Hungry Eyes

     Walking downtown Tegucigalpa behind my fellow Micah companions, I said a silent prayer before our annual street ministry Christmas dinner: "Lord, give me your eyes to see tonight."
     Coming to a small tucked away building, I noticed some of the typical street crew already waiting patiently outside the doorway.  After giving them our usual fist-pound greeting, I happily accompanied the familiar faces inside...  until I felt a slight push from the man at the door. "No," he said forcefully. "Dinner is not until 5."
     I didn't realize his order was not meant for me until he looked at us Micah staff members and clarified, "You all can go in, just not them." I knew this was in no way meant to degrade the street guys, but I couldn't help but feel another added layer of separation between us.  This was an us and them situation all over again. In some ways, I would be okay with the us and them aspect of tonight, because I knew that we would be the ones serving them. Hosting them. Loving on them. This type role separation--served and server--would be an act of love.  We are serving you, because we want you to know that we are not above you.  Separation as an act of unification.  And yet, I didn't want to be separated in this particular moment.  So I stayed outside, and instead of going in just to feel like I was doing something (when I wasn't actually needed), I stayed outside with them.  And waited.
     And then I saw.
     Waiting--an intricate and key element to the experience.  Anticipation increasing, appetites stirring, tension building.  Gathered outside with my hungry friends, we were united in purpose.  Each of us held an invitation, and we were ready to begin.  Instead of hating the wait, I drank in the sight of each of the precious, worn faces around me, and silently prayed that their hearts would awaken to the greater wait for the greater party that is to come.
     After we entered, we played a game, sang some songs, and heard a message.  But the wait continued--nothing could distract our guests from their roaring appetites.  And believe me, they roared.  When the food came out, manners did too.  If you want to know what people are really thinking behind all those pleases, thank-yous, and "I'm so lovely" fronts, just hang out with a street kid.  You'll get a whole better view of shamelessly authentic humanity.
     "Give me! Mine! Over here!" Grabbing hands--pushing through others to get their plate. Lying tongues--trying to deceive their way into extra shares.  Hungry eyes--looking for more before they have finished what they already have. So many requests to bring food to "other family members", which seems so sweet on the surface, but it also can be a well-rehearsed method to get more for themselves.
     And then I saw.
     These are survivors in a dog eat dog world.  Fighting for food because the world has taught them that "the next meal" is never a sure thing.  Pushing their way to the front of the line because the world has taught them that all they get is everyone else's scraps.  Hiding their meal because the world has taught them that no one can be trusted.
      Meanwhile, as each of these guys (and gals) was fearfully operating in survivor mode, none of them was actually enjoying the meal in front of them.  Highly alert, our guests either shovelled food in their mouths too quickly to be tasted or stored it away for a later time.  Scanning the crowd, I couldn't help but wonder if anyone was truly there--tasting the meal, embracing the fellowship, receiving the love.
     And then I saw.
     This is us.  We have been given opportunity after opportunity to enjoy the meal in front of us, with the people in front of us, by the people in front of us.  And how often do we instead think about the next bite before finishing the one in our mouth?  How often do we think about the person who is not with us instead of truly embracing the person who is right there next to us?  How often do we waste the present moment worrying about a future one? Afraid of surviving, we aren't truly living.  Caught in painful memories of the past and worried about future unknowns, the present is lost.  And the present is the only moment where we are called to live.  And so often, we don't, even when there is a beautiful feast sitting right in front of us.  There is no us and them--this is us.
     So if this is us, what hope do we have?
     And then I saw.
     Jesus.
     His message is eternal life--his message is for the present.  He says we don't need to be weighed down by our past, because he has taken care of it.  Forgiven it.  Redeemed it.  He says we don't need to be burdened by the future, because he has taken care of it.  Prepared it.  Promised it.  He says we don't need to live in any moment but the present because he is in charge of all our moments, and he can be trusted.  He is Provider, Sustainer, Giver, Redeemer, Savior, Friend.  The Ultimate Host.
     No wonder he says that if we don't believe in him we are condemned already.  He came to save the world, because without him we are operating in survival mode--dwelling on past scars and overwhelmed by future preoccupations, because we know the world can not be trusted.  But his message is eternal life--freeing us from our survival mode and pulling us into faith-filled living, because He can be trusted.  He throws a party so we can attend it.  So let's attend it. And let's eat--truly living this moment, because the same God who has cared for us today will continue to care for us tomorrow.  Trust him, and live.

