Choose Life

     Cleaning up the tossed popcorn after our "Passion of the Christ" movie night, I spot fourteen year old Josue coming up beside me to wash his Coca-Cola mug. He looks pensive.
     "Pretty amazing what God did for us, huh?" I knock on the door of his thoughts.
     He opens, "Yeah... I was crying. It made me think--a lot." Josue shakes his head as if in disbelief then utters simply and sincerely, "After all we've done, he still loves us."
     My heart warms--that's the Gospel.

     A week and a half later, I am reminded of this moment. A moment of stored treasure before the plundering. A moment that I hope Josue has stored up, too. He needs it.
     Last week Josue received news that one of his brothers was in the hospital--severely injured from a fight and in need of surgery. His long-lost mother came into town for the occasion. A mother who had abandoned her sons years ago to fend for themselves in a run down shack. A mother who Josue spent hours searching to find when we took a service day in his brother's pueblo to help fix up their home. A mother who--after everything she's done--Josue still dearly loves.
     Upon receiving news of his brother, deeply-feeling Josue jumped the Micah wall in a flurry of emotion, but quickly returned after letting the weight of that rash decision sink in. Understanding his impulsive nature, we welcomed him back with open arms alongside the strict reminder to "seguir adelante" (keep going!).
     As the days passed, the Lord provided me such sweet moments with my inwardly aching brother. For the past few weeks, I have been boxing-training with Josue and a few others to spend quality time in a way that targets their particular interests. I've had a blast, but I've often wanted to give up--it's hard! And yet, that's just what has kept me in it. Knowing how 'hard' Josue's battle with anxiety has been, I've stuck through the lessons to remind myself how my physical battle is just a small glimpse into his emotional and spiritual one--something I've talked to Josue about post-practice as I have encouraged him to battle his anxiety with various fighter verses. To battle his doubt with faith. This past week, on the bus ride to sports practice, Josue laid his head on my lap as I tousled his hair. Momma bear spirit rose up inside me as other kids teased and poked. I swatted away their hands like gnats and firmly commanded, "Let him rest." As Josue lay with eyes closed and heart heavy, my fingers kneaded and my prayers rose.
    Later that same evening, I noticed Josue carefully wiping down his case-protected flute which he always keeps safely stored in his locker...

     "May I?" I hold out my hand.
     Reluctantly, Josue places his prized possession into my palm.
     "What would happen if I gave this to Nico and Emmy [two of our onsite-toddlers]?" I ask, fingering his instrument.
     His eyes widen "No! They'd destroy it!."
     "Mmmhmm," I nod. "And why is that?"
     He shrugs.
     I fill in the blanks, "They don't know how much it's worth."
     Placing the flute back into his hands I add, "Without knowing what an instrument is for, it's just a hunk of wood. But it is created for much more than that... You are a very valuable instrument Josue--put your life in the hands of the One who made you--with the One who knows how much you're worth."

     Oh, Josue. Beautiful, compassionate, sweet Josue... Josue: the one who just ran away.

     As the boys drove to church Sunday morning, Josue had already plotted his escape. Revenge on his mind, he lept out of the bus once they'd reached downtown in order to pick a fight with a few of the lingering street kids. Josue left, planning not to return....
     Until he showed up at our door the next morning. Repentant, but distant. High from hard drugs he was unable to mask his sleeveless forearm, glistening with a newly added tattoo: his mother's name. A tattoo may not seem like much to you, but in Honduras a tattoo is wrought with meaning: gang life. Seeing my distant-eyed brother, I made him hug me and look me in the eye. "We love you," I said. Barely hearing or seeing, he shook his head... he doesn't believe me... Heart broken over our prodigal brother: what do we do?
     Leadership met as my roommates and I prayed. O Lord give us wisdom!
     After spending time with my own recently-reached-out prodigal bible study teen and her 3 month old baby, I walked into the Micah house as the leaders were informing the boys of what had just happened with Josue.  They announced that they'd made the decision to send Josue to a 3-month rehabilitation center for his addictions before he can re-enter Micah. A wise decision but one that is wrought with pain--so many of our brothers have dropped out of rehab and returned to their life on the streets.  Our Honduran father-like figure Roger reminded the boys that these decisions are a matter of life and death. We need to support our brother. We need to pray. So we did. Josue cried, we hugged, we encouraged, we loved.
    And then, we packed. I sat in his room as he folded up his clothes.  Gifting him with a Bible, paper, and my colored pencils, I offered him the only thing that has ever kept me fighting: the Word of God. And then, he left....
     But not from our thoughts and prayers. Last night Lucy and I realized that a few of our missing belongings--her cell phone and $200 from my tin can--were most likely in his hands. Someone having broken into our cabin on Sunday--we figured out that our items were probably his pre-meditated fuel for the tattoo and drug purchase. Rather than mourn the fleeting things of this world, we mourned our forever brother. If it was him, he never confessed that he'd stolen from us, because 'how could we love him after all he'd done to us'? Oh, brother, please believe us... We do. How? We love because he first loved us.
     Remember, Josue: "After all we've done, he still loves us."
     That's the Gospel.

