Eric E. Wright's Blog, page 16

Pax, Peace Corp, An Okie and a Cup of TEE – Our Story continued, #24

Almost six months after God called Mary Helen home, I continue to call up the memories of our life together. Back, back to the turbulent years from 1971 to 1973. A time of fascinating visitors and the kick-off of the TEE program.

With Bangladesh’s 1971 war of independence behind us, we looked forward to settling down to a period of normalcy. Foolish thought. The only constant in missionary life is unpredictability—really, in life period.

 Good things were happening. The unity of the Rahim church, the pastor’s enthusiasm for evangelism, the growth in sales of Christian literature and the increase in solid converts from the Marwari tribe offered great encouragement into 1972.

During every spare minute, I had been working on the first extension course. It dealt with the inspiration of Scripture and the nature of God. Since historically, Presbyterians and Anglicans had been the dominant influence among Christians in Pakistan, I arranged for the translation of the Westminster Confession into Urdu and the use of the 39 Articles of the Anglican church.

With the kick-off of The Extension School of Theology, TEST, approaching on March 1st, our house began to resemble a madhouse. In the garage, we installed a Gestetner mimeograph to duplicate the lessons. Akhtar and Sharifa, two of the teachers at the Allied Model School helped in translating the materials into Urdu. We hired a calligrapher to scribe the lessons onto stencils. The lessons then had to be run off, collated, and stapled together.

Since the kids were home, we organized picnics along the canal or out on the sand dunes. They loved the flat roof of our new house in Rahim where they watched camel trains arriving from the desert or cooked potatoes on a little stove. Aussie missionary, Joy Nutt had joined us by then and was living in one segment of this Satellite Town house. I remember her participating enthusiastically in a water-balloon fight. She was such a good sport.

But too quickly it came time for Stephen and Debbie to head back to boarding via the train party. We packed their trucks and sent them on a donkey cart to the station where we waved them off on the storied Khyber Mail. Other parents met them and guided them to their compartments on the train. Although these train parties were great fun for the kids, the long hours could lead to boredom. Once when we were chaperones on the school train party, a pillow fight broke out. One boy threw his sleeping bag at another. Instead of hitting him it sailed through an open window into the Jhelum River!

Unfortunately, in 1972 they arrived in Murree to over a foot of drifted snow. The road to the school was impassable by vehicles so they had to walk four miles through the drifts. What a cold start to boarding.

Back on the plains, Mary Helen focused on teaching John grade one, since he was too young for boarding. We began TEST on March first with 48 students in three centres. During the next three months, life for me was a blur. The course booklets for the coming week were run off on the duplicator, collated and stapled. During those days, there seemed to be paper and lesson booklets everywhere. Often there was with just enough time to grab a bus or cycle to one of the three centres. At each centre I held a two-hour seminar to quiz students on what they had learned that week, discuss the tough questions, listen to testimonies, and introduce the lesson booklet for the coming week. Once back at home, I’d dive back into editing and running off the next lesson.

\Half-way through the semester, on April 14th we invited students from all the centres to convene in Rahim for a day-long seminar. I held a more extensive quiz and made presentations on some of the more challenging subjects. For example, why is the apocrypha not in our Bibles? What about the Muslim claim that the Bible has been corrupted? Is the Bible complete? In what sense is God sovereign? Then after a communal meal, we adjourned to the bazaar for some informal evangelism.

An Urdu lesson on inspiration

Students were in high spirits and quite positive about the lessons. One student testified that the course had inspired him to begin family Bible study. He had also acquired a new confidence and ability to explain his faith to the majority community. Another student described his joy in witnessing. Still another told of how he had been far from God but brought back into fellowship with the Lord. One student used the course to explain to a Muslim the meaning of revelation. The Muslim exclaimed, “I’ve never heard that before!” It was extremely gratifying to see TEST not only communicating content but affecting lives and enlivening witness.  

By this time intense heat had settled over the plains sapping our energy. And so with considerable relief, we rejoined Stephen and Deborah in Murree for the summer term of Murree Christian School.  

That summer might be titled, the summer of the unexpected. Mary Helen was asked to lead the PTA. The car’s fan-belt broke and we learned the efficacy of carrying an old pair of panty hose in the trunk to use as a temporary fan-belt. I prepared for the annual ICF conference in July. Terrible inflation and political insecurity gripped the country. Mary Helen caught the flu. Someone stole the roof rack off the car. One of our missionary neighbours was attacked by two thieves.

In August Johnny fell off the monkey bars at school and broke his wrist quite badly. That necessitated a 50-mile trip down the hill to a missionary hospital. Watching a doctor try to set the bones in John’s wrist, Mary Helen was in almost as much agony as John. It took four X-rays, and the remoulding of the cast three times before the bones were set. Poor John! That trip, going and coming from the 7000-foot elevation in Murree to the plains caused Mary Helen’s ears to pop, probably introducing the hearing problems that plagued her ever since.

Johnny with his cast.

The busy summer had delayed my preparation of the second theology course. Fortunately, during the next year we were able to borrow courses on Ephesians and Jeremiah from TEE programs in other countries. In September we convened a new semester of TEST with about 29 students. Then in April of 1973, we had 24. Although students valiantly completed these courses, it became clear that university level courses, needed to be mixed with simpler courses.

Around this time, both the Conservative Baptists and TEAM showed considerable interest in developing their own TEE programs. Russ Irwin, a gifted communicator with TEAM, joined the TEE committee and became an invaluable resource country-wide. As I soon learned, he was also a deadly ping pong and basketball player. To spread information about TEE, I published an occasional bulletin called A Cup of TEE.

In the Rahim area, we were greatly encouraged to see how the program contributed to leadership training. At the fall church convention, four pastors were ordained.

With missionaries leaving for furlough, the mission became very short-staffed. Mary Helen and I had to give more time to hospitality, supervising the Allied Model School, and supporting our Pakistan brethren. In a sense, this period proved to be a good thing as our national brothers began to come more and more to the fore. During an all-centre retreat attendees split into four teams to distribute literature and witness in the Rahim bazaar. It was a glorious time. Three students who had never been involved before felt the courage of a Jeremiah or Paul enlivening them to witness. About 300 Gospel portions were sold.

A missionary returning from furlough encouraged us with his observations that TEST had been contributing to the spiritual growth and developing maturity of our Pakistani pastors. Even closer to the situation, Pastor Umar shared his conviction that the recent restoration of fellowship among Christians in the area and a renewed burden for evangelism could be traced to students studying TEST courses.

Two of the extension courses.

Mary Helen kept very busy teaching John at home, organizing hospitality, and visiting Muslim women. We never knew who might drop in.

One year, we can’t remember when, we had visiting PAX workers. They were American Mennonites, conscientious objectors, who instead of military service, agreed to fulfill their service by doing development work. They enjoyed a home-cooked meal at our house once in awhile. Then there were a couple of US Peace Corp workers who endeavoured to set up a chicken farm outside of town. Another time we had a Polish woman staying with us for a short while. That was the age of hippy travel to the fabled orient. She had been attacked and lost her passport. We eventually bought her a ticket to Karachi.

Mary Helen

One of the most unique visitors was an entrepreneurial Okie who had run a series of gas stations in Oklahoma. She fell under the charms of a handsome Pakistani, married him, and returned with him to his home in Rahim. There she discovered that he came from a family of wealthy landlords. He acted quite different among his extended family, expecting her to fit into his Pakistani lifestyle. She found herself under the domination of his mother, a typical arrangement, since mothers-in-law ruled the roost in most Pakistani homes. Even though she had sold her gas stations, brought the money over and bought a cotton gin in Rahim her husband still expected her to act like a dutiful Pakistani wife. Then she found out that her husband had another wife!

Naturally, she became disillusioned, miserable and wildly unhappy. She often come to us in a state of great agitation. Mary Helen tried to help her adjust by teaching her how to make cookies and by explaining the culture. She was not domestically inclined, nor was she used to being told what to do.

One night she banged on the door in a worst state than usual. She had lost her temper, a common occurrence. She would often explain her actions by saying, “I couldn’t help it, Mary Helen. It was me Okie comin’ out!” But this time she had gone too far by taking off her shoe and hitting her husband with it. In that culture, to hit someone with a shoe or even brandish it in their direction was an act of outrageous humiliation. Mary Helen and Joy Nutt, who was staying with us at that time, had to go and try and mediate with the family.

Eventually, Maxine left for the north. We’re not sure if she availed herself of the underground railroad that operated during those years or not. Some Pakistani and Afghan men come across to many western women as handsome in the extreme. Romance flourishes and these Omar Khayyam types sweep them off their feet, propose marriage, and bring them back home. Once in Pakistan or Afghanistan, these brides soon discovered their husbands had a darker side. They became captives to a culture they didn’t understand. To rescue them and whisk them out of the country, a mysterious underground existed and probably still functions.

Encouraged by comments from missionary colleagues and Pakistani students, I set to work on the development of Theology, Part Two, and exploring options for a simpler course. We needed a course that would capture the interest of the students and plunge them into the joys of Christian living. I settled on developing a course based on the Christian armour passage in Ephesians six.

