Eric E. Wright's Blog, page 17

Is There Anything Positive About The Death Of A Spouse? – A Man’s Journey through Grief, #14

We’re told to accentuate the positive. Don’t be negative. Is anyone old enough to remember that song?

You got to ac-cent-tchu-ate the positive
E-lim-i-nate the negative
And latch on to the affirmative
Don’t mess with Mr. In-between…

How can one find anything good about losing a wife? Even bringing up the question seems disloyal to my wife’s memory. I was out on what I call a rural ramble the other day. I wander through the countryside on roads I’ve never travelled, enjoying the scenery, looking for unusual flowers and just cruising along. And I got to thinking about this question because Mary Helen would not have enjoyed this aimless ramble unless she geared herself up to enjoy it for my sake. A couple of weeks previously, I had spent four days wandering through South-western Ontario. She would have been tired after the first day. We once drove north from where we lived near Port Hope on Lake Ontario through Algonquin Park and back home. I love the north country with its granite outcrops, enormous white pine and abundant lakes. But I overdid it—the drive took all day. She claimed I almost killed her!

She grew up on a farm. She loved it when we moved to a country property, but she didn’t wax poetical like me about cattle or sheep in a field. She knew there was lots of manure. And the roadside flowers I exclaim about were weeds to her, weeds to be uprooted so they didn’t spread into the crops. Oh, she loved daisies, Queen Anne’s lace and all the wildflowers, but she thought I was a bit extreme.

Now with her gone, I can indulge my hobby. I can drive and drive and drive without being tired until I get home. Is that good?

Our tastes in food were different. She loved rice while I craved potatoes. In the summer I was in my element wanting to eat tons of vegetables and fruits, often raw. She preferred them cooked and couldn’t understand my love for radishes and salads. In fact, when we were courting, her parents remarked about my strange habit of eating raw stuff. She loved sweet potatoes—even sweet potato souffle which I outright dislike. I learned from a child that main courses are not to be sweet. Sigh, now the whole family demands souffle at any family gathering, especially at Thanksgiving and Christmas. I love steak. She thought it too tough unless cooked to death, which in my opinion spoiled the flavour. She liked sweet deserts—cakes and squares and so on. True, from her I have learned to crave deserts too, but I still really, really enjoy a raw peach or plum. Over the years, we developed a lifestyle where we adjusted quite well to each other’s tastes and habits. Now, with her gone home, I can eat what I crave to my heart’s content. Is that positive?

Cherry pie

There’s an insurmountable problem with that positive approach. When I ended my road trip the other day at a mall, the memories came flooding back. We used to come there quite often to get exercise in the winter or to shop at other times. A sudden bout of sadness at her absence almost overwhelmed me. I’d happily give up my road trips and steaks to have her back. And yet…

Steaks and road trips are not much of a positive. Now, it was positive that we were able to care for her at home. And that my family pitched in to help. That our doctor visited her in our home. That the church prayed for us. And these painful thoughts remind me that the most positive aspect of all this is that Mary Helen is free from pain and shortness of breath. She is rejoicing in the Lord’s presence. I will see her again.  

Mary Helen

(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 –– Eric’s books are available at: https://www.amazon.com/Eric-E.-Wright/e/B00355HPKK%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share)

I Understand – No I Don’t!

I wonder how many times, in an attempt to give comfort to some hurting person, I’ve said; “I understand.” I was trying to convey sympathy for the trial, the sickness, or the loss the person was enduring. While saying, “I understand,” is often accepted as a sincere attempt to express compassionate concern, it is not really true.

Early on in our ministries, sensing its inaccuracy, Mary Helen and I had tried to avoid expressing this sentiment to others.  

It’s inaccuracy came home to me powerfully during the days when my wife, Mary Helen, was so ill. I was closer to her than anyone, but even I couldn’t comprehend the anxiety that must have gripped her when she struggled to breathe in the night. Or, the helplessness she felt. Sometimes she expressed it. “I feel like a ping pong ball. Unable to get up and down by myself. You don’t understand.” Usually, she just quietly endured or prayed. Usually, she thankfully expressed her gratitude for helpers. I was humbled by her fortitude and faith but, although I tried, I couldn’t really totally understand her struggles.

Now that God has called her home, I know more about our inability to understand others than I care to know. Before I experienced the loss of my sweetheart, I had little idea what grief meant. I knew that men aren’t supposed to cry. But often I can’t stop. Five months have gone by and I don’t understand myself. Why do such intense feelings of loss continue to loosen my tear ducts and thicken my voice? And even though I am now experiencing the loss of my wife of 61 years, I realize that I can’t understand the grief parents must feel at the loss of a child, or what one feels going through cancer therapy.

Each of us, whether suffering or not, have a deep well of unexpressed thoughts and feelings. No one can ever probe its depths.

I can look out the window on the road going through our condo community and watch people come and go. I wonder how the neighbour who lost her husband is doing. And how is the neighbour who recently spent 6 weeks in the hospital and now is unable to get out at all? How about the neighbour who is recovering so well from heart surgery? But what is going on in the lives of neighbours who seem healthy and strong and cheerful? Are they suffering disappointments from family or business? What pain do they carry?

Some months ago, I passed one of those memorials set up along a highway to remember an accident victim. It had been in place for years. A woman was kneeling there placing some fresh flowers beneath the cross. What fresh anguish must she feel? What tears has she shed? Who was she remembering? Could I understand? No.

When we rise at church and sing lustily; “Joyful, joyful, we adore thee,” how many of us are weeping inside—or genuinely rejoicing at the contemplation of God’s grace and his understanding? For he understands. Jesus understands because he came and lived among us, was tempted in all points like us, and died to bear the punishment our sins—including thoughtlessness—deserve. There are actually three who understand; the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. But all three call us to reach out in compassion to others.

