Every day I notice a small change outside. Another wild flower has braved the open air, some more leaves have come out—another shade of green has been discovered. After a long winter, it is like we—the Norwegians are coming back to life. People are out walking, bicycling, gardening, and running. Some just sit on their verandas with their eyes closed, enjoying the warmth of the sun. We, in Norway, rarely think the sun is too warm. And some of us even think that if we utter the words (the sun is too warm) it may cause it to disappear from the sky. (OK, not really true, but almost.)

I have been carried away with gardening too. The nice weather, the light and the birds singing all around inspired me.

My backyard was pretty much made by God (and some farmers) so I don’t need to do much there.

But in the front of the house, the challenges abound. It has been hard, but rewarding work.

For example, I want to finish our rock fence. But without rock, no fence. So I have used our wheelbarrow to get rocks from the beach and up to our yard. And, let me tell you, rocks are heavy!

But, it is starting to look good.

And my flowers they are happy with the sun, the water and the care they are getting.

So although this is not a gardening blog. I wanted to share with you how much gardening reminds me of real life.

The weeds that pop up everywhere is a well-known metaphor. But an important one nevertheless. They never stop. They need to be taken out daily. Like the small weeds that threatens to take over the soil in our heart that was meant to produce fruit and flowers for God, and for the world.

The importance of good soil is another good one. Steve and I spent time planting bulbs last fall, hoping we would have tons of tulips and daffodils this spring. But, sadly, the dirt was hard and not very well suited for tulips, and therefore we got just a few small ones.

The main thing I am learning, however, is patience. Nothing grows up overnight. We have to wait. We have to be persistent. And, eventually, we will see the results.

This is for sure true in my own life, as well as in our ministry. If only I could remember that when I get impatient with the lack of results, the lack of change, the lack of flowers the day I plant the seeds.

I planted these some weeks ago. They are not very pretty yet, but give it a few weeks, and they will color my world. May they remind me of the seeds I plant every day, in my life, in other people’s lives, and in my efforts to make the world a better place.

So, here I sign off, because the sun is out, and it is time for me to go and dig in the dirt.

R  is young and has just joined our staff. I am glad that he chose us, and even more glad he has chosen the people who are unloved and unwanted by so many.

“It’s my first day here, and we wasted no time, heading straight into the camps – a very serious situation, one that I really had to see to understand – knowing little of the situation and history here, it’s a very fast and real eye opener.

I have never met a friendlier people—a heart warming openness to our presence. I saw a people deemed insignificant by ‘authorities’, yet significant in that I personally know that they are loved and cared for, if not by those that should – by us as a team, and most importantly, God.

There is no greater joy than seeing a smile in such darkness, giving a glimpse of the will to stand up for themselves, above a life weighed down by heavy burdens and a self-worth beaten and broken – a poor spirit so disturbingly walked over, because of an unreasonable hatred towards them – the words spoken from the people themselves that really hit my heart:  ‘we are ready to die here’.

It was comforting knowing that they were so open to our presence, so willing to have us, but as the storm still approaches, for me personally it comes down to faith, trust in God, and the strength of a community.”

The good news is that it seems the storm has passed, and that only minimal damage was done in the camps. The bad news is that the refugees still have to stay there, in the dirty camps without much to eat, if any.

I am glad they have people like R working on their side.

Actually, a lot has provoked me recently and I am not going to go into the details.

Let me start at the beginning.

There is a cyclone coming to Western Burma, right. I already shared that. So those of us who are not in the area where the cyclone is supposed to hit are sitting around biting our nails wondering how big the devastation is going to be. It’s ironic, because the devastation has already happened. There are 140,000 people in Western Burma right now who are homeless, sick and starving. My husband, Steve, and our team leader, Brad, are literally running rugged trying to be that little drop in the ocean that can mean a difference to some of the ones in need.

What got me provoked (in addition to hearing of the lack of care and response of the Burma government) was when one of our staff members asked people to pray on her Facebook page. And somebody commented: “What about sending something that actually works instead of praying to a God who obviously doesn’t care.” 

It stung all the way to where I was sitting.