Bill Milton volunteered to help with TEST. Sadly, in mid-August—too late to do anything—I got word that my father had died. Then the annual monsoon hit with a vengeance and the terrible flood of 1973 occupied all our attention.

(Let me know your thoughts on this subject. If you appreciate this blog, please pass it on. Further articles, books, and stories at:  Facebook: Eric E Wright Twitter: @EricEWright1 LinkedIn: Eric Wright ; check out his web site: www.countrywindow.ca –– Eric’s books are available at: https://www.amazon.com/Eric-E.-Wright/e/B00355HPKK%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share)

Pax, Peace Corp, An Okie and a Cup of TEE – Our Story continued, #23

Almost six months after God called Mary Helen home, I continue to call up the memories of our life together. Back, back to the turbulent years from 1971 to 1973. A time of fascinating visitors and the kick-off of the TEE program.

With Bangladesh’s 1971 war of independence behind us, we looked forward to settling down to a period of normalcy. Foolish thought. The only constant in missionary life is unpredictability—really, in life period.

 Good things were happening. The unity of the Rahim church, the pastor’s enthusiasm for evangelism, the growth in sales of Christian literature and the increase in solid converts from the Marwari tribe offered great encouragement into 1972.

During every spare minute, I had been working on the first extension course. It dealt with the inspiration of Scripture and the nature of God. Since historically, Presbyterians and Anglicans had been the dominant influence among Christians in Pakistan, I arranged for the translation of the Westminster Confession into Urdu and the use of the 39 Articles of the Anglican church.

With the kick-off of The Extension School of Theology, TEST, approaching on March 1st, our house began to resemble a madhouse. In the garage, we installed a Gestetner mimeograph to duplicate the lessons. Akhtar and Sharifa, two of the teachers at the Allied Model School helped in translating the materials into Urdu. We hired a calligrapher to scribe the lessons onto stencils. The lessons then had to be run off, collated, and stapled together.

Since the kids were home, we organized picnics along the canal or out on the sand dunes. They loved the flat roof of our new house in Rahim where they watched camel trains arriving from the desert or cooked potatoes on a little stove. Aussie missionary, Joy Nutt had joined us by then and was living in one segment of this Satellite Town house. I remember her participating enthusiastically in a water-balloon fight. She was such a good sport.

But too quickly it came time for Stephen and Debbie to head back to boarding via the train party. We packed their trucks and sent them on a donkey cart to the station where we waved them off on the storied Khyber Mail. Other parents met them and guided them to their compartments on the train. Although these train parties were great fun for the kids, the long hours could lead to boredom. Once when we were chaperones on the school train party, a pillow fight broke out. One boy threw his sleeping bag at another. Instead of hitting him it sailed through an open window into the Jhelum River!

Unfortunately, in 1972 they arrived in Murree to over a foot of drifted snow. The road to the school was impassable by vehicles so they had to walk four miles through the drifts. What a cold start to boarding.

Back on the plains, Mary Helen focused on teaching John grade one, since he was too young for boarding. We began TEST on March first with 48 students in three centres. During the next three months, life for me was a blur. The course booklets for the coming week were run off on the duplicator, collated and stapled. During those days, there seemed to be paper and lesson booklets everywhere. Often there was with just enough time to grab a bus or cycle to one of the three centres. At each centre I held a two-hour seminar to quiz students on what they had learned that week, discuss the tough questions, listen to testimonies, and introduce the lesson booklet for the coming week. Once back at home, I’d dive back into editing and running off the next lesson.

\Half-way through the semester, on April 14th we invited students from all the centres to convene in Rahim for a day-long seminar. I held a more extensive quiz and made presentations on some of the more challenging subjects. For example, why is the apocrypha not in our Bibles? What about the Muslim claim that the Bible has been corrupted? Is the Bible complete? In what sense is God sovereign? Then after a communal meal, we adjourned to the bazaar for some informal evangelism.

An Urdu lesson on inspiration

Students were in high spirits and quite positive about the lessons. One student testified that the course had inspired him to begin family Bible study. He had also acquired a new confidence and ability to explain his faith to the majority community. Another student described his joy in witnessing. Still another told of how he had been far from God but brought back into fellowship with the Lord. One student used the course to explain to a Muslim the meaning of revelation. The Muslim exclaimed, “I’ve never heard that before!” It was extremely gratifying to see TEST not only communicating content but affecting lives and enlivening witness.  

By this time intense heat had settled over the plains sapping our energy. And so with considerable relief, we rejoined Stephen and Deborah in Murree for the summer term of Murree Christian School.  

That summer might be titled, the summer of the unexpected. Mary Helen was asked to lead the PTA. The car’s fan-belt broke and we learned the efficacy of carrying an old pair of panty hose in the trunk to use as a temporary fan-belt. I prepared for the annual ICF conference in July. Terrible inflation and political insecurity gripped the country. Mary Helen caught the flu. Someone stole the roof rack off the car. One of our missionary neighbours was attacked by two thieves.

In August Johnny fell off the monkey bars at school and broke his wrist quite badly. That necessitated a 50-mile trip down the hill to a missionary hospital. Watching a doctor try to set the bones in John’s wrist, Mary Helen was in almost as much agony as John. It took four X-rays, and the remoulding of the cast three times before the bones were set. Poor John! That trip, going and coming from the 7000-foot elevation in Murree to the plains caused Mary Helen’s ears to pop, probably introducing the hearing problems that plagued her ever since.

Johnny with his cast.

The busy summer had delayed my preparation of the second theology course. Fortunately, during the next year we were able to borrow courses on Ephesians and Jeremiah from TEE programs in other countries. In September we convened a new semester of TEST with about 29 students. Then in April of 1973, we had 24. Although students valiantly completed these courses, it became clear that university level courses, needed to be mixed with simpler courses.

Around this time, both the Conservative Baptists and TEAM showed considerable interest in developing their own TEE programs. Russ Irwin, a gifted communicator with TEAM, joined the TEE committee and became an invaluable resource country-wide. As I soon learned, he was also a deadly ping pong and basketball player. To spread information about TEE, I published an occasional bulletin called A Cup of TEE.

In the Rahim area, we were greatly encouraged to see how the program contributed to leadership training. At the fall church convention, four pastors were ordained.

With missionaries leaving for furlough, the mission became very short-staffed. Mary Helen and I had to give more time to hospitality, supervising the Allied Model School, and supporting our Pakistan brethren. In a sense, this period proved to be a good thing as our national brothers began to come more and more to the fore. During an all-centre retreat attendees split into four teams to distribute literature and witness in the Rahim bazaar. It was a glorious time. Three students who had never been involved before felt the courage of a Jeremiah or Paul enlivening them to witness. About 300 Gospel portions were sold.

A missionary returning from furlough encouraged us with his observations that TEST had been contributing to the spiritual growth and developing maturity of our Pakistani pastors. Even closer to the situation, Pastor Umar shared his conviction that the recent restoration of fellowship among Christians in the area and a renewed burden for evangelism could be traced to students studying TEST courses.

Two of the extension courses.

Mary Helen kept very busy teaching John at home, organizing hospitality, and visiting Muslim women. We never knew who might drop in.

One year, we can’t remember when, we had visiting PAX workers. They were American Mennonites, conscientious objectors, who instead of military service, agreed to fulfill their service by doing development work. They enjoyed a home-cooked meal at our house once in awhile. Then there were a couple of US Peace Corp workers who endeavoured to set up a chicken farm outside of town. Another time we had a Polish woman staying with us for a short while. That was the age of hippy travel to the fabled orient. She had been attacked and lost her passport. We eventually bought her a ticket to Karachi.

Mary Helen

One of the most unique visitors was an entrepreneurial Okie who had run a series of gas stations in Oklahoma. She fell under the charms of a handsome Pakistani, married him, and returned with him to his home in Rahim. There she discovered that he came from a family of wealthy landlords. He acted quite different among his extended family, expecting her to fit into his Pakistani lifestyle. She found herself under the domination of his mother, a typical arrangement, since mothers-in-law ruled the roost in most Pakistani homes. Even though she had sold her gas stations, brought the money over and bought a cotton gin in Rahim her husband still expected her to act like a dutiful Pakistani wife. Then she found out that her husband had another wife!

Naturally, she became disillusioned, miserable and wildly unhappy. She often come to us in a state of great agitation. Mary Helen tried to help her adjust by teaching her how to make cookies and by explaining the culture. She was not domestically inclined, nor was she used to being told what to do.

One night she banged on the door in a worst state than usual. She had lost her temper, a common occurrence. She would often explain her actions by saying, “I couldn’t help it, Mary Helen. It was me Okie comin’ out!” But this time she had gone too far by taking off her shoe and hitting her husband with it. In that culture, to hit someone with a shoe or even brandish it in their direction was an act of outrageous humiliation. Mary Helen and Joy Nutt, who was staying with us at that time, had to go and try and mediate with the family.

Eventually, Maxine left for the north. We’re not sure if she availed herself of the underground railroad that operated during those years or not. Some Pakistani and Afghan men come across to many western women as handsome in the extreme. Romance flourishes and these Omar Khayyam types sweep them off their feet, propose marriage, and bring them back home. Once in Pakistan or Afghanistan, these brides soon discovered their husbands had a darker side. They became captives to a culture they didn’t understand. To rescue them and whisk them out of the country, a mysterious underground existed and probably still functions.

