oft used sign off, ‘in His grip’, is still true and that whatever landfall my drift takes me, I will have my feet on firm soil.

Adrift appears an apt turn for this stage of life I find myself. Meriam (we are on a first name basis now) talks about adrift as being without motive power and having no anchor or mooring, ties, guidance or security. I am uneasy with these things. I’m an old man, for God’s sake! Shouldn’t I have the power to direct my life, activities, and interests?

By what mechanism have I become adrift, without sail and subject to every current and vagrant wind? By my own devices? Have others cast me into this drift? Let me be honest with myself – I have no one to blame but myself. I pushed off into the stream without proper provisions.

I shouldn’t be rudderless, without oars or a motor these days. I’m a Christian. But I am in the water’s power and subject the vagaries of the stream with its rocky outcroppings, rapids, and glassy stretches. I am consumed with sadness, not as acute as Jesus’ sadness in the garden of Gethsemane, but at times it feels akin to that.

I have a distinct memory from my childhood when my mom and a friend of hers took my sisters, the friend’s son, Dennis Broberg, and me up to Switzer’s Creek in the Angeles National Forest. Dennis and I took our army men and equipment. You know, like those great characters from the Toy Story movies? We set up roads and fortifications. We collected twigs and fashioned rafts for water-born assaults. The prone machine gunners were particularly good for the rafts. We set them adrift in the creek in the hopes they could get behind enemy lines. Adrift and without rudders, they invariably ran afoul of some driftwood collected between the rocks. My own drift sometimes feels like the ill-fated infantryman’s.

Still, I am in His grip and when it comes to it and I am caught by the eddies that thwart my progress, I can risk it and reach over the side and hand-paddle my way out. Firmer ground awaits and who knows what stranded wayfarer I might bring into my raft and take to safety along the way.

To borrow a phrase from Ellis Boyd "Red" Redding, “I hope”.

In His grip,

Jerry White

It is a Pilgrimage

 

Photos courtesy of my Storyblocks subscription

I have been consulting with my friend Webster about the word ‘journey’. The word is all around us these days and I’ve thought about it quite a bit but recently two young friends lost their mother and referred to their experience with her failing health into home-hospice care to its conclusion as a journey.

Now, Noah and the Merriam brothers have given me some formal meaning to journey. As a noun, three descriptions: 1 – Something suggesting travel or passage from one place to another, 2 – an act or instance of traveling from one place to another (trip), and 3 – in a chiefly dialectal sense, a day’s travel. As a verb, intransitive and transitive respectively – to go on a journey or to travel over or through. They go on to give me all sorts of great information about the word but that’s not my point and I don’t want to derail my thoughts.

Journey is an apt and excellent word to use when describing path taken with a loved one from hale and hearty through illnesses and their treatments to hospice and working hard to graciously escort the loved one to end of their time on earth.

My problem with the use of journey is not in their usage but in the banal use of the word for everything from a person’s rise to stardom from the ashes of poverty (not a bad place for the word) down to their ‘journey’ to the pet store for cat litter. Since when did the commonplace act of getting into the car, driving to the pet store, waving their Apple Pay at the device, and coming home with cat litter become a journey? Unless the person got in a wreck, was arrested for dangerous driving or maybe got into a road rage incident, and barely made it home alive and just in time for the cat, it was not a journey. And even then, there are more apt and exciting language to use for those types of things. We have cheapened the word ‘journey’ with overuse and stale thinking.

My trek for a descriptive word for what we go through as my young friends have done took me from Webster and friends to Roget and on through basic internet searches. I won’t overload you all with the many alternatives I have come across, that is for your own excursion. I’ll get right to the word that struck paydirt for me – pilgrimage.

Pilgrimage, defined by Merriam-Webster as a noun is: 1 – a journey of a pilgrim, especially one to a shrine or a sacred place, or 2 – the course of life on earth. It works as a verb as in, go on a pilgrimage. For the Christian, or any religious order believing in an afterlife or next-life, pilgrimage works wonderfully. For the atheist, not so much – there is only life, then death and whatever good the body is put to afterwards. Alas, no sacred place for them so not too much of a pilgrimage.

