I adore my little abode. She has been a haven of rest for healing these last few years. The first few months were rocky. My former best friend, lover, and protector had threatened my life and was stalking me - but my "family" was just two miles down the road, my landlord, two doors down, and on the other side of my duplex was an armed officer. God had ordained that I live in this precious place. Sometime I'll tell you the amazing story of how it came to be.
Today is an anniversary filled with pain. But, I have so much to do - poinsettias to deliver, a ham to find (I forgot to order one from our friends at Honey Baked hams - eek), gifts to finish crocheting, and a sweet baby gift to deliver... but I can't seem to leave my haven.
The struggle is real.
I've been awake and ready to go since 8am. It's now 3pm.
My family is gathering 2 hours away for a Chinese dinner, and I can't leave.
My heart aches so for Kip. for all we lost, for all he gave up when he started drinking, for the anguish he must have felt that Christmas Eve 3 years ago. I remember it as clearly as if it was 2 minutes ago. The greatest sorrow I've ever known washed over me, and I wept for him. I hadn't seen him face to face in 10 months. But, I was driving to our church's Christmas Eve service and I almost had to pull over for the flood of tears that erupted from my heart. The sorrow was so great, as we passed a flame from a tiny lit candle from one to another, I prayed deep within my heart for God to have tender mercy on this man that I loved so deeply for so long - even if it meant that Kip die in order to be released from his torment.
Little did I know that, at that very same moment, Kip was passed out on the floor surrounded by dozens and dozens of empty bottles. He would soon be found by our neighbor and the paramedics who knocked down the door to rescue him.
oh that they hadn't rescued him... because now he's in a nursing home. He can't do anything for himself, and doesn't have a clue where or who he is. His life is over even though his body is living; and it's just so tragic.
Why didn't he reach out to God for help? Why didn't he receive the friendship and grace that so many men offered him? Why couldn't he admit that he needed help?
Why did he let shame take the place of grace as ruler of his heart?
...
and why am I letting this surprise of renewed grief steal the joy that God has so beautifully been creating out of the ashes of my injuries?
Before you think I'm waxing Pollyanna theology, my favorite definition of Joy was written by a mama who's baby boy gave up much like Kip did. She calls Joy "the settled assurance that God is in control of all the details of my life, the quiet confidence that ultimately everything is going to be alright, and the determined choice to praise God in every situation."
(deep breath)
So, let's go get some ham. :) I'll be the one with ear buds humming this verse (probably on repeat):
His law is love and His gospel is peace.
Chains he shall break, for the slave is our brother.
Lighting my advent candles tonight I found myself deeply yearning to light the fourth candle and the Christmas candle.
Today I feel incomplete. Things didn't go the way I planned or assumed, and I feel beat up. I'm longing with all my heart for the certainty of joy, for Emmanuel ("God with us").
'What will it hurt if I light all the candles and pretend that all is right in my world?' I think to myself. And because I'm that kind of crazy, I answered back...or maybe it was the Holy Spirit cautioning me: "No, there is something better for you in the waiting, in the way you become strengthened from holding on (possibly for dear life) with fully extended arms to the end of this rope."
This is what it feels like to have muscle fibers tearing intentionally in order to build muscle....only it's not my quads or triceps, it's the spiritual and emotional muscles of my heart.
So I'm gazing on these three candles that symbolize Hope, Peace, and Joy.
And I slowly drink in their healing
...because waiting is impossible without hope, uncomfortable without peace, and not worth it without joy.
(Edit: my cat(dog?) Hubert Napoleon aka Mini Mew, Bacon, "such a brat", Joey, CassaNova, and Booger Butt, born appropriately on Feb 14, 2010 was found dead on October 22, 2014. It appears he died from a fall while playing with stink bugs by the window-a good way to go.)
No more endless hours playing fetch with my hair bands.
No more buying them every other month to replace the ones you carried off to that special hiding place I've yet to find.
No more belly rubs- seriously baffles me how much you loved your belly.
I won't have to say "move over Bacon" every single morning as I dash to the toilet. (What was I thinking putting your food dish in the bathroom?!)
No more marveling at how desperately you'd cry for food - even though the bowl was never empty.
Gone is your super sonic squeaky melodic purr.
Winter nights will be a bit colder, you were such a good blanket - even if I could hardly breathe under your weight.
Speaking of winter, I'm sad you won't be around for Christmas Tree ornament boxing/soccer season. It was your all time favorite sport.
No more redecorating the tree DAILY because of the 10 to 12 ornaments I'd find scattered all over the floor.
Gone are the HOURS spent looking for my glasses. I can't find the picture- but I swear I have proof how you'd take my glasses and tried to hide them as a ploy to keep me home.
You had a thing for playing Capture the Flag with my yarn balls too. It was fun to watch you take my yarn into the bedroom, lay it down and jump on the bed to watch me retrieve it.
...heh. I guess you were still playing fetch.
I never had to hunt for my phone in the mornings. You were SO good at laying on top of it - every morning. It just took me a while to learn to turn the music on so I could hear the muffled melodies. I swear you almost had a smirk on your face as you watched me frantically searching for it. I know you didn't want me to leave.