Encouraged by comments from missionary colleagues and Pakistani students, I set to work on the development of Theology, Part Two, and exploring options for a simpler course. We needed a course that would capture the interest of the students and plunge them into the joys of Christian living. I settled on developing a course based on the Christian armour passage in Ephesians six.

Bill Milton volunteered to help with TEST. Sadly, in mid-August—too late to do anything—I got word that my father had died. Then the annual monsoon hit with a vengeance and the terrible flood of 1973 occupied all our attention.

(Let me know your thoughts on this subject. If you appreciate this blog, please pass it on. Further articles, books, and stories at:  Facebook: Eric E Wright Twitter: @EricEWright1 LinkedIn: Eric Wright ; check out his web site: www.countrywindow.ca –– Eric’s books are available at: https://www.amazon.com/Eric-E.-Wright/e/B00355HPKK%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share)

Riding the Roller Coaster of Grief – A Man’s Journey Through Grief, #17

Sunday morning, after church and then dinner out with my son and his wife, I was driving home. I could hardly keep the tears in check.  Yes, I was missing Mary Helen. Yes, I was returning to an empty condo. But I suddenly realized that the tears came from a new place. They were tears of joy and celebration. The speakers of the morning were a missionary couple from a challenging field. I left the service thinking about what a privilege Mary Helen and I had enjoyed taking part in that great movement—the missionary movement. And then to have been in pastoral ministry for years. And to have written books about the faith. What a privilege! But why? A great fountain of praise welled up within. It was all God. We had been chosen by God. God had forgiven our sins and worked to change us. He had sent us into various situations to be his light. How dimly we had shone. But how wonderful had been his grace. We had earlier written a memoir entitled, Surprises of Grace to try and describe the surprising ways God had brought new challenges into our lives.  

As I continued to drive home, I also pondered why I had been enjoying such freedom in writing. More than I had ever felt. I hadn’t encountered the same writer’s block. There wasn’t as much revision. It was as if I was being moved to write by an inner compulsion. I was writing at different, unusual times.  I had been looking back over our years together; trying to review our story, perhaps for our children and grandchildren. I had also been writing blog posts about grieving. On that lonely car ride, I realized that it was really His story. As one of the songs we sing in church declared, it’s all about Him.

Most of that day I felt almost euphoric about the ways of God and how he had touched our lives; his calling, his direction, his protection, the family he has given, the friends and missionary colleagues. We have lived such a blessed life!

I could see what Nehemiah 8:10 meant. “Do not grieve, for the joy of the Lord is your strength.” Perhaps this is why Hannah could exult in God although barren. The Lord had given her a promise. “My heart exults in the LORD; my horn is exalted in the LORD. My mouth derides my enemies, because I rejoice in your salvation.”

Joy, which has seemed so scarce recently, now seems possible even as I contemplate a future without Mary Helen beside me. Joy in the Lord. The joy of the Lord. Joy over what he has done and since, he called Mary Helen home, joy with him into a new future which he has crafted.

And there have been joys. The delight I’ve found in my rural rambles. The joy of watching a couple of great grandchildren frolic. The fun I’ve had photographing and sharing roadside flowers. The joy found in Bible study with a group of godly men.

BUT. The next day I was beset by a deep sadness that would not seem to go away. At that time, I wrote; “Lord, I’m tired. I find myself irritable; answering people with a sharp edge to my voice. I think I’m just losing the ability to push, push, push on through the obstacles to making a new life without Mary Helen. I know she is in heaven. I know she is not coming back. I know I have to remake my life…but why? Do I really? I know that the joy of the Lord is my strength, but where is it?

I think this putting on a smiling face, answering people who ask how I am, is just too much to bear. I’m weary of it. I just want to retire to our condo and shut the door. Shut off the phone. Have a nap for a week. Do nothing. Speak to no one. Ignore church. Ignore attempts to get me to socialize. It’s just too much. Let me just take a break for a day, two days, a week, a month. Maybe binge watch a Netflix series. Let me just hibernate. Bears do it. Why can’t I?

This whole grief thing seems so difficult, and yet I feel so guilty saying that. Even here in Canada people are struggling with terrible issues; tragedies, struggles, loss of a child, a mother, a father, a wife, a husband, a divorce. I know I’m not some special person that should escape the pain of loss, but why is it so hard some days? Especially, when I married my sweetheart and had over 61 years with her? Why this roller coaster of emotions?

(Let me know your thoughts on this subject. If you appreciate this blog, please pass it on. Further articles, books, and stories at:  Facebook: Eric E Wright Twitter: @EricEWright1 LinkedIn: Eric Wright ; check out his web site: http://www.countrywindow.ca –– Eric’s books are available at: https://www.amazon.com/Eric-E.-Wright/e/B00355HPKK%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share)

A Short Rural Ramble Along the Grand River – (part one)

Let me take you on a very brief and superficial visit to the upper Grand River Watershed. The Grand River is suitably named for it is one the grand old rivers of Southern Ontario. It is not as storied as the St. Lawrence which drains the five Great Lakes, nor the Trent that joins Lake Ontario to Lake Huron. Nor even the great Ottawa River, beloved of the early explorers and traders.

For me the Grand has family connections. My mother grew up on a farm not far from its banks and used to talk of two of it’s tributaries, the Speed and the Nith Rivers. So, when I was considering another rural ramble, I thought, “why not trace the Grand from its source to its mouth at Lake Erie? On the day I chose, I could not trace its whole length but left the lower part to explore another day.  

In my rambles, I came as close as I could to its source near Dundalk, where it was but a muddy creek through a farmer’s field. From the rich farms I passed in my wandering it was clear that the whole Grand watershed sustains rich farms such as one where the machinery idled after taking off the wheat harvest and bundling the straw. 

Here and there one could spot the ruins of the original barns, since taken down along with most of the fences that used to mark off the smaller fields but hindered the mammoth machinery used today.  

Here in its northern reaches, as if to mark the conquest of the ancient by the modern, loomed my nemesis, giant wind turbines.

After the American War of Independence, the Crown purchased land from the Mississaugas in Upper Canada to award as grants to Loyalist refugees as compensation for their property losses in the colonies. Loyalists from New York, New England and the South were settled in this area, as the Crown hoped they would create new towns and farms on the frontier. In the 19th century, many new immigrants came to Upper Canada from England, Scotland, Ireland and Germany

The Grand meandered south from its source, quite shallow with the dearth of rain, but leaving deep pools here and there for the fishermen to search for small-mouth bass and a dozen other species.

The Ojibwe name for Grand River is Owaashtanong-ziibi, meaning, near as I can figure, brown river or river that runs brown. The Mississaugas call it O-es-shin-ne-gun-ing, meaning “the one that washes the timber down and carries away the grass and the weeds.” The Mohawk’s called it O:se Kenhionhata:tie meaning “Willow River,” for the many willows in the watershed. The first European known to descend the river was the famous explorer René-Robert Cavelier de La Salle in 1669. To the early French settlers, the river was known as Rivière la Rapide or Rivière L’Urse, “Bear River.” The name “Grand” first appears on a map from 1744.

Just when my hunger for lunch began to surface, I discovered one of those peripatetic chip trucks. I ordered a small fries, but like everything in farming country it was huge, two or three times larger than I could eat! But what rural ramble in Ontario is complete with fresh cut fries?  

Chip and Ice Cream Trucks

I took a slight detour to try and catch a glimpse of Luther Lake, really a huge marsh designated as a wildlife management area. But since it was so vast and so marshy, my gravel road never allowed me to catch sight of the lake. Along the way, especially in this northern segment, I drove past muskeg with it’s typical mixture of dead and living black spruce and balsam.

Muskeg

What I did discover, however, was Damascus Lake, really part of the reservoir system maintaining a steady source of water through Luther Lake to the Grand River.  From Damascus Lake, I returned to the main river following it down to Grand Valley.

Damascus Lake Damascus Lake

Grand Valley comprised a population of 10 or 15 souls in 1855 when George Joyce came, built a loghouse, barn and shortly, a tavern. Like most pioneer towns in Ontario, as more settlers arrived, a schoolhouse and post office soon followed. At that time the area was mainly woodland teeming with wildlife such as deer, bear, wildcat, wolves, rabbits and partridge. Today it is a small town with the typical dated main street.

Following the Grand south I came to Lake Belwood, a 12 km long lake, beloved by fishermen searching for northern pike, walleye, smallmouth bass, yellow perch and black crappie. To form the lake, the waters of the Grand were impounded in 1942 by the erection of the Shand Dam for flood control and the generation of hydroelectricity creating this little known gem. 

Lake Belwood Lake Belwood fishing Lake Belwood

South of Lake Belwood we come to Fergus and Elora, two destinations popular with day tourists from the bigger centres. These towns lie on a constricted section of the river where it runs through rocky gorges+ carved through exposed areas of the underlying sedimentary rock. The associated rapids and falls make it an especially interesting section, thus their popularity.