When we accompany someone along the inexorable path of life that leads from living to the doorstep of the next life, whether if be as a family member, a friend, or as a nurse or volunteer at a center to people previously unknown to them, we have been given one of the deepest of privileges. It is an honor to serve as a guide, a companion, or even as a crutch to a person on their last leg of the pilgrimage of life. It is crushing to hold their hand as they breath their last and hear someone say, ‘she’s gone’. Crushing until we can sit back and understand the courtesy we’ve been afforded by being present when our companion is in ultimate rest after so much pain. Better to have held their hand than to have had them taken from our presence only to pass away a short time later.

If we are tasked with walking side by side with someone in the final stages of their pilgrimage, we need resources to draw from – other friends, family members, and a higher power – in my case and in the case of the two young friends I wrote of at the beginning of my post, Jesus Christ whom we know greets our loved ones and welcomes them home.

While considering these things, I have come to a better understanding of what I went through with my mom and dad a few short years ago. I see it now in a more favorable light as though a photographer of great artistic talent captured the true nature of their subject. It’s easier on the eyes and warmer in the heart to believe their pilgrimage was successful. I am more thankful now for the courtesy afforded to me by my Lord to have been alongside my folks to see them home.

I hope and pray that this helps my friends find a greater measure of peace when they read this as I hope it does other readers. May God grant that this reaches the mark.

With peace in my heart and I in His grip,

jerry

Laura's Challenge

 

On Sunday May 5, 2024, Rev. Dr. Laura Harbert delivered a sermon from her heart titled “We Become What We Behold!” I have found that when I write from the heart, that is when I am at my best and I appreciate when others do the same. Laura brought God’s word to us through her cornerstone verse:

2 Corinthians 3: 17-18 – “¹⁷Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. ¹⁸And we, who with unveiled faces all reflect the Lord’s glory, are being transformed into his likeness with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit.” (NIV)

We are being transformed from what are into something we are not now. This is always the case throughout life and the transformative power comes from that which we behold, what we consume, what we take into ourselves. If we consume hate and falsehood, we become the purveyors of hatred, loathing, and lies. If we come to the Lord’s Table with repentance in our hearts and consume the fruits of the Spirit – love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control (Gal. 5: 22) – then this is what we will become.

To achieve this, to become more like Christ, I need to humbly and in repentance, keep myself on the Potter’s Wheel so that he can continue to transform this lump of clay more clearly into his image.

Reverend Laura’s challenge to me is to make a list of where I behold God’s Glory and to reflect on those things. Okay, she didn’t phrase it as a challenge but instead said, “This would be one homework assignment I would love to give each one of you. Make a list of where you behold God’s Glory. Who are the people who show you God’s Glory? What are the places that stir up God’s Glory? What are the things, where do you behold God’s Glory?” Me, being a recovering jock, have taken this as a challenge and my reply follows this link to her sermon if you would like to be touched and transformed:

Sermon 5–5-2024 “We Become What We Behold!” by Rev. Laura Harbert (youtube.com)

These are some of the places, things, and people that allow me to behold God’s Glory:

V I see Jesus in the smile of my children and their children and in the trust in their eyes. That is the spiritual fruit of love.

V I see God’s hand in a failed project that touches someone’s heart despite my failure. This is God’s grace and the spiritual fruit of faithfulness.
V My Lord speaks to me when a young teen, covered in dust, concrete, paint, and sweat smiles and can’t wait to do it again. This is faithfulness and joy in His goodness.
V He whispers to me when I hear the symphony played by nature’s orchestra – the rustling of leaves, gurgling of the brook, calling birds, and solitude. This fruit of the spirit is peace.

V I sense his presence while being part of a well ridden series of ess-turns by a group of expert riders. That is the spiritual fruit of joy.
V I feel God near me when I see the bonds of an old grudge against man or God broken. This is the faithfulness of the Great Healer.
V Seeing someone deep into solitude touches my heart with Jesus’ kindness.
V I hear God’s voice in Cindy’s laughter as it drifts into the office or upstairs while she’s on the phone or with friends or family. This one thing is the fruit of joy, love, and goodness.
V My kids in love show me God’s love for us all, for God is love.
V Cynene. She is all the fruits of the Spirit…
V I am transformed by the flight of a red-tailed hawk, my every-man bird, and hearing its call of joy and exhilaration. When I look at the intarsia hawk my dad me and read his inscription, “Together in His grip”, I am reminded of God’s goodness and mercy.
V I see God presence in Jim’s laughter, Michael’s wit, and Doug’s indominable loyalty – the love of friends of the past, present, and future are all the fruits of the spirit.
V Any chance encounter with one of God’s creatures speaks of himself.

