Yesterday I read in the local newspaper a story about three of the eyewitnesses and the disturbing impact it had on them. One was having a particularly difficult time because witnessing this suicide compelled her to revisit her own suicidal thoughts of jumping to her death just a few years ago. I hope she will be able to turn this experience into a gift. A personal gift for her. The gift of life. I hope she will realize the ripple effect suicide has on not only family and friends, but the loss that one single life has on society. I hope it will cause her never to entertain a suicidal thought again. If those thoughts ever come creeping back into her consciousness, I hope she will get professional help immediately. Suicide is a preventable public health problem and it affects everyone.

I found relief in the article when I read the words, “Her name was Jill.” Every suicide victim has a name. This person was somebody. Somebody’s child, sibling, parent, cousin – someone. And her name was Jill. Jill Haralson the paper said.

Her parents are on my mind and in my prayers. Complete strangers to me, I am connected to them as a fellow survivor. The gift of compassion is a blessing and a curse. Empathetic thoughts without relief, I understand and I feel.

I have always avoided this flyover because of my fear of heights. This suicide made an impact on me because I know what it is like to lose a loved one to suicide. My older brother took his life at age fifty-one. He was somebody too. His name was Rick. He was a son, a father, a brother, and an uncle. I refuse to allow his suicide to overshadow his remarkable life. It’s just not right for a few moments to erase the years.

I am certain that Jill had a remarkable life too. “Because He lives I can face tomorrow,” but facing it without our loved one is painful. I pray that Jill’s family and friends can let go of what can become incessant thoughts of: “I wish I could have…” “I wish I had only known…” “If only I…” I pray for comfort knowing that Jill is finally home resting in peace. A peace we can never humanly comprehend while on this earth. Nor can we comprehend the hopelessness Jill must have felt.

Helpful links:
www.save.org
www.suicidepreventionlifeline.

I was irritated by this morning’s phone call. It was a bill collector calling for someone else, not me. To say that it irks me when a caller is seeking one of my adult children because of delinquent bills or an unpaid traffic ticket is an understatement. I taught them better than that. I can’t even comprehend their reasoning when it comes to unpaid traffic tickets.

So what’s with the phone call? The collection agency wasn’t calling for one of my kids, the person was asking for my husband’s ex-wife, whom I’ll call, Ann (not her real name). Mind you, I’ve been married to my husband for twenty-one years. Ann has never had this address nor telephone number. Obviously a search engine has spit out every possible connection to Ann and my telephone number was among them. I was courteous to the caller, told him more information than he probably wanted to know, but I am hoping word will get out, please, “I didn’t do it and I’m not responsible!”

Not only did the phone call send my thoughts to the past, they flew to the future too. I recently read that our “current administration” is hammering the credit card companies. They will no longer be able to have hidden fees associated with unpaid balances. The purpose is to protect the consumer that gets behind on payments. The credit card companies plan to recover the loss by charging everyone an annual fee for a credit card. I use a credit card for most of my purchases to earn air miles. I pay the balance in full every month. Because other people spend more than they can afford, I will soon pay a fee for every card I hold. It just doesn’t see fair to pay more because someone else can’t manage his money. Granted, some lose jobs and have other circumstances. Don’t get me wrong, I am thankful for my blessings and I want to help those in need. I’m talking about the ones who scam the rest of us: the ones who don’t play fair.

Yep, I was going to really raise a stink about this today. And then I heard my parents’ voices from the past telling me, “life isn’t fair.” It is true life isn’t fair. I am not so perfect and someone paid the price for me. He paid with His life to pay my ransom. Thank you Jesus, that life isn’t fair.

Today’s sightseeing was the Stoa of Attalos, Temple of Hyphaestion and Ayii Apostoloi, the only one of nine churches to survive (1,000 years) within the walls of Ancient Agora. This area was once the commercial center of ancient Athens. Dry and dusty, it’s still a beautiful area where the view of modern civilization is out of view.

With a little imagination one could visualize the ancient city, with Socrates discussing philosophy with Plato and Zeno under the colonnades of the Stoa of Attalos erected in the 2nd century BC by Attalos, a king of Pergamum. Today the reconstructed version is filled with sculptures of historical and mythological figures from 3rd and 4th centuries BC.

The Temple of Hyphaestion standing on a low hill is the best-preserved Doric temple. It is roped off to the public and I was somewhat jealous of the pigeons that entered at will and deposited perhaps more destruction than a human would if allowed to enter. The temple was originally dedicated to Hephaistos, god of metal workers. Standing at the entrance, looking in the opposite direction, my attention was immediately drawn to the majestic view of The Acropolis standing high in the distance and then drawn to the nearby lower elevation of Aeropagus (Mars Hill) where the Apostle Paul spoke. I can only imagine the sense of urgency Paul must have felt as he looked to the Acropolis with it’s pagan temples towering over him and then in the opposite direction just below his post to see worshippers at the Temple of Hyphaestion. The fruit of his labor can be seen in the remnants of Ayii Apostoloi erected more than 1,500 years after Paul preached.