Bridge over Grand at Fergus

Both towns have done a commendable job of modernizing stores along the main street without destroying their historic character, stores that in many small towns sit empty and rundown. Witness the “I Love Chocolate” store in Fergus.

Fergus rapids from pedestrian bridge Fergus wedding party Fergus pedestrian walkway over gorge. Grand at Fergus

It being a Saturday and my time short, I had more access to Fergus than to Elora which was completely swamped by tourists and wedding parties. I did witness one such party in Fergus. Fergus has erected a wonderful, flower bedecked pedestrian bridge across the gorge and a walkway along its very lip. Both towns beckon me to return on a day other than during the weekend.

Elora on the Grand Elora looking toward the gorge

From Elora, I zigzagged back and forth on country roads as the sprawl of the whole Kitchener-Waterloo urban area began to eat up the farming country. Finally I emerged at the Kitchener bridge over the Grand, where I had to break up my ramble.  

Kitchener bridge over Grand Grand at Kitchener bridge

Before I leave this short saga, however, it is intriguing to note why there might be many disputes from our indigenous tribes concerning land. “In 1784, Sir F. Haldimand … granted to the Six Nations and their heirs for ever, a tract of land on the Ouse, or Grand River, six miles in depth on each side of the river, beginning at Lake Erie, and extending to the head of the river. This grant was confirmed, and its conditions defined, by a patent under the Great Seal, issued by Lieutenant Governor Simcoe, and bearing date January 14, 1793.” We must remember however, that this grant did not include the Mississaugas, Ojibwe or Huron peoples. Much of this land, assumed by the Six Nations to be theirs to govern was sold or traded off. The Six Nations, of course, were more recent inhabitants of land originally ranged over by other tribes. (An opinion.)

(Let me know your thoughts on this subject. If you appreciate this blog, please pass it on. Further articles, books, and stories at:  Facebook: Eric E Wright Twitter: @EricEWright1 LinkedIn: Eric Wright ; check out his web site: http://www.countrywindow.ca –– Eric’s books are available at: https://www.amazon.com/Eric-E.-Wright/e/B00355HPKK%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share)

The Flood of 1973 – Our Story continued, #23

As I reminisce on my life with Mary Helen, I’m going to break into the flow of our story because of this year’s terrible floods in Pakistan. It reminds me of the floods that inundated the country in 1973. We were in the mountains with the kids for their summer semester. I was working on preparing extension materials for the kick-off of TEST, the Extension School of Theology.

That summer became not only known for record heat but record rain. The monsoon rains lashed the mountains unmercifully. The rain beat upon our tin rooves, sometimes so violently that we could hardly talk to each other. I must say, the sound of rain on a tin roof was normally soothing. But that year it wasn’t just the noise, but the impossibility of drying clothes. Everything seemed moldy and moist.

All the rivers rose to flood stage in the plains. By August 8th the radio began reporting severe floods in the north. Deaths were reported. The area around Lahore soon flooded. As the floods spread down country, the reports became more alarming. Panjab province became a giant lake. On August 11th the authorities suspended train service between Lyallpur and Lahore. The army was called in to aid in rescue efforts.

Later in August we got word that the Panjnad Barrage on the Indus River had failed, flooding the area south of Multan. Many other irrigation dams and canals were also overrun. The Indus River became a swollen torrent running 20 miles wide. Many towns in the Rahim Yar Khan district flooded, including Khanpur and Sadiqabad. When the national highway and railway were overwhelmed, the district was effectively cut off from the rest of the country. As the flood receded in areas to the north, areas to the south, even including towns in the Sindh province, flooded. That included Larkana, the home of the Prime Minister and Shikarpur where we had found refuge during the conflict with India.

There was considerable loss of life and the absolute devastation of standing crops of cotton and rice. Floods ruined millions of dollars worth of stored wheat. Fortunately, US Aid responded quickly, offering 30 million dollars in aid and 100,000 tons of grains. Word reached us that US special forces rescue teams with helicopters and inflatable boats had arrived in the Rahim area.

We daily met to plan our response. When special flights to Rahim Yar Khan from Lahore were announced, Bill Milton and I waited until the road to Lahore was clear. Then we took a minibus to Lahore and caught a flight south to gauge what we could do as a mission to help. The view from the air was grim. South of Multan a 20-mile-wide wedge of ever-widening water was visible for 90 miles to Rahim.

Fortunately, most of the town was built high enough to escape the worst. However, what really saved the town was diverting the water into the desert where it flowed south via an ancient river bed that had been dry for a thousand years. Although water circled the town, the high banks of the main feeder canal held back the water. Our house, just a mile from that canal was saved.

Clusters of rough shelters had begun to appear along any kind of high ground; desert dunes, the RR line, and the banks of the large feeder canal. Escapees from the flood improvised these shelters from anything available; string beds, sheets, bits of salvaged furniture, and tree branches. Since most of the village houses had been made of mud, the flood ate away at them until they dissolved. Any stores of grain in the houses were ruined.

The refugee villagers had to venture into the water to try and cut fodder from the drowned and ruined crops in order to feed their livestock.

Hugh Gordon and his family had a house in Khanpur. The Bastians and Lindsays, who were on furlough at that time, had also stored their things there. A party of us including Hugh, who had just returned from furlough along with Pastors Nawaz and John set out in an attempt to assess the damage to their houses and the church. A jeep took us to within three and a half miles of the town. From there we waded through the stinking waters along with streams of refugees both coming and going. Some were returning to check that their homes hadn’t been looted. Others were taking their scanty possessions and animals out to higher ground.

To avoid contamination, we carried a thermos jug of boiled water. Pastor Nawaz offered to carry the jug on his head. As we waded through the water toward town, he suddenly disappeared into an unseen hole. I grabbed the jug before grabbing Nawaz and gave thanks that our water was safe. Nawaz was quite indignant that I seemed more concerned about the jug than him.

Wading into flooded Khanpur

People often find humour even in the direst circumstances. For years to come Nawaz and others milked this scene for every shred of humour they could extract—with me being the uncompassionate Bura Sahib!

The scenes we witnessed that day were heart-breaking. Women and tiny children with burdens on their heads. Donkeys. Oxen. Swimming dogs. A water buffalo mired in mud. Two men steering big brass pots through the flood. Men pulling and pushing a donkey cart loaded with women and children. Although the water in most places was slowly receding, elsewhere it was deep and dangerously swift.

Our watery route passed the pathetic sights of collapsed mud houses, yawning telephone poles, and drowned sugar cane. The water stank of rotting grain and sewage. Here and there we passed the bloated carcasses of dead animals. As we entered the town, we saw that whole sections of the huge canal that circled Khanpur had been breached. The cuts in the fifteen-foot high canal bank looked as if they had been ruptured by a bull dozer. Two-thirds of this town of 70,000 lay in ruins.

People carrying possessions through flood

When we finally reached the Gordons’ house we saw that it stood in four feet of water. A terrible smell assailed our nostrils. Some fleeing Christian had stored four tons of grain in the courtyard—twenty-five hundred rupees worth. The rotting kernels floated everywhere. Too bad it hadn’t been deposited on the roof and thus saved. Inside, we saw that the house had not been looted thanks to a friendly neighbour, but everything was ruined. It was full of floating furniture, upturned drums of linens with clothing and books. We took what was salvageable to the roof to dry out.

With the day far spent we left the Gordon’s house and sought out some place to spend the night. We waded past drowned cars, tumbled walls, tangled wires, and haunting emptiness. On the way to higher ground on the RR embankment we finally found a tea shop. To this day, Hugh loves to remind me about my insistence that the cook at the tea shop wash the cups for our tea very carefully. The cook took great care in washing them but then dried them with his dirty apron. So much for my insistence on hygiene. Hugh roared with laughter. I was not amused.

As we pressed on toward the railroad station, the sight of hundreds of families crowding the embankment met our eyes. A Christian family stopped us to ask for prayer. Soon a crowd gathered and began to tell us of their misery and hunger. All we could do was assure them that we would inform the District Superintendent in Rahim of their plight.

At an open-air inn near the station, we secured some string beds on which to sleep. But first we had to register. We found great humour in the inn-keeper’s insistence that Hugh give the name of his father along with his own name. Like all of us, Hugh was hot and exasperated. He yelled back, “Sahib, why do you want to know my father’s name. He is dead! Such foolishness.” In Pakistan people commonly included their father’s name for identification since so many have similar names such as Mohammed. As a result, all inns have a column in their registers for the father’s name. Whenever Hugh brought up my indignation at the teawala’s hygiene, I reminded him of his exasperation with the innkeeper.

The rain that we feared might drench us that night held off but not the clouds of mosquitoes. Along with the general population, we were quite concerned about the post-flood menace of malaria, typhoid, cholera, and dysentery. Fortunately, a concerted program of inoculations was soon underway.

The next morning, we sloshed our way along the submerged road to waiting buses. Back in Rahim we heard about the US Special Forces rescue team who, with their helicopters and inflatable boats had been dropping supplies and rescuing stranded people. While Bill stayed to hold a general meeting with the pastors, Hugh and I cycled the eight miles along an intact canal road to their boat camp.

