For Janie

Jane Turner French
11/3/34-3/20/13
(written on 3/21/13)

Nobody loved to tell a good story more than Janie, so I hope I do her justice. Stephen, Paul and Danny: this story is for you.

Jane was born in the Bronx to William and Edna Turner. She worshiped her father and revered her mother. She routinely quoted wisdom from her mom despite the fact that Edna passed decades ago. Her sister, Anne, was so important to her. Janie loved to brag with absolute confidence and a steely glint in her blue, blue eyes, and I quote: My big sister adores me. I mean absolutely adores me.

No story about Janie can start anywhere else but with Nelson. I used to tease Paul about his “Leave it to Beaver” upbringing, but the truth is that Jane and Nelson’s marriage makes Ward and June Cleaver’s example look paltry. Jane and Nelson’s love was one for the record books. Nelson cherished her and she him. They seldom went anywhere without the other. For them, life was more comfortable, complete, and happy in each others presence. Since Nelson’s passing in 2008, Jane was missing a vital piece of herself.

Since she was a little girl, Jane wanted to be a mom. She took being a good mom very seriously. She was so proud of Stephen, Danny and Paul; each for different reasons. She loved them ferociously. And what’s best, they know it to the very fiber of their being. They have never, and will never, have to question it for one second.

And if you think she loved her sons, you should have seen the outpouring for her grandchildren. She loved them in an unflagging, consummate way…with unwavering belief in each of their potential. Erin, Connor, Turner and Hayden were given the extraordinary gift of having a Nanny who not only delighted in their presence – literally, when they were around she would feast her eyes on them – but also she prayed for them every day. She prayed for every aspect of their lives and I can think of no greater gift that she could have given them.

While we are somewhat defined by our core relationships, I want to take a minute to attempt to describe the heart of Jane, the very core of her. The part of her that was God given – the mix of personality, interests and passions. Because, what you might not know is, she was exceptional.

Janie was a little bit shy, but once she knew you, well….you got the joy of seeing her exceptional intellect go to work. She was articulate, knowledgeable about so many things (fueled by voracious reading and nightly Jeopardy sessions), had a remarkable memory, and made lightening-quick connections to people, places and times gone by. She was funny, I mean really funny. Even in the ICU in her last weeks, her sense of humor was acute...dropping one-liners with a characteristic Janie eye-roll or wink. Sarcasm was often her humor of choice, and is a tool she passed to her three boys, and even some of her grandchildren.

If you know the Bible story of the sisters Mary and Martha, then you know that when Jesus came to visit, Martha busied herself with cooking and cleaning while Mary sat at Jesus’ feet and just basked in his presence. Our Janie was definitely a Mary living in a very Martha world. If you came to visit her, she made you feel you were the most important person in the world…seriously, bombs could go off outside, and she would still be fixed on you. She was also staggeringly generous. Early on in my marriage to Paul I learned that I had to stop mentioning anything that I needed in her presence, as the next time I saw her it would be given to me. If she could solve your problem or meet your need, she would. Without hesitation.

The most important aspect of Jane’s life, without question, was her relationship with Jesus Christ. Jane’s faith was a simple one. And by simple, I don’t mean uninformed. She knew her Bible and she was extremely involved in her church and her church family. By simple, I mean uncomplicated. Her faith was rooted in the love embodied by Jesus Christ. The love of Christ was the rudder that directed her marriage, her parenting, her friendships, her work relationships. Jesus was her companion, her guiding light, and her savior. And while we have spent the last few days literally brimming with tears because we will miss her so, we rejoice in her faith. We rejoice in the hope that she and Nelson are reunited…I can hear Nelly saying, “Joan,” (that was his nickname for her), “what took you so long?” And we rejoice in the love of family and friends who share Jane’s faith in a loving God who has prepared a marvelous eternity for us all. We rejoice in the promise that Jesus has welcomed her into heaven saying, “Well done Janie, you good and faithful servant.”

I Name My Trees. So What?

I have had numerous post-Storm Alfred reflections, but this is the one I choose to share. While numerous people, including friends and family, have suffered in myriad ways from lack of access to heat, hot water and electricity, my focus is on the loss of life in my yard.

When I woke up the morning after Alfred raged through Connecticut, I was speechless at the devastation in my yard. Lilacs that I have lovingly pruned and transplanted for the last 17 years that are now 20 feet tall were lying on the ground. My dogwood, that was planted when Turner was born and is now as tall as my house, was snapped in half like a toothpick. Two of my maple trees took heavy damage with major limbs falling within inches of our house. But what broke my heart was my Mama Willow…she had lost fifty percent of her branches.

Mama Willow is a commanding presence in my yard. She is our home base in the event of a fire. She is our shade—on the hottest summer days, we are comfortable under her arches. She is the best climbing tree…my boys and my neighbor’s boys have done countless flips from that perfect, low branch on the right side. She is the largest presence at 145 Parker Farms Road; and prior to 10.29.11, she was beautiful. I was so sad.