Just because we can’t fully understand others doesn’t mean we should not try. We need to do everything we can increase our understanding others. Not only their pain, but who they are as people, their work, their family, their hopes and dreams.

That means that we will be interested in them as people. We will be concerned enough to come alongside them, listen to them, love them. We need to build our empathy-muscles; that capacity to try and put oneself in another’s position, to feel other people’s emotions, to imagine how they might be thinking or feeling.  

This practice of expressing empathy starts with listening. James wrote, “Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry” (James 1:19). But we are not good listeners. Paul Tournier has said that, “Most conversations are dialogues of the deaf.” What did he mean? To try and help myself to become a better listener, not one deaf to others, I’m going to post a series on Facebook discussing conversation and listening.

Fortunately, even when we fail, Jesus doesn’t, so we need to take our concerns to him first.  

No one understands like Jesus;
He’s a Friend beyond compare.
Meet Him at the throne of mercy;
He is waiting for You there.

No one understands like Jesus
When the days are dark and grim.
No one is so near, so dear as Jesus;
Cast Your every care on Him.

No one understands like Jesus;
Every woe He sees and feels.
Tenderly He whispers comfort,
And the broken heart He heal.

(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 –– Eric’s books are available at: https://www.amazon.com/Eric-E.-Wright/e/B00355HPKK%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share)

Grief is Like Learning to Live with an Amputation – A Man’s Journey Through Grief, continued, #13

Sunday: This morning I awoke, made a coffee and stumbled into my recliner. I looked around the condo and realized more clearly than I had that Mary Helen’s death meant I had to remake my life.

My life is like a condo that has suddenly been destroyed by a hurricane and has to be rebuilt, re-roofed and re-wired. The concrete pad is left, but the rest needs to be re-built from the ground up. That is me.

I am no longer one of a couple. I am a single, bereaved man. The structure of life that we had built together is fractured. The comfortableness we had developed with each other is shattered. The pattern of our days is gone; a new pattern must be developed.  The instinctive understanding we shared on issues is no more. With whom can I talk who will be able to finish my sentences and understand my view. No one? How do I live with that emptiness?

Who will be my social convenor? Who will keep me from wearing clashing clothes? Who will help me overcome my reserve so I fit in to a group? Who will rescue me from verbal gaffes? “Oh, Eric didn’t mean that. He just plays the devil’s advocate.”  Who will instinctively attract others to her warm and friendly person? She would joke that she was known as “Eric’s wife” because I was the one on the platform preaching and teaching. But in reality, in any social group, I was “Mary Helen’s husband.” Now I’m just that overlying serious guy on the fringes. Okay, I’m feeling sorry for myself again, but really, how do I rebuild my life when I’m not even half of a couple—more like one quarter or a fifth?  

It’s not as if we were separate entities and I can just take up as an individual where we left off. As the Bible says about marriage, “the two shall be one flesh.” We were. I almost feel as if our grey matter, our nerves and arteries were inter-connected. Now they are torn apart. How do I piece together one life from what was a compound life? 

To use another comparison, marriage is a symbiosis which is defined as; the “interaction between two different organisms living in close physical association, typically to the advantage of both.” Out of two distinct people, a man and a woman, God had helped us to become a symbiosis—become one in so many ways of doing and thinking. I have been crashing into those ways throughout the past months and often not knowing what to do.

I’m still a father and a grandfather. But even here things have to be rebuilt. I love my family more than anything except God, but Mary Helen was the one who was naturally a vibrant focus of any family gathering. I’m more awkward than she was, even with those I love so deeply. Somehow, I have to develop new and deep relationships even with family. But they all live such busy and fulfilling lives. Maybe it’s my old-school reserve, but I feel that I could easily be intruding. They have satisfying lives with each other.

Events at church this morning made this re-building of my life more urgent. From Mary Helen I’ve learned to single out those who are alone or new and try to get to know them. Every Sunday we would ask the Lord to help us be a blessing to someone and to help us connect with someone new. We’d introduce ourselves, ask their names and listen as they answered our general questions about their lives. We’d also chat with those who had become friends. I’ve continued to try and do that. But it has become scary. And I’m often unsuccessful. I found this morning’s gathering particularly difficult.

I almost left. Then I looked around the congregation and realized that I was too focused on myself. There were families trying to control fidgety children. One woman was dealing with the husband’s Alzheimer’s. Another wife had had to leave her sick husband at home so she could attend. And in a row in front of me there must have been 3 or 4 widows, one who became a widow at the same time as Mary Helen died. They must be dealing with similar issues. I must look beyond myself.  

I don’t know the answer to my life at this point, except to keep on slowly keeping on doing what I as a Christian should do. Spending time in prayer and study. Making new friends as I can. Being interested in others enough to listen to their stories. Trying to be salt and light here in the condo community where I live. Writing out our story in the hopes that the writing will help me—and maybe help others. But, Lord, it seems so hard. It’s like I’ve had an amputation; like one leg has been sawed off and I’m hobbling around with crutches.  And I don’t know how to use the crutches. I keep falling. Please help me learn!

Looking back a couple of days later; I did know it was not good to sit at the computer and brood. So, I went out for a steak dinner. It was tender and tasty. And I invited someone in for dinner the next night.