V The unsolicited ‘good morning’ from a fellow walker, hitherto unknown to each other, reminds me of Jesus oneness. Perhaps the response to the smile and look of wonder on my own face as I think on this list is what inspired them to offer up the ‘good morning’.
V The turn of a good phrase like, “Fear not, for I am with you” (Isaiah 41:10) excites me to write. That is faithfulness.
V Seeing a scraped knee tended to by a parent, sibling, teacher, or even a stranger screams of Jesus’ gentleness and kindness.

For as long as I live, I won’t be able to list them all and, as you can see by my collage, there is room for more and blanks have been left in anticipation.

Make your own list, create your own collage, and dwell on those things where you behold His Glory.

In His grip,

jerry

MAZ '24 and the Art of Retrospection

 

Mission Arizona 2024 (MAZ ’24) finished up on Saturday, March 23, 2024 when the last student drove out of the church parking lot with their parents. That’s not exactly true – there were vans to wash and gas up, finances to balance and reimbursements to process, bins of materials and equipment to sort and store, reports to write to Session, a debriefing of the leadership team to complete, and plan and execute the Shareholder’s Meeting. All those things are necessary but they tend to put the mission itself so far in the rearview mirror as to make things hazy for me. I regret not putting some on hold to practice the art of retrospection and write.

I find it strange that a trip of this sort which loomed so large in the weeks and months leading up to it could grow dim in such a hurry. I got so focused on the mission that responsibilities I have at home got wonky. My taxes are getting done late, my bills got done just this side of delinquent, personal communications suffered, other committee work is behind, writing projects are all but forgotten, and work needed on my home is languishing. This should not happen, should it? I am an old pro with more than twenty mission trips on my resume and this should not happen.

I lost myself somewhere along the way. It was seven or eight years between Mission Arizonas for me and I forgot who I am or was in relation to youth missions. So much happened in between – the Youth Ministries department moved on to Mexico for missions. I was not called to but supported them with fundraising. We didn’t end our involvement with my friends at Vah Ki Presbyterian Church on the Gila River Indian Reservations very well. The pandemic hit a couple of years later and no mission work took place for Youth Ministries. My parents passed away a mere ten weeks apart from each other and I still find grief at my doorstep. Our longtime pastors announced their intentions to leave the church and I answered the call to serve on the Pastor Nominating Committee, a two-year task to find a new identity as a church, fitting in raggedly with my personal search. I turned 70. It wasn’t so much forgetting who I was as becoming someone different or rather, someone with a different mix of skills, priorities, and hopes. The Potter has had this lump of clay back on the wheel of life and I feel like a let myself get dizzy.

My friend Webster talks about retrospection as “the act or process or an instance of surveying the past”. I’d like him to change one word – art for ‘act’. There is art to retrospection. As with any art form, retrospection must be practiced for it to be done well. Again, as with any art form, beauty and worth are in the eye of the beholder.

MAZ ’24 was a reawakening of the spirit of missions for our youth and our church. No, MAZ ’24 was another instance in the reawakening to our mission. I witnessed the proof of this in the response to our fundraising which came in stronger than anticipated, more widespread than I thought would take place, and with a joy of giving that filled my heart. Several investors in our mission told me, “If you need more, just let me know.”

Our youth group is growing as we emerge from pandemic lows and transitions in directors. The growth is coming from outside the church family with teenaged students searching for a place to belong. None of the seven students on our little team had been on a MAZ. Those parents who are not church members have a limited vision of the church and our mission trip. Consequently, our mission leadership team came mostly from folks without kids on the trip, and most of them had not been on a MAZ before either. They are impressive!

