Worlds Collide at Christmastide

Yesterday I watched as worlds collided.

A wealthy group of Americans delivered Christmas gifts to an African family who just arrived to our land of plenty.

Adopt-a-Family is a program facilitated through my refugee resettlement workplace. Refugee families who are experiencing their first Christmas in the U.S. are “adopted” by sponsors, who purchase items from a wish list assembled with the help of their case manager. Typical refugee wish lists include everything from microwaves and socks to bicycles and barbie dolls.

One of the most exclusive schools in Houston adopted many families this year; each classroom purchased an impressive collection  and it lifted my heart to see their hallway filled with gifts for needy families.

I accompanied a few fifth grade students and their parents as we excitedly loaded two SUVs full of packages and drove to one of the poorest neighborhoods in Houston to deliver our bounty.

I tried to explain what a refugee is while a very stressed-out mom threatened to pull over the Mercedes if the children didn’t stop fighting over who was eating more European chocolate in the back seat. Just as I felt how keenly their childhood was from my own, we began to compare knee scars and discuss Katy Perry (we agreed her older songs are way better).

When we arrived, we were greeted in true African fashion: with hugs all around, mango juice thrust into our hands, and lots of “God Bless You!”s and “Karibu Sana!” (you are very welcome here). This American girl felt very confused as a pang of homesickness for East Africa washed over me.

I was so proud of my Congolese friends, who have been through so much. They’ve endured threats on their lives because they were born into the wrong tribe. They’ve fled from machetes under the cover of night. And here they were, spreading joy to the privileged and proclaiming the kingdom of God. “By the hand of the God who is good, we escaped!” they exclaimed joyfully to the agnostic anesthesiologist and the stressed-out, stay-at-home mom.

Wide-eyed, the children listened as the proud African mother listed her eight living children, and two dead long ago. “God has surely blessed you,” I replied.

We sat in her bare living room and Zaheri's* face lit up as she told her fellow mamas how thankful she is to be here in America, “where no one will stop you from working to feed your children.” Her four-year-old son bounced excitedly as he tore open brightly-colored gift after gift, his brown eyes growing larger by the minute.

We spoke of our families, and we realized that while our stories may be different, we have common threads among us all: love for our children, hope for the future, the joy of family gathered at Christmas.

And as I sat, facilitating the conversation with my very poor KiSwahili, my heart filled and the Holy Spirit whispered: “I am Lord of them All.”

And I was thankful. Thankful as I remembered that God is even now at work, drawing each of us to himself.

None of us are left alone - not those frightened in the dark forests of the Congo. Not those in the wealthy desert of upscale American neighborhoods. Not even me, when my to do list buries my intentions to celebrate each day of Advent thoughtfully.

The Lord of them All send his Son .... his perfect, fully human son, born of the most humble circumstances.

When he drew his first cry somewhere in Bethlehem, it all changed for us. And when he drew his last breath on a humble cross, he saved us all.

He changed it for us all, and he made our particular darkness light -- For the African mother. For the stay-at-home mom. For the fifth grader with the skinned knee. For me. For you. And for all you love.

It is, indeed, a Merry Christmas.

*Zaheri was excited to have her photograph taken, but her name has been changed, and some faces have been blurred to protect these women and children.

Preparing for Jesus: Ideas for Celebrating Christmas & Advent

Dearest Friends,

Peace on Earth! Advent is here! Sunday, December 1st, the global Church recognizes the first day of the season of Advent, a time to remember Christ’s arrival to earth and look forward to his second coming. Advent lasts for the four weeks leading up to Christmas day. It fills me with awe to think that all over the world, Christians from many different traditions recognize the miracle of Christ’s first and second coming, all at the same time.

The majority of my church experiences have not included advent - I do not come from a liturgical tradition. However, in the last several years I have found that celebrating Advent in my home has made the Christmas season more reverent, meaningful, and joyful.

I’d like to share with you some of the more practical and meaningful ways we’ve woven Advent traditions into our home, in the hopes that it might help you as it has helped me as we resist the hectic tide of commercialism during the Christmas season.

First, a bit of background on Advent:

“Advent, meaning “the coming,” is a time when we wait expectantly. Christians began to celebrate it as a season during the fourth and fifth centuries. Like Mary, we celebrate the coming of the Christ child, what God has already done. And we wait in expectation of the full coming of God’s reign on earth and for the return of Christ, what God will yet do. But this waiting is not a passive waiting. It is an active waiting. As an expectant mother knows, this waiting also involves preparation, exercise ... prayer; and birth involves pain ... tears, joy, release, community ... Likewise, we are in a world pregnant with hope, and we live in the expectation of the coming of God’s kingdom on earth. As we wait, we also work, cry pray, ache; we are the midwives of another world.” (Taken from Common Prayer: A Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals)

The heart of Advent is to take a few minutes each day or each week in December to slow the pace of our lives and recognize what God has done, and what he will do, with the miracle of Christ at the center.

In this effort, tools like short scripture reading plans, songs, or advent calendars can help engage our minds, hearts, and bodies.

You could something each day from Dec 1- Dec 25, or on the four Sundays leading up to Christmas day, with something special on Christmas Eve and Christmas day. It’s your home, so my hope is to inspire you with ideas so that you are able to put together something that works for your family.

Here are some of my favorite tools:

One of my very favorite daily Scripture reading plans can be found in the short book The Voice of the Psalms, published by Ecclesia Bible Society. In the beginning of the book, it has an Advent reading plan with daily readings from the Psalms that focus on Christ’s coming, with Messianic quotes from other parts of Scripture. It only takes 5-8 minutes a day, and scripture selections are fantastic. (Confession: I don’t always get to it every day ... sometimes Jack and I have to play “catch up” and read three or four days at a time ... but it is always worth it!) Together, the readings present a sweeping picture God’s story of redemption in Christ. It is available from Amazon or at Family Christian Bookstores (call before you go, they might be out of stock!).

One of my favorite bands, Page CXVI, will release an album of Advent and Christmas hymns on Tuesday, December 3rd. You can hear a preview of it here. For me, it’s a challenge to find Christmas music that is both meaningful and enjoyable to listen to. This album accomplishes both (as a Kickstarter backer, I’ve had the privilege of getting it a week early, and it’s been on repeat ever since!). It will be available for download on www.pagecxvi.com (and likely on iTunes as well).

If you prefer a short devotional reading, this free, downloadable resource from Connection Church in Astoria, New York has devotionals for five days each week. It was written by my dear friend Larry Mayberry, who is a pastor at the church. It contains meaningful reflections and stories, sweet hymns, and scripture quotes all put together in a self-contained format. It only takes 8-10 minutes each day, and might be more enjoyable if the idea of a scripture reading plan feels too intimidating for your home.

To engage the kids:

As a child, one of my favorite Christmas traditions our family’s Advent calendar. Each night before bed, our excitement would build until it was finally time to unearth that day’s mystery as a little bear searched for the Christmas miracle (and finally found ‘Christmas’ with the family gathered in the living room). If you are looking for a high-quality advent calendar you can use year after year, I recently purchased (and love!) this wooden Nativity Advent Calendar. The small, hand-painted figures of the nativity fit behind small doors, and each day you can add to the scene until it is complete. It is well-made, sturdy, and beautifully painted. The back is magnetic so the figures stick quite well. It would also be quite easy to write short, daily scriptures on small pieces of paper and put them behind the doors as well to be read when you add the figures to the scene.

For something more affordable, you can find a variety of Advent calendars that have chocolate or short Scripture verses behind each day’s “door” for $5-$12. Some of my favorites are made by the Vermont Christmas Company on Amazon, though you can also find them at the dollar store sometimes or at Christian bookstores.

The Jesus Storybook Bible (which is lovely any time of year - I enjoy it even as a adult) can be used to tell the story of Christ’s coming when the stories are read in a particular sequence. You can find a free, printable reading plan and a description of how one mom uses the Jesus Storybook Bible during Advent with her children here.

However you celebrate Christmas and Advent, I pray you will make deliberate space and time to celebrate the miracle of Christ’s coming as we wait together in expectation for what God has promised he will do. Merry Christmas, friends!

With love,

Loren

*Note: I was not compensated in any way to share these items ... I just thought they were all great enough to tell my friends about!

Asking God for Answers

This weekend I went to hang out with some nuns. It was awesome.

The Villa de Matel convent in Houston has a lovely spiritual retreat center. I enjoy escaping there; it’s good for my soul to spend extended time in silence and solitude, waiting for the Lord to speak.

This time, it took longer than normal for my mind to shut up. I became frustrated. At one point I thumbed open my Bible, looking for any random verse, demanding answers from God -- surely, if I could get the answers I sought, then I could enter super-spiritual communion with the Lord.

My Bible fell open to Luke 24:13 - Jesus’ burial and resurrection. After Jesus’ death, the disciples were hurt and confused. What they really wanted were answers. Where were they supposed to go from here?

Jesus appears to a follower named Cleopas and his friend as they are walking along the road (they don’t know it’s him). Cleopas remarks “We had hoped that [Jesus] would be the one to redeem Israel....”

The disciples’ longing for concrete answers reminds me of myself. It’s what I was doing, vehemently slicing my Bible open, jabbing my finger at a random verse and demanding an answer for the big questions that plagued my mind. I think I’m often like this.

Perhaps I want answers even more than his presence - I want to neatly organize the multiple confusions in my head. I want to pack memories away, check off a box, and move on.

What stuck out to me most is that when the resurrected Jesus appears before this big group of his best friends after having died and coming back to life, of all the things he could say, he chooses: “Peace to you!” (verse 36) “Why are you troubled, and why do doubts swell up in your hearts? See my hands and my feet - it’s me! Touch me, and see.”

Then: “We got any food? I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”

I can just picture it. Jesus is sprawled across a chair, casual, like, “What’s up. Yeah, surprise, I know! Just kidding, I’m totally alive!” - as if it’s no big deal.

He promises that it’s really him. And he expects that to be enough; he expects his presence to quiet the questions in their minds.

It isn’t until later, after they’ve spent good time together, that he explains things to them. Before he leaves, he promises them the Holy Spirit, so they’ll never be alone again (verse 49).

They wanted answers. They wanted to clean up the mess he had left in his wake.

And I get it. I feel for the disciples. Because often, in the wake of God’s work or just in the middle of LIFE happening, there’s a mess left behind. There are more questions than answers.

