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I was eighteen and he was twenty when we met. In the summer of 1971 at San Bernardino Valley College, I decided to take some courses. It was the week after the the Fourth of July because I had spent the weekend with friends at the beach and suffered the worst sunburn. My face had blotches of pealing skin, and I looked awful. When Mike passed me in hall, he did a double take and said , Hey, I know you!” I did not feel very attractive and just said, “Yeah, you dated my sister.”

When I got home that day the phone rang, and it was Mike. I told him my sister was married and that I had a boyfriend who at the time  was away in Mexico as an exchange student.

Mike really was not a stranger because when my sister Jo and he dated, I tagged along. My sister was beautiful and the desire of many male suitors, but she was on the shy side. She invited me on these dates to break the ice. I realize this sounds odd, but it was completely innocent and we had fun. My sister started dating other guys and we lost track of Mike.

Mike had recently returned from a long trip in Europe traveling and “finding himself,” when we met in the summer of 1971. He was fun to talk to and we shared an attraction at many levels. I felt like I was cheating on my boyfriend and refused to go out with Mike. He made it very difficult to say no, because he came to my place of work and ordered way too much fast food in order to get my attention. I finally agreed to go on a casual date and it was then that he had me write a Dear John letter to my boyfriend.

On our first date he wanted me to see the movie “Patton.” I had no idea what this movie was about, but it was no longer playing in the local  movie theaters. The only place it was showing was at a drive-in in Palm Springs, which was a 45 minute drive. I told Mike that I was not a drive-in type of girl, and it was out of the question. Mike convinced  me that this movie was worth it. The first thing that I learned about my husband is that his cars are impeccable, clean is an understatement. Mike went to get refreshments and I ordered an orange soda. I told Mike that I could balance the drink with one finger. Well, turns out that I could not balance the drink and it spilled all over the car, making  a sticky orange mess; that ended the date.

When my brothers were home it was nearly impossible to date. They were overprotective and always convinced our mother that I was up to no good. Once Mike had tickets to an Elton John concert at the Hollywood Bowl, but my brothers told my mother that a decent girl does not go all the way to LA for a concert. Mike came to pick me up only to have the door slammed at his face. Mike took his sister Norma to the concert instead.

Mike did not give up on me, We were being raised by a single mom, and that meant that all three of our brothers took the role of our father. They no longer lived with us, but when they visited they controlled our social life.

By the time November rolled around we were engaged, and on January 25, 1972, we were married at the home of one of  Mike’s friends. I wore the dress my mother had given me for Christmas, and though my family was not present and I was scared to death, I knew that it was the right decision.

Years later when our daughter Sonja was in high school, she wanted to dress like a hippie for Halloween. I had saved my purple wedding dress, and when Sonja pulled it out, she said that the dress would be perfect. I grabbed the dress from her and yelled,”NO! You can’t wear this dress!” Sonja looked puzzled and responded, “Wow, what’s wrong with you? You act as if were your wedding dress!” I started to laugh and said, “It is my wedding dress!” Sonja still laughs about this incident.

Our wedding was not at a church, but a Christian pastor officiated the nuptials, and though I did recognized the voice of God, I knew this union was of Him. Years later our marriage was blessed by Father Pat at St. Paul Outside-the-Walls in Rome, Italy. You can read story of our renewing our wedding vows in the Blog dated 1/20/16 “I Do.”

Patton is still one of Mike’s favorite movies, along with Braveheart. I recognized the music, and when I walk into the family room, Mike has the sound full blast., with a smirky simile.  I am sure that he has memorized most of the dialogue by now.

There are three things that amaze me—no, four things that I don’t understand: how an eagle glides through the sky, how a snake slithers on a rock, how a ship navigates the ocean, how a man loves a woman. Proverbs 30:18-19

LENT

Our family from New Orleans embraces Lent in grand style.  Schools are closed for a week during Mardi Gras. Parades are held throughout the week with people on floats, wearing masks, tossing beads to huge crowds. Mardi Gras (Fat Tuesday in French) is in full swing, but after the party the masks come off. We are now entering into the the most holy of holidays for Christians, Lent.  We are to be in an attitude of repentance, and a solemn state of mind. Our churches will reflect this by not having flowers displayed during Lent. No Gloria or alleluias are sung during this season because it is a time of great loss (The Passion of Christ). On the fifth Sunday of Lent, sacred images are draped in purple as a remembrance of our sense of contrition. During this time we are called to prayer, penance, and almsgiving. We celebrate Lent in remembrance of Jesus being tempted for forty days in the desert by Satan. Forty is a significant number, because it represents testing, ending in victory.   The most important element of Lent is drawing us closer to Jesus through the Passion.

I struggle with giving up certain foods for Lent. This year I’m praying that I can get past a week of what I’m sacrificing. In the past, fasting came naturally, and many times I could fast for up 10 days. Now, just one day is a huge challenge. I remember that when I fasted, if I got past the third day, I knew that I’d gotten over the hurdle, and it felt natural to continue with the fast. I am asking God to help me with fasting during Lent. There are so many vices that I need to rid myself of that I can only accomplish this through the grace of God. Last year I gave up bread and sweets, but fell short. Lent is a time of a  deeper knowledge of God, and I pray that my sacrifice will honor Him.

I will be distributing the ashes at the 6:15 A.M. Mass, making the sign of the cross while saying, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

Valentine’s Day

We have dinner reservation at a popular steak house on Valentine’s Day, a conundrum brought on by the convergence of Lent and Valentine’s Day falling on the same day. We are to abstain from meat on Ash Wednesday, but I guess our husbands kind of forgot. Our reservations are at 5:30 for two reasons: some of us are old, and that was the only time available.

