Ratatouille and Tears

My ratatouille was extra salty a few nights ago. It wasn’t a secret part of the recipe. As I sliced the onions, zucchini, eggplant and tomatoes, I began to reminisce…and the tears began to fall.

Clear as day I still remember the last time I made this dish.  I can feel the numbness in my toes as the ill-heated kitchen in our capital city vacation home always left me chilly.  I can picture the sun streaming in the windows and remember myself wishing it was the warm sun of southeast Asia that we had just returned from. The air was heavy from the wood fire that A had started a few minutes before.  I sliced vegetables in anticipation of dinner guests. 

A came in and out, bringing in juice he had bought in the bazaar, setting the table, chatting, heading back outside to work on his bike.  Spring was trying to win the season battle. Though the house was chilly, the days were getting warmer.

Dinner was good that night, but the fellowship was even sweeter.  That is what makes me cry today as I slice veggies in this new house of mine two years later.  I think back to the evening we spent with Glen and Cheryl, two young singles who were making a difference in this crazy country.  We laughed till we cried, told stories and got to know each other better. When they left that night, A and I both commented on how much we liked them.  We ended up spending a lot of time with Glen when we were in the capital. He came up and visited us in the village we called home our first two years here. 

While in Lal, Glen and A went on a big adventure. After three days spent mountain biking through the district during Ramadan, eating only bread and tea each day, Glen and A were famished when they returned to our mud house.  Glen literally started to cry when I placed a simple and hastily made meal of spaghetti in front of them. Through his tears, he called it the most beautiful thing he had ever eaten. 

And now I am the one crying.  8 months ago, on their return from a medical outreach trip into the remotest part of this country, possibly one of the remotest parts of the world, Glen and Cheryl were murdered.  Glen, Cheryl, and their 8 team-members were doing what they had been called to do – bring hope and help to the least reached, those the world has forgotten about. 

And that is what killed them in the end. 

I think a lot about them and the sacrifices that their team made.  They were all kind and generous and loving, not to mention brilliantly qualified and diligent. Cheryl worked with female prisoners and drug addicts – the untouchables of society.  Dr. Tom (our neighbor in the capital) had treated hundreds of t-ban fighters and won their hearts in the process. The men who work in the yard where Glen lived teared up as they shared their deep admiration for Glen with A when we returned 5 months after his death.

I have always loved the verses in John 12 where Jesus says:

“I tell you the truth, unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies it produces many seeds. The man who loves his life will lose it, while the man who hates his life in this world will keep it for eternal life. Whoever serves me must follow me; and where I am, my servant will also be. My father will honor the one who serves me.”  John 12:24-26

Since coming to this country, those verses have become very real to me. I will be honest; now they are little harder to love…or maybe I should say that I love them in new ways. Before, I loved them because they sounded good. They were exciting and challenging.  Now that I have tasted a small part of what they actually mean, they are painfully beautiful.  I see the Truth in them, even though now I know for certain that it comes at a cost

This country is miserable and discouraging and grim…really it is. So many days we wonder how God is going to break through in this place.  The ground is hard and dry. Hearts are like stone and eyes are blind. 

But grains of wheat have fallen.  Not only those 10 who were killed, but others as well have sacrificed so deeply to come to this place. 

Our friend J (who is on home assignment right now) has been here for 20 years.  Her parents just turned 80 and this week she packs her bags and says goodbye to them once again so that she can come back and be salt and light in this place.  It sounds crazy, yes. But God has deeply blessed her work here.  Her parents stand behind her. She is truly living out the promise that her treasures are in Heaven.

“Whoever serves me must follow me; and where I am, my servant will also be. My father will honor the one who serves me.”

We are so privileged to learn from such a rich legacy in this place and around the globe.  So many have gone before us, being the very hands and feet of Jesus to the undesirables of our world.  It is slow-going and discouraging at times, but God is good and truly He does honor those who serve Him.

I read this in the devotional Streams in the Desert right before my tears fell in my Ratatouille:

“It is said that springs of sweet, fresh water pool up amid the saltiness of the ocean, that the fairest Alpine flowers bloom in the wildest and most rugged mountain passes, and that the most magnificent psalms arose from the most profound agonies of the soul.

May it continue to be! Therefore, amid a multitude of trials, souls who love God will discover reasons for boundless, leaping joy. Even though ‘deep calls to deep’ (Ps. 42:7), the clear cadence of the Lord’s song will be heard. And during the most difficult hour that could ever enter a human life, it will be possible to bless the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ.”  Streams in the Desert-March 20

And so we pray for sweetness and beauty to sink into this barren land, for joy to come with the morning, and for the lives of our dear friends to truly bring forth seeds of hope.