Two Lame Peas in a Pod

My pony Bud and I have decided to be invalids together.

She staggers around like she's drunk and I sometimes just wish I was drunk.  

We make a great pair.

Bud, on one of her less drunk days.

I noticed a couple of weeks ago that her breathing was not quite right.  It was just real raspy and hollow-sounding.  I found it odd because she's never been sick a day in her life, but I thought it would eventually pass.  Then she started acting slightly lethargic, just not her usual self.  I would watch her and it's like she would tilt her head slightly cockeyed and stare off into space.  I was out of town over the weekend and I told my parents to keep an eye on her, just make sure she's still eating and drinking water like normal.  By the time I got home Sunday afternoon, I went to check on her and found her staggering around so much it was startling.

I've never had a vet out to see her before - how we have gone 19 years without ever having a vet out is beyond me.  But we never needed one and I'm not going to vaccinate a pony that lives by herself and isn't around any other animals, so in my mind it was never necessary.  Either way, I'm now googling large animal vets in the area to see who I can find.  Luckily, I find one just down the road from us so I give her a call and ask her to make an emergency visit out to our barn.  I probably could have waited until usual business hours on Monday, but I had no clue what my pony was dealing with so I thought it best to be proactive and get answers sooner rather than later.

The vet comes out and does the exam.  The poor thing - at one point the vet is leading her around to check her gait and mobility and Bud nearly falls over.  Her muscles just refused to cooperate. She really does act like she's drunk, like a little baby foal just learning to stand up, all wobbly.

The short version of it all is that the vet suspects she has EPM - equine protozoal myeloencephalitis.  It's a neurological disease spread by guess what?  Possums.  Yes, possums.  They are the sole carrier of the disease and they most likely were in Bud's pasture area and contaminated the grass she was eating.  I started her on a drug treatment the next day, but it will take about a week to see any results.  The vet is not optimistic that she'll survive.

But if I know this pony and the long line of bullheaded owners she comes from, she'll probably not only defy the odds, she'll bounce back and live for another decade.  How is it in the same month that I try to find her a new home, she tries to stage a coup and die on me?  Oh my stars, I did not think this through when I was nine-years old and asked my parents for a pony.  I didn't look down the road to 20 years later and think I would still be taking care of this little stinker when I'm almost thirty years old.  I do not want to be 40 and still have her hanging out in my backyard.

Don't misunderstand me - I'm not saying I want her dead.  I just want her to be someone else's lawnmower on four legs.  Don't judge me.  There's a big difference so please don't take me for a heartless pony hater.  I love her dearly and she's a good little pony.  I would just like to move her on down the road so I can do the same.

So while Bud is walking around like a drunk, I'm just not walking around.  My lower back has decided to pitch a fit and has been doing so for almost a month now.  It's miserable.  I can barely walk some days and the thought of sitting upright in a desk chair nearly sends me over the edge so I've been missing work as well.  Ice packs and stretching have become my new best friends.

Maybe one of these days you'll just find both Bud and me passed out in her stall next to each other because we have collectively decided that standing or moving is not worth the effort.  Just somebody make sure to bring her some hay and me some Cheez-its.              

Don't Ever Go To Bed Without Knowing Where This Is

We were gathered around a small coffee table, a gaggle of orphan Kenyan boys and their mama in their little cottage just outside Nairobi.  The kids were all in their pajamas, their little black and brown bare feet sticking out from underneath well-worn fleece pants and hand-me-downs.  Mama Esther waited patiently for each of them to find their own seat.  It was the same routine each night during cottage devotions - every night promptly at 7:00, they gathered around to sing, pray, read the Word of God and be sent off to bed with blessings and hugs.

But tonight was different.  On this night, each of the six-year old boys in the cottage was being presented with his very own Bible.  Most of the older children already had a Bible of their own, their names written in marker on the covers, warned to not misplace them.  The same had been done for these younger boys, their names written neatly in black marker on the inside cover.

