Jesus on Every Page

I remember sitting on the porch of Kenyatta house in a tiny village in Nairobi, Kenya. I remember the early morning sun streaming across the porch, across the faces of those gathered, both black and white. I remember sitting across from Yeen-Lan, the village director, and listening as she told the story of Esther. And I remember it being the first moment I realized that Jesus was on every single page of the Bible, not just the New Testament.

Yeen-Lan was sharing from Esther 5.  At this point, Esther had already been named queen and she had uncovered the plot Haman had to kill the Jews. It was for such a time as this that she had came, to save her people.  She knew she could not remain silent.  But she also knew that if she approached the king uninvited, to plead on behalf of her people, the law declared she must be put to death.

But still she went to the inner court.  And the king stretched out his golden scepter, indicating his acceptance of her presence.

Yeen-Lan went on to say, "There is Jesus, right on the page, right in the middle of Esther, extending the golden scepter, letting us know we are welcome in his presence."

Ever since then, ever since hearing Yeen-Lan say, "It is Jesus on every page," I have been haunted by this idea.  Could he really be on every page? And not just in the New Testament, but in every book of the Bible, on every page of Scripture?  And if he is, how did I miss this?  How did I miss him?

I joked with a friend of mine as I explained to her this fascination I now had with finding Jesus on every page of the Bible.  She told me it would make a great thesis. Due to my aversion for academic writing, I told her I would probably spend the rest of my life writing it.

It turns out David Murray beat me to the punch and saved me the hassle.

And the name of his book?

Naturally.  

I forgive him for squelching my dissertation that I never planned on writing.   

Let me tell you what, though.  This book is rocking my world and completely altering how I view the Bible unlike few other books have.  I got a free advance copy through BookSneeze, and I have to say, it's probably been my favorite BookSneeze book yet, next to Love Does by Bob Goff.  Murray walks through ten key principles of how Christ is scattered throughout the Old Testament - through prophets, through creation, through characters, through history, through types, through covenants, through proverbs, and on.  You name it - and you will find Christ in the midst of it.  I can't get enough of this book - which makes me want the Bible all the more.  To read it, to soak it up, and to find Him - to find Christ on every page.  

I love the quote from Gleason Archer that Murray includes: "How can Christian pastors hope to feed their flock on a well-balanced spiritual diet if they completely neglect the 39 books of Holy Scripture on which Jesus and all the New Testament authors received their own spiritual nourishment?" 

And to that I say, it's not even Christian pastors, but Christians period!  How can we hope to feed ourselves on all that is Christ when we so often gloss over the entire first half of his Holy Word?!

He is there on every page. And he is worth finding.

Get the book Jesus on Every Page.  It is worth every penny.  

"And beginning with Moses and all the Prophets, [Jesus] explained to them what was said in all the Scriptures concerning himself."   Luke 24:27  

Classic Childhood Moments

It had been awhile since I had seen my nieces and nephews.  After being gone in Guatemala and just generally having a goofy schedule, I was finally able to spend some time with them last week.  The photos below capture well the silliness that ensued.  And yes, that is a Hello Kitty tattoo on my niece's neck.  She's three and that's just where she felt like putting her tattoo.  I'm not going to argue with the girl.  

Love his "Chicks Heart Heroes" shirt.

And the winner for best moment of the night...

Classic.

It is Good

It's good to see Jonathan's sunflowers spring up again this year.  New seeds, new blooms, new life.  

New mercies every morning.

"How Far is 180 km?"

Too stinkin' far, that's how far.

Our time in Guatemala was coming to a close and we were on way back to the capital to meet up with the other team who had stayed in Guatemala City.  It had been a rich week - a lot was crammed into the few short days we had in Chisec.  We had loved on the kids in the schools and we had loved on the kids in the villages.  We had washed the feet of pastors' wives and we had held the hands of those seemingly forgotten by the rest of the world.  We had run from spiders and rats but we had run to Jesus when some were missing their kids and some were missing their comfort zones.  We had laughed when we wanted to cry and we smiled when we wanted to weep.

We set out from the mission station at 8 a.m. on Friday morning.  The goal was to get to Guatemala City in a timely manner, do a little bit of souvenir shopping, get cleaned up at the hotel and then meet the other team in time for dinner at 7 o'clock.

That goal got squelched about 45 minutes into the nearly 7 hour drive.

