"Hello, how are you doing?" in Bahasa Indonesian is "Halo, apa
kabar?" My 8 AM journalism class starts soon at the Jakarta Mission School
on Java. I’m here due to a six months ago I took a sabbatical from my newspaper
job in Oaksdale.
Due to the growing political unrest in
this country, Ravena feared for our daughter’s life. She took herself and
Deanna, our one-year-old daughter and the joy of my life, to stay with her
parents in the states. I keep remembering the relatively short time we were a
whole, happy family, and I was father to Deanna. It still amazes me how Ravena
and I could give birth to something so perfect and beautiful. I miss them so
much.
How could I ever forget our first
Christmas together as a family? It was magical. The first time Deanna walked to
me made me feel like I’d won some major award. Deanna's eye’s and brain are so
alert. Next to her mom and me she loves her little cloth doll, Bubbles. For the
first time in my life, I know what true loneliness is. It’s being separated
from the ones you love.
I bet you’re wondering how I got from
Oaksdale to a tiny island in Indonesia. It’s a fascinating story. This morning
there’s a nice breeze blowing through the bamboo screens of my little
thatched-roof home. It's been so hot and humid in Jakarta this whole week. The
temperature has been well over the hundred degree mark by mid afternoon.
Frequently, rains will cool things down a bit. I hope there's not a flat on my
becak (bicycle rickshaw), or I'll never make it to work on time.
Now back to the subject at hand. Around a year and a half ago, Rev. Eduin
Lapardo came to First Baptist Church of Oaksdale, and talked about his mission
and school in Java. He was in dire need of instructors in their school, and
helpers for the mission. I wondered if God was calling me to fulfill a promise
I’d made during my sophomore year of college.
At the age of thirty-two, God finally took
me up on my vow. After praying, studying the country of Indonesia, and
e-mailing back and forth with Eduin, God burdened me to take my talent to the
mission field. Miraculously, God provided the mission board and churches to
back me up. For right now, my broken spirit is content doing the Lord's will
and leaving my personal safety in His strong hands.
Well, that's my story. There really is
nothing better than a bowl of fresh coconut, pineapple, and papaya fruit salad
to get you going in the morning. I must
remember to thank Eduin’s wife, Louisa, for her kindness in providing it. The people at the mission treat me so well.
The people of this country are genuinely poor. (Some are practically naked,
homeless, and live in cardboard shanties on the street.)
Here are memories I know (or have been
told) that have made me who I am today. I hope you will enjoy my ramblings. My parents, Marjorie Luann Kincaid and
Charlton Atlas Philman grew up thousands of miles away from each other. Dad's
roots dug deep into the red clay soil of Cherry Bottom Grove, Georgia. Mom was from
Devonia, Colorado. My twenty-two
year-old Dad and twenty-three Mom were introduced by a friend of mom’s.
.
Three years later it happened. On that
day, tiny drops of rain pattered on the tin roof of the Denver Friends
Fellowship. It was June 12 (three years
before I came into the picture), and Marjorie had hoped for a wedding day with
lots of sunshine. Only fifteen minutes remained until she became Mrs. Charlton
Philman. This was a dream come true. Quickly, her attendants helped her slip
into a street-length wedding dress made of a pure ivory-colored lacey nylon-net
fabric and a pearl necklace to match. Marjorie hoped Char would be speechless
for once in his life.
Minutes later, her special moment arrived.
With her right hand tightly in her father's arm, Marjorie daintily proceeded
down the aisle to the triumphant brass sounds of Jeremiah Clarke's
"Trumpet Voluntary." The fragrant smell of white gladiolas tickled
her nose. Beneath her veil, she started
to cry. This had to be the happiest day of her life.
“He's such a handsome man," she
thought as she looked down the aisle at Charlton Philman. "I know Char
loves me with all of his heart. What just fell down into my face? I knew I
should have used more bobby pins and hairspray. I got this thing stuck together
with a wish and a prayer.
Charlton Philman looked at the woman that
was soon to become his wife.
"Wow! Marjorie looks stunning. I
definitely got the prettiest sister of the Kincaid bunch. I can't believe I'm
actually getting married. I wish my stomach would stop growling because I’m
hungry. What I had for breakfast just wasn’t enough."
After the soloist sang "I Love You
Truly" and as the pastor gave his wedding sermon, Marjorie's love dreams
dramatically changed to thoughts of the life in a vast blue ocean.
My husband-to-be smells like something
from the sea. Don't tell me I'm marrying a fish sandwich for a husband."
Char looked at his soon-to-be wife with
utter embarrassment, he was sure she had smelled his shirt. How was he ever going to live this down?
Char’s thoughts raced, "Never again
in my life will I buy a foreign-made shirt. Why would anyone want to pack dress
shirts and fish together in the same crate? Obviously, this shirt wasn't such a
bargain after all. Mom couldn’t get the fishy smell out no matter what home
remedies she tried.”
Church (and my faith in God) has always
been an important part of my life. The Oaksdale mayor, Will Denton, is also the
pastor of my church, First Baptist Church of Oaksdale. I have a lifetime of
unique memories as I grew up in a church environment. The pastor’s daughter,
Lyna, is my best friend. Along with the pastor’s wife, Jo, the church began in
an abandon peanut factory.
On
a cold Sunday morning in early February, Baptist Church of Oaksdale (FBC) began
its first services. By chance, our family attended FBC's very first Sunday
service. I was only three. We were late to our regular church, and decided to
try something new instead. (That decision by my parents changed my life.) The
church was First Baptist Church of Oaksdale.