(Compared to the suffering of many in our world, my passage through grief is a minor and common experience. I present these musings in the hope that someone going through a similar experience may find encouragement that they are not alone. And so that others looking on might understand more about grief. )

(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 –– Eric’s books are available at: https://www.amazon.com/Eric-E.-Wright/e/B00355HPKK%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share)

“Goodbye…Hello!” -the missionary mantra -Our Story Continued, #19

In May of 1970, we said good bye to the pink house in Elmer, New Jersey. It was time to return to what was still, “West Pakistan.” We might leave, but the memory of that happy time led our kids to search in every town for a “Pink House.”

I said goodbye to Dr. Rudolph at RE Seminary. I left with more of the tools I needed to prepare Pakistani Christians to celebrate their faith and be able to approach Muslim friends and neighbours.  And I left with happy memories of students and staff. I had found everyone very supportive. Indeed, the entrepreneurial student who initiated the coffee and donut concession had insisted that I run it during my time there and keep the profits.

We said goodbye to new friends we had made in the Elmer Baptist Church—and with the church’s pledge of support. Throughout our missionary career, we have found the Lord’s people to be wonderfully generous. While we stayed in the pink house, one local Christian filled the tank at the house with fuel oil while another person brought us eggs and milk.

We said good-bye to Phil and Marie Alcorn who had become friends during our time there. Throughout our lives, God has blessed us with one or two special friends in each church we have attended and in most of our supporting churches. As we have learned, friendship doesn’t have to be exclusive nor continuous. True friends, after an absence of years or a distance in geography, can pick up their friendships when they meet again. What would our lives have been without the love and prayers of friends like the Alcorns?

We even found that God had unusual friendships in mind for rather died-in-the-wool Baptists like us. Consider this. A month before we were to leave Elmer, I wrecked the van I used to drive to seminary in Philadelphia. A dog ran out in front of me and on impulse I swerved and sideswiped a hydro pole. The insurance company wrote it off. I and another student I was driving with needed transportation! Would God provide? We knew He could, but we were surprised at how He did provide. The Roman Catholic compatriots of Mary Helen’s sister, Colie, were quite interested in our ministry. To our astonishment they loaned us a car for the remainder of our time. And they continued to follow our ministry throughout our time in Pakistan.

But there was one more thing to do besides visiting Mary Helen’s and my families. Up to this time I had resisted ordination. It had seemed unbiblical to acquire a title, “reverend,” that would set me apart from other Christians. Weren’t we all level at the cross? Our home pastor back in Toronto, Pastor Reisinger, explained that ordination represented an examination and affirmation of one’s beliefs. His persuasion helped me realize that such an affirmation is often required by officials and might ease my way through the Pakistani bureaucracy. The panel met, examined my beliefs and affirmed my commitment to the historic faith. And so, I became Rev. Wright without becoming more reverent.

Before we left, we found my brothers more cordial and open to talk of spiritual truths. We left them with booklets that, without being overtly offensive, contained convincing descriptions of the Christian faith.

We were eager to return to Pakistan. It would be good to set foot again in the land of our adoption. How sweet the gospel in Urdu would sound to our ears. Would we have forgotten much idiom? Wouldn’t it be grand to sip tea again on string beds in some humble village hut? Or to argue with merchants in the bazaar over prices? Oh, there would be piles of problems but we would be able, Lord willing, to get on with the precious task of proclaiming to Muslims, Marvaris and nominal Christians the whole counsel of God. We would be able to implement our two-fold aim for this new term; itinerant Bible teaching and literature production.

After travelling via Frankfurt and Tehran, where the mission had set up a new field, we arrived in a new town, just south of Rahim Yar Khan. Hello, Sadiqabad!

With little available, we rented a traditional Pakistani house. The front door opened directly onto the street. We soon learned that we were on the main route for camel trains with their tinkling bells. We would often be entertained by their passing. The four rooms plus courtyard abutted directly onto the house behind so that we shared the back wall. And the side walls abutted houses to the left and right of us. The bathroom with its peeling plaster was accessed across the bricked courtyard. To make it more congenial, we stapled decorative plastic sheeting to the walls.

When they returned from boarding, the kids used the bathroom as the room from which they would launch dramas in the courtyard. Needing greenery, I pulled up some bricks, dug in some soil, and planted flowers. In hot weather there were stairs to the flat roof where we set up our string beds to catch the night breeze off the desert. That meant we had to be up at the crack of dawn lest we become a spectacle to our neighbours who loved to peer over the low wall separating their roof from ours. To the inhabitants of town, seeing a foreigner was quite a novel event.

It was quite a kacca dwelling. (Kacca is a very useful Urdu word meaning poorly constructed or half-baked while pacca, meant the opposite; well-constructed, solid, etc. as used for almost anything including asphalt roads compared to dirt roads.) I remember coming back one evening from visiting a village to find Mary Helen standing on the bed in our bedroom throwing shoes at a rat. That it was not imaginary was clear from the hole that had been gnawed through the rug on our floor. The floor was made of bricks laid over what was probably dirt. Kacca.

But we had barely settled before the heat was upon us and school was beginning at Murree Christian School in the mountains. It was time to say goodbye, Sadiqabad and hello, Murree. Stephen joined grade three and Deborah grade two in summer day school. Johnny, not yet school age, stayed home to entertain us in our rented cottage. The summer would introduce me to an exciting new method of discipleship. But a new and more difficult good bye would face the whole family when the summer ended.

As I write this, fifty years later, I realize that Pakistanis must be more prepared for change than English speakers. They use one word, “Salaam” for both hello or goodbye! And the word is akin to wishing someone peace. There’s a lesson there. The ascended Christ doesn’t move from place to place. He’s there already, omniscient, the giver of peace. “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give onto you.” “Lo I am with you always.” And that is the constant in life, a certainty that Christians can enjoy wherever they may be.