We were in Chisec, to the north, and
had to get to Guatemala City, to the south.

First off, I barely made it down the road before I got horribly nauseous from motion sickness.  A sinus infection had kicked in too the night before. I had already taken one Dramamine, thinking that would be more than sufficient.  I normally take a QUARTER of those tiny pills, but on this trip, I was popping a full dose every day. (I took two to get me through this particular trip.)  It wasn't that the roads in and of themselves were bad, it was that they were so windy, going up and down and all around through the mountains.  I should have known I would be doomed as soon as I sat a couple rows back in the bus.  It's such a miserable feeling, motion sickness.

So, I move up closer to the front of the bus, in the front seat.  The motion sickness gets less just because now I can actually see the road and see where I'm going. (If you've never had motion sickness, this will not make sense to you.  Consider yourself lucky.)

We kept cruising along and I kept wishing the trip was already over.  Meanwhile, my aisle buddy, Jill, was worse off than I was.  She caught some sort of bug and was getting sick to her stomach every so often. So there we were on the front seat of the bus, sicker than dogs.  We made quite the pair.  I took another Dramamine because the world was still spinning.

We came around a bend and found that traffic had come to a dead stop.  Cars were parked on the road and it was immediately clear nobody was going anywhere.  Manny, of Cindy and Manny, the husband and wife team that started Mission2Guatemala, parked the bus and got out to go see what was happening.  Manny was born and raised in Guatemala so he's well-acquainted with Guatemalan customs, traditions and odd things like stopped traffic mid-morning.

He came back a little while later and said the road is barricaded, we can't get through.  The indigenous people are protesting the government, we don't know when the blockade will be lifted.  There is absolutely no way through.

Awesome.

So Cindy and Manny started making phone calls to local friends and family who might know what was happening. At one point Manny suggested we might have to take the long way around, all the way to the coast and then back down to Guatemala City.

And I thought, "You've got to be joking me.  You can leave me on the side of the road at this point because I can't imagine another 8 hours on this bus."

We decided to turn around at this point and head back to the mission station and wait it out.  We eventually received tentative reports that the barricade would be lifted at 1 o'clock but we didn't want to get on the road again until we knew for sure.

Jill and I were still not doing so hot at this point.  We had come back to the mission station, found some empty beds and crashed, hoping the world will stop spinning and that our stomachs wouldn't betray us.

Word came that the barricades would likely be lifted soon.  If we were going to have any chance of making to Guatemala City before dark, we would need to leave soon.  So, out the door we went again.

The blockade had, in fact, been cleared and we rambled on down to Guatemala City.  At one point, I turned to Jill, who is still feeling miserable and I told her, "Should I end up on the floor for any reason and medical personnel need to know what pills I have taken, here they are..."  I figured somebody ought to know what I'm on in the event that these drugs don't mix well.  I realized in hindsight that she probably was not the ideal person to have told.  She had an equal chance of being on the floor next to me, with the medics asking her the same question of what drugs she had taken.

We were about 180 kilometers from Guatemala City when Jill sees the sign indicating the distance.  She turns to me and asks rather groggily, "How far is 180 kilometers?"

My equally groggy but smart aleck answer was "too stinkin' far."

Over 6 hours later and a few pit stops along the way, we finally made it to Guatemala City.  By then it was pouring down rain and the streets were flooding.  But I thought what's a little rain when you're so doped up you don't care anyway?  We were late for dinner so we went straight to the restaurant to meet the other team.  They, of course, look halfway decent, have clean clothes on and are actually looking and sounding rather chipper and happy.

I found it insanely annoying.

I had on a pair of khakis that hadn't been washed in a week and had been worn nearly every day of the trip.  I had no makeup on. My hair was pulled back in a ponytail with a headband on and I was still feeling miserable.  I really just wanted to be left alone in a dark corner for the next 24 hours and not speak to another living being.  It's the introvert in me.  I was on people overload and just ready to hide.  

And poor Mimi.  She was on the other team and she asked me how I was doing and if I was up to sharing any stories.

My response was simply, "No." And then I turned around.

Clearly I lose my filter when I don't feel well and am tired.  And clearly I am more prone to being rude. Note to self:  work on bad attitude when medicated and overwhelmed.  I apologized to her at the airport the next day, I felt so horrible about how I had responded.