They were a great bunch of Green Berets from the US south. They had never seen destruction on this scale before. But they expressed great frustration over delays, lack of co-ordination, and how the VIPs and rich landlords had been taking advantage of their services. As a change, they were glad to take us out to survey the conditions of the poorer folk. With one of the Marwari believers, they ferried us three miles through drowned fields, protruding date palms, and submerged mango trees to Pattan Minara.

The mound of this ancient city was black with improvised shelters, piles of rescued household goods, wandering goat herds, oxen, water buffalo, camels plus the most motley assortment of human beings I had ever seen. Rich and poor, illiterate and university educated, despised Marwaris and proud Muslims, women and children all cowered under improvised shelters from the noonday sun. Two shiny, blue Ford tractors crowned the mound! It soon became apparent, however, that compassion was in short supply. Those who had food, hoarded it.

We found a group of twenty Christian families who had joined together to establish evening services. We had prayer with them and arranged to send flour, tea, and soup back to them the next day.

Meanwhile, back in Rahim, Bill had collated reports of privation at villages throughout the area. The next day Hugh and Bill set off to walk the 17 miles to Chak 116. After buying supplies, I returned with the US boat crew to Pattan Minara with tea, soup, and 720 pounds of wheat flour. The crew had also given us water purification tablets.

In the months that followed, the mission organized a three-man relief team in the Rahim area to join our Pakistani brethren in offering relief where they could. We appealed for funds, and as money became available, the team prepared relief packages with a quilt, wheat, ghi, tea, etc. Quite a number of people, many of them tribal Marwaris, gathered at the mission house in Rahim from day to day to receive aid.

It took weeks for the water to recede. How ironic and dispiriting that where the flood had not reached, the lack of water from the ruined canal system left the crops parched.

Due to the damage to the Gordon’s house they moved into ours in Rahim and we were asked to temporarily stay in Gujranwala, up-country. The mission felt that TEE course preparation was too valuable to delay. As soon as I had done what I could in the Rahim area, I traveled to Gujranwala to take up temporary residence in a spare room at the United Bible Training Centre, a women’s training school run by Vivienne Stacey. Mary Helen came down from Murree and joined me there. [Note: roll of film damaged in flood.]

(Aid for Pakistan’s current flood disaster can be sent via: Fellowship Baptist’s relief agency; FAIR’s Pakistan Flooding Relief emergency appeal will provide food packages, tents, and supports for the rebuilding process. Relief for one family costs $65, and includes a food package, tent, and mosquito net. Once the rain and flooding subside, funds will contribute to rebuilding homes, repairing the hospital, and helping community members reestablish their livelihoods.)

Evacuation Under Threat From Indian Forces – Our Story continued, #22

It was 1971. With Indian jets continuing to make bombing runs over Rahim Yar Khan, the missionary community met in the evening to formulate emergency plans. Discovering what was really happening was almost impossible. According to Pakistan radio the Indian forces were fleeing on all fronts while Air India told the opposite. We added to that a confusing mix of bulletins from BBC and Voice of America. In this confused state, we all thought it wise to pack a suitcase in case of evacuation.

Stephen, Deborah, and John were marvellously steady. They must have been frightened, but in spite of the strict blackout they slept in their own beds.

The Sunday service was uplifting but sparsely attended. After prayer, the missionary contingent decided to stay put in town until more clear guidance was obtained. There were no air-raids that day. When we travelled through town, we began to see strange sights. Over night, houses sprouted tree branches. Cars with mud-spattered windshields careened recklessly down the road. The gas pumps at petrol stations began to look like bushes. People began to dig trenches in their yards.

There were no raids on Monday either. But we heard reports of trains being bombed, an attack south of us on the Rohri bridge over the Indus River, and incursions of Indian troops in the Sindh province and in the RYK border areas. Trucks full of soldiers and supplies began to pass our house, bound for the border. At each corner knots of people gathered to cheer the soldiers on. They replied with shouts of Allah ho akhbar and Pakistan zindabad.

On Tuesday, all twenty of us, including kids, gathered for a happy time of prayer and Bible study. As news from the east got worse, our prayers intensified for our beleaguered missionaries in East Pakistan. We decided to stay on in RYK unless it got too dangerous. The kids had great fun putting mud on Myrtle, our car, in compliance with regulations.

Fortunately, we had an escape route available. The Conservative Baptists in Shikarpur had invited us to come and stay with them if necessary. Shikarpur is a town 130 miles from Rahim on the safe, western side of the Indus River.

Later in the day, during one of the alerts, we heard distant bombing. News trickled in that ten miles out of town, the Sheikh of Abu Dubai’s desert hunting palace had sustained damage. Five were killed and 11 injured.

On Wednesday, at breakfast, we listened to worsening reports of heavy bombing in Karachi, and requests that foreign nationals evacuate to safe locations. Suddenly the scream of jets interrupted our deliberations. Running outside we watched five Indian jets make unopposed passes over our helpless town. We later learned that the Lever Brothers plant and the Rahim station were damaged but that there was no loss of life.

With Rahim a key target of the unopposed Indian air force and Indian ground forces less than 30 miles to the east, we all decided it was time to evacuate to Shikarpur. We dealt with red-tape at a couple of offices and obtained rationed gas. Finally, after being interrupted by a couple of air raids, we shoe-horned 20 of us into our tiny Anglia and a Land Rover. The roof-racks of both cars were stacked with luggage. The time was 1:45 pm. We had only until 5:30, black-out time, to travel the 130 miles via back roads to Shikarpur.

The roads were terrible, but after another alert we approached the Gudu dam over the Indus River, and soon crossed over to the safe side. Shortly after that the roof rack on the Land Rover broke. This entailed a long delay to re-pack the luggage directly onto the roof. The springs on the Anglia were bent to the breaking point. With dusk approaching, our car began to emit disquieting sounds of protest. We crawled along as the road varied between terrible and barely passable.

But our spirits were high. People stared at us as we passed them singing the songs of Zion at the top of our lungs. An unfriendly crowd of Sindhis crowded the convoy at a little town, suspicious of foreigners. Quite suddenly night descended while we were still a long way from Shikarpur. We dared not turn on our headlights due to the blackout. Very slowly we moved ahead along the miserable road until, with the drivers seeing double, we pulled over.

There in the inky darkness we settled down to a sandwich supper and the last of our coffee. Moving the two vehicles near each other we improvised a tent between them. Some settled down in the vehicles and some on the sandy soil to try and sleep. But most of us were too keyed up to succumb.

It was a memorable night. Jokes, reminiscences and light-hearted singing filled the crisp air under the smiling stars. Roger Pomeroy, kept us in stitches with his BBC announcements of the time in fifteen-minute intervals. I glanced around at the faces. Two Americans. Five Aussies. Two English, two Irish, and one Canadian. Plus seven children of whom two were under six months. What a diverse and jolly group, brought together in the dark, robber-infested Sindh desert because of a common bond of love for Jesus Christ and a shared commitment to extend His kingdom. We felt the Lord’s presence more powerfully than the darkness.

In the early hours of the morning, we packed up and drove the remaining bone-shaking miles to Shikarpur. The Conservative Baptists welcomed us with proverbial American hospitality. I dimly remember enjoying a wonderful meal of pancakes and syrup.

From the tenth to the sixteenth of December, we divided into two groups, moved into two providentially empty houses and set up communal cooking arrangements. We prayerfully awaited news of a cease-fire.

Being an incorrigible picture-taker, I wandered through the town bazaar taking pictures. Suddenly I found myself surrounded by a suspicious crowd. I should have known better. A mustached police-officer and a gun-totting civil defense volunteer escorted me along with the crowd to the police station. After several stern interviews I was released with a severe rebuke and warning not even to take pictures of my family. It could have been much worse.

On December 17th, the UN negotiated a cease-fire and arranged for peace-keepers to patrol the border. Upon hearing of the cease-fire, our little group rose and sang the doxology in grateful praise to God.

We returned to RYK in time for Christmas. The Christians gladly welcomed us back and told of their experiences. Evidently three-quarters of the town evacuated. The war might be over but the sting of losing would not be forgotten by the country for some time—if ever. A new president, Zulfikar Ali Bhutto of the Peoples Party was installed. Since some locomotives and stations were destroyed, regular service on the railway would not be restored for some time. Mail remained erratic. A new country, Bangladesh, had been carved out of the anomaly that had been East Pakistan.

Lasting just 13 days, the conflict, which depending on your perspective, could be called the Bangladesh war for independence or the Indo-Pak conflict of 1971, was one of the shortest wars in history. Whatever the duration, events seemed grave to us in the missionary community. During the period following the war, we occasionally had visits from Canadian Peace-keepers.

They loved to come and have a home-cooked meal, that is, one prepared by our wonderful cook Emmanuel. They laughed about the propaganda flying around. “We have to remember which side of the border we’re on so we know who won the war!”

Raymond Castro, ICF UK director came out for Christmas to encourage us all. During a memorable gathering of our missionary team, he played Santa Claus. He had a great sense of humour that gave us all a lift after our traumatic evacuation.

