From the Rooftop

A Discontinuation

2011-11-10T09:20:00.000-08:00

I am pleased to announce that I have something to announce to you.

I am less pleased to announce that the grand five of you who are faithful followers of my blog will soon not have anything to follow.

WHAT?

Kindly put your guns away. I wasn't trying to upset you. You're quite welcome to follow my NEW blog.

I decided I needed a change. Call it a mid-life crisis. Call it a make-over with no make-up involved. Call it reorganization. Don't get me wrong. I still like rooftops. I just couldn't fit on one anymore. :-) Welcome to my new home ... new virtual home ... that's not really very home-like ... I don't even get a couch ...

If you would like to keep updated on my life from now on, you should probably go here:

The Lost Bohemian

What It's Like to Be a Bride

2011-11-09T10:08:00.000-08:00

I would like to start off by saying I have no qualifications for writing this post. I’ve never been a bride. I get slightly bored sitting through weddings. I don’t know what color I want my bridesmaids to wear. (Not that I have any bridesmaids.) I’ve never owned an all-white dress.

On the other hand, I have every qualification for writing this post.

God is showing me that I am a piece in a whole, a member in a body, a part of His bride. (Sorry, men. I’m not sure how that all works from where you stand. I’m sure God has His reasons.)

A week ago, Teri asked me what I learned on the tour. The traveling-around-the-States-praying-for-gas-money-walking-into-restaurants-with-no-money-to-pay-for-food-enjoying-every-hot-tub-we-could time. This is what I told her:

Six weeks ago I didn’t know God was this faithful. That He could do something that I labeled failure and still be true. That He could catch us when we were falling off a cliff and make it funny. That He could give us this many presents when it wasn’t any of our birthdays. Five weeks ago I didn’t know His bride - His American bride - was this beautiful. That she was being called to walk in love, and she was answering the call. That she was striving hard to be His hands and His feet. That she was so generous and honest and kind.

I’ve seen the American Church alive and worshiping. I’ve seen complete strangers open their front doors and welcome us with hugs. I’ve seen hearts healed. I’ve seen dreams lived. I’ve seen the same God I saw in Haiti and Africa and China and around the world take charge of a red mini-van to proclaim His kingdom in the USA.

Welcome to the Bride of Christ. Around the world, God is calling His children to rise up, to give up, to shout out, to live out the truth and life that are found in Jesus only. Many of His children are answering that call. I’ve seen it. And it’s gorgeous.

Not because it’s about us at all. But because as we bow at His feet, our faces start to reflect His. And that’s what the world is dying to see.

To God be the glory.

Life In the Gap

2011-11-07T19:38:00.000-08:00

So, now that the tour’s over, and I’ve finally begun to realize how little I actually told you about what we were doing, I’d like to end with an introduction.

Readers, meet Teri.

I’m sure Teri says Hi. :-)

Teri is the reason I went on the Fall Dream Tour 2011. Well, Teri and God.

I first met Teri in Gainesville, Georgia, sitting in an office at AIM headquarters at a table with scribbled words, verses, and dinosaurs all over it. God has given Teri a dream. A dream to reach deep into the American church, grab hold of all that hidden potential, and pull it out into the raw, real, day-in, day-out world.

You could probably call her life a spark. A John the Baptist sort of call. Or a cold bucket of water to rouse a sleeping giant. Whichever you prefer.

After five weeks on the road together, this is what I have learned about Teri:

She likes chips. Blue ones especially. She loves asking her six-year old daughter, “Do you know - do you know how much I love you?” She’s writing a book, and the plot is fascinating. She sometimes snores (hi, Teri :-)). She loves Ireland, Scotland, and Tennessee. But that’s not all I know.

Teri has an unstoppable, passionate determination to follow the dream God has given her. She had a conversation once with a fellow worker at AIM. Life was rough just then, and Teri was wondering if maybe she’d heard wrong and ought to move into something a little more normal.

This is what she said: “I can’t do this. I used to know how to do these things.” (Teri used to be a strategic planner.) “But now? I don’t know how to do this. I’m screwing everything up.”

Her co-worker’s response? “Teri, you don’t have any idea how much you mean to us. We watch you. We’ve seen how much you’ve given up. You inspire us.”

Why? Because the things that are holding America back are the very things that Teri’s giving away. She’s given up her family, her house, her job, security, stability, retirement, sanity, even her dog Abner. And the more she loses her life, the more abundant the life she finds. And she’s more compelled today than she was yesterday. And she was more compelled yesterday than she was the day before. This is living in the gap between what we have and what we need. This is where we see God show up.

Those are Teri’s words, not mine.

I’ve come away from the tour thinking we could use a few more Teri’s in the States. I’ve seen her walk up and pray for total strangers. I’ve seen her share hugs and a laugh with former prostitutes. I’ve seen her encourage pastors and other missionaries. I’ve seen her skip through a parking garage with her daughter, ride a horse for only the second time in her life, praise God for a broken window, and paddle a kayak under the stars. I’ve seen the living, holy, present Almighty God be glorified in Teri’s life.

She doesn’t live half-heartedly. She doesn’t always know what she’s doing, and she doesn’t always get it right. But there’s no turning back now, and she knows it. As she herself said, “I’m in, baby!”

1,176 Hours, 147 Meals, and 70 Toilets Later

2011-11-03T21:03:00.000-07:00

I am about to go through a long list of Dream Tour statistics. But first I would like to start off with something profound. So. I was looking at the picture of the map I posted earlier, and I decided it doesn’t look like a wobbly figure 8 at all. It looks like a bikini.

Eh-hem.

Now that I have your undivided attention: The following is a list of very dull numbers which specify certain statistics recorded over the last several weeks of my life. They are as follows:

- Time elapsed: 49 days (September 15-November 2, 2011)

- States visited: 22 (NE, KS, MO, TN, KY, GA, SC, NC, VA, MD, PA, WV, IN, IA, WI, OH, MI, AL, MS, LA, TX, OK) And if you know all those abbreviations, you’re doing better than I did. I had to look them up.

- Toilets occupied: 70 (Yes, it was a little weird counting the number of different bathrooms I went into. I did it for you.)

- Sleeping arrangements:
    - Couches: 8
    - Blow-up mattresses: 1
    - Beds: 4
    - Floors: 5
    - Top bunk of the bunk bed: 1

- Pianos played: 6 (two Grands!)

- Chocolate inhaled: . . . Oh, it wasn’t that much, alright?

- Miles traveled: 7,270

- Free things:
    - 1 cup of coffee
    - 1 World’s Smallest Ice Cream Sundae (Welcome to downtown Holland, MI.)
    - 4 Casting Crown Concert tickets
    - 1 copy of Radical (The church we were attending just happened to be handing them out that morning. Really. For free.)
    - 3 New Orleans Aquarium tickets
    - 1 GPS
    - 235 hugs (. . . Okay, I didn’t really count those. It’s an estimate.)

- Beginning financial statement: $123.51

- Ending financial statement: Enough.

So, what’s the moral of the story?

If God can do all this in just 49 days through three adults, a six-year old, and a mini-van . . . just think what He could do if He had us all in. I mean it. ALL of us. ALL in. You might have to bring your own mini-van though. I don't think you'll fit in ours.

Where I've Been

2011-10-31T09:48:00.000-07:00

Below is a rough sketch of where I've been for the last five weeks. Pretty impressive, isn't it? And when I pulled out of the driveway at home on September 15, I only had $123.51 to my name. God is good! The rather wobbly figure 8 ends on Wednesday, November 2. Back in Central City, Nebraska. But not for long . . .

The Heartbeat of God

2011-10-27T19:16:00.000-07:00

Sometimes God asks us if we still believe He’s good even when He doesn’t seem to be. He did it to Abraham when He told him to sacrifice his son. He did it to Joseph when He put him in an Egyptian jail cell. He did it to Paul when He gave him a thorn in the flesh. He’s done it to me.

Do you trust Me? He asks. No, really. If I don’t do this for you, do you still trust Me? Do you still believe that I’m good?

God asked me this question a couple weeks ago on our tour. He let me flounder through an answer for a few days, and then He gave me a picture to show me His heart.

It happened in Holland. Michigan, Holland. In the land of wooden shoes and terrifying Melon Heads. The land of kayaking at midnight. The land of long, sandy beaches and breathtaking autumn trees. And home to one of my favorite youth groups in the world.

I met them in Haiti. They’re the ones who thanked God for the heat. The ones who stayed up on the roof till midnight, worshiping and washing each others’ feet. (See This Post) I have seen in them the joy of the Spirit. I have heard from them the truth and love of Jesus. They have given me hope for the future of the Body of Christ. They have been a blessing. And this week, through one particular younger brother, God let me see a glimpse into His heart.

He did it through a young man named Trevor. God did something special in Trevor during his week in Haiti. I was in charge of his small group. I got to see it. Trevor described it something like this: “God took the narrow crack that was all I allowed of His love to reach me and ripped it open into a wide, raging river.”

And then Trevor came back to America. Back to school. Back to safety. Back to normal. He was afraid he’d forget the God he’d seen in Haiti. So, he took one of the lessons he’d learned there and started practicing it here. He started praying. Intentionally asking for God’s heart for his friends and then sharing with each friend whatever God said.

When I saw Trevor this week, I asked him what God was teaching him today. He told me about relationships he’d been intentionally building. The way he’s trying to carry a ray of Jesus’ light into the darkness of a world without Him. The cry of his heart to learn what it looks like to walk step-by-step in the presence of God throughout the day. He let me encourage him. He let me pray with him.

Trevor’s a tall guy. My head stops at his heart. Literally. When I prayed for him, I put my hand on his back, and he put his arm around my shoulder, and my head stopped at his chest. I could hear his heartbeat.

And that’s when God spoke. This is where I’ve got you, He said. Right here, right now. This is where you are. Right up next to My heart. It doesn’t matter if I think He’s failed me. It doesn’t matter if He’s not writing the story the way I wanted Him to write. Remember the question? What do you want more: your stories or My heart? He tells me I’m right up against His chest, listening to His heartbeat. And then He gives me a living, flesh and blood picture to show me what that means.

My prayer for Trevor, my prayer for you, my prayer for me is that we would get right up next to God. Rest our head against His chest and listen. Listen for His heartbeat.

(This is Lisa, me, Hunter, and Trevor on the day we left Michigan. It was 7:30 in the morning. We were allowed to be abnormal.)

A Birthday Wish

2011-10-24T20:23:00.000-07:00

This is a picture of Josh. Well, and Lisa, Leeza, Tifany, Teri, Lilly, and me.

Josh is the guy.

I probably didn't need to say that, but just in case. I met Josh in Haiti. I wrote a a blog about his testimony Here. Josh's birthday is coming up. It's tomorrow actually. This is his birthday wish:

A house.

Not for him. For a lady called Monique. She lives in Haiti. She hand-washed our clothes every week for the two months we were down there. Her house collapsed in the earthquake, and she's been living in a tent/shack sort of thing with her infant son.

Josh wants to help Monique. I'd like to help Josh. Here - These are his own words:

Help me raise $2,800 for my Birthday. I want to buy Monique a house in Haiti. $2,800 for my 28th birthday. I'm going back to Haiti on the 5th and would like to take the money with me so we can start construction. People can send money through www.paypal.com, by clicking on "Send money" and putting in my email address smithjoshua@me.com or mailing a check (make out to "Joshua Smith") to 2021 Wilkens Ave. Baltimore, MD 21223 before the 3rd of November.

The Story That Hasn't Ended Yet

2011-10-23T20:39:00.000-07:00

Where do I start? Chaos. Anger. Questions. Pain. These are the words that come to mind. But they’re small, disjointed, inadequate. And God may be able to read my mind, but you have no idea what I’m talking about.

For me, it started one year ago when 27 Americans walked through the rusted gate of a crammed Haitian orphanage, and one of the children raced to my side, grinned, and grabbed my hand. A child stranger whose name I didn’t even know. Holding my hand. Why? Because I was present. I didn’t have to doll out candy or sing a pretty song. I just had to be there.

Have you ever been to an orphanage? This is how they are.

We left after five short days of singing songs, taking pictures, giggling, and chasing each other up and down the stairs. They stayed in their orphanage. We went back home. But this is not the end of the story.

This summer, towards the end of my two months in Haiti, the orphanage director was arrested. The charge? Child trafficking. Do you know what child trafficking is? Do you understand that they sell thirteen-year olds and nine-year olds and six-year olds into slavery? Do you understand that they are still doing this today? In Haiti, in Africa, in China, in the Philippines, in the United States.

The orphans should have been free after the director was arrested. But they weren’t. His wife and others continued the work he’d left behind. Children went underfed, undoctored, unloved. Some disappeared. Some are still missing.

Then the media got involved. The Haitian government closed down the orphanage. They sent police in to bring the children out. By force. They dragged them out by force. Without explanation. Without compassion. I’ve seen the pictures to prove it. This happened just a few days ago. (Read Story Here)

These are not fun facts to hear. They’re not fun facts to tell. They are dramatic and heart-wrenching, but they don’t really have a fairytale ending. That’s because this isn’t a fairytale. And this isn’t the end.

We live in a cruel world. I’m sure you didn’t need this orphanage saga to tell you that. We also live in a beautiful world. A breathing world. A dying world. A world in desperate need. It’s easy to feel sorry for the homeless kids down in Haiti. It’s easy to say politicians need Jesus. It’s easy to say orphan directors who traffic children ought to be shot.

It’s harder to take this story of un-love and use it to compel you on to higher love. We can write all the letters and pass all the laws and make all the speeches we want. Some of us can even go to Haiti and sing with the orphans down there. That’s what I’d like to do. But Jesus isn’t asking for your future plans or my well-written speeches. He’s asking for my today. Your today.

Like the nameless kid who ran up and grabbed my hand. Just cause I was present. Are you present with Jesus today? I could tell you story after horrific story of what people do without Christ. I’d like to hear some stories of what people do with Him.

This is still not the end of the story.

Technology and Providence

2011-10-21T21:14:00.000-07:00

It started out this morning. We woke up late, stumbled into the living room, and blinked at each other. “So . . . what are we doing today?” Silence and a few shrugs. Apparently, we didn’t really know.

“Uh, we’re meeting a couple people for lunch,” Lisa offered.

And after that? Well, God knew. He didn’t tell us. But He knew.

That afternoon found me sitting in a white, stained-glass chapel playing a gorgeous grand piano to an invisible audience. Basically, it was one step away from Heaven. But wait. It’s about to get better.

Lisa came in. “So, we’re going to Lexington. Something about a coffee shop. Teri said we need to go.” We didn’t know exactly which coffee shop. Or why. But we jumped in the van and started driving.

We had three options for coffee. Lisa pulled out her smart phone and started researching. Which one? Which one? Coffee Grounds. One random pick out of three. Why? Cool name. And one free cup of coffee.

We got ourselves some caffeine and a fruit smoothie, sat on a couch, and stared at the wall. What are we doing here again? Lisa got back on her phone. Any tips for Coffee Grounds? “Go to the back room and check out the books on the bookshelf.”

Well. Beats staring at a wall.

She went to the back room. Twenty minutes later, Teri and I thought maybe we should go see what was taking so long. And that’s how we met Chris. He was sitting by himself in this back room, and when we came in, he was telling Lisa all about his church. We sat down and joined the conversation. In the middle of which, Chris got a facebook message from a friend. “Two free tickets to the Casting Crowns concert. Tonight.”

He asked what we were doing for the rest of the evening.

“Uh, we don’t really know.” (That’s become our answer to quite a lot of things.)

Chris invited us to go to a free concert.

Woohoo! We grabbed our coats and hurried out the door. The concert hall was less than a mile away.

Oh, but wait. There are four of us now, aren’t there? And only two tickets . . . Oh, well! “Maybe we’ll find two free tickets on the side of the road, just like the wallet,” we mused.

Apparently, God thought that was a pretty good idea.

We got to the concert hall and waited outside for Chris’s friend to come with the tickets. While we stood there, we noticed a man standing next to us. He was mumbling something and not looking too thrilled about it. He was also holding two tickets in his hand. “Free tickets,” he muttered again.

We kind of heard him, shrugged, and went back to talking. Five minutes later, we looked at each other again. “Free tickets? Did he really say he had two free tickets? Funny. We could use two free tickets.”

So, we went and asked.

And that’s how we got four free tickets to a Casting Crowns concert in downtown Lexington.

Welcome to Kentucky. Welcome to God’s sense of humor. Welcome to a day in a life filled with technology and Providence.

. . . P.S. Yeah, it was a pretty awesome concert too. :-)

Chasing Seagulls and Skipping Rocks

2011-10-17T20:32:00.000-07:00

I would like to share a memory from the first half of our tour. It is one of my favorites. Last week we went to the shore of Lake Michigan. Sand, seagulls, and sunshine. Brilliant. My good friend got to come with us. A beautiful young woman of God with a heart to serve others and a love for poetry. A young woman who’s really struggling right now.

That afternoon, we walked down the beach and enjoyed the gorgeous autumn weather. We made friends with the seagulls. We walked the length of the pier. We saw scary flying fish. We practiced skipping rocks.

And we talked. About all the sorts of things you talk about when you’re walking in the sand playing tag with seagulls. And my friend told me how hard it was. How hard it was to keep on going when this big, strong, good God doesn’t do the things He’s supposed to do.

It was like holding a mirror up to my own heart. Everything she said, I’ve thought before.

I don’t even know who God is right now, and I feel like I should. I’ve got all these doubts and questions. Am I doing something wrong?

I tried to say something profound. I got distracted by the geese and forgot what I was saying. And then I saw the rock. A smooth, round white rock that sparkled when the sun hit it. I picked it up.

“This,” I said to my friend, “is how God sees you. Only cooler,” I added, holding it up to the light. “It doesn’t matter how many questions you throw at Him. His view of you never changes. Like this rock: white, blameless, perfect. And, look - it sparkles when the sun shines on it.”

My friend stared hard at the pebble. “God sees me like this?”

I nodded.

And right then and there, she started weeping. Crying out to the God who wouldn’t answer the way she wanted Him - needed Him - to.

I put my arm around her shoulder, and she put her arm around me. “Jesus,” she said in tears, “I’m so sorry. I don’t feel You right now, but thank You. Thank You for seeing me.”

“Huh,” I thought. “I don’t feel Him either.”

And I didn’t. Not at all. There we stood on this enchanting beach with sapphire water running away to the horizon, a breeze kissing our faces, and sunshine pouring down. And neither one of us felt the presence of God.

“Well, feeling’s got nothing to do with it,” I told myself. “The Holy Spirit lives inside us. And besides, God’s the One who made all this gorgeous creation. Of course He’s here.”

Even though I didn’t feel anything.

A couple days later, I asked God about it again. Where were You in that moment? In the words? The breeze? In the sky? Where? His answer was a reminder of the Body of Christ. We are called to be the literal hands and feet of Jesus. So where was He that day when I didn’t feel Him? . . . He was standing right next to me, with His arm around my shoulder.

That’s what God’s been teaching me lately. He doesn’t have to say anything. He doesn’t have to do anything. He doesn’t have to say “yes” to all my prayers or write a happy ending for every chapter. He doesn’t have to do any of this in order to be God. He simply is. God. All the time, regardless of how I feel or how circumstances scream otherwise.

In the end, He just wants to walk with us. Down the beach in the sunshine, chasing seagulls and skipping rocks.

Uncovering Secret Identities

2011-10-15T22:23:00.000-07:00

This is a story that could only happen on the road. And probably only after a good 2,000 miles or more. It’s a story worth remembering. But maybe you had to be there. This is the story of how we uncovered who we are.

It started with a spaceship.

It was strapped down to the bed of a very large semi-truck one car ahead of us, and it was blocking the road. Literally. Its two escorts had flanked it on either side and stopped, doors open, lights flashing.

One man jumped out of his truck, climbed up on the contraption, and started fiddling with something. The spaceship started rocking back and forth. We figured that wasn’t a good sign. We scratched our heads and waited patiently for them to continue driving. The third time they pulled this stunt, however, we started bringing up words like “CIA” and “government conspiracy.”

We didn’t know much. All we knew was it went exactly 15 mph under the speed limit. Which, when the sign said 35, wasn’t very fast. It had at least four escorts that all blared, “WE VALUE SAFETY!” And it had to swerve - very slowly swerve - to avoid overhanging tree branches.

We pulled out our smart phones and started looking up mysterious headlines for small towns in Ohio.

Twenty minutes later, we were starting to get a little bored. Thirty mph is not fun. Especially when you still have 60 miles to go. They couldn’t keep this up for that long, could they? The truck was going to turn, wasn’t it?

And then we had a great idea. Did I say great? I meant brilliant. It was the sort of idea Indiana Jones would get while sweeping away down a raging river of death and destruction. Why wait in traffic behind this very slow-moving, likely-to-be-blown-up-at-any-moment unidentified non-flying object? Why not pass it? I mean, we couldn’t pass on the left side of the road, not with the escorts blocking traffic. But what if we turned on a side street? What if we sped down a parallel road, then turned back onto the main drive ahead of the semi?

Like I said. Brilliant.

The car ahead of us was piloted by an older, grandmotherly figure. She had the same idea. She put her blinker on and carefully turned onto a side street. I gunned the engine and tore after her.

“Recalculating,” our GPS warned. “Recalculating!”

We ignored him. Lisa pulled up a map on her phone and started directing me through the town’s streets. All four of them. They ended in a corn field. We turned right. Five blocks, then another corn field. We turned right again.

The main road was up in front of us. Oh, so close . . . Oh, so far away!

“Go!” Lisa shouted. “Go, go, go!”

Teri was sleeping in the back seat. Or she was until we started careening through this tiny town, breaking speed limits and taking corners on two wheels. (That might be a slight exaggeration.) She woke up with one thought blasting through her mind. We are about to die in my mom and dad’s minivan. I gotta be awake to see this!

Half a block from the main road, we spotted the spaceship. On the right, barreling towards us at about 3 ½ mph. From the left, a line of cars raced to barricade us. We had all of two seconds to pull out in front of everyone. If we didn’t make it, we were going to be waiting on absolute miles of traffic backed up behind the semi.

One little red stop sign stood in our way.

For half a second, I seriously considered obeying the law.

“Go!” Lisa yelled. “Go!”

“What is going on?” came Teri’s voice from the back seat.

I gripped the steering wheel with both hands and ran the stop sign. Goodbye, government conspiracy. Goodbye, endless line of slow-moving cars. Goodbye, spaceship.

So, who are we? We’re crazy, intentional nomads who love sitting upside-down on couches and hate road construction. We believe in making friends and memories and asking, “Can we pray for you?” We burst into random song. We start twitching when we spend too much time in the car. Or when we drink too much coffee. And occasionally, we get so excited we forget to stop at stop signs.

What’s your identity?

The Day I Disagreed With God

2011-10-10T19:47:00.000-07:00

“For My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways My ways,” declares the Lord. “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways and My thoughts than your thoughts (Isaiah 55:8, 9).”

I always thought that was such a beautiful passage. Poetic, inspiring, majestic. It was so nice to know God surpassed me by that much. It was great . . . until the day I disagreed with Him. I didn’t do it on purpose. It started with another verse.

“Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see (Hebrews 11:1).” I read that verse for years. I talked about it. I even memorized it.

Then I went to Haiti and met a blind man named Jeff (See Being Sure of What We Hope For). I started asking questions. What if I relied on God for my needs the same way Jeff has to rely on those around him for his needs? What if I stopped insisting on sight before I moved? Could I live in a way that proved the Word of God true? No, really. Could I today in 2011 make choices based on utter dependence on God and not looking to man for help at all? I knew they’d help me if I asked them to. But I didn’t want to see man move on my behalf. I wanted to see God Almighty move on my behalf.

I wanted to know what it really means to walk by faith and not by sight. Funny thing is, in order to live like that, you have to take away sight. You have to get rid of all the other alternatives and second options and plan B’s that we Americans are so good at making. You have to get to a point where you’ve got nothing but Jesus.

So, I did.

I packed my suitcase after 4 ½ months of no paycheck and drove to Georgia to begin six weeks on the road. Six weeks of living by faith and not by sight. It was great. God provided gas money and food (chocolate included); He gave me a place to sleep every night and kept the air in all my tires. He was taking really good care of me. But I knew He’d do that already. I wanted more. There are two kids in Africa I’ve been sponsoring through World Vision and the African Children’s Choir. Dorcas and Pascal. Two kids who don’t eat every day. Two kids with holes in their shoes. Two kids whose parents can’t send them to school. I asked God to take care of them.

I wanted a record of His faithfulness. I wanted my life to be an experiment in faith.

Would you like to know what God did?

Nothing. He did absolutely nothing. I asked Him to help, and He didn’t do it. I had to cancel my sponsorship. Yeah, it was kind of a let-down to me too. Sorry. I’m just telling how it went.

I wasn’t quite sure what God meant by it. In fact, I still don’t know. But I’ve given up on the goal I had. God made me. My thoughts disagreed with His, and somehow His are still way higher. I guess that means it’s now up to someone else. Dorcas and Pascal no longer have support. And they’re not the only ones. If I can’t sponsor them from the road, maybe someone will who’s still at home. Maybe that someone is you.

World Vision: Sponsor A Child

African Children’s Choir: Sponsor A Child

Homeless missionary on the road who hasn’t learned to read the mind of God:

The Hundred Dollar Bag of Apples

2011-10-09T19:43:00.000-07:00

Yesterday afternoon we stopped in a little Illinois town called Poplar Grove. They have a fun little roadside stand there with all sorts of Fall-ish things. Delicious apples, fat pumpkins, cute scarecrows, warty gourds. We were very touristy and pulled out the camera. We are on our Fall Tour after all. We also bought a bag of apples.

Who knew buying apples could be so dangerous?

This morning we woke up and realized that our wallet was missing. As in I-tore-apart-the-van-and-shook-the-chairs-upside-down-and-I-still-can’t-find-it missing. With $100 in cash. Guess where we’d seen it last?

We jumped in our van and drove back to Poplar Grove.

We didn’t talk much on the way there. I don't know about everyone else, but I was mostly trying to figure out what sort of frame of mind I needed to be in to convince God that it would be really good if He got us our wallet and our money back. We are homeless missionaries after all.

Once in Poplar Grove, Lisa jumped out of the van and went to ask about the missing wallet. I watched her from the van and didn’t see any impromptu gymnastics. I figured that meant bad news.

Sure enough. No wallet.

Way to go, God.

I turned the van around and pulled out of the parking lot. Put the brakes on at the stop sign. And very nearly ran over a wallet lying in the middle of the road. Guess whose wallet?

I looked God’s way and sniffed.

We opened the wallet and looked inside. All the important things - driver’s license, credit card, social security - were all there. The only thing missing was the hundred dollars. Apparently, God wasn’t too concerned about us running out of funds.