I find myself standing in the rubble of an old life, in clothes that don’t fit anymore, sensing new life struggling to break forth, but I’m scared to put my foot down in the wrong place … and I just so badly want answers to my questions.

I can picture myself standing in front of Jesus, stamping my foot like an entitled child. Sometimes giving him the silent treatment. Sometimes in an all-out temper tantrum, torrent of tears and wondering why he won’t pick me up and make it better.

And Jesus just stands there. He says “Peace to you.” “Touch me - I’m really here.”

And he laughs affectionately at me, exasperated. And he says “Peace to you! Let’s just hang out here for a while.”

Just as he did to the disciples so many years ago.

We want answers. Jesus promises peace. The Holy Spirit. His presence. And he assures us, that’s enough.

---

John 15: “The Helper, the Holy Spirit .. will teach you all things and bring to your remembrance all I have said to you. Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled, and do not be afraid.”

Cleaning Toilets & the Still, Small Voice (Mission Impossible, Part II)

“How did I find myself here?” I thought as I scrubbed the old man’s feces off the floor.

“This is not my job!!” came the next rebellious thought.

I laughed under my breath as I remembered a hurried prayer from last week: “Jesus, teach me humility. Show me what it means to love like you did.”

The thing about serving Jesus … he always asks for more, not less.

It reminds me of when my little cousin learned how to walk. The poor kid had no chance. My mom was on one side of the room, arms outstretched. “Just one little step!” she cried. “You can do it, baby!”

He was not having it. He glanced suspiciously at the circle of faces hovering above. We were all grinning hugely, clapping for him, urging him to trust his wobbly, chubby legs.

His furrowed brow communicated that this did NOT seem fun to him - but oh, he so badly wanted to please these people that loved him so.

Shaky step by shaky step, he launched himself forward. Every step he took, we asked for another - until he was all the way across the room. Cheers abounded. He got a cookie.

He couldn’t have known it then - that those first wobbly steps were only the beginning. He couldn’t have known that what seemed like a risky, terrible idea to him was actually quite safe and natural.

Today this kid zooms around the yard. I gasp for air trying to keep up with him. But, I still remember those shaky steps in the beginning.

Sometimes I think Jesus must feel this way - the amused and patient Father, watching us take our first wobbly steps as we follow him. He must know that he has bigger plans; the further we go, the more he will ask.

It would be unnatural, nonsense for an active and fully grown child to revert back to crawling, to wobbly baby steps. And yet, how often in my own faith journey do I petulantly want just that?

I’ll know God has called me to love deeper, to be more sacrificial. In a moment of holy zeal sitting in a cool, air conditioned church, I’ll even ask God to make me more humble.

But the moment it arrives - when humility looks like scrubbing someone else’s toilet? When loving like Jesus looks like not casting the first stone, or forgiving seventy times seven?

I whine and wish I didn’t know better. I’ll try to manipulate the situation so I’m exempt - from talking to that awkward person. Or having to go out of my way to visit a family that's barely holding on. Or giving my shopping money to a missionary that really needs it. I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that last yelled request for a cup of water (while I’m already in the kitchen).

I’m the most spoiled of God’s children. Worse yet, if I’m not very careful, I can become comfortable.

How do you love Jesus well in America?

For me, I can’t let myself get too comfortable.

Life overseas is so fraught with challenge that I am aware multiple times every day that I need Christ. I cry out to him frantically, consult him constantly … and my desperation feeds a healthy and intimate connection with him.

Even a simple trip to the grocery store in a foreign country is exhausting. Imagine yourself in such a situation:

How do you get there? Are you using a public transit system? If so, it probably doesn’t have English writing anywhere - and you can’t ask directions if you don’t have an interpreter with you.

When you get there, how do you tell how much something *actually* costs? If those tomatoes are 8,000 Tanzanian Shillings … quick, do some math in your head! Is that a good deal, or are you about to blow the week’s budget on some fruit (because they might be giving you ‘white people’ prices). And wait, you’re probably hauling water for your team - the city water is not safe. That means you need at least a few gallons. You don’t have a car. Make sure you don’t buy too much to carry home! (Did you check how much water the team had before you left?) If not, you may run out before tonight.

As you leave, there’s a tiny child, belly distended. She doesn’t speak - she just holds out her hand pleadingly.

You’re not sure you have enough money with you to get home on the bus and to give her something. You know it’s foolish to carry too much cash on you, but still you kick yourself for not bringing more. Should you give her some of your tomatoes? If you do, will there be enough for the team to eat tonight? And - is she being sold by a pimp? Will giving her something only serve to promote a system of injustice, leaving the little one with nothing? Your heart aches and your first instinct is to take her back with you- but you don’t know this culture or this land and if that’s okay. Where is her mom?! …. Oh, Jesus, have mercy.

Life in a foreign land - you know you need Jesus. Every day. I found myself desperate for him.

“After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a still, small voice.”

That still, small voice became louder every day until it was quite clear.

In the U.S.? I don’t need Jesus at the grocery store, thank you very much. I know exactly how to get there in my own car. I can buy what I want with the money I earned from the job I work. And, I’m probably gabbing on my cell phone while looking up traffic on Google Maps AND thinking about what color I should re-paint the kitchen … all while at the store.

But - where is the still, small voice? I’m comfortable. I don’t know I need him.

Soon, I’m living as though Jesus is one of those relatives I only see on major holidays.

And so I have learned that I have to put myself in situations - to ask for opportunities, and then pursue them - where I will be uncomfortable.

It’s in the discomfort, in the awkward, in the desperate that my heart yells for Jesus.

And I find him. That still, small voice  that grows louder when I practice listening.

I'm learning that an adventurous life of faith is NOT about a geographical location, or even about what fills your days. It’s an orientation of the soul.

At the moment, making myself uncomfortable looks like working with refugees and teaching them about American life.

And so it is that I found myself showing an elderly Burmese couple how to clean their toilet - because they’ve never had indoor plumbing before. No one ever taught them basic hygiene.

Jesus invites me lower, to deeper levels of humility. On shaky legs of faith I looked up at my Father.

“Jesus, really? I barely know these people.”

“And child, as God of the universe, I washed dirty feet. Whatever you do for them, you do for me. You can do it. Just one more step.”

---

What do you think? Does being comfortable mean it’s harder to hear the Holy Spirit’s voice? How do you make space in your life to hear the voice of the Father? 

I look forward to hearing your thoughts!

Sanga's Story

Every day, I have the privilege of working with refugees. After years of applying; waiting; hoping; they arrive to the U.S., full of hope and yet hiding a history of heartbreak behind their wide smiles. Often, I can only guess at the traumas they've endured and the things they've escaped. One thing I do know: the word refugee is synonymous with survivor. All of them have left behind loved ones, the ones that weren't so lucky or weren't so strong.

Sometimes, I get the honor of actually hearing a refugee's story from start to finish; it never fails to leave me in awe. I got such an opportunity recently. The U.S. Committee for Refugees and Immigrants, an organization that helps refugees resettle, had their annual conference recently. One of the refugees I work with was honored to be selected to share his life story in front of hundreds of people.

Sanga* and I had already become friends after he attended my Cultural Orientation classes, where I taught him and other Congolese refugees practical lessons such as how to get a driver's license and how to apply for a job. These days, Sanga has a full schedule working full-time in manufacturing and taking steps toward applying for college. While I helped Sanga edit his story for grammar, all of these words are his own.

As he shared his story with me, I often had to blink back tears or hide my shock as he spoke about his life journey, from deep in the forests of the Congo to the heart of Houston...

I am 36 years old and I was born in a small city in the North Eastern part of the Congo.

I ran away from my country in 2005 after the death of my father, who was a district commissioner. My father was working to unite warring tribes; he wanted peace in our district. Because of this, some of the men from his own tribe killed him with a machete.

They were afraid of his betrayal, and so they killed their own brother. Then, they tried to kill my family, and so we had to flee. My family was separated; I fled alone to Kenya. On the way, I had to stay in hiding, because the rebel groups were everywhere - I hid on a train for four days. I was 30 years old, and I had never felt so sad  because I wasn’t sure what I would do.

When I arrived in Kenya, I slept on the streets for 2 days because I didn’t know what to do. After that, I went to a church. They helped me apply to be a refugee. During this time, a pastor took care of me and gave me a place to live. But, I was always afraid in Kenya because I didn’t have any legal rights and I was always afraid that the same people who killed my father would come to kill me. Once in Kenya I was attacked; I thank God I am still alive. After some time in Kenya, I began to teach French at a language school. I first applied for refugee status in 2005.

After waiting 7 years, in 2012, I finally received a letter that the United States had accepted me as a refugee to live in their country. I felt great when I got this letter. I knew there were so many people applying to live in the United States, so I was not sure if it would ever happen. I had been hoping for this for so long that I could not believe it.

When I first arrived in the United States, some things surprised me. For example, I was surprised by how people take care of other people here. I find the American people very caring.

I want to contribute to the American community. I want to help people, especially new refugees. In the Congo and Kenya, I was a medical first aid worker because I like helping people. I would like to do something similar in the United States one day to help the community. I know the feeling of what it is like to flee, the feeling of going through a war, and I feel that experience will help me support new refugees.

In Africa, there was no peace, so I could not learn or finish my studies. I feel like America is my land now. I am happy because I have found peace where I am. The people I have found here represent my family. If I have a problem, I can go to my new friends and talk to them and find a solution.

In my opinion, one of the greatest struggles for the African people is a lack of peace. This will be the most important thing for them – to learn to have peace. Peace allows refugees to work, study, and dream for their future. Without peace in Africa, there can be no hope and no progress. That is why I left. In my case, a lack of peace means I do not even know which of my brothers are still alive.

Even though I have had many difficult times, I am proud to be a called a refugee -- even Jesus Christ was a refugee. When he was born, some people wanted to kill him. His family had to flee, so even Jesus was a refugee like me. He had to leave his land because he was in danger of something happening to him. He was living in a state of fear, like me. I know what it is like to live in this state of fear. Now that I am living in the US, I am comfortable and I do not have fear.

I will always be proud to be called a refugee."

Sanga got to fly to Washington, D.C., to share his story. When I asked if he was nervous, he told me, "Of course I am nervous. But I must do this, because not everyone can speak the stories we know as refugees. Someone must tell the stories for those that did not survive."