Gracie Mae *might* miss you. She stopped playing as much when you came along, though. (You could be a bit of a bully)
...which reminds me
Maybe I won't constantly relive tha time you bore the brunt of my wake up call that night Kip flung your young body into the dresser with such force that it broke your hip. You helped me see that I could be in danger too.
I'm glad we got out & I'm glad you're no longer in pain...and no longer a "scardy cat".
Oh...and thank you for all the help you gave me make the bed and with my sewing projects.
As much as I complained, I secretly loved your obsession with me, and your crazy antics.
The other song that has consistently kept me in tune with truth and the knowledge that I'm covered during times of stretching is Day by Day - not the one you might be thinking of.
Erick Hauck does the best rendition on his album "Dusty Little Feet".
The first stanza goes:
Day be day and with each passing moment
Strength I find to meet my trials here
Trusting in my Father's wise bestowement
I've no cause for worry or for fear
He whose heart is kind beyond all measure
Gives unto each day what is the best
Constantly it's part of pain and pleasure
Mingling tool with peace and rest.
During the hardest season of my life so far, I had an entire playlist of songs that I went to - often playing them on repeat all night so I could sleep.
*This is what happens when storing floppy toilet paper packages on the shelf above the open washing machine.
*1st world problem
*You've heard of the elephant in the room...
*Why busy-ness actually takes more time than wise scheduling..
*At least it wasn't a check?
*I checked the pockets...just not the machine itself!
You know how it is when you've washed a load and one pair of pants had a Kleenex in the pocket. This particular load had an ENTIRE roll of toilet paper. I had planned on wearing a sweater and a pair of slacks from that load to work today.
Those 2 items were shaken and placed in the dryer with high hopes. I'm hoping the lint brush is extra sticky...
The rest was shaken out and then rewashed. I'll deal with the snow-like appearance of my bathroom tonight...and hope.
This truly is a 1st world problem, but one that needs to be looked at.
See, I've been avoiding reading a new book entitled "The Best Yes" about over committing - I think. I don't know because it apparently isn't even downloaded to my kindle app.
So, I'm too busy to read, potentially over committed, and too busy to notice that there's an ENTIRE roll of toilet paper in my washing machine.
The very first song I learned to play on my guitar went something like this:
As the deer panteth for the water
So my soul longeth after You
You alone are my heart's desire
And I long to worship you.
You alone are my strength my shield
To You alone may my spirit yield
You might know it. I haven't played it, in years, but were I to play it earlier today, at one point or maybe three, I might have changed the words - which would have been awkward, because my words wouldn't have fit the melody at all. As the deer pants (because who really uses Kings English) for the water So my soul longs for things to work out and be easy Being successful (*my* definition of success) is my heart's desire And I long to have more likes, views, and comments on my posts. I don't have the strength to keep going, and I feel more vulnerable than ever Why did I let my spirit yield to so many other things besides You??? ...because you alone are the Real Joy giver I looked at the waves and the storm, and my salmon supper sprawled on the floor as I perseverated on my TWO broken printers and lack of time to organize things so that my already too packed day could fit just a little more in, and I took my eyes off of Jesus - the One who is never afraid of getting washed out to sea.
So now, I'm going to crawl into bed and listen to this song by Robbie Seay Band....possibly on repeat - all night long.
Jesus, garden of my rest
Your fragrant beauty fills the air
I lean and lay against Your chest
Forever safe and happy there
Eyes that flame with holy fire
I stay my love and fix my gaze
You meet and fill my heart's desire
And fill me with Your perfect grace
Maybe tomorrow I won't try to rewrite already perfect Lyrics....well, except for taking out the King's English. #newmerciesinthemorning
Seeing my college roommate on Facebook sparked the memory of when I first began playing guitar. Although I was definitely a Christ follower at that time, I had not given Jesus control, or Lordship over my heart. I was pretty much still in charge.
(me, WAY back then...)
She and I, in our room on the 2nd floor of the Koinonia House, were having a discussion on stubborn independence verses actually asking for help. That's the moment I said those famous last words:
"I don't want to EVER have to depend on anyone."
In my mind I immediately walked across campus to the 2nd floor of the Rhyne building where I had a class. But it could have been the following day or even later that week. But you know how famous last words seem to hang like a dense fog until the actual event.
In this case, the event happens in the bathroom on the 2nd floor of the Rhyne building just as I am pulling up my jeans. (TMI, right? ...sorry.) The sound my knee made at that moment when I barely turned my leg was excruciating to even the girl in the next stall. My knee twisted by itself completely out of place and back again. Not a sound I ever want to hear again, and definitely not a feeling I would wish on my worse enemy.
The fog of my last words (as well as about 20 years of time gone by) keeps me from remembering the exact nature of my injury that was actually caused by overdoing it on the rowing machine earlier that day and thankfully not from improper dressing technique. :P
There I was, in the bathroom (thankfully dressed) unable to walk, in a great deal of pain, and dependent on the girl in the next stall (a stranger) to help me.
I was on crutches for the next several weeks. I needed someone to carry my tray in the cafeteria for *every* meal. Practicing my French horn meant hobbling across campus to the Music building and asking someone to carry my instrument upstairs to one of the practice rooms. I'm pretty sure I opted for practicing on just the mouthpiece as much as possible during those weeks. I was (am?) that stubborn. There didn't seem to be any activity I could do on my own, in my own strength. I wept often, and hosted a few pity parties even.