We hopped on a plane the next day without a hitch, smooth flying from Guatemala City all the way back to Columbus.

But I still say 180 kilometers is too far.              

We Speak to Nations

Our team crossing the second stream before
reaching Monte Hermon

I don't think I have ever sweat so much before in my life.  I was sweating in places I didn't know could sweat.  And I know I wasn't the only one.  Our shirts were practically drenched and our bandannas couldn't seem to mop up enough of the sweat rolling down our faces, into our eyes, down our back.  But our hearts were full and our joy was complete because we had come to proclaim Him.

We had driven about twenty minutes and hiked an equal amount to find this remote village in the mountains of Guatemala, a village called Monte Hermon, or Mount Hermon. (You can find references to it in Psalm 42 or Psalm 89.)  We crossed two streams, hiked past a pineapple patch, breezed past the neatly swept dirt porches of wooden houses and gathered in the center of this small community, a community it seemed the rest of the world had forgotten.

The Mission2Guatemala staff had told us this village had never seen North Americans before.  Hard to imagine.  But one of the village leaders - maybe the pastor? I can't remember - had approached Mission2Guatemala and asked if they could send a team to come visit their village.  It was rather spur of the moment that our team was asked to go.  We were asked Tuesday morning if we wanted to go that afternoon.  Yes, of course, we'll go.  Doesn't matter the hike, doesn't matter the heat, doesn't matter the exhaustion.  I mean, isn't that why we came to Guatemala?  To roll up our sleeves and preach Jesus to the nations?

Filing into the church

The people filed into the tiny village church, one by one, all of the children clamoring to get to the front.  And there we were, more than 60 people squeezed together into what amounted to a space not much bigger than a single-car garage.  We danced and laughed and sang our way through the afternoon.  We spoke of Jesus and his free gift of salvation.  We spoke of his great love for us.  We spoke of his sacrifice.  And we spoke of his desire for the nations - that they would know he is God and that he had come to set them free.

Translating took some extra effort, as many of the people did not speak Spanish but Kekchi, an ancient Mayan language.  So most everything we said to the group got translated from English to Spanish, Spanish to Kekchi.  But we shared Jesus with them despite the language, despite the heat that was threatening to leave us all in puddles on the dirt floor.  (Of course, the Guatemalans have yet to break a sweat and are merely dabbing their foreheads while we are practically wringing out our clothes.)

Explaining the parachute game

We eventually made our way outside, beyond the stifling heat of the church.  We separated the children into small groups, doing our best to explain how to make the craft.  It essentially was a game of charades, pointing at beads, demonstrating knots, smiling, nodding, approving as best we knew how.  I think some of the kids probably wondered who these crazy white women were and what they were saying.

And trying to explain a game to a group of kids who had never seen a parachute before?  Yeah, you should have seen that one in action.  We pulled out a parachute we had, inflated some beach balls and set out to gather the kids around.  They really had no idea what we were trying to get them to do so here we are attempting to demonstrate the concept, looking like awkward fools.

And as we stood there, proclaiming Christ and loving people in simple ways, I just kept thinking, "This surely is what heaven will look like."  This is what it looks like for every knee to bow and every tongue to confess that Jesus Christ is Lord.  Someday when I get to heaven it won't matter the language.  I won't need to translate what I speak into Spanish and from Spanish to Kekchi.  It won't matter the skin color.  It won't matter the background.  It won't matter the family.  It won't matter the hurt.  It won't matter the disease.  It won't matter the nation or geography.  It won't matter the age and it won't matter the ability.  Because we will all bow before a mighty and holy God and confess that he is worthy of all glory, honor and praise.

But until that day - we speak to nations.

We speak to nations - be open.

We speak to nations - fall on your knees.

We speak to nations - the kingdom is coming near to you.

We speak to nations - be free.

In Our Expert Opinions

  

I wouldn't say that I am deathly afraid of spiders, small rodents or other creepy-crawlies.

It turns out I am delusional.

Our team of eight women had been in Guatemala for a few days already by the time last Wednesday rolled around.  We had spent Saturday and Sunday traveling, Monday was a prep day, Tuesday was spent in the school and then a remote village.  So by the time we hit Wednesday we thought we had been initiated into all that comes along with being in remote parts of foreign lands, mainly things like finding spiders in your shoes and killing enough no-see-ums (evil bugs) to last a lifetime.