His favorite part of the trip was getting to see the White House in person after his speech.

May you be encouraged by Sanga's story, ever more aware of the blessings you have, and be reminded that within all of us, God has given us the spirit of a survivor.

*Sanga's name has been changed to protect his identity.

Giving Jesus the Silent Treatment

Have you ever asked a question you couldn’t answer? Have you ever excitedly jumped into a new project, only to realize a tragically short time later that this *particular* project would soon haunt your dreams?

Well, friends, here’s a confession: I do this ALL.THE.TIME. And now you’ve been caught in the cross-hairs of this particular shortcoming of mine.

You see, I did both recently on this humble little blog when I

(a) posed the ridiculous question - “How do you love Jesus well in America?”

… around the same time that I decided to

(b) build a brand-new blog from scratch. (Apparently making the internet is hard. Who knew?)

The result is that I got overwhelmed and simply stopped blogging. I’m sorry about that. Some of you may have noticed that it has been an embarrassingly long time since I last wrote. And that last time, i left you with a cliffhanger. I’m not sure how to make amends except to say that if you come to my house, I will make you a cup of tea with a side of heartfelt apology. And I promise, I’m now out of “pretend it doesn’t exist” mode and into “get to business” mode. I have not forgotten I promised you a Part II, and it is forthcoming. In the mean time, however, I have some musings regarding Lent and Easter that I’d like to share.

The Lord has been moving me (okay, pulling me kicking and screaming) into a place of deeper honesty - with myself, and with my community. I’m just not sure we do each other any favors when we pretend like we have it all together. Sometimes, I don’t even make the conscious choice to pretend … it’s just sort of my default mode. (Incidentally, I think it’s often the default mode of our churches, too.)

So on Good Friday, I found myself sitting in a dim sanctuary, staring at a blank slip of paper, having just been challenged to write out “a confession.” There was just one small problem … I had been giving Jesus the silent treatment for weeks. It wasn’t intentional, but I ended up living for a while mostly independent of that small voice inside - the one that gives me joy and life and strength. In all this, there’s the good and the bad.

The Good: My relationship with Jesus every year resembles more of an actual … relationship. We talk. I talk a LOT, because I’m self-centered, but sometimes I also let HIM talk and I just … listen. Every time I do this, I’m reminded that I really like listening to Jesus. More and more, my “Christianity” isn’t about adhering to a set of beliefs or identifying with a religious label or even being part of specific church, but instead, my “Christianity” is having real interaction with God. And this is good, I know. And something to celebrate.

The Bad: When I act like an angsty, immature teenager (which is embarrassingly often), it gets reflected in my relationship with Jesus. Hence, the silent treatment.

Lately, I’ve been running. I’ve felt so restless and so every day I’ve run four or more miles at a time, scratching that itch to get out, to move, to do something.Until Jesus bought me a to a halt … literally. What I didn’t realize? That physical restlessness was a pretty accurate picture of internal state as well. Then I tore some ligaments in my ankle and ended up in a cast - with strict doctor’s orders: NO RUNNING . For six weeks. Just long enough to wreck my carefully constructed running routine and miss Houston’s best weather.

It’s almost as if I could hear Jesus saying, “My child, it’s time for us to talk.”

Then, there was that fight with my husband. The one where I looked in his angry eyes and saw reflected back at me … my own imperfection. My selfish flaws that had ignited his anger. A fight that stopped me in my tracks and brought attention to my ugly, glaring sin. That’s the thing about marriage - there’s no place to hide.

I could almost hear Jesus saying, “My child, it’s time for us to talk.”

And finally, there was that PERFECT road trip with my soul-friends. The ones that make me feel most like ME when we’re together. The ones that touch a deep part of me and reassure me with their very presence that yes, things are going to be alright. We danced ourselves crazy at a dear friend’s wedding, celebrated love with tears in our eyes, and laughed until my stomach muscles tightened in protest. I realized it was the most alive I had felt in weeks.

And I could hear Jesus saying, “My child, it’s time for us to talk.”

And ever so gently, he told me … “I came to bring you LIFE TO THE FULL … in Africa, in Asia, AND in America. You are more than your work, more than the sum of your hours, because you serve a bigger kingdom.” As he spoke, I felt very small. And very sad, because I realized I had missed his voice - the entire Lenten season.

This year, I gave up sweets for lent. Because they are my kryptonite, and sometimes my love for them is rivaled only by my love for my family, God, and cheese. I was disappointed that I still craved sweets - daily. Only a few days in, I was doing it more out of pride than penitence. (Probably because Jesus and I weren’t talking.) I did it because I said I would - and my stubborn pride would let me be *that girl* that “failed” at Lent.

So after endless days of stupid, prideful self-denial, I sat in a dim sanctuary and with burning cheeks, I read: “[She] honors me with her lips, but her heart is far from me.” (Matthew 15:8) How painfully true. Missing The Point - this could be the summary of my Lenten season this year. I had been following the letter of the law, but shut out the Spirit. I had stuck my fingers in my ears and gone my own way. I laughed out loud in that sanctuary as the thought occurred to me - “How old am I?! Shouldn’t I know better by now?” And so, I finally started talking to Jesus again. It went a something like this:

“Thank you, Jesus, that you don’t give me the silent treatment - even when I deserve it. You won’t play my silly games. You just wait for me, and draw me near. Thank you that you require no self-punishment before I return to you. I AM that prodigal daughter … and for some reason, I keep leaving. And every time every time every.time. You run You run out to meet me. And you kiss me, and embrace me, and adorn me with your finest of jewels, and invite me the feast. And while you hold me, Father, my shame is a tidal wave threatening to drag me out to shore But you hold onto me still and you whisper words of love in my ear. You invite me to communion … still. After it all. You ask me to partake of your body and blood. Again, and again. And again. The perfume of my idols still on my clothes, and you whisper still - “this is my body, broken for you.” And I just … ache. For how good you are. For how easily I forget. I ache for my leaving, and I ache for your love that always brings me back.”

For reasons I still can’t fully understand, God betroths us to him

in righteousness

in justice

in iron-clad, covenantal, kind, unbreakable love in mercy in faithfulness (Hosea 2:19)

And more than that, he brings us to his banqueting table, to the feast - while our sin is still on our hands and written on our hearts, he washes it all away. The sin, and the shame, and the past … as he washes our feet.

And this is love.

Wherever you’ve been, and wherever you wander - Jesus waits to welcome you back home. It’s the reason we call that Friday Good. It’s the reason he set us free on Easter Sunday, and why he sets us free every day … Jesus is still there, still waiting. Ready to welcome us back home.

Mission Impossible, Part 1

I’m a missionary. My mission field is located in a small, dilapidated office building in Houston, Texas, USA.In October I re-entered the American workforce, when the Lord graciously provided a job that allows me to provide for my family and also work with refugees.

In my opinion, America is as challenging a mission field as Vietnam was, where being who I am - a Christian - is illegal. It’s as challenging as the desperate slums of Uganda. As challenging as the hostile Hindu village in India, where I called home last year during the Christmas season.

The Lord has LITERALLY brought the nations to Houston ... Every day I walk into my multicultural office and I feel as though the Lord has handed me the nations on a platter.  I share a cube wall with Iraqi Muslims. A few paces away sit a few self-proclaimed atheists, Hindus from Nepal, a few buddhists from Burma.

My job is to teach life skills and to serve over 15 different refugee populations. In an endless stream, they come from Ethiopia, Burma, Egypt, Cuba, Nepal, Iraq - just to name a few.

They’ve arrived in this land of plenty by proving that to stay in their country would be to place themselves in immediate danger of serious bodily harm. That’s the story their visa tells with its stamp: “REFUGEE.”

And I see their eyes, haunted and yet hopeful. I look into their faces, adoring me for the small help I can give.

And some days I feel like Atlas, that mythical figure who carried the world.

After giving up everything - saying goodbye to siblings and friends, parents and sometimes even spouses or children - after undergoing rigorous testing by the UN, external agencies, and the US government - when they receive the YES they’ve been waiting for … they make that long flight from East to West. I’ve done it before - the confusing mix of days and nights, airports, sleepless hours, security checks, transfers.

They step onto the flat, humid land of Houston with only a suitcase and the hope of a better life.

... And then my office steps in. We provide a small, semi-furnished apartment with the rent pre-paid for a few months. We provide a week’s worth of food and access to services like health care and food stamps.

In a strange land of strange tongue, they are promptly told they have exactly 3 months to learn English, find a job, begin paying taxes, and navigate a brand-new country. Overwhelming doesn’t even begin to cover it.

These people who grew up in deserts, jungles, and tented camps now attempt to navigate the Houston bus system that covers over 15 major highways and interchanges.

Single mothers that can’t write their name in their own language are told that to feed their children, they have 90 days to learn English. Doctoral professors in Engineering are told that despite their education and experience, they must start by taking the GRE - that in America, everyone starts over. Many for better. Some for worse.

And sometimes I think God made this heart of mine too sensitive. Because I ache for their situations. I’m keenly aware of the challenges, because a year ago I got lost trying to take the bus across Kathmandu. I couldn’t read or speak Nepali and so for about three hours I wandered the city, desperately trying to remember my “address” … wishing someone spoke my language.

I remember the shame when I was told my modest (to me) clothing was causing the catcalls as I walked down a muddy Rwandan road - my knee caps were showing - and how inappropriate that is in Rwanda! I might as well be naked, I was told.

I remember my tongue twisting, trying to master the tones of Vietnamese merely so I could thank the woman who made my breakfast each day. I never did say “Thank You” successfully - not once in 35 days of repeated attempts.

I remember wondering HOW the skills I had from home - my college degree, my ability to type 100 words a minute, my knowledge of drilling wells -- how would any of this contribute to the rural society of Tanzania, where prized abilities included being able to to skin and cook a chicken with ease, to preach in Swahili, to drive a Dala-Dala (a 15-passenger van used as a taxi) down the left side of rutted roads.

I was completely unemployable, nearly useless, and mostly unable to build solid relationships without help.

And so when they come to my humble desk, and I’m told: “Teach them to be successful, responsible American citizens” … I know, I know how impossible that seems. And yet I also know what love and patience could do for them.

This is my mission field. The fields are ripe for the harvest.

