I met a sweet girl this week.  Can’t remember the exact whereabouts, but it was as though her voice just kind of entered my space.  Like when you learn a new word, and all of the sudden hear it all the time?  That’s how she feels—familiar and yet almost surreally unfamiliar.  I don’t recall having heard her voice before—had certainly heard of it, but honestly didn’t really think she existed.

On some fronts, my newfound friend is childish, but on others, incredibly mature.  
She knows realities of her interiority, corporality and uniqueness.
She’s humble enough to be weak.
She’s gentle on herself and compassionate with others.
She’s gracious and graceful with the Makings of her body.
She chooses laughter and welcomes tears.
She loathes shame and embraces anger.
She’s not afraid of her hunger, nor daunted by her complexity.
She’s not afraid of darkness, though doesn’t pretend to not want light.
She's not afraid of failing.
She’s not afraid of falling.
She does unto others, but is willing to prioritize doing unto herself.
She knows destinations of peace, but embraces the journey of war.
She knows she is beautiful.
She knows who made her new.

Her name is Abbie.
My name is Abbie.

He visited today.  In a refreshingly different, and yet still awful way than before. Different in that I recognized him, and awful in that recognizable, or not, he still exudes awfulness—like a whispering ghost, criticizing my every move.  

I saw his face—I felt his disdain.  

He stared at my openness to anger and asked me to hate.

He gaped at my hopes of the hour and asked me to fear.

He mocked my sadness.  

Marked my weakness.

Masked my gladness.

And raped my good.

He marveled at my tears and said, “Don’t stop.  You should always be finding more reasons to flow.”

He flirted with my fatigue and said, “I’m glad to find you here.  I’m glad to remind you of your name.”

He grabbed me by the hand, wanting to lead me back into his dark—back into his dance.

But I pulled away and said, “No.  I see you today and your story is not worth my time.”

Airplane

Airplanes are one of the more perplexing things in life to me.  They’re intimate and communal, yet detached and individual. Unfaithful in offering a detailed view, yet immeasurable in light of granting “the big picture.”

I’m flying right now.  En route home from the Orange Conference in Atlanta, which collected thousands of leaders aiming to rethink our thoughtful (and sometimes not so thoughtful) attempts at “Church.”  It was encouraging on many fronts, but overwhelming on many others—revealing a naked and yet overdressed, vow-less and yet overly complex, modern Bride.

The man behind me is speaking German and has ordered three “vodka and tonics.”  The woman in front of me is holding a baby.  She seems sad and tired.  The man beside me snores in intervals of three and hasn’t moved since take-off.  The guy across the way looks about forty, with a young daughter.  Going by their head-gear, they’re Jewish and look to have a tender relationship.  And these are but the inside faces.  My window keeps changing its visage, from cloud, to mountains and soon to be ocean.

Imagine all the stories on just this plane, let alone the faces of atmosphere airing its frame.  Where do they come from?  And where are they going?  Which can’t help but make me think about leaving this conference and wondering where we’re all going—and if the airtime we experienced was enough to change where we’ll choose to go?

I believe the distance between the Church Body is shrinking.  Mileage between denominations and destinations seems to be lessening.  Masses are colliding and ministries collaborating toward new (and newly old) attempts at the Commission.  But I’m still can’t help but realize we’re gonna land in 46 minutes…and all these people are gonna go their own way and reenter their own story.  And I have to wonder if all of us from the conference will do the same?  If all of us in the Church will continue doing the same?  Will we choose to keep colliding on certain fronts, sharing airtime and elevation, but then isolate again when the rubber hits the runway?

Not sure what I’m meaning to say here, exactly, or if there’s every anything conclusive to say after all—heck, I’m thousands of feet in the air, so far from conclusive statements of precision.  I guess I just want us, and me, to be aware of the Churches full process in attempting to fly—the take-off and landing points, as much as the airtime in-between.  That we’d be grounds in our points of departure and destination, but risky in our willingness to head upwards.  I guess I just want our generation of disciples to be with the Bride in all parts of Her aisle—porch and alter, as well as airtime in between.  Flying high with lofty ideas and innovation is good, but its most important and challenging task is “landing well.”  Integrating successfully.  

The bad news is, I have no idea what this looks like.  For me.  For you.  For us.

But the good news is, the pilot just announced a grace period.  Seventeen minutes till landing.

http://www.africaourownhome.org

You may remember my friend Holly from Uganda.  Just as I was leaving in late August, she was beginning her orphange.  Holly is an incredible inspiration as a young, passionate lover of Jesus, so I figured you might enjoy tracking with her story.

Hoping you're well.

(I'm contributing a weekly blog to www.collegeleader.org, a new site for college ministry resources, so many of my posts here will come straight from there, including this one.  Hope you're well!  Abbie)

“So what’s going on with you spiritually?” I asked through the steam of two cups of coffee. 
The student responded, “You know, I’m doing okay, but really struggling in a certain area.” 
At this point I was pretty convinced what the ensuing minutes would entail.  Namely, that topic that every student of Jesus will eventually face—and certainly every college student.
“Hmm,” I said, trying to remain at height with the conversation, “would you feel comfortable unpacking the struggle a little more?” 
“Yeah…I guess…I mean, I think a lot of people struggle with it, too…it’s just that, well, I don’t really know what to do about it.  Like…I don’t really know why it’s so bad lately.” 
“Well,” I said, seeing shame embodied before me, “let’s try to at least get this “it” on the table, and then maybe we’ll go from there.”
“Okay…well, it’s just this problem with…lust…I think about the opposite sex and sex and just lustful stuff all the time.” 
“Okay,” I said, “talk to me about those thoughts a little more.” 
“Ummm, I don’t know what else to say…it’s just like really bad and really gross.” 
At this point the student became more frustrated at the “it,” or the self, or something of the two.  “It’s like I can’t get lustful thoughts out of my head.  And they come-up at random times, like while I’m trying to study, or watch TV, or even trying to pray!?” 
“Gosh…it seems like God is unveiling a lot here.  Thank you for being willing to talk about it.  It’s clearly been burdening you a lot.”
“Yeah…yeah, it really has,” the student said, looking down at the table.  “I hate it.  And I hate me when I hate it.  And I can’t imagine how God would want anything to do with this—and definitely me in this.” 

The “it” of this conversation is not unlike many, and probably most, we’ll sit across from (or with) this semester.  As I’ve started to explore the topic (“lust”) with God, taking into account my presumptions and presuppositions, I’ve come upon some pretty interesting ends—well, not ends maybe, but at least entrances into beginnings I’d love to toss out. 
How does this four-letter word carry such power in our Christian lives, and persistence in our Christian journeys?  How does something so good and potentially opportunistic, become such an evil in an untraceable matter of seconds?     So I’m a nerd and went to dictionary.com.  The definition of lust is as follows:

1.    intense sexual desire or appetite.
2.    uncontrolled or illicit sexual desire or appetite; lecherousness.
3.    a passionate or overmastering desire or craving (usually fol. by for): a lust for power.
4.    ardent enthusiasm; zest; relish: an enviable lust for life.
5.    Obsolete.
a.    pleasure or delight.
b.    desire; inclination; wish
6.    to have intense sexual desire.
7.    to have a yearning or desire; have a strong or excessive craving
(synonyms: crave, hunger, covet, yearn)

Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1)  Based on the Random House Unabridged Dictionary, © Random House, Inc. 2006.