Believing in a Better Workout

     I have a problem.  I am a recovering workoutaholic.  I love to run.  I love to push myself.  I love the pain and sweat as I look to the end--that sweet reward of having finished.  I love to be the best--the fastest, the fittest, the furthest.  I love to know that I am absolutely and totally healthy. 
     But here's the problem--in my pursuit of being healthy, I've been unhealthy.  I've had some health issues for a while (hormonal things we don't really need to get into).  This manifests itself in acne, cracked/bleeding feet, stomach issues, etc. And guess what all this traces back to?  Too little body fat.  Meaning, too much exercise.  Shoot.
     I have another problem.  I am also a recovering doaholic.  I love to be on the go--projects, important conversations, vision casting.  I love jumping from thing to thing--taking pride in rarely sitting (beyond my designated, disciplined times of sitting to be with the Lord).  I love to be "the best I can be."
     Okay, this is good... to a point.  But, as with working out, in pursuing good, healthy things, I am often unhealthy.  This manifests itself in being tired, antsy, ready for change (again), impatient.  And by treating the problem with more things to do, I have again shoved aside a bigger problem: my inability to just be.

Check this:

Be still and know that I am God.*

     Okay, Lord... I'll be still...  DONE!  Okay what now?!?

     I hope you laughed at that.  But, seriously, I think I often approach "be still" in this way.  A stopwatch--give the Lord another 5 minutes, 30 minutes, maybe even an hour--and then what?  All me and my doing doing doing from there?

     Now, I am not advocating laziness here.  I am advocating harder work.  Much harder.  I am saying, if we want to be healthy (spiritually and physically), our work is to BE-lieve.  

This is the work of God, to believe in him whom he has sent.**

     Jesus said that.  And, in case you weren't aware, he was talking about himself.

     So what does this look like?  Well, rather than work work work in the way the world tells us we need to work work work... What would it look like if in the morning when the Lord put it on my heart "today you aren't running, today you are praying" that I actually prayed?  BELIEVING that God actually listens to my prayers (and that they are more valuable than toned calves). What would it look like if I stopped caring so much about how I looked to others in my job--putting hours upon hours of extra "face time"--and instead put my face to the floor and prayed over theirs?  BELIEVING that the Lord is the one truly at work, anyway, not me.  What if instead of hiding behind a computer screen--able to check off so many productive-looking things--I started really digging into the mess of relationship?  BELIEVING that God will be with me when things get sticky and that his labor is a labor of love.

     I don't want to be a workoutaholic, a doaholic, or anything of the sort.  I want to be a BE-liever.  And that is a far more strenuous workout.  A far more challenging and rewarding calling.  The fight of faith is worth the sweat, the tears, the pain.  It is worth the difficult calling to wait on the Lord.  (In other words, to believe and expect the Lord).  This is a far better workout.  As Paul said, "...for while bodily training is of some value, godliness is of value in every way, as it holds promise for the present life and also for the life to come."***  

     So, I'll keep working out (physically), but in moderation, since it does have some value.  But as for the fight of faith?  Fighting for godliness in a dark world?  Fighting to believe in my Lord throughout all things?  Yeah, that's the better workout that I'm signing up for.  Let's get real: the promised reward is way better (and lasts a whole lot longer).  So for that--I'll keep running the true race.  Even when running means being.  