It also turns out we were delusional.

We were wrapping things up for the night.  We had done our debriefing, had devotions and were heading back to our rooms.  You can see in the picture that the place we were staying was basically a thatched roof and all of the doors opened to the exterior.  (The bedrooms were all enclosed and had drop ceilings, so it's not like our rooms opened up straight into the thatched roof.)  I was the first to walk back down the exterior walkway, looking forward to crawling into bed and crashing for the night.  I got past the first door when I noticed a rather dark blotch on the side of the window frame.  The lights were dim so I wasn't entirely sure what I was looking at.

And then I got closer and realized I was looking at one hairy spider, seeming rather tarantula-like. I made an immediate u-turn and headed back to the group to warn them of our visitor.

The picture does not do it justice.  It was a baby tarantula
in our expert opinions.

So, of course, being women, we all gathered around, trying to get close but not too close.  I know, we do weird things.  We're terrified of the blasted thing but we still want to get close enough to get pictures.

And, of course, being women, we had to figure out how to kill the thing pronto.

And, of course, being women, we found the biggest can of bug spray we could find and unloaded about half of it on this spider.

He slowly slid his way down the wall and by the time he got to the floor, he was still going strong.  So we sprayed some more.  He kept inching along, fighting his way through the flood of bug spray.  We sprayed some more.  I didn't think this sucker was ever going to die.  And if he did, it would probably be our luck that he would come back from the dead.  

The black, round little blob is the dead spider.

Jill, being our resident bug zapper, whipped off her flip flop with the intent to just smash the thing and deliver the final blow.  And in my head I'm thinking, "Jill...I really don't think you want that thing all over the bottom of your shoe.  This is not some itty-bitty mosquito we are talking about crushing here."  Because there won't be just a little blood spatter by the time you get done killing this thing.  You'll need a stick to scrape this thing off.  So I told her to grab a rock.  

Which she did.  And then she dropped it on top of him.  Direct hit.  The rock proceeded to shatter all over the place, but thankfully when we removed a few chunks and unearthed the spider, he was curled up on his back, sufficiently dead. You lose.

But wait!  The story doesn't end there.

So we took a moment to regroup after our minor spider mishap.  We were all back standing up at the top of the stairs.  I decided I was going to brave another attempt to get back to my room and crawl into bed.  I was practically holding my breath, hoping nothing else would come out of the shadows.

I made it back to our door - and for whatever strange reason, I hesitated, just standing there before I opened it, staring at the door.  I then heard this slight rustling noise.  My immediate response was, "Dear Lord, please don't let anything come falling out of the rafters on top of me."

It didn't come out of the rafters but it sure came out of the shadows.  This rather smallish rat/extra extra large mouse came scrambling out of the shadows of my door frame.

I don't think I have ever screamed, jumped or scrambled so loud, so high or so fast in my life.

Which then precipitated a wave of correlating screams from the other seven women.  And I'm not even sure they knew what they were screaming about.  They just heard me screaming and saw me running.

At this point, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.  Cara was nearly beside herself in tears.  I think Karen was ready to pack her bags or at least sleep in a sealed container for the night.  And I'm honestly not sure how the rest of the women responded because I was too busy laughing hysterically out of nervous fear and adrenaline.

It's at this point that we see the lights from the mission house come on.  Out comes poor Karren, one of the Mission2Guatemala staff members, to check on us and make sure we were all still alive.  I'm sure with the amount of screaming we did, it was easy to think one of us had died or had at least been abducted.  We rehashed what happened and I think she was looking at us like we had lost our minds, especially when we showed her pictures of the spiders.  I swear it was bigger in real life than what the pictures indicate.  But being the polite, kind woman that she is, she humored us and checked our room for any creepy crawlies, four-legged creatures, or any other member of God's creation.

When I was telling the gathering of pastors' wives the next day about our little escapade, they, too, laughed and thought we were crazy and maybe slightly overreacting.  I liken it to the moment when a parent has a child who is overreacting and they want to pat the kid on the head and say in a slightly patronizing tone, "There, there.  It will all be okay."  I suppose if we had been in the South, they would have all just smiled sweetly at us and said, "Bless your little hearts."  

And since being home, I have killed two spiders.  They are no baby tarantulas, but at this point, I don't care.  They're dead.                  