At this point, we had a quarter tank of gas left, four hours worth of road to travel, and exactly ten dollars to our name. Somehow the math wasn’t quite adding up. We asked God what He wanted us to do (now that He had us pinned), jumped back in the van, and started driving. Stopped to invest our ten dollars in oil and kept going. We figured we could make it to Chicago. God was going to have to do something after that.

We were alright with it. Well, sort of. But we didn’t have much of a choice, so we were doing our best to look God in the face without glaring. But the people we were supposed to be meeting with that day were still in the dark. I started down the list of phone calls. “Uh, yeah, hi, so about that lunch date . . . Yes, we are on our way right now . . . Um, not sure when we’ll make it . . . Yes, we’re driving. Yep, straight towards you. Only . . . well, we don’t have enough gas to get there.”

Third time around on that conversation, I was getting kinda tired of saying it.

That’s when our friend offered to get us gas money. Well, first he offered to drive three hours to fill our van up. Then he had a better idea. Something called MoneyGram. Yeah, I had never heard of it either. Basically, it means he used technology, and we got to walk into the grocery store and carry out some money. Guess how much?

Exactly one hundred dollars. We hadn’t breathed a single word to him about how much money we’d lost. You can’t convince me that God doesn’t take care of those who trust in Him.

. . . That’s also the most expensive bag of apples I’ve ever seen.

The Darkness in Our Dreams

2011-10-08T08:52:00.000-07:00

This is for the kids (and adults!) who attended Merge on Wednesday night at EUM Church in Racine, Wisconsin . . . and also for all who wanted to be there. :-)

So, Wednesday night we talked about dreams. We talked about ugliness and how God sees us through Christ and the different paths we can walk down. I shared two stories about darkness and light. Two stories about other people.

I’d like to get a little more personal. I’d like to share a story from my own life. Cause, hate to break it to you, but my 29 years haven’t been straight blue skies and sunshine. I’ve seen God allow darkness into my dreams.

Here’s something that happened recently:

A few years ago, I read a story about a missionary who did something amazing. Something impossible. He set out to prove God’s faithfulness. He set out to show the Bride of Christ the power of prayer. And God came through. I’ve read them, story after story after story from this man giving evidence to the unfailingness of God.

I thought that sounded pretty cool. “I want stories,” I told God. “Stories that prove Your word true. Stories I can take to Your Church and say, ‘Here, let me tell you what God’s done for me. Let me tell you how He’s moving today.’ ”

I started praying. Asking God, believing God to pull through for me. Putting myself in a position where, if He didn’t show up, I would be at the very least a fool. I had a dream. I wanted to see Him write His stories into reality so I could share them and bring glory to His name.

Guess what?

He failed. God failed me. The thing I was asking Him, begging Him to do, He didn’t do. He blatantly, crushingly, incomprehensibly didn’t do it. It would have been beautiful. I had the whole chapter written out in my head. It was quite dramatic, let me tell you. Scary, tense, wistful - and this great, heartwarming perfection at the end. I could even hear the triumphant background music playing as the credits rolled.

But God wrote something else.

A big word that I labeled FAILURE.

I yelled. I wanted to cry. I sat at His feet and scowled. I told Him this: “You didn’t come through for me. You were too late, too late to help. I never wanted to write this. If You’re really writing a higher story than the one I thought You were writing - well, are You allowed to fail in Your stories? You have to let me fail. I can’t help it. I’m human. But You - You’re God. You’re supposed to fight for those who can’t fight for themselves. You’re not supposed to fail. Why did You?”

He responded with a question of His own. What do you want more: your stories or My heart?

In other words . . . What am I willing to give up for the sake of staying close to Christ? Will I give up my shopping sprees? My bank account? My extra shoes? My extra time? My home? My comfort? My dreams?

What am I really chasing? Is it my version of a happy ending? A beautiful story? A vision? . . . Or His heart? Am I really chasing His heart? He is a jealous God. If you really - if you really - desire to follow after Him, He won’t let you get away with anything less.

I want to ask you the same question God asked me. What do you want more: your stories or His heart? Think carefully before you respond to that question. The answer might wreak havoc on your dreams.

The Homeless, the Warriors, and the Thieves

2011-10-06T10:55:00.000-07:00

We’ve been staying at lots of friends’ houses out here on the road. Glenn and Karen in North Carolina, the Long’s in Virginia, Chris in Ohio, Devin and Tia in Wisconsin. But we’ve been meeting strangers too. People we weren’t looking for. People we didn’t know. People whose paths are on a crash course with ours. Divine intersections.

We met George. He was walking in and out of cars stopped at a downtown DC traffic light at midnight. He had a cardboard sign that said something about no money and food. We sat at the light, watching him hobble along. Then as the light turned green, we decided to do something. I considered leaping out of the van, dodging blaring car horns and cursing drives, to get back to him. Something right off a scene from the Bourne movies. Instead we pulled over and walked back on the sidewalk like sane people. We shared some bread, a bottle of water, and a smile. God bless George.

We met Joey. He sat at a table next to us in Portillos. He prayed before he ate. So as we stood up to leave, we walked over and asked point-blank, “Are you a Christian?” That started a marvelous conversation. Joey has a heart for the street kids in downtown Chicago. He fights for the troubled kids, the dropouts, the ones who are lost and alone. We shared with him, he shared with us, and the Body of Christ was encouraged. God bless Joey.

We met Francisco. He helped us find a safe place for our van overnight after we’d had the passenger window broken out by thieves in downtown Chicago. He gave us the number of a guy who would come and fix it. First thing in the morning for a quarter of the price we were expecting. Francisco and his friends put us in the expensive, elite parking spot right in front of the hotel. They guarded our van overnight for free. They even got out emergency cones. “Gotta keep you safe,” they said. God bless Francisco.

We met Tracy. It started with this brilliant shooting star that we couldn’t help remarking on. Tracy was walking down the street past us, and she remarked back. “You get to make a wish now.” So we asked her, “Well, what would you wish for?” Transportation. She was walking to work. Turns out we had something in the realm of transportation with us. We invited her in and drove her to her job. She was close to tears as she left us, overwhelmed that a few strangers would offer her a ride across town in the middle of the night. God bless Tracy.

So, there you have it. The homeless, the warriors, and the thieves. For the record, we didn’t actually get to meet the thieves. We just admired their artwork in the parking garage. But even though we didn’t get to see their faces or hear their names, we still prayed for them. As Lily put it, “God loves everybody. Even bad guys.” So, God bless the thieves.

Live From the Road

2011-10-05T12:20:00.000-07:00

Here’s a video for y’all. Week One of our Fall 2011 Dream Tour. About a quarter of a half a tenth of what we’ve been up to. Is anyone around here good at math? Do you know what that means?

We’ve been blessed. I guess that’s what we’re trying to say. Our God said He would provide, and He has. He said He’d watch out for us, and He has. He said He’d be good and faithful and generous and true. And He is. Oh, how He is!

So, take this video as an invitation: We’d like you to share in the blessing.

(Oh, and thanks to Emily, Jenny, and Sarah for sharing your beautiful voices with us. Your songs and hearts are an inspiration to us.)

Here's the video link: Fall 2011 Dream Tour: Week 1

No Condemnation

2011-10-03T13:12:00.000-07:00

I have a friend. A friend who had a dream. A dream? No, lots of dreams. A different one every week. Amazing, fantastic, beautiful dreams. Dreams that would conquer the world . . . And then life came. People made promises and broke them. Dreams beckoned and became nightmares.

Have you been there? Do you want to know what my friend did?

Picked a different dream. Something a little safer, a little easier to reach. Something a little less dream-like. It broke my heart. I got down on my knees and cried. I cried out to the God who created us to dream, then allows dreams to be broken. And as I cried, I saw a picture.

Do you want to know what I saw?

I saw a picture of a crossroads. My friend was walking down the road. It was a beautiful road, smooth and gentle, lined with happy green hills and soft flowers. My friend was holding someone’s hand and laughing.

But Jesus wasn’t on that road. Jesus was standing at the crossroads, beckoning my friend down a different path. A dark path. A rocky, frightening, lonely path.

Do you want to know what I saw in Jesus’ eyes?

Pain.

No condemnation. No anger. No hardness. No regret. Just pain. Sorrow and sadness and heartache. Like He was saying with His eyes, “Where are you going? Won’t you come back to Me?”

It split my heart open. Deep, deep down to the very roots. Not my friend’s choice. Not the disobedience. Not even the giving up. But the look in the eyes of Jesus. That’s what split my heart open.

Do you want to know what He said?

“Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.”

No condemnation. That’s what He said. As my friend walked away, laughing.

We’ve been talking a lot about dreams on this tour of ours. We’ve been asking people what their dreams are, where their hearts come alive, what’s got them on fire. Many of us have buried our dreams pretty deep. Maybe you’re one of them. Have you ever walked away from your Savior and God? Have you ever chosen a dream that wasn’t His? I’ve seen the look on His face as He stares after you. No condemnation, He says to my friend. He says the same thing to you.

Raining Cows

2011-09-28T21:09:00.000-07:00

Couch #2: Holly Springs, North Carolina.

That’s where we are now. But that’s not where we were this morning. This morning, we were at the last day of the Lucas house, wrapping plastic around mattresses, eating pizza, and cajoling couches up the stairs. Don’t scratch the paint!

God has called the Lucas family to discipleship. Very intentional, please-come-into-my-house, would-you-like-a-cup-of-coffee sort of discipleship. Following after the example of Jesus living day-to-day life with His disciples.

Discipleship gets a little harder when your disciples betray you. Especially when you’re moving houses. Even more especially when you’re moving out of a house without knowing where you’re going to move in. Even much more especially when you’re battling cancer. Which is what Kathy (Mrs. Lucas) is fighting right now. What Mark (Mr. Lucas) is struggling to understand. What Connie (Miss Lucas) is seeking Jesus’ face in the midst of.

Dear God, bless the Lucas’s.

They were a blessing to us. We tried, like kindergartners explaining calculus, to give a word, a prayer, a song. Something to comfort the comfortless. Something to try to make sense of the un-sensible. I don’t know that we really succeeded.

But God the Father saw the intention of our hearts and decided to bless us in return. He says He owns the cattle on a thousand hills. I figure that means He owns all the cows in Rwanda. Maybe more. It’s only been three days on the road for us, and we’ve already seen Him share His cows with us. We’re looking forward to seeing Him send more. We’re looking forward to seeing cows rain.

(Staggered, left to right: Lisa, Teri, Erin - Happy birthday!! - me, Connie, Lily, Kathy, Mark)

What the Unknown Looks Like

2011-09-27T20:29:00.000-07:00

We experienced our first “dream tour” gathering tonight. That’s what we’re calling ourselves. We’re making T-shirts. What are you waiting for? on the front. I don’t know. Something amazing I guess, on the back. More details to follow. (That’s your cue to smile.)

But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.

What I wanted to say is what happens when Jesus walks into an American living room.

It was a Bible study we were crashing. Twenty-odd strangers we’d never met before, singing songs we’d never heard. They prayed, then introduced us. We sat up a little straighter. “Hi, my name is _______________.” Polite smiles, blinking eyes. Hm. Who are these guys, and what are they doing in my living room?

And then we stopped talking about ourselves and started telling stories. God’s stories. And the Spirit of the Lord burst into that room.

We talked about dreams. We met a young lady who hopes to teach teens wisdom through God’s hand moving in history. We met another one who wants to mentor young mothers. We met another who has been called by God to travel to the nations, going from country to country, sharing the love of Christ. We met another who is being built up to walk in the power of the Holy Spirit, bringing the truth of Christ to His Bride. We met another who hopes to share God’s stories through music, words, and movie.

We met all these in one room. Just one room. How many rooms do you think there are in the United States of America?

And we didn’t just meet them. We talked with them. We shared and prayed and worshiped and cried and praised our Father God with them. We got to connect a hand with a wrist, a foot with an ankle, an eyelid with an eyelash. We saw Christ as the Head of His church come in and breathe life - breathe life! - through His body.

Do you know what it looks like when the breath of Jesus breathes on you?

Tonight I saw something magnificent. Tonight I saw the Body of Christ. In a North Carolina living room with white trim and tan paint. Here. In America. Right next door to you.

Tonight God took our unknown and made it shine, radiant and beautiful, in our eyes, in our hearts. Tonight He showed us the unseen. And He did it through the faces of our brothers and sisters. His children. My family.

So, what are we doing on our dream tour? Oh, we don’t really know. If you’d like to find out, maybe you should invite us into your living room.

(So, this is us. Left to right: Lisa, Teri, Lily, me.)

*P.S. Please note the color coordination I skipped out on.*

The First of 6,000

2011-09-26T17:15:00.000-07:00

I am rocking on a little padded swing on the second-floor porch of a huge house overlooking a brilliant host of North Carolina trees. The wind is swooshing through the branches, trying to make the sound of ocean waves only without the pauses. Crickets are chanting. Birds are twittering.

I am a missionary suffering for the sake of Jesus. Who ever thought suffering could be so blessed?

You know, He promised His disciples if they would give up home and family and comfort, then He would return it with a hundred-fold. I’ve left home and family and comfort a few times now, and His promise has never failed me yet.

For all I’ve given up, the One who leads me has given back more than I could ask or imagine.

“The Lord is good, and His love endures forever.”

We drove from Gainesville, Georgia, to Hendersonville, North Carolina, today. Lisa, Teri, Lilly, and I. I’ve never been to North Carolina before. Turns out God made a couple places in this world even more beautiful than Nebraska. Fascinating, isn’t it?

This is our first leg in a 6,000-mile journey. We don’t really know what we’re doing or where exactly we’re going or what God’s got planned. But He knows, and that’s all that matters. We walk by faith and not by sight. At one point last week, I was thinking how nice it would be if God would actually give me the tangible answers to some of the things I’ve been trying to trust Him for.

You want to know His response? “It wouldn’t be faith if you could see everything I see.” If only we understood how easy it is for Him, how many resources He has at His beck and call - like the father leading his slightly nervous child down the hallway in the dark. “I can’t see, Daddy. I can’t see.”

If only we knew how much He can.

Then again, if He let us see that, we wouldn’t really need faith any more. It would be too easy.

For now, I’m content to stay blind so long as He never lets go of my hand. He hasn’t lost His grip yet. Meanwhile, I wait for the day when my faith becomes sight. Just think how floored we’ll all be when He finally turns the lights on.

It’s much more fun this way.

God, Save the Turtles!

2011-09-25T10:45:00.000-07:00

I went to church in Georgia today. I saw lots of interesting things on the drive there and back. Kind of like Dr. Seuss’s kid on Mulberry Street. Only this was true.

I saw a cop directing traffic in front of the church parking lot. She told me, “Enjoy the rest of your day.” I saw a turtle (not a chicken) crossing the road. I saw a man with drum sticks cheerfully pounding away on his steering wheel. I saw a super-sized version of a go-cart driving down the road like it was a real car.

I saved the turtle.

Actually, I almost ran over him first. Swerved at the last second so my tires wouldn’t flatten his shell. The five cars behind me did the same. But sooner or later, someone wasn’t going to swerve. I remembered a scene from “Rango” and decided to do something about that.

So, I turned my car around, parked in the most convenient spot I could find, and trotted out onto the pavement. Relax. I looked both ways first.

The turtle ran away from me. Well, scuttled. Turtles don’t really run. But he definitely scuttled in the opposite direction.

I tried to remember if snapping turtles could actually cut through a finger, or if they just clamped on and never let go. I tried to remember that this particular Georgia road was quite curvy, and the speed limit was 55. I tried to remember that I’d left my car running in a stranger’s driveway.

Basically, I figured, I was risking my life for the sake of an ungrateful reptile.

I thanked God one last time for all ten of my fingers and picked up the turtle. “Stop hissing,” I commanded. “I’m trying to save your life.”

The turtle shrank inside his shell and refused to come out. But he stopped hissing. I deposited him in the front lawn of the stranger who had been nice enough to let me borrow his driveway. No flattened turtle shells. No flattened, misguided, “Save the Reptiles!” church-goers. No flattened fingers.

I just hope he doesn’t decide to cross the road again.

A Voice That's Not Inside My Head

2011-09-23T19:13:00.000-07:00

I have discovered the secret to never getting lost.

It has nothing to do with car-pooling or tow trucks. It has nothing to do with what state you live in. And, no, I haven’t been arrested.

I’ve discovered the GPS.

It’s not mine actually. I drove Jenny to the airport today, and everyone was pretty sure they’d never see me again if I didn’t have a GPS to get back.

(They may have been right.)

So, Teri let me borrow hers. There I was. Pulling out of the airport, facing a world I didn’t know. Streets I’d never seen. Signs I couldn’t pronounce. Cars with no “Go, Huskers!” sticker in the back window.

I couldn’t have cared less. I had a GPS. I charged it up, punched in the coordinates for "Home," and we were all set. “Drive 2.7 miles, then veer left on Interstate 85,” a very suave female voice announced in a polished British accent. Two point seven miles. Left. Eighty-five. I think I can handle that. It even came with a cool, live-feed picture of the road I was driving, the current speed limit, and my ETA. The only things missing were a glass of lemonade and a good book.

It's amazing what I'm capable of when I'm listening to a voice other than the ones inside my head. I made it all the way from Atlanta to Gainesville without a single wrong turn. No backtracking. No wrong exits. No U-turns. I was very impressed.

And then I pulled into the driveway of “Home.” Zero miles to destination, the GPS informed me.

It was a stranger’s house. White siding with dark green panels. Very nice. Definitely not home.

Oops.

Turns out “Home” was not the correct coordinate system. Apparently, this specific “home” was no longer in commission. I did what I usually do when I get lost. Got the car out of the driveway, flipped a U, and drove the other way.

Apparently, the polished British chick doesn’t like being contradicted.

“Redirecting. Redirecting. Redirecting,” she sternly decreed. She was using the same tone I’ve heard my sister use to tell her daughter not to eat the needles off the Christmas tree.

I turned my music up and ignored her.

Ultimately, I did make it to the house I was looking for. Twenty minutes past my ETA. But the whole experience taught me some valuable lessons:

#1: Opening the passenger door from the driver’s seat to pull in the seatbelt while the car’s in drive is not a good idea. Especially not on the Interstate.

#2: Do not tick off the polished British chick inside the GPS machine.

#3: Technology is helpless in the face of traffic jams.

#4: Always make sure you know where “Home” is before you try to get there.

The Ultimate Betrayal

2011-09-21T06:54:00.000-07:00

I’m meeting all sorts of people here at AIM headquarters. People from Alabama, Kansas, North Carolina, Germany. But no matter who I meet, they all seem to have several things in common. They’ve quit their jobs. They use their passports a lot. They love worship. They’re addicted to coffee.

And they’re asking questions. Questions about how your world view shapes your actions. Questions about why sex trafficking still exists. Questions about how best to cram a whoopie cushion under a thick couch.

And one dark, un-askable question that none of us really like to talk about: What if God fails me? What if I put my complete confidence in Him, and He doesn’t come through? What if He doesn’t fill my car up with gas? What if He doesn’t get me a job? What if He doesn’t provide the $1,000 a month I need for support? What if He doesn’t heal my wife of terminal cancer? What if He doesn’t save my unbelieving dad?

The questions burn.

They ache, they cry, they weep, they scream. We think we’re dying. Maybe we are. And in the end, there we are, shattered, scattered in a million pieces at the feet of God Most High.

What happens when we ask God to pull through for us, and He blatantly doesn’t do it? When we know He can, and He knows He can. But He doesn’t. Because if He is still good (And if God is not good, what do we have?), and if He is still sovereign, and if He is still generous and loving and merciful and kind . . . then there must be something wrong with us. The problem must be on our end.

Pain must be our fault.

We must not be perfect yet. We must somehow need this pain - this seeming failure on the part of God - in order to make us into better people. Oh . . . but hold on a minute there. Even that answer can’t get us too far. Cause Jesus was perfect, wasn’t He? And He felt more pain than I’ll ever feel. And the Father failed Him in a way He’ll never fail me.

That moment of God the Father turning His back on His own bleeding, suffocating Son, dying a thief’s death on a Roman cross - that moment in all history may be God’s ultimate betrayal. The greatest example of God’s failure. Here was a perfect Man - a sinless, spotless, righteous Man - who needed rescue. And God didn’t do it. Worse! He actually turned His face away and pretended not to notice.

Like a school teacher studying the rocks while the class bully beats up the wimpy nerd on the playground.

God did nothing.

How many agonized, throbbing prayers do you think He failed to answer on that day?

But out of that betrayal - out of God’s ultimate failure to act - came our ultimate story of redemption. If God hadn’t failed to save . . . we wouldn’t know Him today. It is only because of His failure that we are alive.

What if the same could be true when God fails us?

What if what we see as His betrayal is actually His deepest plan for our restoration? . . . What would happen if we stopped worrying that God might let us down? How high would we aim if we gave ourselves permission to fail?

Lost for a Cause

2011-09-18T13:27:00.000-07:00

Ask anyone in my family. Anyone of my friends. Anyone who’s ever ridden in the car with me. They’ll all tell you the same thing.

I get lost.

A lot.

Apparently, Georgia is very capable of taking this skill of mine and . . . emphasizing it.

I get lost in Nebraska. Where the roads are straight. Where intersections happen like clockwork at perfect right angles. Where it’s flat and you can usually see the town you’re driving to miles before you get there.

In Georgia, I’ve discovered, it’s worse. Much worse. You can’t see anything a mile away. Too many trees. Intersections don’t intersect at right angles. Too many hills. And nothing’s straight. Too much water.

You may not be surprised to hear that I got lost. Twice. In 24 hours. It happened like this . . .

I arrived in Gainesville after 18 hours of driving at 9:00 at night only to discover that my mapquest directions ended on the road. Let me clarify. I was looking for a house. Not a road. I think the house is about 45 minutes from the Interstate. It took me an hour and a half to get there. In the dark. With speeding cars getting pulled over all around me, and no speed limit signs to tell me how fast not to go.

Welcome to Georgia.

The next day, it happened again. I had been given very specific directions to get to AIM headquarters. Left on Old Cornelia Highway, drive for awhile, turn right at Limestone Parkway, blah, blah, something about a gas station . . . So, I jumped in my car half an hour before I was supposed to be there, found Old Cornelia, and turned left.

And there I was, driving down a road I didn’t know looking for a street that wasn’t there. But I didn’t know that until later. You see, another thing they like to do in Georgia is change the names of their roads. So, although the real name of the road is Limestone Highway, the sign over the intersection says SR11. I saw SR11 clear as day. I went right on driving. Twenty minutes later, I thought maybe I had missed my turn somewhere and turned around.

I was 45 minutes late to my meeting.

Welcome to Georgia . . . again.

The good news is, the road network here matches up really well with how I’m feeling about life right now. I don’t know where I’m going. I never know when the road’s gonna dip or swerve or disappear altogether. I get a little nervous when it gets dark.

The other good news is that I’m not driving this alone. He hasn’t let me run out of gas. Yet. He hasn’t told any of the tires to spontaneously combust. Yet. He hasn’t sent a deer leaping gracefully into the windshield of my car. Yet. He’s never failed me. Yet.

I’m beginning to think He never will.

Cinnamon-Scented Glazed Donut Hand Sanitizer

2011-09-13T10:25:00.000-07:00

The above-pictured toilet holds some very . . . unique memories for me. It’s nothing to do with my upcoming tour with AIM. At least, I hope not. It’s all in the past. (Dear God, let it stay there.)

It happened in Haiti.

Toilets are a luxury in most countries. Most centuries, for that matter. Does anyone even know when the first toilet was invented? In Haiti, we saw lots of toilets. We did not, however, see many flushing ones.

It’s complicated. There it was, the sparkling white porcelain seat, complete with matching sink. Shower head, faucet, hot and cold taps. What more could you ask for? Well, running water would be nice. Ah, yes . . . I knew we forgot something.

The big black barrel in the back is what we used instead of running water. And it was working great too! . . . Until the day the toilet plugged. Don’t ask why. Let’s just say it got a little stopped-up.

Have you ever tried to unplug a toilet without a plunger? Have you ever tried to mime “plunger” to someone who doesn’t speak your language? Have you ever put hand sanitizer on a toilet seat?

Let me back up. I had a helper in all this, a friend in the midst of crisis. Her name is Morgan. I don’t really remember how Morgan and I finally got a toilet bowl plunger in our hands. I think it took something like three days and several interesting conversations. But at last there we stood, looking down into a toilet that was . . . not sparkling white anymore.

I’d never prayed over a toilet before that moment.

We’d done our darndest to skillfully slosh the plunger around inside, we’d poured in a bucket of water, and now we were praying that when we flushed, everything would go down and not up. Please, not up.

Morgan set her teeth, pushed the handle, and . . . Miracle of all miracles, it went down! God does answer prayer. We know. We’ve seen it. We got so excited, we did an impromptu victory dance right then and there.

. . . Uh, did I mention that Morgan still had the plunger in her hand?

It splattered everywhere. Toilet seat, walls, floor.

And that was the day I used cinnamon-scented glazed donut hand sanitizer on a toilet seat. The rest of the night, it smelled like a Dunkin’ Donuts shop in there.

I haven’t eaten a glazed donut since.

The Next Step

2011-09-12T10:27:00.000-07:00

My ten-year high school reunion happened this year. A few weeks ago, I think. I’m not really sure. I didn’t go. (Hey, give me a break. I’m in denial.) The first two kindergartners I ever taught are sophomores in high school. My one-year old pony is now eighteen. Dude. Talk about making a person feel old.

I think I’m supposed to have reached an age of maturity. Gentle grace and unflustered poise. Stableness. Calmness. Responsibility. Ha.

Would you like to know what I’m doing with my life? I did get back from Haiti five whole weeks ago, and I don’t think I’ve told hardly anyone yet.

I’m leaving again. Thursday-ish. (Yeah, I know that’s only three days from now.)

Maybe I’m being irresponsible. Maybe I read too many missionary books. Maybe I took the words of Jesus literally. You better not ask me. I don’t know the answer to a lot of things. What I do know is that at church this last Sunday, my pastor closed with these words: “As the Father has sent Me, so am I sending you.” It’s what Jesus said to His disciples after He rose from the dead. When Pastor said that, I felt like Jesus was saying it to me.

Maybe I am crazy.

Or maybe I’m chasing a dream. The deep, unspoken dream that God had in mind when He knit me together in my mother’s womb. The path He’s carved out for my barefoot feet to follow. The reason He put me here at all.

I’ve left home, family, horses, cornfields, lazy days, and a very cute dog a half dozen times. I’m about to do it again. Because my Lord and Savior is saying, “Come. Follow Me.”

So, on Thursday, I’ll pack up my bags, hop in the car, wave goodbye to my puppy (whose 100 pounds, I’ve been told, aren’t very puppy-ish anymore), and head for Georgia. Gainesville, Georgia. AIM headquarters. I’m scheduled to serve there for a week with a team of I’m not sure how many other people. And then two ladies (Teri and Lisa), a 6-year old, and I are jumping in a van and heading out again. Somewhere in the States. Several somewhere’s, I think. To see what God does next.