*Psalm 46:10

**John 6:29

***1 Timothy 4:8

I'll Take My Coffee Black

     This morning--I drank my coffee black.  I used to hate coffee--too bitter!  Until college... when I had my first sip of a delicious caramel frappuccino... Step one.  Pretty soon, the slight bitter zing of coffee (disguised by the dessert in a cup) lost its oomph.  A little less sugar, a little less milk.  Frappucinos became lattes became coffee with milk (soy), became just a bit of creamer... and now this.  A morning where I drank (and wanted) my coffee black.
     This morning--I have been sad.  I used to hate being sad--too bitter!  But being naive to the brokenness of this world can't last forever.  I have long sugared-up the pain presented to me by stuffing hard news with invented excuses "oh, I'm sure that person didn't really mean X, Y, Z", by straining out hurt and confused feelings while sprinkling on lots of distractions, and even by adding the whipped cream topper: "look at the bright side."  But little by little, I'm using less and less sweetener.  Less ignoring, less walls, less distractions, less optimistic write-offs... and now this.  A morning where I have been (and wanted to be) sad.
     Because there are some kinds of sadness that are right.  It's the kind of sadness that comes when I watch a boy we have poured into for the past two years make the decision to leave Micah and return to the streets.  The sadness that comes when I think of him shivering and cold, decidedly dismissing our roof of protection and circle of love.  It's a sadness that comes when a friend I once shared all my thoughts, dreams, hurts, and hopes with is no longer with me and can no longer hear me... nor I her.  It's a sadness that comes when I read one of my boys' writing: "I am choosing to reject Jesus, because I am living my own life." What life?  It's a sadness that comes when I see everyone, all of us, making the same decision to live for ourselves and because of that not really living at all.  It's a sadness that comes when I read about the crowd that waved palm trees before that Jesus, ready to make him king, and the very next week shouting "Crucify him!"  It's a sadness when I wonder "Am I a part of that crowd?"  It's a sadness, a deep sadness, that comes when I see us wanting to kill God.
     There is a bitterness that isn't meant to be sugared down.  There is pain.  There is injustice.  There is sin, and there are consequences.  And it is sad.
     And that's okay.
     I don't know if okay is even the right word, but I accept the sadness.  I think that's part of all this--being here, living.  There is a lot of sadness...

     You know, coffee is an intricate experience--when you've been at it long enough.  Strip away all the additives and there are so many flavours to be explored!  It's crazy to me that there are people who can drink a cup of coffee and know what country the beans came from!  But that's not how the coffee journey starts (at least from my experience).  All coffee (at first) tastes like, well, coffee.  Bitter and gross.  But with time and refined taste, what once was bitter becomes beautiful.
     Sadness is like that.  At least, the sadness I am talking about.  Because though I'm still sad, I'm also joyful.  I can't explain it.  The deeper the sadness, the fuller the joy.  Not mixed, but separate... and yet together.  Each flavour highlighting the other.
     Because... the saddest thing I can think of is the cross.  Jesus, our Lord and God who only ever loved us and lived life right, suffered for you and for me.  He suffered.  The pain of this world?  He faced--sugarless.  Bitter.  Death.
    Because.... the most beautiful, joyful thing I can think of is the cross.  Jesus, our Lord and God loved us and lived life right, he suffered for you and me.  The pain of this world? He faced--sugarless.  Bitter.  Death.  To bring LIFE.  True life.  Life that no longer separates us from the Father. Life that brings us into his presence and enables us to know him--beautiful wonderful him.  Life that lasts forever.
     There are so many flavours to be experienced.  And I am not afraid of any of them.  With hope there is hurt.  With beauty there is pain.  But I can taste them all knowing that my Saviour lives.  He himself was a man of many sorrows... And yet he promised us his joy.  A joy that he endured the cross for, scorning its shame, that we may be with him forever.
    And so, give me my coffee black.  I want to see this world for what it is, but even moreso, I want to see Jesus for who he is.  Yes, through all the bitterness, I taste and see that God is good.

Remember Who You Are

SIMBA:

So many things to tell her,

But how to make her see?

The truth about my past--impossible!

She'd turn away from me...

NALA:

He's holding back, he's hiding

But what I can't decide

Why won't he be the king I know he is?

The king I see inside

     If you skipped over those lyrics, go back.  Read them.  Simba has something to teach us about ourselves--who knew?!
     Read them?  Okay good.  Then listen up...

REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE!

     Simba, born to be king.  A lion, born to be courageous--a fighter.  And yet what does he do when circumstances scream death?  He flees.  Why?  Scar, his secret and deceptive enemy, convinces him that he does not belong.  He convinces him that the world would be better off if he were not in it.  He makes him forget his identity--as king.

     Why am I telling you this?  Because we also have an Enemy, and he, too, is cunning, deceptive, and wants to take over the throne--of your life, of mine, and of this world.  And in so many ways we have let him.  We have let the Enemy chase us off into Hakuna-Matata Land and convince us that eating bugs is a delicacy!  Living in our own little universes, blind to the battle being waged around us, we keep looking for pleasure after pleasure to satisfy our roaring appetites.  Vine swinging from dating relationship to dating relationship, grub-gorging in chips bag after chips bag, thrill seeking in vacation after vacation.  Not that these are always bad things, but at the expense of what?  Is there something we are missing?  Where are we being called to FIGHT?

