Usually when we travel to Nicaragua, the weather is oppressively hot.
Around noon, you can hardly breathe, let alone think. This trip, however, was different.
It rained almost every day. Not a hard downpour, just a steady light drizzly rain that kept it cool enough to appreciate a sweater. In spite of a greater than anticipated teaching load, we didn't feel exhausted before the day was over. I can remember days, particularly in Panama, when a storm would come through in the midst of a meeting and overwhelm whatever was going on with the force of the rain and wind.
Some of the people we were with last week were overwhelmed by a storm, just not the ordinary rainy season sort of storm.
"I'd like to talk. Do you have a minute?"
We seek out a quiet bench at the back of the church and she pours out her story. When their daughter was twelve or thirteen, she caught the attention of a young man in their community who started sending her secret notes. When she was fourteen, he kidnapped her (apparently against her will) and left town. Frantic, they searched for her, only to discover that the fellow was a known theif, murderer and drug dealer. He had lots of money and as a result, the police were either unwilling or unable to help them. There was nothing they could do to get her back.
At some point, he killed someone and fled to Costa Rica. Their daughter (and now granddaughter) came home. The fellow hired someone to watch her, and eventually grabbed her, and took her to Costa Rica.
Time passed.
Their daughter called.
She had been able to escape and was now at the border. What could she do to get home? Even now, they are not sure how, but their daughter, now 17, made it home with a sweet spirit, wanting to make a new start, wanting to serve the Lord with her life. Twice, they have recieved threatening phone calls. He will come for the baby and there is nothing they can do to stop him.
This lovely pastor's wife looks at me.
What do I say? How do I know what to say to this lady? How can I even imagine what she has been through? What she is going through. What she faces when she goes home.
"I thought I was going to die, she says, It hurt so much."
We cry. We pray. We pray for an army of God's angels to encamp around their home. We pray for wisdom and peace and strength. We thank God for the miracle of a daughter restored to them.
domingo, 30 de noviembre de 2008
Tomasa
Actually, the blog before this one was supposed to be about Tomasa, but I kept getting a bit sidetracked, and then the blog seemed too long. We met Tomasa after church on Sunday night. A fellow came up to me after church and said, "Please come and meet my mother. She lives quite close and I know she would love to meet you."
As it turned out, Tomasa (this gentleman's mother) was one of the founding members of the church in El Coral. She had recently fallen and broken her ankle and couldn't get out of bed. She really did live quite close, just a couple of houses down from the church. Her house was a small, aged, unpainted wooden structure. I felt the wood planks in the floor sag a bit as we entered the front door.There was no furniture to speak of in the front room, just piles of boxes and sacks.
Tomasa's bedroom was crowded with sacks (of corn maybe?) The bed was a wooden shelf with a thin mattress. Her hair was a just a bit mussed from laying in bed, but her smile was radiant. I sat down on a little, low stool next to the bed. It didn't have a complete cushion on the top of it, so I had to kind of balance on the edge of the seat. Someone brought in a plastic chair for John.
After we were introduced, I asked her if she had known any of the missionaries that used to work in that part of Nicaragua. As it turned out, she had been baptised by Malon Collins, a CAM missionary who later was vice president of the mission in Dallas, where we met him. To really appreciate the rest of the story, you need to understand that Malon Collins, who is now in the presence of the Lord, was one of the most gentlemanly, Godly men that I have ever met. He exuded kindness and courtesy. The ultimate Southern gentleman.
Tomasa was the first of about 20 people who were baptized on that particular Sunday, more than 50 years ago. The whole congregation had walked some distance to the river. She was very pregnant. She told us that everyone else stayed after the baptism to celebrate the Lord's supper together, but she wasn't feeling very well, so after she was baptized she told the others that she was going to start back toward town. The story was just a bit confused to me, but apparently at some point, someone offered her a ride on a mule, which was not a good idea, as it turned out.