To Bend Low in Order to Lift High

Some of the women walked two or three hours on well-worn paths, making their way from remote parts of Guatemala.

Some of the women left at 3 or 4 o'clock in the morning, searching their way through thick brush in the pre-dawn hours.

Some of the women carried babies wrapped in slings strapped to their heads or across their shoulders.

It's unfathomable to me the effort these women made to come see us.  They were all wives of pastors who served various districts of the Nazarene Church in Guatemala.  One of the Guatemalan women said she had been dreaming of this day, the day when all of the pastors' wives could have their own gathering and fellowship together, not just their husbands.

And somehow we got the awesome privilege to be a part of that dream, of that long-ago prayer.

About 21 ladies streamed off the mission's bus, after having been picked up in the nearby city of Chisec.  They came loaded with nursing babies and nothing but flip flops on their feet and the traditional Guatemalan skirt and top.  Whispered "holas" and timid hugs were shared between our team of eight women and these new-found friends.  They found their seats and we quickly found space for their babies in our arms.  They worked on some of the crafts we provided for them and we found out how just terrible our Spanish was.  They leaned back in uncertainty and we pressed in with confidence.  Confidence rooted in the fact that God had not forgotten them - and that we had come to remind them.  

They had come to receive and we had to come to give.  To give blessings, to give encouragement, to give rest.

So often, the women in Guatemala are seen simply as baby-makers and nothing more.  They have little value in the culture and their worth is rarely spoken of.  So when our team was tapped to facilitate a women's time, we jumped at the chance.  We gathered together goodies and supplies we were going to hand out to them - potato peelers, dish towels, bath towels, flip flops, hair brushes, bars of soap, Spanish Bibles, and the list goes on.  We prepped a full lunch of chili, baked potatoes, fresh fruit, fresh bread and chocolate cake. But above all, we wanted to convey to them a message of encouragement and hope, to remind them that they were not forgotten.

And in a world of calloused, scarred feet, thready sandals and dirt-covered toes, we did what anyone would do -

We washed their feet.

Just as Jesus had commanded in John 13, we washed the precious feet of these Guatemala women.  We bent low so they could be lifted high - so Jesus could be lifted high.  I think they were a little stunned we were willing to do such a thing.  We spoke of the story in John, reminding them this was what Jesus had commanded us to do.  And we told them we were not American women coming to them as Guatemalan women.  We were simply coming to them as women ministering to women, living out the gospel as best we knew how.

We divided up into teams of two with four stations.  We gathered small groups of women around our buckets of water and snow white towels.  They gently slipped their well-worn feet out of their well-worn sandals.  We tenderly rinsed with fresh water and we dried with white towels that would soon become muddied with the dirt from distant roads and winding paths.  The Spanish version of Kari Jobe's song "I Know That You Are For Me" played quietly in the background. 

I know that God is for these Guatemalan women.  

He is for me.

I nearly wept over the feet of these women as I dried them, remembering Mary as she wept over the feet of Jesus.  These women who had walked so far to see us, who carried babies on their backs and scars on their feet.  And maybe a few scars on their hearts.  The whole thing was just so overwhelming to me as I sat at their feet, feeling so completely humbled and at a loss.  It almost seemed absurd the grace given in that moment.

And because He is for us, we bent low and washed these precious women's feet.  They would later do introductions, telling us where they lived and how far they had come.  And then they would thank us, thank us for the reminder of Jesus washing the disciples' feet, thank us for the many blessings of goodies we had handed out.  And I wanted to stand up in the middle of it all and protest, to shout at them that we had done nothing to deserve their thanks.

When we had come to give, we found out we had received instead.  Shouldn't we be the ones giving thanks, asking them instead how we could repay them?  We had set out to wash their feet - and we had - but we found out our own souls had been washed as well in the process.

Isn't that how it always goes?  You come to be the blessing only to find out you are the one who has been blessed.

And you find out you can never repay God for his overwhelming grace that gets displayed in situations like this.

There will be many more stories to come from Guatemala.  Our team was there for a total of 8 days - 4 of which were spent getting to Chisec, but the remaining 4 were still packed full of Jesus and more of Jesus.  And it will be like any other trip I've taken - it takes time to decompress and to put into words all that we saw, all that we felt.  But this story - the one of washing the feet of these women - it couldn't wait.  The image of their freshly washed feet will be forever seared onto my brain and the reminder that sometimes you have to bend low in order to lift high others will not be quickly forgotten.                