This is why:

We are sending everything we have, including our husbands and wives. We are using money that people have given, every bit of it, to help where the help is needed. Yesterday, for example, we were able to feed 5000 people who had not eaten for five days. They food will only last them for some days. But at least it was food.

See this woman and her seven kids? They had not eaten for five days. So we gave them food. Not enough of course, but we gave what we were able to. Wish that the rest of the world would do the same. If they did, people would not starve.

Our team is sitting with these people in the pouring rain, assisting them, loving them, speaking on their behalf, trying to protect them, trying to comfort them, trying to give them what nobody else seems willing to give.

Who dares to say: Send something that actually works? I wanted to ask that person: What more can we send than what we are already sending? And: Why don’t you give up your comfort and wealth instead of pointing your finger to us?

And how dares anyone speak about a God who does not care? Is the suffering in the world caused by God now? Is he the reason state leaders allow innocent people to suffer? Is he the reason people in the West are more concerned with Angelina Jolie’s boobs than with the fact that thousands are facing death? Is he the reason we would rather spend more money on ourselves than on children who have nothing to eat?

I have seen a lot of suffering over the years. Much of it has brought me to tears. Much of it has left me depressed and overwhelmed. But it has not made me blame God for the suffering. Because I have seen where the suffering is coming from. It is from people. I have asked victims of violence how the suffering affects their faith, and this is what they have said: “How can we blame God for this? He is not responsible for this. Man is. If you take our faith in God away from us, then we have nothing.”

And that pretty much sums it up.

PS. By the way, feel free to give to Partners. We need your money more than ever. I know this is tacky, but it is true. You are not giving to me, but to people who don’t know what they are going to eat tomorrow. This will take you to a donation page. Good luck!

I don’t know if he will be alive in a few days from now. He lived right by the ocean, in a shack made from bamboo and a plastic tarp.

I have been hearing some really bad news the last few days.

The Rohingya people that I have been writing so much about, whom I have visited on two occasions this year, and whose lives and stories have grabbed my heart are now faced with another enemy: A cyclone.

Left to themselves on the beaches of Western Burma their conditions are already horrific. I have told you, in earlier blogs, about their lack of food, their lack of shelter, their lack of medicine, their lack of security, their lack of schools for their children—their lack of hope. Before getting to this sub-human way of living, they have also endured hell on earth. Violence, torture, death are words that describe each one of their stories. Their government refuse to help them, and even refuse to grant them the right to be alive in their land. So what could be worse?

That a cyclone hits the shores of the beaches where they are living in dilapidated shelters. And this is what is about to happen in a couple of days’ time. (You can read about it here.)

My husband is there right now and he says he is overwhelmed with the needs of the almost 200,000 people all around him. He is at a loss for words when he describes the attitude of local and central governments and their unwillingness to help the refugees (IDPs) evacuate to a safer place, and much less to give them food so they don’t starve in the meantime. He is also in shock over apparent lies told by some organizations who are taking the side of the government and claiming that the needs are not as bad as they actually are.

I am at a loss too. What to do when I am sitting at home in Norway, knowing that the people I recently spoke to, ate with, listened to, played with, held, hugged, took pictures of and fell in love with are in a few days time going to face a force much bigger than they have faced before.

Please join me and pray. Please join me as I am contacting the politicians and leaders I know to tell them what is happening. Please join me as I contact journalists and ask them to write the story for the world to see and hear. Please join me as I ask myself how much I can give in the relief effort that Partners is staging, and send the money here

I am going to bed with a heavy heart.

The story I shared about Masuda was the saddest story I have ever heard. I sat with her, three Muslim men and my Rohingya friend and translator, Nina (not her real name), and listened to her story. When she was done sharing, I did not know what to do or what to say. What exactly do you say to a person who has lost 29 relatives? What do you say to a person who not  lost her whole family, but who saw them get brutally murdered? What do you say to a person who has no home any more, nothing to live for, no reason to get up in the morning?

I did not have anything to say to her. I could only cry with her. I could only tell her that I can’t understand what she is going through. I could embrace her. I could look her in the eyes and tell her to not give up although it is tempting. But I will never be able to give her her family back.

It’s hard not to feel phony. One has to wonder if one’s presence is worth anything at all. But I have to believe that what we do does matter. If not, then what are we doing here?

