I just can't seem to escape it. No matter where I go. Missouri. Ohio. Russia. Kenya. The tradition always follows me. It's like the world is conspiring against me.
The blasted meet-and-greet time at church.
What is with this tradition and why do I have such an aversion to it? And why do churches everywhere seem so intent on making me experience it, no matter where I go? My friends Jill and Alex make fun of me at Lifepoint because there is usually an audible groan that comes from the depths whenever they announce "turn and shake somebody's hand this morning." That groan usually comes from my direction and I never seem to filter it very well.
I sat through church this morning in Nairobi, so jet-lagged and so exhausted that I was literally holding my eyelids open at one point for fear I was going to fall right out of my seat if I closed them. As the pastor is praying, I'm praying for more prayer time, (sound like something Jon Acuff would write on "Stuff Christians Like," right?) just so I could give the impression that I was actually praying instead of desperately wishing I could fall asleep right there on the church floor. And then those magical words come out of the pastor's mouth and I muster up all the energy I can to turn and shake the guy's hand next to me. Oh, and, of course, they find it necessary to not only have you shake someone's hand, this church feels the need to make all visitors stand. Awesome. They then invited all guests to join other members of the church for coffee and tea after the service. Yes, please, let's have more awkward moments together. Can.not.wait.
I go to the little get-together afterwards and the lady serving the coffee asked me what I wanted, and I said just half a cup of coffee (since I don't really care for coffee and knew I wouldn't drink the whole thing). She hands me a full cup. "This is considered half a cup in Kenya." Although, it is at this point I was slightly rejoicing because I knew I needed some type of jolt of energy if I was going to make it through the next couple of hours in something other than a comatose state. It kinda worked. Being drugged up on Dramamine probably didn't help the situation, however.
Much of Kenya and what I remember here is the same - but much is different. The world is moving at a frenetic pace it seems. In the two years since I've been gone, entirely new highway systems have been built. New buildings. New malls. New apartment complexes. But still those same dark eyes, still those same dusty feet, still those same feelings of uncertainty.
I have yet to see the children, but hopefully that time will come soon. I'm anxious to hold their hands again, to see their faces. I've always been so fearful that they will have forgotten me, that they will view me as a complete stranger. I know they see countless faces every year, as short-term staff come and go. I know I am one among many, so I can't take it too personally if they don't remember. But I so desperately want them to. I want to know that I mattered enough to stand out in their minds, to stand out enough to not get lost in the shuffle of all the other faces they see. But I know my identity doesn't rest in their remembrance of me - it rests only in the one those same little ones call Jesus Christ.
As I find their faces again, I'll do my best to avoid the monkey that is apparently loose in the village and the snake that decided to make an appearance not too long ago in the backyard and the gecko who will likely show up soon in my shower. Welcome back to Kenya, my friends. :)
7.08.2012
7.05.2012
The Edge of All I Know
“When you have come to the edge of all light that you know and are about to drop off into the darkness of the unknown, faith is knowing one of two things will happen: There will be something solid to stand on or you will be taught to fly.” - Patrick Overton
Mmm. Such a good reminder. I think I'm just about on that edge. So many nerves. So many fears. So many what-ifs and uncertainties and not enough space for all of my snacks. I keep thinking of Susan Sarandon in the movie Elizabethtown (one of my all-time favorite movies - see it as soon as you can): "All forward motion counts."
All forward motion counts at this point. Pack. Get to the airport. Get on the plane. Find your seat. Make your connections. Get to Nairobi. Get to the village. Find those smiling faces. Hold on tight. And find life on the other side of the world. Forward motion counts.
My bags are nearly by the door. Few last items to pack. Weigh them to make sure they are under 50 pounds. Get some sleep. Wake up and find out if there's something solid to stand on or if I'm going to find out what it means to fly.
Mmm. Such a good reminder. I think I'm just about on that edge. So many nerves. So many fears. So many what-ifs and uncertainties and not enough space for all of my snacks. I keep thinking of Susan Sarandon in the movie Elizabethtown (one of my all-time favorite movies - see it as soon as you can): "All forward motion counts."
All forward motion counts at this point. Pack. Get to the airport. Get on the plane. Find your seat. Make your connections. Get to Nairobi. Get to the village. Find those smiling faces. Hold on tight. And find life on the other side of the world. Forward motion counts.
My bags are nearly by the door. Few last items to pack. Weigh them to make sure they are under 50 pounds. Get some sleep. Wake up and find out if there's something solid to stand on or if I'm going to find out what it means to fly.
7.02.2012
The Company You Keep
I am swimming in a sea of suitcases, ziploc baggies, piles of clothes, paperwork, unchecked emails, flight confirmations and fears. It's been a long week. After being in Indianapolis for 5 days for Convention and working about 60 hours and then coming home to no power (at home or the office), it's been a disjointed few days, to say the least. But I'm trying to roll with it as best I can. Right now, all I can see past is making sure my Cheez-its fit somewhere in my suitcase without getting smashed to crumbs. Priorities, people, priorities.
I've debated for awhile on what literature to take with me to Kenya. Thirty hours on a flight or in an airport equals a lot of time to read. The last trip included the final installment of Lord of the Rings. I'm thinking Tolkien will be coming along again on this trip. Maybe a new tradition? Maybe some Tozer, maybe some Vanauken, too. I'm not particularly looking forward to this flight, either coming or going. I generally love traveling by myself, but this time around, I actually rather dread it. It's a lot of time alone and some things are just better shared with others. But you know, I did it once, I guess I'll do it again, right?