You might want to stay tuned. I have every intention of sharing what happens in the coming six weeks. I just have no idea what it will be.

(This is just a couple of the other places, I'd like to go...)

Impossible

2011-09-07T13:22:00.000-07:00

I saw something impossible today.

I was taking a walk down this lovely path through the woods behind the house I’m sitting for when there It was. The Impossibility. Hanging about seven feet up and at least a yard removed from the nearest branch. Surrounded by nothing but air and sunlight. And neither one of those is a very tangible thing.

It was a spider’s web. It looked just like they do in barn lofts and in the corners between the wall and the ceiling. Only this one was a bit more impressive. Sort of like the difference between jumping into the shallow end of a swimming pool and leaping off the Cliffs of Dover.

A spider sat in the middle of this Impossible web. A little spider with black legs and a white back with two little black dots in the middle of the white. Apparently, he was trying to be a lady bug. He just sat there, waiting for his dinner, like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to be an Impossible distance away from anything solid. He didn’t even have any wings.

I followed one of the strands from his web. It was about nine feet long in all - just one tiny, hair-thin strand, angling off from the web and trailing down, down, down to where he’d tied it off. On a blade of grass far, far below. Talk about stability. This little guy had absolutely no qualms in his skill as a master craftsman. But I was still perplexed.

I asked God how the spider got there.

God said, “He let go.”

Hm. Yes, I suppose he’d have to, hm? Maybe he jumped out of the tree. Maybe the wind blew him. Maybe he made friends with a bird. I don’t really know. All I know is this tiny spider somehow managed to get himself and his house seven feet up in thin air. And you thought climbing Mount Everest was an achievement. Try doing it with no mountain under you.

This spider is my newest hero. He did something Impossible . . . and all because he let go.

Comfort Vs. Life

2011-09-03T18:18:00.000-07:00

“America is comfortable, but Haiti is alive.” I’ve been pondering this lately. It’s a quote from one of the teenagers on our last Haiti team after their reintroduction to life Stateside. I’ve decided I agree.

In America, we get our food at Dairy Queen in less than two hours - sometimes less than two minutes. Our roads in our capitol cities are paved. We have freezers. We have coffee makers. We have Skittles and crunchy peanut butter and gel pens.

Haiti is different. Haiti is hot. The only time you’re even remotely cold is when you’re taking a shower in unheated water. The roads to even the nicest resorts are full of potholes. It stinks. Somehow the city has managed to maintain both poverty and pollution. The Internet connection is inconveniently iffy. It’s impossible to find strawberries.

Haiti’s not very comfortable. But it most certainly is alive. They sang in the streets after the earthquake. Churches meet in the streets still. They hold services till midnight. They don’t even stop singing if the power goes out. Children dance in the aisles. Adults raise their hands and get on their knees.

So. If we are comfortable, and they are uncomfortable . . . are they alive, and we are un-alive?

I don’t know, it’s almost like they’ve discovered something - some deep, hidden secret - that’s been too slippery for our fingers.

I saw the secret in Gyver, the 14-year old preacher. What would he have been like if he grew up in the States? With video games, facebook, movies, and air conditioning? He’d be a good kid, sure. But would he be on fire for Jesus, so passionate about his Savior that you can’t even ask him how his day has been without getting a 45-minute sermon? How many Gyver's are hiding in our midst, buried under too much TV? Gyver’s not comfortable. He’s a fatherless teenager who lives in a tent. But Gyver is alive.

I saw the secret in Pierre, one of our translators. Pierre is a pastor in Haiti - a pastor who works for free. If he was in the States, he could get a paying position, drive a nice car, shepherd a large congregation. If he was in the States, his congregation might actually have a roof over their heads. Pierre's church in Haiti meets in the streets. The mission God's given them is to go into the tent cities and find families they can give houses to. How many Pierre's are hiding in our midst, buried under too much money? Pierre's not comfortable. He can't even afford to buy a refrigerator for his wife. But Pierre is alive.

I saw the secret in Jeff, my favorite blind boy. The only blind boy I’ve ever known. If Jeff was in America, he might not be blind at all. He lost his sight one eye at a time, separated by a span of four years. Perhaps his blindness was treatable; perhaps it was preventable. Even if it wasn’t, Jeff could have learned Braille, gone to a school for the blind, probably even gotten a job. He wants to be a pastor in Haiti. He can’t read the Bible, and he wants to be a pastor. I heard him quote verses to a group of American teens. When they asked him how he knew so much Scripture, he said God had given him a gift for remembering. How many Jeff's are hiding in our midst, buried under too much safety? Jeff’s not comfortable. He’s a blind boy who can’t read. But Jeff is alive.

We’ve got more comfort. They’ve got more life. That’s basically what it boils down to. So, what would it take to give us more life? . . . What would it take to give them more comfort?

Perhaps the answer to both questions is the same.

“One thing you lack,” Jesus said. “Go, sell everything you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow Me.”

The Stupidest Thing I've Ever Done

2011-08-30T19:05:00.000-07:00

I just got back from a quick trip out to Colorado with Kristi, Kayla, Josh, and Honey Rae. We drove out there to climb Long's Peak. We've tried it before.

My family vacationed out there years ago. We decided to try our flat-lander feet on the 14,000 foot mountain. They told us to start climbing at 4:00 a.m., so we started at 10:00. They told us to turn around no later than noon, so we were still up there by 4:00 p.m. Which is when the storm moved in. From below us. Do you know what lightning looks like from above the clouds? I'd never literally run down a mountain before that day.

Mountain: 1
Me: 0

This weekend, I tried again. I was older and wiser. It couldn't be that hard, right?

Ha.

It started at 1:30 in the morning. That's an hour and a half after midnight, in case you're wondering. 1:30 in the morning is not a good time to start something. Especially when you were finishing a 5-mile hike at 8:00 the night before.

That was my first mistake.

We had to be starting on what I'll refer to as the "Death March" by 3:00 a.m. (They'd upped the time over the years. Apparently, the degradation of American society includes more than just entertainment and politics.) And, yes, I did say "we." I wasn't climbing Long's Peak alone. I was taking two marathon runners with me.

That was my second mistake.

I haven't run a marathon for 29 years. (For those of you who don't know, that's how old I am.) The Death March is 14 miles long - seven up, seven down. I don't remember ever walking 14 miles in my life. Kristi and Josh (my hiking buddies) are training for the Chicago marathon. They ran 18 miles last week. Let's just say the playing field wasn't very evenly matched.

Too bad I didn't think of that before the climb.

Three hours and 2,500 vertical feet later, I wasn't feeling so good. Altitude sickness, I think it's called. I wanted to live. I headed back down. It took me the same amount of time to get down as it had to get up, but the good news is, I was feeling much better. Well, except for my knee which had started on fire about a mile and a half back, my shoulders which were not used to lugging 15 pounds, and my feet which were quite piqued that I'd stuffed them into boots after an entire summer in Chacos. I was in marvelous shape, let me tell you.

Mountain: 2
Me: 0

My marathon buddies finished the Death March without dying - and it only took them 14 hours to do it! I'd come up with an equation to figure out how long that means it would take me, but I'd rather not know the answer. I think I'll bring my horse next time.

The Silent, Peaceful Night

2011-08-23T09:35:00.000-07:00

I would like to tell you about a certain night in Haiti that I slept through in perfect peace and tranquility. I was lucky. I was on the second floor.

It was a different story downstairs.

It was our last team for the summer in Haiti. We were in a giant yellow mansion of a house: approximately 15 rooms, a courtyard, an enclosed balcony, two bathrooms upstairs, one downstairs. The girls got the upstairs.

We woke up one bright morning, shuffled down the stairs for breakfast, and noticed that the guys were stumbling about with slightly haggard, not-really-awake expressions. “What happened?” we wanted to know. “Didn’t you sleep well last night?”

“No,” we were bluntly informed. “We didn’t sleep well at all.” And then they told us their story.

It started off with two cockroaches. Two five-inch flying cockroaches. I’ve seen them before. They’re so big, you can hear their nasty little feet tapping on the concrete floors. They like to dive-bomb into peoples’ heads and brush their whiskers against the cheeks of innocent missionaries sleeping on the floor. (Both of these happened to me.) These two five-inch terrors zoomed into the guys’ room just as they were preparing for bed. They buzzed around, making themselves scary and obnoxious, until . . . CRUNCH! . . . no more flying cockroaches.

The guys laid down to get some sleep . . . Only to be awoken not long after by ear-piercing screams issuing from the neighbor’s house about ten feet away. It was a woman, she was weeping hysterically, and it really sounded like someone ought to call 911. Only wait. We’re in Haiti, aren’t we?

The guys listened for awhile, wide-eyed and shell-shocked, wondering what they should do, what they could do. Without warning, the screams stopped. Dead silence . . . Dead might be too apt a word . . . Several loud, sharp smacks. And then . . . “Wah! Wah! Wah!” It was the cry of a baby. A newborn baby, to be exact. Apparently, our neighbor was pregnant. That is, she had been.

The guys swallowed and drifted back into unconsciousness.

It wouldn’t last long.

In the pitch-black hours of early, early morning, Chad woke up and put a hand on his belly. Or what should have been his belly. “I didn’t know what it was,” he said, “except that it certainly was not my stomach!” It moved. Ran a couple circles on top of him, then skittered away. Chad thought maybe it would be best if he ignored it and went back to sleep. Only he was a little thirsty first. He reached for his water bottle. And touched It again.

Chad did what any manly man would do after the type of night he’d had. He screamed his head off.

Every soul downstairs was awake and ready for combat at this point. Armed with flashlights - for the sake of light or a weapon? - the men ransacked the bedroom. They found It. Hiding in a corner behind the door. Teeth bared, fur bristling. It was a rat.

Two dead cockroaches, a mutilated rat carcass, and one very live, crying baby later . . . the girls were extremely grateful we’d been given the upstairs! And to think, I slept through the whole thing . . .

The Body

2011-08-19T13:22:00.000-07:00

God did amazing things in Haiti. I’m supposed to talk about them on Sunday evening at church. 6:30 p.m. at the E-Free Church in Central City. You’re welcome to come.

I only have an hour and a half. I hope that’s enough time. I’ve got a lot to say. Or, rather, I don’t know that I really have anything to say, but God’s been talking non-stop for the last two months, and I’m not quite sure if I’m going to be able to condense it all into 90 minutes.

I saw the sweetest smiles on the sweetest faces of the dearest, naughtiest little children in the world. I saw the hands and feet and voice of Jesus moving in the streets and houses of Haiti. I saw walls getting built. I saw souls being saved. I saw real, honest-to-goodness miracles. I saw a team of nine odd, slightly eccentric, scattered strangers come together in a foreign country. And I saw Jesus meld us together and make us one.

It’s one of my favorite things about Haiti. One of the things I haven’t mentioned yet: Community. We’re not strangers anymore. We haven’t killed anyone. We haven’t left anyone behind. We had a few close calls, but where we’d entered as strangers, we left as friends. Good friends. Friends who have eaten and prayed and cried and worked and crashed and danced together. (Yeah, you missed out on the dancing party...) Friends who have been irritated, broken, moved, starved, delighted, and crammed together.

Jesus brought together an amazing team in Haiti this summer. He brought Leeza, the mother of the group, to be always kind and encouraging and give a listening ear. He brought Jenny to dance and sing and laugh and make us dance and sing and laugh with her. He brought Marcio to burn a bright, enthusiastic fire into the dark, unspoken places. He brought Mark to give us age-old wisdom and patience that we were too young to know. He brought Josh to breathe His Spirit deep into our souls and show us things about ourselves and each other that we’d never seen before. He bought Steve to get us all moving the same direction and make sure we didn’t kill each other (or him!) in the process. Later on in the summer, he brought Jordan to be a light and peace and bring us joy again. He brought Tifany to strengthen us, to fortify us with truth when we were weak and ready to give in.

Jesus brought together a group of strangers and fashioned a body. The Body of Christ. And I watched that Body go out and hold hands with a little naked boy who lives in a tent. I watched that Body step with feet radiating light to a suicidal girl’s bedside. I watched that Body speak truthful, prophetic words to a drunk man and sober him up. I watched that Body move rocks, wash dishes, color pictures, and dance with children.

I saw Jesus in that Body . . . I saw Jesus in His Body.

So, thanks, team. Because of you, I now have a very clear vision - a very real vision - of how beautiful the Body of Christ can be. Because of you, I am more able to love, more willing to love. Because of you, I have a picture to go with this verse: “My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.”

Here’s my picture. It’s you.

A Snapshot of Grace

2011-08-15T10:59:00.000-07:00

We were standing under the shade of a tree next to the tall gray wall that marks the edge of the tent city. Gyver had just joined us and was sharing his testimony.

I had heard some of it before. When Gyver was seven, he and his family lived at the foot of the mountains on the outskirts of Port-au-Prince. One day a voodoo man put a curse on Gyver. He cursed the seven-year old boy so he would die. And then he took a stone and hurled it at Gyver’s face. The rock struck mere centimeters from Gyver’s left eye, nearly blinding him. The wound was deep and sever. He wears the scar today. It is a testimony to God’s saving hand. Gyver told me God saved him because, even though he wasn’t a Christian at the time, God had a plan for his life.

But I hadn’t heard it all. Gyver is fourteen. His youngest sister is eight. That means all of them were alive during the earthquake. This is what Gyver said: When the earthquake hit, he and his brother were out of the house. Gyver was watching TV with a friend; Holendgy was with an aunt. Antonia, their mother, and her two youngest children were at home. The house collapsed. Without warning, Antonia was buried under a pile of broken concrete. Two of her children were with her.

But they were alive. They waited under the rubble for two days. 48 hours. Can you imagine lying in a coffin for 48 hours? Not knowing if anyone is ever going to come and open the lid. Not knowing if you will ever blink your eyes in the sun. Not knowing if you will ever taste water on your lips. Knowing only one thing: that two of your children are trapped in this living grave with you.

Someone came and dug them out. All three of them. Alive. Buried under an entire house, choked by dust and bricks, pinned for two days, alive. It was just after their rescue that Gyver surrendered his life to Christ. He’s never looked back.

When we took this family to the beach during our last day in Haiti, I realized something. They shouldn’t be here. Gyver was cursed. Holendgy nearly drowned. Antonia and the other two children had a house fall down on top of them. By all rights, they should be dead. Every last one of them.

But they’re not. They’re not dead at all. They’re living in a tent, they don’t have jobs, their shoes have holes in them, they don’t always eat. But they are alive. And through their life, I see the almighty, saving hand of God. I see His authority to call salvation out of an earthquake. I see His power to draw life out of the rubble. I see His confidence to direct for His purposes all things, to completely route the plans of the enemy. I see the merest sliver of His astonishing grace.

“To God be the glory, great things He hath done.”

This is me with Gyver and his family at the beach on our last day in Haiti.

Holendgy (Oh-LAWN-jee)

2011-08-13T07:14:00.000-07:00

I was sitting on a rickety Haitian bus seat next to my little brother, Holendgy. It was lunch time, and we were headed for the beach. Our last team for the summer, Jordan, Jenny, Holendgy, his family, and me. “Are you excited to go swimming?” I asked him.

Holendgy shook his head no.

“No?” I didn’t understand. I come from America where every 11-year old I know is excited to go swimming. Please explain.

So, he did. Last year, Holendgy and his big brother Gyver went to the beach with some friends. They stayed for awhile, and then Gyver said it was time to go home. Holendgy didn’t listen. Instead, he jumped back in the water and started splashing around. A sort of whirlpool grabbed hold of him and started sucking him under. Suddenly, Holendgy remembered that he couldn’t swim. But it was too late. As the water tugged him down, down, down away from air and breath, Holendgy reached out his hand for help.

A man saw it. A random stranger who happened to be at the beach that day. Holendgy didn’t even tell me his name. He dashed into the water and rescued a boy he didn’t know from drowning.

I sat next to Holendgy on the bus in shocked silence. Dude. No wonder the kid didn’t want to go swimming.

We arrived at the beach. The water was murky and full of waves this afternoon. The aftereffects of tropical storm Emily, even if she didn’t ever really hit us. I got into my swimsuit and again asked Holendgy if he wanted to go swimming. Most of our team was already in the water. It looked slightly terrifying, but ocean water sure feels good when you’re in Haiti. Besides, the boy lives in a tent. How often does he get to go swimming?

There were stairs at our beach skipping down into the ocean. Skipping might not be quite the right word. It was more like one step, two step, woosh! Welcome to the Caribbean. I jumped in to choppy water up to my chest while Holendgy stood on the second step, considering. Could he get in without getting wet? Could he get in without drowning?

I told him I would watch out for him, that he didn’t need to be afraid; the water wasn’t too deep, and I was going to stay right next to him. He didn’t understand me. I said it all in English.

But my beckoning hand must have said something my words couldn’t say. This boy who had nearly drowned finally grabbed hold of my hand and jumped into the water. Well, he jumped on my back at least. And clung there for a solid five minutes, arms wrapped around my neck, while I struggled between laughter and fighting to breathe.

Slowly, I convinced Holendgy to relax his strangle-hold on my trachea. He let go with one hand. He flapped around in the water a bit. He let go of my shoulders altogether, his hand still clamped on to mine. He bobbed around by himself. He could touch. This wasn’t so bad.

Before we left the beach, Holendgy was splashing around in the salty waves, shouting and giggling with his siblings. He pushed a soccer ball under his chin and floated around on it. He tried to back float. We searched the rocks for crabs.

It was a beautiful picture. A picture of healing. A picture of trust. A picture of God taking something hard and sad and even frightening in our lives and teaching us how to laugh with Him again.

Being Sure of What We Hope For

2011-08-11T13:33:00.000-07:00

One of the first weeks I was in Haiti, I wrote a blog about a young man named Jeff (See “Was Blind But Now I See”). I would like to share with you the rest of the story now.

We saw Jeff several times throughout the remainder of the summer. He lived just a few blocks from Pastor Amos’s house, so any team that stayed there invariably went for a visit. People came to encourage a boy who is blind and left amazed at the joy and depth of his spiritual eyes. They sang with him. They prayed for him. The Lord gave visions and promises about restoring Jeff’s sight. But He never did just reach down and open his eyes. It began to really bother me. Obviously, Jesus could restore his sight. There was no reason for Him not to. So, why didn’t He?

It wasn’t until my second-to-last night in Haiti that I understood. I had invited Jeff and his mom over to meet our last team, a group of twenty: 14 youth, 6 adults. After dinner, Jeff shared his testimony. He encouraged us. He gave glory to God. And then the group asked if we could pray for him. We circled around him, put our hands on him, and brought him before the throne room of Heaven, asking for him encouragement, strength, provision, grace. And then, as the Spirit, led, we began crying out for God to open his eyes.

The kingdom of Heaven touched down on earth. In a little, rocky courtyard full of Americans and Haitians, a few wooden benches, and a plastic chair, the Presence of God came. He gave songs, verses, words, visions. And what the voice of God spoke in their ears, our team spoke with their mouths. It was pure. It was true. It was powerful. And at the end of our prayers, Jeff opened his eyes . . . and he still couldn’t see.

As I walked Jeff and his mom out to the waiting tap-tap, I was wondering what I would tell the team. How could we process what just happened? How could I encourage them when God hadn’t opened the eyes of the blind?

I sat in front of the group and asked what they thought about it. Without hesitation, one of the teenagers raised a hand and said, “God will open Jeff’s eyes.” So simple. So certain. So childlike.

That’s when it hit me. For maybe the first time ever, I held in my hands a literal, physical representation of FAITH. God had given it to me, not through what we did see, but through what we did not see. It couldn’t have been faith any other way. “Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.”

Jeff is blind. But I do not for a moment believe that he will always be blind. Quite the contrary. God has said very clearly, through more people than I can remember, that He will open Jeff’s eyes. Have I seen it? No.

And that’s where faith comes in. The surety in what we hope for. The certainty of what we don’t yet seen. I’ve seen it radiating through the words of a young man who lost his sight. And because of Jeff - because of Jeff’s God - I have begun to see an echo of faith in my own soul as well.

A Reckoning

2011-08-10T15:49:00.000-07:00

Dear Supporters, Readers, Curious Snoops, Etc:

I am writing this very dignified, polite letter to let you know several things.

First, I am back in my parent's living room in Nebraska. Sitting on the carpeted floor with my dog because the couch is too comfortable. To my knowledge, I have not contracted dengue fever, malaria, insomnia, or schizophrenia. Although it was rather hard to go so long on so little chocolate.

Second, I would like to give you an un-in-depth and not very business-like reckoning of the donations that you so kindly sent with me to Haiti. God saw fit to make money a complete non-issue this summer. I didn't need anything. It was sort of like being back in infancy. Everything was provided. A plane ticket, a roof over my head, delicious meals (when I wasn't cooking), clean water, dish soap, toilet paper. God knew this. I knew this. You knew this.

But you donated anyway. And because you did . . . A child without a caretaker will get to go to school in Gressier this year (See Megan's blog at http://blessedwithaburden.wordpress.com/ for more information). We were able to bless some of our favorite translators for working overtime with us on personal ministries outside of the AIM teams. This included a two-day Bible study we held in a tent city where several children came to faith in Christ. A young married woman was supplied with beads to add to her souvenir-making business. A family in the tent city was blessed with money for rice and beans or clothes or shoes or whatever they need. A boy who dreams of being a musician is beginning four months of guitar lessons under a very talented music teacher (who also happens to be one of our translators). The only reason we didn't also buy him a guitar is because someone donated one.

Because of your generosity, I was able to be generous. We were able to go as a staff on a day trip up into the gorgeous Haitian mountains . . . and then spent another day across the bay at a beach resort. So, we had the chance to enjoy ministry together and relaxation together. And in both, through and through, we saw the beauty of God in the people and creation, and the goodness of God in providing for us everything we needed - and much more!

So, thank you. This summer would have looked different - not only for me, but for everyone else - if not for you. "This service that you perform is not only supplying the needs of the Lord’s people but is also overflowing in many expressions of thanks to God. Because of the service by which you have proved yourselves, others will praise God for the obedience that accompanies your confession of the gospel of Christ, and for your generosity in sharing with them and with everyone else (2 Corinthians 9:12-13)."

We saw a lot of Jesus in Haiti. We saw Him in the shining eyes of the kids in the tent city, the mother in a one-room house who prayed every morning for her family's daily food, the pastor whose church meets in the streets, the little boy who flawlessly quoted Psalm 100 with his hands folded and his eyes closed. But that's not the only place I have seen Him. I also see Jesus in you.

Praise the Lord.

Yours most sincerely,
Rebecca

"Ti Fre Mwen"

2011-07-27T17:14:00.000-07:00

I would like to tell you about the new siblings I've found in Haiti. They are brothers, and they are age 14 and 11. Their names are Gyver (like McGuiver) and Holendgy (Oh-lawn-gee). I think I've told you about Gyver already. I have a hard time not talking about him.

I've told you their family lives in a tent on a slab of concrete. This is true. I've told you that sometimes it rains on them, and they have nowhere else to go. This is also true. They have no running water, no electricity, no shower, no bathroom. We don't know how they cook. We don't know how they iron their clothes. We don't know how they brush their teeth. We did figure out what happened to their father. He abandoned the family a few years ago. Just up and left without a word. His children today don't know where he is. Their mother struggles to provide for them - to feed them, to clothe them, to send them to school. I don't know how she does it.

Every time I see Holendgy and Gyver, they are smiling. I have been to their tent city many times now, and I have never seen self-pity, discouragement, or complaint on their faces. Quite the contrary! I have danced with Holendgy in the rain. I have sung songs in English and in Creole with him. I have prayed on my knees with Gyver on a rooftop under the stars. I have grinned at him across the room. I have eaten dinner with them. I have walked between a row of tents, holding their hands. I have listened intently as they tried to teach me Creole and laughed with them at my confused pronunciations.

When I go to the tent city and see Holendgy and Gyver, I give them a hug and say, "Ti fre mwen." It means "my little brother" in Creole. They smile and say the words in Creole that mean "my sister." I do not know if I will see Gyver and Holendgy again after I leave Haiti. I do not know what will happen to them or what will happen to me. But I do know that the thought of Heaven has become sweeter because of these two boys. I know that God has taught me something profound about His joy through the smiles on their faces. I know that I've welcomed two little brothers into my family.

"Ti fre mwen." The family of God is beautiful.

Mariecia's Testimony

2011-07-26T08:51:00.000-07:00

Yesterday Mariecia met us at the tent city. She bounced - almost literally - up to us, grinned wide, and said something to the affect of, "Praise the Lord! He answered your prayers for me, and now I have a testimony I would like to share with you."

I couldn't remember her face, much less the prayers we had supposedly prayed. I thought she was mistaken. I thought she had the wrong person.

Then she started talking. Six weeks ago, we had come to the tent city and prayed with a mother whose daughter had just drunk bleach. The daughter, Rita, was curled up on the bed, looking miserable (and no wonder!), slightly listless, and completely depressed. Her father had died years ago, they lived in a tent, and there was no money to pay for her to go to school. So, Rita decided to commit suicide. Her mother saw us and asked us to come to her house and pray for her. We did. We spoke about hope and a future and God's power and the joy of the Lord. Her mother sat opposite us and said "Amen" to most everything we said. Then we left.

That was during my first week in Haiti. Yesterday, Mariecia walked up to me and shared her testimony. God had healed her daughter, she said. They went to the hospital and got medicine for Rita, but she was still depressed and refused to take it. So, her mother gave her water and prayed that God would bless it. Today her daughter is healthy, seeking after God, and living in a real home.

Oh, yeah. I forgot to say that we had also prayed that God would move Mariecia and her family out of the tent city into a real house. Mariecia told us that there was an organization working to get people into homes of their own. But the man in charge of the organization wanted money before he would get someone a house. Mariecia doesn't have any money. So she prayed. The head of the organization got fired, and another man took his place. This man doesn't require a bribe before providing a house. This man found Mariecia and her children a place to live.

This is Mariecia's testimony. This is how God has been good to her. And we are witness to the fact that the joy of the Lord simply radiated from her face as she told us what He had done for her.

What is your testimony?

Epic Battle: Round One

2011-07-23T16:35:00.001-07:00

We met a spider in the house we stayed at last week. He was hanging high up on the wall just above the window in the girls' bathroom. He was quite large, slightly disturbing, and completely ugly. But it was okay because he was dead.

I knew. I stared hard at him every time I walked into the bathroom, and he never moved. Three days straight, and he never moved. It became a sort of parable for me. No matter what happened during the week - and we had several things happen - but no matter who got sick or who got buglarized or how late breakfast was, we were okay. Our enemy was dead. I knew. He was hanging motionless in the bathroom.