Mama Esther had the stack sitting beside her on the table.  Before she handed them out, though, she gave a message that has been seared into my brain forever.  At the time it was a rebuke to my heart, unbeknownst to her.  Now it is a haunting reminder, the memory serving as a gentle nudge so often.  The speech might have been intended for a group of young boys in Kenya, but it was a swift kick to a girl in America.   

She looked very carefully, very intensely at each of the boys and said her in thick Kenyan accent, "Don't ever go to sleep without knowing where this is," holding up the Bible.  She paused, as if gathering steam.  "If you wake up in the middle of the night and don't know where it is, you get out of bed and you go find it.  And you do not rest until you have found it again."  

And like a swift blow to the heart, as those words tumbled out of Mama Esther's mouth, I was humbled and convicted, realizing I was more apt to be concerned about where my phone was rather than where the Word of God was. Dear Jesus, forgive me.

Since that time, I have realized time and again how little I esteem the Word of God.  I treat it so lightly, acting like reading it is a chore rather than the privilege it is, acting like it is an inconvenience rather than a joy.  While I might go to bed each night knowing where it is, how often I go to bed each night not knowing what it says.

  

For whatever reason, one of the disciplines I struggle with most in this journey of following Christ is reading His Word.  I know.  You wouldn't think so.  You would think the girl who loves to read books would have read this thing cover to cover by now and have it memorized forwards and backwards.  Yet I stumble over it in the pursuit of reading anything but that.  I find a million other things to do or accomplish before I sit down to soak it up.  

But Jesus has continually reminded me of this elementary and oh-so-obvious truth:

If the Word of God is ever to make a difference in my life, I have to pick it up for myself.

I've got to physically pick this thing up and actually crack open the pages.  There is no shortcut to reading His Word and knowing His will.  I can't get it by osmosis and I can't get it by listening to a thousand other sermons merely about His Word. I can't get it by merely talking about it and I can't get it by reading other books written about The Book.  I've got to pick it up for myself.  You've got to pick it up for yourself.

As Mama Esther said, may I not rest until I find it.  May I not rest until I find Him.  When I wake up in the middle of the night, would I go in search of it.  When I rise in the morning, may I be scrambling to study its pages.  When I pause in the day, may its verses fill my mind.  Because it's never going to make a difference in my life if I leave it on the shelf and hope by some miracle it leaks into my soul.  It simply will not work that way.  And yet I have fooled myself into thinking I can get bits and pieces of it here and there.  Some on Sundays.  Some on Monday nights when I feel like it.  Some on Wednesdays at small group.  

Pick it up, Courtney. 

Pick.it.up.

Father, forgive me for thinking so little of your breath breathed onto the pages of life.  Forgive me for forgetting that a vast majority of the world doesn't even have a Bible and yet when they do, it it their greatest possession- and yet I have numerous copies and mine gather dust. Forgive me for finding a thousand excuses for not making time to bask in the glory of your holy and perfect Word.  Not a one of those excuses is legitimate.  

May I never go to sleep again without knowing where it is and the power it contains. 

The Definition of Insanity

Someone recently told me I was the definition of insanity.

How kind of him.  Such a good friend.

I was having a conversation with this someone, a friend of mine from college, about a month ago.  Our decade-long friendship has been a bit of a rocky road, usually entailing telling the other person what they need to hear and not what they want to hear.  It hasn't always gone over well.  But there are those rare moments when he manages to make a statement I actually happen to agree with.

This was not one of those moments.

We were discussing over the phone our dating lives - and sometimes the lack of.  We weighed the value of online dating - the pros, cons and pitfalls - and discussed his seemingly effortless ability to get a date and my utter indifference to even exerting the effort to get a date.  (He is a highly social and extroverted character, so introverts such as myself are quite a mystery to him.)

At which point he told me I was the definition of insanity.  Meaning I keep doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results.  And in his words, it meant unless I want to marry the UPS man, I'm going to have to make more of an effort and change my game plan.

I had no snappy comeback so I just went silent. Quite frankly, I was too annoyed, angry and defensive.  The comment stung and no rational thoughts were coming to my brain.