     We have an Enemy.  1 Peter 5:8 says, "Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour."  How does he do this?  Discouragement, complacency, laziness, shame, insecurity, fear.  Shall I go on?  Our enemy is always a LYIN' (get it?! lion---lyin...).  He wants to kick us out of his territory and lull us into sleepy-living, because he knows the Lion KING is on our side.  The lion of the tribe of Judah.  Our Lord Jesus, who when we believe in him, has given us his spirit.  He has given us what we need to fight.

     And I'll tell you where I am called to fight: remembering who I am.  Not so far off from our furry friend, is it?  First step for Simba to return to his homeland and claim what is rightfully his: remembering who he is.  And who is he?  His father's son.  Who is his father?  King.  And guess what?  So is mine.  So is yours.  But how often do we let the fear of our past grip us--convincing us that we are just a sham, a coward, a nobody?  This is an attack of the Enemy--who doesn't want us to come back and live into the victory of the TRUE king!  The victory the Lord Jesus has already won for us in his death and resurrection.

     My brothers and sisters, this is a call to battle.  This is Nala calling out the Simbas.  You aren't dead, you are alive.  SO LIVE.  Look to Christ.  Find your confidence in him.  Stop letting the Enemy lure you away and convince you that the darkness of the Shadowlands means that it is time to go to sleep.  NO!  Instead of fear, put your confidence in Him.  "Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me" (Ps 23:4).  Instead of insecurity, remember whose say matters.  "If God is for us, who can be against us" (Rom 8:31)!  Instead of surrendering to your weakness, find your strength in Him.  "Be strong in the Lord and in his might" (Eph 6:10)!  Have your weapons at the ready--cling to the Word of God!

     And now I'll go back to the song that began all this: Can you feel the love tonight? Nala's love for Simba reminded him of who he was and brought him back to where he was meant to be.  How much more, then, should the love of Christ woo us and bring us into the life he died for us to have?  Can you feel the love tonight?  If you can't, look to Jesus.  Look to the cross.  Look to the empty tomb.  That's love.  And so, by the strength of his power, let's go fight.  Remembering who we are, let's go love.

(My ladies bible study group is currently going through "The Armor of God" by Priscilla Shirer.  If you Ladies in particular want to dig deeper, I highly recommend doing this study!)

Stung!