She rode a short distance, and then decided she really needed to get off than animal. The baby was coming right there on the road. By that time, the group from church, including the missionary, had caught up with Tomasa. The situation was a bit disconcerting, but there was a house not too far down the road. They got a hammock, put Tomasa and baby son in it, and carried her to the house. The son, who was the gentleman who had met us after church to ask us to meet his mother, she named, of course, John the Baptist. The biggest issue in Tomasa's mind, after so many years, was not that the baby was born on the side of the road on the way home from being baptized, but that she missed taking part in that first communion service.
I have heard a lot of stories about baptisms, but never one quite like Tomasa's. I tried to imagine that utterly polite young missionary trying to cope with the fact that his newly baptized church member was having a baby right there on the road in front of him. I could feel his astonishment. Was he completely flummoxed, or did he know just exactly what a gentleman would do in such a situation? Somehow, I guess he handled it beautifully.
As it turned out, Tomasa (this gentleman's mother) was one of the founding members of the church in El Coral. She had recently fallen and broken her ankle and couldn't get out of bed. She really did live quite close, just a couple of houses down from the church. Her house was a small, aged, unpainted wooden structure. I felt the wood planks in the floor sag a bit as we entered the front door.There was no furniture to speak of in the front room, just piles of boxes and sacks.
Tomasa's bedroom was crowded with sacks (of corn maybe?) The bed was a wooden shelf with a thin mattress. Her hair was a just a bit mussed from laying in bed, but her smile was radiant. I sat down on a little, low stool next to the bed. It didn't have a complete cushion on the top of it, so I had to kind of balance on the edge of the seat. Someone brought in a plastic chair for John.
After we were introduced, I asked her if she had known any of the missionaries that used to work in that part of Nicaragua. As it turned out, she had been baptised by Malon Collins, a CAM missionary who later was vice president of the mission in Dallas, where we met him. To really appreciate the rest of the story, you need to understand that Malon Collins, who is now in the presence of the Lord, was one of the most gentlemanly, Godly men that I have ever met. He exuded kindness and courtesy. The ultimate Southern gentleman.
Tomasa was the first of about 20 people who were baptized on that particular Sunday, more than 50 years ago. The whole congregation had walked some distance to the river. She was very pregnant. She told us that everyone else stayed after the baptism to celebrate the Lord's supper together, but she wasn't feeling very well, so after she was baptized she told the others that she was going to start back toward town. The story was just a bit confused to me, but apparently at some point, someone offered her a ride on a mule, which was not a good idea, as it turned out.
She rode a short distance, and then decided she really needed to get off than animal. The baby was coming right there on the road. By that time, the group from church, including the missionary, had caught up with Tomasa. The situation was a bit disconcerting, but there was a house not too far down the road. They got a hammock, put Tomasa and baby son in it, and carried her to the house. The son, who was the gentleman who had met us after church to ask us to meet his mother, she named, of course, John the Baptist. The biggest issue in Tomasa's mind, after so many years, was not that the baby was born on the side of the road on the way home from being baptized, but that she missed taking part in that first communion service.
I have heard a lot of stories about baptisms, but never one quite like Tomasa's. I tried to imagine that utterly polite young missionary trying to cope with the fact that his newly baptized church member was having a baby right there on the road in front of him. I could feel his astonishment. Was he completely flummoxed, or did he know just exactly what a gentleman would do in such a situation? Somehow, I guess he handled it beautifully.
El Coral
We arrived in Nueva Guinea, Nicaragua on Sunday afternoon, and that evening we went to church in a little town called El Coral. The name of the town refers to the coral snake. There is even a statue of a coral snake in the town's park. I guess they are famous for having a lot of coral snakes in their area. Not anything I would particularly want to proclaim to the world. But then, I also know of a town called Dirty Water. Caldwell, Idaho, where John grew up, was originally known as Bugtown, for its adundance of bedbugs, but I am getting sidetracked.
We got to church just a few minutes before the service was to begin. The pastor turned out to be a young man that had been in a meeting where John had spoken last year. He also turned out to be the recipient of one of the bicycles that we had had the privilege of providing through the kindness of someone we don't know. (At one point last year, we were handed some money. "This is for bicycles for pastors." We in turn had given the money to the leadership of the churches in that part of Nicaragua. "This is money for bicycles for pastors." Since there were quite a few pastors that could have made really good use of a bicycle, they had put the names of all the potential bicycle-needers in a hat, and this pastor's name was one of those drawn.)He was very proud of how well he has taken care of his bike.