And yet I’m mostly miserable, constantly at war within myself because I can’t seem to find the courage in this “tolerant,” politically correct, anti-Christian society to declare (or even whisper): “Jesus. The most important thing this place can offer you … is the freedom to know Jesus.”

And on Tuesday nights I gather with a small group, and we read his word and we speak of how difficult it is to tell of the Lord’s goodness … In a corporate office. In a public school. In groups of stay-at-home-moms, quick to judge but slow to be real. In the messy families we call our own.

And I pray to be given courage but mostly I feel like Peter ... in his early days, well-meaning but all-too-quick to deny that I know anything about THAT MAN  - the one that divides, the one surrounded by misperceptions … the one I’m so secretly and so desperately in love with.

Were I to write a gospel, it might read: “I tell you the truth: it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for an American Christian to honestly and lovingly spread the Kingdom in his homeland.”

and with the disciples my mind wonders: “Who then [in America] can be saved?”

and this Sweet Savior Jesus, he looks to the core of me and says: “With man this is impossible, but with God all.things.are.possible.”

So ... where do we go from here?

Stay tuned for Part II …

Why I Give Thanks on Election Day

I never knew … I never knew what a blessing it is to be American until I lived overseas.

Living in America, the political nagging and fighting is constant. It’s exhausting … and if I listen too long, I begin to forget there's anything else.

Brief news clips of horrors abroad remind me about those that suffer around the world, and are forgotten quickly.

It’s one thing to hear about horrific realities that could be ours. It’s quite another thing to meet them face to face, when raw results of chaos become a name, a friend, a hand you hold …

• to hear a Rwandan quietly tell of his family being butchered by his next-door neighbors - because his family’s skin was too light.
• to hear my new friend tell me simply that she has never known her father - he never returned after "they" dragged him from his bed one night to fight in the Vietnam War (a war he vehemently opposed, for a government he did not support).

In America, we debate “women’s issues.” But a woman's issue I will never face is the fear of being raped by a policeman … unlike a small girl I met in Zambia, her sweaty hand swallowed by mine. My mind scrambled to think of Bible verses that might comfort her as tears made tracks down her swollen cheeks. What do you say?

In America, I have the right to a fair trial. Unlike the young East African mother who approached me after class one day, begging for prayer. She had been wrongly accused of stealing some fruit, and was afraid to walk home for fear of being jumped by the neighborhood “justice system.” She explained that the authorities would look the other way. “An accusation is treated as the truth, here …”  she trailed off.

I have the right to practice (and share) my religion … and my neighbors have the right to theirs. Unlike so many of my faithful brothers and sisters in India, who accept that to be Christian is to be persecuted, to live in fear, to walk around with bloodied lips and bruised cheeks.

I have the right to participate in the political process. In messiness of election, I can take part … or not take part. I remember awed faces in Africa and in Southeast Asia, their amazement at the brazen freedom we have to declare our stance, even if it is against the government. I remember the longing in their voices as they dreamed that one day, they could vote knowing their vote would count, in a monitored system.

Our constitution is a beautiful piece of literature - and sometimes, it’s those living OUTSIDE the US that realize it most keenly. The truth is, we don’t know what we have.

America is still beautiful, home of the free … but it’s still just a dream for most. I’ve lived in impoverished countries, under corrupt governments this year … and even my brief time was enough to make me understand why so many are desperate to get to America.

In our times, it’s easy to live in the U.S. and be jaded by it all. I used to look around at our materialism, at our messy election system, at our incredible inability to get along … and just feel distaste for it all. And I think that's pretty natural, but I want to provide a different view, in light of what I experienced overseas.

My ingrained sense of what should be collided with the realities others face - when became MY reality;

• feeling the sting of injustice as we had to pay off a man to avoid jail in Cambodia (for committing no crime)
• being gawked at and groped by men, while policemen looked on in apathy
• being taken advantage of time and again for my skin color
• knowing there was no higher law, that we were completely at the mercy of the base morality of the majority

… I couldn't believe it. Inside, I would scream at the difficulty of it all and long for home … long for the safety, the justice, the rights I took for granted in the U.S. I realized that it was easy for me to feel fed up with America, while I daily reaped her benefits and never realized all she offered me, this land of my birth.

As we ponder these blessings, I don’t want us to become puffed up and proud -- there are reasons enough to be embarrased by the U.S., too. On Election Day, no one needs the reminder that America is not perfect.

But, may I persuade you to thoughtfully consider all the protections, freedoms, and rights you have as Americans? May I ask you to hear the words of my Vietnamese friend, and may it bring you hope:  “Your people, they have the power to mould your OWN reality - and your stability remains, even in all your disagreement. It's amazing."

When you’re on US soil, in the thick of election season and you think,  “would they just shut up already!” … when tensions run high between neighbors, colleagues, friends because of varying political issues -- it’s easy to forget.

Please, may I remind you?

Our country is a gift -- being American is a gift … and no matter who wins, we are children of privilege, simply because America is ours.

Zipper Snags & Judging Others

This morning as I showered, I let the words of Graham Cooke wash over me -- truth beautifully spoken -- “The Lord loves you. There is nothing you can do to make Him love you more. There is also nothing you can do to make Him love you less. He loves you because He loves you because He loves you because He loves you …

He won’t love you any better when you become better. Because that’s they way that He is … that’s His nature. He loves all the way, all the time. His love is unchanging.”

Like the warm water running down my back, these words of truth washed over me, invigorating me, steading me for a new day … until they hit a *SNAG* in my brain.

Like a zipper caught halfway down, my enjoyment of God’s love yanked to to a stop.The words of a dear friend came back to me: “I’m just not sure I can trust Graham Cooke …. because, you know, he’s divorced.”My thoughts snarled … and I started thinking.How often in sermons have I heard, “We can take comfort from the fact that none of the great prophets of old were perfect. They were human, just like us. And yet, God used them to say great things.”We know Abraham intentionally deceived others -- on more than one occasion. Yet he’s even mentioned in the Bible’s “hall of fame": “Abraham believed God, and it was credited to him as righteousness.” (Romans 4:3)

The sticky fact is: we carry a double standard. When a “hero” of the Bible messes up, we breathe a sigh of relief and they seem more approachable to us. Yet today, when a pastor, worship leader, teacher, or missionary fails -- and especially fails in public -- We shrink away. We wonder, is it still okay to keep that book he wrote (the one that we enjoyed at one time)?

Is it still okay to listen to that worship album if I find out one of the musicians was …. you know …

These are good questions -- the Bible says “[those] who teach will be judged more severely than others.” (James 3:1)

We do need to carefully evaluate who we let speak with authority over out lives.

And yet. I think it’s easy to go too far. I think sometimes we -- the American church -- go to far.

He writes that one controversial book, and so all his work is quickly discredited. Anyone that shares his sermons must issue a disclaimer … “Now, I know he wrote that really awful book, but really some of his stuff is great … “

She is caught in an affair, and the numbers at her Bible study dwindle.

The fact is, we have far less grace for our leaders of today than we show to those that are gone, despite the Biblical admonition to give good leaders “double honor.” (1 Tim 5:17)

How silly would it be to throw out all of David’s psalms because of his illicit relations with Bathsheba …. or his murder of her husband …. or his cover-up of the murder … (take your pick). Instead, we celebrate the fact that GOD spoke incredibly through him, in spite of his shortcomings.

But today -- today we push leaders into a frenzy of trying to attain public near-perfection.

Watching political leaders sweating to attain the perfect image, hoping to be given the majority approval, I am painfully reminded of how we do that within the church, every Sunday.

Pastors may talk about struggles from the pulpit, but often they are “acceptable” struggles -- the ones that won’t tarnish their reputations, but will be indulgently passed over with a chuckle. We don’t often hear pastors share their struggles with pornography, yet a recent survey shows that 51% of pastors say cyber-porn is a possible temptation, and 37% say it is a current struggle. (Christianity Today, Leadership Survey, 12/2001).Something is wrong.This obsession with perfection, pushed by the media, is infecting our churches.The result is that it becomes harder and harder to be an honest people, broken vessels that openly share our sins -- and most magnificent -- HOW GOD IS HEALING THEM.Our status quo, the one that we (perhaps didn’t choose, yet) find ourselves in is so focused on evaluating an individual as a whole

so quick to draw lines in the sand,

to position ourselves on the right side of the line --

that we’ve forgotten ... the Holy Spirit was was given as a guide. That Spirit, given to exercise our muscles in discerning someone’s message -- not someone as a person.

As a newly-launched missionary, I find myself tangled in the middle.

My journal contains a stack of half-written blogs I longed to post here, discarded because they might be too controversial or too honest.

This tiny voice in my head wonders --

“What if they knew that I cried nearly EVERY day in Tanzania, hating my team … refusing to see the banquet table the Lord prepared before me -- a beautiful community I would not sit with?”

“What if they found out that retching in a primitive outhouse in India, I begged God to let me go home?”

The saddest part is, the most beautiful stories come out our brokenness, God actively and currently molding redemption in our lives.

THAT team I never thought I could work with? They became deeply loved family by the end of the Race -- after countless hours of painful discussions, working out our differences.

And oh, there are more stories -- stories of my own brokenness, my own stupidity, that somehow God transformed into beauty …

They are beautiful stories, these recent threads woven in God’s tapestry called redemption … beautiful stories that often go untold, because we will not tolerate how truly messy our sin is.

Because, as Derek Webb reflected, it’s easier to ask for a new law; a new rule for our rulebook, so we don’t have to think … instead of listening to the Spirit.

I’m boldly declaring that THERE IS A BETTER WAY.

God gave us the Spirit -- to “find out what pleases the Lord.” (Ephesians 5:10) So that we could be free, “not under the law, but under the Spirit.” (Galatians 5:18)

Paul encourages us to “not be foolish, but understand what the Lord’s will is” (Ephesians 5:17)

It takes practice. It takes sitting in silence with the Lord, honing our ears to hear his Spirit’s quiet voice -- until that voice becomes so familiar, it’s like a shout in our mind. (Ephesians 1:13)

If we all became more acquainted with the Spirit, more practiced at loving all and evaluating words, not people -- we could trust the Spirit of God in others to lead them, to lead us,

and we could live freely, for “it is for freedom that Christ has set us free” (Galatians 5)

I read Galatians 5. I hear Graham Cooke’s voice speak unequivocal truth -- that same man that is divorced, yet still blessed by the Spirit to speak truth …

And that snag in my mind? It smoothes out, because the Spirit inside me can tell me what is true.

