At Christmas Time

O Come, O Come, Emmanuel

And ransom captive Israel

That mourns in lonely exile here

Until the son of man appear.

Rejoice! Rejoice! 

Emmanuel shall come to you, O Israel.

I asked to learn this hymn first when I started voice lessons. I knew it was my Dad’s favourite and I wanted to sing it for him at Christmas. My teacher insisted I sing the last line without breaks and I just couldn’t do it due to my asthma. So it was also the last song I learned. My Dad loved it.

I sang it one last time for him as he lay dying right after Christmas last year. He couldn’t join in then, but now he gets to sing “Rejoice!” in heaven. Meanwhile, the rest of us joyfully remember the first coming of our Lord, Emmanuel at Christmas, and eagerly await His second coming.

While we wait, we keep busy. Or, at least, the children keep us busy. Our daughter is full of vim and vigour. She likes gymnastics, swimming, horse riding, baking, music, art, and playing with friends…as long as it is done her way. At six she sometimes surprises her parents by sitting still and acting all grown up. With her glasses, she looks very mature. But it only lasts a little while. Piano-playing is a particular point of dispute at this time. She really is good, but the drama gets in the way. Her reading is coming along well, but it frustrates her that she can’t read like her brother yet.

Our son shocks family and friends on the phone with his deep voice. Those of you who see him at Christmas may be more astonished by his height. He uses this to advantage on the basketball and tennis courts, as well as the soccer pitch, where he still excels, though I wish he’d stop outgrowing his shoes. Thankfully, he doesn’t need special shoes to play the piano, though he could use a “real” piano, his teacher tells us. It is a pleasure to hear him play even on a keyboard. He drives his Dad insane in the classroom – he really likes to talk…unfortunately, while the teacher is also talking. It’s just as well he does all his work well – in fact, he is doing mostly 8^th grade work while in 7^th grade.

My husband will be teaching at Gethsemane until May, when the school closes. At that time, he will either receive a new Call and we will move, or I will find a job, and we will move. We would like to remain here, if that is God’s will – it is not easy to uproot the family, as we well recall from 2010! Regardless of where we end up, the hubby would like to take one of his last master’s level classes this summer. Maybe in the summer upheaval, he will find inspiration for the subject of his thesis project…

In addition to planning our trip to Malawi with Mum, I’ve also been helping her sort through Dad’s slides, movies, papers, etc. I continue directing the church choir, teaching youth Sunday School, organizing youth events, and I ran a food drive in the fall. I didn’t write much for the first 9 months of the year, but I’ve tried to pick up the pieces of my writing career in the last few months. I join a group of friends every Friday afternoon and we type away at our manuscripts for a few hours. It’s not enough, but it’s a start.

WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Visiting Is Never the Same

Playing bao at Mvuu Camp in Liwonde

The first five or six days of our Malawi trip we spent in resorts – favourite holiday places from years past. They were fun and neat to show my husband and children, but I felt torn and uneasy.

watching elephants in Liwonde

As usual, people asked me, “Where are you from?” I didn’t want to say Malawi because I felt I had no claim on it anymore. I could say, “I was born here” but that’s ancient history. When someone asked, “When was the last time you lived here?” I had to think, and the answer – “21 years ago!” – made my connection to Malawi tenuous at best. Even my parents left 8 years ago – also the last time I visited. That’s almost a decade.

walking in Blantyre

Here I was in Malawi, the place I love most in this world, but I was a tourist. It was a new experience and I did not like it.

When we entered the south, specifically Blantyre, then I started feeling more at home. There were changes, but I could still find my way around. We met with friends, even stayed with a good friend of Mum’s one night. Visiting with these people, I could see myself living there again. It was so exciting to point out places and recall memories for my family – to reminisce with Mum about this or that.

Then we drove by our old house. Well, the plot where we lived our whole time in Malawi. But there is a towering wall with barbed wire around it now, and a solid metal gate. All we could see was the tip-top of the old fig tree we used to climb in the corner. Even now, when the image comes to mind, I can hardly breathe for shock and an aching sense of loss.