(Let me know your thoughts on this subject. If you appreciate this blog, please pass it on. Further articles, books, and stories at:  Facebook: Eric E Wright Twitter: @EricEWright1 LinkedIn: Eric Wright ; check out his web site: http://www.countrywindow.ca –– Eric’s books are available at: https://www.amazon.com/Eric-E.-Wright/e/B00355HPKK%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share)

Regrets Among The Memories – A Man’s Journey Through Grief, #15

I glance from my recliner toward the sofa where Mary Helen spent many of her last months. In my mind’s eye, I can see the cushions and pillows I used to prop up her head and feet, the cover I tucked in around her. I hiccup in grief. I can’t help thinking back over the last two years and wondering if I was thoughtful enough. I know its not healthy to dwell on the past. We can’t change it. For the Christian, the past is covered by the tide of God’s ocean of grace. But…

Unbidden, my mind goes back over the last two years. In the present, PMH (post Mary Helen), I’ve sought to fill up my days with all kinds of tasks including road trips and immersion in Bible studies with some men at the church. I’ve tried to make new friends at church or at least acquaintances. I’ve tried to be friendly with everyone I meet. I’ve tried to resist thinking too much about the last two years. That plan has helped me cope—some days—but has it put off making peace with the past? Has it led me to avoid emptying drawers and closets. Has it only put a Band-Aid on a wound? Has it really helped me move forward?

During the last few years both of us had our share of doctor’s appointments, but early in 2021 I began to sense that Mary Helen’s health was waning. She had more visits with her cardiologist and more appointments with both her GP and her respirologist. She suffered bouts of nausea, tiredness and weakness. She had previously used a portable oxygenator for a short period. It didn’t seem to help so it was discontinued.

On May 21st of that year, (2021) I drove up to the curb of our condo with a load of groceries. She came out to help me bring them in. Carrying them inside, she fell flat on the tile floor in the vestibule. I ran to her aid as she cried out in shock and pain. Her nose and face were badly bruised, but the main source of pain seemed to be her arm and shoulder. I improvised a sling for her arm and we drove to emergency.

My memory is fuzzy about the last week in May and the next few weeks of June. She had a brief hospital stay, was diagnosed with a cracked bone near the shoulder, was given a sling and pain medication and referred to a fracture clinic in Peterborough, 45 minutes away. I do remember a succession of nights when she battled pain and sought to find some comfortable position. I also remember the support of family, the providential help we discovered in Christie Harman and the huge sign the family put on the lawn for Mary Helen’s 60th birthday on June 2nd.

A week or so after her accident, I wrote down a remarkable example of her faith. “This morning Mary Helen was thanking the Lord for all the blessings in our lives–the sunshine, family, friends, neighbours, and the ornamental magnolia outside the window. The tree, in her mind, was a parable of life. A season with no leaves that suddenly changed with a burst of blooms as spring arrived. She said, ‘The wind blows and blooms fall, but the leaves continue full of vibrant life.’ She continued to ponder the lessons!

What was amazing to me was God’s grace that enabled her to think this way after days of discouragement and pain added to other serious health issues.

On June 17th she got her cast off and on June 18th, with Covid restrictions in force, we briefly wished granddaughter Kassandra and Curtis God’s blessing on their nuptials from the safety of our car.  In the days following, Mary Helen continued to battle pain complicated by pulmonary fibrosis and atrial fibrillation. By June 29th she was back in the hospital where she stayed until July 12th.

In the middle of her stay, on July 1, a miracle happened to Debbie’s husband Brian. He had a massive heart attack at a neighbourhood BBQ. In God’s providence, two men who were there had CPR training and revived Brian. In the ambulance on the way to the hospital, he survived another episode with the help of the attendant. He is a living miracle! That is a story by itself!

Mary Helen’s hospital stay, in spite of the care of nurses, was for her a kind of purgatory. It confirmed her earlier request to the Lord that she die at home, a view we both shared.

Her ability to get up from a chair and walk became greatly reduced. In late July, John came and put a couple of 2×4’s under her recliner to give her more height, thus enabling her to stand with less difficulty. Stephen visited from Atlanta and with Debbie, took her to Peterborough for more tests. It became clear that not only were her heart valves seriously compromised, but her lungs as well. By August 3rd she was put on 24-hour oxygen to aid her breathing.

By mid-August we realized she needed an electronically controlled bed so she could find a position that encouraged her to sleep comfortably. 

Throughout this whole period, we found Community Care extremely helpful in enabling us to care for her from home. They arranged medical equipment, offered meals and tried to schedule PSW’s, Personal Support Workers. I found it easier to take care of meals myself and the shortage of PSW’s made setting up a schedule almost impossible. Those PSW’s that we were able to access were very empathetic and practical. Our family doctor, Dr. Marcus Cunningham, made personal visits, the first time we had experienced that in years. He was very supportive and urged us to call him at any time.

I took on more and more of Mary Helen’s care; helping her up at night, seeing to her hygiene and dressing, ensuring that she took her meds and used oxygen. But what really kept me from burn-out was, with Debbie’s help, setting up a schedule so I could get a break a few times a week. Besides coming herself, Debbie was providentially able to contact two trained women that we could privately hire. Christie Harman and Sharon Button were not just competent but cheerful and gentle. They came friends to both Mary Helen and me. Another friend, Linda, would also come from time to time to spell Debbie in reading to Mary Helen. In this way I could get away to relax, buy groceries, pay bills and attend church. Sometimes, when they’d spell me, I’d put on an Alan Jackson tape and drive through the countryside singing at the top of my lungs.

During those days, Mary Helen and I grew even closer. She would whisper to me that I was better than any PSW. We’d have devotions in the morning and in the evening we’d read a Psalm and pray together. She loved to hear the Psalms. We almost got to Psalm 119.

But as I reflected on the past two years, regrets surfaced. During the last year or so, I’d pray every day; “Lord, help me to be patient, not say anything that might hurt her, and enable me to have a real servant spirit.” I had to pray hard for I’m not naturally patient. And throughout my ministry, Mary Helen would remind me not to be critical—which is my natural inclination—instead to be encouraging and uplifting. I’m not naturally a servant.

In spite of all my prayers, the thought comes unbidden, did I hassle her too much about ensuring that the nose piece for oxygen was in place? Was I gentle enough? Did I read to her enough? Did I talk to her enough? During this period, I still tried to keep up with email and Facebook posts. Mary Helen would occasionally say, you spend more time on FB than with me. I know it was her agitation talking, but maybe it was true? Did I tell her I loved her enough? Did I bring her enough flowers?

Those who have experienced grief remind me that it’s common to have regrets. It’s part of the process. But regrets still surface.

Then on September 24th we heard the frightening words.

(Let me know your thoughts on this subject. If you appreciate this blog, please pass it on. Further articles, books, and stories at:  Facebook: Eric E Wright Twitter: @EricEWright1 LinkedIn: Eric Wright ; check out his web site: http://www.countrywindow.ca –– Eric’s books are available at: https://www.amazon.com/Eric-E.-Wright/e/B00355HPKK%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share)

Another War With India – Our Story Continued, #21

A new year rolled around. Like most years, 1971 proved both extremely busy and unpredictable. At that time, we didn’t realize how explosive it would become for the whole Indian subcontinent. We heard rumblings about agitation against West Pakistan from our missionaries in East Pakistan, but had no way of understanding their concerns from where we were in the west, separated as we were by almost 1500 miles of India.

The yearly cycle of life carried on. In June we left for Murree, rented a house, and welcomed Stephen and Deborah back from boarding. That summer, I had been asked to be the summer pastor of the missionary congregation that met in the old cantonment church on the mall in Murree. I had great joy and unusual liberty in preaching. The secluded spot on the hillside where I went to read the Word, pray and prepare became hallowed ground.

Murree Church Fellowship

A wonderful TEE workshop held during the summer ignited a new interest in the missionary community. But the only course under development, besides mine on introductory theology, was Russ Irwin’s on Genesis which was still a couple of years from completion. I had already tested a section of my course on biblical inspiration at a week-long seminar at the Hyderabad Bible Training Institute. The week showed how crucial it was that Christians understand the dependability and inspiration of the Bible in a culture where the majority religion claimed it had been corrupted. I was astounded to discover that 78% believed there was enough revelation in nature to save a person, 100% believed that God gives new revelation today through dreams and 71% felt the Bible was not complete but did contain all the truth about electricity. Theological training was vital!

Working on extension lessons

At the end of the summer, before boarding began, we enjoyed a marvelous holiday in the beautiful mountain valley of Swat. We were able to hire a cook for a dollar a day! Among other adventures, I had to pluck Johnny out of the stream that cascaded down the mountain behind our rented bungalow. We even got to meet the Walle, Prince of Swat. (This is Malala’s valley, a valley now quite difficult for foreigners to access.) 

Stephen and Skippy in Swat Valley

Back on the plains in September, unable to return to Sadiqabad, we settled into a newer bungalow on the outskirts of Rahim Yar Khan. With a substantial portion of the first theology course complete, we found a man who could translate it into the Urdu vernacular. We also found a scribe who could cut the stencils. Looking back, it’s hard to imagine that, at first, we had to use a spirit duplicator then a Gestetner that duplicated each page using a stencil. Portable computer printers were only a dream in someone’s mind. But the dream of TEST was becoming a reality, no matter how unwieldy the stapled courses. I began to plan a kick-off.

