November 2000

Dear Saints and Aints.

Shalom from Nagpur, India.

This newsletter will probably be the worst one ever written since that genre of "literature" came into existence some 10,000 years ago . . . I know my mother told me a million times not to exaggerate but as you read on you will concur with my assessment of this piece of literature.

However, I dare not delay any longer this job of apprising you of my whereabouts and the general state of affairs as they concern me and my own. So, I must write...

When I had a chance to procure a tourist visa in early October, in Ottawa, I did fearing I might not receive one later. After that things got hectic. I arrived back in the Lower Mainland on the 2nd, had a meeting on the 6th, 7th and 8th of October and left on the 9th. The morning of October 12th, after a tiring 56-hour journey, saw me back in Nagpur. Still tired from a hectic itinerary and some 40,000 km of driving while in Canada, this long, tense, tiring journey almost seemed the last straw. Arriving at the home I was overwhelmed at the reception and the obvious joy of staff, kids and friends. It is simply incredible. One of the young staff said: "You can sit in the easy chair all day and do nothing. We just want you to be here."

Some friends are trying to help me to secure a proper visa and permission to stay beyond the present 6 month. But I am confident that the God who kept me here 29 years will continue to do so - especially with your prayers joining mine.

For one month after my return, I scarcely paid attention to what went on around me except in my room and the staff devotions. When everybody began to wonder what I was up to, one of the "boys" now married has a wife and two kids and is on the staff - predicted: "He is only hibernating, just wait till he comes out of his cave . . ." So, one fine day I ventured forth at 5.15 AM to check up on the kids. I also needed the exercise, as I was getting rather big around the middle. It began to seem that every time I talked to a kid, I was making a "long distance call" . . . Furthermore, Yohan was in the village. To my dismay, though the rising bell had been "banged" - the kids slept on. I found out later that they thought hitting the bell with an iron rod was the superintendent's ways of building up his arm muscles . . . The Superintendent figured why bother to enforce German discipline without the old German being around. Well, the "old German" is around again . . .

I am a disciplinarian! My approach is pure and simple: "Slug 'em and hug 'em." My logic is just as simple: "If you do not punish the bad, you punish the good for being good." Furthermore, I like to control by discipline rather then fences, by "thus saith the Boss" rather then bars and locked doors; I also like to discipline individuals rather than make a blanket taboo for everybody. Disobedience is swiftly followed by disciplinary action, which for the big boys means a day of extra work. For the little fellows - well, we consider hanging or quartering only after we run out of alternatives.

Yohan did a tremendous job in both the Nagpur home and the girl's home. In Nagpur the All Purpose Hall is getting the finishing touches, Don Raymer, who visited us in October inaugurated the office that bears his name. Other less imposing structures saw completion. He certainly worked hard. I visited the girl's home with him and was impressed with the beautiful building he put up; he managed to finish 4 out of 7 big rooms. Once completed - he dreams of adding three more floors - it will be an imposing structure with none to match far and wide in that area. He also dreams of acquiring 5 more acres of land adjacent to the girl's home . . . But more than the building will be all the girls that will find a shelter there. Yohan's sister-in-law, Jamuna, the superintendent, matches Yohan's enthusiasm and hard work with a beautiful personality and a deep, God-touching faith.

Our little Assembly, rather small when I left, is now well attended. The young bearded pastor looks but like an overgrown teenager belying his 28 years. The young song leader has a sore throat, which adds nothing to his already quiet voice. In spite of all our efforts, the microphones work only sporadically and usually on the last song. The "worship team" boys aged between 12 and 16 - though "worshipping" - are not always sure whether the tune goes with the particular song they are singing or not. Our music instruments - an old keyboard, a couple of tambourines and a drum - labor hard in disunity to bring melody into all of it and - the congregation - happily - sings. The preaching, by yours truly, is simple, lacking in oratory, good style and profundity but is practical. Christianity is after all not about theories but practice. Counting angels and see whether they are male or female or figuring out how God smells are not really part of Christianity. But loving God and our neighbor with all our heart - is. It is not attended by miracles, or promises of riches or divine health only by the promise that believing in Jesus Christ "we will walk out of this life alive". Yet in spite of all these "shortcomings" our little assembly is growing and church is a happy occasion.

