Moravian Marriage

I've received a lot of questions and comments about the Moravian custom of marrying by Lot since my main characters in Love Finds You in Nazareth, Pennsylvania were selected to marry in this way. I recently wrote a blog about this custom and how I discovered that my great-grandparents (to the fifth) were married by Lot in 1758.

Here's the link to the post:

Colonial Quills

A Beautiful Life, Rescued and Changed after Haiti's Quake

Today is the two-year anniversary of an earthquake that rocked the entire world. And it rocked the lives of our family and friends as we lost our dear brother David Hames in the rubble.

The devastation was unfathomable and yet in the midst of what Satan clearly meant for evil, there are many beautiful stories of what God used and continues to use for good.

Pastor Elizabeth Guelis has one of those stories.

When Ann Menke and I met Pastor Elizabeth, the first thing I noticed about her was her beautiful, infectious, joy-filled smile that lit up her face and eyes like the Haitian sunrise. In her face, you could see the glory of God.


The second thing I noticed was her right leg. It was prosthetic.

Elizabeth’s smile grew even larger when I asked about her leg. Hers, you see, is a story like no other. Instead of bitterness about her loss, the prosthetic leg is a testimony to her of God’s love and grace.

Until the earth shook Haiti two years ago, Elizabeth told me that she and most Haitians didn’t know what an earthquake was. Hurricanes had threatened their country for many years so the buildings were often built with concrete to withstand the terrible winds. The concrete worked well to protect people from the hurricanes, but it was devastating when the earthquake hit.

On that Tuesday afternoon in January, Elizabeth had an appointment to meet an American friend at the woman’s two-story home. The women sat down in the corner of the concrete house to pray, but they hadn’t even begun to talk when the walls began to tremble. Dust filled the house and in an instant, it became so dark that Elizabeth couldn’t see.

Elizabeth tried to get outside, but she’d never visited this woman’s home before. In the darkness, and the dust, she didn’t know which way to go, and she couldn’t see or hear her friend. When she finally made it to the front gate, it was locked. She was trapped inside the compound.

Then the unthinkable happened. A wall collapsed over Elizabeth, pinning her legs. With the lower part of her body under the concrete, the upper half of her body facing the street, she drifted in and out of consciousness for hours.

When Haitians finally broke down the concrete wall around her, her legs were badly cut. Help had not yet arrived in the country so someone put her legs into bleach and then wrapped plastic around them, leaving her to die. Her legs smelled terrible, she told me. I can’t imagine…

Three days later, Americans set up tent hospitals in the streets. She was the first one to be operated on at one of these hospitals. As the people in her church prayed, the Americans amputated her leg.

“I passed out when the American doctor began cutting my leg. I thought I was in heaven because I saw angels all around me.”

Her husband had died seven years ago, and when the doctors told her family she was dead, her three children mourned for her.

But Pastor Elizabeth wasn’t dead. When she woke, there were people crying all around her. She was weak and dizzy, her leg gone, but she was alive. “God would not let me die,” she explained.

For nine months, Elizabeth was in the hospital. God had told several members of her church that she would live, and they continued to pray for her every day.

“I made a promise to God in the hospital. If He would let me live, I would serve Him the rest of my life.”

When she got out of the hospital, Elizabeth went to Bible school. She was glowing when she pulled out a picture from her Bible to show Ann and I. It was a photo of her on her graduation day. June 25, 2011. Elizabeth Guelis is now Pastor Elizabeth. She shares the Word of God with the people in her country and dreams of one day spreading His Word around the world.

“A lot of people criticize me,” she said. “They say I don’t deserve to be a minister since I never finished my high school education. Ministry is difficult, but God is with me.”

People criticize her because of her ministry, but there is also a stigma in having a prosthetic leg in Haiti. The handicapped are often treated with disrespect in this country, and some have questioned why God would allow her to lose a leg.

Elizabeth’s children are now 23, 18, and 12, and before our time together ended, she asked that the “lady mamas of Solid Rock” pray for her and her family. I promised her that I would share her story and requests with all of you and that we would pray with her that:

• God would give her strength to continue her church when people criticize her and tell her she can’t do it.
• She would hold the Word of God close and continue to do His work.
• God would give her the power and opportunity to share her testimony with thousands of people around the world.