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All Things Books

I was on the hunt for the perfect book.  One that I could cut up and basically destroy.  All in the name of love and weddings and friends.

I had the privilege of hosting my friend Alexanne's wedding shower yesterday and I decided to ixnay the usual ho-hum wedding theme and go for one that was uniquely Alex. Book-themed, of course!  The girl loves all things books.  That's probably why we are such good friends.  I think we could sit and talk about books all day.  I drafted the invitations to look like the old library card catalog cards from way back when we didn't have anything saved on a computer.

  

I asked each guest to bring with them their favorite book to give to Alex as a gift to add to her own personal library.  I included a bookplate in the invitation so that they could easily write her a note and then include it in the cover of the book.  This way she would have a personal note from each person, but also have something from everybody at the shower that was uniquely them.  I like it when practicality meets meaningful gifts.

I kept the decorations fairly minimal, but I was inspired by some posts on Pinterest that included the pages of old books used as decor.  I liked the idea and thought I could easily find a book that I could cut up and use the pages.  This is when my hunt for the perfect book to destroy began. It turns out it was harder than I imagined.  I made a pit stop at the thrift store and as I was thumbing through the 25 cent options, I found myself starting to have a mild dose of anxiety because I suddenly realized I wasn't sure I could bring myself to cut up a perfectly good book.  I originally was aiming for a book that would be highly symbolic and meaningful to Alex.  I found Knowledge of the Holy by Tozer, but when I pulled it off the shelf, the anxiety escalated and then I knew for sure I couldn't cut up a perfectly good book.  

Which means I needed to find a perfectly bad book that I had no emotional connection to and felt no guilt over destroying.  

I settled for Tales from Margaritaville by Jimmy Buffett.  I'm sorry, Jimmy.  Don't take it personally. It was all in the name of love, weddings and friends.       

I took poor Jimmy's book and cut it up into a series of pennants and then used mini clothespins to hang the pages from a string of twine.  I draped it across the fireplace and then along the cupboards in the kitchen.  I went for all things colorful, so the pennant book pages were coupled with solid-colored pennants and then all of my tableware and utensils were bright colors - kelly green plates, aqua napkins, orange and yellow forks, pink cups yellow cupcake wrappers and lots of bright flowers.  The more color the better in my world.    

I also then pulled off a lot of my own personal books from the shelves and used those as centerpieces.  I stacked them up, stuck some brightly colored flowers in mason jars, scattered some of the extra pennant book pages and voila - a centerpiece that makes for a great conversation starter.  I highlighted a few of the books by sticking popsicle sticks in them with a flag on them that said "Alex's favorites."  This way people got a chance to peruse a few books that Alex enjoys, learn a little bit more about her and chat about whether anybody else had read some of the books stacked up.

I am not a big fan of bridal shower games, so I decided to spare everybody and opt for a slight alternative.  Since everybody was bringing a copy of their favorite book, I put them in a big stack and told Alex that in order for her to open any gifts, she had to guess who had brought the book.  And then the person who brought it had to explain why it was their favorite.  Turns out Alex knows her friends and family quite well as she got a vast majority of them right on the first try.  The collection ranged from Bossypants by Tina Fey to The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis to To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee - and a whole lot of other titles in between.  It was fun to see what each person brought and why the book had been significant to them.

And because it's a book-themed bridal shower, of course the favor has to be a book!  I found copies of Gary Thomas' book Sacred Marriage super cheap so I bought a copy for each guest and wrapped those up in tissue paper and tagged each one with a bookmark I had embossed with each guest's name. 

All in all, I was delighted with how things turned out.  Sometimes I surprise even myself.  Here's to you, Alex, and your book newly acquired book collection.  May they keep you company for years to come.  Just not so much company that you forget Jed exists.  ;)    

One Year Later

It's hard to believe a year has already passed.  I've been reflecting on a lot of anniversaries in recent months - the passing of a friend, the ending of a dating relationship, the beginning of my walk with Christ - and now I look back on my return trip to Kenya, one year ago tomorrow.

