A Hope and a Prayer

Whoever is generous to the poor lends to the Lord, and he will repay him for his deed. – Proverbs 19:17

Like me, Dewi was in her early thirties. She was a single mother from a Kantoli village who had moved to the big city hoping to turn her life around. One day, she came to my house looking for work so she could provide for her baby boy. She was very small, perhaps four and a half feet tall, and from the moment I met her, I found her to be smart, polite and personable.

In Indonesia, it was common to hire help around the house. Without washing machines, microwaves and spacious refrigerators, it took a lot of time to do daily household chores. Just mailing a letter at the post office downtown could take two hours. Our little home was like Grand Central Station. During our first few years in Indonesia, we had 140 visitors from America, not to mention local guests. Some of them stayed with us for weeks or even months. I could definitely use some help and saw lots of ways to answer Dewi’s request. By hiring someone to help me, I could get a lot more done and, at the same time, bless her with safe and desirable employment.

I invited Dewi to shop for me each day at the local market, help with the cooking and babysit Joy and Sarah. She was just what we needed and quickly blended into our family. As I got to know her, I realized her story was sadly typical. As a young teenager, Dewi had been given in marriage to a man as his secret second wife. Polygamy is a common practice in many Islamic societies. Often, though, it is done on the sly. A man will have multiple wives in different towns, and each wife may or may not know about the others. When Dewi was forced to marry, the man’s other wife was not aware of the relationship. When she found out, she pestered her husband until he agreed to divorce Dewi. Dewi’s marriage ended as quickly as it had begun, but not before she became pregnant with a baby boy. There was no child support for her. She would have to raise the baby on her own. That’s why she fled to the city, desperate for work.

Dewi proved to be faithful and honest. She was a very hard worker and saved me money at the market. Foreigners usually paid more for things if they did their own shopping. She was also eager to learn new skills in the kitchen. There was no task that she would not attempt. We often had long conversations about the village she came from and what her life was like there. I learned a lot from Dewi about the Kantoli culture and way of thinking. I saw tremendous potential in this young woman whom God had brought across my path. I knew she was the answer to my prayers in more ways than one.

Dewi had a few relatives in the city. One day one of them came rushing into our home yelling for Dewi to come quickly. I couldn’t understand everything he said, but I knew it involved an accident. It sounded very serious. I soon learned that Dewi’s nephew, Ade, had been tragically killed. He worked at a big public swimming pool. That morning, his boss had asked for a volunteer to trim the branches of some very tall pine trees.

Ade had climbed coconut trees many times, so he volunteered for the job. Carrying a machete with him, he climbed to the top of the first tree and balanced on a branch 60 or 70 feet in the air. Suddenly the branch gave way. To the horror of the crowd standing around and the people swimming in the pool, Ade fell to his death on the pavement. They brought Ade’s crushed body to Dewi’s one-room shack. She rushed to see him and console the grieving relatives who had gathered. Dewi was the only one with the presence of mind and emotional stability to make quick decisions.

In Islamic culture, when someone dies, the family tries to bury the body before sunset that same day. Dewi asked if I would go with her to her village, called Banteng, to witness her nephew’s burial. Steve and I loaned Dewi our van to carry people back to their mountain village. I quickly gathered my things and joined them on the five-hour journey through the mountains. Steve stayed behind to look after Joy and Sarah.

Our van could only go so far before there were no more roads. We got out and hiked up a hill and across the rice paddies. Water buffalo plowed the fields in the distance and many miles away I could see a little village hugging the volcanic mountainside. Smoke from cooking fires rose above houses with thatched and tin roofs.

When we finally arrived at the village, the sun was sinking behind the mountain ridges. A simple grave had already been dug. After a brief ceremony, Ade’s body was wrapped in cloth and lowered into a grave. There were tears, wailing and chanting in Arabic. It was a sad and hopeless event.

The gathered family and friends seemed to appreciate my presence. As far as anyone could recall, no foreigner had ever been to their village. Some people were seeing a Caucasian person for the first time. As the shadows lengthened and enveloped us in darkness, I longed for a way to help the people of this village. They needed hope.

I returned home late that night totally exhausted. Dewi was back to work the next day, and it helped to ease her mind that she had something else to focus on. I realized how, for most Kantoli people, life simply continued on as it had for centuries. It was a matter of surviving from day to day. I sensed that Dewi was weighing the futility of life in her heart. When it seemed appropriate, I talked with her about Christ’s victory over death and His love for her and the Kantoli people. She listened quietly and nodded. I wasn’t sure how much she understood.

In the months following, I noticed that there was warmth and responsiveness in the hearts of the new friends I was making in Dewi’s family. They were not as shy around me, but were comfortable coming to visit my home. Dewi and the others seemed grateful for the help we’d given in their time of grief. When Dewi invited me to visit her village for a circumcision ceremony and celebration, I knew it was a real expression of friendship. This time it would be a happy visit rather than a sorrowful one. Although it required traveling quite a long distance in hot, smoky public transport along bumpy dirt roads, I knew it would be worth the journey. Dewi and I purchased some treats in the city that were not available in the village and off we went.