Like a bright sun

In Norway we are now, finally, experiencing early spring. Everything is still brown, grey or black around us. The snow has melted, but it is too soon to see green grass. But in the middle of all the dead leaves and grass, some brave, small flowers have the courage to stick their heads up above the ground. Two kinds of flowers come first, the yellow Coltsfoot that we call Hestehov, and the blue Anemones that we call Blåveis. They shine like specks of color in the brown landscape.

The other day I was talking to my friend, and my neighbor. She said this: If the Blåveis had bloomed in the middle of summer, we may not even have noticed it. 

I agreed. In the summer there are wild-flowers galore. There are so many colors that we all want to become painters to capture the beauty. There are flowers so bright, and in so many different shapes and sizes, and with the most tempting fragrances. Compared to many of those flowers, and to the plethora of colors we may not think the timid Blåveis is much to look at. But now we do. It gives us the hope that a new season is on the way. It shows us that after a long, dark and cold winter, there is a new time coming.

When she said that I thought that perhaps for Masuda I was like the Blåveis in the early spring. And I thought that you too may be that one little flower in a field of brown and dry grass to many who have lived through a long, dark and unmerciful winter.

Mosuda

I have been putting it off long enough. As I am sitting in my living room, contemplating what to make for dinner, and how to get the house clean, the media is full of stories of politicians sexually assaulting minors, of lone rangers making bombs that they intended to use for killing many, of financial crisis and of other stuff that I really wonder if many are interested in reading. But people surprise.

Nobody talks of Mosuda. Her story has not been shared world-wide. It is upsetting, but not surprising. The world wants Justin Bieber and glamour. They don’t want to hear stories of women who sob. Especially not Muslim women who sob. Especially not Muslim women who sob that belong to a despised people group.

My blog is not an arena that gets visits from thousands. But perhaps you who read the story can share it. Perhaps Mosuda’s story can challenge the world to think about different matters.

Mosuda was wealthy. Not wealthy in money, but wealthy because she was the mother of many children. She had eight daughters and sons. And she was blessed with 18 grandchildren. All of them full of life and energy. The voices of her family members could be heard all over her village. Her life was full.

On October 24, 2012 her life ended.

There had been rumors of attacks for a while. They had heard of other villages being attacked, of other Rohingyas being killed, brutally and violently. She knew that her Buddhist neighbors did not appreciate hers, or her people’s, presence. But what could they do? Could they change their skin color? Could they change the fact that they were born into a country that wanted them gone? Where were they supposed to go to? And, besides, her village was the only place she had ever called home.

Her neighbors in her village walked anxiously around, not sure what to do to protect themselves if an attack happened. Mosuda talked to her sons and daughters, and together they decided to get away while there was still time. Better to escape before it was too late.

Their village was by the water. There were many boats, and they got four middle-sized boats to take them up the river, to a safer place. One hundred of them crowded into the four boats, and at 11.00 a.m. they were off with a few of their belongings. Mosuda thought that the most important thing was that she had her whole family close to her. It would be sad to lose all their belongings in the village, but at least they had each other.

At 1.30 p.m. they spotted a boat approaching them. It was a lot bigger than their four boats. Mosuda’s heart sunk. She had a bad feeling about the people on the boat. She recognized one man on the boat. He was the owner of the biggest hotel in town, the Noble Hotel. He shouted to them to go to a village near by. “Go to the Rakhine village,” he urged them. But why would they go to a Buddhist village, when it was the Buddhists who wanted to kill them? They did not do as they were told. Instead they tried to make the boats move faster. Instead they tried to get away from the hostile people on the big boat.

But it didn’t work. 

When they did not obey the commands, the big boat rammed into Masuda’s family’s boats, causing all of them to capsize. As the people fell into the water, it was like they were considered fish to be killed. With spears and swords the Buddhist rebels started killing them one by one. To make sure nobody would get away, they called their friends over to come and help finish them off. Soon more boats arrived, all of them full of people intent on killing the desperate people who were trying to save their lives. Some of them managed to swim to shore, hoping they would be safe there. But they were not. On the shore were others waiting with swords, spears and knives. All the villagers were all hacked down.