(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 –– Eric’s books are available at: https://www.amazon.com/Eric-E.-Wright/e/B00355HPKK%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share)

Hope At A Gravesite – A Man’s Journey Through Grief continued, #12

Many of my posts since Mary Helen’s death have been laments which doesn’t tell the whole story of grief. I visited Mary Helen’s grave yesterday. I didn’t talk to her. I didn’t weep. I had no sense of her spirit hovering. She is not there. My soul was possessed by a certain, absolute hope, a firm assurance. Oh, I know the shell of her body are there, but she—the real Mary Helen—is in heaven with Jesus and a multitude of angels and saints. Her body awaits the resurrection when Jesus will descend. “The Lord himself will come down from heaven, with a loud command, with the voice of the archangel and with the trumpet call of God, and the dead in Christ will rise first. After that we who are still alive and are left will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And so we will be with the Lord forever. Therefore encourage one another with these words” (1 Thess. 4:16-18).

As I look back over the past five months, the two things that stand out are faith and hope. They are connected. Not a wishy-washy, hope-so hope. Not a groundless faith. No, hope that merges with faith as a confidence in what God has said. “Faith is the confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see” (Heb. 11:1). And we understand what we do not see because God has told us in broad strokes what will happen to believers who die in the Lord. It is written. As someone has declared. “God said. I believe it. That settles it.”

Such concrete hope has not meant that I haven’t grieved or that I should not grieve. The Bible makes clear that grief is a real and necessary emotion. That hope does not erase my sense of loneliness, the emptiness of our condo, or the weeping that comes unbidden. Hope does not overcome memories nor the longing I have for her presence. But hope forms the backdrop of all my days. I know where she is. I know I will go to her. I know Christ will return in triumph and create a new heavens and a new earth in which joy and purpose and harmony and holiness meet. That will be glory!

That faith and hope is what makes Christian grief so distinct. As Paul wrote “Brothers and sisters, we do not want you to be uninformed about those who sleep in death, so that you do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who have no hope” (1 Thess. 4:13,14). He continues by describing the victorious descent of the Lord to call the dead to rise. (By the way, sleep in death does not mean that souls are unconscious until the resurrection. Sleep is but one of many comforting euphemisms for death. Christ told the thief on the cross that, on that very day, he would wake up in paradise not fall into some insensate state. As Paul said in another place, “Absent from the body is present with the Lord.” Moses and Elijah, who were both dead talked to Jesus on the mount of transfiguration.)

Christians who are bereaved are not like unbelievers who have no hope. Hope is like the air we breath. The lungs that keep that air pumping to sustain hope, is faith. And that is why, when a loved one dies, we can either descend into bitterness and anger against God or be sustained by faith. Death is either a time for our faith to grow or fizzle into gloom and anger with God.

Consider the response of the disciples when Jesus died. They descended into unrelieved grief. Their hope was gone. They didn’t believe in the promise of his resurrection. He had appeared to Mary Magdalene and others of the women. They had told the apostles, but the women’s account “appeared to them as nonsense, and they would not believe them” (Luke 24:11). He appeared to two men on the road to Emmaus. They admitted their disappointment at Jesus’ death. They failed to believe Mary’s testimony and were going home to grieve. They said, “We were hoping that it was He who would redeem Israel.” He responded, ”O foolish men and slow of heart to believe in all that the prophets have spoken” (Luke 24:25).

Later Jesus appeared to the apostles in a locked room where they had gone to grieve. They were startled and frightened…And He said to them, ‘Why are you troubled, and why do doubts arise in your hearts. See my hands and my feet’” (Luke 24:37-39). Earlier, Thomas had been categorical in saying that he would not believe until he could touch Jesus wounds.

Death without faith results in hopelessness, gloom and despair. But fortunately, after the disciples realized that Jesus was indeed alive, they were transformed. They went out everywhere preaching the gospel in spite of persecution. The certainty Jesus generated in their hearts was due to his visible appearance. In our case it is due to trust in what is written. As Jesus said to Thomas, “Blessed are they who did not see yet believed” (John 20:29). Faith is the dividing line between those who have hope at the time of death and those who don’t.

I am grateful that God, by grace, moved me to believe in the Gospel. And so, during Mary Helen’s deteriorating health and eventual passing, hope and confidence in God’s goodness and love surrounded us like a blanket. Mary Helen longed to depart and be with Jesus. Could I deny that? No, God knows best. Faith and hope makes this painful loss bearable. It doesn’t still the tears nor fill the lonely hours. But underneath are the everlasting arms!

Mary Helen

Five months. What about now? I am left. From Scripture I know that suffering, sorrow, grief and pain have a redemptive purpose. Clearly, I have much to learn through my grieving. I pray that I will be teachable. And I pray that my “confessions and vulnerabilities” will help others. God is good—all the time—whether we feel it or not.

A wonderful verse I’ve recently reviewed summarizes the comfort we find and it challenges me to look to the future for that “good word and work”. “Now our Lord Jesus Christ himself, and God, even our Father, which hath loved us, and hath given us everlasting consolation and good hope through grace, comfort your hearts, and stablish you in every good word and work” (2 Thess. 2:16,17, KJV).

(There are other posts in this series, such as #11, that I have not shared. Some are too personal. Others are in flux.)

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

A Mysterious Legacy and a Pink House – Our Story continued, #18

During our first term, we often had to tighten our belts as support levels fluctuated in our so-called “pool mission”. More than once the cupboard was bare. And yet God always supplied our needs, often in miraculous ways. I remember one incident when a letter arrived from England containing an inheritance. The letter was from the estate of Gwladys Myfanwy Gellatly. Who? We didn’t know anyone of that name; in fact we knew few people in the UK. The cheque enclosed was for 1500 pounds. Although the letter was delayed due to our shifting addresses, it reached us just when we were in dire straights.