My roommate didn't come to my pity parties. Carol often giggled (not snickering, but definitely seeing the humor in God's timing of what He would allow. She remembered my vow, and didn't mind lovingly rubbing it in once or twice with well placed "I told you so's". But even while she giggled, she patiently loved on me, and helped me with all I couldn't do. Our friends also helped often. Strangers on campus held doors, offered to carry things for me, and said encouraging things.
I'm grateful I was part of such a loving community when my knee was injured.
A few years later I heard a wise friend use this passage to show me how stubborn self reliance is like the people Isaiah talks about here.
Isaiah 50:10-11
" Who among you fears the Lord
and obeys the voice of his servant?
Let him who walks in darkness
and has no light
trust in the name of the Lord
and rely on his God.
Behold, all you who kindle a fire,
who equip yourselves with burning torches!
Walk by the light of your fire,
and by the torches that you have kindled!
This you have from my hand:
you shall lie down in torment."
(Check out Larry Crabb's book Connecting for more about firelighters.)
I'm a firelighter. I'd much rather use the light on my phone, or use the light of my own reasoning to see in the dark, rather than gingerly step out into the unknown, trust that I'm going to be cared for in the moment, and trust that God has gone before me. I'd rather take control of what I do know. My sinful nature wants to stay safe inside my little box where I'm in charge of everything in my box.
I hope it's safe to say that back then, I feared rejection so fervently that I didn't want to take even the slightest chance needing anyone.
Maybe this is why I love sunbeams so much now. The warmth of the sun reminds me of how MUCH Jesus delights in stubborn, fearful little me. It reminds me that He's got my back *and* my front; and it reminds me that not only is He *big* enough to handle my 'yuck', but he delights in me and longs to bring warmth and joy.
Isaiah 52:12
" For you shall not go out in haste,
and you shall not go in flight,
for the Lord will go before you,
and the God of Israel will be your rear guard."
Even WAY back then, on crutches, never once, did I ever walk alone.
Day 6 - Rewriting Lyrics Day 7 - Day 8 - Day 9 - Day 10 - Day 11 - Day 12 - Day 13 - Day 14 - Day 15 - Day 16 - Day 17 - Day 18 - Day 19 - Day 20 - Day 21 - Day 22 - Day 23 - Day 24 - Day 25 - Day 26 - Day 27 -
" Our counsel is that you warn the freeloaders to get a move on. Gently encourage the stragglers, and reach out for the exhausted, pulling them to their feet. Be patient with each person, attentive to individual needs. And be careful that when you get on each other's nerves you don't snap at each other. Look for the best in each other, and always do your best to bring it out.
Be cheerful no matter what; pray all the time; thank God no matter what happens. This is the way God wants you who belong to Christ Jesus to live."
The next memory verse that I'd want to write a song about is 1 Thes 5:18. How on earth am I going to do that??? I don't want to water it down. I don't want to lose the context.
Wow...the context.
Did you see what it says to do? How on earth am I going to live it out???
That's my face when I was trying to figure out the bluesy chords for my last song.
This is a failed (yet consistent) example of my cooking. I promise the two pictures are related.
I stress over cooking for other people because I genuinely like them and don't wish for any of them to perish.
Rewind with me to this summer when one of my favorite watoto Mafiki * assures me that Pancakes are, indeed, the very best option for a breakfast for supper meal. I've never made gluten free pancakes. What if they turn out like my pie crust??
I tell him, I'm not sure about it. I don't know if I can.
His reply is priceless and ruthless at the same time. He tells me "But Ms. Rebecca, aren't you ALWAYS telling us we can do ALL things through Christ who strengthens?"
You saw that, didn't you? He used my own words against me.
I told everyone that Jesus and I made some pretty yummy pancakes that evening.
So I guess, since I can't write this new song on earth, I'll have to ask the One who *made* the earth for help?
Prayers - or suggestions of songs that already fit the bill are definitely welcome, as well as prayers that I will depend on Jesus for the living it out part.
My new favorite thing, including (or maybe because of) the struggle, is song writing.
I started taking guitar lessons because I'm a lifelong learner, and because my guitar was sitting in it's case sorely neglected. But really, because music heals my heart. I was surrounded in ashes and needed something new.
I wrote my first song a little under a year ago after a retreat.
....actually, the first was ages ago when I was still a student at LR. I was soothing a toddler I was babysitting by singing songs about Jesus. Out of the overflowing of my heart in that moment, a new melody and words formed themselves into a chorus.
I was surprised when the words and melody came back to me 20 (some) years later. I don't think I ever sang it again after that babysitting job, nor did I write it down.
The Holy Spirit has consistently used song to woo me as a child, to love on me, to admonish me (another form of love), and to fill my heart with hope and purpose. Music is most definitely my 'Love Language'. It's how I relate to God.
So it comes as no surprise to me that I'm beginning to share songs with the children on Wednesday nights.