The last day of our conference, Pastor Elizabeth found me in the crowd. She showed me her graduation picture again, pointing out the prosthetic leg with a sense of triumph. It is her testimony to what God has done and continues to do in her life. Then she held out the picture to me, signaling for me to take it.

“I can’t,” I said, shaking my hands and head. This picture meant so much to her, and I knew it was probably the only one she had. I couldn’t possibly take it from her.

But she held it out again, insisting that I keep it. It was her gift to me.

With humility and tears, I took her picture. And I continue to cry today when I think about her gift.

I wanted to give something to her in return, but I didn’t know what could even come close to equaling what she’d given me. Then I remembered that I had brought a picture with me to show the Haitian women. It was a photo of me, my husband, and my daughter when Karly was a baby. It seemed like nothing compared to Elizabeth’s gift—I can make another copy of it at any time—but it was all I had at that moment. I rushed to get it, and she gave me a precious hug in return. We’re sisters, you see, for now and eternity.

On that October afternoon, Elizabeth gave me her picture and her friendship. She reminded me of God’s love for His children, that even through terrible adversity and hardship He sees and loves each one of us. Not once did she complain to me about what had happened. Instead of being angry at God, she poured out her love for Him.

As we remember what happened in Haiti two years ago, I pray we will also remember the stories of God’s goodness in the midst of tragedy, of the beauty He made and continues to make from the ashes. And I hope that we can continue to pray for women like Pastor Elizabeth who’ve devoted their life to spreading God’s love and grace in Haiti.

Karly's Sunday Notes

Our eight-year-old daughter sat with us in church on Sunday and decided to take notes on our pastor's excellent message about storing treasures in heaven and worrying on the earth.

Here is Karly's take on the message (and the link to John Mark's actual words):

John Mark Comer's Message
Worry Has a Name

Treshures on earth=coins, gold, clothes

Don’t stor up for yourselves in heavean-heaven is slippery

God talked about the heart

One persercent on grade=no

Stor up heaven on earth

How long dois the tan last?

Ten bucks, spend it on the handey caft children

Heated stearing wheel

I’m going to work 8, 9, 10, to 11 days

How long will your kids last? My anser is till their 100.

Helthy eye or killed eye

Good heven, bad heaven

Share, pass the blessing on, but if your not healthey, disipatent into thin

Quit your job, no, instead help your naborse (neighbors)

And buy more stuff? No, you need nothing.

God's Name in Haiti

Two weeks ago, I arrived home in Portland along with nineteen incredible women and four heroic men who sacrificed their week to protect and care for us in Haiti. Together we went on one of the hardest journeys of our lives…and one of the most amazing. Instead of journeying alone, we did it arm-in-arm as sisters (and brothers) in Christ.


For eight months our team had been praying and preparing to join several hundred pastor's wives and other female leaders from churches across Haiti at the first conference planned specifically for them. Our desire was to encourage these women by sharing God's many names. Immanuel. Abba Father. Light of the World. Mighty Creator. El Roi—the God who sees me. As we spoke about God's names, we hugged these women and prayed with them. And the American missionaries (as the ladies called us) all came home blessed far beyond words.

It's taken me these two weeks to begin to process a small part of what I saw during my week. The people that I met; the stories I heard. The women who shared the anguish of their heartaches after the earthquake and the beauty of redemption, about tragedy and miracles and hearing the voice of God.

A glimpse of their stories:

• A woman whose house pancaked under her feet as she stood on the roof. Her twelve children were below. Even as her neighbors mourned the loss of this woman's family, she continued to pray until she heard a voice in the rubble. And then she heard another voice. It seemed impossible, but every one of her children crawled out of their collapsed home.

• A young son who was led out of the ruins of his house after the earthquake, holding the hand of a man in "bright white." Once the boy got outside, the man disappeared.
  

