Phillip Berryman - Stubborn hope : religion, politics, and revolution in Central America

A Stubborn
Hope

A Stubborn
Hope

WITHOUT DISAPPOINTMENT

Jeanne
DeTellis

with
Renee Meloche

New Missions
P. O. Box 2727
Orlando, Florida 32802

A STUBBORN HOPE

Copyright 1996 by Jeanne DeTellis
Second printing, May 1998
Third printing, January 2011
Published by New Missions
P. O. Box 2727
Orlando, Florida 32802

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form (except for brief quotations in reviews) without the written permission of the publisher.

Printed in the United States of America.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my mother, Anna DeMarco DiPietro, who was born to Italian immigrants on July 22, 1920, in Boston, Massachusetts.

At 12 years of age, my mother fell from an outside iron staircase, suffering internal injuries. A state social worker told my mother she was going to take her to a summer camp for a rest; instead, she was placed in a sanitarium for 18 months. She was separated from her family, and because of the long distance, there were few visits. At the sanitarium, my mother began her search and cried out to know a living God.

Two years later, my Roman Catholic grandparents rented an apartment from a born-again Christian landlady. The landlady encouraged my grandmother to send my mother to church with her at the Boston Christian Assembly. My mother accepted Christ. Soon, my grandmother, grandfather, and other aunts and uncles came to the Lord.

At 29 years of age, my mother had another serious accident. She fell down a full flight of stairs in a retail store. I can remember throughout my childhood that my mother sought God for her health. My father supported her and prayed with her on her bad days. One day at a time, my mother looked to God and found His grace sufficient.

My mother turned her own personal need into an enormous capacity to care for others. My earliest memories are of her caring for a crippled, bedridden woman. Now, at the age of 78, she is still actively ministering to people. Her prayer list is unending.

Moms stubborn hope in God is without disappointment.

Introduction

It was a quiet morning as I strolled along the ocean shore. The sun was peeping from the earth. It was the beginning of a new dawn. Far in the distance, I noticed a sea gull dropping down, then skimming along the waters surface.

It was hard to believe it had been 13 years since George and I first arrived in this poor and desolate country of Haitia country the textbooks said was beyond hope. Now, after the ravages of a November storm that left many dead, the Haitians had quietly begun picking up the pieces of their lives. Through generous donations and volunteers, reconstruction was taking place.

We also received some unexpected blessings from the tragedy. The mud had dried and cracked, enabling the grass to reappearricher, thicker and prettier than ever. But it was the farmers who benefited the most, as the new top soil now covered the plain, nourishing and fertilizing their gardens.

The storm was a fitting paradox to one of lifes great lessons. In every storm that comes our way, we have the opportunity to allow our roots to grow deeper in God, yielding even greater fruit in our lives. The greater the storm, the deeper our roots can grow to make a stronger tree.

I thought over the storms in my own life. With them came an increasing awareness that it was my own sufferings that ultimately helped me to bond with the very people God had called me to serve. As I leaned on Him to help me walk through those valleys and keep-a-going, as my grandmother used to say, God was able to use me more effectively. And in the end, as I learned to put my trust in His unfailing love, I found a hope that would never disappoint.

As I watched the waves cascading in, one at a time, my mind replayed a hundred memories, back to my early struggles, back to my Italian roots and my unexpected entrance into another world.

An Unroyal Name

I pushed my food around my plate, wishing to escape the loud chatter of my family. They were gathered at my grandmothers table after church, trying to make our guest, a visiting pastor, feel comfortable. Being Italians, we were a close-knit family who all lived within a few miles of each other in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

I glanced at my older sister Elizabeth, sitting next to me. At 7 years old, she was definitely the beauty of the family. Tall, slender and more fair-skinned than I, she had long ash-brown hair and brown eyes that were a shade lighter than mine. In contrast, I looked frail and underweight. Even though Mom had rolled my hair in banana curls that morning for church, I already knew I could never compete with Elizabeth.

My mothera petite woman with blue-gray eyes whose parents had immigrated from Italyseemed to enjoy the popularity of her oldest daughter. Raised in a tough, struggling environment, she had suffered a serious brain concussion leaving her with a challenge to regain her health. And since Mom was a borderline anemic and a mother with two little girls, we didnt go out very much, so Elizabeth and I had no one but each other to entertain us. Although I was two years younger, I tagged along with Elizabeth and her friends whenever shed let me.

I wiggled in my seat, impatient to go outside and play. The adult conversation wasnt very interesting for a 5-year-old.

Then, as my grandmother whisked away our dishes and brought out Italian cookies, the conversation shifted. When Mom started to recall the details surrounding my birth, she suddenly had my attention.

I couldnt believe I was pregnant so soon after Elizabeth, she began, shaking her head. Then, I was so sure it would be a boy, I called the baby Robert the whole time I was pregnant.

Drawing a deep dramatic breath, Moms eyes sparkled with amusement as she told about my delivery. You can imagine my shock when he turned out to be a she!

As my family chuckled, I fixed my eyes on a spot in front of me, thinking how disappointed my parents must have been.

I didnt even have a name for her, Mom continued. So I said to the doctor, whose wife just had a baby girl, Whatever you named your baby, thats what Ill name mine.

Slumping down in my chair, I stared at my lap. I knew Mom would never intend to hurt me in any way, but her words seemed to penetrate me like a knife. I understood two things: I was an unplanned pregnancy, and I was supposed to be a boy. And instead of a royal name like my mother Anne, my father Charles, or my older sister Elizabeth, I was named Jeanne, after the doctors baby.

When my mother explained how she had grown to love me as a baby, I was no longer listening. Instead, the story of my birth seemed to control me: I simply wasnt supposed to have happened.

Suddenly, I wanted to disappear. Evaporate.

A deep resolve formed inside me: Since I wasnt supposed to be born, I would have to work harder to prove to others and myself that I could still amount to something.

Despite the story of my birth, I had a very nurtured childhood, with parents who had a strong marriage and loved the Lord. We lived in a modest but clean five-room apartment, only a mile from my grandmothers house where I had been born. Mom opened her home constantly to missionaries and evangelists who visited our large independent Italian Pentecostal Church. Then, after our typical Italian dinner of spaghetti and meatballs, we always had a time of prayer.