Nothing too surprising, maybe, but of further interest was the etymology of lust, exposing original usages of, "joyful and merry,” and in later years, "full of healthy vigor.”  Christological interpretation followed, carrying the trophy that disturbed every positive inclination this word ever held.  Easton’s 1897 Bible Dictionary explains lust in two ways: sinful longings (referencing Romans 1:21) and objects of desire (referencing Mark 4:19).  And yes, I am in seminary, but no, I’m not about to exegete all “lustful passages” in Scripture.  I guess what I want to throw-out though, is what it would look like for lust to not always be the “bad-guy”—to not always be the “struggle” we assume, or standard to which we prescribe “accountability partners”?  Must the (natural) tendency of lust be always boxed as “sin”—always branded all bad?  Moreover, what if lust could actually bridge a good—a gateway into prayer, or glorifying potential of grace?  What if lust could be explored as an aspect of our sexuality, and window toward honoring the others’?   What if culture, Church, or Satan’s obsession with lust deflated to its intended role—to something designed with joy and boastful of vigor for Jesus?  What if lust was redefined—as a means, and not an end?  Rediscovered—in terms of gain, and not guilt?

What if lust was a gift?

Was meeting a friend at *Peets* yesterday (i.e. home of the best tea/coffee'esque drink you’ll find anywhere.  For those who’ve worked at a coffee shop, you know soy doesn’t steam well.  Well, Peet apparently knew that, but still wanted his non-dairy audience to enjoy the blessing of lattes and machiatos, so ventured to create a special form of steamable soy!?  Who does that!?).  Anyway, headed-up early to see if I could find a good patch of woods to share some breaths with.  Eaton Canyon came to my rescue.  Wasn’t “The Grand,” by any means, but it did the trick.  Nature is medicine to me—a gift for my weak and tired soul.  Ocean speaks one language, while mountain speaks another.  And I can’t believe I live in a vicinity that invites me to hear both.  Yesterday found me wrapped in the arms of rock, shielded in the shadows of tree and soothed by the taste of silence.  It was beautiful.  And again, life to my weary soul.

He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn over all creation. For by him all things were created: things in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or powers or rulers or authorities; all things were created by him and for him. He is before all things, and in him all things hold together. And he is the head of the body, the church; he is the beginning and the firstborn from among the dead, so that in everything he might have the supremacy. For God was pleased to have all his fullness dwell in him, and through him to reconcile to himself all things, whether things on earth or things in heaven, by making peace through his blood, shed on the cross. Colossians 1:15-20  

God has been teaching me a lot about opening to His vastness—to His infinite personalities and personas.  The challenge is that doing so requires laying down a plethora of assumed and engrained personalities herein.  I expect Jesus to be one way—because in essence He is.  But He is also three ways, in one.  Three essences, in one.  One infinite essence, in three.  The Trinity in flesh, the Triune counselor in Spirit and triumphant Lord in God.  One in three, three in one.  Try swallowing that, or just go stand in a canyon and let it swallow you.  And then go to Peets.

Odd coincidence of posting the last three Thursdays.  Weird.  Anyway, grateful for the some thoughts from psychologist, Carl Jung this week.

"As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being."
...
"The least of things with a meaning is worth more than the greatest of things without it." 
...
"Where love rules, there is no will to power, and where power predominates, love is lacking.  The one is the shadow of the other."
...
Hoping you're well tonight.
PEACE.
Abbie

The following is an email that has spurred my days since receiving it early last fall.  Being a Christian in America has its challenges, but being a Christian from/in the Middle East has a world of its own.  Tarun (Kumar Chawla, for the full coolness of the name) is a student from Penn State whose become a dear friend and brother since meeting at a conference almost a year ago.  His life is a continual encouragement and challenge to mine and leads me to pray for us, entering this new year, that we’d pursue lives worthy of their cost and willing in their capacities.  Cheers to you in 2008!  as

***

Dear Abbie!
Hope everything is going great with you.
So my summer was pretty crazy.
I was baptized on 12th May and my flight back home was on the 14th. I called me mom up a week before I was flying back and this is how the conversation went:
mama: you sound different these days..for the past 2 months i think
me: ya
mama: are you dating someone?
me: mmm..nope
mama: who or what is it then?
me: he's a man
mama: what?
me: not a man but a man, God
mama: uh
me: Jesus
(long pause)
mama: so you are telling me that you are Christian
me: yup!
mama: we will talk when you get here.
me: sounds good.
So ya. I took me everything (almost) to say that to my mommy. I can say that my mother is my real best friend and I cannot hide anything from her. Usually I say things to her directly but this was a little awkward.
When I was baptized, that feeling of being WHOLE took over me. I was complete and I still am, forever. The Holy Spirit in me did things I could never imagine doable.
After a stop in London we flew from London to Dubai and during the flight I was waiting to use to the Bathroom. This man in front of me looks at my Penn State Jeresy this is how the conversation goes.
man: I am class of '74
me: speechless
man: all my daughters and sons went and go to PSU
me: small world uh?
man (looks at my cross): which church you go to?
me: i haven't found one yet.
me: I was baptized 2 days ago and became a Christian 3 months ago.
man: great!
Then he gives writes me a couple of people whom I could contact and talk to about Church and Christian groups on campus. Then he said he'd pray for me that everything goes good with my family about me being Christian.
So I reach home and my family was there at the Airport. I hug them and my mama looks at the cross I am wearing and she didn't say anything (really awkward moment). A couple days later my parents take me to the local Hindu temple (I still wore the cross) and there's this long line of people worshiping something. I don't know what. The stone idols? I was like I worship in unimaginable true God. I give the money to the Pandit (Hindu Priest) without bowing kneeling to the statues. My mama notices me not doing anything on what was traditionally done in "worship". We get back my mom comes over to the bedroom and she asks me about what I told her over the phone. I was like yea, ask me. So the conversation went on and my mom started balling. Dad comes over to the room and they both say that "I have rejected them". I was speechless. I asked why and what they meant by that? They went on by saying how changing religions means that I have totally made no sense of what my parents did for me and how I have disgraced my families name by rejecting Hinduism. My dad went on saying how I wanted to prove something when I was wearing the cross at the temple. I had no idea what was going on.
I asked them, so its about the family? and where is God in all this? Then they started making up things like how I wanted to adjust between friends in the U.S and wanted to be like them and no different. Also, that I was brain-washed. When I heard this coming from my parents, I was blown away. I have no idea how this could even come from them. Such not-my-family thoughts. I had no idea how I should have responded. The whole room was running with wild emotions. My sisters emotions and answers to my parents questions didn't help me at all. She was dragged into the conversation by asking "would you ever change your religion, Renuka?". She obviously said "no". I was being attacked by my parents for the first time and I have no clue what and how should I be responding to the situation like.
Then I told my parents how I didn't believe in any religions and it's a not what God wants from us. My dad asks me "what religion are you?". I said "nothing". My dad made my momma and sister believe that I was brain-washed and how I was not the same anymore and not their son anymore. I just let it go for a couple of days.
My called my mom over and my sister was near by too. I explained to her how I was saved and how God had this plan for me on how I would come to Him some day. She had NO idea what I was talking about. Then that made me think about how my momma is all into this religion stuff and has no clue who God really is. I started all over again and it came to Jubilee and I your name came up and I said how your story has been an inspiration for me. She got bits and pieces of it but I told her how you had to experience it understand it and feel it. I said I worship the God who has bought me to life again. That was it for her. She has NO idea where I was going with it. My sister seemed anxious and my momma left for bed and I took the bible out and asked my sister to read the book of Matthew. She being a anxious reader and a book-worm, read the book of Matthew as if it was a new Harry Potter release. I was like so what you think? She said what do you mean? I said whatever she read was real and it happened. It didn't really mean anything to her. I think her brain's full of wands, wizards and witches.
God had plans for me this summer. I wanted to be a Christian on fire. I started reading (for the first time). I read "Just like Jesus" by Max Lucado in about 2 weeks haha then I was like this makes real sense. God was calling me to be just like Jesus. Then I read his second book "A Love Worth Giving" and that took me about 4 weeks to complete :).  Sometime or the other the Christian thing came up and it annoyed me at times but I was like i’ll let my parents see it the way I live my life now. They actually did. I think that was the only way they could really see my change. I don't know how this works but mommy's can see their kids change and when its good, they accept me. My mom accepted me as a Christian. But my dad, thats a totally different story. He a great man but without God being in a great person's life, that greatness means nothing.
This may sound weird but I felt God was calling me to love like Jesus. I was like WHOA. How is that possible? I kept in touch with some friends back at school and I used to write to them on how my summer was coming along. You know, good Christian friends. Our friendships grew stronger and I was like these are the people I really Love. I flew back to PA (being constantly being  reminded by my parents how I should make Indian friends and go to the Hindu worship with them) and I couldn't wait to see my friends again. School began and we hung out and I was like these are my true friends who love me. I compared their love to Jesus' love for me/us. And this is one thing that God has taught me, unconditional love. He has called my name to do amazing things through me. And I can't get over that reality.
I still have soo much to say but I think I can keep some for later.  I so can't wait to sit and just talk to you about ALLLLL the crazy things our AWESOME AWESOME God is doing in my life and other people's lives.
Peace and in Christ forever and ever and ever,
Tarun