And I hear freedom bells ring.

I highly recommend Derek Webb’s A New Law and Jonathan & Melissa Helser’s Inheritance ... two places you can hear fully human men speak truth that will rock your world.

Derek Webb - A New Law recorded by www.theworkofthepeople.com

This is a prophetic message delivered by Graham Cooke called "The Inheritance". Graham Cooke is in Vacaville, CA. Video put together by AmyChristine

Awake, My Soul

Many of our friends have asked us the inevitable, "How are you doing ... being back home?"Most days, I'm unsure of how to answer. Honestly, it changes moment to moment. It's surreal, and wonderful, and painful to be back home. Allow me to explain ...

Last night, I nearly cried. Of happiness.

I slept on a bed - a REAL bed, off the floor, soft as a cloud after months of sleeping on the floor. I was wrapped up in a feather comforter, with cotton sheets cool against my skin. The temperature was kept at a constant 74*.

Most of all, I felt safe. I didn’t have to worry about venomous spiders crawling on my neck at night, didn’t have to worry about strange people that might be staring at me when I woke.

And yet.

Despite all this, there was a pang in my heart as I thought of my two precious friends in Vietnam. I pictured their faces as I thought over all our conversations. I wondered how they are doing - Has he filled that hole inside his heart -- or is he still plagued by self-doubt? Does she still think she doesn’t want Jesus, the God of  "The American War of Aggression"?

I thought about Cambodia, where hope grows slowly and is often drowned in a sea of liquor. I thought of this little one -- and I wondered if her sweet grandma had enough food for her to eat today.

Before we left, 

I made a map with pins in each place we would visit. It’s now a map of my heart, charting little pieces scattered across the earth.

Even during the months I prayed would end quickly, the places I could never see myself living, the moments I wondered if I was making a difference -

I didn’t realize my heart was slowly growing roots downward, into the soil that I walked over.

It hurts to be divided - to know that now, no matter where I live, someone will be missing. But more than hurt,

 I feel the weight of what a blessing, an undeserved gift this year was.

What a privilege -- to carry Jesus all over the world, and to find him in the most unexpected places. What a joy - to stand on the Himalayas and pray the people would lift their eyes to the mountains, and find their help in the Lord. (Psalm 121)What delight I found in Uganda -  to look into baby Elijah's face every day, and in it to see the face of God. To encourage his mom, a destitute woman that has given up everything to serve the church.

And now, to return home -- to the comforts of home, the joy of family, the sweet friendships we missed so deeply. Yesterday, I drove through Houston. I came to an elevated highway overlooking downtown - one of my favorite spots. One of my favorite worship songs played over the speakers, and I sang over Houston --

Like water covers the sea, Let the earth be filled with your glory, Till the prayers you prayed become reality and the earth looks just like heaven

We won’t be satisfied, until the Earth looks just like Heaven

Wake up, you Sons and Daughters, we were made for so much more! (Earth Like Heaven, Jonathan David & Melissa Helser)

I sang over the city, becuase we were made for more.

I prayed over the broken-ness I know is hiding behind our walls in Houston. I prayed for the father that feels like a failure, for the single moms desperate to raise their children right. I prayed for our secret porn addictions, our pride, our love of money, our endless cycle of working ourselves to death to buy things that don’t make us happy.

I prayed all of us that know Jesus, but still have a hard time gulping from the fire hose of grace without feeling guilty about it.

This year, I woke up. And I can't turn around, I can't go back. God is taking me on a journey of waking me up to more. (I actually suspect he’s been trying to shake me awake for years.)I have a hunger -- to see the Earth look just like Heaven. This year, I got a foretaste of Heaven, watching his Kingdom come. I’ve been ravenous ever since.

Beloved friends, take a taste with me; 

“Taste and see that the Lord is good.” (Psalm 34:8)

Wherever you find yourself, I pray God would give you hunger pains to see the Earth like Heaven.

If you ask him “how?” -- if you keep asking --  and in the stillness wait for his answer … I know he will show you the more you were made for.

Thank You Will Never Be Enough

With a sigh of relief, I flopped onto my bed. After a year of ever-changing locations and an endless parade of beds (I lost count around 58…), we are home.Back in the land of the free, and the home of the brave - America, you look good (especially when you are winning gold medals!).

16 Countries. 11 Months. And it’s hard to believe that it’s over.

We are jet-lagged, with our days and nights mixed up, unable to sleep … so we feel about the way parents with a newborn (or a student during finals) feels. We are fuzzy-headed, trying to figure out how we fit in a place that feels so familiar when we are so changed.

We want to share EVERYTHING God showed us this year … if only we could find the words.

So, we ask for your patience with us, and especially your prayers. We promise to share more stories with you; for now, I long for rest.

However, we cannot let another moment pass without saying it. The thing I’ve been thinking all year.The thing I don’t know how to say.

Two words that can’t possibly capture all I feel … when I say … Thank You.

This letter is for you, my friends.

This is the post in which we raise a proverbial glass to celebrate you.

When I think of you, I am grateful - grateful that you make space in your busy day to join us, to think of us.

We know that the Lord never sends us out on our own - he designed his body to work together. Because of you, dear friends and family, we took this amazing journey around the world - seeking the Lord’s presence and his work. And we carried you in our hearts, because …

You were the ones who supported this crazy idea we had - to leave everything we knew to follow Christ. You were the ones that invited us to speak at your churches, who listened as we shared our hearts.

You prayed with us and followed our journey. You were the hands and feet of Jesus to us - providing for our financial needs so that we can say with confidence, in Christ’s body,“we lack no good thing” (Psalm 34:10).

Quite simply, You have shown us Jesus.

Did you know you changed lives this year? Will you hear their Thank You?

Hear Saanvi*(Nepal) say Thank You. Rescued from trafficking and prostitution, a new Christian, we found her in a rehabilitation home. With tears in my eyes, I told her she is beautiful. “No one ever told me God finds me beautiful,” she whispered. “Am I really his daughter?” Her smile when I said YES was like the sun emerging after a long storm.

Hear Chan Yi Bin (Malaysia) say Thank You. I tutored Chan Yi Bin every day in math. Despite his learning disabilities, he makes new progress every day. And the lessons he taught me far surpassed anything I could give him.

Hear Nabil* (India) say Thank You. When we arrived at his hut, he could not stand up straight and could not walk without the aid of home-made crutches. By the time we left a few hours later, he was literally jumping for joy and had thrown the crutches aside. God worked a literal MIRACLE in front of our eyes. When we stepped out in faith, when we asked God for the words to say to this stubborn, prideful man, he gave us verses and thoughts to share. Walls came down in his heart, leading to his acceptance of Jesus, AND his physical healing.

Hear Larisa (Moldova) say Thank You. Mother. Pastor’s Wife. Discipler. In a lonely and cold land, she serves her family and her church … day after day. The locals can be as harsh as the Russian winters in her post-Communist hometown. Yet God is slowly, surely honoring their efforts. God knew EXACTLY when they needed a team full of life to remind them of the hope we have in Christ.

Hear the children (India) say Thank You. We held daily Bible Story hour on the front steps of our “home” in India. They would gather from all across the village and listen, wide-eyed, to stories of a God very different than the Hindu ones they serve. Seeds were sown in dozens of little hearts. (God, would you bring them to fruition!) *some names changed to protect the vulnerable

There are SO many more faces I could show you, stories I could tell. My memory is flooded...

The truth is, these friends of mine … are your friends.Because YOU helped us get there … so we could touch lives, on behalf of the King we all serve. This year, we were stewards -- we thought long and worked hard to manage the resources given to us. We were ambassadors -- representing a much bigger kingdom and the most wonderful King.

The most joyful part? Our journey is not over. We will to keep blogging, and will continue to share stories from our incredible year.

We’re praying about our next steps, and know it will involve more overseas missionary work. Stay in touch, and we’ll keep you updated.

Until then -- hear the words from Jesus echo in your ears, because he says to you, our lifeblood: “Well done, good and faithful servant.” Your thoughts, your prayers, your encouragement, your support -- “it does not return void” (Isaiah 55:11).

The Gift of Presence

The coffee shop where we spent a lot of time building relationships and playing Uno this month

Here on the Worlp Rape (Nepali Engrish for World Race), we go a lot of places for not a lot of reasons. "Ministry" often looks like going to a church service (or a gathering or a graduation or even a wedding) and sitting there, or worse, just standing there. You're not asked to preach or sing or pray or testify. You just sit.

Meanwhile the people stare at you intermittently between singing or praying in their mother tongues which we of course do not understand.

30 min goes by.Sitting.An hour passes.Still just sitting.An hour and a half passes.

(This is how I go through 2 full battery cycles a day on my iPod touch...)

I don't think this is what Abraham had in mind when he was told God would use him to bless all people groups. It's certainly not what I thought I was signing up to do 12 months ago at Training Camp. Regardless, I am here, and I know God wants me here.

But, why?

There are so many other (read better) things I could be doing.

You have 7 brilliant, passionate, equipped, University-educated 20-somethings at your disposal. And you just want us to SIT HERE?!?

We can teach classes on health, Bible, English, business, finance, hygiene. We can preach and sing. We can host medical clinics. And that's just the list of degrees and certifications on our team!

[photo missing] Krystle checking blood pressure during the medical clinic this month

"No, thank you. You canjust sit here." (to be understood as: Sit down, shut up, don't do anything disruptive, and smile.)

WHY???

Well, the short answer is I don't know. The long answer goes something like this...

Sometimes, God can use us without us doing anything. Sometimes, we don't need to preach or evangelize.  Sometimes he just wants us to BE there.

Sometimes he just wants us to BE.

Not do. BE.

At times we feel like sports stars or movie stars; people just love being around us.

Sometimes we can be an encouragement to others by just being there, hanging out, playing Angry Birds. During a medical clinic for the elderly, I sat in a chair surrounded by a flock of kids watching me play Angry birds. Sometimes they ooh-ed and awed. Sometimes they provided commentary on the action. Sometimes they laughed at my failures. They loved it.

Somehow, that's ministry.

I can't tell you how many times it has happened, but it feels like we've done more of that than what we would normally consider ministry in these past 10 months.

Sometimes you just being there is all God wants you to do.

Our American culture tells us that we are what we do. Therefore we must perform and accomplish and work and do. But God didn't create us for the purpose of doing that stuff.