And maybe the comment stung because there was a tiny bit of truth to it.  Yes, I probably am the definition of insanity on occasion, and not just in the realm of dating.  I'll own that.

But as I pondered that thought in recent weeks, what I really should have said and wish I would have said back to him in that moment was this:

If marriage were my number one goal in life, then, yes, I am the definition of insanity.  Lock me up, put me in a straight jacket and give me my meds.

But because Jesus is the goal, I have been set free. My life does not hinge on whether or not I am married.  It does not hinge on whether or not I have hit a certain quota of dates per week, per month, per lifetime, per whatever.  It does not hinge on whether I have an online profile with eHarmony. com, match.com or christianmingle.com.  It does not hinge on whether or not the UPS man ever shows up on my doorstep and it does not hinge on whether or not anybody ever puts a ring on my finger and says to me, "I do."

It hinges on Jesus only.

He is the goal.

And that's all I need to know.  Are there times when I was wish there was a boyfriend or husband by my side?  Of course. There is no doubt a longing deep in my heart for that.

But my world has not, is not, will not come tumbling down around me in the absence of that.

I will not strive (see #5 here) and fight my way through this world in search of someone to fill a gap that only Jesus can.  I get the sweet freedom of resting in his sovereignty and chasing after Him.

So, if that makes me the definition of insanity - then I'll gladly move to the front of the line.            

What Was Given

Every once in awhile I'll do a piece of artwork when I think to myself, "I actually like this piece."  Normally I create something, over-analyze it, decide there are too many things wrong with it and then pawn it off on somebody.  I think my friend Alex has all of my discarded artwork that I decided I don't like. The latest piece is one that fits in the former category.  I really love it actually.  It's a quote from the movie version of The Voyage of the Dawn Treader.  Prince Caspian says it at the very end of the movie and it struck a chord with me.  

I'm still recycling Jimmy Buffett's book, which is where all of the book pages on the background came from.  I mod podged the letters on.  Used twine to make the lines, weaving them together where they intersect.  And voila. My new favorite piece.   

Farewell to the Home of a Thousand Memories

"People are always telling you that change is a good thing. But all they're really saying is that something you didn't want to happen at all... has happened. My store is closing this week. I own a store, did I ever tell you that? It's a lovely store, and in a week it will be something really depressing, like a Baby Gap. Soon, it'll just be a memory. In fact, someone, some foolish person, will probably think it's a tribute to this city, the way it keeps changing on you, the way you can never count on it, or something. I know because that's the sort of thing I'm always saying. But the truth is... I'm heartbroken. I feel as if a part of me has died, and my mother has died all over again, and no one can ever make it right." ~ You've Got Mail

Leave it to You've Got Mail to give me the words I need at the moment when I most need them.  It's not the first time this has happened.

The place where I found a second home, a second family, and learned that Jesus was enough is about to change hands.  Wheeler Stables, the place where I cleaned out more stalls than I care to count and took a few tumbles off the backs of a few lesson horses.  The place where I gathered a few dreams and watched a few fall apart.  The place where I fought a few fears and maybe finally found some comfort in my own skin.  The place where I met people who understood my obsession with horses and did weird things like feed their horses mints and scratch their tongues.  The place where I learned what it looked like to bust my tail to accomplish something, to work hard for what I wanted.  The place where I cried a few tears in frustration, but felt the satisfaction and sweetness of having a twelve hundred pound beast respond just the way I wanted them to.

It will all soon belong to someone else.

I feel a lot like Kathleen Kelly in You've Got Mail. The stables is in the process of being sold and in a short time it's going to be something really depressing like a Quarter Horse farm. (My apologies to any QH lovers reading this.  I'm sure they are lovely creatures, but I will forever be partial to the American Saddlebred and that's all I'll be able to picture in the stalls of this barn.)  People say change is a good thing, but what they are really saying is that something you didn't want to happen at all...has happened.  And soon this farm will be just a memory.  And maybe I am a bit heartbroken.

I know, it's just a building.  A place built by human hands.  Wood, brick, aluminum.  Hay, dirt, sawdust.  Cobwebs, horseflies, and maybe one too many gnats.  