Acts 17:22-28 NIV -Paul then stood up in the meeting of the Areopagus and said:
“Men of Athens! I see that in every way you are very religious. For as I walked around and looked carefully at your objects of worship, I even found an altar with this inscription: TO AN UNKNOWN GOD. Now what you worship as something unknown I am going to proclaim to you.

“The God who made the world and everything in it is the Lord of heaven and earth and does not live in temples built by hands. And he is not served by human hands, as if he needed anything, because he himself gives all men life and breath and everything else. From one man he made every nation of men, that they should inhabit the whole earth; and he determined the times set for them and the exact places where they should live. God did this so that men would seek him and perhaps reach out for him and find him, though he is not far from each one of us. ‘For in him we live and move and have our being.’ As some of your own poets have said, ‘We are his offspring.’

After lunch in the heat of the day I might add, we walked the steep and steady incline towards the Acropolis. Near the entrance is Aeropolis (Mars Hill) where Paul* preached. It’s a small hill overlooking ancient Athens. Natural stone steps led to the top and for visitors with a less steady step, a metal stairway was available. I took the metal stairs and as I began to climb my heartbeat increased, not because of the physical stress on my body but the mental stress of the increased elevation. Not only do I have a fear of heights, I don’t like steps that are made of metal grates where I can see the ground below through the metal slats. I panted in fear as I continued to the top and then stood erect, stiff, as if my immobility improved the situation. In the distance I could see visitors winding their way up the path to the Acropolis and told my husband, “There is no way I can go up there if I can’t even sit in the upper balcony level of Bass Hall.”

An elevator is available for the impaired, including the acrophobics. Since I had no idea where the elevator deposited its patrons I decided to take the scenic route. The entrance to the Acropolis is via several slick stone steps ala natural without tacky, but safe handrails through the Beule Gate and then through the Propylaea, an imposing marble structure designed to instill the proper reverence in worshippers after they passed from the temporal world into the spiritual world. I’m certain I was caught in a time warp between the two worlds. I simply could not go any further. There is another set of pan steps, again for the less surefooted: pan meaning concrete poured into a metal frame. I tried the manufactured steps and just couldn’t do it. They wrap around the outer edge of the Acropolis, which by the way means, “High City.”

My husband and daughter went on without me. I felt like a scared child, lost without her mother. I observed the people who unassumingly passed me by. They didn’t pay the least attention to the danger lurking at each slippery stone. I watched the people descending from this lofty place – olds ones and toddlers.

A million thoughts raced through my mind. I wanted to see this stone wonder. But I was afraid. I had traveled thousands of miles to see this and now, because of my fears I was going to stand outside, just out of sight. What would I say to my friends when they asked, “Did you see the Parthenon?” After baking in the blistering heat I decided perhaps I could at least walk to the first ledge if I didn’t look to either side. But what if I got up there and was afraid to come down? Ironic that earlier in the day I had been reading the book, “Sailing Between the Stars.” Was it an omen to my day? Perhaps I would soon be sailing between the stairs, not stars. I walked to the first level and stopped thankfully, because a herd of school kids came stampeding out. They were so reckless they could have fallen…or knocked a scaredy cat off her feet. I wished I had blinders just like an old horse. I finally made it to the top.

It’s a large flat area and looked something like a construction site. The bright sun reflected off the bleached white rock. Cranes and scaffolding marred the picturesque grandeur of the monuments. OK, so now I’ve seen the Parthenon, the Erechtheion, and the Temple of Nike, at least what’s left of them!

We’re renting an apartment for two weeks. It’s typical European, at least for the parts of Europe I’ve seen. Small, clean, air conditioning is via the breeze through a window, the bed level is near the floor, and the shower is a challenge. It’s got a hand-held sprayer meaning I must hold the nozzle with one hand and wash with the other. Shampooing hair is not practical. Enough said about accommodations. I am here to see Greece and to enjoy their culture. The people are friendly, engaging, and I’ve yet to meet a Greek who didn’t speak fluent English – impressive!

Fred had already returned home to his wife and only child when American soldiers freed Nikolai and the other prisoners from their death camps. The war had finally ended. The USSR had expected any soldiers who became prisoners to take their own life. If they did not and returned home to Russia, they were sentenced to a Siberian prison. Nikolai, an atheist with no place to go stayed as a refugee in Germany. He had lost his family and his homeland.

