Author: Carol Gibbs

     When our children were young, back in the mid 80s, my husband and I felt that it was important to live near their loving grandparents. We packed up and moved to our hometown. My husband was employed an hour away so he commuted on the train each day to work. 

     We naturally returned to the church where both he and I attended when teenagers and were married after college. It was a wonderful Episcopal church with lovely people. 

    The Episcopal church was one of the first to be outwardly supportive of the gay community. I had a very conservative upbringing and attempted to ignore this aspect of the faith, but, when they commissioned  the first gay bishop, it became too much for me to ignore and we moved to another church, a non-denominational, evangelical church, where we remained for 25 years. 

    God began an amazing  transformation in us.  Our family thrived at our new church. We poured ourselves into church life, volunteering often and attending  small groups. Then one day, my growing faith led me to start praying for God to help me to “love well”. I had no idea the impact that that prayer would have on my life.

     “I had given much thought to what it looked like to love well. It seemed like such a simple prayer but it was answered differently than I anticipated. I expected that God would increase my number of lunch dates to encourage people, or have me support them through difficult life circumstances, but God had deep transformational ideas in mind in response to my naive invitation. So, when I prayed to love well, God presented me with three very unexpected and powerful experiences, over a few short months.

     First, my husband was invited to consider a position on staff at our church to be the director of International Ministries. It was an amazing position, so after much prayer, he left a very lucrative position as a lawyer to go to a not so financially lucrative position at church. It was a calling. I joined him on staff a year later.

     Then, my father was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. I stepped down from my new teaching position to help care for him,  with my siblings, until he died seven months later. It was a heartrending experience.

     The third experience took us to our knees. Our younger son, who was twenty-two at the time, told us he believed he was gay. He was not certain and invited our family to join him on a journey to discern. He explained that he had been experiencing same-sex attraction for ten years prior and asked us to pray for him as he questioned God about his identity. “Is this who I really am?” Our son chose to go through counseling during this process and spent the next couple of months in prayer and discernment with a young couple from the Christian organization that had mentored him in college. They walked with him through the Bible exploring original text to see what God had said about same-sex attraction. I was convinced that he would come out of this process believing that he was straight. That was not the result of his discernment. After months, of seeking answers, he believed that this was who God created him to be…a gay man. We were devastated.

     How could this be? Both of our sons were raised in the church and had been very active in it as leaders. When they went to college, they found a home in the Christian organization on campus. Our younger son was president, for heaven’s sake. My husband and I began to pray for God to step in and show Himself strong, and He did… but not the way we expected.

     I was raised in the church at a time where what was taught went unquestioned. And, what was taught about the LGBTQ community stayed with me for a very long time; that being gay was a wrong choice.

     The months following my son’s declaration, my husband and I spent many hours with him sharing everything that we believed, everything that the church had taught us about being gay. We quoted bible verses and shared our opinions about something we knew nothing about, hoping that we could convince him otherwise. It was not our finest hour as parents.

     Then, we began to examine ourselves. When something occurs in the life of your children you are forced to question if you were in anyway responsible. Our sons were raised in a Christian home. They went to Sunday school, went through all the youth groups, and committed their lives to Christ. What had we done, or not done, that had contributed to his being gay? It was a very humbling experience.

     To say that our world was rocked does not even come close to the immense emotions that we experienced during this time. All the hopes and dreams that we had for our younger son were dashed in an instant…and we struggled for answers. We wanted to protect him from the world’s response. The thought of him having a lifetime of persecution was heartbreaking. What about marriage? What about grandchildren…our grandchildren?

     Our older son, sixteen and a half months older than his brother, had just married a wonderful young woman a few months before. She was our younger son’s best friend in high school. Our younger son would never have this in his life. What about his future? Where was God in all of this? Wasn’t He supposed to be sovereign? Why wasn’t He doing anything?

     Over the next few months, there were many conversations as a family and with God. There were many sleepless nights and many tears shed.

     Then…one day…God spoke. He said that our response to our son was to “just love him.” God had plans. He would take care of him.“This is what loving well looks like.”

     So, as God began to reveal more of His love for our family, my husband and I began to do research on same-sex attraction and our eyes were opened. “

Excerpt from Who Do You Say I Am? Personal Life Stories Told by the LGBTQ Community, by Carol Marchant Gibbs

        Thirteen years have past since that time. Through the years, God has reminded us of His love for our family and taught us many things about justice and His deep desire for all mankind to experience love. 