They say you are known by the company you keep. I'd say Tozer, Tolkien and Vanauken count as pretty good company. Any other company I should consider packing?
6.20.2012
Repairer of Broken Walls
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.
6.18.2012
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.
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.
6.13.2012
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.)
6.09.2012
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.
"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.
5.25.2012
I Don't Pretend to Understand
Sometimes I marvel at the grace of God.
I don't pretend to understand it. It shows up at moments when I least expect it, in ways I never thought possible.
When I was out visiting Missouri last weekend, I don't think I made it through a single serious conversation with a friend without mentioning Jonathan, without talking about his legacy, without missing him tremendously, without crying. And God shows up in this moments, reminding me that it's okay to grieve, okay to cry, okay to miss him.
This grieving thing has been a process, to say the least. Such bittersweet moments have comprised a vast majority of that process. One such instance being on Mother's Day. I had lunch with Jonathan's mom, just the two of us. I'm so grateful for her presence in my life, and not just because she's Jonathan's mom. She's my friend and trusted advisor. We sat talking about life and all that had been happening - jobs, relationships, future dreams, upcoming trips overseas. As we talked about my upcoming trip to Kenya, she mentioned that a friend of their family had just returned from Kenya and Ethiopia.
Before I get to all that, though, I have to back up and give some explanation. At Jonathan's service, his family handed out packets of sunflower seeds. These were to be reminders not only of Jon's life, but how we should all be following the Son, just as sunflowers follow the sun across the sky. It was such beautiful imagery, so fitting for Jon's life.
So, back to the family friend. He goes on this trip to Ethiopia and Kenya and while he's there, he did something I will be forever grateful for:
He scattered those sunflowers seeds across the dust and the dirt of Kenya.
In the moments when the fears most overwhelm me about this trip, when I want to scrap the plans and forget about going, when I want to ask myself if I'm crazy for doing this, when I ask myself why I care so much, when I consider the thought of traveling alone, I remember those sunflower seeds taking root in the plains of Kenya. And somehow the fears give way. Because my friend has gone on before me.
Please don't misunderstand me. I don't mean that in a mystical kind of way. I just mean it in a symbolic kind of way. I know whatever fears I might have, I have to ultimately hand them over to Jesus. But there's something to be said for this peace I find in knowing that in some way, Jon has gone on before me, to make a way. There's something to be said for the fact that not only did Jon commission me to some degree, but there's something to be said for getting to be the hands and feet of somebody I miss terribly, someone who never got to run and play with these precious orphans in Kenya himself. I consider it an awesome privilege to be an ambassador for Jonathan Eades. You can bet there will be little kids in Kenya who will not only hear me speak of the grace of God, which shows up at just the right moment, but they will hear me speak of a man named Jonathan Eades, who spent his life following the Son.
I don't pretend to understand it. It shows up at moments when I least expect it, in ways I never thought possible.
When I was out visiting Missouri last weekend, I don't think I made it through a single serious conversation with a friend without mentioning Jonathan, without talking about his legacy, without missing him tremendously, without crying. And God shows up in this moments, reminding me that it's okay to grieve, okay to cry, okay to miss him.
This grieving thing has been a process, to say the least. Such bittersweet moments have comprised a vast majority of that process. One such instance being on Mother's Day. I had lunch with Jonathan's mom, just the two of us. I'm so grateful for her presence in my life, and not just because she's Jonathan's mom. She's my friend and trusted advisor. We sat talking about life and all that had been happening - jobs, relationships, future dreams, upcoming trips overseas. As we talked about my upcoming trip to Kenya, she mentioned that a friend of their family had just returned from Kenya and Ethiopia.
Before I get to all that, though, I have to back up and give some explanation. At Jonathan's service, his family handed out packets of sunflower seeds. These were to be reminders not only of Jon's life, but how we should all be following the Son, just as sunflowers follow the sun across the sky. It was such beautiful imagery, so fitting for Jon's life.
So, back to the family friend. He goes on this trip to Ethiopia and Kenya and while he's there, he did something I will be forever grateful for:
He scattered those sunflowers seeds across the dust and the dirt of Kenya.
In the moments when the fears most overwhelm me about this trip, when I want to scrap the plans and forget about going, when I want to ask myself if I'm crazy for doing this, when I ask myself why I care so much, when I consider the thought of traveling alone, I remember those sunflower seeds taking root in the plains of Kenya. And somehow the fears give way. Because my friend has gone on before me.
Please don't misunderstand me. I don't mean that in a mystical kind of way. I just mean it in a symbolic kind of way. I know whatever fears I might have, I have to ultimately hand them over to Jesus. But there's something to be said for this peace I find in knowing that in some way, Jon has gone on before me, to make a way. There's something to be said for the fact that not only did Jon commission me to some degree, but there's something to be said for getting to be the hands and feet of somebody I miss terribly, someone who never got to run and play with these precious orphans in Kenya himself. I consider it an awesome privilege to be an ambassador for Jonathan Eades. You can bet there will be little kids in Kenya who will not only hear me speak of the grace of God, which shows up at just the right moment, but they will hear me speak of a man named Jonathan Eades, who spent his life following the Son.
5.21.2012
Precious Moments I Live For
Sometimes my niece gets to giggling so hard I'm afraid she can't breathe. She discovered the joys of hanging upside down and couldn't seem to get enough of it.
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