"Assembling to Save the Universe" - Oh, if that were only true.

A billboard caught my eye one morning as I was stopped in traffic near the Hermitage post office.  It was advertising a show to be held at the Bridgestone Arena in December featuring various superheroes from the Marvel comic books.  It says, “Assembling to save the universe.”  My thought was, “Oh, if that were only true.”

Is it just me and my advanced age or does it seem the universe is going to hell in a hand basket?  It would be nice to think that a group of hunky super beings dressed in primary colors was assembling to save the universe.  I can imagine Spider-Man swooping down and disabling a group of evil terrorists by capturing them in a gigantic spider web after which Superman would gather up the whole mess of them and fly them away to a far off galaxy.  Now, see, even that is fantasy since Spiderman is from Marvel Comics and Superman is from DC Comics.  They could never work together.

What is up with this generation’s fascination with superheroes anyway?  Yes, I grew up watching the Adventures of Superman starring the real Superman, George Reeves.   The grand feats he accomplished on my small, black and white TV screen were amazing to a naïve, young girl.  Today, the movie theaters are crowded with male, 20-somethings who live, eat and breathe all things super.  They can’t seem to get enough of Spiderman, Batman, The Hulk, The Fantastic Four, Captain America and The X-Men.  In 1979, there were two movies featuring superheroes.  In 2014, there have been five.  In 1979, I had two babies and a mortgage.  There was no time for movies or the secret world of superheroes.

Despite our current fascination and my desperate hope, there is no group of superheroes assembling to save the universe.  We created this mess and it is up to us to fix it.  The news is filled with stories of religious fanatics who are willing to sacrifice their lives to take one or more of ours.  And now, if a cutthroat terrorist organization such as ISIS weren’t enough, we have the deadly Ebola virus sneaking across our borders to worry about.  If we ever needed a superhero, it would be now.  Maybe that is why so many of our young people bury their heads in comic books.

There have been many other times in history when the situation looked bleak.  Times when evil seemed to be overcoming good.  I wasn’t around during World War II but my parents were.  It was a time when trying to ignore evil far removed from home seemed like a good idea until it wasn’t.  President Franklin D. Roosevelt responded to evil by saying, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself” and a bunch of teenaged, superheroes like my dad sailed off to confront the evil.  British prime minister, Winston Churchill told us to “Never, never, never give up.”  That is advice we need to remember today when evil seems to be winning and superheroes are few and far between.

There is bit of good advice for these times found in Matthew 24:6 of the Bible.  It says, “You will hear of wars and rumors of wars but see to it that you are not alarmed.”  That advice may be hard to live out in evil times but the scripture says, “see to it that you are not alarmed” not just “don’t be alarmed.”  It implies that it won’t be easy to not be concerned.  We have to make an effort to trust that good will always overcome evil.  “I have told you these things, so that in Me you may have peace.  In this world you will have trouble.  But take heart!  I have overcome the world.”  (John 16:33)  So, you see, a Super Hero is assembling to save the universe after all.  Praise God!

Taking one step at a time

I am back from my pilgrimage to Greece and Turkey.  It has taken me a few days to recover from the jet lag but it has also taken me a few days to process the places and feelings I have experienced.  So, how do I share all that is in my heart and mind?  I start with a miracle.

Four and half weeks before leaving on this once-in-a-lifetime adventure I was on crutches.  It was a minor, hairline fracture that I had dealt with for two months.  I had hiked around Honduras with it broken on a mission trip in February.  I had never been in a cast before so I just thought I would start walking again and everything would be fine.  I didn't realize how much calf muscles atrophy in three weeks.  Needless to say, my foot was no longer broken but I was in worse pain than I was before.  I started physical therapy three times a week plus worked hard myself on off days.  I walked around my neighborhood to try to build up my stamina but I was slow and it was painful.  The pain in my left foot caused me to limp which caused an old case of bursitis in my right hip to flare up.  I am not typically a worrier but I was worried that I would have to cancel my trip to Greece.  Everyone told me it would be fine but I knew how I felt and it wasn't good.  People were praying for me but time was running out for a miracle.  While reading my devotional one day during the week prior to leaving, I was reminded that God goes before us AND He goes with us.  He already knew the steps I would have to take on this trip and He promised me He would be there with me every step of the way.  My physical therapist warned me about swelling in a country where ice is not readily available.  My orthopedic doctor threatened to put me back in a cast if I over did it.  My mantra would be "One step at a time."  I didn't have to know how it would work out so I bought sturdy hiking shoes, strapped on my brace and took off.