We stayed at a missionary’s house just up the road. The house is the same design as ours was. I could walk blind-folded through that house, as long as there was no furniture! Staying there for a week was nightmarish. I could almost believe I was home, except when I looked out a window.

high walls

I used to perch on the sun-warmed wooden sill in the dining room to talk to my dogs down below, or watch a Laurie in the bird bath under the eucalyptus, or peer through our sparse hedge to see who the dogs were barking at on the road. In this sister-house, the view of a dull grey cement wall through an imposing double set of burglar bars was a sucker-punch to my belly every time.

Sunset at LNP

In front of the sister-house

Using the front door was another anomaly, to say nothing of the prison door with 3 locks that we struggled with each time we left the house. In our old house, I remember using the back door exclusively. It had one lock and it was never locked during the day.

What did all this teach me? I will never go back to visit again. If we go, it will be to live.

That is a hopeless dream, though. I know that living there as an adult is not the same as living there as a child. I’m not sure we could adjust. And then too, my son might well disown us if we even suggest living there.

You Have Lost Your Road

After a whirlwind arrival in Lilongwe – disembarking from our fourth plane after 32 hours of travel, renting a car, picking up a bag full of Kwatcha, and eating lunch with friends – we hit the M1 in an exhausted daze. 

It was 6:00am our time, 2:00pm Malawi time. I drove until I was more dreaming than driving – a pathetic hour of our 4-hour trip – then handed the wheel to my husband:

“Welcome to Malawi, dear!”

He had a crash course on Malawi driving – keep to the left, pull over when the armed guards wave you to the side, wait there for the president’s convoy to woosh past, avoid potholes, pedestrians and bicyclists, always keep an eye out for diesel, because you never know when you’ll next be able to fill up, and STAY AWAKE!

 

We turned onto the Golomoti Road, following that down and around the switch backs of the escarpment into the Great Rift Valley. The views were stunning – they had to be to keep me awake. Scrub-covered hills descended to the dusty yellow and green flat lands.

With the hills far behind us, we found what we thought was our next turn. The tar ended and a dirt expanse trundled off into the trees. This we followed until we came to a village. There the road disappeared in a maze of round and square houses. Jolting slowly along the pathways past astonished villagers, we finally came to a man in the only vehicle we had seen for many a mile.

We explained that we were trying to find the M10 and asked if he knew where it was.

“Ahhh, Madam.” He shook his head slowly, his expression solemn. “You have lost your road.”

No kidding.

Appraising the lost, somewhat dim-looking azungus, the man decided there was no hope of directing us. “Follow me,” he said and jumped into his battered pick-up truck.

I looked at my husband and smiled. “Having fun yet? There’s always an adventure in Africa!”

After a brain-jarring jog through the last of the village and then cross country through the bush, we revved up a final dirt embankment and found ourselves on a black tar road, stretching out into the distance on either side, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. The man pointed us to the right and after thanking him, we took off with the fast-setting sun over our shoulders.

At Nkapola Lodge

I had miscalculated on daylight hours. Though I remembered that night comes early in Malawi’s late May, this memory did not translate into practicality. Once the sun sets, it is dark. Not dusk. Not twilight. By 5:15pm, it was pitch black, with no lights anywhere in sight. And we were on a strange, narrow road, in an unfamiliar rental car, looking for an unlit sign, with zero hours of sleep.

What a relief to finally pull up at the Nkapola Lodge! A big smile greeted us and helping hands gathered our belongings and whisked us through the dark to the warm, friendly light of the front desk and then our rooms.

We had arrived. Let the holiday begin!

Goodbye to a Brother In Christ

“How was your trip to Malawi?” friends ask.

“Great!” I grin and nod my head enthusiastically.

The smile only just keeps the tears at bay.

I went home to bury my father, the Abusa J.M. Janosek. Sure, there were only two little pieces of bones. And those aren’t even Dad anymore. He’s up in heaven with all the other saints, joyously clicking his heels in front of our LORD and Saviour.

But Mum knew that even in death Dad would want to continue his witness to the people he loved so well. So my husband, 2 children and I jumped on a plane (four planes to be exact) and escorted Mum and the bones to Malawi for one last memorial service.