     We have begun to understand the face of persecution as we have supported our son. The church we fled to 25 years prior because gay bishops were being commissioned became the accuser.  How ironic. We chose love, left the church of 25 years, and found a more affirming church.

   God created all people. Could He be using our differences, race, ethnicity, sexual orientation, people with disabilities, man, woman… to teach us what love really looks like? Look beyond the surface and enter into a conversation with someone who is different from yourself. God will surprise you…no question.

     I remember experiencing deep sadness after my father died many years ago. As I walked along a secluded beach, I found myself pleading for God to reveal His love for me. I prayed that on that very shell-less beach, I would find a symbol of His love, a conch shell. After walking a short distance, down at my feet was the conch for which I had prayed. But, when I stopped to pick it up, I saw that it was broken. Then, I felt God speak. “Life does not always look the way you think it should, but it is beautiful just the same.”

Look for beauty today. 

     The simple act of listening well to a person almost always changes your perception of who they are. In this week’s blog, I will share a few of my personal experiences about listening. 

     I have never been a shepherd, but I have been to Central Asia and have witnessed  the profession in practice.  Shepherds are both men and women of all ages. In the Bible, Rachel is the first woman shepherd introduced: “Rachel came with her father’s sheep for she was their shepherd” (Gen. 29:6). Later, we meet David who was a shepherd as a young boy.

    Shepherding is one of the oldest professions in the world. For centuries, shepherds have wandered hillsides, enduring harsh weather conditions, and fighting off predators, for the sole purpose of protecting and caring for their sheep. The shepherd is present through every situation. Whether in feeding,  providing medical attention or simply for guidance to the next pasture, the shepherd uses his or her voice to direct the sheep. To sheep, the voice of the shepherd is a reassuring presence.  Sheep understand that the shepherd has their well-being at heart, so they trust in the voice that gives loving direction to their lives. Sheep respond to the shepherd’s voice like no other. 

        Jesus was often referred to as the Good Shepherd because His desire for mankind is similar. He wants to care for us, to love and protect us, to tenderly bandage our wounds when the predators of this world attack, and to direct our path to greener pastures, giving hope to the future. He longs for us to hear His voice. 

     But how do we listen to the voice of God? I believe that He uses many ways to speak to us; through the Bible and other writings and through people and circumstances. I am sure that He also speaks audibly to some but this has not been my experience. For me, I have heard Him speaking to my heart. It’s not audible but it is very clear. 

     I started to hear God speak in this way when I was a teenager. I grew up in the church and was very active in a para-church ministry in high school. I committed much of my time to reading the Bible and journaling. But, when God began to speak to my heart, it scared me so much, I consciously began to close myself off to His voice. I didn’t mention it to anyone because I thought they might question my mental state…I did. Sure, I continued to do all the things that church goers do but it’s amazing how you can busy yourself so much in activity for God  that you miss the relationship with God.  

     It wasn’t until I was an adult, in my early thirties, that the notion that God really does speak to us today was introduced to me. I found myself in a small group that was focused on hearing God. It was then, that I began to understand the many ways that God communicates with us. This new discovery was exciting and an amazing relief, leaving me eager to experience what I had years earlier. So… I often found myself setting aside time to wait in quiet for God to speak. There were many days that silencing my mind from the busyness of the day was a challenge, after all, I did have two little boys. I had to be strategic with my time and found that the more I was able to be still, the more the voice of God was able to break through to my heart. 

     There have been  many times that God has spoken through the chaos of the day to give me a kind word of encouragement. I have a vivid memory of when God spoke through my five year old son many years ago.

    Fitting a daily life into the process of building a house can be a challenge. It was an all-consuming task for us and we found ourselves needing to consult on the building results almost every day. One Tuesday during the process, my younger son and I stopped by the house to consult on the placement of the vacuum cleaner system prior to going to our regular bible study meeting. It was a wonderful bible study for moms with a special program for children that my son really enjoyed. As we waited at the house for the contractor to arrive,  it became obvious that we were going to be late for our weekly meeting. My son became very concerned and reminded me several times that we needed to leave. “We’re  going to be late, Mom”. Finally, his little voice broke through when he said, “You know, Mom, bible study is much more important than the vacuum cleaner system”. He was five. I never scheduled an appointment on that day again.