We arrived just a few minutes before church started. It was obvious that this was one of those churches where men sit on one side and women on the other. I glanced at John and then headed into the back row on the ladies side, next to the pastor's wife. John sat in the front row with the pastor.
The service was led by a group of young people. They had obviously put a lot of effort into planning and preparing the music. Everyone sang with a lot of enthusiasm and I enjoyed it immensely (especially since I sat in the back away from the squeaky loudspeaker. I noticed that John was trying to plug one ear.). I didn't recognize all the songs, but a lot of them were the very traditional choruses that I remember singing when we were new to Central America and just learning Spanish. Brought back a lot of memories.
One older lady (probably about my age, but oh well) sang a special number. She sang with much joy. I leaned forward, trying to catch the words (which also reminded me of when we were new in Central America and I was just learning Spanish). Most of the words were lost in a combination of the drum and keyboard accompaniment and the squeaky loudspeaker, but I got the last line. It impressed me so much that I looked around for something to write on. The only thing that I could find was my son Luke's business card that I had tucked into my Bible. There was a little space under I John 1:11-12 which was written on the back of the card, so I wrote the phrase from the song there: "Que nada en el mundo me aparte de ti" (That nothing in the world turn me from you.")
We got to church just a few minutes before the service was to begin. The pastor turned out to be a young man that had been in a meeting where John had spoken last year. He also turned out to be the recipient of one of the bicycles that we had had the privilege of providing through the kindness of someone we don't know. (At one point last year, we were handed some money. "This is for bicycles for pastors." We in turn had given the money to the leadership of the churches in that part of Nicaragua. "This is money for bicycles for pastors." Since there were quite a few pastors that could have made really good use of a bicycle, they had put the names of all the potential bicycle-needers in a hat, and this pastor's name was one of those drawn.)He was very proud of how well he has taken care of his bike.
We arrived just a few minutes before church started. It was obvious that this was one of those churches where men sit on one side and women on the other. I glanced at John and then headed into the back row on the ladies side, next to the pastor's wife. John sat in the front row with the pastor.
The service was led by a group of young people. They had obviously put a lot of effort into planning and preparing the music. Everyone sang with a lot of enthusiasm and I enjoyed it immensely (especially since I sat in the back away from the squeaky loudspeaker. I noticed that John was trying to plug one ear.). I didn't recognize all the songs, but a lot of them were the very traditional choruses that I remember singing when we were new to Central America and just learning Spanish. Brought back a lot of memories.
One older lady (probably about my age, but oh well) sang a special number. She sang with much joy. I leaned forward, trying to catch the words (which also reminded me of when we were new in Central America and I was just learning Spanish). Most of the words were lost in a combination of the drum and keyboard accompaniment and the squeaky loudspeaker, but I got the last line. It impressed me so much that I looked around for something to write on. The only thing that I could find was my son Luke's business card that I had tucked into my Bible. There was a little space under I John 1:11-12 which was written on the back of the card, so I wrote the phrase from the song there: "Que nada en el mundo me aparte de ti" (That nothing in the world turn me from you.")
Trip to Nicaragua
We got home yesterday from a ministry trip to Nicaragua. We trust we ministered to the pastors and their wives who attended. I know they ministered to me. In fact, the overall effect may be one of the most transforming in my spiritual walk in a long time. The accumulation of what has been going on in my personal life, blending with what is going on in the lives of these precious ladies, bathed in prayer and time in the Word.
Some people have the blessing of having a small group of Christian friends with whom they consistently spend time, sharing their hearts and love for the Lord, challenging each other, crying with each other, laughing with each other. It is not something that I have had the privilege of enjoying on a regular basis and something some of these ladies never have.