Then, as was often the case in our missionary career, circumstances beyond our control intervened. Hostilities with India broke out again. We must remember that carving Pakistan out of united India in 1947 had dislocated fourteen million people. During the rush of Muslims to leave Hindu India and Hindus and Sikhs to leave Muslim Pakistani territory, an estimated one million people were killed in sectarian violence. This was the largest and worst migration in history. Tensions between the two countries had remained high since partition. But now new grievances in East Pakistan had reached a crisis stage.

The plan to create one country with two diverse segments separated by 1500 miles of India had been madness from the very beginning. But natural tension between eastern Bengalis and western Panjabis and othrs was aggravated by the fact that the governance and military of the united Pakistan came to be dominated by the west. The capital, Islamabad, was in the west.

In March of 1971, East Pakistan demanded secession. The military government sited in the west rejected their demands. Instead, the west easily reinforced their military chokehold over the east. Stories of atrocities perpetrated by the western dominated Pakistan army stationed in East Pakistan began to filter out—especially news of abuse of Bengali women.    

Indian sympathy with East Pakistan grew as refugees streamed into the Indian province of Bengal to escape atrocities. With their Bengali ethnic and linguistic connections, it was natural that the Indian army would sympathize with their Bengali compatriots

On the third of December, hostilities broke into the open. The Indian army intervened when Pakistan made pre-emptive strikes on 11 Indian air stations. We knew this would seriously affect our missionary work.

In late November, the government declared a state of emergency. A partial black-out was imposed and occasional practice alerts instituted. Mail was disrupted and permission was required to send telegrams. We ceased village visitation. Listening to the radio became a ritual. On December 2nd, we gathered to formulate an emergency plan. Although Lahore and other towns in the north were clearly threatened being close to the border with India, Rahim Yar Khan—half-way between Karachi and Lahore—might seem quite safe. But actually, it was located where an indentation in the border put RYK just 30 miles from the Indian frontier in the Rajasthan Desert. Should the Indian air-force decide to cut the railway which ran through town and supplied the whole country, the situation in Pakistan would be dire.

On Dec. 4th, I was discussing the situation with several of our missionaries, when we were interrupted by low-flying jets screaming over the house. We all ran outside to watch a Pakistani jet chasing an India jet in tight circles over the town. The kids, who were home from boarding, thought it quite exciting.

At noon, that day, we gathered around our radio to hear President Yahya Khan speak on the gravity of the situation. In the middle of his speech, we were interrupted by unaccountable static. Moments later we heard the sound of jets screaming overhead followed shortly by explosions. We rushed outside and flattened ourselves in a protected place to watch fascinated as Indian jets again and again circled over the town. Since we were on the edge of town a half mile from the airport, their bombing runs seemed to be right over our house. The sound of explosions and cannon fire continued as jets flew back and forth. Clouds of dust rose from the direction of the airport. This time, there were no Pakistani jets nor answering cannon fire. Indeed, warning sirens came on only after the Indian jets left.

Meanwhile, Skippy, our Labrador gave birth to three pups—quite a family drama in its own right. As far as I remember, Skippy had become part of our family earlier that year. Her gentleness and loyalty has lived on in our family memories to this day.

John, Stephen, and Deborah with Skippy’s pups

The police brought our two single missionaries from Sadiqabad to stay in RYK to ensure their safety. They also brought a number of Czech engineers working on an outlying sugar mill. These engineers left the next day by truck for Tehran through Quetta. What should we do?

(Let me know your thoughts on this subject. If you appreciate this blog, please pass it on. Further articles, books, and stories at:  Facebook: Eric E Wright Twitter: @EricEWright1 LinkedIn: Eric Wright ; check out his web site: http://www.countrywindow.ca –– Eric’s books are available at: https://www.amazon.com/Eric-E.-Wright/e/B00355HPKK%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share)

An Exciting New Ministry and Encouraging Inquirers – Our Story continued, #20

The Hello-Good bye of missionary life continued through this second term. The excitement of starting a new ministry and seeing converts from the majority community was tempered by the onslaught of a number of problems. Many days began with, sometimes quite desperate, prayer for wisdom from God.

In May it was Hello, Murree as we settled Stephen and Deborah into Murree Christian School for day classes. Then in late August it was a sad goodbye as we hugged them before they moved into boarding at Murree Christian School. But in December we met the train party from the school to welcome them home for the winter holidays when the snow was too deep in Murree. Then again in March we hugged them goodbye as they joined the train party for their next stint in boarding school in Murree. But in May there were again joyous hugs hello as they began the summer semester of day school. Meanwhile, Mary Helen taught Johnnie at home and prepared him for the day when he too would go into boarding.

With stories of English boarding school horrors in your minds, you might think it a traumatic system. But down through the years since, the stories have dribbled out from our kids about adventure, fun, pranks and lots of friends. It was hard; at that time, we had no phones of any kind. Emergencies were dealt with by telegrams. The pain of family separation was eased by wonderful boarding parents and all the letters Mary Helen sent and those the kids sent us. The feastings/treats we sent them also eased the separation somewhat.

I spent most of the year on the plains except when I traveled to Murree for reunion with the family and for missionary consultations, school barter sales, holiday and worship with the international community. So, the kids were with us 6 months including 3 months in a rented flat in Murree. 

The Murree Fellowship

Throughout this whole term, our lives seemed to be in a constant state of flux. Stability in our relationship with the Lord but flexibility in relation to changing circumstances is vital in a missionary.

But through it all an exciting new idea gripped my mind. During that first summer back I heard of a revolutionary method of teaching called, Theological  Education by Extension, TEE for short. The more I discussed it with Russ Irwin, a colleague with TEAM mission, and an Anglican missionary, John Meadowcroft, the more it seemed to be exactly what we needed to disciple Christians and train leaders. A seminar on the subject clinched this conviction. We learned that missionaries in South America, India and Africa had already begun to adopt this method.

TEE had originated in Guatemala where Ralph Winter and his colleagues puzzled over a training problem. They found that when leaders were sent from their villages to study in an urban seminary, they became so enamoured by city ministry that few, if any, went back to their villages. What to do? Eureka! An idea formed in their minds. Instead of the students travelling to the teachers in the city, why not have the teachers travel to the students and hold seminars with them one day a week? But how to get the students to study during the week? Winter realized that they would have to prepare study materials that would teach them as if a teacher was there.  

Winter’s experience in Guatemala was reflected in Pakistan. There were two residence training schools; a formal seminary north of us in Gujranwala granting degrees and a Bible Training Institute in Hyderabad, south of us. Sending students to either was costly. Under this traditional method, intensive Bible training was beyond the reach of most Christians. The prevailing system also extracted students from the day-to-day, nitty gritty of life in their own village or town. 

Although common now, extension training, whether secular or Christian, was almost unknown at the time. We learned that the success of this new method depended on skilfully produced self-teaching textbooks. Ah, there was the rub. We didn’t have any. We’d have to write them.

I was excited. The advantages of a TEE system were many. There would be no disruption of the students’ normal life. It would automatically weed out undesirable pastors or those only seeking the status of a degree by compelling those who study to also work at a job while they study. It would open the door of serious study to all; men and women, young and old, married and unmarried. It would force students to develop the disciplines necessary to daily work on their courses without outside coercion. The courses would lead students to think through their answers rather that just return memorized course notes on exams. With its local focus it would enable students and teachers to interact with real problems as they came up in their daily life and in their churches.

This was just what we needed. John Meadowcroft, Russ Irwin, and I proceeded to form a committee, called PACTEE; the Pakistan Committee for Theological Education by Extension, to develop a TEE program in Pakistan. Each of us agreed to develop courses to be shared. Russ began working on a course on Genesis. I would work on a basic theology course.

Preparing TEE materials

Full of enthusiasm, I began gathering materials to use in preparing my course on theology. But first, I poured over books on how to write self-teaching materials. This proved complicated.  The written course had to guide the student from simple ideas to more complex concepts much as a good teacher would do. And correct answers had to be affirmed, as teachers do in a class, but without the teacher present! Students had to be motivated to think and research answers for themselves. Since most teaching in Pakistan focused on rote memory this would be challenging.

That summer, I began to formulate a plan to establish an extension school in the Rahim area to be called, TEST, The Extension School of Theology. But what would the missionary team think? We were much encouraged by the quality and number of new missionaries who had arrived. We numbered 17 at conference. Before we returned to the plains from Murree, we held our yearly mission conference. Mary Helen was elected by the conference to be language supervisor for our new missionaries. Once again, I was elected field leader. However, the team encouraged me to use all available, non-administrative time, to develop TEST.

Baptism in a canal

Back on the plains in Sadiqabad, we were quickly immersed in ministry. Nine people were baptized in the area in late September. The pastors and book-room workers held an evangelistic tour in October. Work began to accelerate among the tribal Marwaris. We even held a translation institute where it was decided that the translation of Mark in their language would go ahead.