     Learning to quiet your life also includes quieting your mind.  Sometimes busyness can manifest itself in my thoughts as I am listening to a person share their story. I may have the best of intentions at heart but important details of someone’s story can be missed if I am thinking about how I might respond to what is being shared.

     In my relationship with God, I must admit that most of the time I am telling God how I think my life should be rather than listening to what He has to say about it. But, when I take time to listen, I begin to see God in a new light and understand more deeply His love for me. 

     There are some days that I am more successful at listening to  people and to God.  It takes practice. Fortunately, we have a lifetime to master the skill.

“My sheep hear My voice. I know them, and they follow Me”. (John 10:27)

Stories changing lives.

My country tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,
Of thee I sing.
Land where my fathers died!
Land of the Pilgrim’s pride!
From every mountain side,
Let freedom ring!

Our father’s God to, Thee,
Author of liberty,
To Thee we sing.
Long may our land be bright
With freedom’s holy light;
Protect us by Thy might,
Great God, our King!

First and fourth verses of “America” (My Country ‘Tis of Thee”) Written by Samuel Francis Smith

     Let freedom ring!! Our country has experienced incredible freedoms over its short life. I am extremely thankful for those who have unselfishly given their lives to make that happen here and abroad.

     As we celebrate Independence Day, I can’t help but think about the people in our country that are prevented from truly celebrating freedom today. Whether it is race, ethnicity, religion, poverty, sexual orientation, disability, or immigrant status, women and men, created by God, are not experiencing the freedoms that our country was founded upon. Oh, that freedom would ring for all people.

     “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed, by their Creator, with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness” Declaration of Independence

What can we do today to help make that happen? Let freedom ring!

God bless you this Fourth of July!

     Todd had already started transitioning when he first met Katrina. They met on a dating site and chatted for two months before meeting in person. Todd really liked her, so he made the decision that he would not tell her he was a trans man until their third date. He really wanted her to get to know him first. So, he waited.

     The timing of the third date couldn’t have been more perfect because Katrina was scheduled to go on a business trip the next day. This would provide some space for her to think about whether she wanted to go forward with their relationship…or not. So, at the end of their third date, as Todd was walking her home, he told Katrina he was a trans man.

Todd’s Story

     As I reflect on my life, an overwhelming sense of gratitude wells up inside of me. My parents were pretty extraordinary; very loving and always very supportive. I was close to them both but in different ways. I loved the outdoors so my dad and I spent countless hours hunting and fishing. My mom was easy to talk to and offered advice when I needed it the most. Though my sister was three years younger, she and I had a special bond. We did not have the typical sister-sister relationship. We were more like sister and brother. Our interests really overlapped. We loved to play outdoors together and were on the same softball teams. But we were different in that my sister could also be very feminine…and I was not.

     Our family was also very conservative and went to the Lutheran church every Sunday. When I was young, I really didn’t hear anything from the church about the gay community, but I did from my family. I remember hearing early on that being gay was “abnormal.” It wasn’t presented in a hateful way, it was just matter of fact.

     As early as I understood the difference between boys and girls, I knew I was different. At age four, I was often mistaken as a boy. My mom would kindly correct the person, but I could sense her embarrassment, so it began to embarrass me. I wore boys’ clothes, shoes, and had mannerisms that suggested that I was a boy. I even tried to stand up when going to the bathroom. Everything about me said I was a boy and I often reminded my mom of that. In my mind, I was a boy.

     I was a boy in a girl’s body and it became increasingly frustrating for me. My mom’s concern landed me in a therapist’s office. She didn’t take me there to change me, but to help me deal with my feelings. For two years, I went to the therapist to talk about how I was feeling, and I became more and more frustrated with the process. The sessions involved my talking about how I felt while I played with toys. I wasn’t getting anything out of therapy, so I told my mom that I was “fine now” and did not need to continue. So, I stopped going.

     My middle and high school years were filled with even more anxiety from the constant teasing. I was different and worked very hard to manage the Obsessive Compulsive Disorder that became a huge part of my life.

     When I got older, I attempted to date women but the fact that I was uncomfortable in my own body was not helpful. I just couldn’t express my true self as a woman and the relationships I found myself in were unhealthy and abusive. So, I realized that I needed to do something about it.