Fifteen hundred pounds was a substantial amount in those days. This unexpected provision was a practical demonstration that our Heavenly Father would provide for us, if we obeyed His mandate. Instead of worrying, we needed to learn to cast our cares on Him and pray for Him to provide our daily bread.

It turned out that Gwladys Myfanwy Gellatly had known Pop, my dad, when he was stationed in England during the First World War. My dad was a reconnaissance pilot flying over enemy lines and snapping photos that could be used by the Allies. He was one of the few who survived both training and flying those bi-winged planes. She had billeted him in her home during his training and when back in England from France. Over the years they kept in touch.

My Father, A.J. Wright

At some point Pop must have mentioned to her that his youngest son was a missionary serving in Pakistan. Unbeknown to Pop or us, she decided to include me in her will, giving me one quarter share in a portion of her estate. How amazing it is that God used someone from another country whose only connection to our family was through my dad, a World War I pilot! And that over 40 years later.  And that she would include his son, whom she had never met, in her will. What is even more amazing is that, in contrast to my Mom, Pop and my brothers were not sympathetic to missions. They thought I was throwing away a successful career by becoming a missionary. 

My Dad’s biplane

How incredible are the ways of God! On this rather astonishing note, our first term of four and a half years came to a close. It was time to head back to North America so we could touch base with our family and supporting churches. Not only did that bequest meet our immediate needs, but it financed a wonderful trip home on our first furlough.

In those days, careful planning of our itinerary enabled us to arrive at certain destinations when there was no ongoing flight available. As a result, we received paid overnight accommodation, In this way we were able to get overnight accommodation in Singapore, Bangkok and Hawaii. Using funds from the legacy and making careful reservations we were also able to have extra nights in Dacca with our missionaries, in Hong Kong at a YMCA guest house and in Japan at a hotel. The whole family enjoyed this wonderful trip home.  

Bangkok temple Tea ceremony in Japan

We arrived in southern California to stay with my Dad and his wife for a few days before heading to South Carolina. We were just in time for Halloween. Stephen, Deborah and John had a eye-opening time going trick-or-treating. They couldn’t believe that people would give them candy from door to door.  

Arrival in San Diego to my Dad’s house for a party with step-sister Eleanor, Pop and his wife Margaret and our three. Dealing with money from trick-or-treating

To ease into reconnection with our supporters who were scattered from Chicago to Montreal, we acquired a used VW van. We equipped it with a mattress and curtains for the windows. With these modifications we travelled relatively easily. We could pull into a rest area and all get some sleep—at least the kids. This was before seat belts and car seats.

During that first term in Pakistan, I had begun to realize that I needed as much Bible training as possible so that upon return, I would be better prepared to help our Pakistani brethren. I became acquainted with an important theologian and apologist under whom I wanted to study. The mission agreed to extend my furlough.

One of those infamous furlough photos. Note that only Mary Helen and John are smiling!

After time spent with family and with supporting churches and individuals we headed for Philadelphia, where Dr. Robert K. Rudolph taught at Reformed Episcopal Seminary. Episcopal and us Baptist? At first the idea of enrolling at an Episcopal Seminary was off-putting, but further inquiries indicated that it was an independent and very evangelical school. He was a student of Cornelius Van Til’s work on presuppositional thinking, which I needed. I applied to audit all Rudolph’s courses and was accepted in spite of making such an irregular request. 

But where to live? We left Toronto in July to drive to Philadelphia. We soon realized that Philly was too expensive and congested so we broadened our search into New Jersey. Surely, God who had provided for our needs in Pakistan would also do so during this seminary time. Fortunately, we found a campground where we could stay temporarily. And at the campground we met a local Christian, Helen Keepfer, who became a friend. When she heard of our predicament, she suggested a house in the nearby town of Elmer that had been designated for missionaries.

And so, the pink house in Elmer, NJ, became a legend in our family. The story of the house was itself a typical example of how God can take a disaster and turn it into a marvelous provision. The story began in the minds of a local couple who often entertained missionaries in their home. They prayed for missionaries. They gave to missions. Then one of their sons became a missionary. They were overjoyed.

While their son was away serving in his chosen field, life went on for his parents. The father was a contractor who had bought a burnt-out house in Elmer with the goal of restoring and re-selling it. But an idea that had been bobbing to the surface of his mind became more and more insistent. He had observed the difficulty furloughing missionaries have in finding a furnished place for a reasonable rent.

Why not renovate the house, furnish it with the basics, and rent it out to furloughing missionaries at a nominal rent? It would not be easy. He had seven children to provide for and help through school and college. There never seemed to be enough money. But the idea would not go away. The contractor prayed about it and talked it over with his wife. She heartily agreed.

In the months that followed, between other jobs, work on number 206 State Street went on. It became a family missionary project. The small-town silence of many nights was disturbed by the whine of a circular saw or the staccato rhythm of hammers.

Finally, it was finished; a bright, spacious two-story house. And it was pink! Some in the town might have called it a pink elephant. Fortunately, many in the local church, catching the vision, helped furnish it.

The contractor’s missionary son and his family came home to be its first missionary guests. Next came a couple returning from the Congo. Then came the Wrights! Yes, we were the third Cinderellas to enjoy this twentieth century fairy tale—a brick and mortar reality orchestrated by God. To be a committed Christian, as demonstrated by this contractor and his family, means to be willingly, hilariously involved in the stream of God’s ongoing purpose. To us driving down from Toronto with no contacts, it did seem like a fairy-tale provision of accommodation for my year at seminary.