Jesus was born here. 
Meaning he deliberately stepped-out of heaven.
Decidedly chose to be a child. 
A baby. 
A life who needed to be cared for. 
A love who wanted to live.
What humility.
What humanity.
And for the one ultimately (and originally) called our Savior.
Our God. 
Our King. 
What a story we’ve been invited into.
What an invitation we’ve been sent.
What a miracle.
What a mystery.
What a man. 

I was walking with friend in Hermosa Beach this weekend.  We decided sipping coffee while watching surfers would be fun (it’s a tough life in southern California), so ascended a hill toward the best java-joint of choice, i.e. Peets, as a family on bikes was noticed as coming toward us.  At first glance they looked like the happy little clan, out for a morning ride.  But in closer observance, the youngest boy had a stench of fear in his eyes, as well as increasingly velocity in his wheels.  He’d lost control and was going downhill fast—literally.  His training wheels were tottering back and forth, swinging his fragile body to dangerous degrees.  “Daaaddddy, I can’t stop,” he screamed, as my friend and I went breathlessly numb.  Mom and Dad were on bikes, too, so were of no help but terrifying stares of horror.  He had about ten yards till he crashed through us, and then about another ten before he hit a big intersection.  In what seemed like an hour-long pass of seconds though, his out-of-control wheels spun him into safety.  Spun him into a cinderblock wall.  Into a cement savior who’d come to his rescue.

Though the entrance wasn’t pretty, and rather quite abrupt, painful and bruising, little-boy-biker was alive.  His life had been spared.  By a wall.  By a boundary.  By a brick bordering otherwise known as hard and heartless.  This morning, however, these arms were soft and incredibly heartfelt.

They saw.  They protected.  They saved.

Maybe roadblocks are good.  Maybe walls aren’t always the worst of our predicament.

Stoic bricks on the outside, but sensitive points of saving when I scream, “Daddy, I can’t stop.”

It’s easier when you know the whole story.  Makes more sense when all the pieces have fallen.  But that’s not where I am.  And per request, that’s not what I’m posting.  My latest thoughts have been unfinished. Unfinished starts, and unstarted ends.  It’s like they’re soaking the middle.  Steeped in the tension.  And I’m realizing that to dismiss this space—to discard this mess—is to lose the story.  To minimize the whole.  So here I am. Maybe these starts will further your finish, or maybe these midpoints resurface your start.  Or maybe we’ll just stay here and revel in the middle.