Then the spider did what he wasn't supposed to do. He moved. Suddenly, my parable wasn't doing so well. The enemy I had proclaimed dead was twitching. Threatening to come down from the window and terrorize our household. Survival instinct took over. I jammed my Chacos on my feet (Thanks, Kristi!), grabbed the mop, and smashed the spider against the wall. One point for me. Don't think there will be a round two.

My enemy was defeated.

When I consider Haiti, when I consider America, when I consider the world, I do not see that the darkness is gone. I see black - thick, gross, strangling pitch black. But I also see stars. I see a multitude of bright, singing stars. And the more the stars sing, the less of the night I see. I see the promise of day paling the eastern horizon. I see that the dawn is coming.

Our enemy is not dead. He is alive. Lurking in the shadows, sneaky, ugly, inconsistent. But he is also defeated. By Jesus' blood on the cross, by the power that raised Christ from the dead, by the Name that is above every other name. The enemy is strong . . . and God is stronger. Our God is stronger.

Nunu

2011-07-22T10:58:00.000-07:00

I have a ring on my finger. (Relax, Melody. It's on my pinkie.) It's a bead ring - little black and white beads circled up on a bit of string. It happened like this. Tuesday morning, our team did an impromptu VBS at Pastor Noel's orphanage. It was great fun. We started out doing this dancing chant/echo thing with a dozen or so girls and ended singing "Jesus Loves Me" in Creole with almost 100 children. As we were leaving, a little girl pushed her way through the crowd, grabbed hold of my hand, and jammed a little black and white circlet on my pinkie. I know the little girl. Every time I go to the orphanage, she dashes up and gives me a hug. She always sits with me during church, and she hits and kicks the other children who try to hold my hand. Her name is Nunu.

Nunu is one of 22 girls at Pastor Noel's orphanage. She is five years old. She likes to play with jewelry, dance, and get in trouble. She bites when she's upset with you. When Nunu was very young, her mother died. Her father struggled to provide for her, but ultimately came to the conclusion that it was impossible. Not enough money, not enough food, not enough anything. He would have to kill her. So, he took his 3-year old daughter, boarded a tap-tap, and set a destination. If no one intervened between now and where he was going, his daughter would die. He was almost there when a Christian lady climbed into the tap-tap. When she learned what the father was planning to do, she immediately begged to rescue the girl and take her to Pastor Noel's orphanage. This is Nunu's heritage.

Two years later, this little girl whose mother is dead and whose father abandoned her is giving away her favorite homemade jewelry to a foreign white lady who's only known her for a month.

I look at the ring on my pinkie, and I see fingers intertwining. Nunu's and mine, Haitian and American, black and white. I see light in the midst of dark, hope in despair, life in death. I see the power of Jesus to rescue a condemned life and build up hope, faith, joy, and love. I see a rainbow where there was only a storm, stars where there used to be only black sky, a rose where there ought to be ashes. I look at this ring, and I see Nunu.

Where Do You Go When It Rains?

2011-07-14T07:20:00.000-07:00

There is a boy here in Haiti whose name is Gyver. He is the oldest son in his family. He has two younger brothers and a younger sister. His mother's name is Atuna (ah-TUNE-uh). I don't know where his father is. Gyver and his family live in a tent. On a wide, flat concrete slab mashed between a barbwire-tipped wall and a fence along with dozens and hundreds of other tents.

Gyver reminds me of Jesus. The first time we met him, he prayed passionately for our team to be filled with the Holy Spirit. The second time, he encouraged us not to become distracted in serving God (2 Timothy 2:4). The third time, he preached to us. Standing up with his Bible open in his hands. For 45 minutes.

Gyver is fourteen.

It's raining in Haiti tonight. A deluge of wide, thick rain that's been pouring down with a steady pitter-patter for the last two and a half hours. I got half-drenched running from the front gate to the truck parked ten feet away. The roads looked like rivers tumbling along at flood stage. Women had set out overflowing, sloshing buckets outside to catch the rain run-off. Motorcycles appeared in danger of drowning. Everything was soaked. I made it safely back to the staff house and watched the lightning play across the sky, felt the rumble of the thunder, listened to the rain tip-tapping against the roof.

And all the while, Gyver and his mother and his sister and his two little brothers lived in their tent on that slab of concrete along with dozens and hundreds of other tents. Where does Gyver go when it rains? How does he speak to God? What does he think of us? If it rains all night, does he get any sleep? Is he drenched? Is he cold? Is he exhausted?

Where do you go when it rains? How many times have you spent the entire night outside in a downpour? How often have you had to wear sopping wet clothes until your body heat finally made them dry? How often have you heard a 14-year old preach for 45 minutes? How many kids remind you of Samuel in the Old Testament? Of John the Baptist? Of Jesus?

The longer I stay in Haiti, the more clearly I see that our stuff (cars, houses, clothes, furniture) has no worth when it comes to who we are. Stuff can be nice, comfortable, safe. But it doesn't help us to be like Jesus. In fact, often it just gets in the way. One of the most Godly, peaceful, wise, Spirit-filled, joyful people I know lives under a tarp above a slab of concrete. Where do you go when it rains?

Team Testimonies: Marcio

2011-07-10T11:37:00.000-07:00

Last night, Marcio told me his story. It started off with a discussion about the book he's writing, about him and his fiancee. Then he said, "I ran away from home when I was fifteen." Marcio's story is one that tells a full, incredible story in each separate sentence. It's like watching a James Bond movie - only this is true.

Marcio was born in Portugal. His parents, he, and his twin sister moved to Canada when he was young. At 15, Marcio saw that his parents were struggling to provide for him and his sister. His family was falling apart. He ran away. Crossed into the States twice and got arrested twice. The third time, he rode in on the underside tire rack of a semi-truck. A year later, he was living in an alleyway with cardboard boxes for a bed and a dumpster lid for a roof. An older lady, a mother herself, saw his need, befriended him, and invited him to live in her basement. He enrolled himself in school. He nearly got kicked out of school. Something about a slip-and-slide using oil and a ramp in the school building. He got involved with drugs. He started selling drugs. By the time he was 18, he had enough money to buy a penthouse, a Mustang, a flat-screen TV, and basically anything else he wanted.

And then he lost it all. The upscale housing complex kicked him out, his bank started asking questions about where he was getting his money from, his girlfriend cheated on him. He moved. He got a job. He kept doing drugs. He lost his job. The lady that had let him live in her basement offered to help him again. But she said he couldn't do drugs, and he had to go to church.

God started to get ahold of Marcio. He became involved in Young Life, a group geared towards Christian teenagers. A friend invited him to a meeting - said they were going to a club. Marcio thought "bar" and showed up at the door with two six-packs. He opened the door to a bunch of mothers, kids, and teenagers worshiping in the living room. Through Young Life, God called Marcio to Haiti.

He came the first time with a group of ten people from his church. They worked in a compound with the poorest of the poor. They cleaned out a dirt latrine so concrete could be poured in its place. They made friends with the kids. They played. And then one afternoon while they were out on the soccer field, the earth dropped. Boom! The animals started going crazy - dogs, cats, goats, pigs. Then all the birds rose up into the sky, casting a shadow over everything. And the ground started to roll. Wave after wave. Up and down. Dust, screams, palm trees and concrete crashing, and under everything, that deep, deafening roar the earth makes as it grinds against itself.

Ten minutes later came the first aftershock. Buckling the ground, collapsing ten-foot walls, burying houses. Seventy-one aftershocks followed. Three nights and two days. And in the silences between the aftershocks, people singing. Praising God that they were still alive.

Marcio saw death. He saw more death than he'd seen birthdays. He saw so much death, he got used to it. He watched a man get shot at point-blank range in the midst of a mob fighting for food for their families. One night, while walking the streets, he saw a house that had collapsed. The heavy roof had fallen down on top of the walls under it. Marcio saw a little girl pinned under that roof. From her feet up to her chest, face down, she was stuck. And she was still alive. Marcio went to her. He sat with her. He made up a name for her, an age, the story of her life. He prayed. He cried. He tried to lift the roof off the top of the little girl. It wouldn't budge. He had to go. He had to leave her . . .

. . . When he came back later, the little girl was dead.

God broke open Marcio's heart to children. God broke open Marcio's heart to the Haitian people. God broke open Marcio's heart to the heart of God.

And then, eleven days after the earthquake, a UN helicopter came. It landed on the roof and pulled out the white people who didn't want to go. In describing it, Marcio said just one word. Awful. Mothers were throwing babies at them; children were clinging to their legs, refusing to let go. One of the UN officers pointed a gun at a woman whose son Marcio had watched die. Marcio punched the officer in the face. He left the country in handcuffs.

Since then, Marcio has come back to Haiti. He spent six months of the last year here. He met his fiancee here. He drew closer to God here. He befriended the people of Haiti. He knows more people in the airport, in the stores, on the streets than, I think, anyone else on our team. He has a heart, an enthusiasm, a connection with the people of Haiti that is profound to see. It is a pleasure serving with Marcio in Haiti.

Team Testimonies: Leeza

2011-07-10T11:34:00.000-07:00

When I first met Leeza, I remember thinking how calm and kind she was. Always cheerful, always with an encouraging word, constantly doing little, helpful things for others.

I heard Leeza's story at the airport yesterday. We rode the bus over with Jordan and Zick, waited for an incoming team to arrive, sat in the shade, and talked.

Leeza's story starts in Barbados. Her grandparents were born there and moved to the States to provide a better life for their ten children. Brooklyn, New York became home. Leeza says she, her siblings, and lots of cousins were very protected growing up. The neighborhood kids would come to their gate, peek through the bars, and say, "Why don't you come out and ride your bikes in the streets?" But Leeza's parents knew it wasn't safe in the street, so the children stayed at home.

But things at home weren't safe either. Leeza's father was abusive, and that combined with her identity as an outsider in New York, made Leeza painfully shy growing up. She remembers one night when she was five, hearing her mother calling her name again and again. "Leeza! Leeza!" When she crawled out of bed to see what was wrong, she saw her father beating her mother. She didn't know what to do, so she ran into another room and waited and cried. Outwardly, life wasn't too difficult. But inwardly, Leeza didn't know who she was. Her grandmother had started a church in Brooklyn, and the family was "Christian." But it was more a list of rules for Leeza than anything else.

Entering high school, Leeza switched from a Christian to a public school. There, no one really seemed to care - about grades, about morals, about anything. The same was true in college. Leeza became friends with a girl who introduced her to a new scene. Drinking, smoking, partying. One night, Leeza got in a tense argument with a guy she'd known for years. From her window, she called the police to come to her house, but when they came, she said everything was fine. She was the one being abusive, not the other way around. That incident made her realize that she was becoming exactly what she had grown up with - exactly who she didn't want to be.

From that point on, God stepped up His pursuit of Leeza. She got expelled from college, her grandmother (whom she was very close with) died, she couldn't find a purpose for her life. God used these things to bring Leeza into a personal relationship - not just a knowledge - of Him. One Sunday morning, He told her to get up and go to church. As she walked past church after church, He kept saying, "No, not this one." Until she came to a very small church with so few people that the pastor was basically preaching just to Leeza. There, she stayed for a semester, and God used that time and place to grow Leeza close to Him, to show her Himself.

Since that time, Leeza has gotten involved with teaching a Sunday school class, intentionally meeting with fellow Christians, and growing in the disciplines of fasting and prayer. God called her to Haiti through the family of Christ that He is growing her up in, and we have been blessed by her joyful, willing spirit here.

In the Midst of Contrast

2011-07-08T12:35:00.000-07:00

Haiti is a land of contrast. It is a land of crippling poverty and breathtaking gorgeousness. Deep, swift kindnesses and sharp, slashing cruelty. Inventive minds and debilitating habits. Brilliant sunshine and ravenous nights. It is a land of sorrow and faith, truth and lies.

We have seen many things here. One of our favorite translators was shot just above his heart a couple years ago because of his cell phone. A pastor lives in and out of poverty so he can provide for the 22 homeless girls under his care. A father loses his mental stability when his two daughters are killed in the earthquake. A small girl is spared from death when the father who is planning to kill her because he can't feed her climbs into the same tap-tap as a man who runs an orphanage. A pregnant woman in a tent community asks for food to feed herself and the baby inside her. A woman's heart crumbles when her husband dies, leaving her in charge of more than a dozen orphans. A little girl asks an American to be her mother and take her home.

This is Haiti. This is heartbreak. This is life.

But we have seen more. A local pastor buys souvenirs for an entire team of Americans who came to bless him. A translator who spent the entire day working with us ends the day by washing our feet. A homeless man carries seven chairs into the shade of a tree so every one of his foreign visitors can sit down. A young blind man dreams of preaching the Gospel in all the world. A church takes every movable fan in the building and points them at the group visiting from the States. A 15-year old boy living with his mother in a tent community comes and prays in power for the Holy Spirit to be strong in our hearts.

This also is Haiti. This is heart-ease. This is life.

We have been broken here. We have been blessed. We are beginning to understand what Paul meant when he said, "I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want." We are learning that Truth does not change whether we're walking the trash-strewn streets of a tent community or the white, wet sand next to the waves. We are learning to listen to the same Voice whether we're in the middle of a prayer walk, riding a tap-tap, washing dishes, or buying a soda. We are learning how to follow the footsteps of Christ in Haiti and in America and in all the world. We are learning how to be Jesus in the midst of contrast. "I can do everything through Him who gives me strength." Indeed, it is our desire to live daily, intentional lives only through the power of Him who gives us strength.

Team Testimonies: Josh

2011-07-05T08:55:00.000-07:00

Happy Fourth of July! We celebrated the day by hiring a tap-tap, driving up into the mountains as high as we could go, and looking down at the two million people who live in the capitol of Haiti. It was gorgeous. We saw goats, brown-eyed cows, wild horses that weren't really wild, and little naked children yelling, "Blanc! Blanc!" at us from the side of the road. We sang songs from "The Lion King" and "Aladdin." We got rained on - poured on, dead drenched - and were actually cold.

This week is our week off. We've got one team here that is being led by Steve and Jordan, the newest member of our team. So, the rest of us our here at the staff house, planning day trips, playing guitar, meeting on the rooftop, and eating Ramen noodles. We're getting to know each other and learning what it looks like to live in intentional community, to be brothers and sisters, to love like Jesus.

We've been sharing stories. Between the six of us - and the translators - we've got lots of stories. It has been inspiring to see how God has taken our separate selves - where He took us from - and brought us all here together to build up the Body of Christ.

I would like to share my teammates with you. I want to share their testimonies so you can begin to be amazed, as I have been amazed, at what God has done, what He is doing. I'll start with Josh.

Sunday I sat down with Josh, and he shared his testimony with me. For about an hour. God has called him mightily. Before Josh was born, his father had another son named Craig who died of leukemia at the age of thirteen. But God promised him another son, and when Josh was born, his father lifted him up to Heaven and gave his son over to the Lord. Josh grew up in a Christian home but a divided home. His parents were divorced. He lived with his mom and grandmother, both of whom had survived abuse in the past. They lived as African-Americans close to poverty in racially-divided Mississippi. When Josh was in kindergarten, his school teachers taught the children how to zigzag to dodge bullets. That's the kind of world it was.

But God protected Josh and brought him up through high school and to a prestigious college. And there Josh forgot the Lord. It started with a relationship with an unsaved girlfriend, and slid from there into alcohol, abuse, and secret societies seeped in demonic practices. To all outward appearances, Josh had it all: a shiny car, lots of friends, money, girls, everything. Inside, he hated it. He hated life. He hated himself.

One night, his mother called - in tears - and said to her son, "I know you're hurting right now and going through a lot of pain. I just pray that you don't give your soul away." And something in Josh broke. Because he knew he had given his soul away. He knew he had seen the truth of the Gospel and then spit in the face of Christ and walked away.

Paul says, "Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners - of whom I am the worst. But for that very reason I was shown mercy so that in me, the worst of sinners, Christ Jesus might display His unlimited patience as an example for those who would believe on Him and receive eternal life." In Josh, God is raising up another Paul, to make plain the light and grace of the Gospel to a world chained in darkness.

Josh is now a man filled with the Spirit, strong in the Word, intent on following his Lord and Savior. He quotes Scripture almost as much as my dad. His gift is the gift of prophesy and discernment, and we have seen God use those gifts mightily here in Haiti. Back in the States, Josh is a part of an intentional Christian community in the slums of Baltimore, working to love the least of these, to be the hands and feet of Jesus, to show them the face of Christ. It is a privilege to serve with Josh in Haiti.

Blessed

2011-07-01T17:00:00.001-07:00

I have one word for this last week: Blessed. We have had quite simply, quite astoundingly, a blessed week.

We might have seen it coming. Mark and I were in charge of a group of seventeen (12 youth, 5 adults) flying in from a church up in Michigan. They arrived in Haiti after getting stuck overnight in an airport stateside and freezing in the air conditioning. They walked out to meet us smiling. They cheered for the driver who dropped us off at Pastor David's doorstep after maneuvering a full-sized school bus backwards through a very narrow residential street. And that was just the beginning. Day one, they thanked God for the heat. Day two, they thanked God for a four hour church service, half of which wasn't even translated into English. Day three, they thanked God when we ran out of breakfast dishes that we still had plenty of food. Day four, they thanked God for the cold Cokes with dinner while we were waiting for more water to arrive.

They thanked God for everything. I never heard a complaint, an argument, or a gossiping word. They reminded me of the Haitians. They reminded me of Jesus. They were such a blessing. There was a lot of music at Pastor David's house this week. Half of it came from the church groups that meet almost daily on his front porch. Half of it came from a group of teenagers sitting on the rooftop at all hours of the night, praising their Savior and God.

The hardest part about the week was discerning how to take the group deeper. How to meet them where they were and pull them closer to Christ. So, we prayed, we listened, we taught. And God showed up. I said before I came here that I didn't really know what I was getting myself into coming here, and if God didn't show up, we were going to be in trouble. I can honestly say now that He has never once failed us yet. This week, I saw a teenage boy walk up to a stranger on the street and start sharing Scripture with him. I saw teenage girls circle up around a woman and her baby and pray and worship for a full hour. I heard them shouting out, "Our God is mighty to save," at 10:00 at night. I saw them preaching the Gospel through an enthusiastic reenactment of the Good Samaritan, Jonah, David and Goliath. I saw the King of kings become bigger, closer, more real to the eyes of 17 of His children. As one of the young men put it, God took the small gap of His love that they had known before and ripped it open to a wide, flowing river.

Now we've sent these 17 back to the States. On the last night, we washed each others' feet, the same way Jesus did with His disciples. Only we used wet wipes. Our feet were really clean by the time it got around to midnight. Now Christ has sent this group back to be His face and voice in an American, civilized, individualized, lonely culture that needs a Savior every bit as much as the shoeless, shirtless, fatherless kid living under a tarp in Haiti.

This week, Jesus called Trevor, Brianne, Hunter, Mariah, Liz, Andreas, Mel, Chris, Delynn, Caleb, Amber, Lydia, Alex, Hannah, Josh, Ben, and Mallory. I know. I was there. I saw them answer the call. He's not done calling yet. If Jesus has washed your feet, if Jesus has washed your soul, then He has set you an example. Now He says, "Go and do as I have done for you."

When The Earth Trembled

2011-06-24T16:50:00.000-07:00

I learned about earthquakes today. Josh and I had just said goodbye to our team and were getting all our stuff out of the guest house with Pastor Noel. Suddenly, there was this low rumble, and the ground shivered. Like a giant with a bad cough grumbling in his sleep somewhere deep under our feet. Pastor Noel instantly dashed out of the house. I noticed that the voices from outside seemed suddenly really loud, like the whole city had gotten phone calls all at the same time. I ran outside after Pastor Noel. I thought there had been an accident. Someone was hurt. What could I do? When I got out the gate and onto the street, I looked both ways. Nothing. Except there were more people standing around than usual, and they all seemed to be talking at once. Pastor Noel was running towards his orphanage a few blocks down the road. He wanted to make sure his girls were safe. Suddenly, the tension broke. People started grinning a little; some laughed. I'm sure I looked confused enough.

Later, Josh and I asked one of our translators, Samuel, about it. He said it was just a little tremor, that they happen once or twice a month, that they've become something of a joke. We asked him about The Earthquake - the one everyone talks about when they talk about Haiti. We asked him where he was. He said he was at school. It was late afternoon, and he had just left his classroom to go to the bathroom. He locked the door behind him, and that's when the earthquake hit. He couldn't get out because he'd forgotten that he locked the door. When the earth finally stopped rolling, the bathroom was still standing. The classroom he'd left collapsed. Three students died. Samuels's grandmother died when her house caved in. Marcio, one of my teammates, was also here during the earthquake. He said people just walked the streets afterwards. Everyone came out of their houses and walked the streets. Lifting their hands. Singing. Praising God. Samuel said they were worshiping God because they were still alive. They had thought it was the end of the world.

Mark and Marcio told us later that all last summer whenever a tremor would rumble underground, the whole city would burst out wailing and screaming. Steve said he heard some of that today. I heard laughter.

Sitting on the rooftop of our staff house this afternoon, I looked out on the hills to the south of the city. Suddenly, it was like I saw a line of bright shining warrior angels standing in a line on the hilltop, looking down on the city. Only they weren't standing there today - they were standing there 18 months ago during the earthquake. They were standing on the hills, encircling the city, a mighty army, when the ground shook. And when the people of Haiti walked the streets, lifting their voices to the Creator, the mighty angel army lifted their voices too.

It was a powerful picture. It brought tears to my eyes. It broke my heart for the Haitian people. And then I looked over, and there with me, sitting on the rooftop, was a small white bird. Looking out on the southern hills. The two of us just sat and stared out over the city. Then the bird moved, and I saw that its feet were deep red. Like it had been walking in blood. Like Jesus, the pure, spotless Son of God, walking the blood-stained streets of Haiti. Like the Lamb that was slain. Like the Prince of Peace who died and rose again.

Seeing Jesus

2011-06-24T16:22:00.000-07:00

Wow. I'm not even sure what to write. I sat down a few days ago and wrote what I thought was going to be a blog entry. But then I realized that it was such a small part of what has happened this past week, I wanted to share more . . . So, this is a condensed version of how God showed up for us during the past six days.

First off, a bit of logistical info: Josh and I were in charge of a group of 18 adults. We paired up with Pastor Noel, who is a new contact with AIM. He and his wife and kids live in a small compound that serves as a church/orphanage/school. His house was destroyed in the earthquake, and the main building was damaged upstairs where the girls were. But God protected them all. Since the earthquake, Pastor Noel and his family have been living in a tent/shack so 22 orphan girls could sleep inside.

Here's what we saw God do:

One: The team that came brought $4,000US with them. They thought they were coming to build a roof. Instead, within hours of their arrival, Pastor Noel's tent/shack had been torn down. Over the next few days, they dug a foundation, mixed concrete, moved piles of rock, and cut rebar. The cost for one entire week of construction? Exactly $4,000.

Two: During our first ATL (Ask The Lord), we sat the team down and asked them to pray about what God had for us to do next. He speaks in pictures, verses, songs, directions, and lots of other ways. We spent some time in intentional listening, then asked everyone what they got. The first three or four people all had the same idea: water, ocean, rocks, wall. Which reminded us of the beach we've visited several times here. Then one of the ladies said "baptism." Which reminded us of a woman named Gerlyn whom the staff met several weeks ago. She had a cyst in her chest, the staff prayed, and when she went to the doctor four days ago, the cyst was gone. This woman wanted to be baptized. So, we gathered everyone, set out for the beach, and baptized Gerlyn. Ten other youth participants stepped forward to be baptized too. To God be the glory.

Three: We are blessed by our translators. This week, we served with Pierre, Samuel, Zachary, and Vladimere. On our last day here, we wanted to pray for Pierre. He had shared with Josh that God had put on his heart to encourage his church to go into the tent cities and help serve the people there by giving them permanent homes. Pierre is Haitian. He is a pastor who doesn't get paid. His congregation is made up of other Haitians. They are reaching out in the world God has set them in. We prayed for Pierre. We prayed for Vladimere and Zachary and Samuel. And then God told us to wash their feet. He gave us a picture of these strong men of God answering the call of the King to be warriors for the Kingdom. And after that picture, the example of Jesus, the night before He died, washing His disciple's feet. So, we washed our translator's feet. We prayed for them. They prayed for us. We worshiped together. God showed us two hands, one white, one black, clasped together, fingers intertwined. And the hand of God covering them both. We are no longer American and Haitian here. We are no longer foreigners and nationals. We are all children, a family, brothers and sisters under our Father and King.

This week I saw Jesus in the face of a young jobless man named Johnny who lives in a tent with his mother since his two sisters died in the earthquake. I saw Jesus in the pastor who came from America, saw the need, and offered that young man a construction job at Pastor Noel's orphanage. I saw Jesus in the little girl who bestowed upon me ownership of her just-completed VBS art project. I saw Jesus in the little naked boy running down the path outside his tent, giggling. I saw Jesus in the translator who, when asked, said he wasn't bored because he had his Bible with him. I saw Jesus in the trash heap. As one of the participants said: "I thought it couldn't get any worse. And then I looked at the trash heap (which was very large, very smelly, and right behind our house) and saw a little boy walk onto the trash heap to use the bathroom. And I thought, 'It can get worse!' But then God spoke, and He said, 'Jesus is in that trash heap.' " I saw Jesus in the orphan who reached sticky fingers up to my face and gallantly offered me the remains of her half-eaten candy. I saw Jesus in the children dancing in flat-out worship before their Father in Heaven. This week I saw Jesus, and I want nothing else but to see Him more.

Was Blind But Now I See

2011-06-17T08:55:00.000-07:00

This week I met a blind boy named Jeff. Our group of 29 had split into four and hit the streets outside Pastor Amos's house for prayer walks. So, we walked. Stopping to pray for a man with a hurt leg, entering the house of a woman in a pink dress, sitting in the shade with a man whose house was destroyed in the earthquake. And then a random man came up to me and said in perfect English, "I have a cousin. He is blind. I want you to come pray for him."

We went.

The blind man's name is Jeff. He is 21 years old, and we found him sitting outside the door of his family's house under the shade of an overhead tarp. His eyes were open, blinking, and unfocused. His face was full of peace.

We talked for a bit. The cousin who had introduced us asked us to pray. To pray that the blind man would see. He said, "I have faith that God will heal him." So, we prayed. The Spirit of God came on that place. We prayed in faith, and we prayed in power.

And then we were interrupted. A stranger off the street (who also spoke English) who said God told him to find us walked under the tarp and started praying. And suddenly everything was wrong. We stopped praying, and Jeff was still blind. That man, that stranger, was not fighting on the same side we were. There was a sense of deceit, of confusion, of evil about him.

So, we left, prayed, and went back the next day. We got down on our knees. We read Scripture, prayed in tongues, and spoke the power of God in that place. Caylee, one of the teenage girls on the team, had a vision of a fiery snake slithering in and out of our feet on the ground we were standing on. As we prayed, the snake disappeared. She saw a new picture. The earth with the light of the sun blazing full on it, chasing away all darkness.