Haha! Okay, that's kind of a lie. I was *very* surprised when I felt promoted to write the first song. It was no problem for me to prepare other people's songs to share with the children. I didn't have time, with the intense busy-ness of the beginning of the school year, to work on a song. But in the overflowing of my heart after worship one Sunday, I woke up from a nap with this song for September's memory verse. It literally wrote itself in like 5 minutes! (Psalm 86:15):
Then came this little bluesy number for October (I definitely am in need of a lesson or three to make it work...). Joshua 1:9
I've had a ton of fun using scripture for lyrics. I was in disbelief when one of the other leaders said that her kids watched my video over and over, and awe struck when I heard that a friend's daughter was overheard in the shower singing my song. My heart was even struck silent when I realized that all 60 some kids at that Wednesday night program were singing my song *without* the words. I suddenly understood how budding pop artists get so excited hearing their song on the radio for the first time.
But do you want to know the BEST part of song writing? The very best part?
It happened the other night. An adorably precocious little girl - I'm guessing she's 5 or 6, with jet black hair, and a sparkle in her soulful eyes excitedly whispers to me "I know another song with those same words!" Since I'm still "on stage" and we are about to transition to the next activity, I had to ask if she'll share it with me later. Later didn't come until the very end of the evening. Her mom had already come to pick her up.
This precious one, whom God loves SO VERY much, proceeds to sing *her own* version of Joshua 1:9 - that she was apparently making up in that very moment as she was singing it.
My awkward song ignited something in her. She was enjoying God's Word, and was living out the very concept of Joshua 1:9. Y'all, the melody was off key, had a random tempo, and yet, was the most beautiful thing I've ever heard.
I love her childlike example of bravery. I love how the Holy Spirit orchestrated that very moment.
I'm wondering if the moral of this story is:
Be bold, y'all. Be courageous. Risk relationships - because that's what songs are. But most of all be childlike...and listen. You might just hear a song, too.
When things don't go my way I do one of five things:
1. Throw a pity party (keeping it real).
2. Laugh it off or shrug my shoulders because I realize it was out of my control to begin with (what I long to do more)
3. Make a spreadsheet or clean my desk (or something else that appears out of control).
4. Sing a song (in the spirit of The King and I - "whenever I feel afraid, I whistle a happy tune ..."
5. Make a list of what I'm grateful for that includes tough tasks of endurance, confusing and pain filled growing, and unmet longings that point me to the Lover of my Soul - the only one who can meet me in those deepest of places.
Today...
heh...today I've managed to do all five- even # 2 (but that was only after the first event).
Here's my list of my favorite things (in the spirit of a song from yet another great musical)
* The 2nd grader who said to me: you look like someone I know without glasses when you don't wear your glasses."
* 3rd graders who picked up on a tough concept in a short number of days, and excitedly ran out of my room with their papers to show their teacher.
* Hugs from students.
* turning in a report early (because I was able to make the spreadsheet work for me)
...my heart is better now. I hope nothing else happens. But if it does, I hope I'll remember # 2 and the 2nd part of # 5.
I'm up for (most of) the challenge put forth by Meredith from Milk and Honey Counselling.
I'm thinking I'll write about daily results from intentional relationships.
Yesterday was a hard day for me. I had some relational fails and some awkwardness too, but also a few touchdowns.
One of my touchdowns was in finding a way to tackle fear of writing with two of my most reluctant writers using football. Who knew you can teach nouns using football positions?!
(Squirell moment - Can someone tell me why there is an outside runningback and not an inside runningback??)
I have had the blessing of leading a 10 minute segment with the children at church on Wednesday nights. each month there is a memory verse, and this is the 2nd month I wrote a song to go with it...or tried to.
I didn't realize how much relating can happen between a song writer and her audience.
Tears still well up in my eyes thinking about how that played out last night.
...and I think I'll write about that tomorrow. :-)
I recently read a book (okay, part of a book) that angered me....initially.
The author *seemed* to be accusing me of being afraid of the students I love -and for whom I offer a daily sacrifice...
...because of their skin color?!
The strength of emotion I felt surprised me. It breaks my heart when I can't reach my students, when they don't know how much I care about them. When their parents don't trust me and can't see that we're on the same team. I love and enjoy each individual.
I love variety. One memorable moment I had while traveling a while back, was when I spent the night in this little *intensely* creepy town in Indiana where I could hardly breath for all the suffocating sameness. I don't think there was a single dark colored hair- let alone skin tone - not even in WalMart! ...at the next rest stop, I almost kissed the first person of color that I saw.
The author's words also brought out more intense feelings, because I felt that I was being judged outside of relationship. The stereotypical remarks being made about me and others in my profession cut to the core.
But then I paused and thought: If he was making stereotypical remarks...there must be something prominent enough to base that stereotype on. How truly sad.
I hold firmly to this belief:
There is one race, and only one - and it's called "The human race."
I don't see color, I only see wounds - wounds that can only be healed through relationship.
Edit: apparently I don't hold too firmly to that belief...because I'm editing the post just 18 hours later. I do see color. I LOVE every shade, and I relish a community that can embrace variety with each maintaining his or her cultural identity.
So, I do see color *and* wounds.
Many in my profession see the divide but lack the social skills and finesse to bridge the gap. Myself included.
Y'all, relationships are messy.
You've heard it said that possession is 99% of the law.
I say perception is %99 of reality.
The only way to improve perception is to get closer to what you are trying to see.