We were supposed to have shared the teaching with Abel and Betty Reyes, a very special Honduran couple. Problems with Betty's papers (very long story) stopped them at the border, so we had to go on alone. Betty was supposed to have done more than half the teaching and teach the ladies one of the crafts we were going to do, so I really wondered how things were going to go without her. As it turned out, the time seemed to fly. I would look up in surprise to see that the men were already out of their class, ready for break time, and we were still going strong.
There are a lot of stories I could tell (and probably will in another blog). On our last day together, I was sharing a lesson on worry. (The same lesson, more or less, that I had shared in my "missing-button-radio appearance" the week before.) I was talking about the reasons that a person might be plagued by a tendency to worry and mentioned that sometimes some kind of trauma or abuse that a person experiences as a child tends to cause her to approach life with fear, to shut down emotionally in self defense. Immediately, I saw several faces blanch in reaction, eyes fill with tears, heads lower as though busily studying their notes. We talked about Philippians 4:6-7, and the peace that results when we take our needs to the Lord. It was a precious moment.
Some people have the blessing of having a small group of Christian friends with whom they consistently spend time, sharing their hearts and love for the Lord, challenging each other, crying with each other, laughing with each other. It is not something that I have had the privilege of enjoying on a regular basis and something some of these ladies never have.
We were supposed to have shared the teaching with Abel and Betty Reyes, a very special Honduran couple. Problems with Betty's papers (very long story) stopped them at the border, so we had to go on alone. Betty was supposed to have done more than half the teaching and teach the ladies one of the crafts we were going to do, so I really wondered how things were going to go without her. As it turned out, the time seemed to fly. I would look up in surprise to see that the men were already out of their class, ready for break time, and we were still going strong.
There are a lot of stories I could tell (and probably will in another blog). On our last day together, I was sharing a lesson on worry. (The same lesson, more or less, that I had shared in my "missing-button-radio appearance" the week before.) I was talking about the reasons that a person might be plagued by a tendency to worry and mentioned that sometimes some kind of trauma or abuse that a person experiences as a child tends to cause her to approach life with fear, to shut down emotionally in self defense. Immediately, I saw several faces blanch in reaction, eyes fill with tears, heads lower as though busily studying their notes. We talked about Philippians 4:6-7, and the peace that results when we take our needs to the Lord. It was a precious moment.
miércoles, 19 de noviembre de 2008
Gonna be gone
We are headed to Nicaragua tomorrow morning and I am not going to even take my computer with me, so I won't be "blogging" for a while. I hope you won't give up on me and will come back in a couple of weeks.
We are going to do a pastor/wives seminar. I have no way of knowing if the ladies who will come can even read (usually there are one or two who can't), so it is a challenge to know how to prepare. This time, Betty Reyes is going to share the teaching with me. She is really a sweet, Godly woman and I am looking forward to spending the time with her. We have a couple of crafts, since women always love that kind of thing. We may study intensely, or we may forget the notes and pray. Whatever it seems like these ladies need.
I am reading the book The Trauma of Transparency, which is about communication. Very good book. Do you ever have the experience of meditating on some idea, coming to a conclusion, and then have it confirmed in someone else's words? Almost like someone heard you thinking that thought and wrote it down? That is what this book has done several times in the last couple of days. One of the things he has talked about is how sometimes we think we have to have it all together in order to help someone else. I know I feel that way sometimes. This quote was like he expressed in words what I had just said to myself the day before: "...Instead of taking a vow of silence, take a vow of saturation. Vow to saturate yourself with the Word of God. Then when you respond with words that others need to hear, they will be words from your mouth, springing from the meditations of your heart, all of which will be acceptable in God's sight. Then later he says: "On occasion, the most appropriate word you could share, the truth they need to hear from you--will be a word of apology. "
So, anyway, I'm gonna be gone for about ten days, but I'm gonna be working on that saturation thing. Hope you are, too.
We are going to do a pastor/wives seminar. I have no way of knowing if the ladies who will come can even read (usually there are one or two who can't), so it is a challenge to know how to prepare. This time, Betty Reyes is going to share the teaching with me. She is really a sweet, Godly woman and I am looking forward to spending the time with her. We have a couple of crafts, since women always love that kind of thing. We may study intensely, or we may forget the notes and pray. Whatever it seems like these ladies need.
