Repairer of Broken Walls

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



   

The Wind and the Waves

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

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

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

The game was to proceed as follows:

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

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

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

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

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

Where I'm Safe

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

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

There is No Plan B

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

"Are you sure you want to go?"

"How long will you be there?"

"Is it safe?"

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

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

But I always come back to the same conclusion:

There is no Plan B.

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

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

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

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

Because there is no Plan B.

The Holstee Manifesto

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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.

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. 

Take My Advice...

I have numerous alternative titles to this post:

- You May Have Won the Battle, But You're Going to Lose the War
- Why I Hate Running
- Curse Words and Other Ungodly Thoughts
- Top Ten Reasons to Never Own a Pony
- Lessons Learned the Hard Way
- Where's a Lasso When You Need One?

I think you can see where this is going. 

But first let me say - to all of you who have children, will have children, know children, or have grandchildren:

Never EVER get them a pony. I don't care how much they whine, complain, beg, plead, manipulate, blackmail you, or give you sad puppy eyes.  Don't give in. 

Case in point:

I have a pony.  A rather woolly Shetland Pony named Rosebud, Bud for short.  I got her when I was probably 9 or 10 years old.  I didn't know any better at that point that I would still be paying the price for this cantankerous little beast nearly 16 years later.  I'm fairly confident she'll live to be 40 just for spite.  She's not a mean-spirited little pony, she just has her moments.

She had one last night. 

I brought her in from the pasture, put her in her stall, gave her grain, grabbed her water bucket and walked off.  I didn't think much of it, I grab her water as usual.  By the time I come back to her stall, I see the door swinging open and she's already halfway down the field.  This is when I start swearing, which I am not prone to doing.  I grab a handful of grain and the lead rope and take off into the field after her, begging and pleading with her in my head to not make it through the few openings in the field that we have, which lead directly to the road and basically open fields with no fences.  Thankfully, she didn't.  She just decided to high-tail it to the back forty of the farm.  I was ready to murder her. 

I get close to her on a couple of occasions, but then she would spook and take off again.  After we had made it to the farthest corners of the field, I manage to work her back to the barn, tasting victory because if I can just get her to the barn she'll walk into the stall. 

No such luck.

She turns around and bolts off again.  At this point, I'm yelling at my friend, Andrea, who, bless her heart, was visiting from Missouri for the weekend and had no idea what she was in for.  She goes and gets my dad, tells him to get his Gator out. 

By this point, we're back in the back of the field again and I'm still swearing at her.  (We're talking roughly 8 acres that I have now sprinted across to get this little beast.)  I know, not one of my finer moments.  So, here comes my dad on the Gator and I'm waving at him to back off as I was within reach of her again and I didn't want her to spook.  Somehow or another, I reach for her, miss the halter, but get a chunk of mane and I am hanging on for dear life while she is dragging me along.  I can't keep up and she bolts to the side and I go flying in the other direction, taking a tumble in the freshly plowed fields.  Hardly a graceful exit.  Not only am I swearing by now, I really just want to burst into tears.

We eventually corner her again and I thought, "Blast you, you little snot.  I'll be hanged if I'm going to let you go again."  Now I'm just angry and ready to spit nails.  Two can play this game of stubbornness and I guarantee I'm not going to be the one to lose this time around.  I've got a handful of grass and grain still.  I creep up to her, she nibbles a bit, I lunge for her halter, and miss yet again.  I have no idea how I did it, but I again managed to get fistfuls of mane.  And let me tell you, I was not letting go this time.  I'm trying everything I can to get her to stop to no avail.  I'm digging my heels into the ground, I'm running alongside her, practically laying across her back, half-tempted to just hop her on back.  By now she's flat out galloping and I'm thinking I'm about to get a lesson in vaulting.  Somehow or another, I reach around to the right side of her head and grab her halter and yank her head around.  She finally grinds to a halt, but considering I dropped the lead rope about 200 feet back, it took everything I had just to get her to stand there and not start dragging me all over again. 

My dad brings over the lead rope, clips it on her and then holds onto her for a minute.  I'm panting so hard and my legs are so weak I can barely stand up.  I felt like I had just finished running the 200 yard dash, having flashbacks when my legs would just feel like jell-o, unsure of how to take another step.  I was reminded of why I hate running in those moments of pause.  I'm still swearing.

We walk her over to the Gator, I get in to drive, Dad gets in the passenger seat while he's holding on to her lead and we make the long and slow trek back to the barn.  She walks quietly as can be into her stall, while I'm still clutching my sides, wondering if my heart rate is ever going to return to normal.  By the time I get inside, I can't decide whether to pass out or throw up from the exertion. 

I find the story extremely funny now.  I didn't last night.  I was ready to turn that pony into glue.  But now I've managed to laugh so hard about the entire thing - because it really is quite funny.  When was the last time you heard somebody talk about having to chase down their runaway pony?

If only I had it all on video.  I guarantee it would have gone viral.  Andrea didn't know she was getting free tickets to the rodeo for the weekend.

So, remember:

Don't ever buy a pony.    

Hello, Fall

I know, I might have skipped a season or two.  But what good is a spring game and over 81,000 people if it doesn't conjure up images of Saturday afternoons, football, and apple cider?

Welcome, Urban Meyer.  We hope you enjoy your stay here in the land of Buckeyes.  We are hoping it isn't short-lived. 

Let This Be True of My Life

When you are forgotten or neglected or purposely set at naught, and you sting and hurt with the insult or the oversight, but your heart is happy, being counted worthy to suffer for Christ - that is dying to self.

When your good is evil spoken of, when your wishes are crossed, your advice disregarded, your opinions ridiculed and you refuse to let anger rise in your heart, or even defend yourself, but take all in patient loving silence - that is dying to self.

When you lovingly and patiently bear any disorder, any irregularity, or any annoyance, when you can stand face to face with waste, folly, extravagance, spiritual insensibility, and endure it as Jesus endured it - that is dying to self.

When you are content with any food, any offering, any raiment, any climate, any society, any attitude, any interruption by the will of God - that is dying to self.

When you never care to refer to yourself in conversation, or to record your own good works, or itch after commendation, when you can truly love to be unknown - that is dying to self.

When you see your brother prosper and have his needs met and can honestly rejoice with him in spirit and feel no envy nor question God, while your own needs are far greater and in desperate circumstances - that is dying to self.

When you can receive correction and reproof from one of less stature than yourself, can humbly submit inwardly as well as outwardly, finding no rebellion or resentment rising up within your heart - that is dying to self.
       
           - Author Unknown