Mike will be receiving a new pair of socks with a red background as his gift for Valentine’s. As you can, tell I am not the romantic one in the family. I’m a true believer of “it’s the thought that counts.”

1 John 4:19 New International Version (NIV)

What a perfect order,” We love because he first loved us.” We need Jesus to navigate us into what true love is all about.  Valentine’s Day is meant for expressing our love,  Jesus is the author and finisher of our faith and only He can fulfill the void in our heart.

Prayer:

Dear Lord, I thank you for the love you have for us; allow us to be in your presence during this holy season of Lent. Teach us to love as you love. Amen

Though we had traveled to Israel for years, we remained foreigners to both the Israelis and the Arabs whenever we visited Jerusalem. Israel maintains some of the strictest entry protocols in the world, with authorities trained to single out certain passengers for thorough scrutiny. Mr. Bob always stood out. He was well over six feet tall — a lanky, devoted chain smoker with wild white hair. He wore the same worn work boots every trip, paired with white tube socks that had long since lost their elastic. Mr. Bob had money, but no interest in spending it on anything worldly. He traveled with nothing more than a carry-on, even on trips stretching beyond two weeks. It never bothered him. He was completely content with what he had.

Our leader Joanne always travels with an abundance of luggage — and she had a habit of pawning it off on Mr. Bob, as if it were his own. At the airport in Israel, security personnel routinely unlock and inspect every bag. When Mr. Bob’s suitcase was opened, Joanne’s personal belongings were on full display — jewelry, women’s tops, and the like. It was crystal clear none of it belonged to him. Joanne, of course, had already cleared customs and was comfortably on the other side. I was standing right behind Mr. Bob and watched the whole thing unfold.

Security asked Mr. Bob if the suitcase was his. “No!” he said. I knew right then this was going to be a long, drawn-out ordeal. “Did you pack this suitcase?” they pressed. “No!” he said again. Mr. Bob was promptly pulled aside for the full shakedown. I watched for a few minutes before stepping in to explain the situation. Once you clear customs in Israel, you can finally take a deep breath — but getting there is another story entirely.

We know the drill — the moment we land in Israel, we request that our passports not be stamped. We do this for good reason: an Israeli stamp makes it nearly impossible to travel to other Middle Eastern countries down the road. Customs personnel always have questions about why we’re in the country, and we tell them straight — we’re missionaries. Things have gotten more high-tech over the years, and now each traveler is handed a printed copy of their passport photo ID. For people like us, that little piece of paper is essential — you need it to visit Bethlehem and to get back out of Israel.

Our ministry’s work in Jerusalem centers on reenacting the carrying of the Cross down the Via Dolorosa on Good Friday — and I will never forget what happened to us several years ago. Someone forgot to pack Jesus’s wig and the stage blood.

The night before Good Friday, we always hold a rehearsal to make sure every participant knows their part. When Joanne asked about the wig and stage blood, we all looked at each other in a panic. Someone had dropped a really big ball. That night, I was assigned the task of going through everyone’s suitcase searching for both — and came up empty.

Early Good Friday morning, one of the women traveling with us — who happens to wear wigs — offered to sacrifice one of her own for Jesus. Literally. There was just one problem: it was blonde. We needed hair dye, but it was a Jewish holiday and every store was closed.

That’s when Caleb came through. A longtime Arab friend of the ministry, Caleb heard about our dilemma and didn’t hesitate. “I have a cousin who owns a beauty shop just down the street,” he said. There was no time to waste — Jim and I jumped into Caleb’s old car and headed down the road, with Caleb trying to sell us jewelry the entire way.

Caleb’s cousin’s shop sat above the Mount of Olives gift shop. The place was packed with Arab women getting beauty treatments, and they did not take kindly to our intrusion — a full-blown cultural faux pas. Caleb did all the talking, and for six dollars we walked out with a container of brown hair dye and an applicator brush.

When we got back, Joanne took one look at it and nervously barked, “This is not enough!” Jim and I had to turn right back around — only this time, Caleb was nowhere to be found. We ran up and down hills for what had to be over a mile.

When we walked back into the shop, the atmosphere was ice cold. The air was thick with anti-American glares. I started to explain that we needed more dye when a strange woman shot up from her chair and started yelling at me. I couldn’t understand a single word, but it was no welcoming speech. Her black eyes and wet hair gave the whole scene an eerie feeling. My only thought was to get that hair dye — because the retribution waiting back at the hotel was going to be far worse than anything this woman could dish out.

Caleb’s cousin had turned cold as well and wanted nothing to do with us. I pleaded with her using every hand gesture I had, desperately trying to communicate how much we needed that solution. The strange woman kept at it, trying to talk her out of helping us. I knew Jim was praying — because somehow, Caleb’s cousin finally gave in.

As she handed it over, she looked at us and said, “Twenty dollars.” For just a few seconds, the urge to give her a piece of my mind in Arabic was real — but we didn’t have a minute to waste. We also didn’t have cab fare, having not brought any extra money. So we ran.

The stage blood was a whole other drama. Victor (Joanne’s son) and I headed down to the hotel kitchen and recruited some of the waiters and cooks to help us figure it out. The only red ingredient anyone could find was something that looked like Kool-Aid. We mixed it with water, but it came out far too watery. We kept adding more red dye until it slightly clumped up — and that was the best we could do.

By the time the bus pulled up to take us to the Via Dolorosa, I was worn out. I applied the fake Kool-Aid blood to Joseph — a man from Croatia who was playing the part of Jesus that year. Joanne was not happy. The mixture had taken on a color somewhere between pink and red. But we had done our best, and we had saved the day. We came to do the Lord’s work, and nothing was going to stand in the way of that calling.