     In 2004, the transition commenced with six months of talking with a therapist about what might be the best treatment for me. I knew that living the way I had was no longer an option. There was so much to think about. Was a physical change the only way? I had to mentally prepare for whatever was to come. One of my greatest concerns was needles. This may sound humorous to some, but I really don’t like needles and a physical change would require many. After six months of therapy, it had become clear that a physical change was the only solution.

     There were so many things to resolve prior to the change. I needed to be completely ready for what was about to occur to my body. In preparation for that, I changed my name and had the necessary legal documentation completed. Hormone treatments began in 2005, six months after my decision. I was on hormone therapy for one and a half years.

     I started to transition while working in the finance department at a retirement company. The hormone treatments were working and I was looking more masculine. The therapist offered to come in to my office to explain to my colleagues what I was experiencing. I had told no one. I chose to go on a business trip to avoid the scheduled gathering. I did not want to be witness to the shock or uncomfortable questions or comments. It apparently was received very well. It did feel awkward for a while after my return but that did pass. People were kind and gracious.

     My body continued to transition. Then in 2007, I had top surgery. This was done locally by a specialist in the field. The surgery was a success and I began to feel more like the person I imagined myself to be.  

     Two years later, I decided to try dating again…as a man. I completed a profile on a dating site and began communicating with a lovely woman named Katrina. 

     We met at Starbucks for our first date. I thoughtfully bought her a chocolate chip muffin and a cup of coffee, only to find out months later that she really didn’t care for chocolate. Still, she politely received my offering and we spent the next three hours getting to know one another. The conversation just flowed. We had so much in common; similar backgrounds, values, and interests. At the end of the night, when the staff at Starbucks began to close the place, we said our goodbyes and I told her I “would be in-touch.” Then, I called to see if she got home safely.

     I had just moved into my new house prior to our date so with all the unpacking and settling in, the next date didn’t happen for a while.

Katrina’s version
     When I first met Todd, I thought, wow, what a handsome man. He is a little short, though taller than me. The last man I dated was six feet eight inches. I had a little anxiety about meeting guys because my last relationship didn’t end well. That night, the anxiety quickly passed. Todd was different than my last relationship. He was easy to talk to and I found myself wondering if he was authentic. That was important to me. By the end of the evening, despite the chocolate chip muffin, I was convinced that I wanted to see him again.

     Though he called to see if I got home safely that night, I was very disappointed that he didn’t call me for a second date soon after that. I waited and waited for him to call, then I took control and asked him out.

Back to Todd
     Our second date was at the local Roy’s. Once again, conversation was so easy. Katrina was cute and fun, and I really liked her personality. And most importantly, she was genuine. I was really starting to like her and began to experience anxiety about telling her the truth on our third date.  
At the end of our third date, when we were close to her home, I told her the truth. I was direct. There really was no other way. So, I came out with, “I was not born male.” Though she had some gay friends in college, Katrina had been very sheltered and knew very little about the LGBTQ community, especially transgender people.
She asked, “What does that mean?” So, I explained very clearly that I was born female and was transitioning to male.  

Katrina’s response
     Todd was the first person to ever utter the word “transgender” to me. I had friends who were gay and lesbian, but transgender was a whole new concept. I remember asking what it meant, thinking at first, that he physically had both forms of genitalia, not realizing he was born one way and had transitioned to look like he did that day. It was too much to wrap my head around.

     Todd was always outwardly male to me. He had not changed so I did not feel like I had to make any decisions at that moment. Perhaps it was a coping mechanism to not address the big picture. The part of his story that impacted me most was his inability to have children. Being our third date, it was too early to even think about how his being transgender would affect the physical aspects of our relationship. I just knew he did not have the sperm to create a child if we wanted one. That night, I called my twin sister to begin to break the news to her but all I could get out was, “Todd told me that he can’t have children.” I did not tell her he was transgender.
During my business trip, I had time to reflect and evaluate what I wanted out of the relationship. My science background made me want to understand the facts first, then address my feelings later, so, I began to research about what it meant to be transgender. I think I compartmentalized the child-bearing part because I knew there were ways around it through adoption or having a donor.