Our daily staff devotions are well attended and so are the weekly cottage prayer meetings. I have fun on all fronts. As I wrote to a friend: "This place is a cross between the famed L'abri sans the famous Francis Schaeffer and madhouse; a place dominated by young people led by an "old" man, a place like none other in the world and yet, with all its contradictions - a happy place. In short, this place is an extension of my personality and character with all its flaws and with all that that entails: - The good and bad, the wise and foolish, the magnanimity and pettiness - I doubt if outsiders would ever understand this place and its occupants. With all the speaking engagements in the home and church I find my time to get into mischief is rather limited." It is unbelievably wonderful to be home.

Today was for me "The Mother of all Birthdays" . . . What a day! The 65th occurrence of that day when the midwife, holding me up by my ankles, so I am told, proudly proclaimed, "It's a boy." The seventh child of a roof maker and his wife both of whom failed to recognize the significance of the number seven in Hebrew thinking - perfection - otherwise my sister, coming two years later would not have seen the light of the world. Yet watching my early life and even the beginning years of my walk as a Christian, the only years they saw, they would hardly have had reason to concur with this thinking of perfection. I am afraid I took a very slow elevator to reach these heights of sainthood which, most of my friends agreeing with me, is still hardly above the first floor.

Today's first event was a cycle race organized by some of the staff. Young people from the surrounding area took part and it was called: "The Frank M. Juelich 65th Birthday Cycle Race." The event started at 6.30 AM and finished at 10.00 AM. I did not race but felt as if I had done so. To mind came my many cycle trips through parts of Europe and the major trip across Southern Europe and Asia to India in 1955 when still hardly more than a boy. The young people seeing this gray-haired "old man" had no clue a "cycle celebrity" was flagging them off - and I did not bother to enlighten them.
Now at the end of the day . . . Above my head, like a begging bowl, hangs the moon. The two lights that "guard" the gate to the guesthouse complex dimly illume a chaotic yet somehow homely scene in the center. In the evening, Yohan arranged a dinner for the staff and some of our friends and neighbors. The garden, now most of it hidden in dark shadows, lies in comfortable silence. Sittings on the edge of a bench my feet absentmindedly kick an empty paper cup. Scattered all around me is the evidence of a successful dinner party: paper napkins, benches and tables scattered all over and in one corner, lazily floating upwards into the dark sky, the smoke of the dying cooking fires.

I gaze unseeing about me my mind buried into the past: blushing as I relive embarrassing moments, sad for the multitude of my misdeeds and smiling at the thought of scattered successes that here and there, like stars, light up the otherwise seeming darkness. The homes, Yohan and the kids are certainly some of those. A gentle breeze, tugging on a tear that somehow slowly makes its way down my cheek, brings me back to the now. The same breeze gently ruffles the surface of the little pool that but a few feet from me nestles between some bushes.

It was in that same pool that this morning eight people -- three women and five men -- followed the Lord through "The Waters" . . . The young men were all at one time in the hostel and the women were the wives of three of them. To me the most precious of these eight - if such a thing is permissible - is Bapu, Yohan's secretary who has been in the Home since 1983. I dreamt about this day . . . Over the years I received many birthday gifts - gifts that all have gone the way of most of such gifts and are now forgotten. This birthday I received eight that will be with me throughout eternity. Suddenly my heart swells and overcome with an incredible, unbearable joy I feel like crying. The wind whispering through the trees sounds like a hymn of celebration while above the mute stars, unmoved by this display of joy, continue in their courses.

Walking towards the little gate on my way to my room, I pass the dogs that happily wag their tail their appetite satiated and now but leisurely gnaw on some bones. As for this old dog the bed beckons. I am only glad that it has accepted me again as its rightful owner and I wake up in the morning with all my bones aching in all the right places.

The last scene my waking thoughts hold -- Walking about the Nagpur compound with Yohan as he shares with me his dreams and aspiration for the homes. Listening to him I feel I moved back in time hearing myself say the self-same things he talks about we will do this and we will have this and . . .. At the end he always groans, "We need more money." Then we encourage one another by pointing out the wonderful things he accomplished during my absence and the wonderful things God accomplished for us during the past 18 years. After that we grin and, like a couple of kids in a toyshop, continue our walk and our talk about yet to be fulfilled dreams. We both agree -- it is good to be alive.

Thank you for your support to Yohan, the kids and myself when there was but silence in return. Please continue to walk with us through the homes, if not in body then in spirit, share our dreams and consequently the joy that their fulfillment brings. Listen to the laughter of children, to their happy songs; look on their bright cheerful faces as before you unfold the realization of our dreams - Yours and Ours . . .

In His great love.

Frank.