I am reading the book The Trauma of Transparency, which is about communication. Very good book. Do you ever have the experience of meditating on some idea, coming to a conclusion, and then have it confirmed in someone else's words? Almost like someone heard you thinking that thought and wrote it down? That is what this book has done several times in the last couple of days. One of the things he has talked about is how sometimes we think we have to have it all together in order to help someone else. I know I feel that way sometimes. This quote was like he expressed in words what I had just said to myself the day before: "...Instead of taking a vow of silence, take a vow of saturation. Vow to saturate yourself with the Word of God. Then when you respond with words that others need to hear, they will be words from your mouth, springing from the meditations of your heart, all of which will be acceptable in God's sight. Then later he says: "On occasion, the most appropriate word you could share, the truth they need to hear from you--will be a word of apology. "
So, anyway, I'm gonna be gone for about ten days, but I'm gonna be working on that saturation thing. Hope you are, too.
domingo, 16 de noviembre de 2008
A button and a shoe
If you know me really well, you know that I am extraordinarily introspective and it is easy for me to let it slip into melancholy. I also tend to be very hard on myself--a habit from childhood. I am a naturally introverted person, but it is not really good for me to spend lots and lots of time alone, as I have recently. My particular besetting sins. Lots of things can set me off, and before I know it I can find myself in a dark hole. Sleep doesn't come, I look at my Bible rather than read it, I stop seeing the wonder of life in Christ.Everyone has one, I suppose, some tendency in the course of facing life's challenges that plagues you with its persistence.
Sometimes God uses my sense of the ridiculous to come to my rescue. The other day I was on the bus, going into town to do a radio program. Add to the absurdity of my imperfect Spanish going out over the airwaves, the subject I was going to speak on was "worry" and at that moment I was experiencing an abundance of it. Not good. So, there I was on the bus, coming into town. I reached down for some reason I can't remember and into my hand popped a button from the worse possible spot on my blouse. I looked at the button in my hand, thought about how now I really had something to worry about and how good it was that it was going to be radio. I started to laugh. Thank you for that loose button, Lord.
Recently, a variety of things have been combining to set me down a slippery path toward a dark hole. I was working on a project I need to have ready in the next couple of days, thinking about my life, how I respond to things, why it always seems to me that I respond to things wrong, how I got this way, all really introspective questions. Mostly, I was thinking about trusting God, and why I was having trouble doing that. Into my head came a sports shoe commercial "Just do it." I kind of giggled. Rescued by a shoe. It came into my head again "Just do it." Trust God--just do it. All of the valid reasons that I gave other people on the radio weren't doing me any good. I needed to take all of those good things, gather them up into my heart, and "just do it." Decide to trust. So, I did.
Sometimes God uses my sense of the ridiculous to come to my rescue. The other day I was on the bus, going into town to do a radio program. Add to the absurdity of my imperfect Spanish going out over the airwaves, the subject I was going to speak on was "worry" and at that moment I was experiencing an abundance of it. Not good. So, there I was on the bus, coming into town. I reached down for some reason I can't remember and into my hand popped a button from the worse possible spot on my blouse. I looked at the button in my hand, thought about how now I really had something to worry about and how good it was that it was going to be radio. I started to laugh. Thank you for that loose button, Lord.
Recently, a variety of things have been combining to set me down a slippery path toward a dark hole. I was working on a project I need to have ready in the next couple of days, thinking about my life, how I respond to things, why it always seems to me that I respond to things wrong, how I got this way, all really introspective questions. Mostly, I was thinking about trusting God, and why I was having trouble doing that. Into my head came a sports shoe commercial "Just do it." I kind of giggled. Rescued by a shoe. It came into my head again "Just do it." Trust God--just do it. All of the valid reasons that I gave other people on the radio weren't doing me any good. I needed to take all of those good things, gather them up into my heart, and "just do it." Decide to trust. So, I did.
lunes, 10 de noviembre de 2008
Visiting San Marcos
The last time we tried to visit the church in San Marcos they had just had an all night prayer meeting and had canceled Sunday School. The funny thing about it was that we tried going to three different churches that particular Sunday and each one had done something unusual (either in time or place). Yesterday, we didn't have any trouble.