He created us to worship Him and enjoy life serving Him and His Kingdom.

Worship is a matter of the whole person, your heart, your mind, your body, the deepest parts of who you are. And, worship is about all of life, not just singing songs or going to church.

You cannot worship when you are not aware of God's presence.

God is in the business of giving the gift of presence, His presence. Our Scriptures are full of theophanies. The Bible itself is a book of divine disclosure; that's what makes it holy. In the Old Testament, He appears to Abraham and Moses. In the New Testament, He reveals Himself to the disciples and Paul. Then, in a dramatic turn of events, He gives all His followers the Holy Spirit.

And because we are Spirit-filled people, God can use us as gifts of presence.

Yes, we are called to be more than just gifts of presence. All followers of Jesus have been commissioned as heralders of the good news in both word and deed. If St. Francis of Assisi really did say something along the lines of "preach the gospel at all times, if necessary use words" (which is questionable), then he was wrong. TheGospel is not good news if it is not news that is both proclaimed and proved. But, sometimes, God just wants us to show up and wait.

If I were more spiritual I would now tell you a story about how I did this and share some profound insight with you.

I'm not.

I'm still learning, so maybe we can do this together. Maybe we can play fewer levels of Angry Birds and ask God to speak in those situations. Maybe we open up a dialogue with God in our own mother tongue while the others do the same.

Mad photo props to the fabulous Brianna Danese.

Asian Surprise

REPORTING LIVE FROM VIETNAM ...

It has been a while since I’ve provided you with actual details of our lives trekking around the globe, so I thought I would give you some newsy fill-ins on the past few months in Southeast Asia.

When we left for the World Race, Asia didn't cross our minds much; we were more focused on Africa.

We didn't know that we would end up in Vietnam - all we knew was that our tenth month of the race would be a "surprise" country somewhere in Asia. Our team jokingly began to call month ten "the Asian surprise."

When we found out last month that we were headed here, we were excited, but we never could have guessed how Vietnam, and Asia in general, would soon have a place in our hearts. I wrote about my fear of the unknown continent in this post, and I've been amazed at how quickly Lord has opened our minds and hearts to a new continent.

We are currently living in Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon) -- and we LOVE IT. We host English conversation classes at a local coffee shop run by Christian owners. All kinds of people show up to practice their English, and we’ve made some sweet friends here.

• I am so thankful for the gentle Vietnamese culture -- they are so kind, interested in knowing foreigners, and hospitable. I am daily challenged by how considerate they are, especially considering the dark history between our countries.
• It is my hope to soon be able to share with my new friends how with them how much Jesus loves them - when the time is right. I’m being reminded that discipleship is a lovely journey - meandering for some,  sudden and dramatic for others. I’m so thankful that the Lord romances us each in our own way, and that this year I've gotten involved in every part of the process.
• We make daily discoveries here in Asia, some spiritually deep - and some not so much. For instance, it turns out my small stature is totally normal on the Eastern side of the globe. Ha! I am delighted to find clothes that ACTUALLY fit me and people at my eye level. American Standard, I reject you as inferior.
• We are also excited to see how far our dollar stretches here. It is a welcome relief from the inflated prices of home! We daily enjoy FRESH fruit smoothies for 75 cents and spring rolls (made on the spot) for 33 cents.

Next week we head to the coast, where we’ll be working in a deaf community and reaching out to the tourists who come to the beaches to lose themselves in a life of drinking and pleasure … stay tuned for updates, and please pray with us that our time there will give us meaningful opportunities to serve and share.

Thailand: Tackling Trafficking

• While Thailand has come and gone, we still think about our time there with fondness. The ministries we served there were some of our favorite so far.
• I want to thank everyone who journeyed through the red-light district of Chiang Mai with me - your support and encouragement is invaluable.
  • A significant role I had in Thailand was to interceed for and encourage two of my teammates, who developed a deep friendship with a local bar manager. We watched the Lord work, transifxed as the hardened owner of one of the wildest bars on Loi Kroh road was transformed by his love. You can read my friend Carly's personal account of the whole thing here - it's worth your time:
    • Easy to Love, Part I
    • Easy to Love, Part II
    • Easy to Love, Part III
    • Easy to Love, Part IV

Cambodia: My Desert

• Last month, we lived in a very remote village in Cambodia. The Lord really tested us there - living accommodations were challenging & our bodies had difficulty adjusting to tenting in the 100+ degree heat, avoiding all the insects, and living off of primarily dirty water. There were moments I was tempted to feel like an Israelite, wandering in the desert and not sure what I was doing.
• Our ministry involved teaching the adorable local children English. I often felt uncomfortable becuase I did not feel I was not connecting the with kids like I wanted to. Worse yet, I did not feel motivated to show them the love I knew they needed.
• In so many ways, I felt exhausted and dried up, much like the wilted flowers growing outside my tent, fighting for life and struggling to add color to the monochrome landscape.
  • In my frustrated moments, the Lord was refining and teaching me -- showing me that HE is the one who puts work in my hands. So often, there is the temptation to evaluate if my days are productive in my own eyes. God reminded me that he makes the plans -- he only calls me to be faithful and to trust him with what he gives me. We studied Abraham for our team Bible study recently, and I was reminded that Abraham was praised in Hebrews 11 … because he was faithful. Because he was obedient to the Lord.
  • Even when he had no idea where the promised land actually was, he set out and took one day at a time, trusting that God would show him in due time what he was supposed to be doing.
  • Abraham’s obedience put him in a position to receive God’s blessing.
  • At the end of the month, God allowed me to see a glimmer of how he worked through me. A team member shared that after we left, some of the girls in our class were deeply upset and expressed how much we meant to them and how much they would miss us.

In my doubtful moments, I forgot ... I forgot that God is faithful. I forgot that the Lord is constantly drawing each person to himself. I forgot the weightiness of being a child of God. Our bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, and we literally carry Jesus wherever we go. It's impossible for things in the spiritual realm to remain unaffected when his children are present. It’s impossible for God to NOT use our presence as part of his plan.

In my doubt, the Lord opened my eyes to the beauty in Genesis 16. It's the poignant story of the slave girl Hagar, who found herself pregnant, kicked out of her house, and wandering alone in the desert.

Verse 7 says that "God found her." The Lord heard her distress, sent an angel to comfort her, and gave her the promise that she would be mother of a nation. The slave girl was not forgotten by God of the universe.

Her response reaches the deep places in my heart -- "“You are the God who sees me, ” for she said, “I have now seen the One who cares for me.” (Genesis 16:13)

God whispered to my soul -- "I see you" "I have not forgotten you." "Be faithful, and you will see greater things than these."

May I encourage you with the words the Lord gave Hagar so many years ago, gave to me, and gives to you --

Wherever you find yourself, He invites you to simply be faithful ... and in that, to "share in your master's happiness."

Is there anything better?

Girls for Sale: Reflections from the Red-Light District

On a muggy night in Chiang Mai, I walked "home" to the YWAM base. My backpack was heavy and I could have caught a ride, but I felt the need to just wander. So I meandered through the Thai streets, enjoying my worship playlist and how the city comes alive at night. To get home, I had to pass through the heart of the bar district. I slowed, walking up and down the strip. I tried to pray for those I passed - I really wanted to - but the words wouldn't come.

For the girls that can't be older than 16, their faces a mask of heavy makeup, always tugging on miniskirts hugging their straight bodies ...

For the women that used to be little boys ... before the lies whispered "You should have been a girl. Take these hormones and you can look like one. Show off your body and see your true value. Make a little bit of money."

For the mothers, with crying babies and sullen teenagers at home, far too old and too long in this business, but in desperate need of money ... just some money to put food in their childrens' mouths ...

And for the men that come to buy them, eyes glazed, searching for respect or manhood, "a good time" ... or maybe just someone to listen to their stories.

For these I tried to pray, but words wouldn't come.

The pack on my shoulders weighed me down. Pulsing lights barely lit the dark, uneven street beneath me. The hypnotic beat of dirty rap invaded my headphones, polluting my music, driving my despair for these children of God - these Jesus died for. They don't even know his name.

And it all became too heavy - my backpack, the hopelessness, the heavy sin that drenches Loi Kroh road. The deception that clouds everything.

And so I returned to what I knew - I worshipped. I worshipped the God of us, the God who came down to dwell in our darkest places, among twisted & starving humanity. I turned up the volume until all I heard ...

Wonderful savior How may I bless your heart? Knees to the earth I bow down, to everything you are Be blessed, be loved, be lifted high Be treasured here  Be glorified

And I walked. And my heart praised my king, lover of their souls.

I found myself in the parking lot of the strip club, and partway through Phil Wickham's Beautiful --

I see Your power in the moonlit night Where planets are in motion and galaxies are bright We are amazed in the light of the stars It’s all proclaiming who You are You’re beautiful

I looked up ... no stars were visible beyond the neon lights - but I knew they were there, even though I couldn't see past the distractions. Just as I know Jesus cares for these women, even when they can't see him.

The Lord reminded me what a beautiful savior we have - a lover like no other.

I see you there hanging on a tree You bled and then you died and then you rose again for me

He died for all the sin, all the heavy. He took our dirty and made it pure. He took our load and made it light.

And there, in the parking lot of the strip club - in Thailand, "land of smiles" - tears flowed in a stream down my face. Becuase this sin-soaked soil, he called it Good - tov - when he breathed his God-breath on it.

And his precious blood, it washes everything clean; our old sin, new sin, even the ugly sin we don't know we'll find on ourselves tomorrow.

When we arrive at eternity’s shore Where death is just a memory and tears are no more We’ll enter in as the wedding bells ring Your bride will come together and we’ll sing You’re beautiful

I desperately, desperately want these women standing next to me on eternity's shore. And you know what?

I think Jesus wants these women at the wedding feast also. He's coming to tell them: "Your tears are no more." Becuase as I write this, there are over 100 World Racers all over Thailand, carrying the Holy Spirit into dark places. YWAM Thialand has hundreds of missionaries, both Thai and foreign, spreading the news of a wonderful savior.

The truth of his word illuminated my mind, and I was finally able to pray...

"They don't know how beautiful you are yet .. but Lord, show them your face. Soon."

MANistry Video!