We flew into Thessaloniki and drove by bus to the port of Kavala where the apostle Paul first stepped onto European soil.  From there we drove north to the ancient town of Philippi.  Our first stop was at the river where Lydia, the first Christian convert in Europe was baptized by the apostle Paul.  It was a moving experience to be anointed with water from the same river.







Our leader, Dr Kimberly Majeski, encouraged us to take a few moments alone to pray and contemplate this special place.  I went over and sat down at the river's edge and just thanked God that I was there.  I had made it.  God honored my taking that first step in faith.  The worry left me right there at that river.

Me with brace at statue of the apostle Paul in Berea

I walked slowly and carefully with my sensible shoes and clunky brace but I walked those cobblestones in Berea.  I climbed over ancient ruins at Philippi.  I went up and down steps at Meteora.  I hiked up to the hillside temple at Delphi.  I strolled down the marble sidewalk in Ephesus.  I navigated the path at Corinth.  We walked 3 to 5 miles a day on rough terrain but the pain was manageable and there was no swelling.

Me holding on to my sister, Linda, in Berea

Being able to walk on the ancient surfaces that had been walked by the apostle Paul, the apostle John and even Mary, the mother of Jesus, was a divine treat.  Being in the places where scripture was not only written but lived out was mind-blowing to this 21st century American.

I did give in to my temporary "disability" at Meteora where they built monasteries on the top of huge rocks.  A few of us opted out of the 300 step climb to the top to tour the monastery.  You will notice we wore skirts that day because women are not allowed into the monastery in pants.

Steps at monastery in Meteora

Linda waiting for me to come back down at Delphi

How could I have missed this marvelous adventure?  I know it was only by the grace of God that I was able to do the things I did.  While at the theater ruins at Ephesus, Sarah, the singer in our midst, stood and sang "Great is Thy Faithfulness."  We were spellbound as her beautiful voice rang out over those 25,000 seats.  When she finished, a visitor from another tour began singing the same hymn except in Japanese.  Our tour guide tried to hurry us along but we all sat there weeping.  What are the odds of that happening?  We all needed a moment.  Yes, great is Thy faithfulness, moment by moment, one step at a time.

Navigating rugged path in Corinth

Marble sidewalk in Ephesus

Look Alikes

Oscar Odum

My cousin posted pictures of my oldest uncle on Facebook.  He was celebrating his 96^th birthday with a big party.  In the photograph, he looks so much like my dad that looking at the pictures made me cry.  I cherish my dad’s brothers and sisters who are all still living.  They remind me of where I came from and who I am.  They also remind me of my father because I see Daddy in their eyes.    I always loved my Daddy's eyes because the Odums have blue eyes.  My brother, sister and I all have our mom's brown eyes.

Jim Odum with his son-in-law, Jerry; grandson-in-law,
Todd; and great-grandson, Turner

All of my mom’s brothers and sisters are gone since she was the baby of the family.  Her two older brothers died two years apart in the 1980's.  Her two older sisters died in 2011 within two weeks of one another.  Due to my mom's advanced dementia, we were not able to communicate to her that her dear sisters had passed away.  My mom passed away about a year later.

Cousin Margoline with Aunt Ruby

Last year I went to Alabama with my Aunt Ruby (Remember my Aunt Ruby?  She is one of my Daddy’s sisters and was married to one of my mom’s brothers.  Got it?)  Aunt Ruby and I took a road trip to Alabama to visit the cemetery where my mom's mother and father are buried.  Since it was the annual cemetery decoration day, we met several of our mother's family.  Afterwards, we had lunch with my mom’s cousin.  Although I had not seen her since I was a small child, I knew who she was immediately.  My eyes filled up with tears when I saw her because she looks so much like my mom.

Gladys Odum

Cousin Margoline started laughing when I got out of the car.  She said she would have known me anywhere because I look like Gladys, my Mama.  That got me thinking about how we are connected to family.  Yes, by blood and experiences but also by the shape of our face and the color of our eyes.  There is something familiar, loving and safe about the faces of family.  We are drawn to those familiar faces in a way that is inexplicable.  Our look-alike faces connect one generation to another.

I recently updated my profile picture on Facebook. Immediately my niece commented that she thinks I look like Granny.  I have never really thought I looked like my mom and, frankly, never wanted to look like my mother.  But now that she is gone, I am proud that the color of her eyes and some of her facial features continue in me.

My two daughters look like me.  People tell me that all the time.  I am sure it is something that they cannot yet appreciate.  If they look like me and I look like my mom and my mom looked like her mom, well, how cool is that?  We are family and that is how it is supposed to be.

