Flickers of Light

     "If your farts could smell like anything, what would you want them to smell like?" I ask our youngest room of boys a playful question before bedtime, attempting to lighten the heavy tension of the day.
     "Shit," our fourteen-year old firecracker responds with a hard look in his eye. "Because that's how I feel right now."
      After letting his sharp words land, I pointedly reply with a firm tone, "Listen to me: none of you is shit. You hear me? None of you."
      Firecracker Boy snaps his head in my direction, finally acknowledging my presence with a newfound awe in his voice, "Did you all hear Kelsey!?"
     These boys mistakenly believe that I can't possibly be 'a dirty-rotten sinner like they are'--solely because they've never heard me swear (literally). And although I will never intentionally sin to try and prove my equal-fallenness to them, I have no problem using what they deem as a 'bad word' to get across a good message. To rewrite the lie they keep believing: that they're trash. That they're irredeemable. That they are defined by the darkness they find when they look inside themselves. That they are beyond the reaches of the light of our Lord's grace... Because that's just not true. Even when all evidence points against it. Because no matter how dark the darkness, I believe in the power of the light.

     If you were to buy a box of lightbulbs, would you consider them worthless just because you've never actually seen them light up before? No. You just know that they aren't plugged in yet. Even though they currently appear to be worthless hunk of glass and plastic when trapped behind that flimsy cardboard box, if you know what they are, then you also know what they are capable of and what their purpose is. They just need to be plugged into the source of light. And then... they shine.

     "I'm not an honest person," Prodigal Boy tells me with a hard look in his eye. We are currently defining various human 'values' in my one-on-one student's Civics class. Sincerity, Solidarity, Integrity... I almost skipped over this material, finding it too basic and cheesy, but it has surpisingly opened up good conversation.
     "Why's that?" I ask gently.
     "I'd rather be alone. I don't want anyone to bother me. Everyone lies to me, so why should I be honest with them? Besides, if you let someone in, they're just taken from you anyway."
     I nod understandingly. Prodigal Boy's older brother recently passed away. Not to mention a history of loss and pain. Rejection from an an abusive, now-in-jail father, a mother who abandoned him, a friend killed by the gangs...
     "I can see how you feel that way," I say. "But if we shut ourselves off to the pain, we shut ourselves off to love, too."
     Prodigal Boy looks at me, absorbing my words but not sure yet what to think.
     "People are going to hurt us and we are going to hurt them," I continue. "That's why it's so important to me to look to Jesus. We can always trust him--he is always honest and his love will never fail. And when my trust is in him that frees me up to open myself up to others. I know that other people will hurt me and lie to me, but I also know that we all want someone to know who we are. And how will anyone ever know who we are if we aren't honest or if we keep closing ourselves off? Someone needs to break the cycle. That's why Jesus came. He knows us and he showed us that he loves us and that we can trust him. And when we look to him, we can start to be a part of the change. Then you can be the friend to someone else that you have always wanted someone else to be for you."
     Prodigal Boy continues to drink in my words. Will he come out of hiding? Will he look to the light? Will he let love in?

    In many ways, I think we all start out like lightbulbs in a box. Wonderful creations intended to fill dark places with light. Just because we haven't plugged in yet doesn't negate our good design nor our intended purpose. We need the true light, of course--we aren't anything without it. But with the light? Oh, how beautiful that we, creations so fragile and small, get to carry something so much more glorious than ourselves.
     However, because of the world we live in--a world seeking self-glory and never seeming to find enough--we keep trying to find our identity by looking to ourselves. Our heap of glass and plastic... but that type of who-am-I search will never work. We will only end up defining ourselves by the darkness, rather than by the Lord's never-failing light. We need to plug in to the truth.