     I was away from Thursday to Tuesday for a conference, returned home for two nights and then was off again for four days to be a bridesmaid in my best friend’s wedding. I saw Todd one night during my brief return home. While away, I found myself missing the person I had been dating. As we texted throughout my trip, I decided to take our relationship one day at a time. “Could I deal with it today?” I asked myself. Okay. The next day? Okay.
It was well into our relationship that we discussed his transition process, his past dating, his surgeries to that point, and what would be upcoming. That’s probably when it really sunk in that Todd’s transition would have a lifelong impact on our relationship. When the time came that we had to face the difficult stuff, I was in love with him and was committed to our relationship.

Todd
     Our relationship continued to grow and a year later, I realized that Katrina was “the one.” I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. I proposed, and we were married eighteen months later.
We arranged for the pastors from the church we attended to do our premarital. They were very affirming and agreed to perform the ceremony in Katrina’s parents’ hometown.

Katrina  
     My family had really come to love Todd. They were thrilled he was going to be part of our family. However, I was so afraid that everything would change if they knew he was a trans man that I didn’t tell them before we were married.

     It was Thanksgiving, three years into our marriage, that we told my family that Todd was going to Serbia to have cosmetic surgery. The cost was prohibitive in the United States and our insurance would not cover it, so we had to go overseas. My mom heard “Serbia” and quickly did some research trying to find out more but she did not even consider that Todd was transgender. My family was still unaware.

     Todd’s parents came to Serbia with us to give support during surgery and after. His full reconstructive surgery required that we stay there for three weeks.

     Shortly after our return to the United States, Todd had complications from the surgery and was admitted into the hospital. It was then that my family admitted that they knew about him. My twin sister said to me one day, “You know that we know.” They had just put all the signs together.

     Every year my family goes to the beach together. The first year, my mom asked what the scars were on Todd’s chest. “Oh, he had to have some surgery.” I explained. They asked no more questions. I just wanted them to figure it out on their own.

     My family was hurt that I had not told them, not because Todd was trans but because they had known and loved him for eight years and we did not trust in that. “Why didn’t you trust us to know?” They asked. They love Todd and have adjusted well to the news and have become intentional about learning about the LGBTQ community.

Todd’s closing remarks
     This has been quite a learning experience for me. People have surprised me in their response to my story. I am thankful for my loving family and friends that have supported me through this journey. I spent a lot of energy trying to hide things in my life and it was a huge burden to carry. My loved ones gave me hope.

     God has worked in many unusual ways in my life that have reminded me of just how much I am loved by Him. When I was struggling with the hatred from the church, God showed up to remind me once again. The interesting thing about scripture is that Jesus never said anything about this issue, but He did speak about love and strongly chastised those who lived outside of it. God loves each of us.

There is so much more to Todd’s story. This is only an excerpt of his life. See the greater story in my book, Who Do You Say I Am? Personal Life Stories Told by the LGBTQ Community.

     There once was a deeply compassionate man who had such a heart for his country that he committed his life to bringing good mental health to those whom God put before him in the army. He married a wonderful woman who supported him in everything he did. They spent their lives moving their family from army base to army base where the man served. Early in their marriage, the man spent a year in Korea during the war, working at a MASH unit that provided support to those on the front line. The man and woman made many sacrifices through the years, but when they share of their army days, their eyes light up and they smile. The memories are amazing treasures…except for one.

     One night, during the man’s time in the service, a dear friend came to the man and woman to share a very deep secret. Brian had been a close friend of theirs for a long time. He was also a psychiatrist and worked closely alongside the man. The man and the woman often had dinner at Brian’s home, and they would return the favor by inviting Brian to theirs. They loved him. This particular night, Brian arrived physically beaten up and grief-stricken. He explained that he had been arrested during his time off and was asked by the army to retire early. No one really knew the details that led to such drastic measures but they did know this: Brian was secretly gay. Everyone knew he was gay, but they never talked about it because they believed it was the loving thing to do. They thought that helping him keep his secret was a means of protecting him. The man and woman lovingly listened to Brian as he shared about his life. They comforted him the best they could that night. Then, he went home and the three of them never talked about it again.

     Over the next few months, Brian went through the normal retirement process. His “secret” continued to be kept and Brian’s grief about his life grew into a deep despair. After the entire process of separating from the military was completed, one dark night, Brian took his own life. The man and woman were devastated as were all of Brian’s other friends. Their greatest regret was not talking honestly with him, hearing his story, and telling him how much he was loved by them and by God. From that point on, more than ever, they committed their lives to loving well those whom God put before them…especially members of the gay community.