Mosuda held on to a plastic container that had ended up in the water. It worked as a floating device. Her daughter and daughter in law held on with her. They waited for the final blow. It came. Mosuda was stabbed in her neck and in her side. Right before she passed out she saw her daughter and daughter in law getting dragged onto the enemy’s boat.

She woke up many hours later and did not know where she was. Desperately she hoped she had just had a terrible dream. But then she felt the pain, and she noticed the blood. As by a miracle she made it to shore where friendly Rohingya cared for her. But there was no joy in her survival. She soon found out that all her family members, her children, her grandchildren and her sons and daughters in law had been killed. 29 of them were gone. Of the 100 people on the boats, only three survived. She was one of them.

There was nothing else she could do. In a haze she let her neighbors from her village take care of her. They put her on a new boat. This time all the villagers, 70 boats all together, had decided to leave the village to escape attacks and more death. They went the same way Mosuda had gone the day before. As they got closer to the place of the massacre Mosuda, to her horror, saw that the bodies of the dead were still floating in the river. It was like the most terrible nightmare. Her neighbors wanted to take the corpses out of the river and give them a proper funeral. This was the least they could do for their fallen friends and neighbors. But even this was denied them. As soon as they tried to pull a body up, the navy officials told them they were not allowed to. In fact, they were told that they were not allowed to move further. They would have to stay in their boats, at the exact same spot until they got permission to leave.

So surrounded by corpses and hostile government officials they started their long wait. They were all so afraid that they could hardly contain their fear. What if they were waiting for a new massacre? The children cried. The adults tried to act brave, but it was not easy.

Some of the village leaders took up their mobile phones and called some of their Muslim friends in the capital and begged for help. “Whatever you can do to help us!”

The next day they were allowed to leave. But they heard that their Muslim friends had given a considerable bribe for their release.

When Mosuda was done telling her story she just looked blankly into the air. “I cannot sit down. I cannot do anything anymore. I cannot sleep. I just want to go to my children,” she said. “Sometimes I walk down to the river and there I hear the voices of my grandchildren calling me.” “Why did I not die with them? What is the point of me being alive any more? There is no point in my being here.”

Then she broke down and sobbed.

Trying to get inspired by the view outside

Write down some random thoughts. Look at previous teachings and take some good nuggets from them. Thinking about eating something. Looking something up on the internet. Looking something up in books. Writing some emails. Checking Facebook. Writing some thoughts. Adding some words. Getting up and looking out through the window. Thinking about what I shall wear. Looking at what I have pulled together and deciding it does not look good at all. Starting over again. Deciding to only use key words and hopefully remember what the key words mean. Changing my mind. Writing everything down, like I am writing an essay. Shutting the computer and going to make coffee. Thinking that this sucks and is the worst teaching ever. Getting a thought, and starting with that. Doing the whole process over again. And this is what happens when you give a mouse a cookie.

OK, well. This is extreme, but it is true, nevertheless.

But, here is a paragraph I wrote that is part of the teaching. It is out of context, but it may still speak to you. And if you happen to be in Stockholm, look up New Life church and hear the rest of the story.

In exercise we have learned this: In order to get in better shape, to get more defined; to get stronger and prettier, we need to change our exercise routine often. You can do your 5K every day at a comfortable pace the rest of your life and never get out of shape. But it is by doing intervals, by changing the pace, the terrain, the length of the run, it is by pushing yourself until it hurts that you will notice changes. The same with strength training. The same with raising kids.

I think this is how it is with faith too.  We can keep doing the same faith routine every day for the rest of our lives, and we will make it into heaven. We will go to the Sunday morning services and then for lunch afterwards. Nice Christians. Safe Jesus.

But if you want to build some real faith muscles, then change the routine. (dot, dot, dot)

Change the exercise routine perhaps

Steve said today, on Skype, that I need to find time to nourish my soul. He is away, and we have not seen each other for a while. I shared the long list of things I had to do with him, and he said: “Find time for your soul or you will crack in half.” And I said that if I should find time for my soul too, then I would have to skip sleep, because there is no extra time in my day. None. And, I need my sleep.

