Sowing talents

I was two when my fingers first met the strings of a violin. Shortly thereafter they begrudgingly became acquainted with the keys of a piano. From that point until I was in the ninth grade those two instruments dominated my life. When I wasn't playing them, I was riding in a car to go play them or coming up with schemes to get out of playing them. Perhaps that's a bit of an overstatement as I also seem to have memories of the lake and school and pretending to be Nancy Drew with my sister, but it's primarily what we did. Who my sister and I were. So when I remember my childhood music is always at the forefront, and the memories are both good and bad.

We had lessons for each instrument once a week and on Saturday afternoons we were rehearsing for two hours with the Junior Youth Symphony Orchestra. My sister was amazing. I don't remember her ever being in second violin, always first. Eventually she became the concertmaster (first chair, first violin), but turned it down in order to participate in the higher level Youth Symphony Orchestra. I just prayed my chair partner would be someone diverting and that a can of NuGrape soda would be left in the machine when my turn came at break time.

On the other days of the week we were expected to practice each instrument for at least half an hour. The piano was downstairs and our bedrooms were upstairs. While one of us practiced the piano, the other would practice the violin upstairs in their bedroom with the door shut. One of our best schemes for getting out of practice involved borrowing a Gameboy from friends at school (our parents were never open to us having our own) and taking turns keeping "watch." The person "practicing" violin would actually play the Gameboy while the person playing the piano would keep watch. When a parent made a move to go upstairs, the piano player began banging away loudly to communicate that the Gameboy player should quickly transform into a violin player. Quite effective, really. Put two sisters together, give them a single goal, and brilliance happens. 

Though I was not a natural at violin or piano, I was at tennis. Put any kind of racquet in my hand and something clicked. It felt good and right. Put a violin bow in that same hand and the only thing that felt good and right was spearing the Suzuki music book innocently staring back at me from the music stand. In the ninth grade I finally gathered up my courage to quit. Well, to ask for permission to quit. By that time I hated music with every fiber of my being. I was tired of people telling me that "some day" I would be grateful. Tired of going to symphony every dreaded Saturday. Tired of working so hard for so little result while I watched my sister skate through (or so it seemed to me). Those days it clouded my life and made me miserable. I had all my proper arguments lined up for the conversation and even some quality reasons for switching all of my attention to tennis. But I didn't need them. I remember that pivotal conversation as being supremely anti-climactic. My parents immediately supported the idea and put as much energy and enthusiasm into helping me commit to tennis as they did music. In the end I believe their desire for me was twofold and fulfilled. They wanted to expose me to music and learn to commit. All the years spent staring at those Suzuki books gave me a certain amount of musical knowledge, something I've never regretted having. Those years also taught me about self discipline (despite the various wayward acts instigated totally by my sister) and choosing to do things we've committed to when we simply don't feel like it.

When I think on these things I wonder what to do with my children. I want them to grow and learn and develop through music, sports, and other extracurricular activities, just like my parents did for us. But there aren't violin teachers to hire down the road or in the next town over. There aren't Little Leagues around the corner or sports camps during the summer or fancy dance studios. Or any kind of dance studio. So what am I going to do? I don't actually have an answer for that question right now, aside from leaving it in God's hands. I'm learning to trust that He has a plan for my children and He has ways of making those plans come to fruition. He also has our family here in PNG, so I can't imagine that His plans for the growth of my children are contrary to that fact. Apparently He doesn't need the lessons, teams, and classes to develop the gifts He's given them. As their parents we'll need to be sensitive to His leading in this area and diligent in taking the opportunities for them to learn as He provides, but ultimately we need to trust that He will provide those opportunities.

A dear friend treated Ray to an impromptu organ concert during our last trip to Ukarumpa. At the mission base there are many ways to expose her to music and sport, but in Madang it's going to be more difficult.

Ray's first two-syllable word was "gecko." We have lots of them everywhere, so she gets to practice that word a lot. She also likes to cry wolf by randomly pointing to the walls and yelling "gko." In the village she learned her second two-syllable word, koki. Koki is the Tok Pisin word for "parrot." Now all birds are kokis. So on the days when I start internally bemoaning the lack of opportunity and choice for Ray and Baby Garbo, I remind myself of what they have gained. They'll be bilingual from the start and attuned to the greater world. They'll have a deeper appreciation for things I took for granted growing up (running water, consistent power, air conditioning, etc.). They'll have free pets climbing the walls and windows of their bedroom. But best of all they'll glorify God with the talents He gave them and He helped them to develop using what's available here in their PNG home.

