I grew up in rural Finland where my parents had a market garden and I soon learned how dependent we were on God’s sunshine and rain. I was daddy’s “kullan muru,” “gold nugget,” his little garden helper, learning how to pull out the weeds and not the carrots! I thought work was fun. In this picture I am holding, I was a precocious six-year-old, always ready to discover something new. I would forage for wild strawberries and find the earliest spring flowers and tadpoles.
Besides this exposure to God’s “book of nature”, we read the Bible daily at family worship. That is how I learned to read my own Bible as a preschooler, but our Adventist family was not unique in this.
Mikael Agricola, “the father of the Finnish language,” Lutheran bishop of Turku (A.D.1554), who had studied at Wittenberg, where Martin Luther was professor, translated the New Testament into Finnish in A.D. 1548. Instead of in Latin, the Scriptures became available to the people in their own language. It had a huge impact on the literacy of the common people. Lutheranism was declared the official religion of the country in A.D. 1593. In my childhood, it was still the responsibility of the Lutheran pastor to have “lukukinkerit” reading tests, to ensure that his parishioners could read the Bible for themselves, usually held in one of the larger farmhouses.
All villagers were invited. I can still recall the day we entered the posh living room of the farm, only used for special occasions. My mother tells me that I was so excited that I piped up, “I can read myself,” even before the pastor had a chance to ask me for a demonstration! I just remember I was super happy to read out of my own Bible. Of course I passed the test.
A baby brother arrived, we got a nine-month-old German Shepherd puppy; life was carefree and happy. Little did I know how things could change.
I was about nine years of age when I had a life-altering experience. I had been to a youth rally with my parents, and we were returning home by bus, late Saturday night. I was a little tom-boy. The bus driver was my friend and always let me sit next to him on his toolbox.
As the old bus slowed down reaching the bus stop, teenage boys used the manual door opener and jumped out. Right behind them, I thought it was cool and followed suit. I felt the ground under my feet and thought I had landed well, but then everything just blacked out.
The bus driver let my parents off and drove away, not aware that anything bad had happened. My parents called my name, but there was no reply. The boys were scared, running away, shouting, “There she is in the ditch.” My parents found me. There was a light in a nearby house and a taxicab on the road. My mother went to the taxi driver, who already had a customer and she asked if she could borrow the taxi for transporting me to the local doctor’s house, 5 km away. They said it would be fine, except the taxi had engine trouble and would not start. My mother prayed and asked the driver to try to start the engine again and it started. With a blanket from the house as stretcher they carefully placed me in the taxi.
The doctor was off duty, relaxing at home on his day off and according to my parents, a little under the influence. The doctor said he had no facilities to take care of cases like mine and that I would die on the way if transported to the hospital. “Just take her home. If she survives, she will probably become quadriplegic or mentally challenged,” was his diagnosis. He promised to come the next day and see if I was still alive. My parents took me home and telephoned our pastor to let him know what had happened. He promised to have special intercessory prayer at eleven o’clock the next morning at the beginning of his evangelistic effort in the city.
It was war time and people felt the need for God and filled the auditorium which was the local cinema. Around three hundred more people were outside waiting for a second service. Even as an early teen, I enjoyed listening to the pastor’s messages of hope and love. He was a genuine man of faith, my best friend’s father and a second father to me.
My parents spent all night in prayer, as I hovered between life and death, with my lips turning blue. At eleven o’clock the next morning nothing happened, but Pastor Arasola told my parents that he had been a bit late and that exactly at the time when he prayed, I regained consciousness. It was a miracle; God had spared my life for a purpose.
I had a long journey of recuperation, learning to stand and walk again, just like a baby. I had suffered a heavy concussion and bleeding from my left ear. When I returned to school, I had problems with short term memory. God was good to me; he restored my full memory capability. I was later able to pursue graduate studies for a Ph.D. in Sociology.
For the rest of my elementary school years, I was not allowed to participate in sports. But later, I was back doing sports, even skiing down-hill. Every time I skied down a women’s downhill slope at Lake Louise, I sent up a message of thanks to God for the joy it gave me.
Even through the saddest times of my life, I know God is there. While teaching at Burman University (formerly Canadian University College) in March 1991, I received a call from the Netherlands that my firstborn son had accidentally drowned in a canal. Being tulip time in Holland, I could not even get a compassionate seat in the airplane, so my Dutch family took care of the funeral. The students at CUC were wonderful and created a scholarship in my son’s name.
I was to attend a Law and Society Convention in Amsterdam and had planned to spend time with my son. Instead, my best friend from Newbold College, living in England. walked the hills of Shropshire with me and cried with me; then I went back to Holland.
It was after the Gulf War and Israel was rebuilding tourism, offering 25% discount on “camping flights” to Tel Aviv. What a better time to visit Jerusalem and go to the Wailing Wall to mourn my son. I stayed with a pen pal in Haifa, who booked me on discounted Egged Bus Tours from Tel Aviv. The bus had numbered, assigned seats as in airplanes. We were all taxied to the bus station and just waited for the last ones to arrive. I asked the bus driver to wait for me as I just went out for a minute. By the time I came back, the window seat next to mine was occupied by a gentleman who apologized for the delay, as he had been waiting for a couple to share his taxi; they never arrived. “I guess you couldn’t help it,” still a bit miffed with the delay, I countered not too graciously.
After introducing himself as “Michael from England but also from Denmark”, I topped it off by listing all the countries I was from and both of us burst out laughing. After that, we have never felt like strangers.
Michael made sure that I did not lose the group as I was videotaping everything to take back to my students. We spent one unforgettable day together. We experienced God’s presence in the church of Nativity when beautiful choral music encircled us from one of the chapels. We walked in our Saviour’s footsteps on the Via Dolorosa, visited the unforgettable Holocaust Museum and saw the Golden Dome. We stood at the Wailing Wall, and I did not go into my planned depression. Instead, Michael became my lifetime soul mate and we have now been married for over thirty years!
I cannot take you to Jerusalem, but I invite you to meet the Saviour on the pages of The Desire of Ages. This book is wonderful and has changed my life and the lives of many others.
One of my friends was a student literature evangelist in Washington D.C., selling The Desire of Ages from door to door. As he came to a beautiful home, the lady who answered the door told him that if he had not come to her door that day, she would have committed suicide. The lady said she had everything, and a beautiful home, but life had no meaning for her. She bought the book, but rather than just taking the order and delivering later, my friend lent her the book, promising to be back in two weeks. When he came back, the lady had read the whole book through. She said, “Now I know why I want to live”.
While at Andrews University I worked night shifts in a rubber factory. I was asked to train a girl on my job, just for one night. I wondered why and asked the supervisor. “No reason, just do it.” Throughout the night as we talked, this attractive young woman told me that she was not interested in life, not interested in young men, work, hobbies or anything. Simply, life had no meaning. I shared the story of the young woman in Washington D.C. and asked if she would like to read the book, The Desire of Ages, if I lent it to her. She said “Yes.” I brought it with me the next night. Half-way through the book, she thanked me for showing her through the book the true meaning for life.
I would like to encourage you to get a personal copy of this very book for your daily devotions and for sharing with your loved ones—in fact, with anyone God sends your way. May there be many who will find Jesus and his wonderful power of friendship in the pages of this book. I thank God for being such a caring and personal Saviour.
Blessings, A. L. Sinikka Dixon, Professor Emerita of Sociology of Burman University