Losses

“I write off all my achievements as losses in order that I might win Christ.”

That is my paraphrase of Philippians 3:8 and the theme of this post.

Our lives have been shifted from the loss column to the win column in the standings. The heavenly playoff season is underway. The stakes are high. It’s all or nothing, do or die.

The other team seemed assured of victory by a lopsided score. The commentators acted a bit embarrassed as the team in black forced their opponents to fumble, to choke, to lose ground on almost every play.

But then the player from nowhere was sent in to substitute for an ineffective QB. “Who is this guy?” Nobody seemed to know. Someone suggested Carpenter U. “Nobody’s ever gotten to the Cosmic Bowl from Carpenter! Whoever he is he won’t last long. They’ll chew him up."

But it ain’t over ‘til its over as the saying goes.

The team in black roughed him up pretty bad. The white jerseys even got blood stains you could see from the stands. But the mystery man pulled off a miracle turn-around. Carpenter had done the impossible. “It’s a miracle.” “We’ve never seen anything like it in all our years of covering these events.” The presses had to be stopped; the story re-written. Our team had moved from the loss column to the win column.

This week at Scott the Carpenter’s team got thrown for a loss. On Wednesday in Chapel the second year student leader announced that he had a call at four a.m. from one of the class members asking for prayer for his boy who was ill and getting worse as the night had worn on. The father called back at dawn to say the Lord had taken his son.

It was a time to “weep with those who weep.” Africans are used to grieving. They experience the raw fragility of humanity. Starvation is not unknown. Accidents happen all the time that are preventable with better roads and safety equipment. Medical care is spotty – and in some remote areas non-existent. Disease picks off the weak ones in the countless herd of humanity here.

Many prayers went up and a coin collection was taken in chapel today to help the family with funeral expenses. We sang Spafford’s stirring hymn: It Is Well with My Soul. I asked my students later if they knew the story of that hymn. Most of them did. William Spafford, his wife, and two daughters planned to sail to England about 100 years ago. His Chicago business required him to delay a week, so his wife and girls sailed without him, ready to re-unite in England a week later. Spafford got a terse telegram a few days later from his wife. “Ship sank STOP I alone survive STOP.”

On his passage to join his wife in Europe he asked the steward to awaken him when the steamer got to the place where the tragedy had occurred. There in the night he tossed two wreaths into the sea, returned to his cabin and wrote these inspired words.

“When peace like a river attendeth my way; when sorrows like sea-billows role; whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say: “It is well, it is well with my soul.”

“Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come, let this blest assurance control: The Lord has regarded my helpless estate. It is well; it is well with my soul.”

Today we learned that the boy’s sister had been shielded at first from what had happened. But she demanded to know why she couldn’t go in to see her sick brother. When they told her he was dead she wept uncontrollably for a long time and would not be comforted.

In class today we were dealing with the problem of evil in philosophy of religion. All religions are attempts to explain why suffering, pain and death are our constant companions. Mr. Spafford embraced the Christian explanation. This world is out of whack, but only temporarily. The carpenter has come and everything in the loss column will be shifted to the win column. The outcome of the Cosmic Bowl has been settled, but we are still waiting for the winning team to get back for the hometown celebration.

The dean told me today that we would likely have to adjust our schedule, for most of the students will go the funeral for their colleague's son, and it is a four hour journey each way. So for Wednesday next we ask for a banner of prayer to be lifted before the Throne of Grace. Please stand with this community in this time of sadness and vulnerability.

Now there is Margaret, who came today from Scotland to help teach several faculty kids being home-schooled.

We were all at the Principal’s house for dinner – Jacob and Esther Kibor’s. Margaret is woman about fifty. She is a lively conversationalist.

Sue Lewis was asking Jacob about his story. And Jacob has a fascinating story, having grown up in a desert area in north Kenya, living in a small skin covered hut about 12 feet in diameter. His mother slept on one side of the floor with the sisters; his father on the other with Jacob and his brothers. It being very hot most of the time the kids were not into clothes very much. Why bother? And they were too poor anyway.