     Sun shining, birds chirping, bible open, heart at rest.  Another beautiful morning bright with possibilities.  All was well.  Or so it seemed.
     It started with an itch.  A small itch on my right foot.  Too small to even be consciously registered, but my subconscious was quick to act.  My left foot swiftly brushed the source of my discomfort and in-so-doing burrowed its perpetrator into my veins.  And it hurt... a lot.  Looking down, I realized what I'd done.  A wasp.  I'd been stung.... and I'm allergic.  Great.
     I'd been stung by the Honduran version of a "wasp" here before, and nothing much happened aside from a swollen bite and some lasting discomfort.  Needless to say, I forgot about it soon enough.  I even let the pain of the sting motivate my morning run.  No pain, no gain!  Let the sting push me onward!  Bad idea?  Yeah, I'd say so.
     If I had allowed logic to lead me (or even the morning heart prompting that whispered "No run today"--something I clearly ignored...),  I would have taken it easy.  Instead, I elevated my already-in-overdrive heart rate with my obnoxious obsession to compete with my own shadow.  About 20 minutes in, I noticed my lips were starting to feel a little tingly.  That's odd... My chin was becoming numb.  Huh, that's weird... 30 minutes in, Man, my head itches! Maybe I should take some Benadryl.  Thankfully, some logic was setting in (however minimal).  I scoured our cabin for meds.  None.  The medicine cabinet at the house.  Nada.  Went to the Bells' home.  Zip.  Alright, maybe I should go to the clinic right next door.  Went to get Jessica to accompany me.  Told her I was a little uncomfortable and concerned about a potential allergy.  She noticed my arms.  Oh, that's not good.  Hellooooo rash!  The madness had begun.
     Clinic, closed.  Pain, increasing.  Not good, not good.  The Micah cook came out and verbalized my fears as she nervously gasped, "What happened to you!?"  Ahhh, yes, my face.  A swollen marshmallow-like rose garden perhaps?  Yes.  Well, at least I won't be as cat-called as normal today.
     Thanks to other staff members who were more in their right mind than I was at the time, they pushed me into the Micah van, prayed over me (their anxiety was increasing as they watched my bronzed skin flame into red sweltering bumps), and sent me on my way--traffic and all--to the nearest (relative) emergency room.  By the time I'd arrived, I was already pretty faint and my throat had begun swelling shut.  Not good, not good.  But I was at peace, somehow.  Gift of God?  Had to be.
     I threw myself down on the nearest hospital bed and was quickly surrounded by a flood of nervous-looking doctors and nurses.  Well that's reassuring.  "This is for the allergy," one of them told me and put a pill in my hand.  "This is for the allergy," another said and slipped me an IV.  "This is for the allergy," yet another said, pulling out my favorite: a butt shot.  "This is for your stomach," the IV nurse attached a second bag of liquid.  My stomach? Ah well, who was I to argue?  "This is for your pain," another said.  Okay, this is starting to feel a little overkill.  Needless to say, they attended to me.  By the third IV bag of saline, I knew I was racking up a hefty bill with, in my humble opinion, some rather unnecessary precautions.  Want some proof?  They brought in the head doctor to tell me in English all the things they'd already told me in Spanish.  Just a few things.  All things I had already understood.  They charged me 100 buckeroos for that two minute chatter.  Cool.  
     "Has this ever happened to you before?" the English speaking cranky man asked me.
     "Yes, fourth grade," I answered him (in Spanish).
     "And how many nights did you stay over in the ICU?"
     Nights! Ha! You've got to be kidding me... "Uhhh, none? They just gave me the shot and I was good to go."  Wish they'd let me out of here now, too...    Cranky man left.  Nice nurses stayed around a bit.  They came in and out, every time asking me if I wanted the TV on.  Nope, the answer is still no.  The peace and quiet of the room to myself was actually refreshing.  My whole life here feels like a freaking soap opera--no need to watch one.
    An hour goes by... two... three... Breathing, fine.  Skin, fine.  Mental state, relative.  Four... Five... Err.... Am I ever getting out of here? I made myself known every time they came in to change out IV bags, "Are you sure I need that?  Are you SURE?"      "Yes."
     Okay, well, I'm alive.  So... that's good.
     After about 7 hours, they finally said I could go and handed me a prescription for ten days of two different types of drugs to help with "the allergy."  (I didn't get them).  And then came my favorite: the bill.  In the flurry of the morning's activity, I was not in any state to worry about grabbing cash or card.  Thankfully, the wonderful woman who drove me grabbed some Micah money and covered the mystery expenses.  At my insistence she finally admitted to me the cost.  6500 limps ($350).  Okay, okay, a lot more than necessary but this is my life we're talking about.  I should be grateful.  I should be grateful.
    I wasn't very grateful.  Racking up the unnecessary charges in my mind and thinking about how I would pay for the day's adventure, my mind quickly shifted from the gift to the cost.  Considering what I was paying for, it wasn't even that much.  And it's not like I didn't have it, I just didn't want to spend it.  I had just been given my life back, and I had already become a stingy calculator.  But I realized that, and I stopped.  Wait a second, brain, you are freaking out.  The work of God is to trust in him.  Are you doing that?  No.  So shut up!     And right then, in the split second of mental silence, came a very distinct whisper whose voice I know well, "Your life cost much more than that."
     If my own self talk didn't shut me up, that certainly did.  I knew the Lord had spoken to me, and he was right (as usual).  Three-hundred and fifty dollars?  I could pay that back.  But the price God paid for my life--the life of his own Son?  That is a debt I will never be able to make up, and he knew it when he foot the bill.  God paid the price for my life.  He decided I was worth it.  And he paid. Because of him, I am alive.  Forever.
     You see, a wasp's sting is one thing, but death's sting is a whole different ball game.  Sin's venom is far more deadly, and its poison I willingly burrowed into my own veins.  The consequence was lethal, but thanks be to Jesus Christ and his pure blood, shed for me, I have been given the ultimate transfusion.  His blood runs through my veins, and because of that marvelous gift, I belong to him. Forever.