These Strange Ashes

“For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the LORD. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts.” — Isaiah 55:8-9 (KJV)

By the autumn of 1952 Betty was on the far western slope of the Andes, below the clouds, in a belt of dense, wet forest. Near the frontier town of Santo Domingo was a scattering of clearings called San Miguel de los Colorados. The Spanish called the people there the Colorados, “the red ones,” because the men dyed their hair bright red with paste from the achiote seed. Their own name is Tsáchila. Their language had never been written down. Betty joined three other single women missionaries as the team's linguist. This was the work she had spent eight years preparing for.

There was no grammar, no dictionary, no teacher. She pointed at things and wrote down what people said. She listened to the same word again and again until she could hear its sounds, and filed everything on cards. It rained constantly. There were insects, snakes and mud. Most of the Colorados were polite but not interested. What she needed most was an informant: someone who spoke Colorado as a native and Spanish well enough to explain it.

Then came the first loss. A Colorado woman went into a hard labour, and Betty was there. She wasn't a nurse, and no doctor could be reached. What help could be given was given, and it wasn't enough. The woman died. Betty was shaken to the roots. She had come believing God would bless work done in obedience to him. She had obeyed, and a young mother was dead.

Then came the answer to her prayers. A man named Don Macario had grown up on a farm alongside Colorado children and spoke both languages with ease. He was a believer, intelligent and patient, and willing to help. Day after day they sat together. Words became lists, and lists became patterns. She began to see how an alphabet might work. It must have felt as if God was finally confirming her call.

Then Macario was killed. By the account usually given, he was clearing land he believed was his when some men arrived and claimed it, and when he wouldn't give way, he was shot dead. There was no one to replace him, and the work stopped. She had prayed for a helper, God had given one, and now he was gone in the most senseless way imaginable. If obedience didn't guarantee results, what did it guarantee?

In January 1953 she became engaged to Jim (that story is next) and had to leave for the other side of the Andes. She packed her notebooks, cards and charts into a suitcase to send to the colleagues who would carry on. As far as anyone knows, there were no copies. The suitcase was stolen from the back of a truck. Whoever took it found nothing of value to them. Nearly everything she had to show for her time among the Colorados was gone.

More than twenty years later she wrote about that year in a book called These Strange Ashes. The title came from a poem by Amy Carmichael about the ashes left after an offering has burned, and “this baffling sense of loss.” Betty didn't claim she had later found the hidden reasons. She decided the reasons were God's business. The question she had to answer wasn't “Why did God do this?” but “Will I keep trusting him without an explanation?”

Isaiah 55 isn't an explanation either. It's a reminder that God doesn't owe us one. Maybe you've done the right thing and watched it go wrong anyway. Faith that only works when things succeed isn't really faith yet. Betty learned that at twenty-six, earlier than most people do.

One thing to do this week: think of a time you did your best and it still fell apart. Tell God honestly what you don't understand about it. Don't force yourself to find a reason. Just ask him to help you keep trusting him anyway.