April was the month we lived in Thailand. This was a very unique month for us, because we were separated from one another. Jack was put on a team with all the men - they called it "MANistry month" (always said in a tones of pride). Loren was put on a brand-new team of all women. We both loved it - while it was hard to be away from each other, of course, there is a unique intimacy that comes from not mixing men and women. To celebrate their "MANistry," the boys made a video. It was made by our squad leader, Christian Roderick, is our celebration of the Thai New Year with the Songkran festival. In case you have never heard of Songkran, it's a country-wide 5 day water fight.

Chiang Mai is the best place to celebrate it because the old city is surrounded by a huge moat, which they flood just before the festival to ensure that noone runs out of water to throw in people's faces. And we just so happened to be there. Here's what it looked like:

For videos about the ministry we are working with this month, check out this link.

Prophecy Then & Now

I post this to contribute to the ongoing musings and discussions happening on our squad related to the outpouring of the indwelling Spirit.  This is not meant to be the authoritative answer by any means. These are thoughts compiled by one scholar who has devoted his life to studying the Bible and encouraging the church and scholarly community with his findings.

What follows is a list of characteristics that generally apply to most (but not all) prophets. Prophets pray (Abraham), praise (Mariam) and preach (Amos), but so do lots of other people who are not called prophets. What makes them so special?

These characteristics, compiled by John Goldingay of Fuller Theological Seminary, distinguish prophets from other leaders, and can be thought of as familial traits or resemblance shared by family members.

Disclaimer: No one prophet applies to all of these characteristics. No one characteristic applies to all people labeled as prophets. Characteristics of one prophet may not be a necessary component of prophetic ministry as a whole. Goldingay's 9 Facets of a Prophet / Prophetic Ministry1. A prophet shares God's nightmares and dreams.

They can see things that other people cannot see (i.e. Isa 1, Elisha & God's armies)

A prophet looks at the present in light of the past and in light of the future as well as the future in light of the present. Decimation is not the last word.

Prophets in the OT were invited into God's "cabinet," His heavenly court, to be a part of the decision making process of the gods. (Gen 1 & Job 1 are two examples of this "heavenly cabinet". 1 Kings 22 is a prime example of a prophet being a part of the process. Abraham's pleading for Sodom & Gomorrah in Gen 18 is another.

A prophet brings bad news (nightmares) more than good news (dreams), about 2/3 bad and 1/3 good.

2. A prophet speaks like a poet and behaves like an actor.

The books are most written in poetic style, in verse, and contain a lot of indirect communication. They are full of hyperbole and imagery, simile and metaphor (1 Kings 13 & 22).

Receiving a word from a prophet does not make life less complicated (or easier). Its like hearing a parable from Jesus. We should expect Christian prophets to speak in pictures.

Prophets speak in rhyme. Prophets can dance. They got rhythm.

God may leave us initially puzzled. God speaks in pictures & images for 2 reasons: 1- that deep truths about God can't be put in straightforward language that speaks only to the rational mind (they are not simply easily understood and comprehended) they require images that have the capacity to reach the whole person (deep truths about god speak to the whole person, not just the rational mind) and

2- that we don't want to receive God's truth. But, pictures and images can get past our defenses and break through our resistance.

Prophecy speaks to our will, our imagination and our insight.

3. A prophet is somebody who confronts the confident with rebuke and the downcast with hope.

They minister directly with the people of their day, they speak to their own people and the struggles they are dealing with. They don't speak much about "the Messiah."

The first two thirds of Ezekiel is mostly rebuke, but the final third of Ezekiel is about restoration. First Isaiah (1-39) is mostly rebuke. Second Isaiah (40-55) is mostly hope. A true prophet knows what time it is, an speaks accordingly.

4. A prophet is someone who speaks mostly to the people of God.

They are not social reformers though they do have a vision of what things should like. They remind the people of their commitment to God. They do speak to the world/nations, but primarily to the people of God. Prophets today will call the church to be people of God instead of an imitation of the world.

5. A prophet is someone who is not a part of the establish societal/ruling/political structure.

They are independent of institutional pressures of church and state, not on the payroll of gods people. they speak using objectionable language an that says something about who they are speaking to as well as the prophets themselves.

6. A prophet is a scary person who mediates the things of a scary God.

Prophetic ministry today should reduce the domestication of God that characterizes us as evangelicals and charismatics.

7. A prophet intercedes with boldness and praises with freedom.

They are mediators who mediate in BOTH directions as members of God's cabinet, they take part in cabinet discussions on behalf of the people of God advocating for them (prayer). They also proclaim the cabinet's decisions to the people (preaching). Amos 7&8. Both activities, the preaching and the prayer, have the same aim, which is for God's positive purposes to be fulfilled and God's negative purposes to be abandoned. (Abraham in Gen 20). Prophets pray & preach, as well as praise!

8. A prophet is someone who speaks and ministers in a way that reflect the personalities of the individual and their time.

God speaks by their "hand." Some humanness comes out in the delivery of Hod's message. God uses them as who they are to bring the message they can bring. Jeremiah speaks differently than Isaiah who speaks differently than Ezekiel, etc.

It does not bypass the person or their personality.

9. A prophet is certain to fail, in some way or another.

God sent prophets to call His people out from their apostasy and back into right relationship with Him. Almost none of them succeed. Ironically Jonah was the most successful prophet. However, God is ever hopeful, and no "failure" discourages Him.

Prophets are not infallible - they make mistakes (i.e. Elijah, Hannaniah, Jeremiah in ch 15, they may not achieve the purpose for which God sent them.

So, what's the point? God stays ever faithful and ever hopeful. Prophets are a means of God's grace. A prophet should prophesy because God called him/her. He or she must be obedient and faithful, because God is. Closing Thoughts

I would encourage you to listen to the first 45 min of this lecture where Goldingay explains these 9 facets/familial traits. If you are interested, you might as well listen to the entire course. If you want to read more on the topic of the Holy Spirit and prophecy check out Walter Brueggeman's The Prophetic Imagination, Gordon Fee's God's Empowering Presence. Probably the best commentary on 1 Corinthians is by Gordon Fee, the chief NT editor for the NIV.

After understanding how prophets ministered in the OT, we can begin to draw conclusions about what the gift of prophecy and prophetic ministry should look like today. Stay tuned for a post later this month on some of my thoughts on that matter.

(The pictures were taken and edited by Loren when Jack & Jake team preached in Uganda.)

A Woman's Worth

Lately, life has shifted gears and moved into fast-forward. We arrived in Thailand about a week ago, and I've already started bar-hopping ... my ministry this month.

I'm serving on a fantastic team of all women this month, while Jack gets some bonding time with the men on our squad - he's doing manual labor and mentoring kids at an orphanage that rescues vulnerable children from the cycle of human trafficking.

We are about an hour away from each other, will only see each other a few days this month, and expect our time apart to challenge and stretch us as we focus on separate ministries and allow our lives to look different for the month.

My ministry this month is very unique, and very new to me. It's also something I'd like to invite you to join in a special way. My passion for this ministry is best expressed by Carly Crookston; an amazing woman, a gifted writer, and one of my new team members. She wrote the peice below that describes what we're doing this month. I'm thrilled to serve alongside her as we reach out to broken women this month ...

broken women in the red-light district...

---

How much?

How much is she worth?

How much money would you be willing to pay to hang out with your waitress for the night?  Five dollars?  Ten dollars?  More?  Less?

What if she was your best friend?  What if she was your little sister?  What if she was your daughter?  What if she was your wife?

How much then?

Take a walk with me.  We're in Chiang Mai, Thailand.  It's nearly midnight, but you wouldn't know it by the looks of it -- the lights flicker and glow enticingly, the music blares, the streets pulse with all of the people on them.  We walk into a bar, slide into a booth and a young woman comes to take our order.  To call her a young woman might be a little bit generous -- she can't be much older than eighteen.  She's pretty, the way that all of the women here are pretty with their fine bone structure and round cheeks and sweet smiles.  Can you see her?  Who does she look like?

To me, she looks like my best friend Andrea. She looks like my sisters-in-law, Kimberly and Abigail. Could this have been one of them?  What if they hadn't been priviledged enough to be born in America, into homes that sheltered them from the harsh reality of forced prostitution?

If you read this blog, chances are that you know me.  You've probably talked with me or spent time with me at some point… After reading these posts for the past seven months, you surely know what I've been experiencing and learning lately.  So what if it was me?  What if I was the girl “waiting tables” at these bars and I was tired?  What if I was tired of my life, but I had no other options?  Would you help me? 

If you read this blog, chances are that I know you.  And after being blessed by your generosity and support thus far, I know that you would help me.  To many of you, I am your friend, your sister, your daughter -- or at least, I could be.  You wouldn't pass by me when I was desperate.  I know that you wouldn't.

So let's not pass by these women when they are desperate.  Let's not pass by the young girls stuck in these bars.  Let's not walk past them, most of whom are not here by their own design.  Close your eyes and see your little girl, your best friend, your only sister, exploited and alone.  What are you going to do about it?

My team and I are partnering with Lighthouse in Action ministries this month.  We're walking those streets, sitting in those bars, talking with those girls and our goal is to be Jesus.  We're not walking in with Bibles, preaching a message of condemnation or anger.  We're walking in to be girlfriends.  We're trying to get to know these girls, to build relationships.  The program director made it very clear: we're not a SWAT team running in to grab the women.  We're farmers -- we're planting seeds, watering them, and maybe even harvesting a couple if the season is right.

How do we do that specifically?  Our ministry this month centers around two of my favorite things -- praying and dating.  Every day and every night, some part of our team will be in the prayer room, interceding for this country and the women that we meet.  Then we spend two days and two nights a week in bars, getting to know the girls and inviting them out on dates.  We want to take them to lunch, to the movies, to get our nails done -- the regular things girlfriends do with one another.  Ministry this month is deeply relational.  Success is not counted in how many women we personally pull out of the bar scene; it's about the depth and quality of friendships made.

But I need your help.  My team needs your help.  We have to pay to buy ourselves [non-alcoholic] drinks in every bar we go -- even the ones we go in just to pray.  We have to pay to buy the women drinks and the price doubles.  I'm hoping to get to the point where I can offer to pay a girl's bar fee, pay to take her out of there for the night.  Then on any of the dates we have, we're paying for the women.  But all of this requires cash, something that runs pretty short after seven months around the world.  My team and I are trying to raise some money so that we can treat these women.  We want to make some real, quality friendships -- friendships where we aren't trying to get anything out of them, but just showing them the love of Jesus through our lives.