***
The Fall—how did it feel?  What did it sound like?  How was it to experience the birth of fear?  Like in the garden…like when Eve consciously chose the apple…  Do you think her appearance changed?  Do you think her stomach flooded with anxiety, or maybe “falling” was more subtle?  And Adam—how was the experience for him?  What were his thoughts?  What did he say at his lover’s choice?  Did creation scream?  Or maybe it went numb?
*
Who would I want to trust that has the power to take everything away?  
But who else would I want to trust?
*
Jesus died on the cross to restore perfect relationship with our Heavenly Father.  What does this mean?  What does it mean that at the base of Roman nails, a soul finds nourishment in the cleansing blood of Christ?  Or that at the cross, we are rescued from ourselves, rescued from the death of this world, and most profoundly, rescued into the loving arms of our purposed chase—a Lord who, “Out of all the peoples on the face of the earth, has chosen you to be his treasured possession” (Deuteronomy 14:2)?
*
The call to marriage and God's sovereign plan for finding the “one” seems most about a sovereign plan for one's heart and heart's mutual readiness for find that one.
*
Do you ever feel like you give and give and give…and you’ve given so much that you’re done...out...at the end of your rope?  Hurt, tired and empty….saying to God, Lord, how do I do this?  How much am I suppose to give?  How much did you give?  How far does your grace go?  How far did your grace go?...”  I wonder how God would respond?  Wonder if He might say something like this, "I know child…I hear you.  My grace goes as far as it needs to.  My grace goes farther than it can fathom.  My grace goes back to the cross.  Always.  My grace always goes back to the cross.  Back to the point of death.  To the point of killing me.  Grace killed me.  Killed me for life.  For your life.  I died because my deepest longing was your birth.  
*
He knew who he was.
He knew whose he was.
He knew what he wanted.
He knew what he had.
*
I long for him tonight.  I long for the knight in shining armor.  I long for the smell, for the touch, for the silent gaze that speaks a novel.  What is that Lord?  What true longings found these thoughts?  What true desires sweep away my longings?  The blindfold on my heart is tired today.  But the raw strands of desire are exhausted too.  I can't run from it anymore, but my tears running toward it have cried their last.  The chase has found me beat.  The chasing has found me beaten.  How long must I wait, O Lord?  How long must I wait?  What is love, Father and who defines it?  What is not love, Lord, and who can so discern?  Is it the discrepancies that blind?  Or are blind?
*
Doing is so much easier than not doing
*
I saw a girl chasing a butterfly today.  It was glorious—the innocence, the artistry, the creation.  What is she really wanting though?  Is it the completion of the the caught fly?  Or the journey of actually chasing it?  Confusion seems to awaken when we chase an end without knowing its really for another.  Or when we chase another, unable to embrace its already found end.
*
Ever feel like your faith is frozen?  Wanting to move anywhere, but feeling stuck, to some degree, everywhere?  You know it has the potential to ebb and flow and mist and make, but right now it’s hard as a rock.  You’ve seen it soak and fill, and you’ve experienced its taste and filling, but its current state is dull, dark and fixed.  Frozen, cold and scared.
*
Mindful: "What is man that you are mindful of him, the son of man that you care for him?  You made him a little lower than the angels; you crowned him with glory and honor and put everything under his feet." Hebrews 2:6-7
I love the word, "mindful."  I love how philosophical it sounds, how introspective it reads and even how intellecutally it speaks.  What I don't love about mindfulness, is how hard it is.  Based on sheer semantic breakdown, mindful connotes carrying a full mind of, toward, to, or from something.  So the obvious challenge falls in the fact that to be full of anything, we must be emptied of something else.  In other words, in order for my mind to be filled completely, I must attempt an emptying of what’s already there.  Consider mindful listening.  If I want to be mindful in hearing you speak, my mind must attempt to be “full” of you—and thus to some degree, intentionally “less full” of me.  
*
Prodigal Freedom: I was always the perfect one, so didn’t relate to the story, or circumstance, or strayings of “the prodigal son.”  I was clean, innocent and didn’t need forgiveness.  I was the brother.  But now I’m angry.  Now I have done all the deeds and delivered the good life, but am still empty.  Am still longing.  Still lusting after the life I don’t have and freedom I don’t experience.  To get there though, I’m thinking part of me might have to embrace my stance as the prodigal—unveil my masked states of rebellion.  Not because of the rebellion itself, but because of what lies beneath.  Because of its instant gratification and then let-down.  Because of its turning, and then returning, to the porch I was made for.  The Home I was Freed for.  The hell I was Freed from.  But doing so means I let go of control.  I let go of my guard.  And resultingly, I follow and let Someone else in.  And that scares the hell out me.
*
Home: Something in me longs for home today.  But what, I must ask, is home—be it a home, my home, or the home?  It’s not as simple as grieving my church home, or residential home.  And it’s not as complicated, or far-off, as my spiritual home.  It’s a space between—a tension unscripted.  
I long to be at home in my body today, but I also long to be at home in my surroundings.  I long to taste the familiarity of peace, but I long to bring comfort to the confines of injustice.  I long to rest, and I long to play.  I long to be with and I long to be without.  I long to be whole and I long to be empty.  I long to live and I long to die.  
For in without, I am with.
In being empty, I become whole.
In coming to die, I choose to live.
Something in me longs for home today.
*
I’ve heard myself pray for opened or closed doors, believing such doing insists that, "God's will is being done."  Recent musing, however, has found me realizing it’s not just a matter of an open, or closed door.  My willingness to walk, or not walk through, is equally crucial.  "Yes, there you are God, but yes, here I am, too."
*
Loving: I asked my mom if she loved God.  She responded, “Yes.”  Then I asked her if she was in love with God.  She said, “No.”
*
Her tattoo caught my eye.  First impression was from across the bar, so I couldn’t make-out more than a caliedescope of colorful, Chinese script.  Moving closer, though, the shape morphed into a cross, coupled with a subscript that read: “RUINED FOR LESS.”  I loved it.
*
I learned what I don’t want to be when I grow-up.  A truck-driver.  See, I always thought leadership meant leading forward.  I thought it meant you lead and I’ll follow.  And it does, in some ways.  But it also doesn’t, in maybe a lot more ways.  That's what the truck driver taught me.
*
Correct me if I’m wrong here, but I think we tote deepest impression when we are least like the world.  Which seems to leave us in the most capable state to actually change the world?  And thus, maybe find ourselves most relevant to it?
*
Have you ever considered that a Savior was born to die?

It was broken.  And dirty.  And gross.  And I was able to be with them.  There were feces on the sidewalk and urine puddles rinsing our sandals.  It was drug-infested and prostitute-infected—and all in my own backyard.  

I spent yesterday in Skid Roe, touring the grounds and serving alongside a friend who works with Union Rescue Mission, as well as two ex-Tweakers (meth-addicts), ripe with memories grafting hellish days in this fifty block range.  The past couple weeks have found me itching to be back in the broken realities of Africa, often harder to recognize here.  A few collisions have scratched pretty clearly though, providing a brokennes, and reality, that would've been hard to miss.

Yesterday I was able to be with Andy, six months into his recovery program and convinced, “This is the time, because it’s finally me that wants it (recovery), versus God, or someone else, wanting it for me.”  Last weekend I was able to share dinner with a homeless woman named Nancy.  She comes from an educated and lucrative background and spoke of fond memories living on a farm and “breathing the airs of freshness” (I loved that she spoke of air in a plural sense…how did something so robust and uncontainable gain such a confined, singular phraseology?).  And I’m not sure if you remember the story of Barbara (see February posts), but she’s been a special player in bridging my gaps to brokenness, and has ironically resurfaced this week.  Barbara called at midnight on Saturday, ecstatic to apologize for her silence, but more ecstatic to brag that she’d been in a strict rehab program and as of that morning (at 12:01am), had been sober from meth, pot and alcohol for ninety days.  This Friday we will get to share a meal and afternoon of hiking.  If I were gonna die on Saturday, this is exactly how I’d schedule it—truly being with a person and doing so in the unshackled confines of airs.

As I ponder these stories, each seems to pose a bridge.  A bridge to the broken.  A bridge to my brokenness.  A bridge to complexities of the past, concerns for the future and realities of the present.  Each receives me as a bridge to poverty—my poverty and theirs, my wealth and theirs, my story and theirs.  Each presents a bridge to humanity—humanities heart and the heart of humanities longing.

Can it be quantified this simply though?  Life—as a web of bridges—connecting me to you and you to me—or me to me—or me back to them—and all back to Thee?  Could it be—not to fix, or force, or finalize, or face, but to bridge and to be bridged and to be with bridging gaps?

Is this all just a bridge?

I was broken.  And dirty.  And gross.  And you were able to be with me.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MaXXdF_tKPM

Granted, I was in Boston last weekend, but it’s something more.  More unrefined, but complex.  Permeating, yet freeing.  It feels like a window.  An escape.  A journey.  A beginning.

I like it.

I knew this would be a hard transition.

I didn’t know it would this hard. I’d lived overseas before and had no expectation that two months abroad could wreak such havoc on my soul. But it has. This summer marked and married me in ways like nothing I’ve experienced to this point. It’s been a little over a month since the ground touched me at Dulles, most of which has felt dressed in a stranger’s skin, wrestling to reconnect with a distant land, while attempting connection to this foreign land called home—and this ambiguous being called me.