San Marcos appears to be a wide spot in the road. It is like a lot of little towns in Honduras in that it seems like it was cut out of rock. Not much soil, so just a few straggly little plants stick up, usually along fence lines. We pulled into town on a road that was mostly holes. I held my breath a couple of times, though John said the road wasn't really that bad. You had to go down kind of steep hill to get to the church. From up above, you could see the structure--the windows were deep-set which meant it was probably adobe, though where they would have found enough mud to make adobes with I have no idea. It turned out to have made with a lot of stone, too which made more sense. I couldn't see anyone in the yard outside the front door, so thought maybe we had chosen the wrong Sunday to come again.
We walked down the hill, around a corner and toward where we saw some people standing.
A couple of faces brightened as they recognized John and several people came forward to lead us into the church. What I had thought was the front door, was the back door, since the congregation had recently built a new auditorium, leaving the old church as a SS classroom. We were greeted at the door, and stepped inside. It was really a beautiful room. Nicely finished, lots of space, pretty tile on the floor. Not many people there yet, I thought, and hardly any children.
Some churches divide men and women into different sides of the aisle (think I wrote about that before) so I didn't want to sit down until someone told me where to sit. A few people were milling around, but no one was seated yet.
Then the pastor approached me to ask if I had come prepared to teach a children's class. I had. This way, he said. I walked toward the door that led to the old building. I stepped inside to discover close to 40 children waiting to start class (there was another classroom with another 40 smaller children next door). Counting the kids that sat in the window and watched, but wouldn't come in, I probably had 50 in my class.
After church, someone brought us a glass of Sprite and a package of soda crackers.
My first impressions were totally wrong. As it turns out, San Marcos may just look like a wide spot in the road, but it has a church with vision and a huge heart.. No one in the service looked like they had much individually. Together, they were pretty impressive.
San Marcos appears to be a wide spot in the road. It is like a lot of little towns in Honduras in that it seems like it was cut out of rock. Not much soil, so just a few straggly little plants stick up, usually along fence lines. We pulled into town on a road that was mostly holes. I held my breath a couple of times, though John said the road wasn't really that bad. You had to go down kind of steep hill to get to the church. From up above, you could see the structure--the windows were deep-set which meant it was probably adobe, though where they would have found enough mud to make adobes with I have no idea. It turned out to have made with a lot of stone, too which made more sense. I couldn't see anyone in the yard outside the front door, so thought maybe we had chosen the wrong Sunday to come again.
We walked down the hill, around a corner and toward where we saw some people standing.
A couple of faces brightened as they recognized John and several people came forward to lead us into the church. What I had thought was the front door, was the back door, since the congregation had recently built a new auditorium, leaving the old church as a SS classroom. We were greeted at the door, and stepped inside. It was really a beautiful room. Nicely finished, lots of space, pretty tile on the floor. Not many people there yet, I thought, and hardly any children.
Some churches divide men and women into different sides of the aisle (think I wrote about that before) so I didn't want to sit down until someone told me where to sit. A few people were milling around, but no one was seated yet.
Then the pastor approached me to ask if I had come prepared to teach a children's class. I had. This way, he said. I walked toward the door that led to the old building. I stepped inside to discover close to 40 children waiting to start class (there was another classroom with another 40 smaller children next door). Counting the kids that sat in the window and watched, but wouldn't come in, I probably had 50 in my class.
After church, someone brought us a glass of Sprite and a package of soda crackers.