We have to walk across the room, across the tracks and trample over stereotypes, the fear of rejection, and embrace the awkward to reach out a welcoming hand that says "We're in this together. We're on the same team."
Another edit: I'm Swedish...a few other nationalities too, but the biggest chunk of me is Swedish. It is a part of my family's culture.
I get that part of cultural identity has to do with race. In that sense race is something to be celebrated. I don't want to come across as a big racial eraser - we are all God's children, and our Creator has made us beautiful because of that variety. Navigating the waters as a shepherd of several races in one classroom is a lot like finding the needle in the haystack of my mixed metaphors.
We left on June 18th. I did my very best to ignore that it was our wedding anniversary. We haven't lived as man and wife since November of 2011...and I still miss the old Kip - before alcohol. I must have cautioned my roommate a few times too many about my snoring because another teammate commented. "You are really paranoid about your snoring!"
...and the memories came flooding back. Kip had always been a light sleeper. but after he started drinking he would go days with no more than a few hours of sleep - which turned out to be particularly dangerous for me. In the week hours of the morning (more than once), he got fed up with my snoring and placed his pillow over my face and attempt to smother me. I soon stopped trusting to sleep in our bed and moved to the couch for the remaining months of our time together.
It made sense to me that I might fear rejection from my new roommate because of my snoring. ...and with that, I could no longer pretend that this trip me putting the past so far in the past that it appeared erased. I wasn't Becca 3.01, completely renewed without any visible scars. I am a new creation, because of salvation, but I have been burned and wounded deeply and repeatedly. It's part of who I am.
Still, I tried to push it down, until a few days later, a brave young lady asked the question 'where is God when bad things happen to good people who are sure they've heard God's calling and everything seems to be ripped away?'
Before I knew it - the part of me that had resolved to close up and leave all of the vulnerability of my story deep inside a vault, tucked away in dark corner was TACKLED by the Holy Spirit who was so forcefully compelling me to answer from my experience that I didn't have time to protest.
There is a breathtaking beauty found in suffering that you can't know until you risk looking for Jesus in the midst of it. That beauty is SO moving you can't help but gasp in awe of the Creator who gives us beauty for our ashes.
Fast forward a few days to that time when Pastor Benard told us on a Thursday afternoon that we'd be the main speakers for an all day Christian conference on Saturday (two days later!). Just like the sage leader from the Lego Movie, there he was, in effect saying "the Special will now give an eloquent speech. Go ahead man. You got this."
I most certainly hadn't prepared to speak to an entire church. I was going to Kenya to love on the children and their teachers. I'm no Beth Moore! I hadn't planned on being pushed to be the lead singer for large groups of children and adults. I planned on sharing 3 songs. I practiced those three songs for MONTHS. My team wanted to sing songs I didn't feel qualified to sing. My ears were a total mess from the flights. Filled with fluid...and my heart was filled with a fear of inadequacy.
"Yes, it's true. I may not be a master builder. I may not have a lot of experience fighting, or leading, or coming up with plans - or having ideas in general. In fact, I'm not all that smart; and I'm not what you'd call the creative type. Plus, generally unskilled. also, scared and cowardly. I know what you are thinking: He is the least qualified person to lead us - and you are right!" ~Emmit from the LEGO movie.
I identified with Emmit. I could have been Emmit. I like structure. I like routine. I enjoy doing what I'm good at.
Yet this was the message God was nagging me to give that Saturday. I chose as my topic "Suffering and Idolatry"; and this is how I began my talk:
"My husband was my best friend for 12 years before we married."
(I was grateful for our translator and for the time in between sentences to breathe.)
"During our first 5 years of marriage he protected me." (here is where the sweet memories of our early years together flooded my heart as I waited my turn.
He provided for me.
We prayed together.
We laughed together;
...and we continued to grow closer especially through conflict.
But he lost his job.
His grandfather and best friend died.
He was attacked by an entire hive of bees;
...and he turned 40 - all within the time span of just a couple of weeks.
But instead of waiting to see what God would create out of this pile of ashes.
He chose to drink alcohol.
He chose to numb his pain.
Exodus 32:1New International Version (NIV)
When the people saw that Moses was so long in coming down from the mountain,they gathered around Aaron and said, “Come, make us gods[a]who will go beforeus. As for this fellow Moses who brought us up out of Egypt, we don’t know what has happened to him.”
Instead of waiting. Instead of being faithful to the God who had saved them SO MANY times in the past, the people of Israel - God's beloved, wanted to feel good.
They had a party with a gold cow. (yes...I really said that. smh)
My husband's future was uncertain.
But he didn't want to wait on God.
He no longer submitted to God's authority.
(this is where my memory of my talk gets fuzzy...so the following is what I tried to say, even though I'm not certain that it's how it actually came out)
Judges 17:6New International Version (NIV)
In those days Israel had no king; everyone did as they saw fit.
I also had waiting to do.
When my beloved became too dangerous, I had to leave him.
I had no home to call my own.
I was wounded - physically, and traumatized emotionally.
Kip didn't repent.
He didn't stop drinking - even when SO many offered to help him.
He forgot about how powerful hope is.
I'm SO GRATEFUL that I listened to the friends who surrounded me during this very tough season that lasted years. I'm so glad I learned about holding onto hope.