We stopped. We opened our eyes. Jeff still couldn't see.

So, we left, prayed, and went back the next day. This time, we talked. I started playing the guitar. Jeff smiled and said, "The Spirit of God is about to come on this place." I took his hand and shared with him how God sees him. He asked us to share when we had become Christians. We asked to hear his story. He said when he was 12, his mother covered up his right eye and realized her son could not see out of his left eye. He went to the doctors. Who could do nothing. When he was 16, he had an accident while playing soccer and lost the sight in his right eye. He went back to the doctors. Who could do nothing.

His family cried. His friends were afraid. Jeff kept the faith. He told us, "I prayed to God, 'Your will be done.' " He has been blind for five years now. He had to stop going to school. He can't read the Bible. He wants to be a pastor. He wants to preach the Gospel in all the world. This is what he said.

As we were talking, I felt compelled to ask him, "What do you want?" The way Jesus asked one of the men He healed. I expected Jeff to answer, "I want to see." But before I could even ask, the blind boy said simply, "I want to hear the voice of God." He said he had never heard the voice of God before and he wanted to. I asked again just to be sure. He was blind. Surely, he wanted sight more than anything. "What do you want?" Without hesitation, he repeated, "I want to hear the voice of God."

So, we prayed for him. Right then and there. We put our hands on him and asked the Holy Spirit to come and speak. And then we were silent and waited. And when Jeff spoke again, he said he heard a voice. A voice that said, "My little boy, you will see My deliverance. I am the truth and the way."

God answered. He spoke to the heart of a blind boy. I know. I have seen. I have seen a blind man ask, not for sight, but for the voice of God as the desire of his heart. I have seen the Spirit of the Living God come down and fill the shade under a tarp in front of a house in Haiti. I have looked into his face. I have held his hand.

We will go back to see Jeff whenever we get the chance this summer. We have found a child of God in him. We have found beauty and peace and courage and a faith that cannot be shaken. He says, "When God heals me and opens my eyes, I will share with the world the glory of God."

And now? While he is still blind? He looks into his heart - he lets us look into his heart - and we see the glory of God.

"I once was lost but now am found, was blind but now I see."

Sea Urchins and Near Death Experiences

2011-06-11T17:40:00.000-07:00

Our first team arrived this afternoon. We played Euchre for two hours while waiting for them to come. God is good! We ate dinner with them, went through the rules and regulations (all the boring stuff), and then headed back so I could blog you guys! No, not really. For this coming week, Steve (our team leader) will be leading the team, and we will be job shadowing. All six of us. It ought to be quite the learning experience. Next week they're kicking us out on our own in groups of two. So, we're in for a busy week this week and another one coming up! We appreciate your prayers.

One quick story to illustrate how hard we're working out here . . . So, yesterday afternoon, we (Steve, Liza, Marcio, Jenny, Josh, Mark, and me) headed out for the beach. Pale blue water, mountains in the background, sandy ocean floor. It was beautiful. We stepped in the water (much against my better judgment, what with the sharks and all) and waded out until we were stopped by a very wide, very scary shallow line of sea urchins and various other precursors to a coral reef. We decided to be brave. Conquer our fears, risk death and almost certain painful torture, and cross the bed of sea urchins to take a look at the coral reef. Which was going to have to be pretty darn cool to be worth the effort. The only problem, as I have been informed: Sea urchins sting. The water was somewhere in depth between your knee and your thigh, depending on the rock formations and what not. And Jenny and I didn't have any shoes on. So, Marcio heroically volunteered to drag us across on our backs. (He was wearing shoes.) So, we laid on our backs, threw our heads back, did our best to relax (what with razor-sharp little menaces mere inches from our bare backs), and took Marcio's hands as he pulled us over the sea urchins, the random jellyfish, starfish, and other things I was trying really hard not to think about.

It was a beautiful picture. There we were, inches from certain death. But as long as we held perfectly still and kept tight hold (and I do mean tight) of Marcio's hands, we were good to go. Nothing could hurt us. That's what we want to do these coming weeks with the hand of God. We know He's got a hold of us, and we want to relax, lean back, and trust Him to lead. And He will give us life.

So, back to the sea urchins: We made it across, glanced at the coral reef (which I'm sure deserved a lot more respect than we gave it), got stung by a few sea urchins when a couple of us fell over (nothing serious, but we were proud of our war wounds), and hightailed it back to the safety of land. Heads back, perfectly still, and holding desperately to Marcio's hands.

(P.S. If you'd like to see a picture of our team, go to facebook. Sorry I'm not actually in the picture. I was holding the camera. Of course. :-) This is my team. From left to right: Mark, Josh, Marcio, Liza, and Jenny. Steve was taking a nap on the shore.)

Back in Haiti

2011-06-08T16:39:00.001-07:00

Hey, all, from the mountains, sea, and sweat of Haiti! I have arrived. More or less awake, surprised at the coolness (that might not be quite an accurate word), and ready for anything . . . I think.

My plane flew in Monday afternoon, and we took the bus ride through Port-au-Prince, and out to the staff house. I met the rest of the team, all six of them: Liza, Steve, Jenny, Marcio, Mark, and Josh. We are finishing up learning how to lead the teams coming in this summer (the first of which arrives on Saturday), and we're going to the swimming pool tomorrow. Yeah. The swimming pool. Am I on vacation or a mission's trip? Oh, and, team from last year . . . We have running fans. And a refrigerator. And we're currently grilling hamburgers and french fries for lunch. I thank God for seeing fit to spoil us.

But some things haven't changed. We walked down the street yesterday on our way to a tent city. The streets are still filthy, the air is still muggy, the buses still see how close they can get without actually crashing into each other, and God is still good. Shopkeepers were selling plastic shoes, jeans, and candy. Little kids were staring at me with wide eyes and yelling, "Blanc! Blanc!" with a shy smile. Yesterday I ate peanut butter and jelly for lunch and spaghetti for dinner. Two of my favorite meals. I fit right in.

In the tent city, we prayed for a despairing teenage girl whose father died before the earthquake, who couldn't go to school now because there wasn't enough money, and who had earlier in the day swallowed Bleach. On purpose. Her name is Rita. We prayed for her. Please continue praying. There is more than one Rita in Haiti, and God knows every single one of their names and every single one of their stories.

Haiti is broken and beautiful, a little dog is yapping furiously down the street, and God is good. All the time.

Merci Jesi.

A Preview of What's to Come . . .

2011-06-05T21:27:00.001-07:00

(Okay, so this picture doesn't actually have anything to do with Haiti. I hope. It's just a cool, weird, freaky, very much alive 40-pound snake I happened to have the, uh, privilege of holding at camp this last week. Call it Haiti prep. Call it facing my worst fears. Call it fun.)

What Are You Waiting For? . . . I Don't Know. Something Amazing, I Guess.

2011-06-05T21:19:00.000-07:00

"Then Moses gave an order and they sent this word throughout the camp: 'No man or woman is to make anything else as an offering for the sanctuary.' And so the people were restrained from bringing more, because what they already had was more than enough to do all the work." (Exodus 36:6,7)

It's getting close to midnight, and my plane leaves at 6:05 a.m. Before I leave, I would like to say something of the same thing Moses said. I don't really know what I'm getting into going back to Haiti. I know it's going to be so hot we won't really miss the lack of heated water. I know I'll enjoy the new Chacos my sister got for me. (Thanks, Kristi!) And I feel like I've got more than enough to do whatever work God has for me.

I've got a list going, and it keeps getting bigger. A free plane ticket to Haiti, food and board all paid . . . More than a hundred dollars to spend on beads to take to Haiti and do something amazing with . . . An unopened box of just-the-right-size...unmentionables . . .Chacos in my favorite color . . . A quick-dry towel that will come in very handy in 99% humidity . . . And more than a thousand dollars donated to a missionary who never asked for a cent.

And I was worried about leaving both my jobs. Don't tell me God doesn't see our unspoken fears. Don't tell me He doesn't act or care. Don't tell me He doesn't get extravagant sometimes. I have seen Him do amazing things this past month.

I am going to Haiti with the expectation of seeing Him do more.

Surprise Baby! (...oh, relax - it's not THAT kind of baby...)

2011-05-27T12:22:00.000-07:00

We found a cocoon recently. Clinging to a dead rose bush buried underneath the weeds. It was HUGE - I mean, for a cocoon - and rather funny looking. There was probably a gigantic African Swallowtail butterfly inside. Or something. So, I did what any amateur Einstein would do and clipped off the branch, carried it inside, and stuffed it in an empty Cheeseballs container. We were going to hatch something. Something magnificent.

Two weeks later: Nothing. It didn’t move, it didn’t breathe, it didn’t walk. It was beginning to look a lot like fungus.

I got a bright idea. We’d deprived the unfortunate creature of its natural habitat. Dew from heaven and what not. It was getting all dried out, poor thing, and would never be able to make it without a few squirts from the water bottle. Mission accomplished. A couple more days passed. I began to think that it was changing colors. I began to think I had a big imagination. I began to think maybe we should throw it away.

Then I came down the stairs this morning and saw this:

It was amazing. Possibly even better than an African Swallowtail butterfly. Who knew so many babies could come out of one little . . . cocoon? Hm, they looked kinda hungry. I wonder what they eat. So, I looked it up. Apparently, aphids and fruit flies were on the menu for the day. That sounded hard. So, I looked up a little more. Ah! Here we go.

Raw hamburger meat.

No, really. That’s what it said. So, I tried it. Got out a frozen package and a serrated knife and started sawing away. My dog was impressed, and my arm hurt a little, but the babies didn’t seem too appreciative.

So, where are the one hundred odd praying mantises now? Out. Free. Set loose in the great, wide world to fend off the birds and chipmunks. Off to do war against the ants and hide from the bumble bees. I wish I had a little itty bitty camera to strap to one of them and see life from a mantis’s point of view. Some things are even better than African Swallowtail butterflies. Some things surpass expectations.

Itunes and Charlie

2011-05-23T18:41:00.000-07:00

So, now that I’ve found fame for myself by recording a magnificent total of two CD’s . . . eh-hem . . . I’ve begun to get advice as to what I ought to do with my, um, popularity.

“You should make CD’s and sell them at local stores.”

“You should put your songs on Itunes.”

“If you wear make-up on stage, I will beat you up.”

I would like you all to know (well, all of you except the person who said that last one) that I’ve done all of the above. They just seemed like the things to do. Have you ever talked to someone in the music business? They all make CD’s. They all put their songs on Itunes. They all wear make-up. Sorry, Michael W. Smith.

Then I read Charles Sheldon’s “In His Steps.” A book where ordinary people ask an ordinary question and then live out their daily lives based on the extraordinary answer. “What would Jesus do?” As a millionaire, as a newspaper editor, as a business man, as a pastor. As a musician.

Now, let me clarify a few things first. I am not really famous. Facebook paparazzi, go stalk somebody else. (You know who you are.) And musically speaking, I don’t know that much. Dude, I can’t even read music. However, what I do have is an opportunity to take a gift God has given me and make some money off of it. Woo. Sounds a little harsh when I put it that way, huh? “You cannot serve both God and Money.”

I’m not saying Chris Tomlin and Audio Adrenaline and Francesca Battistelli (Does anyone know how to spell her name without looking?) and all the rest of those Christian singers who have ever sold a song on Itunes or charged fifteen bucks for a concert ticket have got it wrong. I only know for myself that I like the example of George Muller (England. Orphanage. Very cool.), and I like the words of Charles Sheldon, and I’d like to understand Jesus a little better. And one way I’ve found to do that is not charge for my music.

Sorry if this makes your life more complicated. It’s making mine more complicated too. I think it’s worth it. Anything that lets us talk more about what God has done. After all, just recently, He’s given me a free plane ticket, exactly $210.85 (thanks, NC dorm girls!!) to take down to Haitian orphans, and the, uh . . . recently discussed unmentionables (see previous post). And all that without me asking any person for a single cent. I think He can take care of me even if I don’t sell my music on Itunes.

Even the Unmentionables

2011-05-20T11:38:00.000-07:00

So, I’ve got about two weeks before I fly out to Haiti, and I figure I ought to start packing. Or at least think about packing. My Bible and a toothbrush are at the top of the list. (I had to do without them for three days once, and it was not amusing.) Third in line is . . . well, unmentionables. They’re very important. Invented sometime after the Dark Ages and highly essential, depending on who you ask.

So, my plan was to go to the store and start checking off my list. Of which, unmentionables was at the very top. I forgot to factor in God’s generosity. It never entered my mind that He’d care to cross my list off for me.

This last week was the end of the school year at Nebraska Christian. The dorm girls I’ve been studying, eating, and playing with all year are packing. Did I say packing? That might be an understatement. They are cramming and stuffing and squeezing and crushing their belongings into every last inch of their suitcases and cardboard boxes. But even they can’t fit it all in. So, we’ve started a pile. Let’s call it Mount Everest. It’s a stack of all the things they’ve acquired while here that won’t be making the trip back home.

I’ve seen the stack. It’s quite impressive. But some things never make it to the mountain. Some things get handed straight to me. Like a couple beautiful Chinese silk scarves. Skeins and skeins of colorful yarn. Pens. Chopsticks. And . . . unmentionables. Still in the box. Brand new. Never opened.

Guess what I’m taking to Haiti with me?

I never knew traveling could seem so like walking into the living room on Christmas morning. I’m not paying for my plane ticket or my food or a place to stay. The dorm girls have been randomly handing me money - anywhere from pennies to one hundred dollar bills - ever since they heard I’d be seeing orphans down there. And now even the unmentionables are taken care of! I’m impressed. Who ever said God wasn’t concerned with the details?

Things I've Probably Forgotten to Tell You

2011-05-04T11:30:00.000-07:00

I forget things. A lot.

I forgot my birthday once. Passed the whole magnificent day with a bunch of barefoot school children in the blue mountains of Rwanda and never remembered a thing until I wrote the date in my journal that night. I’ve forgotten to tell my friends about the arrival of nephews and nieces. I’ve forgotten directions to a house I’ve driven to dozens of times. I’ve forgotten my phone number. I forget on a daily basis why I walked up the stairs, where I had my phone last, and what month it is. Really, it’s probably easier to learn the facts of my life from facebook than from me. My own sister had to learn I was going to Haiti from someone at church.

Oh, you mean I didn’t tell you either?

Oops.

I’m going to Haiti.

It’s been rather sudden. I’ve only known for a week or so, if that makes you feel any better. I’ve joked a bit over the last few years that the next time someone hands me a free plane ticket to anywhere in the world, I’m going . . . Don’t know that I ever really expected it to happen. But it did.

A phone call, an invitation, and a small side note.

*All expenses paid.*

All I have to do is be there.

I guess when God moves, He likes to be flamboyant at times. If I owned the cows on a thousand hills, I’d probably want to be flamboyant too.

So, I’m going down with Adventures in Missions (the same group that we went down with last fall), I’ll be there till early August, it’s all a little vague right now, and I couldn’t be more pleased. Vagueness included.

Don’t worry. I do know more than that: It’s going to be very hot. Electricity’s spotty. Vehicles do not stop for pedestrians. Don’t ask what kind of meat it is. I’m taking my Bible, my guitar, and my toothbrush. And, yes, the mosquitos down there do still have the capability of carrying dengue fever. But you don’t need to fret about that part, because I’m not, and I don’t think God ever was at all.

More info to come.

Grace

2011-03-20T10:06:00.001-07:00

God allows us the most absurd liberalities. Flooding oxygen into the lungs of one who hoards much and gives little. Calling the sun to rise over one who has repeatedly dishonored His holy Name. Growing food for one who comes into Him throne room to complain. Pumping blood through the veins of one who won’t even acknowledge His existence.

If it were a man, it might make sense. I complain. You complain. We’ll both get over it, right? It’s just the way we are. But for a perfect, unerring God to put up with imperfect, oft-erring man? Well, it might have been easier if He’d just gotten Himself a dog. At least they know not to potty on the carpet.

And yet He will insist on offering us forgiveness. What illogical mercy! What startling pity! He makes such unheard-of allowances for us. It is near ridiculous the forbearance we get from Him. Any other god would have rejected us already. Any other god would have sent us straight to hell. Forget time out. Forget counting to ten. Any other god would have killed us on the spot. That’s the thing that surprises me most. That we’re not already dead.

I don’t understand God’s grace. I look at Job with his accusations and David with his adultery and Peter with his denial, and it seems to me that anyone else would have been thoroughly disgusted with these men. Demanding a courtroom trial with God as though He were human? Killing a woman’s husband so he won’t find out you got her pregnant? Standing in the same room as Jesus and swearing you’ve never met the man before? Really? If I ruled the world, I would have hung the whole lot of them. It’s what they deserve. So, how does God respond? By calling Job “My servant.” By saying of David that he was “a man after My own heart.” By telling Peter, “You are Peter, and on this rock I will build My church, and the gates of Hell will not overcome it.”

I don’t understand it. Why God would open the doors to welcome a murderer into His throne room. Why He would let a rapist into His Heaven. Why He would find pleasure in the praises of a drunk. Why He would speak to a pornography addict. Why He would listen to a single word from a selfish, disagreeable, vicious little fool. But He does. And I’m grateful.

A Very Little

2011-03-07T19:26:00.000-08:00

Have you ever tried to get through an entire day - or even a couple hours in a day - facing each decision by asking yourself, “What would Jesus do?” and then acting according to what you sincerely believe? It’s a fascinating project. Slightly scary and potentially discouraging, but fascinating. It brings Jesus to the forefront of your mind in a consistent way and turns him into a real, flesh-and-blood person who had to eat lunch just like you and play with his nieces and nephews and get blamed for something that wasn’t his fault.

You should try it sometime. For a week, say. Or a month. Or a lifetime. You will find it impossible to write something bitter in an email or on facebook. You will have to swallow the harsh words you had for a family member. You won’t be able to complain when you have to give up a relaxing afternoon to watch someone else’s children. You will be more thoughtful, less disagreeable, more compassionate, more truthful. You will see more of the sun and less of the dark.

I’m sure as Christians this is what we’ve been trying to do all along. We’d be doing it already, only we haven’t really trained ourselves into the habit of thinking and acting this way. We do what comes naturally, what comes first. Unfortunately, that includes a lot of bickering, grumbling, and unnecessary severity. They’re little things, really. Brief moments of bad-mannered-ness that even we don’t remember for very long. And so we excuse ourselves. It’s not like we’ve killed anyone. It’s not like we even want to kill anyone. This is true. But we’re not being like Jesus.

I recently read a quote from Monod (no, I don’t know who that is) that said, “Between the great things we cannot do and the small things we will not do, the danger is that we shall do nothing.” We hear about Billy Graham and Mother Theresa, and our thought is, “Well, yeah, that’s great, but I can hardly do that.” And it’s true. Most of us can’t. But what about the things you can do? The places you can go, the people you already know, the brief, easily-forgotten minutes that face all of us every day? What about the little things? After all, “One who is faithful in a very little is also faithful in much.”

What would Jesus do?

All About the Bermuda Triangle ... Sorta ...

2011-02-28T20:36:00.000-08:00

I’ve been doing quite a bit of thinking and reading the last couple months. Thinking about what I want to be when I grow up. (Yeah, I know. It’s about time.) Reading about foreign countries, missions, sacrifice, miracles, and the Bermuda Triangle. Absolutely fascinating, the stories out of that place. Really. What follows, I suppose, is the beginnings of my decision/thesis/conclusion (minus the Bermuda Triangle):

I’ve had a good life. Traveled a bit, spent a bit, read a bit . . . eaten a lot. I’ve been comfortable. What have I sacrificed? . . . Um, huh. What would I have to say to Daniel in Heaven? Paul? Amy Carmichael? Jim Elliot? . . . Jesus? “Uh, hey. Really neat how you gave up so much in your life. I always wanted to be just like you. Only . . . um, well, I guess I never got around to it . . .” And you thought foot fungus was embarrassing. Don’t you see? We’ve only got one chance at this. One arrow to shoot. One race to run. One masterpiece to paint. And then we’re finished. I don’t know what you’ve been doing with your life, but I’ve been wasting too much of mine. Sitting on the couch, chowing popcorn while some girl in Africa dies of AIDS. The worst part isn’t that she died. The worst part is that I don’t even know her name. Do you? I don’t know her birthday, what she wanted to be when she grew up, or what her favorite color was. Jesus knows. He gave His life so she could know Him. And here I sit on my couch with my popcorn.

I’m not okay with that anymore.

“Go and make disciples.” What if we took the words of Jesus literally? What if we stopped quoting, “What would Jesus do?” and started actually doing what Jesus would do? These are just words. They’re easy to write, easy to read, and even easier to forget. We should know. We’ve forgotten whole heaps of statistics and sermons and summons before.

So, what am I going to do about all this? . . . Well, that’s a good question. I think I’m going. Literally. Going. To somewhere. Not sure where. God knows. But I don’t want to be the only one at this. I want to see the Bride of Christ in America stand up and come with me. I want to see the billions of Christians start to swallow up the millions of orphans. I want to see us stand up and jump in and pour out until it’s enough and Jesus comes back. I want to see more Christians be Christ. I want to see a raging torrent of disciples who aren’t afraid to live and aren’t ashamed to die. I want to learn what it means to give what I can’t keep to gain what I’ll never lose. I want to “go and make disciples.”

What do you want?

Giving It All

2011-01-11T06:55:00.000-08:00

I recently read in Mark 10, Jesus’ conversation with a wealthy young man. I’ve read the words lots of times, but something new hit me that I’d never seen before.

The young man comes and he gets on his knees and he tells Jesus he's got to know what it really takes to follow Him. And Jesus goes through six of the ten commandments. Don’t kill, don’t commit adultery, don’t steal, don’t lie, don’t cheat, don’t dishonor. And the young man says he’s done all that already. Or rather, not done it.

And for the first time, I put myself in the place of the rich young man. Cause I’m rich. I live in America. I have extra food in the refrigerator. I’ve got a roof over my head. Quite a large roof actually. I own a car. I don’t have to melt snow when I want a drink of water. And I’ve kept the commandments. You’re welcome to check my closet; there’s no skeletons inside. What if that rich young man wasn’t a picture of the neighbor down the street, the Hollywood star who ought to be a little less selfish, or the millionaires living in their castles? What if that rich young man was me?

And then I looked at Jesus’ answer.

He doesn’t list the other four commandments. He doesn’t take out a certain percentage. He says gather it all and give it away. He says if you really want to hold life by the hand, you can’t hide the other hand behind your back and hold onto a thing that’s not life. And that dead thing isn’t a commandment this time. It’s wealth. Money. The comfort and confidence and safety that comes from knowing you’ve got enough in the bank to see you through any accident, whim, or freak of nature.

My nephew is seven. This Christmas, he looked in a World Vision catalog and found a goat, a lamb, and two chickens he wanted to give away. I asked him why. He said, “Because it will help somebody else.” That’s pretty straightforward. Only problem is, my nephew doesn’t have a goat, a lamb, and two chickens. So, he set out to earn the money. He stacked split logs at a quarter each. He called his grandparents for extra chores he could do. His little sister even donated $3 of her own. Last time I asked, he was about $25 away from his goal. He’s seven, and he’s trying to earn $205. Why?

So he can do what the rich young man wasn’t willing to do. So he can take his wealth and give it away. Not ten percent of it. Not even half of it. All of it.

I wonder how this world - how the church of Christ in this world - would change if we began to take the words of Jesus literally.

Interrupted

2010-12-20T10:04:00.000-08:00

Apparently, Jesus was interrupted a lot during His ministry. He’d try to take His disciples off to rest, and a crowd would come running after. They talked while He prayed and woke Him up when He slept. The Pharisees threw an adulteress in front of Him while He was preaching. Imagine if that happened today! A man coming down through the ceiling cut in on a sermon. A woman with an incurable disease cut in on a healing mission. A blind man with a really loud voice sitting by the side of the road cut in on a walk. They yelled His name, they mobbed Him, they burst into tears, they dumped perfume on His feet. In the synagogue, on the mountainside, in boats, in houses, on the street. Nowhere was safe. And what does Jesus do? Does He get annoyed, short-tempered, curt, upset? Does He say, “Sorry, I’m busy,” and go back to His real work?

No.

In fact, reading the stories, you get the idea that the interruptions were His real work. You see a Jesus who faces head-on every new face that pops up in front of Him, never pushing them aside to follow a plan. Why? How did Jesus manage not to lose His temper? Why did He treat interruptions not like burdens but like opportunities?

Because they were people. Jesus had a job to do, and that job was people. Not carpentry, not fishing, not money, not even synagogues. It wasn’t a vocation, it wasn’t a schedule, it wasn’t a sermon. His purpose was people. Plain and simple. And when they came His way, He saw them for what they were. Not interruptions, not irritations, but empty vessels with the potential of being filled with the love of God. He was never too busy to be interrupted because those very interruptions were His business. What about me?

The Gingerbread Project

2010-12-14T08:18:00.000-08:00

It was going to be amazing. Just like the jewelry beads, the scarecrow family, and the Oreo turkeys, only Christmas oriented instead. I had the frosting out, the pre-shaped pieces for the little gingerbread houses, the gumdrops for the windows - everything! We just had to cut them out and put them together. And decorate them, of course.

So I started asking around. Gingerbread house, anyone? “Sure . . . maybe. After I do my homework. I’ve got a lot of homework tonight.” “Um, can I talk to my mom first online?” “Well, maybe later. I was kinda thinking I might take a nap.” Student after student listened, smiled, and declined. In fact, the only one who was enthusiastic was McKenzie, and she’s seven.

I walked into the computer room after a round of useless asking and found a fair number of them, staring at their computer screens, oblivious to the world.

That’s when it hit me.

These girls didn’t care about sitting down and doing something with me. It’s not that they don’t like me. They simply weren’t interested. There were two and a half hours between school getting out and the dinner bell ringing, and they wanted to spend that time the way they chose. Which meant sitting in front of the computer. Alone. There was no time for spending quality time with me. It wasn’t about getting to know each other better. Having good talks. Creating memories. They’d actually prefer to stare at the computer for a couple hours, thank you very much.

I wonder if we do the same thing to God.

There He is, sitting at the kitchen table with the gingerbread and gumdrops spread out before Him. Waiting for us to walk through the door and spend some quality time with Him. Have a good talk. Create a memory. Instead, we get on the Internet. Or flip on the television. Or take a nap. It’s not that we don’t like Him. We’re just not interested.

Twilight vs. Christianity

2010-11-30T20:46:00.000-08:00

I heard the general plot line of the Twilight series for the first time today. A Christian teenage girl told me. It didn’t leave me shocked. There’s not much they write about now that hasn’t been written about before. What it did do is make me think a little bit.

Why is our Christian teen/young adult culture wrapped up in these stories just as much as the world? Why would they sooner sit down and read a chapter of Eclipse than a chapter out of Job? Why are they more entranced with the narration of Hollywood than the narration of the Man from Galilee? Why will they wait till the movie’s over before rushing to the bathroom when they can hardly keep their eyes open during church?