But this is where so much of my life happened.

And I'm sad.  I'm sad to see it soon belong to someone else, to not be able to pull in its driveway whenever I want.  The farm was actually officially put on the market over a decade ago.  It rocked my world even then to find out my trainers were selling, it just seemed deeply personal, like I was about to lose a part of my very own identity.  But years passed and no one came along to buy it.  It was just one of those things that I subconsciously thought would always be there, just as I always remembered it, always belonging to Wheelers.

While a small part of me grieves, I will forever be grateful for that little corner of the world, those 84 acres where I learned what it finally meant to like who I was.  It was in your aisleways and stalls that I felt at home, at ease.  It was on your board fences that I figured out what it looked like to let go of some dreams, and come up wanting better dreams, different dreams.  It was on your grassy fields that I learned to hang on for dear life, literally and figuratively.  It was in your tack room that I came to love the smell of leather and Murphy's Oil.  It was in your arena that I learned to dust myself off and get back on again.  And it was through two people, Dave and Eileen Wheeler, that I was forever changed.  Apart from my own family, no two other people have had the greatest impact on those years of my life like you two did.  You encouraged me, spoiled me, taught me, and loved me like no one else did at that time.  Your farm was my outlet and my safe haven from the chaos of my life.  You were my retreat when I was so desperate to hide away.

My story, my past doesn't make sense without this place.  It's incomplete.  Someone once said, "All the art of living is a fine mingling of letting go and holding on."  This is the fine mingling of letting go of a physical place. And holding onto a thousand memories of a place I will forever love.    
     

Hodge Podge of Thoughts

Such an assortment of thoughts as of late, on far too many a topic to fully contain here.  So I decided to just hit the highlights via some links that have spurred many a thought in recent weeks.

Rethinking Santa

http://www.desiringgod.org/blog/posts/rethinking-santa

I have often wondered how I will teach Santa to my children.  I was raised on Santa and I don't think it's hindered my faith to any degree for having believed in him for a time.  But as I've gotten older and as my faith has deepened, I have come to believe that there is ultimately no room for Santa, if we are truly to believe that Jesus is supreme.  And then John Piper had a recent podcast that I think helped me additionally articulate this thought process.  I appreciate his firm words on the topic.

So there is no contest here. I cannot see why a parent, if they know and love Jesus, if they have found Jesus to be the greatest treasure in the world, why they would bring Jesus out of the celebration and Santa into the celebration at all — I mean, he is just irrelevant. He has nothing to do with it. He is zero.

So my counsel is to give all your efforts to making your children as happy as they can possibly be with every kind of surprise that is rooted in the true meaning of Christmas. Let your decorations point to Jesus. Let your food point to Jesus. Let your games point to Jesus. Let your singing point to Jesus. Out-rejoice the world, out-give the world, out-decorate the world, and let it all point to Jesus.

If being Jesus-focused is a killjoy for your Christmas, you don’t know him well.

Six Options for Godly Single Women Wanting to Marry
http://marshill.com/2013/12/13/6-options-for-godly-single-women-wanting-to-marry
Mark Driscoll's recent blog post was a breath of fresh air in its honesty.  He outlines six options that we have as single godly women: sin, surrender, settle, suffer, strive, or solace.  I'll take solace, please.

iPersonic
http://www.ipersonic.com/
I took this personality test recently and it was a bit frightening how four short questions unveiled a rather accurate portrait of myself.  A Reliable Realist through and through.  Some of it I laughed about it.  Some of it I winced about, having those moments when I know the description is so true of me, but so desperately wishing it wasn't.  Case in point: "Their strong points are thoroughness, a marked sense of justice, doggedness bordering on pigheadedness and a pragmatic, vigorous and purposeful manner."  The pigheadedness is when I winced.  I apologize if any of you have had to hear the brunt of that pigheadedness.  "You don’t appreciate too much commotion around you." This is when I laughed because that is probably a bit of an understatement for me.