The first time I sat down to write this, I was in the peaceful confines of my home, cooled by the window’s clean breeze and comforted by plush furniture and the scent of a cinnamon candle. I had woken to a hot shower and feasted on a slow, Saturday morning breakfast. This afternoon finds me in a lighted coffee shop, with a floor, a ceiling and even background music to enchant my writing. It’s still perplexing to me that the machine at my fingertips can have me sending, buying, or surfing instantaneously. Or if that feels cumbersome, I can do so with the plastic card in my pocket. People are driving on a road in front of me, laughing at a table beside me, and an elderly man just skateboarded down the sidewalk behind me (granted, this scene might be unique to LA). It’s sunny outside. It’s safe, colorful and progressive. For the most part it seems controllable, such that needing a God today will not make a natural crossing of my mind. I can do, plan, prevent and predict, almost to a tee. The idea of surviving this day is the farthest thing from my attention. A homeless man just walked in. He probably hasn’t showered all week, and maybe hasn’t eaten all day, but chances are, by nightfall, he’ll be covered by a meal and comforted by a roof. Memories reel quite the contrary in Africa, where food, shelter and even survival are never an expectation.

The jury is still out as to whether our life is “better” necessarily, but in terms of ease, life in a first-world country wins without question. My rationales to poverty were shattered this summer. Living with poverty, versus visiting it, has forced me to engaged with some entirely new subjects. I no longer believe, “They don’t know what we have,” and therefore, “are content with what they don’t.” And I no longer assume that one kid’s smile means the whole country must be okay—let alone that kid. There are a few launch pads here, but I’ll make it brief by saying they do know what we have, or at least enough to give them a more desirous and intrinsically covetous spirit than anyone I’ve ever met on this side of the ocean. Furthermore, what kid wouldn’t smile when you ride in on a shiny bus, or even running automobile, carrying candy, polaroids, or presents?

There is no good reason why Africa is seeing, feeling and tasting depravity and death at this very moment. And this one. Most mornings wake me with tears—tears of nostalgia and confusion, tears of conformity and consternation, limitation, inadequacy, intolerability, tolerability, memory, reality, superficiality, sadness, separation, and the list goes on. There’s no telling what my next minutes will unravel, but as I continue to process through these past few months, I continue to grow in belief that there are approximately, and maybe only, two options that make any consoling, and yet logical, sense. Either, the concept of God is an historically massive crux that has killed, marred and masked mankind as a mechanism of power, justifying the true state of humanities depravity and depraved desire—all at the sick cost of “saving” souls. Or, there is a living God who is intrinsically and extrinsically aware and untraceably empathetic toward the cause and causation of what we know as “evil.” Though still impossible to perceive, or conceive, from the limitations of a mind, this God speaks and spoke in such a way that claims His personhood as enough—more than enough—to answer into life’s richest high and poorest low. Furthermore, as one who is gently and justly piecing together a mysterious mosaic that restores, rectifies and saves lost souls.

I’m hoping in the latter.

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It’s daunting to think about leaving. I depart for Kampala in the morning, where I’ll spend my last days with a Rwandan family and some missionary friends. The next time I write will be from my laptop in Los Angeles—a loaded thought, to say the least. By this time next week, I’ll have been in a car (driving on the right-side), eaten without a derivative of corn, potatoes and bananas, bathed, bathed in hot water, savored a tall-soy-chai, shopped at a grocery store, sat on a couch, sat on a beach, seen wealth, indulged in wealth, worn make-up, been somewhere alone, put clothes in a laundry machine, used a cell phone, conversed in clear English, felt safe, healthy and clean, strolled by moonlight and slept in a bed…all of which stand in rich contrast my last two months.

Some obvious questions mark this map then: How will it feel? How will I feel? Am I ready for it? Do I want it? Do I need it? Will I feel guilty? Will I make others feel guilty, etc.? The questions of the coming weeks are somewhat predictable, but the answers, I presume, will remain far more unscripted. I never could’ve imagined what was in store for my summer. I gave God a canvas of will and a few lines that seemed of His lead, but from there, I was His.

At the end of my senior year of college, I asked for a one-way ticket to Africa. I wanted to, “hike through the tribes and love on people.” Simple goal, but sounds outrageous to me now. Thank God a little book idea fell into action—I would’ve been killed before stepping off the plane. Endless reasons able me to look back now and realize a naïve passion drove me, whose realities were untimely and unwise. Knowing now what I didn’t know my senior year, I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t in the right place. And the same goes for now. This spring was necessary, in order that I best face this summer. And this summer was required, that I best face the details of this fall. My spring highlighted play, laughter and crying, whereas my summer passed themes of service, rest and newfound faith. God only knows what the coming season will bring.

There are many, many things I will miss about my life in Africa. I’ll miss the monotony of doing laundry by hand. I’ll miss sunset walks by the Nile. I’ll miss the babies. I’ll miss the plainness and predictability of schedule. I’ll miss the community of the volunteer home. I’ll miss the Mamas. I’ll miss silence of cell phones, email and media. I’ll miss the simplicity of living. I’ll miss a lot of the food. I’ll miss the amounts of solitude and rest. I’ll miss meals and minglings with my housemates…and so much more. But I am ready to go. I am ready for a new season and hope potentials of guilt will be soothed by a deeper Guidance, surpassing my understandings and reminding me that I am in the right place. I am in the will of my Father. Shades of this season will surely join me in the next, but a new day is dawning and I feel ready to meet it.

Many parts of here have become familiar, and yet many parts of there remain so, too. Just over a year ago I wrote the following piece, which strikes me as quite similar to how I feel today:

It’s the familiar that grips me today; it’s the familiar that makes me feel at home. What is familiar to me is comforting. It’s comfortable and conforms my humanity to a state of being. Whether it’s being with those whom I know, or being with that which knows me, familiarity holds me in peace. But if such is the case, what lies in the unfamiliar? What stirs in the uncomfortable and unconformed place staring at my headlights?

Come tomorrow, I will approach a new Destiny of sorts, Manifest by the western coast of the United States of America. I will leave the familiar, to lean on but the natural laws of the unfamiliar—change leads to progress, progress leverages growth, etc. From experience, I know that such a move will elicit challenge. But I also know that spending time with that challenge will elicit familiarity again. Maybe different looking, and maybe different feeling, but still in the brand of familiar.

Shifting to a lens less carnal, I’ve been forced to question the unfamiliars of God. Do dictations of familiarity rest in the spiritual realm, too? If so, what aspects of God are unfamiliar to me today? What spaces of His Being have lacked my explore? For lest I humanize a being unchanged, I must trust a path uncharted. But what then, will hold me in lasting peace?

Maybe it is He? Maybe it is One who transcends the road and the transforms the comfort? Maybe it is He who is my Familiar—here, in the “familiar” and there, in the “unfamiliar.”

It’s the Familiar that grips me today; it’s the Familiar that makes me feel at home.

I’ve not cried too much this summer, but this afternoon found me swayed by hesitant tears, wondering if I could bear, or wanted to bear, last goodbyes at the baby home. As it turned-out, my final hours were far less dramatic, or climatic, than I might’ve imagined. Mama Lucy and I shared some special time together, and then Mama Claire was running late, which left me alone with the babies between shifts. Everyone was quite antsy for dinner, but still kind enough to humor my necessary discourse.