My first impressions were totally wrong. As it turns out, San Marcos may just look like a wide spot in the road, but it has a church with vision and a huge heart.. No one in the service looked like they had much individually. Together, they were pretty impressive.
viernes, 7 de noviembre de 2008
The 200% person
I have been doing a lot of reading for the materials I am trying to prepare on creating a culture of peace. One book (Ministering Cross-culturally, by Sherwood Lingengelter and Marvin Mayers) has been very helpful in looking at relationships through the filter of culture. The authors quote someone else who called Jesus the 200% person--truly 100% God and yet 100% man. He was able to do that by being born into the "human culture". The book went on to say that whenever, in love, we "put on someone else's shoes" and try to see things from their perspective, we are imitating what Jesus did for us. I thought that was a very helpful insight.
The authors were talking about people who want to minister cross-culturally, but, it certainly applies in any relationship. If we want to learn to live in peace with another person, we need to be willing to look at things from their perspective, even if we don't agree.
That in itself wasn't a new idea for me --the importance of trying to understand how the other person sees a particular situation--but I hadn't thought about it in the sense that doing that is doing something that Jesus did. It cost Jesus so much to do that for me. It doesn't cost me very much to do that for someone else.
The authors were talking about people who want to minister cross-culturally, but, it certainly applies in any relationship. If we want to learn to live in peace with another person, we need to be willing to look at things from their perspective, even if we don't agree.
That in itself wasn't a new idea for me --the importance of trying to understand how the other person sees a particular situation--but I hadn't thought about it in the sense that doing that is doing something that Jesus did. It cost Jesus so much to do that for me. It doesn't cost me very much to do that for someone else.
miércoles, 5 de noviembre de 2008
Oh to be artistic
I am not artistic. I can draw a pretty good box, and like, Saint-Exupery in The Little Prince, I can do a pretty good elephant under a hat, but that is about it. So, when it comes to illustrations for things that I am trying to write or teach, I have to be dependent on the kindness of people who are artistic to let me use their work. That means that sometimes I have to write to publishers to ask for permission to use a picture or activity.
Right now, I am attempting to write materials on living in peace, to make it my own rather than a translation of the Young Peacemaker. I am not sure why I feel so compelled to do this, but I do. That means I have to find something to replace the wonderful illustrations.
The other day, going through a file, I found a great activity for kids that I had gotten from a magazine and that been sitting there since 1991. I searched through the internet to find the publisher and asked for permission to translate and use it. I got a very nice, short reply from a lady saying they would be happy to allow me to copy it--twenty copies for use in a classroom. TWENTY COPIES?
I wrote the lady again, a long explanation of how I wanted to use the activity, and that I would need more like 500 copies than twenty. She replied that their copyright regulations didn't allow them to let me make that many copies.
Question in reply--Could I purchase them? Answer--the picture is out of print and unavailable for purchase.
Sigh.
Actually, I didn't sigh. It struck me so funny, I had to laugh out loud.
I would love to be artistic, and if I were, I would want people to respect my intellectual property. So, I won't use the lovely little activity that is out of print, and therefore someone's creativity is not going to be appreciated and used by anyone. That's okay. I'm just trying to figure out how to fit an elephant under a hat into my lesson plan.
Right now, I am attempting to write materials on living in peace, to make it my own rather than a translation of the Young Peacemaker. I am not sure why I feel so compelled to do this, but I do. That means I have to find something to replace the wonderful illustrations.
The other day, going through a file, I found a great activity for kids that I had gotten from a magazine and that been sitting there since 1991. I searched through the internet to find the publisher and asked for permission to translate and use it. I got a very nice, short reply from a lady saying they would be happy to allow me to copy it--twenty copies for use in a classroom. TWENTY COPIES?
I wrote the lady again, a long explanation of how I wanted to use the activity, and that I would need more like 500 copies than twenty. She replied that their copyright regulations didn't allow them to let me make that many copies.
Question in reply--Could I purchase them? Answer--the picture is out of print and unavailable for purchase.
Sigh.
Actually, I didn't sigh. It struck me so funny, I had to laugh out loud.
I would love to be artistic, and if I were, I would want people to respect my intellectual property. So, I won't use the lovely little activity that is out of print, and therefore someone's creativity is not going to be appreciated and used by anyone. That's okay. I'm just trying to figure out how to fit an elephant under a hat into my lesson plan.
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