I gave into idolatry too. I wanted the pain of losing my beloved numbed.
No one wants to hurt. No one asks for suffering.
Paul shares about his suffering here:
2 Corinthians 12 New International Version (NIV)
8 Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me.9 But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.10 That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.
I can tell you without a doubt that God is worth the wait.
He is GOOD.
He is kind.
He is faithful;
- and He is with you in the middle of whatever you are going through.
I do remember feeling SO strongly convicted and joy filled during the last part of my talk. I intimately know God as Emmanuel (God is with us) in the middle of very hard times and was excited to testify to that truth.
As I sat down...I was awe struck and relieved. I had been able to get through it. The hardest thing I ever faced was over. The translating Pastor's words to me were both humbling and encouraging as he commented on how beautiful it was that I could say that God is GOOD even though I had suffered.
Another teammate spoke and the time came for us to break up into small groups. I was surprised to be the only one from my team to be put in a group with the women. It seemed as though about 70% of the community who attended that day were women, and most of them were widows.
I have completely blocked from my memory the specific questions they asked me. They were trauma filled questions. Questions that floored me. Questions that made me want to run to my childhood bedroom, flop on the bed and weep for days.
These women were looking to me???? for the answers. I just *thought* I had nothing earlier in the week.
I said to God, "I REALLY got nothing. I'm empty. There is nothing that is in me that can meet the needs of these desperate and hurting widows. I don't have words to say to them. All I have are ashes."
I'm so thankful Shannon came in and sat with me. She had heard their questions. I stumbled over my words. Yet, these precious women and I searched God's word for something - anything; and a beauty beyond belief began to grow out of those ashes. The Holy Spirit had a word for these women, and it was beautiful to be in the awkward middle of it all and yet somehow on the sidelines watching Him (the one who Loves perfectly) speak though His Word.
I had a front row seat - God was the speaker. His Word truly is alive.
He does give us beauty for our ashes - in every moment.
I have longed to visit the school in Ahero, Kenya from the very moment I heard about it over 5 years ago. My husband and I had sponsored a little girl called Mary. She was 4. There was a drought at the time, and each night we prayed for rain. When Kip lost his job we prayed for finances to be raised to build a well. I knew Mary had siblings and I prayed for them too. I kept up with what was happening in Kenya, and even began researching what it would take for me to be able to spend a summer there. Just as I was about to begin raising support to join another team that coming Summer my plans were derailed. Kip lost his job and our marriage began to crumble under the weight of his alcoholism and rage. Several pages of my life story caught on fire and burned and only ashes remained. I needed to focus on healing and renewal rather than travel and ministry. Even through it all, I continued to pray for Mary, her siblings, and their grandmother who was trying to care for them. When I was able, I sent in my support. I wasn't always able. There were the months that I lived out of my suitcases without a home of my own, and the costly months where I was starting over, trying to get my feet back on the ground. Yet somehow I found myself, 5 years later, in the Charlotte Airport waiting to begin the trip of my dreams. The sheer joy and anticipation of knowing that I'm *really* going to be able to meet Mary for the first time is almost overwhelming. With tears unexpectedly streaming down my face I manage to share with my team how this trip symbolizes a loving Father giving me 'beauty for ashes'. He keeps His promises.
Each time our plane landed the excitement in my heart would peak and I'd get all choked up all over again. (It took 4 flights to get there) It seemed just *too much* to believe that this beautiful thing was really happening. Abba loves these children SO INCREDIBLYMUCH, and I get to share that with them!!! (and especially with Mary.) We arrived Saturday...or was it Friday? (Jet lag fun!) The children are all seated in the cafeteria. We are escorted to seats in the front row. I turn around and scan the beautiful faces half expecting to recognize her face among the hundreds. Children come up on stage and do magnificent recitations, sing amazingly beautiful songs, and dance joyfully. The sound of their singing brings tears to my eyes. I've never heard a more vibrant sound. It didn't take me long to fall in love with each and every one of them. Still, I wondered "was one of those precious souls Mary?".
Granted, I didn't expect to get the chance to meet her in person. My greatest hope was to have her pointed out to me in a crowd. Bonus would have been to see her face to face and maybe even get a photo. Her photograph was lost to me several years before during one of my many moves. She'd be 9 years old, I mused. It's such an honor to finally be here.
When we went back to the school the next day to meet with the teachers I ask one of them "Do you know Mary?" It was worth the risk. I don't know all the students at my school, and it's about the same size. Mr. Bob recognized her last name and suggested that she might go by a different first name.
I wondered, was Mary still there? How would I know if she was the little one for whom I prayed all these years? Well, Pastor Benard didn't leave me much time to ponder anything. He kept true to his promise - "When you come here, I work you like donkeys!" Sunday came and went...and was incredibly full. We worked like donkeys, and loved every amazing minute! Any free time on Sunday was used to plan our lessons for the coming week. On Monday, I met and tried to teach something to Class 8 and Class 2 and played games during PE with Class 4.
Was Mary in the 4th grade class that day? I was so busy with all SIXTY SEVEN of them I didn't have a chance to wonder. But I'd have a chance to ask later on that afternoon when we met with the teachers - or so I thought.