     I have great admiration for my father-in-law and mother-in-law. They were always very kind and compassionate people. But, I never understood their position on same-sex attraction until I heard the story of Brian. God changed them the day Brian died. Their hearts grew a greater capacity to love.

     This story was told to me by our younger son, Jeremy, shortly after he came out. On hearing about Brian from our son, I swore that I would do whatever it took to love him well.

Prologue from my book, Who Do You Say I Am? Personal Life Stories Told by the LGBTQ Community

     My husband and I have always loved learning about and exploring new places.  We had heard wonderful things about the fine city of Seattle so, three years ago, we took a few days and went to see for ourselves. What we found was that Seattle is indeed a great city. It was a coffee lovers paradise! And, indeed, we are coffee enthusiasts.  There was not a street corner without a coffee shop of some kind. It was awesome!

     But like any city, Seattle also has its challenges. I remember being shaken by the large number of homeless people there. It was overwhelming and I struggled with knowing what to do with my feelings toward this heartbreaking scene. The young people hung together in small communities which was encouraging but the older homeless wandered alone on the streets. As we walked the city, I prayed that God would show me how to respond.

      After walking a while, we ducked into a shopping mall to sit in the atrium, read and sip delicious coffee. My mind wandered to a book I had been reading earlier, Life Together in Christ, by Ruth Haley Barton. There, she explained about the power of listening to others. Too often in our culture it is believed that adding our “two cents” to someone else’s story might possibly be an encouragement to them. The book shared that interjecting one’s own experiences into someone else’s story could possibly have an adverse affect and cause a person to feel diminished. I was surprised by this and began to really think about how this might affect my future interactions with others.

     As I sat and thought about this very powerful message, a homeless woman carrying several bags came and sat near me. She took out her newspaper and began to comment on the articles as if she was broadcasting the news. It was a little unnerving at first and everyone around her paid no attention. She just kept talking very loudly about things that did not make sense, mentioning Mao Tse Tung and Winston Churchill quite a bit during her discourse. It was very unsettling and I did not know what to do. Do I respond or do I pretend that I am not hearing her like everyone else? It just did not feel right to ignore her, so, I prayed. Then, I heard God speak, “Just look at her.” It wasn’t an audible voice but was spoken to my heart. I found myself thinking — Lord, I have managed to avoid her gaze in hopes that she would stop. This was a place of vulnerability to which I was very reluctant to travel. And God repeated… “Just look at her.” So, I did…right in the eyes. Her gaze was fleeting. She looked around as if there was a veil covering her eyes, but she often looked in my direction as if she knew I was watching. As she continued to talk about things that made absolutely no sense, I smiled and nodded my head as if I understood her, praying the entire time, “Oh, Lord, when will she stop?” Then, after about ten minutes of talking, she stopped as abruptly as she started. I was totally undone.  I signaled my husband to walk with me so we could debrief this experience, asking for his response to what just occurred. He had no idea what I was talking about. At first, I thought he was joking with me. I wept when I realized that this moment was just for me. It was God’s response to my prayer. “Help me to know how to respond.”

     I will probably never see that woman again, but God was doing something that day as I listened to her discourse. What she shared certainly did not make sense to me but the love of God was being expressed to her without my uttering a word. “Just look at her.”

     How have you experienced the power of listening? What’s your story?

          In September of 2008, my husband and I found ourselves traveling with a team of people to Malawi, Africa. After supporting a local organization that worked to eradicate HIV/AIDS in our city for some time, we were feeling called to extend our focus overseas. The purpose of our trip was to investigate ways that we could partner with ministries in Malawi in their efforts to manage and eradicate HIV/AIDS.

            To say that I was changed by my experience in Malawi doesn’t even begin to describe the impact that the trip had on my heart and my faith. It was sobering to be surrounded by poverty, sickness, starvation, and precious homeless children. And yet, there was hope in Malawi. God was there and He met me in the slums of Ungona in a very powerful way.

            We had visited many villages over the two weeks in country but the anticipation of going to the slums of Ungona caused me immense amounts of fear. I knew it was going to be difficult. It was a very dark place…filled with witchcraft, crime, substance abuse, sickness, the worst poverty ever seen, and hundreds of orphans. So, as we drove to the slums I found myself praying that God would give me what I needed to be all that He was calling me to be there. As I prayed, He spoke to my heart saying, “Look for Me there”. I confess that I wanted so much for the van to break down on the way to prevent us from going but God continued to remind me to look for Him in the experience.  Shortly before we arrived God added to the encouraging words, “You are going to see My face.” 