Who is most blessed? My thoughts on my mission trip to Honduras, February, 2014.

This was my second mission trip to Honduras.  My sister, brother and I had made the trip together in 2012 as a way to honor our parents who had made several mission trips including one to Honduras in the 1980’s.  Both trips were sponsored by our church, the Grace Place, and lead by Hearts to Honduras.  My daughter went with me on my second trip which was a special blessing.  Our focus this trip was to complete a kindergarten building in the village above Santa Rita where a team from our church had built a church building last year.  We have established a “sister church” relationship with that church and plan to go back to the same village on future trips.  In addition to completing the building, our plan was to also continue to build relationships with the people in Pastor Paula’s church and the village.

Upon arriving in Honduras, the thing that most Americans notice first is the poverty.  As soon as the Heart to Honduras bus leaves the airport parking lot at San Pedro Sula, a silence comes over the occupants of the bus especially the ones who have never been to Honduras.  The cameras come out of the backpacks because what is seen rolling past the windows is so different from what we see in the U.S. surrounding a major, international airport.   There are men on horseback trotting down the side of a four-lane highway.  There are huge carts of sticks being pulled by bicycles.  And there are shacks, lots and lots of shacks.  It is hard for our mind to believe what our eyes see.  People really live in these shacks.

As we travel into the interior of Honduras to our destination of Santa Rita, the terrain gets more rugged and the signs of poverty more profound.  There are banana trees and coffee fields.  There is corn planted everywhere.  We try to imagine how a person would plow a field of corn that goes straight up a mountain until we remember they do it by hand not by tractor.  We see children carrying bundles of sticks.  We see children carrying machetes as long as their arm.  We meet the people of the village and visit their homes.  As we get to know them, we are amazed by their contentment and faith in God.  We realize they don’t know they are poor.

Pastor Paula, of our sister church in Santa Rita, takes us to visit members of her church so we can pray with them.  As we enter their fenced in yard, we are greeted warmly.  They drag out plastic chairs for us, their visitors.  Their sense of hospitality puts us to shame.  They are not embarrassed of the trash on the ground or the outdoor kitchen with its mud oven.  We are invited to go into their homes to look around the two room dwelling.  They have so much less than we do but they are not ashamed of their home like some of us are.  They are thankful for what they do have and don’t seem concerned about what they don’t have.  Many people in our congregation will not invite a Bible study group into their home for fear that their house

won’t measure up to other houses.

While in Santa Rita, our associate pastor and trip leader asked us what impressed us most about our visit to Honduras.  Many people talked about the people and the poverty.  Pastor Owen told us how torn he was with the idea of bringing 25 people to Honduras on a work camp at a cost of $1,000 per person.  What could $25,000 accomplish in a community like Santa Rita?  Are our personal relationships with these people worth $25,000 when $25,000 in cash could potentially build a new water tank system for the entire community?  None of us knew the correct answer.

As I was coming through U.S. Customs on my return to the United States, the customs officer asked me if I was a part of a mission team.  I told him I was and realized my Heart to Honduras t-shirt had given me away.  He thanked me for what I had done in Honduras.  I told him I believed we got more of a blessing from the trip than the people of Honduras had received.  Again, he thanked me for what I had done “down there” and said, “Welcome, home.”

Many Americans come home from third world countries with a feeling of guilt.  It is the guilt of having excess.  I have more clothes than I can possibly ever wear and, yet, I want new ones.  I have boxes of shoes for every occasion.  I have multiple bedrooms; pure, clean, running, hot and cold water; an indoor, electric kitchen and three cars, two of which are in garages.  I know God has blessed our country, my family and me personally.  I don’t feel guilty about that.  I use what God has blessed me with to serve Him and others.  What I do question is whether or not we should share our hunger for more stuff with people who are so content with so little.

One of our translators while in Santa Rita was a 21-year old young man named Isaac.  A native Honduran, Isaac was fluent in English and worked as a translator for several groups.  He was making a good living by Honduran standards but he desired more.  His brother had gone to the United States and was living in Florida illegally.  He was urging Isaac to join him.  Isaac desired all the good things that he thought would be waiting for him in Florida but was fearful of the dangerous and expensive trip by train and bus through Mexico to Texas.  We tried to encourage Isaac to stay in Honduras and use his abilities to advance his own country.  We explained to him that the life of an illegal in the United States may not be what he thinks it will be.  Yet, he was not persuaded.  The desire to have the same stuff as the “rich” American mission workers was too strong.  I have no doubt that by now Isaac is in the United States illegally and for that I feel just a bit guilty.