One of our youngest teammates had gotten sick that morning. She was scared and far away from people she knew. The decision was made that I would stay at Benard's home with her instead of going back to teach my afternoon classes.
Tuesday morning was just like the day before. We spent a little time teaching but then had the honor of cheering on Class7 at the music festival after lunch.
There were too many sights to see and so much culture to drink up for me to have a chance to stop and think. I was learning so much about the community, the children, the school, and was taking stock of how big the need is there.
In my journal I wrote:
"Not enough text books or school supplies. Transportation! Not enough food - only 1/5 of the children in Ahero are sponsored!! The teachers haven't been paid in 2 months. How does Benard use that little bit of money and stretch it to meet the needs of SO many children?? What about the 8th graders who have no place to go when they finish? What will happen to them? We can do so much more!" Wednesday. I woke up worried. I haven't met Mary yet! Am I going to come all this way and not get to meet her? Fear gripped my heart - what if there isn't a High School by the time she's in 8th grade?? What happens to little girls when they have no place to go? Friends, something happened to me as I pondered and processed it all. I liken it to that time when inevitably the Grinch became aware that his heart had grew three sizes. In that moment, I realized that every single one of the children became collectively my "Mary". I held their hands, looked into their eyes, laughed with them, learned from them, played games, sang songs and prayed prayers. I listened to their hopes and dreams, I saw the needs, and just barely scratched the surface of their fears.
They ALL needed my prayers. They ALL need my support. My money feeds so many more than just Mary. Her name became just one of the more than 500 names at that school. Her story became just one of the more than 500 stories. Her needs represent the needs of only one child. I fell in love with more than 500 children...and I haven't even met the children at the other school!
Here is one of the banners we made with the children. The other is identical and was left at the school so they would know that they belong and are a part of something Bigger, and that they matter.
When I finally got to the school that last morning, I knew it no longer mattered if I met her. I'm sure we had already accidentally met at some point. I hoped that one of the hands I shook had been hers or that I had been able to anonymously look her in the eyes and smile. Mary would always have a place in my heart ...and so will the rest - Felix, John, Enid, Hope, Ruth, Shem, Violet, Beckam, Lennox, Tevin, Edwin, Yvonne, Maria, Blair, Stacy, Liz, Griffen, Reyes, Ricki, Kevin, Rose, Solomon, Frederick....and SO MANY MORE.
As it turned out, I did get to meet her. She put her fingerprint on the banner and wrote her name. See it?
I'll give you a hint. She doesn't go by Mary. :-)
I asked sweet Vera about her family. She's very shy and not very talkative...and she probably didn't understand my American accent. I was able to tell her how I've been praying for her and her brothers and sisters for a very long time - ever since I first heard. I told her that Pastor Benard came over to America 5 years ago and visited my church, and how he shared about this school telling us about her and the other children. I let her know that I'd continue to pray for her.
Cassie grabbed a few pictures of us while we talked. Isn't she beautiful?
Later that week, at the school in Wachara I pick up that children have different names as one teacher explains to the students that they must only put one of their names on the leaf - the one that is their favorite.
I can't be sure that Vera is the same child. They seemed sure she was the one. I could have been wrong about her name. Her photograph (with her information on the back) and the sweet picture she had drawn with a blue and a yellow crayon were still fixed to the refrigerator when I had to hastily move out three years ago. But really, does it matter? I can't get the past back, and beauty from ashes isn't copying what was before, it's creating something completely new. Mary is the seed that became that beautiful tree.
I wept a good bit that night in my room. I wept for each child. I wept for Mary (aka Vera). I grieved a little over the events that kept me from coming 5 years ago - the ashes. I cried tears of incompetence - I had been so tongue tied and felt incredibly awkward that afternoon when I finally was able to met her. I also wept because I knew that there are SO MANY individual children who are in need, each with a tragic story. And I wept tears of inadequacy because I can't meet Vera or Mary's, or any other child's needs on my own. Remember that only 1/5 of the children in Ahero are sponsored? What about the children at the school in Wachara? None of them are sponsored. There are more than 300 at that school.
With tears still streaming down my face, I tenderly touched the leaves on the banner and prayed for each child as I scanned their names, hoping they know:
I have a maker
He formed my heart
Even before time began
My life was in His hands.
He knows my name.
He knows my every thought
He sees each tear that falls
And hears me when I call.
He hears me when I call.
I can't meet their needs. God can.
If you feel led to be the hands and feet of Jesus to one if these children, contact Hungry 4 Him to sponsor a child.
You can also help with a one time gift here through the You Caring site Jeff set up.
When we arrived in Kenya, there were the things we expected to be different such as:
-bartering at the market and eating new foods - tilapia with vegetables, ugali (not pictured) and chapati (tortilla like bread),
-walking to destinations - though Pastor Benard only let us walk this one time in Ahero, but only because the headmaster, Mr. Philemon, escorted us. I'm sure all of us wazungu were quite the sight. (wazungu is Kiswahili for "white people" & plural of the term we heard most "mzungu")
- Here is a roadside market place. The gentlemen waiting with the motorcycles are taxi drivers. Their motorcycles have padded seats on the back.
But, some things we didn't expect:
-"So...you don't have witch doctors in America?" (It took me a minute to let that question sink in before I could answer.)