• A woman who heard God's clear voice telling her on that fateful Tuesday to "put down her ironing and go to church." She argued with God in her busyness, but His voice persisted. So she obeyed even though she felt silly, sweeping the church while there was so much for her to do at home, but she remained until the church began to shake. Her house collapsed, but she and her family survived and praised the Lord in the streets.

• A father who risked his life to run back into his collapsed house and save his daughter.

• A woman who dug her deceased daughter out of a university building and carried her back to the ruins of Carrafour to bury her.
  

• My dear new sister, Pastor Elizabeth, who was trapped under the rubble for far too long. Her head and chest were exposed to the street, her legs buried under a wall. When the Americans arrived, she was their first amputee and spent nine months in a hospital, teetering between life and death. She promised God, if He let her live, she would go to Bible school and spend her life telling others about Him. In June, Pastor Elizabeth beamed as she told me, she graduated from Bible school.

On the last day of the conference, Pastor Elizabeth pulled me aside and opened her Bible. Inside was a color picture of her on graduation day. She smiled as she pointed out her prosthetic leg in the photo, a testament to her of God's grace, and then she handed the picture to me. At first, I said "no." I couldn't possibly take what might be the only picture of her graduation. But she insisted, so I took her beautiful gift. I took it and I will treasure it--for the rest of my life. I rushed to my seat after receiving her gift and returned with a picture of me and my family for her. We're sisters, you see, now and for eternity.

These women lost so much from the earthquake. Many of them lost everything. "We couldn't find anything, not even a cup," one of them told me. "But I didn't lose my faith. I didn't lose my Savior."

Now I'm crying as I write this post, thinking of these beautiful women and their stories. This is the reason it's taking me so long to process. It's too much. I felt so inadequate to be on this trip, very small among a group of godly missionaries, and yet, I discovered that what some of these Haitian sisters needed most was not for me to bless them with eloquent words or (thankfully) immaculate attire. In fact, they didn't need me to talk much at all. They needed me to "see" them as God sees them. El Roi. They needed me to listen, and as I did, I promised them I would treasure the stories they shared. Then I promised them I would share their stories with you.

I fell in love with the Haitian women. God clearly speaks to them and through them. When they pray, they gather around you, all of them laying hands on you and speaking at once. I didn't need to understand Creole to feel the power of their words or the power in their worship.

One of my favorite moments was standing with all my American sisters in front of the room, praising Jesus in English as our Haitian sisters sang in Creole. One of the Haitian ladies grabbed me and began to whirl me around as they worshiped God in their dance. Out of my comfort zone? Very much. Did I love every moment of it? Absolutely!! Together we danced before the Lord.

Other Haiti moments I'll never forget:

• The toddler who clung to me as I walked through Grace Village…or was that me, clinging to her?

• Sleeping on the roof of the hospital where we stayed—a grand, giggly slumber party with my sistas. Stars above us, soft breezes blowing around us, the many sounds of Haiti below us, lush mountains beside us. Then waking to the spectacular sunrise over the sea as God painted the devastation of Haiti with His glory. The rubble faded away in the beauty of His light.

• Chewing and spitting out wads of fibery sugar cane, much like chewing on the bubble gum I love at home.

• Celebrating our dear brother David Hames who died during the earthquake with prayer for his family and his favorite treat—gummy bears--on his birthday. I was able to share the redemptive story of his life and death with a group of women who understood. Then seeing the site of the Hotel Montana from a rooftop with my faithful friend Jodi Stilp who journeyed through this loss alongside our family.

• Lining up to "jump by generation" into the Caribbean Sea and then eating my first goat kebab.
  

• Riding back through Port-au-Prince at night—burning trash along the sides of the windy roads, candles in the alleyways, protester roadblocks on the main roads, turning our bus around multiple times with traffic on every side, people staring at our light-skinned faces in the windows. I was doubly thankful that night—for our heroic bus driver who seemed to smile through it all in his "Burger Thing" T-shirt and for the traffic laws in the U.S. that keep cars (for the most part) on opposite sides of the road.

• Watching the palm trees sway in the breeze with the backdrop of mountains and clear blue sea, for above the rubble there is beauty in their dance just as there is beauty in the eyes of the Haitian women as they danced before the Lord.