     As I am about to start Bible study with a few of the neighborhood girls, Firecracker Boy stomps into my what once was a clean cabin. He flips his rain-soaked hair and plops his wet body as close to the ladies as possible. The girls beg me to let he and his other dripping companion join us. I let them.
     After allowing some time for flirty banter and popcorn tossing (with plenty of eyerolls and "No... No..."s on my part), I finally sit them down for a little time in the Word. John 10. Just the first few verses. Jesus--the good shepherd--knows his sheep, calls them by name, and leads them out. His sheep know his voice and follow him. Jesus says that the thief comes only to steal, kill, and destroy, but he came that we may have life. Abundant life.
     The kids are far more interested in each other than the Bible passage (not surprising). Even so, I continue. I tell them that their are a lot of voices in this world. Around us, inside of us.
     "So how do we know which voice is the Lord's?" I ask. No response... they're still looking to each other. I give specifics.
     "The voice that tells you that you trash," I say. All of a sudden the kids are silent. They look at me. Waiting. "That voice is not the Lord's."
     "The voice that tells you that you will never amount to anything in this life," I say. The kids are still. "That voice is not the Lord's."
     "The voice that tells you that you need a boyfriend or a girlfriend to finally be happy," I say. "That voice is not the Lord's."
      I continue with this list of lies, and the kids continue to stare at me as if I've peered into their heart. This is the voice they are hearing, and living by. This voice is not the Lord's.
     "The voice that tells you that you are worthless," I repeat. "That voice is NOT the Lord's!"
     I can't help but notice the doe-eyed stares, filled with both fear and longing, that are gazing back at me. I want them to know which voice is the Lord's. The voice who came to bring life.
     "That's why I read the Bible," I say. "These words are true. God proved we could trust his voice--he would make a promise, and keep it. He would make a promise, and keep it. Make a promise, and keep it. And so we can know what he says about us is true. And he loves us."
     Oh, if they would only believe it...

     Plugging into the truth, we finally begin to shine. But on this end of eternity, it feels like we are caught in the flicker on the way to being turned on. You know the moment I'm talking about right? When flips on an old light and it buzzes a bit, going on and off a few times times before it finally kicks in? Everything before Jesus finally comes feels a little bit like that. Even if we've finally plugged into the truth, there's a lot of lies to fight. Wrong voices. Trapping us in darkness. Causing us to flicker as we learn how to live in the light. A light that the enemy would love to steal from us--so he points to the flickering darkness and attempts to convince us that the light in us and others is burning out. That the flicker shows us that the light will end... but that's not the truth. The darkness doesn't define us, the light does. And if we know the truth, we know that the Lord's light never fails. He promises to finish the good work he started in us. And when he comes back again, the light will never end. He will shine forever, and as we look to him, forever, so will we.
   
    As I finish writing this, one of the youngest boys in our project, who has been watching a movie with his cousin in my cabin, uses up his final warning with some choice words and an inappropriate gesture. He refuses to leave, but I wait--telling him that I accept him but not those words in this cabin.  Meanwhile we can play outside if he'd like, and as for this cabin he can come back tomorrow. I hear a whole lot more words when I say this... But I know those words aren't true. And so I wait. He punches my arm as he finally stomps out the door, which I close behind me... Hoping that one day, in his heart, the light will finally turn on.

     

Rash Decisions

     I've often found that it takes a fall before learning how to stand. But that fall doesn't always have to be our own for us to learn which road not to take. Hence, this blog entry. I'm going to let you in on my own foolish fall, hoping that you won't go down the same road and take the path of wisdom, instead. The first time.


     As Jhon and I walk up the narrow stairwell on the way to his drum-lesson, I notice the multiple facebook chats he keeps flipping between. All girls. Surprise, surprise.
     "Jhon..." I interrupt his 'flow.'
     "Mmhmm," he responds (just to appease me--his attention is still fixed on his cell phone screen).
     "When a man goes out fishing, are there different sorts of lures depending on what he is trying to catch?"
     "Yeah..." he glances towards me--I've started to get his attention.  Jhon's people, the Garifuna, often live on the Honduran beaches and earn their livelihood as fishermen. Tapping into his roots, Jhon tells me about a few kinds of fish and what is used to trap them.
     "Okay, so what does that mean for girls?" I ask. "What kind of girl do you want to catch?"
     He looks at me dumbfounded. I'm pretty sure any catch would do just fine for him. Any girl, every girl--whichever one will take the bait. That's not the kind of girl I want for him.
     "Jhon, the kind of girl who is using her body as bait is not the kind of girl I want for you," I say. "I want a girl who will honor you and encourage you to be the man God has called you to be. And that kind of girl will not use her body to bait you. Got it?"