Oreo.

His life started rough and ended abruptly. The bit sandwiched in the middle was a picture of how God can use even the smallest, most insignificant things to bring joy and healing to His people. 

My parents found Oreo on Petfinder. It's a nationwide website that connects people looking for a pet with pets looking for kind people. Oreo was a Boston Terrier used as a bait dog in a pit bull fighting ring when he was just a puppy. I briefly looked into bait dogs and couldn't stomach much of it, so I'm not an expert. However, I do know enough to wonder how he survived as long as he did. He was rescued before he turned 1 and put into a terrible foster home. When Mom and Dad went "just to look" they found a quivering, hairless mess tied to a tree, chafed and bloodied from the inappropriate use of a harness. Needless to say, he was traumatized and a bit loopy by the time God brought him into Mom and Dad's life. Also needless to say, their "just to look" turned into "get him out of here and home with us as quickly as possible." In one moment his life changed and ours began to be marked with good if quirky memories.

The first time I saw Oreo, I was confused. He was bony, googly-eyed, and had such short hair that his white bits looked bald. If you stressed him out (which was easy to do) those bald bits would turn bright pink. His ears were too big for his head and he was incredibly neurotic. Metallic clanging sounds would send him into a tailspin and kissing or hugging around him was firmly rebuked. He had little nubs for teeth and fat pockets just above each eye. So why did Mom and Dad pick him? As far as I could see there was very little going for him. Days later I was already attached to his sweet nature and incapable of seeing the googly eyes. He was like Nanny McPhee, slowly losing his physical ugliness as his inward merits became evident to the beholder.

Several years later, when Dad was stationed in Iraq, Oreo ended up coming to Dallas to live with Brian, myself, and our dog Sammy (Sammy also had a bad start in life, dumped on a busy street as a puppy). Mom was traveling too much and kennels were a bad, bad place for Oreo, so my parents asked us to be his home for those months. During that time he became as much our dog as my parent's dog. He routinely curled up in the crook of Brian's legs whenever the opportunity presented itself, or looked like it was about to present itself. He and Sammy tore around the apartment generally loving life together. And best of all, he became sensitive to my emotions, curling up with me just when I needed it (Sammy was and is useless for this). By the time we sent him back home, I was completely unable to see the ugly dog I had first met.

In 2011 we left the US to come to PNG for our first term as a married couple. One of the hardest aspects of leaving was saying goodbye to Sammy and Oreo. I knew that both would be well cared for and happy in each other's company, but I wanted their lives to be with me. Despite the sadness I felt at leaving them behind, I couldn't help but marvel at them. They both started life forgotten and abused, but were now a daily reminder that God truly does look after His creation. He saw Oreo's need and Sammy's need, and He saw the places they could fill in each of our lives. Even as we left they were part of healing my Mom's ache at our departure. Instead of serving a God that sees, but doesn't care, we serve a God that takes time to connect those dots and bring people and creatures together to bring each other joy. And in that I believe He takes great delight. 

While we were home on furlough last year we spent most of our time in San Antonio with my parents. Oreo became Ray's self-appointed guardian, standing watch over her from inside the nursery when he could, and from just outside the door of the nursery if he was shut out. I don't believe he understood why he was doing it, he just felt a natural compulsion to watch over her. He did the same with my sister's child and any other children that were nearby. If I didn't love Oreo before, he sealed my heart by guarding my child. And that's how I'll always remember him. Curled up in a tight ball under her crib, googly eyes glued to the door. 

I knew the email would eventually come informing us that Oreo or Sammy had died, but I didn't imagine it would hurt so much when it happened. I thought being here in PNG was a big enough break in my heart from them that it would be easier. But it's not. Over time I will be able to see that even his death is from the merciful hand of God. He wasn't doing well mentally, and only seemed to be getting worse. He was fully taken care of, but life was still hard for him to live. His death was quick and he had already spent his short years serving many people. And now he can rest. And now though the tears come in gushes at random times, very soon I'll simply be able to remember Oreo as God's beautifully ugly gift to our family.