• Taking a "two cup" shower on our last morning because someone had cut our water line. And being very thankful for my two cups!

Being reminded constantly that what Satan means for evil, God can use for incredible good.

After traveling all day on Monday, I ran down the hall of the Portland airport to hug my sweet husband and girls. I missed them more than I can say and their notes, flowers, and love that night made me cry once again. Hours later, my life returned to its steady busyness—editing my manuscript, taking my kids to school, loading up my blessed laundry machine with dirty clothes.

Even now, my small suitcase is still not unpacked. Every item I take out has a wonderful memory attached to it. Every scribbled note from a Haitian sister or drawing from a child is something I want to cherish. I'm just not quite ready to put it all away.

And so I will linger on my time in Haiti, maybe for months or even years to come. Remembering, reflecting, and praying for those women who don't want to leave Haiti because they love their country and their people.

Next time I visit Haiti—and if God allows it, I'm certain there will be a next time—I hope that I won't be running back through the airport to see my family at the end. Next time, I hope my family is deplaning along with me, long after I've introduced them to my beautiful Haitian friends.

With much joy,

~Melanie

P.S. Much thanks to one amazing photographer (Jodi Stilp) for taking the above pictures and more than a thousand beautiful photos for our team and to Mike Varadi (one of our heroes) for capturing our week on video.

Giving Away Ten Copies of Love Finds You in Nazareth, Pennsylvania

Love Finds You in Nazareth, Pennsylvania, my latest historical romance novel, released this month. To celebrate, I'll be giving away ten copies in November.

To enter the contest, please leave a brief comment below with your email address. I will draw names on November 9th and email the winners.

Here's more info about the story:

Christian and Susanna Boehler had never spoken when they were chosen by lot to marry in a Moravian community in Germany. But in 1754, they travel to Pennsylvania with a dozen other newly married couples to establish the settlement of Nazareth and share their faith with the surrounding Indian nations. Just as Susanna’s heart begins to warm toward her husband, she learns that he had asked to marry another woman—and that he loves her still.

As war rages between the British and French Indians and their young marriage faces hardship, will Susanna and Christian remain strangers in marriage, or will their hearts finally be united in love?

Thanks for celebrating with me!

~Melanie

Christmas Journey to Nazareth

The windows in Nazareth, Pennsylvania make the entire village glow during Christmas, each one lit with a solitary candle that beckons visitors inside, out of the snow. Pine wreaths wrapped in ribbons decorate painted doors. White stars adorn wooden and stone homes alike and twinkling lights color the evergreen that towers on Center Square.

I spent several days last December in this magical village researching for Love Finds You in Nazareth, Pennsylvania. The citizens of Nazareth embrace Christmas with quiet charm, and in the midst of the décor and festivities, there is the constant reminder of the child who initiated this season, of the boy who lived an ocean away and almost two thousand years past in another village called Nazareth.

Pennsylvania’s Nazareth is an eclectic mixture of both old and new. Colonial and contemporary. A gray stone hall, built in 1744 by the Moravians (Unity of the Brethren), anchors the east side of town, and sprinkled throughout the village are grand Victorian residences beside smaller clapboard homes.

I spent hours in this stone building, now named the Whitefield House, as I read journals from the 1700s. What a delight it was to find records of my ancestor Maria Beroth in these journals as well as information about my great (to the fifth) grandparent’s marriage in Bethlehem in 1758.

During my stay in Nazareth, I took a candlelight tour late one night and walked across the plaza below the grand manor built for Count Zinzendorf in the 1750s. During the day, I explored the quiet hillside above town where the first Moravian brothers and sisters were buried. From the Indian Tower, I could see miles and miles of hills, farmland, and forest. Before I left Nazareth, I drove to the Pocono Mountains just north of the village to experience just a small taste of how hard it would have been to be a Moravian missionary to the Indians, filled with both awe and fear as they traveled by foot across these mountains to visit the various settlements.

Six thousand people now make Nazareth their home. While there are a variety of denominations and faiths represented among the residents, Moravian tradition is still embedded in the culture of Nazareth. And the history of the Moravian people—the heritage of my ancestors—is threaded through the heart of the town.