Fred was working as an agricultural county extension agent when he felt God’s call upon his life to be a preacher. He returned to college and eventually on to seminary. After an encounter with God, Nikolai became a believer and he and Fred ended up at the same small seminary in Louisiana. By then, Fred was ordained as a preacher and conducted his first funeral that for Nikolai’s firstborn child. They each earned doctorates in theology and parted for careers as college professors—Fred to Texas and Nikolai stayed in Louisiana. They sporadically kept in touch through letters, exchanged Christmas cards, and Fred sent Nikolai copies of his poetry books and commentaries. As the number of friends expands, life gets busier, men age, and staying in close contact becomes increasingly difficult, but the tightly twisted cords of friendship remain.

Years ago my parents, Fred and Sarah, and I were putting together a scrapbook of their life—more than fifty years of marriage sandwiched between their respective childhoods and ancestors. The enormous task was less daunting because my mother had organized their life into segments: wedding, college days, war days, ancestors, places they lived, and so on. As we worked together placing photos and memorabilia onto pages my parents would reminisce and tell the stories behind the pictures. My sister’s name, Katrinka was one Daddy had heard while serving in Europe. Disappointedly, they couldn’t remember where they got my name, Belinda.

One particular photo was of a former seminary classmate, Nikolai Alexandrenko, his wife and young son. I liked the rhythm of that name: Nikolai Alexandrenko. Daddy said Nikolai had been a Russian war prisoner of the Germans and kindled a fire to stay warm using pages torn from a Bible when he became interested in reading the text. His life was transformed and after the war he immigrated to America, attended college, went on to seminary, and taught at Louisiana College. For more than fifty years Nikolai had no contact with his family for fear of retaliation by the communists. Just prior to the fall of communism in 1991, Nikolai returned to his native Russia in search of relatives, to share about a life in Jesus Christ, and established a seminary. Not only did I like his name, I was awed by his story and asked my dad to write it and place it in the scrapbook next to the picture. My parents and I completed the scrapbook and my father “Fred” died the following year.

Evangelism has always been a natural part of my family. I participated in missions as a youth and teenager. As an adult my older sister, Katrinka has spent most of her summers on short-term mission trips to Eastern Europe, primarily Poland, Belarus and most recently, Ukraine. She is responsible for recruiting me into these mission trips teaching conversational English and sharing Jesus Christ.

Our father died in 2000, before Google was a household name and a verb. Recently, Katrinka and I were looking at the scrapbook when I decided to “Google” that melodious name. In America where Alexandrenko is uncommon, it didn’t take long to locate information. I found a Belinda Alexandrenko and sent her an inquiring email. Her response was, “Yes I am his daughter and I was named after you.” She promised to send me a copy of her father’s book, a memoir with that awesome testimony as the byline. Fred and Nikolai each had six children and a daughter named Belinda.

I went back to Google and found a recorded sermon of Nikolai Alexandrenko telling his story. At the time of the recording he was already eighty-three years old. He talked of his homeland, Russia and now more specifically, Ukriane. He mentioned cities such as Odessa, Kharkov, Kiev and Chisinau, places where two of Fred’s daughters and a granddaughter have ministered.

As I listened mesmerized by the work of The Weaver I could clearly see several of the dark but mostly colorful threads The Weaver had so loving knit together of these two lives and more thread on His spool.

Nikolai Alexandrenko Hear his story of being a WW II Russian soldier imprisoned by the Germans and finds hope in a fire when he discovers two religious tracts written in his native language.

Mother why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you cry out, “My baby’s in rehab and I don’t know what to do!” I could have cried with you. I could have prayed right there on the phone for mercy, for healing, for peace. Instead you are alone in your sorrow and me in mine. Your son, my friend who needs more than either of us can give.

Mother, why didn’t you tell me? Were you afraid I would judge? So what if I had? Would that make a difference? Would it have changed his circumstance or yours?

Mother, why didn’t you tell me so that I could have had the choice of compassion or condemnation? For compassion frees the soul for both you and me and our hearts could be lighter as we shared a common bond. Condemnation only binds us to the slavery of self-hate.

“Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ” (Galatians 6:2-3 NIV).

I found it rather humorous that he would order a plate of sugary donuts and top it off with a diet soda – emphasis on “diet.” The man noticed the smirk on my face and said, “Oh, excuse me.” I assume referring to the amount of time it had taken to get all of his family orders placed. I explained the humor in his selection of a sugar packed breakfast with a Diet Coke. Funny thing is, as I had pondered his activities I realized I was about to do the same thing. I clued him in on my observations as we shared a laugh at how crazy Americans think and no wonder that Europeans don’t understand us. “Further more” he said, “we’re loading our kids up on all this sugar and then we’re going to drop them off at the daycare.” We parted and I wolfed down my kolache and Diet Coke as I drove away thinking, How many times do I make a judgement about what others are doing when I am guilty of the same thing?

Matthew 7:1-3 says, “Stop judging others, and you will not be judged. For others will treat you as you treat them. Whatever measure you use in judging others, it will be used to measure how you are judged. “ (New Living Translation)