***Pray for Josue... This is a matter of life and death. Pray that he chooses life. That he lets himself be loved.

Nit-Picking

     "Dónde está Lucy?" asks one of our youngest Micah boys, in search of his typical homework-helper.
     "She's at our neighbor's house," I respond.
     Lucy, our newest Micah missionary, has taken a special interest in the kids across the street. A house infested with need--abuse, neglect, delinquincy--you name it. Sweet, compassionate Lucy has been investing time weekly reading the often-alone kids her bilingual Storybook Bible, playing with their gone-unnoticed special needs brother, and speaking kind words to the all-too-frequently called-a-"demon" and shoved-aside-by-the-community little girl.
     Smiling at the thought of my tender-hearted sister's reason for missing homework hour, I follow her example in service and add, "But I can help you."
     My Micah brother accepts my offer and pulls out his Social Studies notebook. As I lean over him to see the assignment, I suddenly find myself looking at the boy from a different angle. Straight down at his spiky-styled locks and right into the too-small-to see-but-I-know-they-are-there eyes of the little white specs known as... lice.
      Now, this is not my first experience as a nit-picker. Having worked at a camp and now with street children, I've become accustomed to finding the little buggers. Still, just thinking about them makes my own head itch.
     "Hey, Nity," I address him by his nickname (Honduran slang basically meaning spotless or pristine--like when you clean the house and bam it's sparklin'--that's 'nity'... although I can't help but notice the irony here...) "I'm going to go get some special shampoo and we'll get those right out, okay?"
     He nods unconcerned and keeps working on his homework assignment. Meanwhile, I search for our lice treatment kit, and as I do I run into a few more boys. I can't help myself, I check them, too. (Or try to, anyway--not all of them let me).
     "Ugh no! No tengo!" one of the teens who has lived with us four years now insists he doesn't have any and refuses to let me look. The past street boy who was once crawling with the little creepers is unable to even associate himself with the possibility of re-infestation.
     "A mí! A mí!" one of our younger, still street-edged kids eagerly asks me to check him. I look, and sure enough he is infected, too.
     "Sorry, bud, it looks like you've got lice," I say, "I'll help you after Nity."
     "Espulgáme!" that same boy commands me to 'delice him' and turns his head towards me. I've seen the street boys do this for each other before. They pull a few out of each other's hair, then get bored and move on--letting the infestation remain while feeling better that they've at least "done something."
     "There are too many, bud," I tell him, "We have to do the full treatment."
     He doesn't like this--too time-consuming. If it can't be done right here and now--not worth it. He spends the rest of the day avoiding me. "Voy a cortar mi pelo!" he says he'll just get a haircut and runs off.
     I return to the first victim and pull him into the bathroom to smother him with the lice-killing shampoo. Nity already doesn't like the few minutes of waiting required pre-rinse. I foresee a battle coming over getting him to sit still for the nit-picking. Sure enough:
     "Ya ya! [Enough already]!" he squirms after two quick comb throughs.
     "Not yet," I remind him. "There are still more."
     Nity doesn't seem to find the benefits of no-itch and insect-absence worth sacrificing his precious technology time. Throughout the whining, his impatience rubs off onto me, and I become less picky. After a quick scan for any remaining white spots, I decide to let him go.
     I search for the I'll-just-get-a-haircut boy. He's on the soccer field. "I'll do it later," I tell myself. "Besides, I've already told our coordinator," I add a second justification for letting him avoid me. "It'll get done."
    Time passes. I "forget" about the lice. Actually, I haven't really forgotten, I've just shoved the thought out of my mind and told myself "It'll be fine" when the promptings to deal with the problem resurface.
    More time passes. I hang out with the boys, I play with the boys, I sit with the boys, I hug the boys--I love these boys.
     This morning, I return to thinking about the lice. All of a sudden my head starts to feel itchy (my typical mental response). I think about having my roommate Lucy check me "just in case." I dismiss the thought, "Nah, my mind's just playing tricks on me--I'm good," And yet... that little doubt creeps in. "But what if I'm not?" At first, I find myself responding like the repulsed teen from before, "Not me! I couldn't possibly!" And yet, if I "couldn't possibly" then why am I so afraid of having someone check?
     Lucy looks...
     Sure enough, I have lice.
     The truth hurts, but it is better than the fear that had been keeping me in denial. Better to know and deal than ignore and have a swarm of hatched eggs later.  My resolve to destroy the nits overpowers my revulsion. Even so, I hate the lice. I want them out--all of them. Now.
     I wash my hair, I wait through the treatment, I go to Lucy. She is "happy to help." I sit, she picks. I wait, she combs. I rest, she works. I think, "she is serving me right now." But why? Why would she be willing to get so close to lice-infested me? Her compassion. She has had lice before, she tells me, she knows how it feels. And even more importantly, I know she loves me. She sees me, not the lice. Well, yes, she sees the lice, but she doesn't see the lice as me. She takes them off of me. And obviously I let her. I know this is an inconvenience in her day, but I want them gone, so I accept her sacrifice.
     Hours later, I am lice-free (supposedly... here's to hoping). Granted, there is still more to be done. My clothes and bedding are in the wash. I need to re-check my hair in a week (probably more considering my environment). And then there's everyone else. Lice-free me doesn't mean lice-free everyone. I've got some nit-picking to do. This time around, I hope to show a whole lot more compassion and patience--because, well, I've been there. And I'm not ashamed to tell you that.
     Speaking of, I have another confession. Of somewhere else I've been--somewhere way more disgusting than in a head full of lice. I've been in the pit of sin. I was born into it, and there have been many hatched nits of it along the way. Now, I'll admit, there are times when I react to my sin like the street boys to their lice--"Who cares if I have it? So does everyone else! Let me go play..." Other times when I respond like my pridefully pampered self-- "No, no! The dirty people have that stuff not me! I'm just here to help all of them." I've even been the in-the-Micah-house-4-years boy, low on compassion because I've forgotten what God has done for me. That's not how I want to respond to my sin.
     Sin is gross--shameful. But I am not ashamed to tell you that I am infected, because I am not ashamed of who has saved me from it: Jesus--the totally compassionate, loving, gracious sin-picker. The only uninfected one, and yet the one who began and will complete the good work to clean us up so that we can be with him. You see, Jesus doesn't have sin, and neither does his House. Rather than kick us out to the streets to live like the lice that live on us, He comes out to where we are. He gets in the dirt and nastiness of our lives, and he "nit-picks". Not because he is a nag, but because he is perfect Savior. He is gentle and patient and kind and loving and utterly holy--sin-free. And being sin-free, he is incredibly concerned with our holiness, too. He doesn't turn a blind eye to our licey lives; rather, he helps us clean house so we can be a part of His. This is a far more loving act than if he were to just shrug his shoulders, look at our rotten sin-infested hearts and say, "Whatever, everyone has them." Instead, he gives new, clean hearts. And he takes time with us--to help us throw off the sin that so easily entangles. He serves us--washing our feet and going to the cross to die for us. He helps us on the road to holiness--convicting us through his Spirit and guiding us to truth, to freedom. Jesus. Gently plucking. Always loving. Washing our clothes. Bringing us home.
     And in this process of de-licing our hearts, he also gives us greater compassion to see those around us who are in need just as we are. The way Jesus loves us is the way we are called to love others. After all "those who have been forgiven much, love much" right?. Speaking of... I've got some of my own nit-picking to go do. I'm pretty sure I'm not the only lice-infestee of the day, and I don't want to be the last lice-free*, either. (Don't worry, as I go back out I recognize I'm still susceptible to re-infestion. That won't stop me from going out into this sin-filled lice world, but after a day in the dirt and grime, it's always a good idea to give a good comb through before putting my head on the pillow).