I explained how much I loved them, and how proud I was of who they were becoming. I thanked them for their gentle spirits, and for their willingness to teach and be taught. I petitioned for the health of their hearts, minds, souls and strength and for an increased openness to God’s unfailing love. I prayed for their families and the generations they would influence. And I promised to stand as their ambassadors from this day forward. My little angels were speechless. All ten of them offered undivided attention, until at some point Ryan screamed and the room gained a stench saying someone’s bowels had lost control. I was touched. And kindly prompted toward the end of my talk. Things went a bit downhill from there, which honestly made a night that could’ve been surreal far less so. Ten cranky babies have an exceptional way of ruining a sensuous moment.

The remainder of the evening proceeded as normal, with bottles, baths, diapers and PJ’s, and then off to cribs for a final kiss. These moments marked a delicate mix, not unlike every preceding nights spent with this adieu. I was overwhelmed by the gift of handling life for this day, but more overwhelmed by the gift of handing it back to that which it came. To love in one’s presence, and yet to release to one’s greater Presence, must be the richest miracle I have ever held, or imparted.

May you rest in peace, child. May you rest in Peace.

Bill Hybels is coined as saying, “The local church is the hope of the world.” Having lived in American for twenty-six years though, the majority of that in the “Bible-belt,” I’ve never found this statement too convincing. Being here, on top of some healthy church experiences in LA, is slowly dissuading my lack of convince. I’ve been to eight different church services in Uganda, each providing a unique location, denomination, structure and size, and each sharing a rich, and I believe representative, canvas of a Trinitarian, Gospel-oriented Church.

America has found me visiting a lot more than eight churches, also of various location, denomination, structure and size (none of which is difficult to pinpoint in a matter of minutes). For whatever reason though—no, that’s not true—for a lot reasons I think, I’m often more partial to the international brand. Maybe it’s just travel adrenaline, or cultural intrigue, but I love worshipping overseas. My two closest engagements with the Acts 2 Church were in the Dominican Republic, where I was baptized actually, and a diverse Body in Cape Town, South Africa, with the lovely Cons family. But now I’d have to add eight more to that list. And eight more reasons to believe in the power, Love and possibility of the local Church at large.

***

The Poor.

I remember being in the impoverished ghetto of Soweto, South Africa, wrestling through thoughts about showing-up in the slums in on our shiny, chartered bus that would serve for the day and then leave that same afternoon. What message would this leave the village? What miscommunications would it lift from our lives? I entered these thoughts again when a large group showed-up at the baby home. In some ways it’s great to have extra hands holding and hugging the kids, but in other ways it’s like giving a lick of a lollipop and then abruptly pulling it away—for probably the hundreth time in these children’s lives. Finally, babysitters are always more lenient and the Mamas loose a lot of leverage on days and weeks when vans arrive. So is it better to not arrive at all?

Being here this summer, alongside a little work with the poor, homeless, and addict-related in LA, I’ve realized these questions, and more so lacking answers, are universal. Furthermore, African questions of poverty and its treatment are not immeasurably different from those we’re accustomed to at home. Granted, the scopes here are immeasurable and unimaginable, whether sex, drug, or slave trades, street kids, poverty enabling disease, or disease enabling poverty and so on, whereas at home it’s far more calculatable. But in terms of broader questions that arrive with ongoing trends of poverty, much is the same. The homeless man in Chicago, or the heroine addict in Tucson, isn’t that far excluded from the one here. And the AIDS patient in Texas is just as scared and shamed and devastated as the one hear. And it’s the same question(s) here that wonders if my $1 donation will buy the next piece of bread, or pave the next path to destruction. (Actually buying the next piece of bread, or more committingly, dining with the person, always seems the best option. But such a thought provides a series of new ones: “I’m too busy today…But if I give them a little, they’ll just want more…What if they kidnap, rob, or kill me?” Believe me, I have these thoughts, too, but I still think it’s the best and most Biblical option.)

Who are “the poor” anyway, and how do the non-poor best serve them? Furthermore, how do the non-poor know that their service isn’t in vain, and should that even matter? The Bible has more than three hundred passages relaying God’s concern for the poor, so it’s clearly something of His interest. Jesus’ brother, James, explains looking after orphans and widows as undefiled religion (1.27). But Jesus himself says there will always be a population of the poor, needy, lost and broken. How do we reconcile this tension, or more tricky, how do we stand on it? It seems that if our goal is to “fix” these lines, we’ve lost before the start. But if our goal is to avoid them, we’re avoiding any movement toward to the finish. And maybe the idea that there’s no finish is just a cop-out, or justifier toward a comfortable life without guilt? Or maybe Jesus was exaggerating, or just had too much to drink?

I’ll always prefer living in questions, rather than ducking in answers, but leaving this one unanswered is tough to swallow.

***

Random.

*On days I want an extra long nap, I’ll pull the Malaria-card, but otherwise, the parasite has departed my system. Dangers of relapse remain, so I’ll continue with spray, mosquito nets and anti-malarials, but otherwise, I’ve been good to go.

*Holly looks like an average twenty-four-year old from Oklahoma. But if you dig a little deeper, she has dreams and ambition far exceeding average. As of yesterday, she was approved as an NGO and will start moving herself, and village kids, into her new orphanage this weekend. Constraints are that kids must be five or older and have AIDS. This limitation, let alone family environment, is unheard of in AIDS treatment. Despite rising cases and awareness, victims are outcasts, here and elsewhere. Anyway, I passed Holly on the road, as she was heading for her first viewing and visit to the inside of the home. We joined for an evening of painting, measurements and dreamed-of stories to soon take residence within those walls. It might’ve been the best “Extreme Home Makeover” I’ll ever be a part of.

She’s my little Ugandan Wikepedia. Hasn’t seen an iPod, driven in a car, or traveled much beyond her orphanage in Luwero, but Stella’s eighteen years have matured a most incredible woman. We’ve had the chance to spend more time together lately, feasting on issues of faith, culture and curiosities of her story. A most surprising part has been Stella’s openness, knowing it’s extremely uncommon, and uncomfortable usually, for Ugandans to open-up about personal information, pasts, or emotions. Stella has given me loads of each.

As a nursing student, she loves hearing about my Graduate program, which in very basic terms mixes theology (study of God) and psychology (study of self). A lot of our reading this past semester covered parental influence and how that affects one’s view of God. In other words, how the way you were disciplined, loved, reacted toward, listened to, etc., is practically identical to the way you’ll perceive being done so by God. Thus, your reaction(s), opinions, prayer approaches, fears, mistrusts, and so on, will similarly correlate to that of your mother and father. An obvious example might be that you grew-up with a strict dad who lashed-out at the smallest of mistakes. Your view of God, then, will struggle to trust unconditional love, as you’re constantly up against an innate fear that if you mess-up, God will lash-out at you. Through time, prayer, awareness, counseling and usually a good bit of re-objectification (experiencing people who provide “healthy” responses to your mistakes), I think it is of God’s highest priorities to tear-down and rebuild our views of (His) perfect parenting.

Anyway, I was curious about this from the perspective of an orphan. Namely, how had Stella’s view of God been challenged, provided a lacking mom (died in childbirth) and absent dad from the start? The mom side was easy, she said, given that a woman from the orphanage had stepped-in and “re-objectified” (she liked this word J) her views of a silent mother figure. In view of God, then, she felt comfortable turning to His more feminine traits of nurture, care, gentleness and counsel. It was the masculine ones, she explained, that have taken years to rely on. “Believing God as my Father has been the biggest challenge to my faith. I could call Him any other name, but spent years fighting His title, or role, as Father.”

