A poignant 10 year anniversary

This week marks the 10th anniversary of our arrival as missionaries in Singapore.

I have a framed B&W print next to our front door as a reminder that every transition has its trade-offs. Done by my brother Paul from one of may father's old negatives, the print is of our late Uncle Joe looking over a vineyard to the Kaweah peaks. Ten years ago I entered a different place in a new role full of challenges and blessings. But the transition has not been without emotional pain.

It was a significant transition for me, on that day after Christmas, when Chin Cheak, Walter and I boarded the plane at LAX (a very chaotic place in those day because of 9/11). We arrived in Singapore 18 or so hours later on the 28th of December. I had visited Singapore before, but never expected I would be living in that "fine" city. Chin Cheak came to teach at her alma mater, Trinity Theological College; I came in nervous openness to the Spirit. I had already spoken over the phone with Bishop Robert Solomon, of The Methodist Church in Singapore, and I knew I would be working with him, with focus on communications and whatever else he had in mind. I was excited about ministry possibilities, yet at the same time I felt like a valley oak tree transplanted to the tropical swamps, a bit anxious about my adaptability. Of course, by God's grace, I have adapted. We have all adapted in various ways over the 10 years. I have organized many events, written numerous articles, taught a few seminars, preached in many churches, counseled and baptized new Christians and even played in a local orchestra. I've developed many friendships and associations, learned a lot about the local customs, enjoyed local food, and learned some Mandarin (though not critical for my work).

One memory is particularly poignant from this week 10 years ago. Christmas day 2001 was the last time I saw my father alive. I have kept a special room in my memory for that day.

My family and I had driven up to Dinuba the day before Christmas from Temple City where we had done our final packing after four months of missionary training in Atlanta. It was so imperative for me to visit with the family before going off to southeast Asia. Since the days when both maternal and paternal grandparents had settled in the central California farm town of Dinuba in the early 20th century, family gatherings were always important. Christmas was the most important for family reunions. We gathered on Christmas eve at cousin Esther and Robert's house.

The next day at my parents place it was quiet in the morning. My parents were aging, but Mom still seemed fairly capable. Dad mostly sat, with impaired vision and hearing. He walked slowly with a cane or walker after a hip fracture the previous year, and heart attack earlier in 2001. Before lunch I asked him to go out and help prune the vines. I knew he was now too weak to do any pruning. But the little remnant of Thompson vines needed some care, and I was volunteering to to do my part. In years past I had done my part, along with my three brothers and one sister, to care for Dad's little vineyard. The land and the vineyards had been formative for me. So we walked out the back door, grabbed the pruning shears. I hadn't pruned vines for years, so I waiting patiently as he reminded me how many canes to leave, and how many spurs. You need to have enough spurs so you can have grapes the next year. Though he couldn't see very well, it seemed like he knew when I hadn’t cut enough cane. I pruned and we chatted sporadically. It was cold, but not quite freezing. Eventually he had to return to the house, because he couldn’t stand very long. I pruned a few rows, and then trudged in when the call came for dinner.

Later, after a protracted lunch, brother Paul produced some prints of one of Dad's old negatives, including the one of Uncle Joe. Paul had printed something for everyone. I was happy to have the one of Uncle Joe, since when I was young, Dad often mistakenly called me Joe. I nudged him, "Can you sign mine?" I asked. I handed him a pen, and he signed the same vigorous signature that I had seen so many times - David Martzen, with a special flair on the 'z'. That afternoon we opened gifts, and then, car packed a little tighter, we drove off at dusk. Tears welled in my eyes as I left Dinuba, remembering the parting words of my sister, Phyllis, "You might not see Dad again." Less than two months later he was gone. With the assistance of Bishop Solomon, we flew back to attend the funeral.
--georgos