For that matter, why will we?

What is it that’s got a hold of our hearts?

We’ve lost the practice of guarding ourselves. We don’t guard our eyes; we don’t guard our ears; we don’t guard our stomachs. The only thing we do a decent job of guarding is our pocket books, but even that’s out on Black Friday. We’ve forgotten how to guard our hearts.

“Guard your heart, for it is the wellspring of life.” So, you lose your heart, you lose life. The scent of the winter snow doesn’t cut it anymore; you need an actual taste. Simple, honest words won’t satisfy; you want poetry a little more like Shakespeare. The God who loves you isn’t tangible enough; you look for romance that’s a little more spicy. You’re not being blatantly rebellious. You’re just looking for life. Who wants to be bored all the time?

I’m not ranting about the evils of stories like Twilight. What I am trying to say is this: We’ve got a lot of kids out there - good, church-going, Christian kids - who know the story of Bella and Edward a whole lot better than they know their Bibles. And they find it a lot more fascinating too. Why are they being captivated by vampires and not by Jesus? Is it really possible to be captivated by both? What do they see when they look at you? Are you showing them a God of big sticks and straight-backed pews? Or a Man who lived and died and rose again and knows a whole lot more about love than Edward ever will?

Faces from Haiti

2010-11-04T10:47:00.000-07:00

I just realized I've talked quite a bit and haven't done a thing about pictures yet. Which I've no excuse for as our team managed to snap approximately 4,000 photos in the space of those seven days in Haiti. So, here's a bit of what we saw at least. It's actually in the form a music video, only without the music. The words are the English translation to the Creole song I wrote and sang for the Haitian people while in their country. I'm afraid you'll have to imagine the rest. Here's the English version:

Here's the kids at the orphanage listening to the Creole version of the song.

A Very Staid, Unenthusiastic Report on Dengue Fever (Sort of)

2010-10-23T09:49:00.001-07:00

Well, we seem to be through the worst of it. The fire’s smoldering, the jump is landed, the bell has rung, and you can all go home. Which is precisely where we are. Home. Mom. Josh. Kent. Alnetta. Michelle. And all the rest who never went to the hospital in the first place. We’ve all survived, there will be no tolling of the bells or lowering of the great big somber boxes. You’ll have to save your dirt to throw for another day. We are in our perspective houses and are very much inclined never to set foot in a hospital again. Or at least not for a very long time.

But we’ve learned some amazing things. We’ve learned that the mission’s trip doesn’t have to end once you step off the airplane and back onto home turf. We’ve learned that there is power and community in the children of God coming together to pray. In Haiti and in good, old Nebraska. We’ve learned how to serve one another. We’ve learned the importance of bathing in Deet (*note to next year’s trip). I am also proud to say that our group is now able to give a very distinguished, comprehensive lecture on the causes, signs, and effects of dengue fever. We also ought to be able to give a very comprehensive lecture on grace. We’ve seen a lot of it.

Twenty-five healthy, robust (more or less) Americans grabbed our passports and sat down on a plane which was meeting another plane which was meeting another plane which was flying to Haiti. All 25 of us made it back. No broken bones. Ten of us got sick after making it back. All ten had dengue fever. Which is not contagious. Which is mild the first time around and worse the second. Did you know there’s actually four forms of dengue fever, and all ten of us got the weakest form? Did you know none of us had any internal bleeding? And of the random ten chosen, no two were from the same family. We had husbands taking care of their wives, wives taking care of their husbands, and mothers scurrying around everywhere.

Dengue fever isn’t that awful. (Eh-hem. Perhaps you ought to qualify that statement. It is made by a healthy, non-dengue-fever survivor.) But this statement is not qualified: God is gracious. It could have been worse. A lot worse.

But we serve a God who even instructs the feverish, irritating mosquitos which missionary to bite and which one to leave alone. Who says He didn’t know what He was doing? Who says it was just random chance? I know differently. We all do. The way it happened, we get to brag on what God has done. This way we couldn’t forget, even if we wanted to. This way the adventure that we thought was going to last a week got tripled in time. (We get our money’s worth, see?) This way we get cool T-shirts: “We went to Haiti and brought back the FEVER!”

A Present-Day Prayer Request

2010-10-19T20:20:00.000-07:00

We were blessed in Haiti. You may have noticed. We can’t seem to stop talking about it. Everything reminds us of something there. We hope we’ll never be the same. I really wish you could see it when our team gets together. It’s like a family reunion. Minus a few members a ways down south. (You know who you are.)

We thought we’d had our adventure and returned to the real world. Time to get serious. We kept saying psychically proper things about readjusting and processing and sharing and all that. The psychologists would have been impressed. We thought we were out of school and into a quiet, meditative evening.

Well, we were wrong.

It started with Kent getting sick. Fever. Hospital. Doctors weren’t quite sure what to call it. Then it was my mom’s turn. Then Alnetta. Then Michelle. Then Larry, Josh, and Brandon. We were dropping like flies. On Sunday, we counted our numbers and asked each other who was going to be next.

We were only half-joking.

Yesterday we got the call from the local clinic, asking us all to please report. They had a state official waiting specially for us. And masks. And a very official sign taped to the door. “If you are coming from Haiti, please put a mask on before entering clinic. Thank you.” In pink. And please don’t use the front door.

We were starting to feel like we’d unwittingly walked into Area 51. Or the Einstein Project. Or something. But we donned our masks like good little children, took a scolding for being too cheerful inside a very soberly-run professional clinic, had our blood drawn, and were let loose and infectious out into the world again. Obviously, whatever we have, they didn’t think it was catching.

The next day (today) three of us checked into the hospital. Three of us that are still there. Low blood platelet count. Which as far as I can tell means that your blood is turning into Gatorade when it ought to be more like clam chowder. But if you want a more professional version, ask my sister. There’s a reason why she holds a stethoscope, and I hold a guitar.

So, my mom and Josh and Alnetta are still in the hospital as of tonight, 10:38 p.m. We had an hour and a half prayer meeting at the church and came away encouraged. But it’s pretty easy to be encouraged when you’re one of the healthy ones. The God who defeated all hell and the grave is the same God who has power over a nasty microscopic virus whizzing around on the wings of an obnoxious mosquito. A mosquito I very much hope has been squashed beneath some colorful Haitian flip-flop.

Our God is a faithful God and a God who is mighty to save. We have prayed, even though we’re not always quite sure precisely what to say. We are asking you to pray too.

Worshiping with the Ants

2010-10-19T08:45:00.000-07:00

Written on October 8, in Haiti . . .

This morning I went up on a rooftop to talk with God. It was a Haitian rooftop, complete with drying clothes, coconuts growing next door, and a view of the ocean. And ants. There were a lot of ants. I didn’t actually notice them till I had sung a few songs. Who knew ants liked to go to church?

Although this group did look slightly confused. Like they weren’t actually sure if they’d made it into the church building or not. There they were, skittering around in wavery, disconnected jerks. No one was following anyone else. No one was walking in a straight line. If ever an ant family looked disoriented, this one had it down. Maybe they were looking for food. Or a new house. Or a lost comrade in anthood. Whatever it was, they didn’t seem to be finding it. They just kept skittering around, unsure and frustrated as ever.

They might have asked me. I could see for miles. I knew what was downstairs. Three cans of Pringles, a couple bags of fruit snacks, and lots of beef jerky. Those ants might have lived for years on what was downstairs. I could have found them a new house. Not that I’ve ever lived in an ant house before, but I knew where a nice pile of dirt was. And as for lost comrades - well, it’s hard to hide from someone who’s a couple hundred times bigger than you.

But the ants didn’t ask me. They never looked up.

And that’s when God spoke. “Lift up your eyes,” He said. Look up from your concerns and your projects and your deadlines and your skittering to and fro. If I am a couple hundred times bigger than an ant, God is a couple million times bigger than me (and then some). If I knew about the Pringles, God knows about every morsel of food on this planet (and then some). If I can find a house, He can build a world (. . . and then some). Do you think He does not care for you? He’s staring straight at us, but we’ll never see him by skittering around with our noses to the ground and our eyes searching frantically around us. We’ll never see Him unless we look up.

I shared this with the church in Haiti. I read parts of Isaiah 60 to them. In Haiti, I saw God’s church looking up. He had leveled their houses, their stores, even their churches. They didn’t have anywhere else to look. In Haiti, the church is experiencing the daily reality of dependence on God. May God’s church in America do the same.

Making Dents

2010-10-15T21:40:00.001-07:00

Now that we’re back, it would be easy to say it was just Haiti. It was the amazing translators. The orphan kids. The leadership. Our team. Now we’re back in the “real world,” and you can’t possibly expect it to be the same. What we learned there was exceptional, different, unique. A once-in-a-lifetime experience. Now it’s back to the schedule: eight to four, three meals a day, open your Bible if you’ve got the time, and don’t forget to set the alarm. Leave the passion, the eagerness, the delicious taste of the unexpected - leave those back in Haiti. They belong to mission’s trips, not practical, daily living. Especially not in America.

Americans like schedules. We like statistics and things that we can prove. “What did you do in Haiti?” the Americans ask me. “Who did you help? What difference did you make? Were you able to make a dent down there at all?”

Well, no. No, not really. Unless you count a pinprick in an elephant’s toe as a dent. We didn’t really do much of anything in Haiti. We sweat off a few dozen pounds, guzzled water like a fish, and ate a couple hundred peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. That’s basically all.

But ask me what Jesus did in Haiti - ask me if Jesus made a difference - and, well, that’s a different story.

I saw Jesus gripping the end of a jump rope and laughing with a group of teenage girls. I saw Jesus listening each morning for the Father’s voice and going out to do His will. I saw Jesus getting distracted mid-conversation and pausing to scoop a toddler up into his arms. I saw Jesus sitting on the concrete, looking up Bible verses with a friend. I saw Jesus dancing to the music, face lifted, hands raised, eyes closed, a huge grin on his face. I saw Jesus down on his knees in a bare living room. I saw Jesus holding a baby with a poopy diaper and letting the kids do his hair.

I saw Jesus take on hands and feet - our hands and feet - and walk down the rubble-strewn roads of Haiti in our flip-flops. I saw Jesus live and move and breathe and sweat through His people, His church.

I saw Jesus alive and well in His Body, the Body of Christ. Not some white building with pretty carpet. Not a new sound system. Not a busy Wednesday night. Not a well-attended service. I saw Jesus in our feet that walked and hands that touched and mouths that spoke and eyes that stared deep into the face of the world and said, “God loves you. Here, let me show you how much.”

We’re not really supposed to be denting anything out here. It doesn’t matter if we make an impact on anyone at all. But Jesus denting things? Jesus making an impact? Well, that’s another matter. “He must become greater; I must become less.” In Haiti, I watched Shane and Diana and Tyson and Michelle and all the rest of us become transparent. I watched us disappear. And then I saw Jesus step in and shine brilliantly in our place. If He can do that in Haiti, don’t you think He wants to do it in America too?

Hands and Feet

2010-10-14T08:17:00.000-07:00

There weren’t separate days while we were in Haiti. Or so it seemed. Time blended together into one long, fascinating overflow of, “Wow . . . I see God!” Like the night we slept out on a Haitian rooftop under the stars, reading Scripture together and praying that no one would sleep walk off the roof. And that God would withhold the rain. He answered both. The way the kids looked at me with great concern when they saw my flip-flop had broken. Or when the translators talked about their future and the God who knew His plans for them. These are all snapshots, swirling together to form a living, vibrant tapestry of God’s hand in Haiti.

Here is one snapshot.

It was night, and we were all crowded under several large tarps (think of it as a fluid, rain-proof ceiling), sweating, smiling, and listening to the word of God. There were many children, but none quite so dirty as the little girl with short, ratted hair who wound through the white people, giving out hugs. Her name was something like Keysha, and the Haitians said she was crazy. Some kind of mental handicap maybe. Whatever it was, she was undoubtably friendly. And filthy. I didn’t want to know how long it had been since she’d taken a bath.

We trudged home in the rain and went to sleep in our rooms, and Keysha was forgotten. But God does not forget. The next morning, our team met up on the rooftop for morning devotions. In the middle of our worship time, we realized we were not alone. The little girl with ratted hair and mud running up and down her legs had come to join us. Some of us went to talk to her. She didn’t speak any English. We prayed with her. She still didn’t speak English.

So, we got a little more practical. We decided to give Keysha a bath.

And that’s when I saw the body of Christ in action. I saw one of the mom’s in the group take Keysha by the hand and smile encouragingly at her every time she was afraid. I saw one of the translators explain to Keysha that we wanted to help her. I saw the only girl on our team who was even close to Keysha in size and age give up a dress that she’d randomly tossed into her suitcase. God must love random.

And then I saw Keysha in a brand new dress, clean water dripping down her face, grinning. I saw her eyes light up when we gave her a bag of rice and snacks to take home. I saw her close her eyes and start chattering away in a foreign language, a huge smile on her face. They said she was praying. I saw her dig into the bag of food and start handing her snacks out to neighbor kids. Who taught this little girl to share like that?

I saw a child who was crazy, overlooked, and filthy . . . transformed under the practical love of Jesus. I saw the body of Christ become His hands and feet to touch the mud-splattered face of the world. I saw love. It walked and moved and reached and cleaned in the midst of us. It did to her body what He wants to do to our hearts. May we never be the same.

The Way the Sky Swallows the Sea

2010-10-12T10:57:00.000-07:00

If I close my eyes, I see an ocean of blue spanning tan streets filled with potholes, trash, and rubble. I see brown rivers where Haitians are washing their clothes next to the pigs rooting through piles of rubbish. I see collapsed buildings and broken walls. I hear the little gray goat bleating for his mother like so many children cried for their parents ten months ago. I taste the sweat pouring down our faces and feel the gasp in our hearts. “How does anyone live like this?”

But that is not all I see. I see a little girl close her eyes and lift her face and dance before her God in heaven. I hear the drums and the voices loud and exuberant at midnight. I hear the worship songs that never seem to end, the songs I never want to end. I see the light flashing through their eyes as they cry, “Merci, Jesi! Merci, Jesi! Merci, Jesi!” I see the broken ruins of a church housing the live, vibrant body of Christ.

I remember how we visited their orphanage, and their reply was, “Thank You, God.” I remember how we handed them a bag of rice, and their reply was, “Thank You, God.” I remember how we shared our hearts and spoke the Word, and their reply was, “Thank You, God.” The church in Haiti is learning something through their devastation. They are learning something that the church in America desperately needs to hear. They are learning to look up. They are learning to look to God.

We visited them at lunch and found them on their knees. On the concrete, in the heat, on their knees. We collapsed onto our sleeping bags and air mattresses before midnight, exhausted, while they stood downstairs, hands raised, eyes closed, worshiping.

We asked where their joy came from. We asked if they were so joyful because they were learning dependence on God through the earthquake. We asked if God’s power through the earthquake was the source of their joy.

They said no.

They said they were sad because of the earthquake. They said many people died, many people lost homes, many people were hurt, and this made them weep. But that is not all they said. They said they did have joy. Not because God sent the earthquake. Not in spite of God sending the earthquake. They mourn for the earthquake. They rejoice in their God. And their rejoicing swallows their mourning the way the sky swallows the sea.

“We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.” Why? Because we have found our hope in the Lord. Because we seek His face in the morning and again at noon and again at night. Because Jehovah God is our light, our strength, our song. Merci, Jesi! Amen.

Car Repair 101

2010-09-28T08:26:00.000-07:00

I am a firm believer in visiting local car repair shops while on vacation. I have to be. Every time I take a vacation, my car breaks down. Tires explode. Radiator hoses burst. Batteries die. I’ve seen more car repair shops outside the state of Nebraska than I have hotels. So, I recently took a trip to Paradise. You would have thought my car would give me a break since I was taking it there. No go. But I learned a very important lesson about car repair. It went like this:

There I was, stranded on the side of the road with a flat-as-a-pancake rear tire, a spare and a jack in the back, and very limited knowledge how to work either. And I was alone. Right outside a little place called Newcastle, Wyoming. With only 491 miles to go before I reached home.

Turns out Newcastlers like to farm. I know this because they drive pick-ups. Just like in Nebraska. Pick-ups quick capable of holding four young men. Who are prone to stop to help a stranded motorist. And who also just happen to be able to change a tire in under ten minutes. Which is a lot more than I can say for myself.

I was only a couple miles outside Newcastle, just on the other side of a bridge. But I might have been 50 miles away on the Interstate, speeding towards South Dakota. I think flat tires are worse at 75 mph. And the Interstate doesn’t have as many helpful drivers. Or nearby tire repair shops. But I was only close to Newcastle because I’d had to turn around. Because I’d missed my exit. Because I’d been distracted. Because I’d called my mom.

As it worked out, I and my spare tire made it back to the little farming community of Newcastle and got a brand new tire put on in under an hour. All I had to do was push the button to pop the trunk. I didn’t even have time to call for help. I felt like I had stepped into the NASCAR racing world or something. Who knows? Maybe my car was tired of all the times I’d stopped at restaurants and had decided to stop for a quick manicure before continuing the journey. So, the moral of the story? (It’s very important, especially for all your road-trippers.) If you’re going to have a flat tire, always call your mother first.

A Plastic Funeral

2010-09-03T21:26:00.000-07:00

I presided over my first funeral today. I wish you could have been there. It was rather touching.

The dear deceased was a little plastic woman, all three inches of her owned, kept, and much beloved by Kylie, my niece. The mini-person was very agile. She knew how to do the splits and pull her legs up over her ears and bend over backwards. She could do things I’ve never seen a normal-sized person do. Her name was Mommy or Julie, depending on the day.

Then my dog found her. And chewed her head off.

Kylie was quite distraught. Especially when I handed her the head. Four-year olds shouldn’t have to see a thing like that.

So, I suggested a funeral.

It went off very well. We got an empty check box and filled it with two pieces of fabric, a purple flower, a hair clip, and the plastic woman. And her head. Then we got into our funeral clothes and waited for the rain to stop falling. Half an hour later, we filed somberly out into the cold and wind to the grave site. A patch of soft dirt at the back of the open shed. It was all very fittingly dark and gray and quiet.

I pulled down the shovel. Kylie was magnanimous and let the murderer attend the service. He tried to look properly sorrowful, but we had to remind him not to dig up the box in the ground.

We sang taps over the grave, and Ethan (big brother to the keeper of the deceased) played an African drum. Kylie wept. “I’m just so sorry. I’m just so sorry,” she said. And then she leaned against my leg, put her little gloved fingers up to her cheeks, and started sniffing.

The eulogy was short and sweet. “She was a good toy.” It sounded like something John Wayne would say if they’d made Toy Story a few dozen years before they did. Kylie was sniffing too much, and Ethan couldn’t remember any Bible verses. So, we stood in silence, thinking grave, noble thoughts.

Then it was time.

The honor of throwing the first handful of dirt went to the distraught keeper. She had to take her gloves off first. I heard a conspicuous sniff with every shovel-full I threw on top of the check box. Then she was buried. Committed to the ground. We planted a little rock to mark the grave. On the way back to the house, Ethan and Kylie discussed frogs and how silly they are.

One more little plastic life committed to the ground. One more four-year old introduced to grief. However fleeting. She is currently standing on the couch with drum sticks raised in the air, humming about Samson.

Her beloved plastic woman is gone. We’ll not say whether or not she is forgotten.

Spiderwebs

2010-08-31T11:24:00.000-07:00

I was watching a spider build a web the other day. Actually, I didn’t know what he was doing at first. The sun was setting, the lighting wasn’t so good, and the little guy was dancing around in mid-air, doing something between a two-step and an I-might-have-had-a-little-too-much-to-drink ditty. I couldn’t figure out if I should laugh or call 9-1-1.

Then I moved my point of view. Tipped my head until I could see infinitesimally slender white strands woven round and round. A spider’s web. He’d gotten the frame up and ready, but now he was putting up the walls. Two hops forward, one leg to the side to measure, and a little skitter to the inside. Clockwise. Do spiders always build their webs clockwise? Over and over, around and around. Building his web.

Of course, if I looked at it the wrong way, I still couldn’t see the infinitesimally slender strands, and he still looked a little tipsy. Even though I knew differently. But if I moved my position, the picture was perfectly clear.

It was fascinating, really. Watching this tiny pale builder work so diligently on a house I knew was only going to last till daybreak. If even that. Knowing that it was going to the wind - Look out if it rains! - and he was going to have to start the whole thing over again tomorrow. If it were me, I’d sit down and cry. He didn’t seem to care. He put the same care and precision into each strand today as he did yesterday. And the day before that. On and on, web after web. Cautiously building as though it’s going to last forever.

The same way God paints a sunrise. Or builds a snowflake. Or throws a lightning bolt. Or teaches a human, finite heart.

What I Learned This Summer

2010-08-04T10:53:00.000-07:00

The chaos is over. Insanity has ended. Life can get back to normal.

If life ever was normal.

This last Monday, we performed The 13 Clocks for the third and last time. In Hastings for Crossroads Mission (which is a Christian organization somewhere between the Salvation Army and Boystown).

We’ve been through a lot with this play. In January, I read the book which turned into the script. In February, I sat there staring at the impossibly long list of things I needed to be able to turn a book into a script. In March, I talked sixteen formerly happy people into volunteering as on-stage guinea pigs. April and May were practices. Or attempts at practices. Work, family, sickness, chores, sports, babies, and the army take a very large chunk out of rehearsal time. The first day of June was our first performance. It was like having a baby. It came a day early. We weren’t due till the second. But that got changed three days before. Welcome to Royal Family Kids Camp. Please sit in your seats for half an hour, ADD children, then we’ll give you cookies and tell you in the second half whether the prince lives or not. They loved it. We were pretty thrilled too.

The rest of that month was spent losing three more cast members (we’d already lost two in May). In July, we gritted our teeth and performed again. In Central City this time. For anyone who wished to come.

And two days ago was our grand finale. In Hastings. For an audience of former drug addicts, homeless people, and families who have been through abuse.

Why did we bother? If you’ve read James Thurber, you probably have a good idea of part of the answer. But only part. It was much more than the script. After each performance, we took the opportunity to share the Gospel with the audience. If our God is a God who “devises ways so that a banished person may not remain estranged from Him,” then I don’t know why we’re not busy devising ways too. After all, we plot and scheme to make money, to spend more time with family, to be better at sports, to have more free time. Why not plot and scheme for ways to share the Gospel? Our God is a creative God. He is as capable of being glorified through a mission’s trip or a theology degree or a new church building as He is through thirteen clocks.

Of course, it doesn’t have to be dramatic. I have a slight tendency towards creativity (it’s nothing compared to what God does), and so it was very full of drama in my case. But sharing the Gospel is fully worth plotting and scheming for. Even without guinea pigs and cookies.

That’s what I learned this summer.

Here's some pictures:
The brilliant cast and their unflustered, completely organized director.

I don't know what it is, but it's the only one there ever was.

I have tales to disturb a dragon's sleep!

A noble prince. A noble lady. When they are wed, a million people will be glad!

In the tavern. (Don't worry; the cups were empty.)

(More pics on my facebook page if you're interested. :-))

Collecting Bulletins

2010-08-01T13:02:00.000-07:00

Have you ever gone on a church bulletin hunt? Sort of like an Easter egg hunt, only different.

You should try it sometime. It would probably be easiest on a Sunday. Go to all the churches you can, grab a bulletin, and get out. It’s harder than it sounds.

Guess what I did this morning?

It wasn’t entirely on purpose. But I did end up with a record total of three genuine church bulletins. Evangelical, Lutheran, and Presbyterian. Not bad for a first try. I learned all sorts of fascinating things. Nick’s birthday is on the 7th. Hosea 11:1-11. Jeri Gray helped with the service. 21st: Baby shower for Kayla Merchant. Hm. I should probably go to that one. The small chalice has grape juice. Gloria Patri. Amen. *Please stand if able.

It started like this. I walked into my first church, accepted the proffered bulletin (#1), and stole a microphone stand. Borrowed. With every intention of returning. And spoken permission first. The theft was for the sake of my second church. Or what was supposed to be my second church.

It was next door. Has been for many years, I’m sure. I lugged my musical paraphernalia (stolen and otherwise) through the front door, accepted the proffered bulletin (#2), lugged my stuff down the front aisle, and into the first pew. Several people in the congregation were looking at me with slightly confused faces. Strange. I was sure they’d told me the service started at 9:30. I looked at the clock. 8:58.

But I needed to find Doug. The pastor who had invited me to come and sing. I walked out into the foyer and noticed a large woman in a white robe with a green and gold stole. She didn’t look anything like Doug. But she did look like she might be in charge. I walked up, smiling, and asked if she knew where Doug was.

She frowned.

It’s never a good sign when they do that. She shook her head, and I began to get the message. The last Presbyterian church I went to definitely did not have anyone dressed as a priest.

Then I saw the sign. Not a heavenly vision or anything. Just a large, obvious poster over by the front door. Grace Lutheran Church.

Oh, no. Not again. (Have I told you about the time I went to the E-Free Church in Grand Island instead of the one in Hastings?)

I went back into the sanctuary, past the still slightly confused stares of the congregation, grabbed my stuff (stolen and otherwise), and marched out of the room. Or half-way out. Until the large woman in the green and gold stopped me and very loudly laughed that, no, they hadn’t been expecting me; no, this wasn’t the Presbyterian church; but, no, they wouldn’t mind if I stayed!

Thanks. Now that the entire world knows.

I exited. Gracefully. Eh-hem.

I got bulletin #3 on the second floor of the third church. It was in the sanctuary on the piano, and it had my name on it. That’s when I learned about Hosea and standing if able. I sat down. I finally found the place where I belonged. At least for the next hour. Then I gathered up my three church bulletins and headed out the door.

I’ll let you know how Round Two goes.

Addicted

2010-07-21T10:21:00.000-07:00

Hi. My name is Rebecca. I’m addicted to taking mission’s trips.

No. Really. I think I am. Nothing helps. I should know; I’ve tried. Spending all my money on . . . car insurance and Captain Crunch. Watching movies of foreign places and pretending I’m there. Reading horror stories of planes swallowed by the sea. Locking myself in the closet.

Okay, I never really locked myself in the closet.

I even moved to Hong Kong for a year and a half. And went on a week-long mission’s trip to the Philippines from there.

But I thought I was making a break-through. I haven’t been out of the country for an entire 24 months. Two years and no new stamps in the passport. That’s pretty good, right? And I’ve only been to ten states in the meantime. Eh-hem. Eleven. Not counting Nebraska.

I have a confession to make. I’m going to Haiti in October.

Sorry, fellow addicts. I’ve let you down. Again.

It was my church’s idea. My dad’s helping to head it up. My sister’s going. And my mom. And my brother-in-law. Plus 16 other people I more or less know. My dog has to stay home.

