Sometimes we find treasures and gems buried in the most unexpected places.  And sometimes, the most spiritual experiences take unexpected shapes. Fifteen years ago, my husband and I received a gift of this sort when we were handed the leadership of our church, New Life Church. We inherited a congregation of generous, loving, committed people, and we were trusted with a valuable and cherished church property that was under construction and falling apart at the foundation.  Yet, hiding in the church’s basement rubble was a spiritual gift we had yet to uncover.

As a young girl, my primary role model was my mother. My mother embodied every stereotype of a 60 's woman. She attended Kansas State Univ. Joined the Pi Phi Sorority, dated and married her high school sweetheart, and took up her role as a homemaker. She was the quintessential mom who cooked warm meals daily and perfectly cleaned the house. She dressed to the nines and always looked beautiful and well put together. She never worked outside the home, except for two years as a high school French teacher while supporting my dad through graduate school.

Gene Thorngren.  To me—Just Grandad.  What can I say about a special man who was my Grandad?  Not everyone has the fortune in life to experience the kindness of a loving, steady model—one who passes down a heritage of faith, love, and family values.  In my life, Grandad set an example of love and involvement.  Every visit with Granddad was initiated with a firm grip on my shoulder with arms that drew me in close for a kiss on the cheek.  I always felt an urge to wrap my arms around my grandad and embrace him fully with both arms, but he would hold me at arm’s length looking me squarely in the eyes with his warming smile that communicated his love clearly enough.

It’s been 33 years since my mother chose to leave her earthly life and move on to her eternal home. The strange thing about grief is the way it never disappears but oozes its way into your soul and kind of seeps into every fiber, filling all the spaces. It just becomes part of who you are. Even after 33 years, I still think about my mom in one way or another almost every day. Just little thoughts that filter in and out as part of my days. The most common thoughts are questions I want to ask if she were here: What did you do when …? What did you think about…? My questions creep around and hide in corners because there is no way to discover the answers.

Hard work, generosity, and self-sufficiency. Those are the three top adjectives that define my perception around money. Growing up I never thought that much about money. It was just always there—and plenty of it in my family. I wouldn’t consider myself spoiled-- my parents never over-indulged my wants or wishes. But, I never experienced a sense of lack. We lived in beautiful homes that were tastefully decorated by my mother. My parents drove Porsches and Mercedes. We took vacations every year to Hawaii and the Virgin Islands. My parents were hard working, self-sufficient baby boomers and business owners. But at the same time, they somehow modeled a strong work ethic, generous living, and a humble modesty.

She belongs to my daughter and sons, not to me. But I think of this woman as grandma all the same. When I first met her, I saw a slightly bent figure walking toward me down a dusty street in Kinindo in Bujumbura. She was dressed in typical Burundian colors, a bright green cloth covered with red and yellow geometric patterns. Her yellow head scarf wrapped around and covered her hair completely. This woman may have looked frail, maybe 70-something years old, 4 foot 9, and with sharp shoulder bones protruding from her loosely wrapped Kitenge. Still, she had a quiet strength and humor that emanated from her dark, twinkling eyes and big, toothless smile.

I remember distinctly when I was in my 8th grade Social Studies class; our teacher invited a guest speaker to address the class. She was from the Peace Corp and spent 50 minutes talking to my class of jr. high students about her experiences serving the people somewhere in Africa. I don’t remember any details about the descriptions or her journeys, but I have a clear memory of how I felt while I listened to her. I can still feel how my heart was pumping so fast and how my body tensed up with excitement. I knew in that moment that I had discovered one of my deepest life dreams—to travel and live among other cultures and work and serve people who were less fortunate than me.