The Greatest Gift, by Ann Voskamp
http://www.aholyexperience.com/  
I've been thumbing my way through Ann Voskamp's latest book The Greatest Gift.  Granted, I haven't been methodically working through like intended, but it's had an impact nonetheless.  I was so struck by Day Three, "We only find out where we are when we find out where He is.  We only find ourselves...when we find Him."  Mmmm.  In these days of feeling like I am just entirely unsure of what I am doing with this life I've been given, I needed this reminder.  Just find Him.  That's all I need to know.

Christmas Greetings
Last, but not least, Christmas greetings from my pony, Bud.

Don't take offense.  Her backside is usually all she shows me as well.

  

Sucker for a Good Love Letter

I am always a sucker for a good love note. Does my heart a world of good. They make bad days better and they make good days the best.

And clearly I like to hang on to them for decades at a time when a good one comes along - as evidenced by the one I found today while on a cleaning spree.

I received this particular love note while at Camp Kirkwood one year.  I might have been maybe 11-12 years old, 13 at the oldest.  I had definitely noticed this particular boy, Nick.  And while he had noticed me, he obviously had not taken the time to learn my name or at least ask around.  But we were 12, so I probably should let the boy off the hook.  He simply wrote,

Dear Girl, 

Sorry I don't know your name.  Please meet me at the grill today at lunch.  I am kind of shy, but give me a chance and I'll come through.  At the camp fire, I was riding the guys back [I really have no idea if that's what that particular sentence says - it's the best I can make out.  Maybe "writing" the guys back?] I hope you saw me.  We'll I guess I have to go. 

With hope you'll meet me, 

Nme [his initials]

P.S. I'm not the best spellor spelor speer.  Whatever."

And on the backside of the note, he wrote and then crossed out:

One more thing.  I'm not some preppy morane.  Just thought you should know. 

Several things to note:

1) You're right, NME.  You are a terrible speller.  I apparently couldn't get past poor writing and grammar skills, even at such a young age. I still have troubles with that today when a guy doesn't write well...  

2) I never went to meet NME at the grill at lunch that day.  Or any day, a fact which I have often lamented because I had a serious crush on that kid.  I was just too chicken.  And shy.  We at least had that in common.  He obviously had more guts than I did because he at least bothered to write a note.  Even if he didn't know my name.  

3) I'm glad to know you're not a preppy moron.  Again, I clearly couldn't get past the bad spelling of "moron," however.

4) I'm not telling you, my readers, his full name because I know you all - you would immediately go and google him.  No chance.

5) NME, I'm sorry to have dashed your hopes.  I hope I didn't scar you for life, though.  Kids are resilient, so I'm sure you made a quick recovery.  And I hope you eventually found a girl who would meet you at the grill.  

A Head Full of Jesus

I love books.  And I love knowledge.  And I love acquiring both, probably more so than the average bear.  One of my very favorite pieces of artwork by Randal Spangler is called "The Sanctuary of Knowledge."  It captures this idyllic image I have in my head of someday having this vast library with shelves and books that seem to go on forever, with countless pages waiting to be read and book spines waiting to be cracked open.  (And maybe I'm really partial to the idea of having a ladder in my library.)

I remember when I was in college and the local library temporarily relocated so they could renovate their old space.  When they reopened, I walked into the new space and nearly started crying I was so overwhelmed by this sudden love for this little corner of the world, full of books and endless stories waiting to be read.

So, yes, I probably have a somewhat unhealthy - and on occasion abnormal (as evidenced by my inexplicable tears over a public library) - affection for the written word.

But then when I stop and consider how lightly I cast aside the Word of God, I want to hang my head in shame.  Oh, how I esteem the words of men more than I do the words of God!  My head is full of knowledge about Him, but do I really know Him?

And I swear Mike Leake from Desiring God wrote his latest blog post with me in mind.  When I got done reading it, I couldn't decide whether to wince, groan, or turn away and pretend I didn't read it - because it was like an arrow to the heart, the kind that pricks you when confronted with something that rings all too true in your own life and you desperately wish it weren't so.