     I want to be this type of girl, too. The kind of girl who honors men, who encourages them to be who God has made them to be. The kind of girl who keeps her eyes on Jesus and waits on him with patience. I don't want to be the girl who uses worldly means to trap what she wants--only to lead others to their downfall. So you'd think I would have taken my own advice, but I didn't. I fell... just a little. But because the Lord disciplines those he loves, he didn't let me get away with even "just a little." He had to go and remind me what truly matters: the heart.
   
     Enter: Boy. Exit: Wisdom.

     As I am on a prayer walk of all things, suddenly my thoughts started to drift, and with those thoughts, a glance. A simple glance. Towards a tree. Now, this particular tree--a lime tree--I have passed by before and even unintentionally picked off one of its leaves. Insodoing, I noticed: wow, this leaf sure smells nice! And so, I rubbed just a bit on my wrist to enjoy its citrusy scent. Not a lasting scent, by any means, just a slightly lingering reminder of God's beautiful creation. Simple, innocent. Not today, though. Today, I have a motive. A selfish one. Boy... I want that leaf. I want to cover up the lingering sweat I keep accumulating from all my soccer play with these kiddos. I want to smell good. Somewhere, deep in my subconscious, I'm looking to make a catch. And I'm greedy for bait. And so, I grab not one but a handful of those yummy leaves. Ripping into them, I let their oil seep out and smother them all over my wrists and neck. Ridiculous, I know, but remember: Wisdom has left the upstairs control room.

     Enter: a visual rose garden. Exit: the pretty scent--none of it has remained.

Yup, sure enough up my arm I have begun to form a giant, painful, blistery, rose-colored rash. Well this is lovely. Not only has my bait fallen off the hook, but I'm pretty sure I've just added some strong repellant. Oops...
     Fortunately, the Lord disciplines those he loves, and his object lesson on this recently humbled daughter heart has not been wasted: "Charm is deceptive, and beauty does not last, but a woman who fears the LORD will be greatly praised" (Prov 31:30). I'm convicted: I've started to rely on physical beauty for bait...
     Now, there's nothing wrong with smelling nice and taking care of physical appearance, but what is my motivation? Am I trying to win someone over with a hook that won't hold? Or am I truly seeking to honor the Lord from a pure heart--a beautiful heart that flourishes under his faithful, gentle, steady love? That's the kind of girl I want to be. That's the kind of heart that I want to have--and if the Lord ever wants to open someone's eyes enough to see that heart, well, may the fragrance of Christ be what draws him to me. Not a lime leaf.
     Continually fighting to keep up looks, charm, wit, and smells is a tiring battle--and a losing one at that. Time and gravity are pretty strong enemies if the physical stuff is where we find our strength--just check the wrinkles... and eventually the coffin. But if our identity is in Christ, and his character is what marks us? That lasts, because He lasts. He's the I AM--the Beautiful One, the ever present, life-sustainer!  So ladies, join me in taking Peter's advice: "Your beauty should not come from outward adornment such as braided hair or gold jewelry or fine clothes, but from the inner disposition of your heart, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is precious in God’s sight" (1 Peter 3:3-4). Come on girls, let's pursue righteousness! Letting kindness, compassion, humility, and love be our clothing. Let's wait on the Lord. Let's allow his Spirit to mold our character, and if and when the Lord ever wants to let a man in on that beauty--then may it be His doing and His drawing power. But even if he doesn't, Jesus is enough, so let's look to please Him--who looks not at outward appearance, but at the heart.
     Thankfully, when our hearts get sick--he sees us through the eyes of healing grace. He sees who we are becoming, even through the pimply stages that are part of the pathway to maturity. Take me, for instance--I fell. We can all laugh at that funny fall together, but let's learn from it, too. Keep your eyes on Jesus and grab his outstretched hand whenever you start to slip. His hand will hold. He loves you.

Dirty

Giovanni...

A skinny street teen who I've had a tight bond with for the past few years--ever since I gave him my pair of bright orange Hope College sweatpants that caught his eye. He told me the story of how his mom died that day. Giovanni has never forgotten that pair sweatpants... or the time he told me his story.

Today when I see him, he reminds me of those very pants and asks for another pair. A new pair that will fit his skin-on-bone body.