We held it at Khanyepa, a congregation Dad called the cradle of the Lutheran church in Malawi. He started witnessing and teaching in that village 46 years ago and continued serving there, as well as in many other communities throughout his 38 years as a missionary in Malawi.
 

We drove up to the church between rows of white-turbaned ladies singing in quiet harmony. None of them were smiling or dancing like usual. But then, Dad wasn’t behind the wheel waving and smiling at them.

Missionaries, pastors and old friends greeted us as we piled out of our vehicle. Word spread quickly that Amaye Janosek had arrived. People on bicycles and on foot streamed along the dusty paths to the church from all directions.

Ushered to the pastor’s house, we sat in the shade to rest and talk. When Mum learned that ten chiefs and headmen from Chikwawa district had come to honour Dad, we immediately walked to the church to greet them. As soon as Mum entered the church, people flowed in after her, crowding her as she greeted the chiefs sitting on a row of chairs lining the one piece of shade in the roofless church.

“Do you not remember me?” asked one of the chiefs. Oh to have Dad back with his God-given talent to remember not only names but every little detail about a person.

“Thank you for coming,” my mother responded. “Sorry that our memories are as rusty as our Chichewa.”

Our Chichewa improved, but not enough to do justice to the touching service planned by Pastors Chinyama and Mwanancho. Mum, my husband and I sat with other missionary families, pastors and elders on chairs in the front. Everyone else, including my children, sat behind us on the dirt floor, or on 2x4s laid out like pews in the middle of the church.

 

We joined our voices in praise to God, singing a cappella from the few shared ‘Chewa hymn books. Listening to readings under the burning sun, we silently prayed for clouds and thanked God every time one passed overhead. It was a poignant reminder of all those worship services Dad led under a tree or partial shelter.

Before and after the sermons, we listened to the three choirs present – powerful voices harmonizing beautifully. One sang a song composed for the occasion. Afterwards, pastors, elders and chiefs stood one by one to tell stories of Dad and how the Holy Spirit worked through him. One chief said, “I eagerly await the day I too stand with Abusa Janosek before God to say ‘Alleluia!’”

“Alleluia!” the congregation responded.

Leaving the church, everyone crowded around the grave marker, pushing inwards for a better view. Friends escorted Mum to the centre and stood with her as singing women proceeded in two files, each carrying a wreath of bougainvillea flowers. A man lowered himself into the hole and laid the bones in the bottom before we started placing the wreaths around the edges. 

As I lay my wreath, my 6-year old daughter pushed her way to the front and learned those were her Grandpa’s bones down there. She hung over the side sobbing. Mum and I held her and assured her that Grandpa was in heaven.

 

Long after everyone dispersed to eat and reminisce about Dad, I found my little girl sitting by the grave crying. Around her the land spread out in every direction from the memorial stone – village, field, plain, church against a backdrop of hills rising in the near distance. What a blessing for Dad to have served God in this beautiful place. 

What a blessing to be able to witness one last time to God’s people with his grave marker –

Abusa J.M. Janosek

Mbale mwa Khristu

1936-2011

Mbale mwa Khristu - Brother in Christ.

The Joys of Hiking

A family hike - bonding time, refreshing exercise, see the beauty of God's creation - right? Only in Mom and Dad's minds. To our pre-teen it was punishment designed to torture and to our 6-year old it was great until she was tired (5 minutes into the hike).

We went to the Wichita Mountains Wilderness Area - a lovely, hilly area to the south with several peaks and trails. There are bison, long horns, elks and prairie dogs - all hits with the children. But the minute we mention getting out of the car and walking, my pleasant, much-loved son is replaced by his evil twin brother, poison-tongue. With mutters and complaints he punctuates each step - "Why are we here. We've been here. This is boring." Every turn in the path - "We should turn back. This is dumb." It doesn't help either of his parents that he is vastly more fit than either of us and could run circles around us as we are hiking (oh the injustice!).