            When we arrived, we parked our van in the open area of an adjacent village. We were greeted by a chorus of African women dressed in their colorful costumes, dancing and singing praises to God. It was beautiful.

            After touring the adjacent village, the woman chief took us to an area café where we had lunch. The whole time, I was thinking, great maybe that was our exposure to Ungona… from afar.

            But, we returned to Ungona and assembled by the vans to pray before entering the village. Prior to praying, the team leader had the “brilliant” idea to divide us into smaller groups so that we would draw less attention to ourselves. Now, I can do almost anything with my husband by my side but… all couples were divided up to travel through the village. We were told to stay close to our group because this was an unsafe place. People had disappeared there never to be seen again. I could feel myself panicking inside; my chest tightened and breathing became labored. As we prayed, the fears began to release their grip on me.

            Ungona was a two and a half square mile area, the home to fifty thousand people. There was little to no vegetation. The terrain was primarily dirt and rock. Homes were built on top of each other with dirt floors, many sharing walls of burlap, mud, or wood. Alleys separated this sea of houses and streams of contaminated water ran through them. It was the worst conditions you could ever imagine.

            As we entered the slums we saw a naked baby less than two years old standing all alone in the alley crying…no one came to care for him. It was heartbreaking.

            There was a school right in the middle of the slums. Hundreds of children filled the school yard. A heroic teacher watched his class of two hundred children. How did a teacher attend to so many? Those were the lucky ones.

            Our mission that day was to accompany the workers from a health care organization as they visited the homes to evaluate and care for patients, most of whom had AIDS. We encouraged and prayed for each person we met. I continued to pray for God to meet me there.

            We stopped to visit a woman who was clearly dying from her illness. She looked far-older than her actual age. As we paused beside her in the warm sunshine, I found myself wondering about her life before she was struck with this debilitating illness. Did she have a family or were they “gone”?  My deep thought was soon interrupted by our team leader asking me to lay hands on the woman to pray. Fear rushed in once again, but  as I prayed for the dear woman smiling up at me, I was filled with an amazing peace. 

            It was nearing the end of the day and we were getting ready to leave the village when my life was changed forever. As we traveled down a small alley, I saw some children playing. I had seen hundreds of children that day but there was one who caught my eye. She was about ten years old, and when she looked in my direction her face lit up like an angel. I was sure she had recognized someone she knew because the excitement on her face was way beyond understanding. I glanced over both shoulders to see who she was looking at, but no one was standing there. She had one of the most beautiful faces I had ever seen. Her eyes were bright and alive, her face filled with joy. Then she started to run… at full speed she ran…and before I knew it this precious little angel was in my arms. Then she spoke. Her voice was soft and very kind… a sweet melody to my ears. I was surprised when she spoke perfect English to me. She told me that her name was Portia. We spoke for only a few minutes, most of which escapes me, but when she left, she said, “God bless you.”

            I was thankful that two members of our team were standing close by to witness this amazing event in my life. It would be easy to think that I had just imagined it but they experienced it, too, as they watched. Then, I understood. I had just had an encounter with the God of the universe.

            Later, my team leader shared a photo she had taken of the young girl, but the photo before me did not capture the angel that I experienced. This was merely a photo of a child. The Light was gone. 

            Through a young girl, God chose to reveal Himself. You will see My face. He spoke to me in the slums of Ungona and I will never be the same again.

            This is my story of how God moved in my life in Malawi, Africa. Where have you seen God at work? What’s your story?

     I am extremely excited to share with you the first post of my new blog, What’s Your Story? This blog will include personal stories from my life, the lives of my family members, friends, and many others. Why share stories? Sharing our stories creates a connection between us and we begin to know each other more deeply as a result. Stories give us hope and encourage us to be more courageous, causing us to grow in the most amazing ways.

     Stories have always captivated me. I love telling stories. Whether they are true or purely fantasy, something magical happens when we share stories. There is a mutual exchange that occurs between the teller and the listener, and we become active participants in the marvelous tale that unfolds before us.

     I attribute my passion for stories to my upbringing. My father was a second generation Italian, born with a paintbrush in his hand in 1918. He became an artist by trade which I imagine was a very unusual profession for that day. In addition to being a painter and commercial artist, he was quite the musician. He played violin, mandolin, piano and sang…a Renaissance man. Dad was well read and never let a question go unanswered. He was kindhearted, loving and a very gentle man with an extremely dry wit.