I take down his size on a small slip of paper and with a carefree grin begin asking other random life questions to note down, too. Then this question blurts out: "Have you ever received Christ in your heart?"

He looks at me, both serious and sad: "No." His drug-glazed eyes take in the sorry sight of himself, "I... can't yet. I have to change all of this first."

I raise an eyebrow (if I could only raise one, that is). "Ahhhh, so it looks to me like you don't understand the Gospel yet!" I pat the stone concrete I'm currently perched on. "Take a seat and lemme tell ya!"

He reluctantly agrees, but listens nonetheless.

"Giovanni, Jesus did not tell us that we have to fix ourselves up before we ask him into our lives. We can't! And that's GOOD news!"

Giovanni stares at me, unsure what I mean by 'good news'.

I continue, "We can't ever be presentable enough--none of us--that's the good news! Jesus said 'blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.' You're in the perfect spot to let him into your heart and turn to Him!"

Giovanni drinks in my words, then wanders off to a corner by himself. To think.


You know, we can tell these kids the Good News every time we see them. Jesus came, died, and rose to open the way to Him--something we could never achieve on our own. And yet, even though this is the greatest news in the world, it's the hardest for them to believe.

But is that really so surprising?

Giovanni, whom I love, sees the glue bottle he clutches, the dirty street corner he inhabits, the empty pockets he wears and thinks "Jesus can't come here." 

But that's the GOOD NEWS: He can! How do I know? He already came to the dirtiest, most shameful place that we could ever dream up--a naked, bloody, spit-on body hanging on a cursed tree. The cross. The cross where he carried all our sin that we are such addicts of, where he endured the insults we hurled at him, where he overcame the shame we've been wearing ever since we left the Garden... all on that dirty slab of wood... outside the camp. That's right, Jesus--the outsider, so that we could become insiders. With him.

And we certainly can't become insiders on our own--not by making ourselves 'presentable'. That game won't work with Giovanni and it won't work with us either. Because even though we may not have a drug in our hands (unless you count a cell phone...) or sleep on a cardboard box doesn't mean we're clean enough to be King-of-Kings worthy. We're dirty, too. And we know it! Sure, let's go ahead and try adding on some fancy clothes, a few extra degrees, a heaping of charitable deeds, 3 cute kids (one adopted)--are we presentable enough now? Well, if we compare ourselves to a holy God--of course not! So what do we do!?!

Oh wait... He already did it... For us. On the cross. We've got to trust that his holiness trumps our unholiness. That his goodness redeems our evil. That his love overflows our emptiness. Because it does. Every time.

And so... Let him in! And when you do, you'll come to find that--in the light of his glorious grace--He finally starts to turn you into the holy man or woman you always knew you needed to be to enter into His presence in the first place. Yeah, that's Good News.

Ending the Hunger Games

Another death.

A casualty or a sacrifice?

I'm counting on the latter.

I don't know what the Lord is doing, but I do know who He is--a Good Author. And this girl has a name. A story. A place in our hearts. Our sovereign Lord is not about to let her death be in vain.

Belen*. That's her name. She has one, you know, because she's a person, which matters whether you know her or not. I knew her, though. And so did the countless staff member who have poured time, prayers, and resources into her. And so did her 'brother' Axel, who is one of our Micah boys. And so did the other street kids, who for better or for worse looked to her as a leader. And so did her baby, even if that 'knowing' was limited and lacking. The baby left behind.

I can't say I'm surprised. I know I sound cold writing this, but that's the reality of what we are dealing with here. Of course we always hold out hope that maybe just maybe these kids will accept one of our many offers to break free from the chains of street 'living'. Former Micah missionaries had this girl in their home for short stint... before she ran back to the streets. The hospital offered help after she had delivered her baby... before she ran back to the streets. Her 'brother' Axel warned her outside the Micah gate that the streets ultimately lead to death... and yet she ran back... as she always did. But now, not even the streets are an option.

Not that Belen even died on the streets, because dying implies living. And what life is there on the streets? I saw her sister and the girl she'd cut with a knife just yesterday, who were sitting on the streets beside one another until one of them opened her mouth and they began clawing at each other, pulling out hair, and kicking the other in the face. That's the "life" Belen kept running back to, and now she has left it behind for good... after dying from an overdose. Translation? Belen must not have seen much life where she was living either, otherwise she wouldn't have been using so many drugs to try to run away from the very place she kept running to.