When I asked Stella about thoughts on marriage and if she foresaw herself getting married, she smiled and said she dreams of it, but, “It’ll have to be a miracle of God. I don’t know how to trust men and am only starting to learn what it means to trust Him. I picture myself with a Ugandan, but even in the church, men here talk the talk, but it’s rare to find one who really lives it. To be honest, a lot of me is scared of marriage and although I’d give anything to be a mother, cannot get past the hurdle of the husband element.” “Mock families” are created at her orphanage, so that she spends a good chunk of days working, studying, going to church, eating meals, etc., with 8-10 other “family members,” including a “father and mother figure” (who are staff at the orphanage, but have their own families, too). Unfortunately, Stella watched her “father figure” cheat, abuse and misuse women, namely his wife. Therefore, she said, yet another wall went up between her ability to healthily view a male figure and thus, to healthily view God.

The conversation closed with me explaining how one of our biggest struggles in America is against a lot of jacked-up family lives and therefore, a lot of jacked-up views of God. It was refreshing for her to realize she wasn’t alone in these conversations, and refreshing for me to realize what I’m studying is really poignant material. Arriving at the house, there were three Danish people sitting at the table chatting. Stella looked at my with a grin and said, “I don’t know why I never realized this, but I assumed all white people spoke the same language.” I smiled back, realizing in some ways, it’s a very small world, carrying the same needs and questions of God. But in other ways, it’s really big and carries quite different ones.

***

Random.

Christina (3) and Sharon (2) spent the night last night. Christina entertained herself painting my fingers ‘and’ nails, making banana pancakes and laughing as the adults played Catch-Phrase. Sharon was a little under the weather, so crashed earlier, actually catching-on to the phrase, “slumber party.” Christiana was apparently more keen on an “awake-party.” Between crying, laughing and wiggling, I think she REM’ed for about 30 minutes.

How is it that glue doesn’t stick together when it’s in the bottle?

I think we’ve all realized at times how much we ‘don’t’ mean, “how are you,” when we ask, or are asked. If we really took that greeting seriously, we’d be processing with people all day long. What’s crazy is that Ugandans often knock the greeting up a notch, ‘and’ really mean it. They ask, “How is your life?” And expect an honest answer. No wonder nothing runs remotely close to on time here.

A bird shat on me yesterday. I looked-up to find no tree, no overhang, no nothin’. It had the whole sky to fill and instead chose the 2mm crevice behind my left ear.

The power has been out the past couple days, malaria has reeked havoc on my system, faucet drips have been cold and slight, and bats have been stormed our house like it’s their job. For whatever reason though, I’ve felt like I wanted to stay in Africa more so this week, than ever before. I’m realizing, then, that there must be something bigger than comfortability, desire, or circumstance, moving someone to go a given direction in life.

I think most of relief-work, or missionary living, is far more glamorous from afar. And having spent a decent amount of time around these individuals, it’s probably not surprising that most of them are quite subdued and I think stabilized in their initial passion. It’s as though it has yielded into a more matured consistency of steadiness, or calm. Not that their passion has faded, per se, but I think the buoyancies of adventure and undying effort are only natural to find a leveling ground, lest burnout, sickness, or death becomes them (which I’m not denying as often the case). This has further reminded me that any sort of work, relationship, or commitment, hoping to offer long-term effectiveness, must be laced by a passion, but undergirded by something deeper. Something more rooted, like a vision, or mission, I guess. Too many of our days are forced to question if we should come, stay, go, or why we came in the first place, so that I think unless we have a tangible “call beyond ourselves,” be it a loved one we’re wanting to honor, a God we’re wanting to serve, or a cause we’re willing to die for, I can’t see a life of service lasting.

How do you know though? How do you know when to go, or when to stay, or when to take a stand? I’m not sure the full answer, but am getting more sure of a partial one. And for me, at least, a lot of it relates to times I’ve gotten it “wrong.” I feared ____ and settled, or faked okayness and pressed-on—both unhealthily. But the astonishing thing to realize is that in God’s economy, there’s a transcendence of right/wrong, good/bad, black/white, etc., called sovereignty.

Most of this has been learned the hard way, but God’s will is God’s will and as much as He created me with vast wills of choice, being and depth, ‘His will’ will always prevail over mine. I have the freedom to dream and dive and rise and fall, knowing that in honest pursuit of Him (key), I can be “wrong,” or “right,” and His will can’t help but catch me. This doesn’t hand me the lackadaisical leeway to say, “I can do whatever I want and God will take care of me.” No—it’s a call with far more dignity than that. It’s a call that designates me as someone Hand-designed and potentialed for a unique life of peace, adventure, intimacy and glorification. John Piper’s books usually boil down to one truth: “God is most glorified in me when I am most satisfied in Him.” In other words, if you feel called to serve in Africa, I increasingly believe that, in order for your passion to stay present with your leading, it must be supremely based in an enjoyment of the call(er), rather than Africa. Or if you feel led (could be synonymn’ed by stirred, desirous, moved, stimulated towards, etc.) to be a student, dentist, or Mom in America, doing so with a consistence of vigor, purpose and motivation must be lined with a derivative deeper than studies, teeth, or minivans.

To quell any worried audiences, I am not staying in Africa and I am not confiscating any babies into my suitcase. Although a lot of me would love to do both. Thank God, my passion has consistently been trumped by His whisper. Although I don’t doubt I’ll be back on this continent one-day soon, I know the time is not now. An objective “how do you know” is beyond me to explain, but in decisions past, whether related to marrying a person, moving across the country, or knowing I was to be in Uganda for the summer, God’s will has always found a way to speak. Sometimes it’s been through my mistakes, while other times through combinations of Scripture, prayer, counsel, or circumstance. Slowly but surely though, I am coming to trust and discern His voice, which is sometimes loud, usually quiet, and often silent. It is always there though, trumping my temporal, top-able passions saying yes, no, or everything in-between.

***

For God So Loved The World.

I’ve always found John 3.16 kind-of annoying. It’s like the catch-phrase salvation verse and shows-up on anything from t-shirts and bumper stickers, to sermon bases and stupid breath mints. Being over here has helped me free up a little cynicism. I’ve been floored in actual sightings of God’s widespread love for nations, people groups and personalized hairs on each head. Maybe He really did love the world so much, that He gave His one and only Son, Jesus Christ, that none should perish, but all who followed Him would have eternal life. That’s unbelievable.

I’ve heard it said, taught, laughed-at and cried over, that a girl’s most intrinsic desire is to ‘know’ she is beautiful, though have found just a few rare gems who actually do. You can tell her of such truths all day long, but it’s the reception that’s the challenge. Or gift. And I’m grateful to have rubbed such brilliance this morning. I went to Mama Lucy’s church, which provided me, yet again, with a really good Church experience. Maybe you’re surprised—no probably not—but I am dumbfounded by the health of the Church over here. Granted, there’s always a comparable amount of unhealth, but I would say relative to what I know in the States, Africa needs to be sending missionaries to us.