The distance and the winding roads around the mountains struck me again. There was so much twisting and turning. Once again, we were dropped off at the edge of a mountain and started the muddy trek upward on foot. This time, I was more aware of my surroundings. I saw what looked like yellow dots along the mountainside where the rice terraces came down the slopes like sculpted steps carpeted in shades of green, yellow and brown. I knew what they were: the straw hats of hundreds of people working in the rice paddies. It was harvest time, and everyone was involved.

I enjoyed my visit to Dewi’s village immensely. The main event was her nephew’s circumcision celebration, which according to custom takes place at five or six years of age. For the Kantoli, circumcision is a huge rite of passage, not just for boys but often for girls as well. There was a lot of music, dancing and eating, and even a small parade through the village. Dewi’s father took me door-to-door to meet everyone, including a relative who claimed to be 103 years old.

I tried to take it all in. I saw where they harvested kidney beans as a source of protein. I saw the stalls that Dewi had built for the goats she was breeding. I saw big cages of guinea pigs that also helped to feed the village. Dewi had started many of these projects. With the wage I gave her, she was investing in animals. For villagers, animals meant money, food and security. Frequently, Dewi would give a guinea pig for a meal to a needy person. She had a lot of animals, and she instructed her family how to care for them while she was away in the city and compensated them for their work. With some of her income, Dewi fixed the leaky roof of a small wooden home she had built for her extended family. She felt a sense of responsibility for her mother, father and siblings.

Dewi only had a third-grade education, but she was smart in business and wise with her money. I could see that she was industrious, fair and honest in her dealings with everyone. People came to her with their questions, and it was obvious that she was respected by her community.

Life in Dewi’s village was quite different from the big city. When I needed to use the restroom, Dewi found an umbrella and led me into the fields behind her home. There was the restroom: a couple of planks across a ditch. Privacy is not a high priority in village culture. I was learning so much, and I was glad to be there in spite of the inconveniences.

That afternoon, Dewi’s relatives slaughtered a goat in my honor. I knew how valuable that goat was to them, and I felt both honored and guilty that they were butchering it on my account. We made goat satay from every part of the animal, served, of course, with rice. It was a festive occasion with lots of people gathered around, and every one of them was watching me. By this time, I was beginning to study the Kantoli language, which was helpful. Many of the villagers didn’t speak Indonesian at all—only Kantoli.

Dewi’s family welcomed me with open arms. Not only had I joined them in their time of sorrow, but I had also joined them in a time of celebration. I had braved the long bus ride, the trek into the village and the exotic food. Most importantly, I was making every effort to speak to them in their own language. I was not fluent by any means, but the words that came out of my mouth were eagerly received. Once again, my small efforts were going a long way.

I went to bed that night on a grass mat on the wooden floor. The nearby fire warmed the cold mountain air. Some of Dewi’s relatives stayed up a long time, whispering quietly among themselves. Their cigarettes glowed in the darkness. Dewi’s father sat nearby, a self-appointed sentinel in the shadows. All night he watched over us as we slept.

Actually, I wasn’t sleeping a whole lot. I had too much to think about. I was grateful for the events of that day. God had given me the privilege of being one of the first outsiders to visit this place. What responsibility came with that? I prayed, “Lord, allow me to make an impact here. Please, Lord, show me how. Surprise me. I want to be a blessing to these people.”

In the quietness, I felt I heard an answer: “Arlene, just keep on loving them. I’ll take care of the rest. My love will find a way.”

In the morning, Dewi and I left with bags of Kantoli snacks showered on us by the villagers. I also took with me a longing to return and make a difference in that community. I wanted to bring both the gospel and practical help, but I had no idea where to start except to pray.

Three years had passed since Steve and I first arrived in Indonesia. We’d left for Asia as a young husband-and-wife team. Now there were four of us. It was time for our first visit back to the U.S. While in the States, we traveled thousands of miles, visiting friends and ministry partners.

One day, when we were with my parents in Virginia, I climbed into the attic to look through some boxes I had left there for safekeeping. Rummaging around in the semi-darkness, I discovered a box I had placed there in 1982, shortly after my Grandma Fletcher died. It was the box of cloth scraps that I’d found in her antique shop after the funeral. I had almost forgotten about those scraps hidden away in my parents’ attic. They were so beautiful—as if begging to be made into a treasure of lasting value. I tried to think, Who could help me make something wonderful with them? Who might have the time and skill to sew them into a quilt?

I was ready to abandon the idea or leave it for some future date when I had more time on my hands when suddenly a thought occurred to me. A few weeks later, Steve and I were scheduled to visit a group of women in North Carolina. These friends prayed regularly for our work in Indonesia. They called themselves “The Senders.” I had heard that North Carolinians were experts at quilting, having pioneered some of the early American designs that are still famous today. Perhaps these dear ladies might be willing to sew a quilt for me. I decided to take the scraps along, just in case. If it worked out, it would be a wonderful way for me to remember Grandma Fletcher.

When we arrived in North Carolina, I found out that many of the ladies we were meeting with were part of a quilting group! The Senders graciously accepted my box of fabric scraps. We agreed that when they finished the quilt, they would send it to my mother in Virginia, who would find a way to send it to me in Indonesia. It would take time, but I was thrilled to eventually have a beautiful, tangible reminder of Grandma Fletcher and all that she had taught me.