And so, here we are, faced with another death...

Another death.

A casualty or a sacrifice?

I'm counting on the latter.

Just before receiving the news today, I read a few chapters of the second Hunger Games. The scene in particular that struck me was when Haymitch hugged Katniss right before she was about to enter the arena and warned her, "You just remember who the enemy is. That's all." These words immediately called to mind Ephesians 6:12 where Paul says, "For our battle is not against flesh and blood..." and so I prayed in response, "Lord, help me to remember who the enemy is... and then may I be your Katniss. And fight."

It was after this that I learned about Belen's death, and I couldn't help but think of the Hunger Games all over again. Kids murdering kids. Trapped in a game whose rules they assumed they had to play by, and who could blame them? Trying to survive, but for what end? And now there is Belen, who has pulled her fair share of knives and gone down fighting in an untelevised hunger games known as street-living. But just like the other kids in the arena weren't Katniss's real enemy, neither are we to one another. We keep picking the wrong fight. Belen is not and never was the true enemy. Sure, she treated others and herself as one, but she was a part of a bigger war going on--the war for our hearts. And behind all of her wounds--inflicted both to and by her--Belen was just a girl who was scared and trying to survive. She was a part of the system of lies she and so many are fed. Lies that kept her trapped in what was already killing her. And now she is dead.

If Belen knew the truth that we really did love her and care about her, maybe she would have surrendered the knives, the sex, and the drugs she thought she needed to protect herself. If she would have just trusted us, maybe she would have let us help her find a new life. But she didn't. Not totally... But I know she did a little. She smiled when we saw her, she laughed at our goofy dances, she teasingly wiped cake frosting on our faces, she played in the pool, and she came looking for us when she was in desperate need. There were glimpses of free-her when she let us into tiny places in her heart. I know there was some love received by her... even if just a little. And a little goes a long way.

Because of that love, there is a piece of Belen that is still alive. Belen's story isn't over, because for some crazy reason, Belen is permanently written on so many of our hearts. Belen was and is dearly loved--even though I bet she never knew it--and because of that love... this has gotten real personal.

Oh Belen!

Another death.

A casualty or a sacrifice?

I'm counting on the latter.

Belen's death is not in vain. It's a wake up call--not only to the other street kids, but to all of us. Because whether we have a roof over our heads or not, death is still coming. So wake up! It's time to fight the enemy.

And, no, the enemy is not God--though I know there are some people who think he must be some sort of manipulative Gamemaker who takes a sick delight in torturing us to death for rebelling against him, but that's the very lie the enemy would like us to believe. God is actually the one who has authored our rescue out of this world. We need a Savior--someone to save us from our self-protective hearts and get our eyes on the One who we can trust to lead us into true life. We need Jesus.

But just like these kids will never leave their street 'living' and enter into the life we offer at Micah unless they actually trust us first, neither will we run to Jesus and enter into the full life he is offering us if we don't trust him first. And so often, we don't. We look at the reality of death and think that defines God, but that's not true. Death is the consequence we chose in our rebellion against God. And yet death is not what we think it is. Death is not an ultimate end. Death is a shadow. A veil. The enemy wants us to look at death and give up--to turn to some sort of drug or weapon to extend our little life here on earth--the life we aren't actually living when we're so worried about surviving. But what the enemy does not want us to know is that death is not an undefeatable enemy. Jesus proved that by his death and resurrection. He showed us his healed, holed hands for a purpose. He holds out life so we will take it. So take it! Trust him, and TAKE IT. I am so sick of seeing people die without ever having lived. Trust Jesus, and LIVE.


*Belen. English translation: 'Bethlehem.' Hebrew meaning: 'House of Bread' with a strong connotation for 'House of Battle.'