*Lice-free though I may be, sin free I am not. By the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ he has paid for all of my sins once and for all, but I am still "in the picking process" so to speak. But I trust in my Lord Jesus that he will bring to completion the good work he started in me (Philippians 1:6) so that I can be with him, sin-free through his free gift of grace, forever.

Torn Bread, Spilled Wine

     Come gather around the table and give thanks! For what? Take a look at the food on your plate. A slice of ham, a scoop of potatoes, a helping of green beans, a slice of pie sprinkled with roasted pecans. Where did all that food come from? Well, not only did a loving relative sacrifice precious time to fix up your tasty meal, but somewhere along the line some sort of farmer or harvester worked to gather the raw ingredients mixed into the now-cooked delicacies. But let's not stop there, what about the ingredients themselves? In order to have the food sitting in front of you something had to die. A pig perhaps? A lamb, a cow? Even the potato uprooted from the ground the beans pulled from the plant were once alive when they were still attached to the vine, were they not? What a cruel act, isn't it? Killing? But wait! This is not killing for the sake of sport--some sort of purposeless murder with death as the end of it all. Rather, food is the art of sacrifice--death for the sake of life.
     In the kingdom of God, death resurrects to life. This is what we celebrate this weekend. A death--a sacrifice--for the sake of giving us life. No wonder Jesus calls himself "true food" and "true drink"! His body--the body of the lamb of God--has been given for us as the perfect sacrifice to cancel our sins and his blood has been shed that we may have life--true life, eternal life. Jesus was in no way promoting cannibalism when he proclaimed "my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink." Rather, Jesus helped us to understand the true meaning of food: himself. For as our teeth tear a piece of bread before ingesting it and experiencing its life-giving effects, even moreso we have torn the Son of God. Flogging, spitting, mocking, beating, piercing, killing... the cross. The horrid act of crucifixion, however, was not our own invented idea. God planned this, even before the foundation of the world. Why? He knew that we, humanity, would reject him which would ultimately lead to our death. Jesus willingly gave himself up so that we may live--with him, forever. Jesus is our true food--dying so that we may have life.
     And so when we gather around the dinner table--may we cherish the grand time of fellowship, nourishment, joy, community, satisfaction, and, ultimately, love. A love we are able to share only because of the life he gave so that we may live: the life of Jesus Christ, the Son of God. This is a love that we are only able to experience in part on this side of things, for one day we will experience the true feast when we finally come into his kingdom and see the one who gave up everything for us that we may dine with him face-to-face--alive--forever.