I needed to find my grove with the team and it took me a while, several days into the trip, in fact. And even then, I had to refine how to manifest this MAZ Jerry, only a couple of the leaders had experience with me as Jer Bear and driving the timeline pushing the events of each day. I hope to have it better defined for MAZ ’25. Reinventing myself at 70 or finding the shape that the Potter requires of me now, is no easy task. I am in His grip.

MAZ ’24 by the numbers: Seven students, the oldest was 15 and the youngest a 7-year-old. Eight leaders with Josh Kaufmann (Chief Project Manager), Paul Hoffman (Photographer/whatever we needed guy), and me (Wrangler) as the only veterans, then Mandy Cary (Chief Cook), Izzy Cox (Youth Director), Loraien Bentum (Izzy’s Fiancé and ministry partner), Nicole and Chris Elms (Head Parental Units, mixer operator). The Elms clan rose to every challenge. Nicole and Chris poured themselves into whatever came their way, they adapted, they overcame.

Josh and Mandy started two days early to set up base camp and prepare the way for our work. They ran a new water line, repaired two faucets, and did some grading to get us within reach of our goal with our student-teams. We poured 155 feet of 5-foot-wide walkway at Stotonic Presbyterian Church, repaired another serious water leak that threatened our ability to mix concrete, and then neatened up the church campus. At Vah Ki Pres, the team repaired two walkways that had been cut for plumbing repairs, Josh and Paul built a form and raised a new church sign, Nicole and Mandy cleaned up the Ira Hayes Memorial, and Paul effected several maintenance repairs. I have left some things out. My bad.

Team MAZ '24 with new sign

The Kids from left Adam, Leeland, Jane,
 Sarah, Blythe, Dylan and in front - Brynn

    

Our traditional autograph...

MAZ ’24 by the Spirit: We overcame resistance to our mission that showed itself a hit-and-run car accident on the way out when a road-racer sideswiped our #2 van into a car in the other lane and the water issues at Stotonic could have stopped us in our tracks. I am thankful beyond measure that no one was injured and that the van was drivable even with the sliding door that was inoperable, though the incessant chiming of the open-door alarm when encountering bumps in the road made me a bit crazier. Note: reservations have a lot of dirt roads and Arizona’s vaunted highway system is in disarray when it comes to Highway 10 and every bounce was broadcast to the driver.

Team MAZ ’24 was staffed by five adult leaders and seven students who had never been. They rose to the occasion in splendid style. Each of the first two mornings started slowly but by the afternoons concrete was laid down in spectacular fashion. These suburban kids figured out how to reach down into their personal reserves to complete a rigorous work regimen. And they loved it. And they’ll come back. And they will tell others. The students’ morning and evening devotions and affirmations were rich and filled with insight and love. This is where I really found my mission self.

One of my highest priorities was to reconnect with friends on the reservation and be able to observe how they received our team and how well we opened our hearts to the people we were sent to serve. Harold and Wallace, our on-site contacts, have always been appreciative. Harold from Stotonic was overwhelmed by the walkway as he spoke to us about being able to move about the campus for worship and fellowship meetings. The Indian frybread dinner the people hosted for us was wonderful. Our kids connected with the young children running around and the leaders from both churches fellowshipped as though they were old friends. My favorite scene for these nights is when our students and leaders learn to make frybread. It takes our crew longer and the shapes of the breads are comical but the laughter and joy of the ladies teaching and the kids learning is genuine and irreplaceable.

Finally, we had a couple of never-before-seen experiences. I saw a javelina that was rousted by dogs from a vacant lot between two houses across the way. It ran on by and off into the desert. The folks at one of the houses jumped into a pickup truck to give chase and asked, ‘where that pig go?’ as they drove by. I pointed them off across the basketball court and into the open desert. There was an unconfirmed thought that the javelina may have been their own ‘pig.’ The night after the sighting, a rider on horseback, complete with his riata at the ready, rode through camp. We assume he was hunting the javelina with his trusty dog trotting alongside. It was a surreal scene as we sat around our campfire making s’mores.  

Our Javelina, aka 'that pig'

God willing, I will go back for I am always in His grip,

Jerry White

MAZ ’24 Wrangler