-going through a metal detector and being searched TSA style - at the local Stuff Mart (Veggie Tales reference)
...for that matter, armed guards deciding who they will let into the local Stuff Mart compound. (this photo was taken after we got inside)
-paying to use a public toilet....and taking a folded bit of toilet paper out of a cardboard box. ... or using an outhouse like the one pictured above from the school yard in Ahero.
-chickens in church,
-chickens (and cows) at school.
...and even chickens in the living room!
-being asked "What do you feed your cat?" by the children and realizing most service animals don't have names, let alone get fed a steady diet of specially made cat good that I purchase at the store every week or so.
-"Mzungu! Mzungu! HowahYou?" (How are you? said as one word - much like the KiSwahili word "Habari" which means the same.) We were told that the children might rush up to us just to touch. I still wasn't prepared for it, though I hope and pray they knew Jesus' love in each touch, smile, and hand shake offered.
-"You must be proud that your son (a soldier) sends you so much money." Shannon learned that Kenyan soldiers send all their pay home to their mothers to help care for the family.
-I'm sure watching me try to describe a poodle to Class 2 (2nd graders) because it was in a phonics song I was teaching them was fun. It got a lot of giggles in class. We only saw one breed of dog while we were there, and their sole purpose was to guard the house.
-"Why would you name a cow? We use the cow for food!" ~Pastor Benard
-Killing black snakes is beneficial to all...but a lot more dangerous that the black snakes we find in North America (google Black Mamba if you don't believe me).
-Kids can play football (soccer) even without a ball. (I was amazed at the tightly wadded plastic grocery bags joined by a web of rubber bands that served very well as a soccer ball!)
-Doesn't everyone carry baby goats on the back of their motorcycle?
-See the cooking oil containers on back? (We had fried donuts many mornings called Mandazi - Thank you Pamela and Bertha! They were YUMMY!) I'm going to try to make some this week - wish me luck! Yay for YouTube cooking helps!
Some differences were refreshing:
-Sodas made with real sugar - in glass bottles! My favorite Kenyan sodas were surprisingly made by Coca Cola: Krest (tasted like carbonated lemonade) and Stoney Tangawazi (a yummy Ginger Beer - sweet with a tiny hint of spice)
-milk in a bag. (How fun is that?!)
-mannequins with curves & "Plus sized" women in music videos.
-We saw women sitting like this and found it to be equally modest, and a whole lot more air conditioned!
-hot tea made with hot milk - every night. This time was by candlelight until the power came back on.
OH! that picture reminds me of the can of plum jelly that was so good with the mandazi.
Then there are those differences that shouldn't be - the ones we can do something about:
The need for a safe water supply. This is a nice water tower at the school in Ahero. I believe it's attached to a well, so when there's electricity water can be pumped into the containers.
-Three or four students share the same broken pen to write down their assignments.
- Four or five students cram into a desk that should really only seat 2.
The students pictured above worked flawlessly as a team to bring all of their desks out of their classrooms for an assembly. I love how a table was ingeniously used to seat the pre-schoolers so they could see the stage in the cafeteria too.
-One student text book shared by four or five students in one class...and one (maybe two) textbooks per classroom shared by the entire class in another.
-not enough teacher editions of textbooks. Even though there is only one or two nationally approved curriculum, shouldn't each teacher have a copy of the Teacher's Edition? (or even have one copy at the school to share)
-Students who walk sometimes three hours to and from school didn't have school bags to keep the little they did have. It's probable they didn't eat breakfast before leaving their guardian's home, and also probable they won't get dinner when they return at night.
-Widows and orphans living in houses made out of mud, with mud floors- that might fall down during the rainy season. Benard said the best homes can last up to 4 (whole) years. The homes we saw mostly had congregated tin roofs like the building in the picture below. Some had thatched roofing.
The second picture was taken inside one sweet mama's home. It shows how she makes sisal rope from the leaves of the agave plant. It was the only source of income we saw for single mothers. These women need to be empowered to earn a living so they can feed their children.
-There was room in the dorms where more children could safely stay, but not enough beds.
-These sweet children from the church we attended in Kisumu, sang a very sad song that spoke directly to the plague of death that is haunting them through HIV/AIDS and political turmoil, and terrorist attacks. An entire generation of fathers is missing.
But some things remain the same no matter where you are:
-Children love to act goofy for the camera and then see what the finished product looks like.
-football (aka soccer)
- jumping rope
....well, maybe. :)
-worship - it might have been in a different language, but even the melodies were the same! "What a Friend We Have in Jesus", "It is Well With My Soul", "Bringing in the Sheeves". A sweet moment while we were waiting for the conference to begin was when I began softly humming "How Great Thou Art" after hearing the three pastors singing so many traditional hymns, and then heard them flipping wildly through the pages of their hymnals saying in English "Number 16! Number 16!" before beginning the same hymn in their tribal language.
-Students in Ahero showing honor to their country's flag during morning assembly with an honor guard.
- hanging clothes out to dry (although, we don't typically have to wash them by hand in a wash tub...)
- pride in a job well done. These girls won 1st place in a music festival contest in the traditional category. We were honored to be able to cheer them on and celebrate their job well done!