Mary Helen spoke at a girl’s short-term Bible school. I established a Friday Bible study in Sadiqabad and began to preach in various locations. Mary Helen had engaging opportunities with women from the majority community. Having a foreigner in this rather backward town was quite a novelty.

Mary Helen speaking to young women

The number of inquirers from the majority community who became interested in the Gospel encouraged us greatly. “A” had professed faith a year earlier. He came regularly to church, read the Bible in his shop, and witnessed to his new faith. Then family pressure and social antagonism forced him to curtail his activities. Fortunately, his relatives soon became more tolerant. His wife, who had believed that church was where people drank and danced and acted in immoral ways, moderated her antagonism and became deeply interested. During this period, A’s brother, a professor, began to come every few days to study English. Gradually, that changed to earnest inquiry about the faith. He read Pilgrim’s progress and other good books.

Another, “Y,” had studied the Bible for a year or so by correspondence from another part of the country. He came to believe that Jesus was indeed the Son of God and his needed Saviour. One day he appeared on our doorstep with this news. Soon he was attending services in spite of family opposition. He even came to one of our short-term Bible Schools.

One evening during supper time in Sadiqabad, a young man knocked on the door. He asked for something to eat. We were surprised as he didn’t appear to be poor. He was well-dressed and polite. We gave him enough to buy a meal. We thought that we would never see him again, but the next evening he again furtively knocked on the door. He thanked us profusely for the few paisahs we had given, then explained that he was not there this evening for money. What he really wanted was literature about Jesus and the opportunity to read it. I got him a gospel portion and other Christian literature in Urdu. He sat utterly transfixed as he read without a word escaping his lips. Occasionally his face would grimace with fear and he would hold his hand over his heart. After a few minutes of reading, tears began to trickle down his cheeks.

He paused to tell us about his life with a band of merciless bandits. We had been warned that the wild country east of us along the Indus was full of cut-throats. He had lived there in a state of continual fear. Jesus seemed his only hope. I explained to him about sin, its penalty and of the death of Jesus for his sin. He returned again and again for several days until he seemed to find joy and peace believing in Christ. Fear was erased from his face. We heard later that the local Roman Catholic priest persuaded him to join his group by giving him baptism. (Sadly, the methodology of the Pakistani RC church, at least in our area, seemed to be to use promises of aid and immediate baptism to make converts from untaught inquirers.)

Work among those of the majority religion meant sowing seed in stony ground. Persecution and pressure from relatives and maulvis made it extremely difficult for individual converts to stand strong. But here and there, God by His Spirit brought forth fruit. We believed that the few believers we saw were but a foretaste of a large harvest to come.

Unfortunately, not all was rosy among the churches. Many of the pastors were in debt due to abysmal giving by their congregations. Tensions between several of the pastors flared up. The Allied Model School was in the red and might have to be closed. The bargain car we had purchased gave up the ghost. Our housing situation proved untenable. A dispute broke out in Chak 116 between the school teacher and the pastor. Pastor Hidayat and I cycled out to the village to try and mediate. Fortunately, peace was restored.

Both of us felt stressed dealing with the extensive administrative and hospitality duties related to a mission with 17 members. Then too, we had to handle the puzzlement of our Panjabi brethren about why I was not engaged in full-time preaching. Added to that was the steep learning curve I faced developing TEE materials. And yet it was a very exciting time.

Roger and Diana Pomeroy with Joy Nutt

But on the international scene, tensions between India and Pakistan began to build. Things looked ominous.

(Let me know your thoughts on this subject. If you appreciate this blog, please pass it on. Further articles, books, and stories at:  Facebook: Eric E Wright Twitter: @EricEWright1 LinkedIn: Eric Wright ; check out his web site: http://www.countrywindow.ca –– Eric’s books are available at: https://www.amazon.com/Eric-E.-Wright/e/B00355HPKK%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share)

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Five Months Into Climbing This Mountain of Grief – A Man’s Journey Through Grief, #16

Five months have gone by since God called Mary Helen home. As the hours of each day pass, I begin to say, “I’ve finally got my grief over her home-going under control. I can do this. I can build a new life alone. Two days a week, I spend time with some men around the open Bible. Sunday means connecting with my church family.

I wash and dry clothes. Keep up with the dishes. Think about a new meal I’m going to cook. Buy groceries. Swiffer the floors. On Facebook, I put up a new roadside flower every day. I spend time writing down my memories of our life together in a series of posts. I touch base with my kids. Maybe have Debbie and Brian for supper or drop in on them in their office for a few minutes. Try to think of someone I can phone or send a card to so I can rise above this everlasting thinking of myself and our lives together. Get to know someone else in the condo community. Busy. Keep busy.

Then evening comes and feelings of grief begin to surface. I drown them out by turning on the news or watching some program on UTube or Netflix. I look forward to sleep. It will be so good to sleep, I think. As Shakespeare wrote in MacBeth;

“Sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care,

The death of each day’s life, sore labor’s bath,

Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course,

Chief nourisher in life’s feat.”

And, thank the Lord, I’ve been sleeping fairly well.

Morning dawns. I splash my face with water, wander into the kitchen and make coffee. Stagger over to my recliner. Collapse and look around the condo. Unbidden, tears begin to come—as they do almost every morning. Life seems so empty. In the morning light, the whole struggle without Mary Helen in her recliner beside me seems so difficult. Indeed, so pointless. Where am I going alone?

I dimly realize that my feelings are intensified by my age and sense of uselessness. Although I’ve been in gospel ministry all my life, I now have no formal outlet. No class to teach. No sermon to preach. But the impulse still pulses within, so I turn to the internet and to writing.

Then, as I do every morning, I pick up my hymn book with a determination to hear what others have said about this “vale of tears.” The next one marked in my hymn book by a sticky note is: “Sweet hour of prayer…in seasons of distress and grief, my soul has often found relief, oft escaped the tempter’s snare by thy return, sweet hour of prayer.”

As I ponder the words and pray, some relief begins to overcome the tears. And I realize that again and again, morning after morning in my now—my seasons of distress and grief—I have been finding relief and comfort, and a building sense of the Lord’s love and presence.

Relief…and oft escaped the tempter’s snare. Now, that bears some thought. How is the devil using my grief against God’s purposes? Making me think that my situation is unique? It isn’t. People all around are grieving or have gone through seasons like this and built a life afterwards. Making me feel despair? Making the loneliness so crushing I neglect the sweet hour of prayer? Neglect the book of comfort, consolation and inspiration?

And for a man like me, at an age such as mine, with over 61 years of companionship behind me, tempting me to seek female companionship to relieve the loneliness? Others who have gone through this warn that this is a real danger. Yes, Lord, we are human. How foolish I would be to let down my guard and carelessly embrace someone offering consolation. But Lord, the women seem so much more understanding. Lord, help me to escape any thoughts along this line, and all the tempter’s snares by talking to you and listening to you all day, every day.

The day I wrote this, an amazing providence of God brought two things together. The day before, our men’s study group had read Spurgeon’s Morning and Evening for August tenth. The verse was Colossians 3:4, “Christ, who is your life.” At that time, it didn’t grip me much. But then reading in my devotions through Colossians the day after, the very same verse confronted me. “Set your hearts on things above where Christ is seated at the right hand of God. Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things. For you died, and your life is now hidden with Christ, in God. When Christ who is your life, appears, then you also will appear with him in glory.”

I went back and read Spurgeon’s thoughts again and pondered what it meant to me now. He said:

Christ is the substance of my spiritual life—even though my life with Mary Helen as a couple is over, nothing has changed my eternal destiny, my position in God’s family.Christ is the sustenance for my life. He is the water of life and the bread of life. I need to draw strength, purpose, and energy from him.Christ is the solace of life. It is in him that I find peace, comfort, joy, and consolation—even without Mary Helen, for underneath are the everlasting arms.Christ is the object of this life. He is the one who gives direction, who gives us a goal to shoot for, to extend his kingdom, to make known his gospel—which has not, or should not, change.Christ is the exemplar of life. He is the example of how to live—how to be interested in people, to adjust every encounter according to the needs of the person, to show love and practical help. I need more meditation on his incredible life, how in spite of knowing that he was headed to the cross and death, he took time for 12 disciples and unnumbered others!Christ is the crown towards which we strive—Mary Helen has received hers. I don’t understand this whole concept of crowns as reward. Surely, to be with Christ will be reward enough. But I guess, if given crowns, we will see how much a gift of grace they are and cast them at Jesus’ feet. Perhaps, the whole point of this is to avoid losing our reward by laziness, complacency, misdirection of our gifts, etc.

This grief-thing is like an impossible mountain to climb. But with Christ who is my life, giving me sustenance and solace and grace and mercy and love, I can begin to catch glimpses of a summit somewhere ahead in the mists.  

(Let me know your thoughts on this subject. If you appreciate this blog, please pass it on. Further articles, books, and stories at:  Facebook: Eric E Wright Twitter: @EricEWright1 LinkedIn: Eric Wright ; check out his web site: http://www.countrywindow.ca –– Eric’s books are available at: https://www.amazon.com/Eric-E.-Wright/e/B00355HPKK%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share)