His father somehow heard the Gospel and decided to move to where he could learn more and maybe better their lives. But mother would not budge. So Dad took Jacob and headed out to a small city. None of them were literate. But Jacob found a way to learn to read and thus educated his father by the dim light of a campfire every night. Soon his mother came with the rest of the children and over time they converted from tribal animistic religion to embrace Jesus. Everything began to change because, having no resources whatsoever they had to depend on the Lord. And the Lord took care of them. Jacob now has a PhD as does Esther his wife. Both are at the top both in intellectual firepower and Christ-like living.

Then Margaret began to tell her story. Her husband died quite a few years back, leaving her to raise their three children. Through many years of hard work she launched them into adulthood. She found herself soon after in a relationship with a young man not much older than her son. She was 36 and he 22 when he asked her to marry him. After consulting her pastor, who probed her heart, she accepted the proposal and they were married and soon had two children.

Moving from Glasgow to London to find better employment, her new husband, offered a job, accepted the opportunity to work for high pay in Canada. He would work two weeks and the company would fly him back for a week at home every month.

On one visit home he took her to dinner and ended the evening by saying he had met a younger woman in Canada and he wanted a divorce.

Margaret was devastated. She said as a Christian she didn’t accept divorce. So if he wanted to leave he would have to carry everything through, which he did. She sank into a deep depression. George Mitchell and others were concerned she would take her life to end the pain of her rejection and loss.

In the Psalms, which John Calvin called the “anatomy of the soul,” it mentions those who “wandered in desert wastelands” or “sat in darkness and deepest gloom” until they “cried out to the Lord and he delivered them from their distress.” (Psalm 107) To give the screw another turn, a few days prior to her young husband’s announcement, Margaret had realized that even though she had given her life to God at age 13 and had felt that she was to serve him as a missionary, she was no longer as committed as once she was. She had gone into her bedroom, gotten on her knees and had made a covenant with God, giving him total control over the rest of her life. Then the bombshell had come.

Gradually God lifted her spirits and she applied to serve God in Africa in fidelity to her covenant. But as a now divorced woman, she was disqualified by the mission. Undaunted she wrote to a mission executive who knew her character. He wrote to Jacob Kibor. And today was her first day at Scott Theological College. She had a wee bit of a cry when she was hanging pictures of her kids and grandchildren on the wall. But as she walked about campus she felt totally at home. This was her new home that God had provided and she would love the children here and teach them, assured that God would help her.

A story of loss. But we all were wiping our eyes along with Margaret as she “gave thanks to the Lord for his unfailing love.” (Psalm 107:8)

On a lighter note, George was quoting an obscure Danish theologian in his chapel message. Johannes Pedersen. Looking out at me he asked “Did I pronounce it correctly?” I gave a thumbs up. “I’m glad to be supported by my ex-Scandinavian friend.” Gregg Okesson, another Swede, sitting behind me, whispered "I didn’t know you could lose your ethnicity!” That would indeed be another loss. Just what George had in mind is a matter for speculation. I hope he didn't meam ex-friend!

But George lost a wee bit this week, too. He had come with a suitcase of clothes to give away: football shirts and a pair of canvass shoes and lots of ties. Getting dressed for class after George had gone out this morning, I realized the two ties I had with me clashed with the shirt for the day. “I’ll look at those ties,” I says to myself, says I. Splendid – here’s one with right colors. George won’t object if I wear it today. Well at lunch I was in love with that tie. It had airplanes and maps of the northeast USA and northeast Europe in the design. So I asked George if he would let me have it. “Sure,” he says, it’s one of my favorites but I can get another when I get home.” “No, no, no – I thought it was one of your giveaways. I’m not going to take your tie.” “Yes you will – I want you to have as memento of our friendship.”

So George lost his favorite tie.

Later he asks me what size neck I have. 16.5 or 17. He comes back with a new shirt Jean had bought at a thrift shop but it’s too small at the neck. I try it on. The sleeves are long enough for a Maasai’s arms! "No, no – you fold them back and put links in them!" "O, I see! Perfect!"

I used to wear French cuffs a lot when I was in my teens and twenties. And I still have cuff links, one set given to me for being a groomsman when Bob Draper married my sister, Lois. That was 1950.

So now George will no doubt say that he met me and lost his shirt!

Enough! I’ll speak no more of losses!

(BTW, thanks for reading this. It is nice to have someone with whom to share these experiences. Asante sana!)