Valued

     As I pass through El Centro with Jhon to buy him a snack post-drum lesson, I run into a few of our typical street crew. They are silently sniffing their glue bottles as they sit at 'their spot'--a concrete ledge inscribed with the words "Cuida las plantas" ("take care of the plants"). Yeah yeah yeah, and the people?
     Ignoring the flourishing vegetation, I make my way over to the disheveled, distant-eyed teenagers. I notice that one of the girls today is especially drugged out. I kneel down and repeat her name over and over--"Ana... Ana... Ana..."--until she finally receives my gaze. Once I have her limited attention, I ask, "¿Está bien?" She wearily shakes her head and shows me a long cut on the side of her neck; then she points a finger at the equally checked-out girl behind her: "She did it!"
    This previously wordless teen suddenly jumps up to defend herself, "Only because Ana is so annoying! She won't stop bothering me!"
     I look up to the sky, taking a moment to draw a deep breath and pray for wisdom. "Listen, girls," I say with a firm voice and raised eyebrows. "I want to see you treating each other how you want to be treated, understood?" (I feel ridiculous giving such simple advice to these high-as-a-kite girls caught in a cat fight, but since it's what I believe the Lord put on my heart to say I continue:) "I want you to know something. When God created the universe--the stars, the creatures, everything--he called it good. But do you know what he called very good?"
     By this point, another street girl has wandered her way over to me to answer my prompt: "Us."
     "That's right," I affirm. "Of all creation, God put his image in us. And he didn't come to die for the stars, he came to die for you and me. God gave his very life to purchase us, and if that is the price he paid then we are very valuable. You are very valuable. So treat each other like it, got it?"
      I look around at their attentive faces and can tell the "you are valuable" thing has struck these kids' hearts by the way they are staring at me--somehow they heard me through their drug fog, and I know that deep down they hope what I said is actually true. It is. Just to remind them, I take the two 'frenemies' to buy a simple snack. They follow me like puppies and longingly look at me to repeat what I had spoken earlier, "You are very, very valuable. So treat each other like it, got it?" The girls nod and walk back to their ledge, slowly munching on their chips... and hopefully on my words, too.

     You are very, very valuable... It's no surprise to me that these girls have a difficult time believing me. We go to great lengths to protect what we value most. And how have these girls been treated? Like they're not even worth a second glance by the majority of passerbys. Like a self-affirming pat-on-the-back to all the do-gooders who occasionally fork over a sandwich. Like a piece of meat to the hungry-eyed men of the night. You know, maybe that's why these girls cheapen sex--taking men's few flimsy flatteries as their highest bid, hoping that maybe just maybe their desired bodies prove that they are at least worth something... but where does that leave them in the end? Abandoned--with a baby, an absent father, and feeling even more worthless than before.
     But whether they know it or not, these girls are worth something. A whole lot, actually. After all, how do we know what an object is worth? By the price someone is willing to pay for it. And I know the One who paid the cost. The highest cost.

     Later this same evening I watch a fourteen year old girl in our neighborhood hitting on literally all of our guys as she strolls down the street. This girl, who has recently started attending the ladies' Bible study my roommate and I lead, has an impressive talent of being able to accentuate each of her, errrm, 'endowments' as she pops them all out with each swaggy step. As she puts her gropy hands on one of our younger guys' shoulders with a giggle and a hair toss, I look at the lost young lady and tell her in front of the guys--because I love her and them--"No, don't you sell yourself like that." She snaps her head in my direction, shocked by the implication of the words. I didn't mean to insinuate anything, but I use the blow to my advantage, hoping that somehow I am speaking healing into her apparent wound.
    Pulling her aside I say, "You want to be loved for who you are--in here," I tap my finger on her chest, where her heart is. "If you use your body to get the love you are looking for it's never going to work. You want to be loved for who you are, not for your body... and you already are."
     I then point my finger up to the sky and show her the stars. "Beautiful right?"
     She nods.
    "When God created the stars he called them good, but when he created us he called us very good," I repeat this simple message from before to another pair of thirsty eyes. "God didn't come and die for the stars. He died for you. You are very valuable. Live like it."
     The girl's masked hardness is broken in my presence, and her tender spirit shines through as she looks at me with widened eyes. As if I've just given her heart a small drink of hope, she nods. In this precious moment, the young woman before me looks utterly and undeniably beautiful.
     