I’m actually pretty excited. Except the part about my dog. Is that better than being in denial? We’re going with AIM (Adventures in Missions), and we’ll be doing stuff with food, orphans, churches, water, mosquitoes, sweat, and cameras. We don’t actually know exactly what we’re going to be doing. Flexibility is a good thing. I’ll let you know when I get back.

The exact dates of the trip are October 3-10. Two and a half months and counting. We need shots and backpacks and stickers and plane tickets and bug spray. And prayer. We could use quite a bit of prayer. For flexibility. If we’re open to anything, I’m sure God will do the rest.

So, I’m inviting you to join in the addiction. I’d tell you to come, but we’ve already got more on the trip than we’re supposed to. You can go next year. In the meantime, please pray. For us. For them. For you. For the world. God is much more addicted to missions than I am.

Here we are. The team. Stocking up on shots and counting down the days.

Front Door Entertainment

2010-07-11T14:54:00.000-07:00

So, lately I’ve been shaking off feelings of slight boredom and possible uselessness. This is Nebraska, after all. The corn doesn’t need that much help growing. And taking daily measurements shouldn’t really be my favorite pastime. It isn’t healthy.

But where are the oceans? The rain forests? The spectacular waterfalls and breathtaking heights? It’s kinda hard to rock-climb down a ditch. Ever tried scuba diving in a mud puddle? Wow. Look at those mosquito babies.

Then I walked out the front door and saw this:

But that wasn’t quite interesting enough. So, I dug out the extra-strength macro lens and tried again. That helped.

Personally, I think he’s rather cute.

Spiderman does exist. Only they got the color all wrong. It’s green, not red. Sparkly green, to be more precise. Maybe they figured it wasn’t masculine enough. Gotta leave the man something to be proud of if he does have to walk around in tights.

I think the little guy liked getting his picture taken. He stared straight at me the whole time and wiggled just enough to show off his good side. I can just hear him, jabbering away through his pincers. “Do I look fat from this angle? How about now?”

I was rude. I didn’t even answer him. To be honest, I was a little preoccupied wrapping the camera strap securely around my neck. Didn’t want to drop it when I screamed and leapt skyward. I had to be prepared in case he jumped on me.

Hm. He never jumped. The camera’s still in one piece. So is my neck, for that matter.

But the world lost a fascinating model ten minutes later. My mom was spraying for flies and she hit bigger game. Goodbye, Spiderman. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you you weren’t fat.

Bug Juice and Life Purposes

2010-07-07T09:57:00.001-07:00

It started out much like a court session. Or what I assume court sessions are like from my extensive experience watching them on movies.

“All arise. The honorable Judge presiding.”

“This court is now in session.”

“Will the plaintiff (That’s me.) please arise and state her case.”

So, I pretended to stand (Pretending was my safest bet since I was driving.) and stated my case. It was quite a good case too. All about how unfair it is for this world to be so beautiful, so lost, with so many opportunities for doing good, and why don’t I seem to fit in anywhere? I’m piece 101 in a hundred piece puzzle. The chocolate chip cookie when everyone’s full on ice cream and cake. Superfluousity. And while we’re at it, why is the sky blue? What makes it blue instead of something else? And why, if air is clear, can’t we see the stars while the sun is shining? And why, if we are all born with a purpose, can’t I find mine? Is it hiding under the couch? What is the meaning of life? I felt just like Solomon. Spouting off bits of wisdom that would make great Chinese proverbs if only I were Chinese. Maybe he could be the wisest man in the world, and I could be the wisest woman.

And then God spoke.

A bug splooshed against my arm. (For those of you who don’t know, a sploosh is something between a squelch and a splosh. I’m sure all mothers know exactly what I’m talking about.) Bug juice went everywhere. There was a nice slimy trail up my arm and little dabs on my thumb.

One-arm-out-the-window drivers, take warning.

“This court is now adjourned.”

It’s rather hard to state your case about the unfairness of life with bug juice splattered on your arm. It’s even harder to stay mad at the Judge who splattered you.

So, what did I do once I’d stopped case-stating? I laughed. All because some poor bug gave up his juice all over my arm just to get God’s point across. Did that bug think his life was superfluous?

I was driving to work. I looked at my arm, considering whether or not I could get away with leaving the bug juice on. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to wash it off. It’s reminding me of God.”

That might not have gone over very well. I’ll never know. I didn’t try.

I still have my job.

So, what have I learned? Hm. I’m not entirely sure.

Moral #1: Roll up the window. Turn on the air conditioning. Save a bug’s life.

Moral #2: Never attempt to take your car into court.

Moral #3: When God says, “You are so small. When I look at you, I need a magnifying glass. Or I would if My eyesight wasn’t so good. Why do you want to be bigger than I made you?” - listen well. He’s got plenty of bug juice to back Him up.

An Advertisement: Looking for a Prince Not on Drugs

2010-06-29T08:33:00.000-07:00

As you may have heard, I have been on the most particular look-out for a prince as of late. I say most particular because we have a short but precise list of qualifications that simply cannot be ignored. They are as follows: He must be taller than five foot nine. (Can’t be shorter than the princess, you know.) Able and willing to wear a purple robe, get down on one knee, appear to be quite smitten, and pick up a Golux. Harmonica skills are helpful. And he can’t be on drugs.

If you’ve read a certain previous blog, you will know that we are looking for this prince to fill a roll in a play. (Princes who would like to fill non-stage rolls, please apply elsewhere.) Actually, we had found one already, and he was doing just swimmingly.

Until he got on drugs.

They weren’t kidding when they told you they ruin people’s lives. On stage and off.

We now find ourselves, having captured one once, utterly princeless again. Our back-up (we like to keep one on the shelf, you might say) absconded for the military. For the two others we petitioned, one fled the state, and the other is plagued by nightmares. I’m not joking either.

So, here I am, sitting at my computer, typing up an advertisement that isn’t really an advertisement at all. For the lost young man in question is still a man, if not a prince, and drugs are involved (as well as other things as bad, if not worse), and that is not a thing to be laughed at.

So, even though we are rather in need of a thing with a couple legs and arms and vocal capacity (preferably in English) for what we do on stage, there is a life that is not the stage at all, although it sometimes feels like it, and the choices we make there resonate throughout all eternity. (And that wasn’t just melodrama.) And this young man who used to be a prince isn’t doing so well. And I know a God who rescues the broken and responds to the prayers of His children. And my question for you is, “Will His children pray?”

Both Sides of the Ocean

2010-06-18T08:47:00.000-07:00

In March I was in New Jersey at the Atlantic Ocean. This month, I was in Oregon at the Pacific. Two oceans in the same year. Not bad. I’ve decided I’m incredibly blessed. Last week I was on stage performing our rather revised rendition of The Thirteen Clocks. This week, I was compelling my flat-lander legs up not one, but two Oregonian mountains. I’ve flown around the globe (and it only took me a year). I’ve visited four continents, ten countries (I think; am I forgetting any?), and stayed in I don’t remember how many different rooms. I’ve biked downtown Portland and ridden up a ski lift. I’ve been on a boat in the ocean and hiked through a rainforest. I’ve eaten wild snake, watched (not eaten) wild zebras, and taken pictures of monkeys in a zoo stuffing themselves on birthday cake. (This is all true, by the way.) I’ve run a horse down a cornfield in Nebraska and ridden a truck past rice fields in the Philippines. I’ve survived tornadoes, hurricanes, and strange guys stopping on the side of the road to ask me out. I’ve worked in an orphanage, a school, a youth ranch, a day care, a Sunday school class, and my sister’s house, and came out still liking kids. (Melody, that one was for you.) I’ve watched the sun set from an airplane, the wind blow through the flat lands, the moon rise over the ocean, and the stars sparkle above the mountains.

Any one of these would be a grand adventure, but I’ve got such a list, I can’t even name them all. Truly, God has granted me an incredibly blessed life. Not only do I get to see the ocean, but I get to see it from both sides. And not just once, but over and over again. Like coming into Heaven's throne room and looking into the face of God, not just once, but daily, morning, noon, and night, over and over again.

Here are a few of the photos from my latest journey - a week-long trip out to Washington and Oregon:

A Week Out of This World

2010-06-06T15:59:00.000-07:00

I was out at camp this past week. It felt kind of like checking out of this world. I forgot all about making money to pay for gas to drive to work to make more money. I forgot that someone had invented the Internet so you could keep in touch with all the people you didn’t have time to see. I forgot about the oil spill in the Gulf. I forgot about inflation and depression and starvation and deprivation. All I knew was that there were these creepy eel-like fish in the pond that could sometimes be convinced to snap at a worm on a hook. And a paper airplane was much cooler when thrown from the top of the zip line tower. And pink was definitely the best color for finger nail polish. Especially if it sparkled.

And there were a bunch of kids just waiting to hear that Jesus loved them. Like the boy who couldn’t get to sleep one night and was heard singing, “I am a child of God,” over and over again. And the little girl who begged me to go on the four wheeler with her - and then the rock climbing wall - and then the fishing pond - and then the crafts building . . . And all the kids, when they packed into the bus to go home, and some were crying, and we broke out with our “Oh ma chay chay” chant, and suddenly everyone was smiling again.

These weren’t just your normal camp kids. These were Royal Family Camp kids, kids who had been through the system. Abandoned, abused, neglected, forgotten. But for five days, we got to tell them they were loved. For five days, I watched every single one of the counselors and staff show these hurting kids purposeful, truthful love. It truly was like living in a different world. I wish you could have seen it. I wish you could have seen what it looks like when God’s people intentionally love the way God loves.

The following are the words to a song I wrote specially for this year’s group of kids. So they would begin to realize how very, very much they are loved.

Beautiful You
Hush, my darling, it’ll be alright
Wipe your tears, all the nightmares
I’ll fight away, don’t be afraid
You are Mine
You are Mine
Hush, my darling, and hold on tight
You’re not alone in the dark of night
You are safe if you remain
By My side
By My side

Cause I found you
And I love you
And I call you beautiful
And I made you
And I know you
You are beautiful
Beautiful, beautiful you

You are My darling, and I
Am the one who loves you
More than anyone you’ve ever
Known to love you before
I love you more

I once dreamed a most beautiful, beautiful dream
And that dream was
That dream was you

Drying Socks and Answered Prayer

2010-05-27T13:33:00.000-07:00

So, I was driving down the highway, holding my socks out the window to dry. (Note to self: Socks need more than 10 minutes in the dryer before work.) And I was thinking about the play. For those of you who have ever been a director or pregnant, you understand why. (After all, there are a lot of similarities between preparing for a play and preparing to have a baby.) We have our first performance for this summer coming up on Wednesday, June 2. Our goal in doing this play is to share Christ’s love with children who have known a lot of things that weren’t love. But that doesn’t mean our preparations have been made to angels singing “Hallelujah” or even “I’ve got peace like a river.” However, God has never left us lacking - at least, not for long. And it has been an adventure to see Him answer prayer. Here’s a partial list:

1) I asked for a script - but only if God wanted this and would provide everything else. Three days later, He sent the book The Thirteen Clocks, which I’d never heard of before, down the front door stairs and into my hands.

2) He provided all the actors/actresses except the Prince. (Go figure.) I’m debating writing a book, “In Search of a Prince.” If any of you ladies have a relevant anecdote you’d like to send my way, I’m sure I could find a place for it. :-) Oh, but then God did provide a Prince: one who needed a house and a job.

3) God provided our Prince with a house and a job. In Kansas. We needed a new Prince.

4) God provided a second Prince. So far so good.

5) We decided to sew all our own costumes, even though “sewers” (I’ve heard they prefer the title “seamstresses”) seem to be in short order these days. Knowing that, God provided a mother who happens to be a genius in the art. Guess what she’s been doing for the last two weeks?

6) We picked a single fabric store out of all the vast list of fabric stores in Grand Island, Lincoln, and Omaha - and, lo and behold! - what might have cost hundreds of dollars was all half price!

That’s some of what I’ve seen in the last few months. Some of the things God did I didn’t even know to pray for. Isn’t it amazing that He’ll know and even answer before we even know enough to ask? And when we put ourselves in places of need - the times when we know we’re in trouble if He doesn’t show up - that is when God is most able to reveal Himself.

This Means War

2010-03-30T15:55:00.000-07:00

When I was a child, I remember seeing a snake stretched across the sidewalk in our front yard. Me and my brother decided to be heroes. We mounted our trusty blue tricycle and ran the villainous thing over. Then we scooped up its expired carcass with a stick and paraded it into the house. It was almost as good as slaying a dragon. They never warn you that there might be a second one.

This morning I took my dog for a walk. Lovely day. Blue skies, smiling sun, empty country roads. The grass is turning green, and flowers are popping up all over the place. Then we got back home. And saw this:

Serene little house, isn’t it? Only, wait . . . Could we zoom in on that one spot please?

Hm. Maybe you still can’t see it that well.

How’s that?

Oh. There we go.

It’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen. Sharks may be terrifying, sure. Spiders are actually a tiny bit cute. But snakes are positively loathsome. Never mind that this particular gathering was made up only of darling, helpful, non-poisonous garter snakes. Darling my foot.

So, after running for my camera, I did what any rational, law-abiding adult would do. I declared war. Running screaming to my car, I peeled out of the driveway and bore down on the writhing mass of insufferable grotesqueness. I’m pretty sure for a moment my car entertained dreams of being in the Indianapolis 500. Then there was a bump. Four down. Nine hundred ninety six miserable creatures to go.

The survivors slithered for the grass, and I ran for Weapon of Mass Destruction Number Two. The shovel. It’s kind of an archaic thing with a wooden handle that feels like it’s petrified and a head that’s seen sharper, shinier days. But I wasn’t about to be picky. Shovel in hand, I sprinted Indian-style (I was in flip-flops, which are pretty close to moccasins) onto the road. There, I met an Impasse.

Well, first, I stopped to look nonchalant and wave at the farmer driving by. Then I met an Impasse.

I was on the road. The snakes (those still alive) were worming their cowardly way through the grass. To make use of WoMDNT, I and my Indian-style flip-flops were going to have to brave The Lawn. I considered for a moment. The conclusion I came to gives me full understanding of why the Indians used to do snake dances and rain dances and that sort of thing. I called up all my courage and jumped (quite literally) into action. There I was, bouncing up and down in my flip-flops, shovel poised at the ready, eyes darting about. If a forked tongue so much as flicked in my direction, I was going to bring that shovel down hard. Or run screaming in the other direction. One unlucky piece of misery wriggled into eyesight. The shovel fell. Nine hundred and ninety five to go.

War or no, it was definitely half time. I scampered inside and spent the next five minutes pacing up and down, staring suspiciously under every dresser, double checking every electric cord to make sure it hadn’t turned into something worse, and muttering, “Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew,” every second or so.

So, where am I going now? Well, I just peeked out the window, and the writhing mass of insufferable grotesqueness is back at its station on the sun-warmed gravel road. I’m going to get in my car. But before I do, I would like to propose a toast. To all the heroic tricycles and their riders. May the snakes never forget you.

The Ocean

2010-03-23T12:29:00.000-07:00

I was at the Atlantic Ocean last week. Little town called Cape May. During the off-season when the shells are out full-force and the tourists aren't. It was beautiful. This is what I came away with (aside from a couple dozen seashells):

The ocean reminds me of God. It is such a vast thing. I can look as far as I can see and stare as long and as hard as I can, and yet even then I have only seen the minutest skimming of the depths and widths of water that make the ocean. It is unfathomable. Our attempts at comprehension are as a lone bee’s attempts to gather all the pollen in a thriving garden. Even a careful study of all its passions and glories leaves us still trembling before a power that could effortlessly end our world. To put the ocean on a map is like trying to make God stay inside a box. It simply does not fit. The light swirling blueness on paper, precisely outlined and carefully labeled, is nothing like the real ocean of raging fury and weighty enormousness. Its gentlest whisper is to us ferocious strength. The touch of its hand is as the shadow of Jupiter to our moon. Its playfulness is our death. We cannot begin to drain it, tame it, better it, or understand it. Staring, our delight turns to silence and then to awe and then to terror. To advance is to be crushed. To depart is to be lost. Thus is the ocean. Thus is God.

An Announcement

2010-03-12T10:16:00.000-08:00

And now I’m supposed to say something like, “An ancient, twice-removed, long-lost great-great aunt just died and left me half a million dollars!” (That’s after taxes.) Or, “Uh, I may have forgotten to mention it, but I eloped last week.”

Well, it’s nothing quite that astonishing. Just a brief update. If any of you have ever read James Thurber, you’re about to be thrilled. He’s an author (or was; I think he may have died) who had his eye shot out with an arrow in a game of William Tell. Which in my mind makes him utterly fascinating (even if he is dead). If you do recognize the name, you probably know that he wrote books with rather clever, interesting twists of humor. One of those books happens to be called The Thirteen Clocks. And it is about to become a play.

I’m back in my role as director. Sort of. We’ve actually got two groups starting up rehearsals for what we hope to be many performances this summer. I’m directing in one and acting in the other. It ought to be great fun. The goal is to get out to different places where people can come who wouldn’t normally get to see a play. Like the kids from social services who come out to Royal Family Kids’ Camp, just fifteen minutes out of Central City. Or the people you might meet at the Salvation Army in Grand Island or Crossroads in Hastings.

Perhaps we’re intending to revive the old, traveling troupe idea. Rather like the gypsies. But the real goal behind this is to tell our audiences, who are often ignored by today’s entertainment-crazed world, that not only did we show them a little bit of love by getting all this stuff together to put on a decent play, but Jesus loves them even more and proved it by coming into our world as a man and dying on the cross and coming back to life again.

So, if you’d like to start hanging out at your local Salvation Army, maybe we’ll see you out in the audience. In the meantime, we’d greatly appreciate your prayers. We’ve got the crew to find, insanely busy schedules to deal with, medieval costumes, different stages, lines to memorize, and a thousand jewels to track down!

Trusting in the God who named the stars, sees a bird when it falls, and knit us together in our mother’s womb.

The God Who Moves Under the Ice

2010-02-15T13:23:00.000-08:00

I went on a walk beside the creek today. We are in the midst of a deep, cold winter, and all about is covered with snow and ice and dead things. There is not a spark of green to be seen anywhere, the wind was blowing bitter and fierce, and even the sun was having a hard time shining. And there lay the river, buried in a coffin of ice so thick I had walked over it quite confidently not a month past. And then I heard a whispering, spluttering sound that sounded suspiciously like the sound of rushing water. My eyes roved over the snow-painted creek, and there, at the foot of a tiny fall, the ice broke, and the dark shadow of moving water could be glimpsed underneath.

It was a reminder to me that even in the deepest night of winter, when all seems irredeemably chilled and dead, God yet stirs the water. Some day He will melt the ice, the river will flow again, the grass will sprout green, and leaves will flourish on the bare branches of the trees. But until then, today is not wasted. Even though we can’t always see it, He is even now moving under the ice.

"He makes everything beautiful in its time."

The Second Half . . .

2010-02-11T08:50:00.001-08:00

(So, just in case you haven’t read the previous post, this is a short explanation of the stories behind the songs that appear on my debut album, “Home.” We’ve done songs 1-4; starting now on 5 . . .)

5) "Sacrificed": I don’t actually remember much about writing this song, except that it was made on the guitar, which I just picked up playing a few years ago. The guitar was a surprise birthday present from some good friends in Oregon, and has since been used as a blessing to both me and others. It is this guitar that I took with me to Africa and used to find the notes for the two African songs. The song “Sacrificed” is a simple poem, almost a psalm, about what Jesus gave for my sake and for yours.

6) "Home": This is the song that inspired the title of the album, “Home,” and it is an attempt to describe the reality of what a relationship with the Savior can look like. That it is possible to enjoy His presence the way you enjoy the companionship of your best friend. I think oftentimes we get distracted by the fact that we can’t see or touch God, and so we feel like we can’t really know Him. “Home” is a rebuff against those feelings. It is the result of trying to follow the words, “Delight yourself in the Lord.”

7) “Hope and Wait”: This is the song I wrote a couple days after my cousin, Scott Burkitt, was killed in a car accident late last summer. His death came as a shock to all the family, but we have come to a deeper understanding of the God who does not make mistakes and is never off in His timing. This same God is the One who does not desert us in death but welcomes all who are truly His into the place He himself made for us, the place we were made for. As Jesus said, “Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in Me. In My Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you.” I dedicate this song to Scott’s family.

8) “Lullaby”: This is another song with a dedication. Over the last few years, several close friends and sisters of mine have gone through miscarriages. I have come to realize that this is actually quite a common thing, but that doesn’t lessen the pain of it. As a girl who would in all honesty rather hold a puppy than a baby, I can’t pretend to know the pain of a miscarriage. Life is so precious, and it’s almost impossible to understand why the innocent are taken away. But our lack of understanding does not diminish the God who comes wrapped in love, even in death. This song is dedicated to Melody, Kayla, and Katie.

9) "Shatter Me": I put this song last on the CD because it is a challenge, a sort of personal application, if you will. The song gives us a glimpse into the heart’s conflict in the midst of the daily-ness of living with all its surprises, hurts, and hopes set against the command of the Lord who calls us to follow Him anywhere He leads. So often, God wants to use the very daily-ness we struggle and whimper against to draw us closer to Him. He calls it obedience; we call it surrender. But His shattering, when we truly fall on our knees before Him and allow Him to do anything He wills with us, brings about the joyful life we all so desperately long for. We can’t have it unless we will obey.

A Look Behind the Music (as they say...)

2010-02-08T10:26:00.000-08:00

First off, thanks, all who have commented on the songs. You do all this editing and staring at a computer screen, trying to get the songs where and how you want them to look. And then you hit “Save Changes” and wonder if anyone’s going to even bother looking at them anyway. In our new, silently technology-savvy world, it’s nice to know you’re out there!

I thought you might enjoy hearing at least a little bit about the reasons behind the songs themselves. I wanted to add this in the CD insert, but there wasn’t room - and then, of course, some of you don’t have the insert at all and are simply listening to the music via computer. So, here’s a bit about the first few songs . . .

1) “Just Like Always”: This is a song I wrote several years ago after I’d taken a lonely walk down a good, old-fashioned Nebraska country road. It ran straight ahead and straight behind (like most roads in Nebraska do), and I looked up to see home looming nearby and the sun setting in the west and cornfields stretching out left and right. And I thought how grand it was that I could walk alone down this road and yet not really be alone because of the One who said, “I will never leave you or forsake you.” And so a song was born. (Note: The country twang came accidentally. I used to hate country music; I think I’ve more or less accepted it now, and even enjoy it sometimes.)

2) “Toliba Weka” (Translation: “Never Alone”): This and the fourth song are the reason this CD was made at all. Two summers ago, I took a trip to Africa with Music for Life (parent organization for the African Children’s Choir). During the second half of that trip, in Uganda, I wrote the words to this song to share with the children there. A good friend from Uganda then translated the words from English into Luganda, helped me with the pronunciation, and I set the words to music. I was blessed to be able to sing several times to the children there, at a school, an orphanage, and the Music for Life facilities. And, quite unexpectedly, on my return to the States, God gave me the privilege of singing three times more to various Ugandan groups touring this country. (For the story that perhaps best describes why I wrote this and the other African song, see “Day 12" in the September 2008 archives of this blog.)

The full translation of this song into English is as follows: Dear child, remember you are never alone//I wrote this song just for you/I want you to know/That you have a Creator in Heaven/Who loves you so much//God has your name written on His hand/God holds love for you in His heart.

3) “Faithful”: This is my personal favorite song on this CD, and the first one we recorded in studio. I actually didn’t know we were going to record it that day, but when I sat down at the piano to “play a little something,” we decided to break out the microphones and start recording! I don’t think I can rephrase the message of the song better than the lyrics themselves already do. It’s a very simple song, one I was inspired to write when I was plunking away at the piano keys one day, and it tells about the utter faithfulness of my God and Savior, Jesus Christ.

4) “Urukundo Niruhemuka” (Translation: “Love Never Fails”): Well, if you’ve read about the second song already, you have a good idea why I wrote this one as well. It’s more or less the same, except that this song was written during the first half of the Africa trip and is in Kinyarwanda, which is the language in Rwanda.

Full translation into English: I want to say to you/Beautiful child/That your Father in Heaven/Loves you very much/Every time you smile/Every tear you cry/Every dream/He sees and understands/He is wonderful/Your God made you just as you are/For a purpose/And His purpose is love//Remember, love never fails.

Plans and the Internet

2010-01-25T09:45:00.000-08:00

You may have noticed the picture at the top of this blog. The one that looks suspiciously like something you might find on the front of a CD album cover. (Which might be because of the words “debut album” floating across the bottom right-hand corner.)

Well, it’s not actually. A CD album cover, that is. It was booted out in favor of a different photo I had on hand. But there is a real CD album cover. Complete with accompanying CD case and CD. Amazing how far technology will take you these days. I hadn't the slightest clue what I was doing (and to be quite honest, I still don't think I really do). But due to the fact that God had me born in this time and place and not a thousand years ago or on the unnamed, deserted island I sometimes wish I was living on, I now have a CD. Designed, researched, edited, copyrighted, ordered, uploaded, and downloaded on the Internet. (Let me point out that you're also reading about this on the Internet.) Created in studio. Written at home. It’s entitled “Home” (the narrow winner over my second choice, “Internet”), and if you go to www.amazon.com right now, search MP3 downloads, and type in “Rebecca Johnson, Home,” it will show up. Unless your connection stops working. Which is what mine just did. The songs should also be making themselves available on itunes within the next couple weeks. And I have a myspace at www.myspace.com/rebeccasjohnson. I figured I might as well go all out.

So, how’d this all come about? . . . Well, that’s a good question. I think it started late one Monday night in Africa after I’d spent a day with orphan kids who weren’t wearing any shoes and couldn’t stop smiling at me. Or maybe it was before that in March when I stepped into an actual professional recording studio. Or possibly it was that first song I wrote back in fifth grade about eagles' wings. Or maybe God’s been planning this before the creation of the world.

“ ‘I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord.” Which is why it’s absolutely okay that I don’t have a clue. Besides, this way, you can’t give me any of the credit or glory. It all goes to Him, right where it belongs.

Kids and Puppies

2010-01-19T16:20:00.000-08:00

Recently, it has come into my mind that there’s not so much difference between being a mom and owning a dog. Kids and puppies. They both smell funny and like to chew on things they’re not supposed to. Their noses run. The value of your house begins a slow (or fast) downward spiral the moment they arrive. You start feeling jittery if you let them out of your sight for more than ten seconds, and when you do finally dash off to take your speed shower, you pray they don’t move.

I’m what you might call an expert in this subject (and I don’t say that about many subjects). I don’t have a kid; I don’t need one: my family’s already got seven. Three babies, one toddler, and three little guys that are most definitely 100% kid. I’ve got a dog. The similarities are astounding. My sister yells at her kids to stop jumping on the couch; I yell at my dog to stop jumping on the kids. She gets woken up at 3:00 in the morning by a baby crying for food; I get woken up by a puppy that’s got to go potty now. Her vehicle’s back seat is a mess of half-eaten french fries and toy pieces; my back seat is a mess of muddy paw prints and dog hair.