Stephen and Debbie adjusted happily to a local school. We adopted a neighbourhood cat. Too young for school, John was in demand by a young girl living behind us. She would come early most mornings and ask, “Can Johnny come out and play?”

Mary Helen got a part-time job at the local hospital. I earned some shekels cleaning the church before Sunday worship.

Another of those infamous furlough photos with everybody trying too hard to smile.

And thus began my third return to academia. Dr. Rudolph’s courses proved to be unusually engaging, deeply inspiring, and very practical. I was able to store away many biblical nuggets to share upon our return to Pakistan. Studying the Scriptures under this godly and quite humorous professor remains to this day one of my happy memories.

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

Ontario Road Trip, #6 -Sun, Sand, Salt and Ontario’s Richest Soil

What a fascinating road trip I had through South-western Ontario! From the shore of Lake Erie on the third day, I turned inland to my overnight stay in St. Thomas, Ontario’s RR city, where Drumbo the elephant died. In the morning I motored across rich farm country to highway 21 along the shore of Lake Huron. Unfortunately, it seemed like half the population of Sarnia and Windsor had the same idea. I hit a massive traffic jam of vacationers heading to Port Elgin and points north or one of their properties along the shore. As I progressed, an inch at a time, a glance at the map told me that the whole shoreline from Sarnia north was populated by cottagers and small beach communities. I realized that Friday was not a day to make this journey. There was nothing to do but jog inland along country roads until I finally reached Goderich.

Goderich is Ontario’s salt capital even though few, except in winter, admit to using salt. Naturally, the occupants bill it as “the prettiest town in Canada,” an apocryphal comment attributed to Queen Elizabeth. In the harbour I found a giant laker taking on salt on one side of the harbour and huge trucks loading it from a facility on the other. The town was founded in 1828. While looking for oil in 1866, prospector Sam Platt discovered rock salt 300 metres below the surface. The present mine, the largest of its nature in the world, is 1800 feet below Lake Huron and provides the salt used on our roads in winter.

Laker taking on salt

With its beach and exposure to sunsets, it is a fascinating town made extremely interesting by the design of its pioneers. The streets radiate from an octagonal in the centre of the city. Alas I couldn’t stay.

I headed north to Kincardine and then Port Elgin before reluctantly leaving the lake behind to head to my motel in Walkerton. There the rumble of a gaggle of motorcyclists gathering for some reunion serenaded me until Morpheus lulled me to sleep. In the morning I aimed my motorized steed across the heart of Ontario. Along the way I marveled again at the wealth the Creator had bestowed on this fortunate, but rather unthankful province. The only things that annoyed were the ubiquitous presence of those monuments—wind turbines—erected to satisfy someone’s fantasy about a solution to global warming, but more on that at a later time.

KIncardine harbour The story of a wreck on Lake Huron Kincardine harbour Wind turbine dominates skyline

At Holland Marsh, north of Toronto, I got lost for a time in the roads circling this ultra rich farmland. You ask, “why didn’t you take 401, Ontario’s super highway?” Basically, it’s because I’m allergic to traffic racing along at above 120 km/hr. Not that I drive slowly. But on a road trip, I like to see the countryside as more than a blur. Anyway, at the Marsh, I got to connect even briefly with Ontario’s market garden.

Holland Marsh

The marsh was formed by the decay of organic material during the centuries after the retreat of the massive ice shield that covered much of North America. Early in 1900 the deep and rich nature of the soil was recognized but drainage did not begin until 1925 when ditches and diversions of the Holland River began to be constructed. They were completed in 1930. A few years later 18 Dutch families arrived to become the nucleus of a thriving agricultural community. More European families arrived after World War II. It is now a market garden for Canada and abroad producing carrots and onions in particular, as well as lettuce, potatoes, celery, parsnips, cabbage, cauliflower and beets. There are some greenhouses in which tomatoes, cucumbers and commercial flowers are produced. Because of my diversion I got to smell the rich soil and growing vegetables plus I could pause along the canal to watch fishermen while away the day.

Holland marsh canal & fishermen

My four-day road trip ended with a stop in Peterborough at Red Lobster for a feast of shrimp. I must admit that my home bed never felt so good. And yet, I think I’ll plan another road trip soon.

Detour; There’s A Challenging Road Ahead – Our Story continued, #17

Thinking back over how much I miss Mary Helen’s friendliness, concern for others and especially her gift for hospitality, I realize that something happened during our first term in Pakistan that brought these qualities to the fore. Earlier I had written a memoir entitled, Surprises of Grace. Why? Because God had repeatedly surprised us—not by encouraging us to keep on during what we were doing—but by pointing us in a new direction.

We had come to Pakistan to reach Muslims with the Good News. We hadn’t realized the desperate needs of the Christian minority. Encouraging and helping the church leaders became a priority. As I was thrown into this arena, it became clear that my spiritual gift was not evangelism but teaching. I could understand that detour. Other surprises God had in store, were not as welcome.

The call to take up leadership responsibilities was one of those unwelcome surprises. Both of us avoided the limelight. We were happy to work quietly in the background letting others take responsibility. Merle and Gloria Inniger had been excellent in that regard, but they were due for furlough. The first step towards preparing me for uncomfortable responsibility was to appoint me to the chairmanship of Allied Model School, the local Christian School.

Allied Model School, 3 of the teachers.