On the other hand, our daughter stops every step - "Oooh! Look at this stick. Here's another stone for my rock collection. Carry it for me, Daddy!" She's showing an interest in nature - great. But then she grows tired. "My legs are dying. I can't walk another step. Carry me!" She starts flopping around the path and loud moans turn to wails. This causes her brother to mutter (or shout) insults about "Babies," which lead to a symphony of bickering.

Anyone enjoying the hike yet? Just wait. The last 20 minutes, God decided to open heaven's floodgates. I exaggerate not. It felt like we were swimming along the path. The water was over our shoes; sheets of water hit us from behind and above. And - I had our very expensive, brand new camera with me. After running hunched over with it under my shirt for 10 minutes, I gave up:  it was raining as much under my body as above. I tore into a grove of scrawny trees and shoved my hand with the camera into a "drier" spot between 2 rocks. I had to share with a huge spiderweb, but anything for the camera, right?

My husband shouted that he'd send our son back with the umbrella. Of course, the kids were well ahead of us, all signs of complaints and exhaustion having disappeared. I crouched in the drenching rain until I heard my son shouting, "Mum?" repeatedly as he ran along the trail.

We made it back to the car where I immediately dried off the camera. I think it still works.

Being soaked, we had to strip as much as possible so we wouldn't freeze on the 2-hour car ride home. Our daughter called us the "naked family" and giggled for the 4 minutes it took her to fall asleep. I was just glad that no one could see in the car due to the blinding rain.

You know you've been to the WELS Youth Rally in Knoxville when...

• you know beyond all doubt that talking snakes are not good.
• you can now safely answer the question, "What is your sign?" with "Laminin."
• you know your conscience is like a leather seat.

• your dreams consist of jugglers shouting "badadada" to a background mash-up of "Rocky Top" and "Fill Me Up."
• your muscles scream, "Rock climbing? Really? What were you thinking?"

• your knees tell you jumping off the wall into the Neyland Stadium with 2 cameras in hand was not a good idea.
• throwing tennis balls at members during a service does have a Biblical application.
• you realize cafeteria food has not improved in 15 years.
• you understand not to dive where Pastor Boggs can see you.

• you've been told that Pastor Enter is "Hot" (taking that in the best possible light, I'd say he is on fire for God's Work...)

• you can respond to, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" even when you have no clue what career you want to pursue.

• you've had proof that 1500 teenagers really can sing Christian songs in unison, out loud, and in public.

Driving

We drove twelve hours home on Friday - crossing the centre of the United States from the top almost to the bottom. Rather than a whopping 80 km/h, I drove at almost 80 miles/h for many of the hours. And I didn't have to pray a single time that I'd finish the drive without injuring or killing anyone.

In fact, I could drive on automatic the whole way. Hour after hour we passed through rolling hills of plush green along a smooth, straight black top. I didn't have to see a single person for miles at a time, unless you count the times I glanced into cars just to make sure.

I checked the woods and fields for monkeys, baboons - any animal really - but aside from an odd herd of reindeer, a lone deer and countless cows, I didn't spot anything. And none of the cows ran at us as we passed, or crossed in front of us. And none of them decided to take a stroll, en mass, along our road.





I didn't have to swerve for any gaping potholes, squawking chickens, or hastily removed toddlers playing by the side of the road.

I didn't have to toot at goats or pigs foraging on the road, young men lolling on the edge, or super overloaded lorries trundling along while hogging the centre.

There was no maneuvering between dual streams of bicyclists, loaded high and wide with swaths of elephant grass, sacks of grain, goods displayed for sale, baskets rising like a mountain over the bicyclist, 3 or more people - you name it.

 

There were no ladies with babies on their backs hauling buckets of water or firewood on their heads. No markets teeming with people, animals and stalls sprawled on the road in front of me.

Altogether, it was an extremely boring, albeit beautiful, drive.

Now You See Them; Now You Don't.

"Wow! There are a lot of dead trees," my husband said as we drove home from a meeting yesterday.
I looked out at the passing countryside and saw nothing but lush green. What was he talking about?

Since my husband is much more observant than I, I forced myself to focus out the window. It took me half a minute, but I finally picked out the rust colour of the dead needles. Wow! There really were a whole lot of dead trees. Especially for someone who hadn't seen any of them a minute before.