     We know how much something is worth by the price someone is willing to pay for it... And the Someone who was willing to pay for us is the very One who made us, loves us, and died and rose for us, because for some crazy reason he wants to spend forever with us. When I try to look inside my own dark and twisty heart, I certainly have a hard time finding anything of value. But when I look to Jesus and recognize His infinite worth, I take the price tag dangling from my heart a whole lot more seriously. I'm His, and that's worth more than I could ever imagine. Jesus, our Redeemer, really is utterly and undeniably beautiful... so let's treat the people he paid for like they are, too, got it?

The Hum-Drum Life

Drummm Drm Drum Drummmm Drum Drum Drummm...

Jhon has been getting back in touch with his Garifuna-culture roots with a special drum class, which I find myself sitting in on--listening to my beach-born brother pound out the exact same rhythm... Over... and over... and over...

Drummm Drm Drum Drummmm Drum Drum Drummm...

Well, not the exact same rhythm since Jhon is currently getting tired of this monotony. Every once in a while he'll pause, readjust, and breathe out a sigh of frustration as his teacher just sits there on his cell phone voicing an occasional minuscule critique.

Drummmm Drm Drum Drummmmmm Drum Drum Drummm...

The longer I listen the more I notice Jhon's slight speed changes. A little faster... A little slower... A little harder... A little softer...

Drummm Drm Drum Drummmm Drum Drum Drummm...

"You're getting tired," his teacher notes without looking up from his phone. "Take a break."

Jhon gets up to go to the bathroom--relieved. While he is away, the teacher finally acknowledges my presence. "Patience," he tells me. "That's the hardest thing."

Jhon comes back and takes up the what-should-be-steady rhythm once more.

Drummm Drum Druum Drummm Drum Druuum Drummm...

As the end of the hour approaches, a few of the other Micah boys rush in post soccer-training hoping to recollect their companion. Jhon's teacher pays them no notice; Jhon tries not to, either (without success).  After the boys' initial awe by the newness of Jhon's ethnic drum-beat, they quickly begin to scoff as they realize Jhon's slow steady rhythm is not about to get any cooler. They try to motion for him to do something fast, something "awesome"--but Jhon shakes his head and glances in the direction of his teacher. He's got enough fear in him to at least attempt continuing to pound out what the teacher wants, even though his peers are already storing up ammunition to mock him for these drum lessons later. And Jhon knows it, too--he's losing his rhythm. He's starting to sweat.

Cue: Mamma bear. I decide to load up my ammo, too: words.

When the teacher finally lets Jhon free, I jump on the moment, positioning myself next to Jhon and speaking to the boys before the teacher's intimidating presence leaves the room. The fear of him has given me a free platform to talk uninterrupted.

"What Jhon is doing here is incredibly difficult--to have the perseverance and patience to hold a steady rhythm. It is not always exciting, but it is such an important job," I say. "The rhythm prepares the way for the melody. The base precedes the glory."

As I speak, I notice the teacher is watching me, and for the first time, I see him smile. As we leave, Jhon is affirmed and reanimated. The boys' insults have vanished.

"Patience, it's the hardest thing..."

As we all walk out together, I can't help but think about how we live in a world that is always seeking the next new thrill. But the excitement of every exciting thing wears off. A new outfit becomes an old outfit. A new pop sensation becomes a dated one-hit wonder. A drug high becomes a crash and a craving. An image on a computer screen leads to another and another and another... Until thrill after thrill becomes the ordinary, and leaves no room for any thrill at all. We've forgotten the art of steady rhythm. The strength in the ordinary that prepares the way for glory.

As Oswald Chambers wrote, "The great hindrance in spiritual life is that we will look for big things to do. 'Jesus took a towel... and began to wash the disciples' feet.' There are times when there is no illumination and no thrill, but just the daily round, the common task... Do not expect God always to give you His thrilling minutes, but learn to live in the domain of drudgery by the power of God."

Drummm Drm Drum Drummmm Drum Drum Drummm...
Drummm Drm Drum Drummmm Drum Drum Drummm...
Drummm Drm Drum Drummmm Drum Drum Drummm...

"Patience, it's the hardest thing..."

Taught and strengthened by our Teacher, may we continue to patiently wait on Him--trusting that our discipline in the ordinary is preparing the way for greater glory. May we endure the insults of those watching, who always insist on 'seeing something cool' when God has instead called us to humble service. May we go about our daily tasks with hope that He is coming. By the Lord's power and grace, may we grow in the steady art of faith, hope, and love.