If you would be willing to partner with us on this, you can email me for more information on how to give. Any money that we have left over after the end of the month will be given to this ministry; a prominent bar is closing at the end of April and the director has a vision for a rehabilitation program, where the women can come to learn about Jesus, but also to learn practical job skills.  The four-month program costs about $1,000 dollars per woman, so any money that we do not use “dating” the girls will go directly towards that project.

So there we are, sitting in the booth.  The pretty girl's name is Nam and she's ready to take our order.  What will you have?  Coca-cola?  A cocktail?  Maybe the girl herself?

How much?

He has shown you, O man, what is good.  And what does the Lord require of you?  To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.  Micah 6:8

Labor Pains

We have just stepped off the plane into Thailand. From the dusty slums of Africa to the bustling streets of Bangkok, we find ourselves in a completely different world. Asia beckons, a stranger. A land more foreign than anything I’ve yet faced this year. I am intimidated.

I've been travelling overseas since high school, and rarely felt inept or out of place. Nicaragua has been home for me since 2006 - even from my first visit, Latin culture was reminiscent of Texas and Mexico, so finding myself comfortble there was no surprise.

Eastern Europe presented new cultures ... but our langugages share Latin roots, the people are white, and similarities still linger from shared Anglo-Saxon ancestors.

And Africa - it welcomed me with open arms in 2005. My heart was broken, but it also opened wide like a hibiscus in the African sun of wide African smiles, African arms, African love. It, too, has been home ever since.

But Asia ? It looms - a giant question mark in my mind. I have absolutely no idea what to expect. I suppose this is fertile soil for God to sow seeds.

A part of me thinks I am too old to fall in love again - with a people group, a new area of the globe … but then, life is funny.

Just when you think life is full, marriage opens an entirely new chapter of love and sacrifice, tears and toil and laughter - pulsing vitality beyond the joy I thought possible.

As my friends one by one cross the threshold to motherhood, I watch their hearts expand again - and again - always more room in the heart for a new baby. Someday, I’ll know that joy.

But today, I groan with labor pains of another kind. He is birthing in me a fierce, proud, protective love his nations and people.

There is Nicaragua: first-born of my missionary passions, the one that is most familiar to me. Don’t get me started talking about how beautiful Nica is, because I’m likely to whip out pictures and never stop chatting about her festive spirit, her lovely Latin character, and how she’s an unexpected class favorite.

And Africa: second-born, meeting this one broke my heart. I bent low on a dirt floor in Zambia as my heart was shattered by her passion and her great need. Fiercely prideful, driven by a rhythm all her own, and alive to the work of a risen savior, she captured my heart - when I am away from her too long, I am anxious and my heart aches to see her once again.

And so I'm left, pecies of my heart strewn across continents. I'm left to wait, waiting to meet this unknown, third reflection of God on earth. The time is coming soon. What will Asia look like?

Will I have what it takes to go through this process again - to gaze in awe upon another manifestation of my God in the flesh - and give of myself?

Do I have anything to offer?

And - the most painful question of all - is there enough room in my heart … for all three - for Nicaragua, for Africa, and for Asia?

I think about my momma friends with multiple children - and I’m amazed at how the Lord grows our hearts. Even as a woman’s womb stretches to make room, so does her heart. A father’s hands reach out for his newborn child, and the Lord plants love in his very core.

Oh Jesus, would you stretch my heart as I hold out my hands ... for whatever you decide to place in them?

{For our loved family and friends who are delivering babies while we are away - we are thinking of you. It's hard to miss the really special moments. When we get home, we can't wait to meet and hold baby Camp, Josiah, Noah, Hattie, Elijah, and baby Legare. We know they'll be just as amazing as their parents. We love you!}

A Day in the Life: Rwanda

8:00 am:            Arise (rather groggy and grumpy - I am not friends with evil Morning.) 8:00 - 9:00:       Snack on some Psalms in my little tent - so tasty!

9:00 - 9:45:       Walk the long, dusty road to pastor’s house for breakfast

9:45 - 10:00:     Eat breakfast (same as every day) … hard-boiled egg, a miniature banana, black ginger tea with goat’s milk, and chapati (like a fluffy tortilla).

We were told that right after breakfast, we would leave for a “short” marriage party. It would be a “slight distance” away, and we were not sure how we would get there.

10:00 - 12:00:    Wait at the pastor’s house in confusion … where we discover it is a graduation party, not a marriage party. And that the pastor had already left. And that he is not sure how we will get there. Make small talk with the pastor’s wife (who speaks limited English) -  try to maintain eye contact as she breastfeeds her toddler, completely topless and very nonchalant about it.

Play “20 questions” with our team to kill time.

Sweat trickles down my back - the heat of the day arrives early here.

12:30 - 1:00:       We walk across town to our translators’ moms’ shop, where we will meet our translator, who will get us bus tickets to the graduation party.

1:00 pm:              Arrive at the shop, where mama wants to know where her daughter (our translator) is. We have no idea. Hands on wide hips, she is not happy.

1:00 - 1:40:          Sit on the steps and watch the cars go by. I daydream about macaroni and cheese. A precious and malnourished child wanders by, so my attention is averted to praying for her.

1:40 pm:               Our translator arrives, and after a short argument with her mom, we head to the bus station.

2:15 pm:               When we arrive at the bus station, we discover that the next bus does not leave until 3 pm. (We were told the party ended around 3). So we walk back to to the shop.

2:30 - 3:30:           Wait for a while longer, while many confusing phone calls fly around. A car arrives to pick us up, then speeds away as our translator explains that “it has two flat tires.”

4:00 pm:                We are picked up by a van. Thrilled and relieved, we stretch out on the seats and head off, bumping along back roads.

4:20 pm:                 In confusion, we are driven back to …. the pastor’s house!

Here, we are greeted by the pastor’s family, dressed to a hilt, AND the entire Voice of Trumpet Victory Choir from the pastor’s church, in their singing attire: shiny brown satin two-tone shirts and crisp pants, and long shoes that turn up at the toes.  All 16 of them pile into our van (how I wish Africans used deodorant!), along with their full arsenal of sound equipment … 2 huge box stereos, a sound board, several cables, etc. Some seats have 3 layers of people stacked high on each others’ laps.

In my little corner of the van, I thank Jesus (literally) that I am by a window, where fresh air can blow through, and that my compact size shows its advantage in this situation. My poor 6 ft+ team leader looks so uncomfortable.

4:25 pm:        After driving exactly 10 meters, the van is stopped. In a flurry of loud voices, the entire choir piles out of the van, shuffles around, and then piles back in. This happens twice more in the next half hour. But … we are finally on our way! Note that we are only 6 hours late.

During the van ride, Voice of Trumpet Victory Choir practices their repertoire, although they don't all sing the same song at the same time. It is loud enough that I hear it all through my headphones.

5:25 pm:       Arrive at the graduation party to many stares.

We visit the “bathroom” - a three-sided shack with a hole dug in the ground. The exciting part is that there is a hornet’s nest … in the hole where you are supposed to do your business.

I’m not sure how you’re supposed to do your business without angering the hornets. This is all made more exciting, since in Romania I discovered a serious allergy to flying, stinging insects. In Africa, even a trip to the bathroom is never routine. Somehow, we miraculously survive unscathed.

At the graduation party, we eat two very large dinners … one complete with animal intestines and soured milk sauce. We choke down what we can and try not to let the constant stares bother us.

We’re given a 2-minute warning that someone from our group will give a graduation speech. This should not be surprising, since at the last graduation we attended (in Tanzania), we were given a 1-minute warning that we would be performing a dance in front of hundreds. Yes, we did it, and no, it was not my proudest moment. At this graduation ceremony, however, my teammate Jake saves the day by giving a speech that is well-received. After that the stares are more kindly.

I am fascinated by a speech given by the family patriarch and his allusions to genocide. Their family was Tutsi, in the targeted group during the Rwandan genocide of 1994. His family fled to Uganda and most of them have known life as refugees. In a quiet, dignified voice, he glorifies God that he has allowed them to return to the homeland of their fathers, that he saved them while many others were slaughtered, and that now as his family - and his country - rebuilds, the graduation of his grandson marks progress for his family and hope for all.

Rwandans are a reserved, proud people that do not quickly open their emotions to outsiders - and they rarely talk of the horror in their recent past. To see a rare glimpse of their true feelings was a gift, and I felt honored to be included in such an intimate family gathering.

Little did I know the day was not even close to over yet …

6:45 pm:        Though the “party” portion of the ceremony is only beginning, we all (Voice of Trumpet Victory Choir included) pile back into the van - we are already late for evening church service. We bounce along the rutted, muddy, rocky, mountainous road to the city.

    Along the way, fields of wheat and corn unfold before me like a patchwork quilt - beautiful.     A storm rolls in, shades of steel in thunderous clouds above, brazen sunlight shining through breaks of gray. Clean, rain-soaked breezes wash through the open window and refresh the sweaty stale air inside the van. A great playlist rings in my ears, and I worship. My heart bobs above me, like a balloon on a string. It doesn’t feel like much holds me to the ground. Just when I think I can’t be more caught up in the rapture of the beauty around me, a lightening storm begins.

“The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky above proclaims his handiwork.” Psalm 19:1

Despite Genocide, God has smiled upon this land. The story of Rwanda is still unfolding, and I can’t help but sense that he is not done in East Africa yet - a feeling that was confirmed when …

7:30 pm:        We arrive at church, late for service, where everyone is singing a cappella and caught up in worship- undeterred that we have the choir and the sound system with us.

7:30 - 8:45:    Church and preaching/worship with our team.

8:45 pm:        We choke down our third dinner.

9:15 pm:         In the middle of a torrential downpour, all seven of us pile into a small four-door ancient car that in every moment feels like its last. We somehow make it home.

10:00 pm:       Collapse into bed and think, “Is this real life?”

Voices in the Dark

Flickering candles pierce the dark African night.Crickets join husky voices lifted in Kinyarwandan song.

Call and response, rhythm of hands, shuffle of the dance.

The cadence breaking into complex syncopation. Hands feet limbs, lips cast shadows on the red dirt floor.

Pews of plastic chairs abandoned in favor of a wild praise dance.

Power outages do not stop worship here ...  I have a hunch Africans might be God's favorite.