Four or five blocks from where we lived stood an old, rather dingy building that housed the Allied Model School. Eight primary grades met in four crowded classrooms. Of the 110 pupils, 85% came from Muslim homes. Others attended from poor, nominal Christian families. At that time there were only four teachers, all Pakistani women. Three of them had been converted at one of the evangelistic conventions and enjoyed weekly Bible studies with Mary Helen. That these women loved their job and did it well was evidenced by the well-to-do Muslims who sent their children there in preference over other schools in the town.

The school was run by a board of local Pakistanis and missionaries. At that time pupil’s fees enabled it to become self-sufficient. Since the school was an important witness in the town, I accepted the position without demure. The teachers had already become friends and real helpers in our language development and understanding of the culture.

Over the years, the fortunes of AMS rose and fell as other English medium schools were founded and as difficulties of various kinds arose between staff and the mission. Mary Helen and I were to help resolve problems.

Another step in accepting the mantle of leadership became inevitable when Merle and Gloria left for furlough. Against objections, I was chosen as field leader. I did not want field leadership! I did not feel that I had administrative or leadership gifts. But options were few at that time and a number of new missionaries were in the pipeline who would need guidance. Sometimes, we have to accept God’s call to do what we do not feel gifted to do. Sometimes the gifts are latent and need to be forced to the surface.

Merle and Gloria Inniger

As I look back, I take comfort in the experiences of biblical characters who expressed reluctance to accept their calling. Their reticence was usually due to a realistic sense of their own limitations. Moses responded to God’s call in Exodus two and four by saying I can’t speak. (See Ex. 2:11; 4:10.) In Judges six, Gideon protested, I am the least in my father’s house. Jeremiah was very forceful in his reluctance; “Ah Sovereign Lord, I said, I do not know how to speak, I am only a child” (Jer. 1:4-6).

While any comparison to these giants of the faith is superficial, I can relate to their hesitancy. When I was converted, I was very reluctant to give my testimony or teach a Sunday School class. At first, I had felt hesitant about missions. Later when we moved back to Canada, I was reluctant to accept a pastoral position. It was as if God had to dump me into circumstances where I had to swim or drown in order to teach me to trust him. I cannot relate to those who seem to ooze utter confidence in what God can do through them. Is that a continuing weakness in my faith? Probably, but it has been used down through the years to make me more dependent on God. Verses that have encouraged me through the years have been verses like; John 15:5; “Apart from me you can do nothing,” and “I can do all things through Christ who strengtheneth me” (Phil. 4:13). And I had Mary Helen by my side.

The reluctance of Moses, Gideon, and Jeremiah is understandable. Anyone who has caught even a glimmer of God’s holiness and our own sinfulness and weakness is reluctant to accept a task that seems beyond our puny abilities.

In my case, I had no choice, so I tried to do the best I could. God began to develop latent leadership gifts as I applied myself to the challenge. I must admit that reluctance to serve where appointed is not a good quality. However, God probably used my reluctance to force me to try harder than I might have done had I felt naturally gifted.

I became responsible to carry on the monthly mission prayer meetings and organize the yearly conference. Mary Helen was plunged more deeply into hospitality for long mission committee meetings, visits of pastors, and overnight stays of traveling missionaries. There were no motels they could stay in!

The yearly rhythm continued throughout that first term. Both of us lived on the plains in Rahim from September through May. Then Mary Helen took the kids to the cool hills of Murree. I would visit from time to time. Before the rise of terrorism in the frontier states, we scheduled special visits to mountain valleys; the Kaghan Valley and the Swat Valley. Those visits are indelible in our minds.

Our travels were more limited during the kids’ winter holidays when we were immersed in ministry in the plains. But we did manage to visit the Conservative Baptist’s beach cottage on the Karachi beach twice. What a wonderful time of walking along the sand, engaging camel rides, and watching for the emergence of baby turtles.

The pressure of administrative duties quickly thrust me into the deep end. I worked on improving communication among us through a news sheet I called, The Ivory Tower. There was continuing pressure to visit villages and set up short-term training sessions. We needed more missionaries!

Our new missionaries

By 1967 God began to answer our prayers for laborers. Grace Dixon transferred over from India to join Bill and Margaret Milton who, with us, had been trying to keep us pressing on. Our team increased with the arrival of a number of new recruits; first came Kathy Bell and Hugh and Jean Gordon from Canada, Roger and Diana Pomeroy from Wales and England, Lily Givans from Ireland, Maureen Watts from Australia. A little later Joy Nutt from Australia and then Moffat Lindsay from Scotland arrived. What a great bunch of colleagues they all were! Throughout the years we have continued to look upon this team as family and our kids call them Uncle and Auntie. (Other surprises ahead.)

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

Can Anything Good Come of the Horrific War in Ukraine?

Steve Jones, president of our Fellowship Evangelical Baptists in Canada recently went with several others from our denomination on a fact-finding trip to Poland. They heard many traumatic stories of tragedy and death. He talked with “the Ukrainian Baptist Union President and Vice President to get some understanding of the situation among their Baptist churches. We learned that 450 of the 2,500 Baptist Union (BU) churches are located in occupied territories. Two-hundred-and-fifty BU pastors (of a total of 2,000) are without a church because their members have had to flee the area due to the war, and 40 church buildings have been destroyed or severely damaged.”

“One missionary mentioned to me that 200 Ukrainian soldiers were dying daily and many more are being maimed and injured. An especially moving moment was listening to a small congregation (50-60) of Ukrainian refugees sing a familiar hymn in their own language – there was stirring melancholic sound in their singing – you couldn’t help but weep. This war is horrific and heart-breaking.” (From What I saw at the Ukrainian border By Steve Jones, weekly report to Fellowship pastors and missionaries.)

