On February 3rd Dr. John Slater, Karen’s father, passed away after battling Parkinson’s disease for many years. Karen’s parents served as medical missionaries in Africa for 33 years.
As a missionary kid growing up in Ivory Coast, W. Africa, Sunday evenings were a special time for me. Some of my richest memories are from time spent with my Dad in a small village near our mission hospital called Kisankaha.
Late Sunday afternoon I would wrap my African pagne (sarong) around my waist, put my dusty red sandals on my tiny feet and climb into the small white Peugeot truck alongside Dad. As we rode together, we would sing songs, tell jokes and sometimes dive into the deep struggles or concerns of my heart. No subject was off limits. Dad would talk about anything. As we rattled and bumped along the dusty washboard roads on those dark African nights there was an unconditional love that filled the cab of that old truck. I was safe and content with my Dad, and as we neared the village my heart would leap with joy knowing I would soon be holding African babies ...lots of them!
Everyone would sit in a circle with flickering kerosene lanterns and the worship would begin. Beautiful smiles would shine through the darkness as believers shared and prayed with each other. Eventually Dad would preach and our blind friend Koulinyeri would translate the message from French into the local Senoufo Cebaara dialect. No one was ever in a hurry – no one ever worried about the time. There was always a chicken, dog or goat wandering around, but no one seemed to notice.
After the service, Dad would tend to someone that wasn’t feeling well, or check in on an expectant mother ...just trying to ease the harshness of daily African life. Happy and tired, Dad and I would finally return to the car for the ride home. As we rolled back along that same old bumpy road that we grew to love together, I would rub at the white skin on my arm and wonder why my skin wasn’t dark like my friends. The dirt road and the events of the day would take their toll, and I would nestle my head on Dad's lap and fall sound asleep.
As I remember my Dad in this way, it reminds me of our heavenly Father’s love for us. He gently carries us through life in His loving arms when we are tired, worn and weary. He is always there to talk with us about anything if we will just take the time to walk into his presence and share our hearts with Him. Our Lord is never in a hurry and always has time for each one of us.
Towards the end of my Dad’s life, I asked him how he was coping with the pain and struggle of Parkinson’s disease. He replied, "Oh Karen, it is not punishment but polishment. My Lord loves me and knows what I can bear. That is enough." We also talked that day about our bumpy, dusty rides in that old hospital truck to Kisankaha. He remembered our shared Sunday evenings of worship, healing, village life and babies ...and as he did a smile was on his face.
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