FBC started out with a small congregation
(25 adults, 15 teens, 5 children, and 5 babies). Before they realized it, the
church’s meager offerings, prayer, and a miracle donation from the Blakely Dry
Cleaning chain helped FBC do an extensive remodeling. All former vestiges of its
past were removed, and the building took on its new life as a house of worship.
When we were second graders, Lye Denton
and I loved playing church in the basement of our home. Bossy Lye always had to
be the pastor. Being agreeable most of the time, I was put in charge of leading
the invisible choir, and congregation in singing the only song Lye and I could
remember, “Jesus Loves Me.”
Being the choir director meant I got to
impersonate what I saw Lyna’s mother doing in adult church. For me this
translated into flapping my arms like some great bird about to take off in
flight. Lyna would try to improvise on her father’s rather meek style of
preaching by not screaming, pounding the top of our crate pulpit, and telling
the invisible congregation and choir to repent of giving their children the
vegetable of the week he disliked.
Prayer time in our Sunday school class was
a lesson for Jo in patience and trying to not to laugh at some of the things
that came out of our mouth. My friend, Cory, had a great prayer request that
was typical of the kind of honest prayer concerns our class of boys and girls
sent up to God in Heaven. "Pray my daddy will stop taking his false teeth
out in church, and letting off smelly stinkers in the middle of pastor’s
preaching."
There was a dramatic change in my life
around the fourth grade. I accepted Jesus into my heart as my Savior. No longer
was He a fond memory of a cute Baby at Christmas, or Someone in the sky I
murmured my daily prayer s to. He’d now become a real person I could share my life
with. Jesus was ticket only way to Heaven when I one day passed from this world
to the next.
Gossiping is not a mouth disease prone
only to women. Men can fall victim to it also. In this digital age, half-truths
can be spread quickly if one is not careful. My first painful lesson in gossiping
happened in sixth grade at Oaksdale Middle School. Halona Lightfoot was my
first acquaintance with an American Indian teacher.
Mrs. Lightfoot was a woman in her mid
fifties who should have retired years before I entered sixth grade. Her
perpetually scowling tan face and single graying hair braid reached to her
waist. Halona smiled so rarely that when she did it reminded me of a wilting
potted geranium plant. Mrs. Lightfoot and I were not the best of friends. I
always felt she was out to make my life miserable in school. When the
opportunity came one afternoon to engage in spreading a juicy story about her,
I jumped to the call of duty.
"Class, your math assignment for
homework tonight will be page sixty in
your math book, problems 1-25. Show all
your work and double check your answers for accuracy. Class dismissed. The
school bell protested loudly, and quickly relieved us of spending any more time
in this place.
As I walked out of class, the large hands
of my friend and soccer team cohort, Alex Brice, grabbed me and pulled me to
the side of his locker.
"Alex, would you stop doing that! You
almost made me pee my pants. I thought that pushy Tiffany Langston was grabbing
me to try to kiss me again."
“Sorry, Danny, but did you hear the latest
news?"
"Wait a minute; is this another one
of your stories that's going to get me in trouble?"
"Man, I swear this is the whole
truth. Mrs. Lightfoot is having an affair with the art teacher, Mr.
Garland."
My mouth opened in astonishment; Alex said
this was the truth. I should believe him this time.
"Aren't they both married? There's a
twenty-year age difference between Mrs. Lightfoot and Mr. Garland. What could
they possibly see in each other?"
“How can you know anything about Mrs.
Lightfoot’s part with those thick glasses she wears," Alex chided.
In the next few weeks, news of the
supposed affair between Halona Lightfoot and Lance Garland spread like a forest
fire throughout Oaksdale Middle School.
The rumor I'd willingly told to others hit me square in the face one
Friday afternoon. Mrs. Lightfoot wasn't acting like herself. She acted
depressed and looked tired. I felt kind of bad for her.
The class plodded through Thursday's math
homework, and then the teacher let out a bombshell.
"Recently, there have been lots of
rumors going around this school about Mr. Garland and me. Mr. Garland and I are
not having an affair. We are both married, and love our spouses too much to do
that. For the good of this school’s name, I have decided to transfer to Eagle
Memorial High School as a geometry teacher. Your substitute teacher will arrive
Monday. She will be here with you until the end of the school year."
Mrs. Lightfoot then wiped the tears from
her eyes that were starting up, dismissed us, and walked briskly from the room.
I didn't know about the rest of the students, but I felt like a jerk. I wanted
to wring Alex's neck for lying to me. I wondered whom he'd heard his news from.
Somehow, I had to make things right with this teacher. I’d helped to make this
awful thing happen.
That Saturday, I rode my bike to Mrs.
Lightfoot's house at 818 South Beele Avenue, and knocked on the door. Out of curiosity, I’d looked Mrs. Lightfoot’s
address up on the Internet. Halona opened the door, and welcomed me in. She
offered me some tea and cake, and explained her husband was out playing golf on
this beautiful, sunny day.
"Mrs. Lightfoot, will you accept my
apology for helping to spread that awful rumor around about you and Mr.
Garland?"
"Danny, of course, I will. You have a
very good heart to come here and say this. Listen, I've never been a quitter in
life. I do know when it’s time to back out of a bad situation with some respect
and dignity intact. Yesterday was the time to do that.”
Halona and I talked for about another hour.
She wasn't as horrid as I thought she was. Maybe we could become good friends
out of this whole mess. She invited me to come back for another visit someday
and meet her husband, the veterinarian.
As a middle school guy, I learned an
important lesson with Halona about my words. It’s impossible to retrieve what’s
spoken. Today I always remember the cost of my words. If I believe something’s
not true, I either don’t say it, or I to go the person the rumors is about and find
out what’s truth.
This book comes to an end with installment two.
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