By accident, really, I’d actually visited Mama Lucy’s church before. I passed it on a recent evening, intrigued by its open doors, octagon shape and shadowing light toward a simple, but really striking stain-glass cross. I decided to walk in and sit for a bit, but actually entered in on a group of about thirty people doing a Bible Study. I gladly stayed until then end and later retold the story to Mama Lucy, who proudly affirmed that was her church and I must come visit one Sunday. So I did.

It wasn’t even something particular that stood-out in the 2.5 hour service, just an overall feeling of rightness and Spirit-filled presence. As I stood there locking arms with Mama Lucy, singing unharmonized sounds of purity, tears streamed from our eyes and adoration spilled from our hearts. Clad in a long black dress, which accounts for half of her wardrobe, and dark black skin, etched with marks of wisdom, I was beyond honored to stand beside Mama Lucy. She was radiant—one of the most beautiful beings I’d ever laid eyes on. I was plain-faced with damp hair, wearing Chacos and attire that hadn’t been changed in days, but somehow felt beautiful, too. Or more than that, really—it was this overwhelming sense of ‘knowing’ an actual part of my being as beautiful. Even writing that statement feels odd, or too weighty for words, admittance, or something. Especially for the female readership though, I know you will see the breakthrough here, and importance of these moments. There was something beyond the physical about them that I can only know as a wholeness, or poise, and ascribe as from the Lord. I could feel the radiance beaming from Mama Lucy and me and it was as though, for an instant, when we looked at each other, both knew of the beauty we were chanced, choosing, or graced, to behold.

‘How beautiful you are, My darling. How very beautiful!’ Song of Solomon 1.15

***

Tea With Buddha and Jesus.
(For a lengthier, but still short, fictionalization of this, “The Lotus and the Cross,” by Ravi Zacharias is a quite interesting read.)

Tonya is one of my roommates. She’s from the UK, worked in Uganda last summer, spent the year in Rwanda and is now back visiting for a few weeks. She’s a beautiful girl with aged dreads, spiritual tattoos and a heart of toughened gold. We spent the better part of the afternoon over tea, conversation and a robust thunderstorm. Most of it revolved around the challenges of love and how to do so most presently and fully. Tonya lives from a Buddhist perspective, and with my undergrad focusing on Eastern Religion and a fascination with religion overall, you can imagine we get along quite well.

Tonya sews her days by a strand of philosophy saying: “It’s better to love and to lose, than to not love at all.” She walked me through the ripples of this, ranging from extraordinary places of met and shattered dreams (not in that order), to myriads of exposure with drugs, relationships, theory and theology. For Tonya, the pursuit and capture of love requires a depth willing to lose, just as much, and oftentimes more, as its willingness to gain. Such a profession is unmistakably clear when you see her embrace a child, embark a topic of interest, or hear the words of a friend. If I met Tonya five years, or five months ago, my guess is I would’ve agreed with her perspectives. But my surety is that I would’ve understood them far more inspirationally, than actually.

In subtle, and from the outside absent, ways, I’ve seen myself pulling away from the babies. From the Mamas. From here. Part of this is a gift of defense, I presume, but more of it has intrigued me as a fear of love. Though still weeks from my departure, the end is within view. The emptiness of waking thousands of miles from this land is within sight’s reach. And I don’t want to face it. I don’t want to get hurt. I don’t want to feel the pain of losing. But it’s too late. As tight as its guard tries to seal, too much of their love, and my love, and His love, has escaped. And I’m gonna hurt. My fear in these final weeks though, as I see tendencies to seal tighter and suppress a more riveting emotion than I want feel, is to give in. And I don’t want to. I want to love. I want to love wholly and richly and painfully and unashamedly. I want to love until it hurts. Until I have no choice ‘but’ to lose. To lie awake affected, grieving, prayerful and marked by souls for whom I chose to lose myself. For then, I think, I might have really loved.

“No one has greater love than this, that he would lay down his life for his friends.”—Jesus

This synopsis from an email summarizes my trip quite well. And succinctly. "it's been so hard, so raw, so lonely, so stretching, so tiring, so enriching, so restful, so eye-opening, so dream-producing, so freeing, so long, so short, so overwhelming, so real, so needed, so wanted, so disturbing, so hunger-producing, so draining, so moving, so scary, so Life-giving, so sensory, so exciting, so boring, so adverturous, so me, so unfathomable to me...with so many so's."

It’s the familiar that grips me today; it’s the familiar that makes me feel at home.

What is familiar to me is comforting. It’s comfortable and conforms my humanity to a state of 'being.' Whether it’s being with those whom I know, or being with that which knows me, familiarity holds me in peace. But if such is the case, what lies in the unfamiliar? What stirs in the uncomfortable and unconformed place staring at my headlights?

Come TOMORROW, I will approach a new Destiny of sorts, Manifest by the western coast of the United States of America. I will leave the familiar, to lean on but the natural laws of the unfamiliar—change leads to progress, progress leverages growth, etc. From experience, I know that such a move will elicit challenge. But I also know that spending time with that challenge will elicit familiarity again. Maybe different looking, and maybe different feeling, but still in the brand of familiar.

Shifting to a lense less carnal, I’ve been forced to question the unfamiliars of God. Do dictations of familiarity rest in the spiritual realm, too? If so, what aspects of God are unfamiliar to me today? What spaces of His Being have lacked my explore? For lest I humanize a being unchanged, I must trust a path uncharted. But what then, will hold me in lasting peace?

Maybe it is He? Maybe it is One who transcends the road and the transforms the comfort? Maybe it is He who is my Familiar—here, in the “familiar” and there, in the “unfamiliar.”

It’s the Familiar that grips me today; it’s the Familiar that makes me feel at home.

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(Simplified version: “I am moving to California tomorrow. Am I scared? Yes. Am I psyched? More so than ever. In spite of my whereabouts, God remains familiar.”)

It's what I need. It's what I long for this morning.

Am I being outlandish? Completely. Counterintuitive to my daily pursuits? Utterly. But the truth of it is, I need to be weak. The Word of God is flooded with people, stories and examples of weakness. Endured weakness, failed weakness, transformed weakness and transforming weakness. And I’m going to make a bold statement here, but at the crux of Christianity lies a willing surrender to confess weakness.

I heard an incredible statement lately that won’t loose itself. “People will admire you for being strong, but they’ll love you for being weak.” That’s it! This is where my soul longs to rest. I have tried for so long to be strong. In fact, when I look at my life and my standard of living today, I strive for strength on a day-to-day basis. I covet admiration and affirmation from others. I long for people to see me as unshakable. Even from a spiritual standpoint, I long to be described with rock-solid faith. And although I say I dislike being the center of attention, something in me still craves being a source of attention. Bottom line, I fear failure. I fear being weak.

Man strives toward perfection, and correct me if I’m wrong, but I’ve yet to meet any such source. God knows, I still fighting tooth and nail to see its fruition though. Being weak is my ticket to strength. It’s that willingness and that willing surrender, that draw me toward love—my deepest need. The love I crave is satisfied in realizing my neediness for it. And a man named Jesus Christ stepped-out of heaven to personify that need.

Our greatest understanding of Love rises from our greatest understandings of weakness apart from it. And our greatest strength toward knowing Jesus must be prefaced by a great willingness to know our weakness. “For when I am weak, then I am strong” 2 Corinthians 12:10.

I was challenged by these high school seniors standing up for what they believe:

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