Repairer of Broken Walls

A few weeks ago I went to see Snow White and the Huntsman.  (Think what you like about Kristen Stewart - I happen to really like her, especially in this Snow White role.)  As I thought about the movie and the different themes that played out, it dawned on me why I like female characters like this so much - they are healers. Strong women whose presence alone changes the course of situations.  Think of Lucy Pevensie in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.  Or Arwen in The Lord of the Rings.  It's probably why I consistently come back to these movies time and again, because of characters like those.

In one of the scenes in Snow White, the dwarfs rattle off their ailments - aching hips, throbbing legs, pounding headaches.  Then they realize those problems have been alleviated since Snow White entered the picture.  One of the dwarfs says, "She is life itself."  Her mere existence heals parts of who they are and how they view life.  And I find that so stunning for some reason.  Maybe because I want to be like that.

Isn't that who we are called to be as Christ-followers, healers and menders of that which is broken?  Broken systems, broken relationships, broken societies, broken hearts, broken pasts, broken dreams, broken hopes. 

As I had been reflecting on that idea, God, in his usual way, allowed this concept to play out in my own life.  The general idea is that I was faced with a broken relationship in my life and it wasn't getting any better.  I was, in fact, contributing to making it worse it seemed.  And the more and more I thought about it, the more and more I realized that I can't let this go on.  I can't let this disrepair continue.  If I'm to say that I am a follower of Christ, then it means I can't just pay lip service to a set of ideas about restoration and reconciliation.  It means I actually have to do the work of making this relationship right.  As Beth Moore says, "We gotta do the thing, girls!"  So I did the thing and went to work, mending and repairing as best I could, as best I knew how. Stone by stone, you rebuild the wall, repave the streets and bring people to a place of healing.  In our own little corners of the world, we gotta do the work.  I have to do it in my workplace, in my family, in my church, in Kenya, wherever life takes me.  Just like Jesus, his presence alone changes the course of situations.  It should be the same in our lives.  Not in some magical, mystical kind of way.  But in a rubber-meets-the-road kind of way, in a way that makes people take notice, in a way that brings about life.

I love how Isaiah 58:9-12 says it:

“If you do away with the yoke of oppression,
with the pointing finger and malicious talk,
and if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry
and satisfy the needs of the oppressed,
then your light will rise in the darkness,
and your night will become like the noonday.
The Lord will guide you always;
he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land
and will strengthen your frame.
You will be like a well-watered garden,
like a spring whose waters never fail.
Your people will rebuild the ancient ruins
and will raise up the age-old foundations;
you will be called Repairer of Broken Walls,
Restorer of Streets with Dwellings."

I want to be a repairer of broken walls and a restorer of streets with dwellings.



   

The Wind and the Waves

I have recently ventured into the land of children's ministry at my church.  I originally volunteered to work with the third and fourth graders.  I figured I would probably do better with slightly older kids because maybe they will actually listen and pay attention.  This is, in fact, a myth, as I soon discovered after several Sundays of trying to stop gaggles of ten-year olds boys in the back rows from sticking their hands in their t-shirts and trying to hit each other.

So, this past Sunday, due to schedules and conflicts, I had the privilege of working with the five- and six-year olds.  I thought to myself, "Alright...we can handle little ones.  They tend to be a little needier and have the attention span of a gnat, but hey, we can make this work."  Our lesson focused on the story of Jesus and the storm that nearly tossed the disciples overboard.  We typically gather all of the children together for a large-group time and then break up into respective age groups for small-group time.  We dance and sing our way through the large-group time and then my little band of about 12 kids makes their way over to our designated area. 

Some of the kids decided our first game was rather dull for their liking and opted to work on their Father's Day paper ties with one of the other teachers.  Okay, cool.  Have at it.  So while they're coloring, I've got my remaining little ones milling around in a circle, waiting for me to give instructions. 

The game was to proceed as follows:

The children were to show me their scary face, the look they get when they are most afraid.  And then they were to run around, making noises, pretending like they were a storm, all loud and crazy.  Once I raised my arms in the air, they were to stop and get quiet.  These results were to be achieved over a series of practice rounds, with the eventual goal of having complete silence and zero motion immediately upon my hands being raised in the air.

So, we give it a whirl.  They run around, making noises and I throw my hands in the air.  They sort of got quiet.

We aim for a second round.  Same thing, they run around, I throw my hands in the air.  Maybe two of the eight stopped.  It was like a game of "Red Light, Green Light."  By the time they are sprinting and you say red light, they've already taken about ten extra steps because they've got too much momentum going. At this point, their range has extended beyond the invisible boundaries I have designated in my head and fewer and fewer were paying attention.

We aim for a third time.  It's at this point that it becomes very evident to me I am not Jesus because the wind and the waves are not obeying. They are, in fact, forgetting that I exist.   Awesome.  So, since I am not Jesus, I decided we just need to drain the sea all together and bring this game to an end.  The wind and the waves just needed to find a seat now.  But even that proves to be an act of God sometimes.

God bless little ones, for reminding me in their own comical little ways that I very much need Someone other than myself to calm the wind and the waves.  And even Someone else to sometimes tell them to take a seat all together. 

Where I'm Safe

Every morning and every evening I gaze at these fields, always wondering how much longer I will get to see them like this.  How many more harvests will I get to be witness to?  And the weird thing is, I don't wonder if it's me who will be the one to change, but rather if it will be the fields that will change.   Are they going to get eaten up in a development some day, a distant memory?  Is there going to come a day when there's no trace of them left?  Maybe it's the nostalgic side of me that comes out when I'm standing there in the mornings, but there's some sense of safety, some sense of "rightness."  I look out over the fields and a small part of my heart whispers, "This is right, this is good, and this is where you belong." Because this is home and it's what I know.  But maybe safety is an illusion...     

(And yes, this is a picture taken with Instagram, because ladies and gentleman, I have finally entered the 21st century and bought a smartphone.  Don't get me started.)

There is No Plan B

As time draws closer to leave for Kenya, the questions and the fears get a little more overwhelming.

"Are you sure you want to go?"

"How long will you be there?"

"Is it safe?"

Yes, I don't know, and probably not.

The doubts from others start to crowd in and their voices get a little louder with each passing day.  You can bet there are days that I have my own doubts, days when I second-guess and wonder.  I'm like Toodles in Hook, wandering around the house, incessantly muttering, "Lost, lost, lost..." "Lost what?"  "I've lost my marbles."

But I always come back to the same conclusion:

There is no Plan B.

This, what I'm living, is Plan A.  And there is no Plan B. 

There is no Plan B when it comes to Kenya.  It never crosses my mind to not go, to not go because of fear.  It never crosses my mind that in the midst of Somali pirates, planes crashing into crowded neighborhoods, and bombs going off in churches, that I wouldn't ever go back to Africa.  Because it's the only thing I know how to do.  I don't know what else to do or who else to be.

In the movie We Bought a Zoo, Matt Damon's character said, "You know, sometimes all you need is twenty seconds of insane courage. Just literally twenty seconds of just embarrassing bravery. And I promise you, something great will come of it."

Maybe life needs to be lived twenty seconds at a time.

Because there is no Plan B.