My husband would laugh and say, "You really are unobservant." But he already knew that.

I'd like to say that I'm optimistic. Or maybe strong-willed... I've trained my mind to see only what I like - green, living, beautiful.

Either way, God has given us magnificent gifts in our eyes and our brains. What construct of man could both see and process with such select precision, with infinite variety, without conscious thought? It's amazing. Our creator is amazing.

Finding Hope

I go to a dying church. We have about 50% of our members come to church each Sunday and only 10% struggle to Bible Study (the bread and butter of Lutheranism) each week. Those of us who do come feel somewhat depressed when in church. We struggle to remain upbeat and hopeful when faced with the symptoms of our dying congregation.

To help put some life back in our church, our pastor invited a mentor from our national church body to come work with us last week. The man came and talked with pastor, church leaders, and various members. They visited growing churches and community organizations in our area. They canvases our neighborhood and interviewed community members - all so we can know and understand the community and culture in which we serve. As an outsider, he came to give us a more objective view of our congregation - what we are doing and what we could be doing to reach not only unchurched people in our community but our own members. How can we better tell people of God's love for them?

At the end of the week, the mentor talked to the congregation (at least, those who stayed after church).

As I listened, light flickered inside of me - hope, maybe even joy. Yes, he was a dynamic speaker. But more than that, he spoke of actions we can take to tell more people more effectively of what Jesus did for us. He gave us suggestions based on current research and experience, not blind ignorance or desperate haste. He reminded us that instead of pointing fingers like Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, or blaming the downturn in our economy for all our woes, we need to turn back to our awesome God. Take hold of His hand and step forward into a new day.

Something to Remember Him By

Mum went through Dad’s closets last week. What is more difficult - opening your closet every day to see your late husband’s clothes next to yours, or holding each shirt, each link in your hands as you decide how to get rid of it?

She asked me if my son wanted something to remind him of Grandpa. A blanket Dad always used, perhaps. I think my son would appreciate that. What about me? Do I need something of Dad’s?

Do I need something of Dad’s to remember him?

Every time I open my jewelry box, I see a necklace or bracelet he gave me. Some of my favorite earrings are from him. Did he have good taste, or do I enjoy wearing them because they remind me of him?

I open my larder and see crackers. When my sisters and I were going through Dad’s office after his death, we found huge stashes of crackers. Five boxes in this drawer, two in another, four in a closet…He was always hungry at the end, and his diet didn’t satisfy the cancer – he consumed crackers by the box. Some of his stash ended up in my car and now in my larder. Eating sardines on crackers just isn’t the same anymore.

My very son is a reminder. He’s named for Dad; even has the Janosek name to fill in for the son my father never had. Every time my son picks up a basketball or kicks a football, I can see the athletic skill he inherited from Dad. Just as well my boy doesn’t play squash or I might really lose it!

Most of all, I can go to church and feel close to Dad, because every Word from the Bible was precious to him and he sang every hymn with gusto and joy.

So no, I don’t need anything else to remember Dad. I have all I could ever want or need.

Cruising with Dad

I went on a cruise with my parents, my sister, my baby nephew and an un-named brown and tan dachshund last night. It was my Dad’s idea. But he wasn’t willing to pay for more than two rooms on the ship. So he told the captain that he and Mum were staying in a resort with the baby and the dog. After the crew escorted them off the ship, they snuck back on board to join Kirsten and me. Dad and Mum used “my” room while I shared a room with Kirsten, the baby and the dog.

I know - not my idea of fun either.

I couldn’t imagine how we were going to keep the newborn quiet or walk the dog without anyone noticing. But one does not usually contradict Dad. While the rest of us worried and fretted about the mechanics of this arrangement, Dad explored the ship, delighted in the buffet lines, talked to everyone he met and generally had a good time.