With the passing of time has come an overwhelming sense of confirmation regarding my decision to return to Kenya - and to quit my job here in the States in order to stay longer in Nairobi.  There have been no doubts and there has been no second-guessing that decision.  I would do the exact same thing over again if I had the chance.  I was right where I needed to be, even though none of it made any sense at the time.  I felt like I was living in a cloud of confusion, entirely unsure of which way was up, entirely unsure of my what next steps needed to be.  But with time has come gracious clarity.  God has been faithful to pull back the curtain just a tiny bit and help me understand all that happened in such rapid succession last summer.  And for that I am oh so grateful.

I am reminded of Kenya at various times.  I mince garlic and I think of Kenya.  I eat rice and think of Kenya.  I pull Hannah's note out of my Bible and think of Kenya.  I read Ann Voskamp's blog and I think of Kenya.  I eat kale and I think of Kenya.  I buy supplies for an upcoming trip to Guatemala and I think of Kenya, oddly enough.  So many reminders of it scattered throughout equally scattered moments of my life. 

I don't know what it looks like to return to Kenya someday - or anywhere in Africa for that matter.  I know my heart doesn't ache quite like it used to, burning with a desire to set foot on the red clay of Africa again.  And I don't always know what that means, why that feeling has faded.  I know I'll probably go back some day, in some fashion.  I just don't know when and I don't know the reasons why just yet.

But in the meantime, I look back over this past year and marvel.  Marvel at the goodness of God and a time in a faraway land I will forever cherish.          

"A wise man once said that the problem with visiting Africa is that you feel forever an exile after you have left."   - Mark C. Ross

Here I Raise My Ebenezer

"Then Samuel took a stone...he named it Ebenezer, saying, 'Thus far has the LORD helped us.'"  1 Samuel 7:12

Thus far has the Lord helped me.  

This coming Friday, I will raise my own Ebenezer and say, "Thus far the Lord has helped me."  Friday marks 15 years of choosing to follow Christ, of choosing to believe he is worthy of my devotion.  

I remember the moment as if it just happened.  I was standing in the pavilion at Camp Kirkwood in southwestern Ohio.  I had a red track shirt on that I had from running track in middle school.  I had a black pair of soccer shorts on and a really crappy pair of black and red Nike shoes which my family had been begging me to get rid of.  The night's presenters were teaching about the importance of running the race of faith, basing it on 1 Corinthians 9:24-27.  They had several volunteers, myself included, come up and represent the different types of people who run the race.    There are the runners that are standing at the starting line - the race has started but they are just kind of wandering aimlessly.  There are the ones who have also entered the race, but they have so much baggage and so many chains wrapped around themselves they can't even begin to run.  There are those that are just flat out running in the complete opposite direction, far, far away from the finish line.  And then there are the ones who are running the race wholeheartedly, with their eyes fixed on the finish line, fixed on Jesus.

I was picked to represent that last person.

And I remember thinking, "I am the last person who should be standing up here to represent that person."  I was doing anything but running the race.  I was so full of hypocrisy and double-mindedness.  And in that moment, this sudden dawning came over my small teenage mind: I can never bridge the gap.  I can never get from here to God apart from Christ.  I am nothing without Him.  All of my vain attempts, all of my striving, so desperately trying to get my act together in my own strength - it's all futile.  And in that moment, I bowed low and said, "I am yours."

Grace waving farewell.

And while I celebrate the sovereignty and grace of God over these last 15 years, these reflections were made even sweeter when this past Sunday I dropped my own niece, Grace, off to the very same camp, nearly 15 years to the day.  It's her first time to go to Kirkwood, to be away from her family for an entire week, to be on her own.  As my brother Jeremy, Grace and I all drove down to Kirkwood, Jeremy and I swapped stories and rehashed memories, giving Grace tips - things like keep your elbows off the table or they'll make you sing.  Or stay away from the boys' camp.  Or just stay away from boys all together.  Or don't take food into the cabins unless you want critters sleeping with you.  See, Jeremy was there as well the night I accepted Christ, serving as a counselor.  I remember being a sobbing mess in the moment and when I finally bothered to look up and make my way out of the building, I was desperate to find him, to give him a hug.  All the more sweeter then, to come full circle, to set foot on this cherished ground over a decade later, to have my brother back in that same place with me again but then to send my niece off, his daughter, the next generation.  I want her to encounter the same Jesus I met at Kirkwood all those years ago.  He is still alive.  He still sits on his throne.  He still welcomes sinners.

And I still raise my Ebenezer to Him.  Thus far the Lord has helped me.