The Valuable Investment of Time

Lunch box in hand, I hopped into the passenger side of a 1980-something Ford F-150. I was greeted by Fernando Ortega singing praise songs from the cassette player and the distinct smell of dust. Dave was at the wheel. As we pulled onto the road, he asked me, “So do you love Jesus?” His second question was, “Have you ever worked with drywall?” Yes to the first, no to the second.

Thus began my first career as a drywall finisher. At 18, I had just left my parents in Africa and looked forward to forging my way in life in the suburbs of Chicago. Daunting, to say the least. My brother got me a job with Dave, a drywall finisher in the church. Jesus and drywall, that’s pretty much all Dave talked about. And he only listened to that one cassette of Fernando Ortega. Every day. The same cassette. When that cassette got worn out, he bought the very same cassette to replace it.

Dave was just what I needed, a complement to my own father. He had a direct way of teaching me the trade and giving corrective feedback. Like “I’m not paying you to be creative.” But also “If you left your brain at home, we can adjust the hourly rate accordingly.” One could not accuse Dave of misplacing compliments, which made one more meaningful when he chose to bestow it.
 
The older I get, the more I realize how much Dave gave me during those two years. Beyond his words of wry wisdom, he gave me his time. I’m sure it was quite a few months before I contributed positively to his bottom line. But he patiently taught me a messy, dusty trade that most people do their best to avoid. And we had fun doing it! He explained to me how he dealt with difficult homeowners and demanding contractors. He taught me not to follow his management approach (101 sticky notes on the dashboard). He taught me how to drive—a knee on the steering wheel, a sandwich in one hand, and a phone in the other. Soon after, he helped me negotiate the purchase of my first truck, a 1998 Ford Ranger. He showed me his love for Jesus, for his wife and kids, and his commitment to a flawed church. In all this, he showed love to me.

So, Dave, if you stumble upon this article, thanks for investing in me. After you left Chicago, the business you left in my hands paid for my education in theology and set me on my way to being a missionary in Chad, just like we talked about so often. But more than that, you were a mentor when I needed you to be.
 
Put in other words, my relationship with Dave was the ministry of the church. Dave’s investment in me wasn’t just about drywall—he did the church’s mission to build relationships and make disciples. A hundred years ago, most kids could walk down the street to Grandma’s house for a cookie or a stern lecture. Their uncles and aunts could speak into their lives and complete the role of parents. Today? Families are flung across time zones, and FaceTime can’t quite replace the smell of Grandpa’s pipe.

I have observed two types of relationships that cause my children to flourish in ways that I could not provide: the first is quality time with their peers; the second is when older generations take time for them and are unafraid to speak into their lives.
 
Hadjamama is in her 80s. She lives on our property in Africa because her late husband used to be our guard. Some mornings she can’t get out of bed because of her bone aches, and her biggest chore in the day is making it to the outhouse. But she’s now our guard, my counsel in all things cultural, a busy grandma, and a formidable mother. Most days she’s surrounded by a large handful of neighborhood toddlers while their parents are off working in the fields or selling goods in the market. Hadjamama benefits from a culture where people live side by side, and elders are celebrated instead of sidelined. Relationships are the currency, not just efficiency. If she were in the US, she would probably be in assisted living. That would be easier in a lot of ways. But right now, she is being loved and is a valued contributor to her family.

When I think of Hadjamama, I think of my own daughter! Talitha was born during a trip to the US, but we returned to Chad shortly thereafter. The villagers immediately gave her their own name: Hadjamama. Named for her village grandma of course. Along with the usual angst of bringing a new-born to the bush of Africa was a joyful confidence: this daughter of God would bring the light of Christ to a people who don’t know him. “Hadjamama’s granddaughter” has made friends, been scolded and praised by our neighbors, and harvested the corn with her Chadian “cousins.” She is learning to forgive and be forgiven, to be the presence of God’s Holy Spirit, “growing in wisdom and favor with God and man.”
Friends, this is the role of the Church. As American families are increasingly scattered, we need Dave, Hadjamama, and Talitha. It takes time and it takes intention to mentor a young person, to care for elders, or to be a friend. Fernando Ortega, of course, is optional.