I woke laughing. How like my Dad to try and save money, and to disappear for hours, enjoying himself thoroughly. Not that he usually did anything illegal like stowing away on a cruise ship. But he did take us on trips to Europe, where we had to survive on breakfast and an ice cream a day. Or trips in the USA, where all 6 of us stuffed into one hotel room – lined up on the floor like soldiers in barracks. And he regularly dropped Mum, girls and luggage at our gate and then disappeared to explore the airport for the next few hours. Sometimes, he almost missed the flight, and since he had the tickets and our passports, so did we. But he always had stories of all the delights he found.
Ah – the ‘good old’ days.

Dad won’t be taking us on anymore trips.

But it seems that my imagination, at least, will make up new ones to share with him.

Ninety-Six Years Old

Our days may come to seventy years,
or eighty, if our strength endures;
yet the best of them are but trouble and sorrow,
for they quickly pass, and we fly away… (Psalm 90:10)

How true. My Gram is 96 years old today. Her oldest son died last month, following after her husband of sixty some years, and her only daughter. Then she received a call saying that her youngest and only-surviving son had a stroke and a severe seizure; he probably won’t live much longer.

Relent, LORD! How long will it be?
Have compassion on your servants… (Psalm 90:13)

Gram can’t imagine for what purpose God keeps her here while her family flies one by one to heaven. “I am old; what purpose could God have for me anymore?” I weep for her loss.

What words can I write to comfort? To explain? Maybe Hebrews 12:1-2 -
let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.

Don’t lose heart, Gram. Jesus loves you – he died to take away your sins and make you right with God. Because of Jesus, we can live forever with God.

Even were I 96 years old and deprived of husband and children, I might not fully grasp the loss my Gram must feel. But God knows everything about each one of us -

You have searched me, LORD,
and you know me.
You know when I sit and when I rise;
you perceive my thoughts from afar.
You discern my going out and my lying down;
you are familiar with all my ways…

Your eyes saw my unformed body;
all the days ordained for me were written in your book
before one of them came to be… (Psalm 139)

And He has promised us –

"The LORD himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.” (Deuteronomy 31:8)

The Last Two Weeks

Two weeks ago, I went on holiday with my family. Looking back, it feels like a dream. How could so much happen in just two weeks?

In the last two weeks:

• I drove 13 hours to Wisconsin with my husband, listening to our children argue in the back seat.



• I had a wonderful Christmas Eve celebration with my husband’s family.
  


• I had a quiet Christmas day with a couple of my sisters and their families.
  


• I talked to my Dad for the last time on the telephone.
  


• I did a last-minute, all night, 15-hour road trip to North Carolina with two of my sisters and their husbands. We told stories of our childhood and hauled out memories of Dad.
  


• I cried in shock at the unrecognizable man groaning in that hospital bed.
  


• I smiled into my Dad’s unfocused eyes, stroked his cheek and sang him hymns while he lay dying.
  


• I watched everyone around me cry.
  


• I called my oldest sister at work to tell her Dad couldn’t hold on like she’d asked.



• I told Gram that her son joined her husband in heaven.
  


• I met my little sister at the airport and held her arm.
  


• I talked quietly with my sisters around Dad’s hospital bed. He looked like he was just about to fall asleep; the only thing missing was the dangerously-tilting coffee cup in his hand.




• I was at an impromptu family reunion. Only Dad was missing.
  


• I felt my nephew roll and kick in my sister’s belly.
  


• I read about 100 emails from friends and family.
  


• I wrote Dad’s biography for his memorial service.



• I sorted through endless albums of old pictures with my sisters late into the night.
  


• I laughed with my cousin and his family.
  


• I cried at two memorial services.
  


• I welcomed the New Year with apple juice drunk from ketchup cups somewhere in Indiana during another 17-hour road trip.
  


• I smiled at countless loving stories told of my Dad.
  


• I shook hands with at least 200 people who knew and loved my Dad.
  


• I followed my Dad’s last year of life in the pictures I downloaded from his camera.
  


• I hugged my 96-year old Gram.
  


• I left my Mum behind in Minnesota.
  


• I dozed beside my husband as he drove all night - 11 hours - home.

Now I am home. I see the rooms, my children - everything is normal. School goes on. Piano lessons, basketball practice, library visit, exercising – it all happens just like before I went on holiday. But if I allow myself to think, I know it isn’t the same.