In the midst of my sadness, I made calls to borrow chain saws and enlist some muscle to help with hauling. Some advised waiting for the town clean up day and some had already gotten quotes from arborists and tree pruning services (to the tune of thousands of dollars).

That is when it struck me.

Why aren’t I as heartbroken about the brokenness of people? Why aren’t I coordinating resources to help the sick, addicted, lonely, downtrodden, and desperately poor of the world? I give one week of the year to help the poor in La Romana, Dominican Republic and it doesn’t feel like enough. I want to get to the point where helping the disadvantaged feels as personal as helping save my Mama Willow.

Monday: Our First Work Day

D.R. Trip Nov. 2010—Journal Entry No. 3

Monday morning, we set out to work on Batey 50, likely the poorest batey in the La Romana region. It was the only day that the full team went to the same place. We were joined by Josh, John, and their film crew (Taylor and another John). Our goals for the day were to run a medical clinic (we saw 67 patients), distribute food to families and install several water filters. While we probably had more people than we needed for the work we set out to do, team members quickly adapted. Many simply went outside to play with the kids on this batey, some of the most loving kids we met all week. Four noteworthy moments from this day: first, this was when I realized that I would be in a facilitating or managing role for the week, doing very little direct work. Secondly,

Turner’s immediate response was that he wasn’t cut out for this place, yet in hindsight this was his favorite day—partly because he was so happy to be there with his cousin and uncle, but also because his job for the day was toy distribution (he gave out comfort dolls knit through his grandmother’s ministry). Third, the end of our day included a surprise birthday party for my brother-in-law, who has volunteered with this mission for two decades, including a clown, games, and a cake. The kids of the batey went crazy! It was one of the most joyful moments I have ever been part of. Lastly, this day had two intense emotional moments for me, one when I was completely alone walking down the main road overcome by God’s blessings to work out all the details of this trip juxtaposed by the extent of the problems on Batey 50, the

other when my big boy came to hug me at the end of the day and I held his very healthy body in my arms and I literally felt the full extent of my blessings.

Monday night we tried to go to Altos de Chavon. It didn’t work out for us to visit, so we opted for a trip to Jumbo and the team was introduced to the heaven that is known as a Magnum Bar. If you’ve never had one, you might want to travel to La Romana just for that!

The Nature of Hope

What is it that you hope for? I know my youngest son is hoping for a kindle for Christmas. Paul hopes that we will be able to afford college for our kids. Well...I guess that's not really a hope. Affording college is somewhere between a prayer and something you plan for. You can't plan for a hope. When your hopes are met, it is usually from an unforeseen source, and in a manner you can't control.

As we head off for our week of service work in the Dominican Republic, I am almost giddy with hope. My brother-in-law often says that the poor Haitians who live in the sugar cane work camps, called bateys, know that when the big yellow school bus filled with one of the work teams hosted by the Maranatha Baptist Church rolls in, their hopes are about to be fulfilled. Their prayers are being answered.

What an awesome privilege: to be and to bring what someone hopes for. My hope is to meet and succeed the expectation of their hopes by bringing joy, full hearts, and compassion along with the food and medical supplies we bring. I am humbled to even have the chance.

My deepest thanks to all my friends, family, neighbors, church family, extended church family, etc., who have prayed for and contributed to the Frenches having this adventure in any way. I am deeply grateful. We covet your prayers for good health this week. And we are eager to share stories with you all when we return.

To God be the glory for the week that's ahead.

Back to School Musings by Paul

This post is by my guest blogger, who also happens to be my husband, Paul. 

Today always reminds me of this old Staples commercial. Classic! And funny because it rings true (at least a little bit) with every parent I know.

Anyone with children has experienced it: Toward the end of the summer, our kids begin to sit in front of the TV a little longer … they bicker a little more frequently … they miss their friends from school.  It’s time to go back. We all know it in our gut.

And yet, there’s a sadness to the first day of school. It signals the end of the relatively carefree days of summer. ANOTHER summer gone. We’re 8 months through another year. Where does the time go? Our kids are growing up way too fast! Is it possible that next year I’ll have one in Middle School and one in High School!? It just doesn’t seem possible.

This snowball of a thought process is why this time of year also puts me in mind of eternity. Call me weird … it’s just how my mind works. To borrow from another commercial: Life comes at you fast. I find it scary to think about just how fast life moves. It’s like that line in the song “Fireflies”: “I’d like to make myself believe, that planet Earth turns slowly.” But it doesn’t. It moves fast. Really fast. And so, I lapse into this momentary sadness and it threatens to envelope me. But then something else takes over. It’s a kind of excitement. In fact, it’s why I don’t hate going through this whole thought process every September.

You see, the first day of school – in the midst of the separation anxiety I’m feeling from missing my kids – also reminds me to take stock in what’s important in life. For me, it becomes another opportunity to stop and appreciate my family and friends and, more importantly, to re-energize my faith. To thank God for His many blessings and to think about how, in return, I can bless others in His name. This is why I’m here … why I exist. And, so, in a way not intended by Staples … I do indeed count this as the most wonderful time of year.