Drummm Drm Drum Drummmm Drum Drum Drummm...

Jesus was...

Drummm Drm Drum Drummmm Drum Drum Drummm...

Jesus is...

Drummm Drm Drum Drummmm Drum Drum Drummm...

Jesus is to come.

Jesus. Our faithful rock, our steady rhythm, our beautiful melody. Jesus.

Needy

 “Helping the poor” is not as glamorous as it sounded pre-doing it.

When the need was always ‘out there’ it became easy to romanticize the needy—pure-hearted Cinderellas trapped by their wicked relatives and dealt a crappy hand in life. This fantasized version of the poor only got perpetuated when ‘helping’ became hearing a few well-rehearsed sob-stories and handing out a meal here and there--keeping me feeling sorry for people (without being sure who to blame) while tricking myself into thinking how generous I must be for my few-dollar fast food purchase… all the while leaving the perpetual hunger behind.

But come back to that same street corner, and there will always be another plea--another meal, another pair of shoes, another bus fare, another… you name it. The needs are endless. Don’t you know I fed you yesterday!? Why are you hungry again today?!? I sense my resentment building for the human hunger that marks us all--the hunger that’s easy to hide when we’re constantly feeding.

And so, since I’ve fed and have more than enough to share, I go back to that street corner. I go back to that beggar who doesn’t look at me and see me but a wallet or ‘free’ entertainment. Yeah, I’m pretty, but I’m not offering you eye-candy or a play toy! (Since I’m not Jesus, I often suck at the whole ‘compassion’ thing). I am praying for compassion, though, I have to. When that street corner becomes a part of your life instead of just a magical mission trip, the labor of love can start feeling more like a chore. And when love begins to feel like a chore, it’s hard to see the people behind the needs--their perceived needs that is.

Because I know what their need is, and it’s not a sandwich. Though that’s a start. It’s not ‘fun’. I’m all about games, but soccer and some of my impromptu dance parties never takes them off the streets. It’s certainly not sex. Even though they already do enough of that--popping out babies and running away from them. None of that works to satisfy their hunger, and none of that works to satisfy ours either. It’s just easier to see from our perspective when they are the ones without a pocketbook and a glue-bottle shoved in their face.

But no matter how many times I tell them that there is something better out there--a place where we offer food, shelter, family--they just keep huffing and asking for toothpaste (someone always stole theirs). They even know about Jesus--though they do know the right Christian songs to play on their speakers (don’t ask me where they got them) as the white people walk past. They may even go to church and feel good for an hour every Sunday when they hear they’re loved. But do they believe it? If they never make any changes it sure doesn’t seem like it.

So why keep going back to that street corner?

“If a kid came into Micah, graduated, got a job, had a successful life, but never accepted Jesus, would all of it have been worth it?” a Micah-grad asks me on the roof of the Timothy House as we look down upon the city.

Pointing towards ‘El Centro’ where I just visited our typical street crew, I respond, “Even if those kids on the street never even enter the Micah house. Even if they spend their whole life on the streets and die there--never having accepted Jesus--it would still be worth it.”

The grad looks at me, puzzled, as if I didn’t hear his question. He repeats. So do I:

“We don’t love only if we know we’ll be loved back. Jesus didn’t. In fact, he knew Judas would betray him, and he loved him anyway. All the way to the end.”

So why keep going back to that street corner?

Because Jesus did it for me--I’m just as poor as they are. And thankfully the Lord doesn’t look at us with disgust--giving a few bucks to pacify us like filthy, intrusive beggars. Instead, he steps right into our need--our true need--and fills it. He gave 5000 bread then offered the Bread of Life. He asked for a drink then offered the Living Water. Jesus just gave. The sun just shines. The rain just rains. The sun doesn’t wait to see if the soil is ready before it comes up. It comes up. The rain doesn’t pick which land to fall on, it falls. And yes, I hope and pray that there are seeds buried behind all the dirt, but whether or not I ever see a flower sprout--and I hope I will--I will keep going back to that street corner.

Why?

Because Jesus did it for me. He still does.