     My mother was equally passionate in her own way. She was a stay at home mom until after I was married. It was then, she achieved her childhood dream of becoming a nurse and worked at the local hospital. But, while growing up, my mother’s profession was caring for our family. She was crazy about us…almost to the extreme. She loved deeply and her entire life was devoted to us. Her creativity found it’s expression in writing. She enjoyed writing stories about her kids and my father would illustrate them.

     Our home was a celebration of the arts. Everyone played an instrument, sang, and a few even inherited my dad’s talent as an artist. We all were required to learn to play the piano regardless of what else we did. The piano teacher would come for hours to our home to give lessons. When we practiced beforehand, there would be two and a half hours of beautiful music resounding throughout our home. Some of us practiced more than others and became quite adept in the art. When we didn’t practice, there was a tortuous cacophony of noise that assaulted the ears of anyone in hearing distance.

     I was the second in the line of five children, five years younger than my older brother. My younger brother followed me then my two sisters. Four of us were born in five years. It was “crazy town” most of the time at our house. Every day was a new adventure.

     My dad used to tell us that if we could read about something we could learn to do it. He lived his life that way. He never let lack of knowledge stop him, he just read about the subject. He often took the “Rube Goldberg” approach to life. Rube Goldberg was an American artist famous for his cartoons. He was also a sculptor, author, engineer, and inventor.Rube was famous for his unorthodox inventions that accomplished the ordinary task. My dad was so convinced about the power of reading that he often used the example of the possibility of performing brain surgery just by reading a book.

     Because of his thirst for knowledge, my dad was determined to teach us to research. I remember him answering our questions with “Well…why don’t we look that up”. And we would…together. The World Book Encyclopedia became a key reference in our home. Books became a primary source for answering questions.

     Both my parents loved to read so we visited the library every week. My parents read to us often but each day we had the “quiet hour”. This was time set aside to read by yourself. I used to think it was because my mother needed some peace and quiet but I actually believe it was for our good. The peace and quiet was a secondary benefit.

     As a very young child, not only did I love stories but I wanted to be actively involved in the story. Even the news on television would draw me in. I thought that if I could hear the voices coming out of the side speaker of the “big black box” that we called a television, that they could also hear me. So, I often attempted to engage the “man in the box” by shouting through the speaker. I was certain that I was being heard and my input was valuable, though most of the time, the man totally ignored me. I wanted to be part of the story.

     When I got a little older, I found that my desire to tell stories took on a variety of expressions. I loved to sing, and told stories through music and drama. In elementary school, I sang most of the solos in the chorus and started acting in plays. Middle school was more of the same. When I got to high school, my life in the arts began to blossom. Music and drama became a passion for me. I danced and sang my way through high school. Theatre and music continued in college. I spent my first semester freshman year as a singer host for a television series at the local station. I rehearsed all day every Saturday and filmed on Sundays. It was a blast but the show lasted only six weeks. It was mediocre at best but an amazing experience. The cancellation was much better for my college studies, however. But, every summer, I found myself acting and singing in local theatre productions. I loved telling stories.

     I, also, loved to write. I started journaling when I was in middle school and never stopped. People thought I was crazy when I would express that I hoped our tests in college were essay because that was effortless for me. Writing became a passion. I taught school for several years after I graduated, my primary focus was on developing a passion for reading and writing with my students.

     When I had children of my own, I encouraged the love of storytelling by developing the practice of telling stories together as a family. Each person had a part in adding to the adventure. Stories started orally, then I began to write them down.

     I have continued the storytelling tradition with my grandchildren. The oldest, encouraged me to begin writing the stories down again. So I did. I wrote a personal story about each grandchild and compiled them in a book, using photos from their lives. They were thrilled.

     It gives me great joy when I watch my older son respond to his children’s request, “Tell us a story, Daddy!” He has continued the storytelling legacy.

     I have always been drawn to people’s personal stories. They fascinate me, so much of my storytelling is drawn from real life events. You do not always need to create anything. Life is already an amazing adventure.

     May each story encountered on this blog be an encouragement and give you a deeper capacity to love others. With that in mind, I ask you, what’s your story?

With thankfulness,

Carol