The glasses gave it away.

If it weren't for those glasses, his unruly hair and wild beard would cause you to mistake him as a peddler. You’d reach your hands in your pocket in search for some coins. But those glasses — and the penetrating eyes behind them — give you pause. 

This old man isn't a beggar hardened by long nights on the streets — he’s a thinker, worn down by a million ideas.

He offers you a tour of his vast library, an experience not many have had. With a little suspicion, but more intrigue, you venture into his darkened home. Here you learn that this peculiar man is a well-studied theologian. His mound of books on the millennial reign of Christ would likely take a thousand years to read (perhaps a literal thousand years).

But as you look around in awe, Jesus’s words come to mind:

Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal, but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. (Matthew 6:19–21)

This old man doesn't own a Rolls Royce. He doesn't have walls full of priceless paintings. In fact, by the looks of his house, the only possession he really cares about is this extensive collection of books about Jesus. He has given himself to study — to theology — but his treasure is in the wrong place. Though his books are about another world, he’s been laying up treasure in the present one.

On the day Jesus returns all of his books will be for naught. Every question he had about the second coming will be answered. His other theories will be resolved. And he’s left without treasure. Because in all his reading, throughout all his pursuing theology, he never found time to pursue Theos.

It may turn out that he has correct opinions about every doctrine, and the perfect rebuttal for everything wrong, but what is most important is that this man’s heart treasure the truly inexhaustible: God himself.

Our views on spiritual gifts, end times, the author of Hebrews, and a hoard of other things will pass away. When the perfect comes our views will disappear. And we must be careful not to lay up treasures in our views and miss the One who is truly worth treasuring.

Good theology books are very important, but even the best, when left on the shelf, emphatically cannot replace what it means to know God. If your library doesn't lead you to a deeper affection for Jesus, then it’s as useless as a collection of shells.

And there comes the arrow to the heart.  I can read a hundred pages an hour, devouring book after book and yet, I find it a struggle to sit down and read one verse of God's Holy Word.  I chase after all this knowledge about Him and still manage to miss Him all together.  I don't want to come to the end of it all and find I missed the one truly worth treasuring because I was too busy sticking my nose in a book, acquiring knowledge and ideas that were merely shadows of who He truly is.  That's not to say that books are bad or that knowledge is evil - they are good and right things.  But they cannot be the ultimate things.  If there is ever a sanctuary of knowledge to pursue, may I not find it in books, but in His very presence.     

MIA

I know, I've been a little MIA.  I apologize.  A lot has been happening since I last wrote:

I worked ten days straight, not thinking I should take a vacation day somewhere in there after the training I was coordinating.  I made a note to myself for next year's training: take the Monday off after training.

My best friend, Alex, got married.  Most amazing wedding ceremony ever. Loved everything about it.

I watched my other friend, Jenna, walk down the aisle via Skype.  I couldn't be in two places at once and her wedding was in Tulsa one day after Alex's so I had to resort to technology in order to witness the occasion.

I got sick with a sinus infection for the umpteenth time this year. Pesky things.  I slept so much I thought somebody had given me a tranquilizer dart.  

I went to a Ben Rector concert last week in Cincinnati which was stellar.  This was a rather spontaneous decision made the day before the concert.  Matt Wertz and Chris Tomlin are later this week.  Three concerts in 8 days.  And I don't even like concerts normally.

My car turned over 100,000 miles.  The doors didn't fall off, alarms didn't sound, the tires didn't go flat nor did all the bolts come flying off when I hit that magical number.  This baby is fully paid for so I intend on running it into the ground before I ever see the likes of another vehicle, and God help me - I don't ever want to see another car payment again in my life.  If I can't pay cash for it then I guess I better be finding me a camel to rent to get to work.

I paid off my student loan - which means I am officially debt free!  Dave Ramsey would be proud.

I celebrated my birthday.  I preferred to skim over it and started planning my own birthday party for next year when I hit a big one.  Current plans include Vancouver, Alaska, or Ireland.  I am open to other suggestions.