Fellowship International has two couples working in Poland who are now pouring their lives into Ukraine through organizing the warehousing and trucking of food and supplies to refugees throughout Poland and into Ukraine.  FAIR, our denominational relief agency, has supplied funding to these evangelical local churches and evangelical mission groups to ensure food and supplies get to where they are most needed. “I (Steve Jones) was constantly impressed by the resolve and compassion but also fatigue emanating from the leaders we met. Our own Fellowship International missionaries have been remarkable. Poland has been incredibly hospitable and the small evangelical Church in Poland (0.02% of the population) has been “punching above its weight” for months. I’m hoping Poles will take notice and curiously seek out why these evangelicals sought to care for so many refugees.”

At the same time as I received this report, I read an article in the latest Christianity Today written by Sophie Lee, entitled, Exodus Calling about her experiences on the ground in Poland and Ukraine. She describes the devastation and the tragedy but also how the evangelical church is responding.

She writes, “Ukraine has been an incubator for evangelical megachurches, seminaries, charities, and missions since the 1990’s, after the Soviet Union dissolved. While many European countries secularized, Ukrainian churches sent thousands of missionaries to Russia, Central Asia, and Europe. Now many of these evangelicals are being scattered in a mass exodus from Ukraine. ‘We’re involuntary missionaries to the whole of Europe,’ Kokhtiuk said.” (Christianity Today, p46, July/August 2022)

Putin took NATO, Europe and North America by surprise. God was not surprised. It seems apparent, as is the case throughout history, that even the free and evil actions of mankind are folded by God into his plan to extend the Kingdom of His Son. Positive evangelistic news does not absolve us from doing all we can to alleviate the suffering of refugees who have come to Canada and those displaced within Ukraine and Europe.

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

Arguing With God and Myself – A Man’s Journey Through Grief continued, #10

The other morning I pondered again the enigma of grief. On the one hand I am to draw closer to God that He may become my “all-in-all.” That seems to mean that memories of my wife are to fade and be overtaken by an all-consuming love for God. On the other hand, I feel her loss keenly and don’t want to lose the memories I have of her. Am I to grit my teeth, still my tears and return to “normal” but a more “spiritual normal”?

Our culture seems to expect this latter goal—getting over grief speedily. Of course, it doesn’t care whether I become more “religious” or not. But I do, in the best sense of the term. In other cultures, and in other ages there were symbols of grief that the bereaved wore to signal their condition and ease them through the difficult first year. At this time in history, western culture leaves us to chart our own path.

I know that my faith community doesn’t expect me to dress in black. I’m probably imagining things, but I sense that many, even in my faith community, expect me to soon become “normal.” They may laud my “courage”, the “control of my emotions” and the way I’m trying to keep busy. But shouldn’t I, as a trained and experienced Christian worker be finding God, who is better than a wife, becoming my “all in all?” Shouldn’t I be expecting that our gracious Lord—whose love is infinitely deeper than the deepest human love—would swallow up my grief in His tender embrace? Do they expect me to return to “normal”: but on a much higher spiritual level? Let me just say at this point, that I’m speaking as a fool. These imaginings and self-discussions are probably due to my over-sensitive nature. Many people have been extremely understanding.

To get back to my main point, as I look back over the last five months, I can say that I have been drawing closer to the Lord, or He to me. I have more of a sense of His love and grace; I feel He is near; I talk to Him more. And I know that He listens as I cry out to Him. Without the Lord’s presence and grace, I don’t see how I could have come this far. But am I to replace Mary Helen in my thoughts with a new and deeper relationship with God?

It’s the memories, I argue. The feelings. The sense of loss. The aloneness. Does God want that to go away, to be absorbed by drawing “nearer my God to thee?” Lord, do you want me to stop thinking of her? Do you want me to stop remembering? Do you want me to hide her pictures? Is it abnormal or even unspiritual to cherish her memory?

Helen Lemmel, in that wonderful hymn, “Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus,” writes; “Look full in His wonderful face and the things of earth will grow strangely dim. In the Light of His glory and grace.” Lord, is that my goal to look forward to a time when memories of Mary Helen grow dim? Am I to actively seek that?

Many of the hymn writers seem to give that impression. Jane Bonar writes, “Fade, fade, each earthly joy; Jesus is mine. Break every tender tie; Jesus is mine”. Yes, death has broken my physical tie with Mary Helen but only for a season. Lord am I to break the tender tie in my memories? Am I to let the memories fade?

There is certainly a measure of truth here. Sarah Adams writes, “Nearer my God to thee…Out of my stony griefs…So by my woes to be nearer my God to Thee…”

People say that time heals all ills. Am I to expect that of death? That memories fade into forgetfulness? That human love is swallowed up by divine love? Can I not have both?

Surely, Lord there is a compromise. You summarized all the commandments as loving God and loving our neighbour. If there is room for our neighbour, I know you—who created marriage—has room for us to love our spouse even in death. Now, I know that she is no longer physically present. I know heaven is ahead. I know from what others in grief have said, that the pain gradually eases. And I realize that humanly speaking our memories dim and a new equilibrium takes over our days. Hopefully, that easing of grief will lead to a growing nearness to God.

But how do I dispel my memories of our love while I seek to love you more? Perhaps, her home-going has cleared my life of the complications brought on by human love so that I can concentrate on loving You more. But if so, Lord, you’ll have to help me find a compromise in which I can keep her memories alive and shed tears from time to time. I know I’m speaking foolishly but do you see my dilemma?

(These vulnerable descriptions of the process of my grief are posted to help others going through similar tests.)

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