It’s amazing how much you have to pack for an overnight stay with a baby or a dog. Diapers. Leash. Bottle. Doggy treats. Binkie. Pillow. (The pillow’s for my dog; he sleeps on one at night.) It’s amazing how much money you start spending, not on yourself. On them. On it. It’s amazing what you hear coming out of your mouth. “Don’t eat so fast; you’ll choke and die.” “Don’t take her toy; she had it first.” “What’d you do with your blanket?” “Why aren’t you in bed sleeping like you’re supposed to?” (And believe me, I’ve heard these said to both kids and dogs!)

Then again, I’ve never heard my sister yell, “Get that poop out of your mouth!”

Maybe, there’s a difference between kids and puppies after all.

A Story From Christmas

2009-12-24T20:26:00.000-08:00

‘Twas the night before Christmas and outside the house
The wind was a’howling (the lousy old louse).
Snowing at breakfast and snowing at lunch;
Deeper at dinner - Why snow so darn much?

I was house sitting, as warm as could be,
Inside a big house with two dogs and no tree.
But come Christmas Eve I sought to depart
To go the church and offer my art.
To play the piano was my one intent
Or else I don’t think I would ever have went.

(Note: The last word in the above sentence has been used for rhyming purposes only, and in no way condones the use of improper language in poetry.)

The drifts were knee deep, but in my borrowed car
Nothing did I fear as I pushed through the bar.
One moment in time (just one, and that’s all)
The four tires spun like a cat on a ball.
And then we were free! Free to take flight
Down the slick highway and into the night.

(Actually, we barely made it to thirty.)

The service was grand with the candles and songs.
I played every tune, and they all sang along.
And then I was off once again in the car
That wasn’t exactly my own by so far.

We got to the driveway and started to go.
Then - THUMP! - we were stuck, just like that, in the snow.
The night before Christmas! Oh, what could I do?
Well, what would you do if it happened to you?

I called the nice people whose car I twice drove.
I called them and said I was stuck in the snow.
They said, “Call the neighbor and see if he will
Come out in the snow and lend you his skill.”

So, I did what they said, and I called him right up.
He said he would come and get me unstuck.
But did he know how it was howling outside,
With temperatures plummeting so far and wide?

But come he had said, and he didn’t dodge
But brought out his chains for the car that was lodged.
Well, the chains didn’t work, so he started the tractor,
And I sat in the car, waiting until after

The driveway was cleared of a foot of cold snow.
And all the whole while, the wind sure did blow.
I wondered as I sat inside the warm car
How his fingers and toes were faring out thar.

(Note: During that last sentence, the author suffered a temporary lapse into a somewhat obscure accent that uses the pronunciation “thar” to mean “there.”)

And this is a story from Christmas this year,
A story of manifest holiday cheer.
While you with your family and me in my socks
Were cozying up for a movie and talks,

A man outside in the freezing cold air
Was ridding a rather poor driver from care.
No fussing about it, no stomping, no glare,
Just one simple, “Yes, I can help you out there.”

And this is the meaning of peace upon earth,
The reason the Christmas songs have any worth.
A simple, benevolent story to weave -
Like one long ago on the first Christmas Eve.

An Illegitimate Christmas

2009-12-23T08:32:00.000-08:00

Well, it’s blizzarding outside (welcome to Nebraska!), there’s an angel in a red robe playing what I assume to be a first century version of the trumpet in the opposite corner of the room (It’s cardboard. The angel and the trumpet.), I haven’t drunk my cup of hot chocolate for the day, but it is feeling something like Christmas. Which is probably a sign of health and awareness, considering we’re less than 48 hours out from the Big Day.

Christmas. That time of year when girls know to expect aromatic gifts that they’re not quite sure if they’re supposed to wash with or eat (With flavors like Vanilla Hazelnut and Coconut Cream, who would have ever thought it was only hand lotion?), and boys sit in church pews, listening fanatically to see if they will change the old hymn to “where ox and lamb are feeding,” instead of that other word. The time when pastors are allowed to sing all sorts of utter lies about a jolly man in a red suit and a reindeer with a similarly scarlet nose that everyone knows doesn’t exist - and not a single, truth-loving member of the congregation cares. The time of year when we entertain all sorts of traditions - gift giving, kissing plants (that’s mistletoe to you), carol singing, murder of the pines (I’m sure every true blue tree-hugger buys a plastic one) - in a society that struggles to keep up even traditional traditions, like having a father and a mother at the head of the family.

A time when the songs exhort you to dream about snow, even though you dread it the rest of the year. When family finally comes before work, unless your name is Scrooge; and, even then, you might reconsider if only a Tiny Tim would walk - excuse me, hobble - into your life. A time when the stores are packed and the bars are empty (or are they?). A time when, for once, you might walk down the street and see people not only smiling, but cheerfully chatting with that all-suspicious complete and total strangers.

It’s a good thing, right? No matter what else they might accuse us of, at least the rest of the world has to admit that we know how to celebrate Christmas! Even if the point does get a bit lost in the whirlwind. Because even though we might congratulate ourselves that they’re using the word “Jesus” on the public radio stations as something other than a swear word, it’s easy to bypass the heart of the matter. We don’t do it on purpose; there’s just so many other things to look at. One more illegitimate baby to populate the globe isn’t really that spectacular. I could walk you down the street and point out ten more. Not that any of them had shepherds or angels singing over them; a nurse maybe, but no one crooning in Hebrew, and certainly nothing heavenly. Maybe that’s why two thousand years ago a good portion of the Israelites, the Pharisees, and the local rulers missed it. I’m not sure about the idea of a synagogue ruler belting out “I saw Mama kissing Santa Clause,” but I’m sure they had plenty of other things to look at. Something besides another illegitimate child.

Unless He wasn’t illegitimate. Unless it was miraculous. Unless the Son of God really did become flesh and make His dwelling among us, like John says He did. Unless He really was who He said He was. Is who He says He is. And if that’s all true, then Santa and Rudolph really ought to be tossed in the backseat with the Legos and fairytale books. We have more important things to look at.

Is It Wrong or Just Unfavorable Consequences?

2009-12-22T07:55:00.000-08:00

Ancient Rome might have called it revolution. Greeks might have hailed it as the rise of a new philosophy. Middle Age Britishers might have called us all separatists and demanded the rack, and I’m sure someone somewhere might have used the word “witch.” Bonfire, anyone?

But in today’s modern, technologized, politicized, civilized 21st Century, we only say, “That’s just the way things are these days.” It isn’t a crime, you can’t scientifically prove that it’s wrong, and it’s not really hurting anyone, is it? So, give it up. Live and let live. Isn’t that what everyone else is doing? What’s the big deal about the downfall of modern morality anyway? Not that I’m addressing our lack of morals, mind you. No, this is worse. This is our wholesale extinction of them. The fact that we don’t have any. Just like you could walk down the street and find no pet dinosaur romping about in someone’s backyard.

You see, morality has become something of a dirty word here in the West. Moralists share the same boat as Communists: We’re not precisely sure what they are, but we’ve been told they’re up to no good, and we know how to spot one when we see one! The issue can be left-winged or right-winged, old-fashioned or radical, biased or impartial, even good or bad. It is hardly ever right or wrong.

Why? Because right and wrong don’t exist anymore. Drunk driving has unfavorable consequences. Murder will cost you any degree of respect, besides getting you thrown in jail. Giving to the poor is a great way to boost self-worth. Divorce is hard on the children. Helping the stranded driver on the side of the road - well, that’s a bit risky, but he might be grateful and give you twenty bucks. Stealing company money is bound to end you up jobless and friendless, and that’ll be your own fault and no one else’s. Does anyone say anymore a simple, “That is right; that is wrong”?

How would Jesus be received today, I wonder, with His blunt, “Let the dead bury their own dead,” and, “Unless you repent, you too will be condemned”? How, with His exclusive, “I am the way, the truth, and the light”? I mean, really, you must admit that does sound a bit narrow-minded of Him. But we have said we would like to be lowered to the level of animals, which have no moral consciousness; and, in doing so, we have all but lost our own. We have grasped hold of too many contradictions in our speech and thought patterns; and in doing so, have had to let go of our hold on truth.

And the worst is this: Since we have - or think we have - a good portion of the world’s money, the rest of the globe looks up to us. The trends we pick here are plastered on billboards across China. (I know; I’ve seen some of them.) The philosophies we so devotedly preach here are actually put into practice in nations like the Philippines, sometimes to devastating affect. We who claim to be the shepherds of the world are leading the flock down an incline that will quite possibly get us all killed. But is it really wrong, after all? Or is death simply another one of our unfavorable consequences?

From 1962

2009-12-07T18:13:00.000-08:00

I have finished a rather interesting book written nearly half a century ago by a man who, as a public educator, had quite a right to hold opinions on public education. What follows is an abbreviated quote of what he had to say:

First, as written from his own point of view:

“In my view there is a sense in which education ought to be democratic and another sense in which it ought not. It ought to be democratic in the sense of being available, without distinction of sex, colour, class, race, or religion, to all who can - and will - diligently accept it. But once the young people are inside the school there must be no attempt to establish a factitious egalitarianism between the idlers and dunces on the one hand and the clever and industrious on the other. A modern nation needs a very large class of genuinely educated people and it is the primary function of schools and universities to supply them. To lower standards or disguise inequalities is fatal.”

Then, as written from the view of an enemy of the human race:

“In that promising land the spirit of I’m as good as you has already become something more than a generally social influence. It begins to work itself into their educational system . . . The basic principle of the new education is to be that dunces and idlers must not be made to feel inferior to intelligent and industrious pupils . . . At schools, the children who are too stupid or lazy to learn languages and mathematics and elementary science can be set to doing the things that children used to do in their spare time. Let them, for example, make mud pies and call it modelling. But all the time there must be no faintest hint that they are inferior to the children who are at work. Whatever nonsense they are engaged in must have - I believe the English already use the phrase - ‘parity of esteem’ . . . The bright pupil thus remains democratically fettered to his own age group throughout his school career, and a boy who would be capable of tackling Aeschylus or Dante sits listening to his coeval’s attempts to spell out A CAT SAT ON A MAT.

In a word, we may reasonably hope for the virtual abolition of education when I’m as good as you has fully had its way. All incentives to learn and all penalties for not learning will vanish. The few who might want to learn will be prevented; who are they to overtop their fellows? And anyway the teachers - or should I say, nurses? - will be far too busy reassuring the dunces and patting them on the back to waste any time on real teaching. We shall no longer have to plan and toil to spread imperturbable conceit and incurable ignorance among men. The little vermin themselves will do it for us.”

Perhaps if you have looked very hard into America’s present-day educational system, you have seen something of this very sort going on. Perhaps I also ought to qualify the previous quotations by making several pertinent remarks. First, you might be interested to know that the man who wrote this admitted (even from nearly 50 years ago!) that he was writing specifically about the American educational system. Second, that said man was British (which is why he spelled color with a “u” and added an extra "l" to modeling). Third, that this man happens to be C.S. Lewis. The book, if you haven’t read it, is The Screwtape Letters, and the quotes are taken from an ending addition, “Screwtape Proposes a Toast.”

King of the Ants: A Parable

2009-11-14T11:18:00.000-08:00

One day all the children gathered on the back lawn. “I will be king of the ants,” the first little boy said. But then the second stepped forward and said, “No, I will be king of the ants.” And then what do you think? The third declared the same thing, and the fourth didn’t want to be left out, and well - it might have gone rather impolitely after that, for little boys are more prone to using fists than words, but for a little girl who stepped forward. And the little girl said, “Only one of you will be king of the ants, and this is how we will decide. Whoever can make the ants love him will be king.”

The boys agreed, and thus the test began.

Said the first little boy, “I know! I will give the ants a picture of me. A very small picture that they can carry into their homes and hang up on their walls and stare at all day. And so they will see and love me.” But when he tried, the ants carried the picture underground and vanished in every direction. And the little boy thought, “Hm. Seeing a picture of me is not the same as loving me.” And he did not know what to do.

Meanwhile, the second little boy said, “I know! I will find honey, and I will rub it on my hands and feet and arms and legs. Then the ants will come to the honey, and so they will love me.” But when he tried, the ants came and ate the honey and then wandered off in every direction. And the little boy thought, “Hm. Eating the honey I give is not the same as loving me.” And he did not know what to do.

Said the third little boy, “I know! I will speak to the ants. Loud and slow and clear. Then they will hear my voice and love me.” But when he tried, the ants thought it was angry thunder and flew terrified in every direction. And the little boy thought, “Hm. Hearing my voice is not the same as loving me.” And he did not know what to do.

Meanwhile, the fourth little boy said, “I know! I will get a box, and I will put the ants in the box. I will feed them and water them, and they will be safe in the box, and so they will love me.” But when he tried, the ants refused to stay in the box but escaped in every direction. And the little boy thought, “Hm. Wanting safety is not the same thing as loving me.” And he did not know what to do.

Now for all I know, those four little boys and their befuddled little ants are still sitting on the back lawn, not knowing what to do (although I am quite sure the girl has left by now). But you are waiting for the moral of the story, and it is this: What four boys could not accomplish, one God did. Not by sending pictures, bribery, sensationalism, or security. So, how did He do it? Simply this: He sent Himself.

A Chinese Driving Test

2009-11-02T08:35:00.000-08:00

REAL honest-to-goodness questions on a driving test in China, late 2009. Go ahead and try the test yourself . . . You might be surprised at how well you do! (I have provided some American explanations in parenthesis.)

TRUE/FALSE

A) When a vehicle goes uphill on a mountain road, it should change to low gear in advance, speed up and dash uphill.
B) When a vehicle overturns slowly and jumping out of the vehicle is possible, the driver should jump in the opposite direction of the overturn.
C) When driving on a muddy road, the driver should remove the muddy and cover with sands, rocks, grasses or wood if the wheels of his vehicle spin. (We know you’re stuck in the mud, but get rid of the mud anyhow, find some grass, pick it quick, and cram it under your tires.)
D) When the driver senses he will inevitably be thrown out of the vehicle, he should violently straighten both his legs to increase the force of being thrown out and jump out of the vehicle.
E) When putting out a fire, the driver should refrain from breathing through mouth or crying loudly. Otherwise, the fire and smoke will scorch the upper respiratory tract. (Since fires start in cars so often, this is a very important answer to know.)
F) When a vehicle falls into water, the driver should in no way panic. In particular, those who cannot swim should first manage to escape through the windows. As long as they reach the water surface, they will have more chances to survive. (If, however, you are so unfortunate as to not be able to reach the water surface, your chance of survival is slightly decreased.)
G) After a vehicle falls into water, the driver should immediately close the windows to prevent water from flowing into the compartment and to keep the air from flowing out. At the same time, they make telephone calls to tell the rescue personnel the place of the accident and wait for their arrival. (Lock yourself in the car 20 feet underwater, and call for help!)
H) When a wounded person is under the wheel or cargo, the correct method is to pull the limbs off the wounded. (Translation: If you run someone over, pull their arms off!)
I) The main feature of pedestrians participating in road traffic is, they walk around at will and can easily change directions. (They don’t really know where they’re going, and they’re more zombie than human, since they obviously have no idea how to watch out for traffic.)
J) In hot weather, the driver may drive barebacked, barefooted or wearing slippers. (No shirt, no shoes . . .)
K) When encountering a flock of sheep on the road the driver must honk loudly and continuously to drive them off. (Is the answer the same when you meet a family of gorillas? What about an elephant herd?)

Answers:
A) True
B) True
C) True
D) True
E) True
F) True
G) False
H) False
I) True
J) False
K) False

Many thanks to the brave missionary family in China who both passed and sent us this test. I’m sure we’re all very much wishing we could drive our cars where you drive yours!

Contrasing Darkness: Africa vs. America

2009-10-28T09:31:00.001-07:00

We all know that children are dying for lack of bread in Africa. Just as we know that children are dying for lack of truth in America. And it is very sad, to be sure. The world is shocked to witness the political reign of chaos and rebellion on the Dark Continent, just as they are shocked to witness the moral reign of chaos and rebellion on the Free Continent. What Africans say with bullets, Americans say with court rulings. It is not the message that differs; only the language.

Their schools are empty because of violence; our schools are empty because of indifference. Their armies of child soldiers kill with machine guns the way our armies of educated students kill with words, texted, typed, or spoken. Their burnt villages are our empty churches. Their rampant diseases are our rampant greed. Their rebel gangs are our undisciplined youth.

What the world sees as blood painting their streets is no more evil than the blood painting our eyes.

They sell and slaughter bodies; we sell and slaughter souls. They watch the enemy abduct their children and make them into callous murderers; we watch the enemy abduct our children and make them into callous businessmen. Their evil men sling automatics over their shoulders and dangle human teeth around their necks. Our evil men hold doctorates in their hands and knot designer ties around their throats. They are unable to provide their people with jobs; we are unable to provide our people with meaning.

Africa kills its old people through poverty and the harshness of living. America kills its old people through neglect and the retardation of dying. In Africa, churches meet under tin and bamboo, meeting in danger of their lives. In America, churches meet under marble and stained glass, meeting in danger of their souls. Their diseases bury them under the ground. Our diseases bury us under paperwork. Their violence is splattered in blood and bodies on the streets; our violence is splattered in words and pictures on the Internet.

The only difference in our suffering is this: A doctor, if one could be found, could heal their wounds. A God, if one could be found, could heal ours. Why is Africa not begging for doctors? Why is America not begging for God? They say they believe in God but do not live under peace. We say we believe in peace but do not live under God.

Africa found simplicity, and it failed them. America found prosperity, and it failed us. They tell us we are sick with money; we tell them they are sick with AIDS. They belong in prison; we belong in counseling. We’ve both served our time and come out on the other side unchanged. We are both dying by the millions.

Why? Why are Africa’s physical evils such a mirror image of America’s spiritual evils? Why is their physical death our moral depravity? Why are the stomach-empty children in their cities echoes of the mind-empty children in our schools? Why do their soldiers wield machetes to the same affect that our educators wield lies? Why does senseless violence rule their streets as broken promises rule our homes?

WHY?

Because we have both forgotten God. Because God’s people, child by child, spanning every town, city, and village, have not thrown ourselves on our knees before God Almighty, repenting of our sins, and screaming out for God to hear and act.

We are busy; we are upset; we are dying. But we are not sorry.

The Glove Compartment

2009-08-27T19:50:00.000-07:00

It wasn’t what I was expecting to see when I opened the glove compartment. Nestled in with my car registration, a faithful Oldsmobile manual, and sundry other bits and pieces. I don’t actually remember why I yanked open the drawer in the first place, but I had most certainly not anticipated company. Nonetheless, there it was, blinking up at me, small, fat, and twitching.

It was a mouse. Quite a large one (I think it was pregnant). That, in and of itself, was in my unbiased opinion right and proper provocation for a very loud, very high-pitched scream. Shriek might be a better word.

Now I’ve recently read The Borrowers, and I’m all for the little people in this world. (Little in this case meaning approximately three inches tall.) Just not in my car. Although if they’re looking for another sequel for the Clock family (that’s the heros in The Borrowers for those of you uneducated in children’s book lore), I could make a suggestion. Just imagine what would happen if the Clocks tried to live in a car for awhile. Better yet, make it an RV. You’d get all sorts of adventures.

Too bad I wasn’t facing a three-inch human. I might have had a fantastic story to tell. Not that anyone would believe me. But instead I was face-to-face with a three-inch mouse, and I didn’t really fancy the notion of keeping him. Pets in your house are one thing - but in your car? After wrapping up my very necessary and impressive shriek (I took voice lessons, you know), I slammed the glove compartment door shut again. Sort of like a magic trick, I guess. Now you see him . . . and now you don’t! Then I gave the door a few solid smacks with the palm of my hand. Hm. What next?

Rid of the rodent temporarily - or, at least, he was out of sight - I peeped into the glove compartment for a closer look at the damage. Do mice nest? Cause I’m pretty sure that’s what this little guy was trying to do. A fairly good-sized ball of yarn/foam/insulation stuff had appeared from who knows where, and this was sprinkled with a lovely assortment of chewed-up paper. The pink flakes of which happened to be my car registration paper. I have a three-year old niece who has a habit of eating these little forms, so I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised. In fact, I should probably be grateful. My little visitor only nibbled on the edges; my niece chomped down the whole thing.

Then I shut the lid, pounded on it a few more times, and started the car.

Yep, that’s right. I purposefully tried to scare the little mouse into running away (hopefully into the intricacies of the car engine) and then turned the key. I think I expected my car to blow up. Or to hear a “Yee-ow!” and see a little ball of fuzz go flying through the air. Well, it didn’t. At least the car didn’t. The mouse might have; I’m not sure. I haven’t seen him since. I’m rather hoping I don’t ever.

My newly-designed car registration paper now resides safely in my back seat for the wind to blow where it pleases. I hope I don’t get pulled over any time soon. On the plus side, I have to say that my glove compartment has never been cleaner . . . So, here’s a friendly word of warning from one who’s been there: Always beware when opening the lid to your glove compartment. You never know what might be in there.

Saving Batman

2009-08-12T08:38:00.000-07:00

All in all, it had been a fairly decent day. Made a pretty little windchime out of seashells. Rode my horse while the setting sun flamed brilliantly. Named a deaf puppy Beethoven. Managed to cook without getting anything burnt, flooded, smelly, or started on fire.

But that was before me and my sister decided to watch Batman. Horseback riding had taken a little longer than anticipated, and it was quite late in the evening when we started the movie. Late and dark. Heedless, we sat in the shadowy living room of the large, empty house (my parents are gone just now to Washington), staring at the TV screen. Impressive scenes of karate and jujitsu, grave danger and heroic rescues, gaudy mansions and squalid alleys filled the screen. And bats. Most of the scary scenes had bats.

Especially that one part where the little boy (Batman in his younger years) falls into the well and sees the dank, dark hole out of which shoot hundreds of the small shrieking creatures. We were somewhere past that bit - somewhere after he’s gotten out of jail but before he saves the world - when IT happened.

IT was a hurtling boomerang of frantic energy, zooming dizzying circles up near the ceiling, now buzzing over our heads like a war plane threatening attack, now ducking into another room only to come shooting back. In our living room. Batman had come to life.

I scrambled to hit the “pause” button just as soon as I stopped screaming and managed to extricate my hands and head from under the blanket I suddenly found myself buried under. Don’t get me wrong - I like Batman. I like bats. But they are both much more charming - and a lot safer - on the other side of the glass.

On the other hand, we couldn’t just leave him in here. Not for his sake - neglect, cruelty to animals, save the whales, and all that - but for ours. So, we began the rather delicate process of extrication. I blocked one doorway, leaping up and down, furiously waving my blanket, and yelping every so often in a tone that I hoped would convince the little guy not to dive-bomb into my head. My sister took the more casual approach, actually aiming her blanket in concise movements that ultimately showed mini-Batman the merits of life out-of-doors.

The way I see it, we saved his life. Even with all the spiders and ladybugs we keep inside our house, I doubt a bat could survive here indefinitely. So, we rescued Batman. Practically. And saving a super hero from cruel and certain death is not something you get to do every day. I’m just glad we weren’t watching Jaws.

All I Wanted Was a Bouncy Ball

2009-06-05T19:32:00.000-07:00

This evening I went to Walmart. Right after attending a dinner to wrap up the end of Royal Family Kids Camp. That’s the camp I led singing for in the mornings and then went to school to direct the last week of Robin Hood play practice in the evening. It was what you might call a busy week.

So, I’d just played my last note on the keyboard, smiled my last tired smile, and gotten into the car for the long drive home. But I needed a bouncy ball first. Preferably one with blue and green swirls. Turns out they make great crystal balls for rogue heros dressed up as gypsies (That would be Robin Hood and Little John, in case you were wondering.).

So, I went to Walmart. But first I had to look in the make-up section. For a gilded mirror that Prince John could smack over Sir Hiss’s head. Under two dollars please. We don’t want to break anything expensive. But Walmart doesn’t carry cheap gilded mirrors. Only I must mention the detour because it was there that I saw my first strange sight. It was a little midget. Three feet tall or so. Blonde hair. I think it was a girl. In fact, I do hope it was, cause she had on a knee-length dress, fashionable black pantyhose, and no shoes.

And I had always been under the delusion that Walmart was a respectable “no shirt, no shoes, no service” store like the local Pump and Pantry.

Well, I shrugged this one off (I’d just been through camp after all. Shoeless dwarves aren’t THAT odd.) and began making my way towards the toy section. Which is when I spotted the six-foot dude with the tennis shoes and stubble on his face. Not enough to be called a beard. And THAT wouldn’t have been so strange either except that he was wearing a dress. Quite a long, sunny one with puffed sleeves and a creamy yellow hue to it. Did I forget to mention the blonde wig?

I began to think I might need to set up an eye appointment in the very near future. The people around me walked on as though nothing was out of the usual. I swallowed and tried to do the same. To the toy section! Oh, except first I pulled off a nonchalant loop in the women’s clothes department (I felt just like Sherlock Holmes) to get a better look at the guy in the dress. Coming out of the loop, I saw the sixty-year old. The one with the frazzled beard - looked like he might have belonged to a motorcycle gang. Only he was obviously missing his bike and his buddies cause he was all hunched over his cart with his feet up on the bars and booking it down the aisle just as fast as he could go. I think I even heard a “vroom, vroom,” from him as he raced by.

That’s when I began to wonder if I had ever really left camp at all.

Well, I finally did make it back to the toy section. Found my one dollar blue-and-green swirled bouncy ball (Walmart might have disappointed me on the gilded mirror, but they sure came through on the fortune telling paraphernalia). But you can’t just buy any old crystal ball, you know. You have to make sure it’s bouncy enough. That’s very important. So, I was bouncing it down the aisle, moving along with all my years of latent basketball talent finally finding release in a display of brilliant dribbling. Except for that one second when the ball rather got away from me, and I went dashing after it, and the floor was a little slipperier than I expected it to be (not at all like the courts they play on in the pros), and, instead of coming to a smart, squealing halt, I slid and stuttered and very nearly fell flat on my nose. All right in front of a wide-eyed eight-year old who happened to be walking towards me at the time. She leveled me with a very strange look, I said something about being careful on the slippery floor, and she walked on without a word.

That’s when I began to worry that I might be going insane. I decided to get out of there before anyone else noticed. Payed $1.07 for the crystal ball (they add tax, you know). Got out to my car just as a van was pulling up, and I watched in horror as its two occupants unloaded for all the world as if they hadn’t just parked opposite a car full of 27 rubber duckies. And, really, how do you ignore a thing like THAT?

I got in my car and drove homewards. Thinking I had seen enough of the crazy side of life, and it was high time for a change of pace. Normality might be good after all. Little did I know about the cop who was going to pull me over on the way home. But that’s a different story . . .