Among many other things I did today, I went shopping for jeans with my NomNom (that is what I call my middle daughter). As she put the jeans in the bag, the sales lady said: “And remember to not use fabric softener with this one when you wash it.” I felt like crying. “Lady,” I thought, “do you understand anything about my life? Do you honestly think that I am going to sort my laundry and take out jeans that have lycra in them and wash them separately? I don’t even have time to wash my children’s socks. If the laundry get done, it is a good day. To think that I will have time to sort out the clothes that do better without fabric softeners is the most unrealistic thinking I have heard today.”

Suggesting that I find time in the day to nourish my soul felt a little like being told to find a way to wash some clothes without fabric softeners. I am not a super human.

But, as I am sitting here in my quiet house, I realize that my soul is not like jeans with lycra in them. My soul has other qualities. One of them is resilience.

There may not have been that 25 minute chunk of time to read something reflective, and spiritual today. There was no time to meditate on God’s word in a quiet place. But here is where I see that my soul got its vitamins and its strength today:

With my 11-year old daughter on my lap, getting hugged before the school bus came and took her away.

In the car laughing together with NomNom as she shared the most outrageous stories I have ever heard.

At a coffee shop, sipping fresh lattes and sharing a piece of carrot cake with my beautiful daughter.

On a bridge, laughing hysterically as we were trying to take a photo of ourselves.

Walking on the street, in a hurry, but still feeling the warm spring wind in our hair.

Driving, rushing at times, while watching the beauty of mountains and the ocean from the window.

Getting a warm welcome from the most loving dog God ever created.

Having a crockpot cook a delicious dinner while I was gone.

Sharing a meal with my kids who are pretty groovy after all, and my stepmom who is the coolest stepmom in the world.

Seeing that the dishes got done and I did not need to raise my voice.

A bottle of Australian Shiraz.

This and more have nurtured my soul today as I have been rushing about. In my head there is one compartment that focuses on the things I did not get done today. And another compartment that remembers all the beauty I experienced today. As I finish the day, I think that I want to dwell on the place that focuses on the beauty.

It’s hard to be in a bad mood when this is your view.

But outside the sun shines, the snow is melting, it is light until 9 pm, at least. There is spring in the air. There is the hope of a better future.

I need to look outside every time desperation threatens to overtake me. Then I am reminded that in the big picture dirty dishes don’t count. Perhaps unpaid bills do, but they don’t need to control my mood.

This is a boy we met in Mae La refugee camp. A refugee camp is a place of poverty and sorrow, but also of laughter, resilience, kindness, imagination, forgiveness, courage, generosity and love.

I am trying to get my thoughts organized and get my head around all the stories I encountered in Burma. It seems like it is a life time away. In the days and weeks to come, you will be hearing more from my trip. The good and the bad, the fun and the sad. Hope you will stick with me.

I need you.

The day I held my speech for Women’s day I was actually voted Woman of the year in my hometown, Levanger. That was a huge honor, and something I am still trying to understand fully. I don’t exactly feel like a Woman of the year.

Then I went to Burma and met my friends, the Rohingya again. Sadly, their situation is not getting any better. In many ways, it is getting worse. While there we heard rumors of new attacks, and as soon as I had left, the attacks did indeed resume. I can only try to imagine the fear and desperation.

With some of the beautiful Rohingya children. This photo was taken by Josh Rogers, a man I met in Sittwe who ended up buying tarps for some of the families without shelter.

I went from Burma to Thailand, and I am currently in Chiang Mai, enjoying day two of our annual staff retreat. It has been a time of great blessing for me. The biggest blessing being able to talk face to face with so many of our staff, and realizing that the people I work with are some of the most amazing people in the world? Why? Not because they are so beautiful, strong, smart and fit, although some are that too. No, they are amazing because they stick with it. They work hard with little resources, such as money. They work in difficult conditions,  for many of them this is a foreign country. They work against the tide for the most times. Many of them work alone. Many more work without any salary at all. Many consider going to Starbucks a luxury that they can’t really afford.

Some of our wonderful staff dancing at last year’s staff retreat.

I look at them and I am so thankful that God has put them in my life. Some of them can be annoying at times, but so can I. Some of them blow it at times, but so do I. Some of them are not qualified for the job they are doing, but neither am I. The main thing I like about them is their commitment and their courage. They are my heroes.