I have been inundated with new music, including the new Civil Wars album.  I am obsessed with the song "Dust to Dust" and "Eavesdrop."  I also have the new albums from Matt Wertz, Ben Rector, Shane and Shane, Bethel Music and Tyrone Wells.

I have been considering chopping off my hair.  Like Anne Hathaway, post-Les Mis short.  That is if I don't chicken out.  I'm itching for change.  And since moving to another city or finding another job just isn't very practical at the moment, I am simply aiming for a new hairstyle.

Those are the cliff notes.  When I come up for air again, you'll be the first to know.   

Letter to Lillian

A little over a year ago I was in the Westgate Mall in Nairobi .  I remember eating lunch at the Artcaffe, one of my very favorite cafes in Nairobi.  I went there after church with one of the missionary couples on staff with Rafiki.  I remember being in the Nakumatt grocery store.  I remember thinking this was probably one of the nicest malls I've ever been in - Kenyan, American or otherwise.  I remember thinking what a startling contrast this mall was to the rest of Kenya, all pristine and modern, while you walked out the door and down the road and found tin roof shacks and red clay roads.   

And now it's a war zone, the focal point of the world. 

When I first saw the headlines this past Saturday morning, I was in the middle of a work event I was coordinating.  I was scrolling through the list on my phone when I saw a headline that simply indicated a mall in Nairobi had been attacked.  I began to frantically scroll through the article, searching for which mall, knowing that there were ones frequented by the Rafiki staff, wondering if I knew anybody involved and wondering if they were safe.  It wasn't until I got to the very bottom that it finally said Westgate. 

And it's that striking moment when you realize, "I was right there..."  I can see the stores in my head and I can see the Kenyan people enjoying the bakery and I can see the security at the entrance and I can see the neatly polished floors and I can smell the freshly roasted coffee.

If I were there now I would see shattered windows, blackened walls from grenades exploding, faces hiding, trembling in the shadows and mad men on a mission to destroy.  

I want to grieve and I want to get angry all at the same time.  Because it's just such utter nonsense and pure evil.  

And on the heels of the attack, I get a sweet letter today in the mail from Lillian, the little girl I sponsor in Kenya.  And I found the contrasts overwhelming, just like when I stood in the Westgate Mall and marveled at the disparity of what I was looking at versus what I knew existed just beyond its walls.  And here in light of watching this attack unfold, I get this precious letter from an equally precious little child.  

How do I reconcile that?  How do I reconcile a world so full of hate and outright evil with love notes from a young orphan child who thanks me for sending her a postcard with a polar bear on it?  Because when I put the two side-by-side, I just think, "How? How do we go from arms flung wide and praying blessings over lives to grenades in hand and raining down curses on humanity? How?"

I want to write back to little Lilian.  I want to write her a long letter, one full of things she simply cannot understand at such a tender age.  Full of things even I don't understand.  

I want to tell her that Satan is real and he has an agenda.

I want to tell her that his number one goal is to end her life and the lives of others - spiritually and physically.  Jesus said it himself in John 8:44, "He was a murderer from the beginning."  

I want to tell her that Satan will stop at nothing to destroy lives, destroy homes, destroy governments, destroy creation, destroy marriages, destroy relationships.  It's all fair game and he's playing for keeps.

I want to tell her that we are most certainly waging war, but not against this flesh and not against another country and not against another people group and not against another government.  We are waging war "against the rulers, against the authorities, against the spiritual forces of evil..." (Ephesians 6:12)

But what I really want to tell her is this - 

Don't lose hope, dear one.  Don't lose hope.  

Don't drown in the sadness and don't drown in the depravity of this great big mess called humanity.  Hold tight to Jesus Christ, the one who firmly claims that he will swallow up death forever (Isaiah 25:8).  

He will claim victory. He will defeat Satan.  And this world will be a passing memory.  "You will have trouble in this world.  But take heart! I have overcome the world."  (John 16:33)

Take heart, little Lilian!  Jesus Christ, the Lamb slain before the foundation of the world, has overcome the world.  

Take heart.