God At Work

     It was a small, intimate gathering of fellow bloggers. We meet monthly to be encouraged and enriched in our blogging endeavors. We learn about various tools our instructor explains and sometimes demonstrates for us, giving us examples about writing inside our blogs. And we are introduced to ideas, lots of ideas about why we blog, the importance of sharing our passions, and even serving the community with the writing in our blogs.

     But tonight was special. We were wrapping it up, going past our 2 hours which is easy to do, even with busy schedules and other priorities screaming for our attention. And then it happened. Our attention was brought to something higher than ourselves, way beyond this drive to write out the surf on our creative edge. It began when our instructor just wanted to be thankful. She reviewed how God spared her daughter from harm after she had been mugged recently. She was not injured, and after finding some of the cards in her purse that were thrown on the ground, accounts were closed and nothing was lost. Even though she was quite shaken, there was someone at work on her behalf that night that brought hope to a rejoicing mother. When her daughter ran back to the restaurant for help, one of her customers had given her daughter a hand-written note containing $50, announcing that it was the help of God that brought her back safe and unharmed. We were all recognizing God at work in different ways in our lives, and then our attention was turned to confessions of our fellow bloggers’ practice of praying. She talked of her preoccupation of communing with God in the mornings. Often after her morning prayers, she would hover in the silence during the next moments, waiting and listening for a response spoken in a language only her heart could understand, telling her that God did indeed hear her prayers. When she mentioned a list of names she had a habit of praying for everyday, our instructor asked if her name was on that list. Oh who wouldn’t want to be on her prayer-list! It was like listening to Mother Teresa revealing secrets to partaking in the divine! And then as some of us were heading for home, I was struck by this rare phenomenon. I wish it wasn’t so uncommon, but how often do we hear people rejoicing over the things that God is doing? It was sweet and holy and very special.

Part II

Holy people are supposed to forgive. A Christian lives differently. He answers to a higher calling. But sometimes it doesn't happen. He bleeds and hurts and gets stuck in unforgiveness. It is unnatural to look the other way and forgive. We naturally hang onto grudges and remember how we got hurt. We feel the pain. It stings. People do need to be held accountable for their actions. At the same time we can also forgive them so that the action doesn't keep replaying over and over again in our minds. If someone steals something they need to give it back or make restitution. I can forgive them for their bad choice, and it would also make sense to protect my belongings and not lend to that person. It's good to set healthy boundaries.

The choice to forgive exonerates me from resentment and hate. It liberates me from living in the trap of  wrong emotional ties. People hurt people sometimes because they are hurting and have lots of baggage they don't know how to unpack, or just don't want to do the hard work. Forgiveness doesn't get entangled in another person's unresolved issues. It buries me in a new life.   

Love Someone Enough To Use The “F” Word

I am in a room filled with beautiful brilliant light from the morning sun that radiates rays of joy through the window pane. A sweet feeling sweeps over me as I stand in the warmth. Walking over to the window, I reach up for the little plastic ring connected to the bottom of the roman shade and with great ease of motion, pull the shade down, knocking out those white hot rays of gleaming bright light. Unforgiveness pulls the shade down on the window of my heart. When I am hurt, my automatic reaction is to believe I have to live in the shame of the wound and allow unforgiveness to hurl ugly taunts in my face. In that moment of pain I can choose to open my heart to ingest the putrid pieces of this lie and allow it to fester inside my heart, or reject it and forgive. I am a Christian, but have at times become disillusioned with the term, especially as I see the way I respond to those around me in light of what is written about me, as a Christian, in the Bible.



Jesus could have been saving Himself at the same moment He saved the whole world. He chose to wrap Himself onto a rugged cross with His own blood staining the wood after hours of cruel torture. He didn’t hold that horrendous injustice against a crowd of self-proclaimed judges. No doubt, I am numbered among those self-righteous judges. But He chose to let me off the hook today, and forgive my many actions when He said, “Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.” I think we do know the kind of action we take against this perfect man, but have no idea the consequences of unleashing what is inside our hearts. Some of the manuscripts from Christian scribes or ‘other ancient authorities’ lack this sentence. How could this be?

Return Wednesday for Part II

A Place For Dreamers

Bryce Courtenay writes in his book, The Power of One, in each of us there burns a flame of independence that must never be allowed to go out. That as long as it exists within us we cannot be destroyed.  I like this. My culture wants to put expectation upon us to be and complete certain tasks at appropriate age levels. It demands a kind of generic similarity. In a brief and very simplistic overview, on average, each economic level has familiar family accomplishments. Children go to school, some begin at 2 years of age if they are potty trained and thus begins a long process of education, after school sports and extra-curricular activities – as much as you can pile onto an individual and cram into a day. Little time is left to think, meditate, ponder and mull over, learning from your parents/relatives experiences, or even to be taught their ways in areas of their expertise. Media stimulation has become a huge influence on lifestyle, demanding a larger portion of our time. Parental units are working very hard to pay for everything that goes along with the lifestyle. In another economic level, more parental units don’t stay intact and home life is more dysfunctional than functional and children are relegated to whatever is available through government programs and school initiatives. On another economic level, children are afforded the best of schools, even boarding and prep schools. Some leave their homes for training at an early age during a school year to take advantage of expensive intellectual stimulation. The outcome is usually, what kind of a job/career you will engage in for the rest of our life. But these days, for economic stability, many do not have the luxury of one lifetime career, but find themselves thrown into a situation that demands them to break out of a routine and decide to get creative about their money supply, the lack of, and think outside the generic box.  These survivors are independent thinkers and their flames burn white hot. It’s the kind of flame that brings life to many precarious circumstances. Many are drawn to its heat that burns a new kind of challenge into the fabric of society. It burns out a place for dreamers.            

Cinderella's Sandal

     She rummaged through her purse for a moment.
     "Here they are!"
     She was bursting with excitement as she pulled the treasures out and placed one in my hand.
     "This one is made from goat skins." She said.
     The sandals were small enough to fit a child's foot. The soles were worn and the strap was left unfastened and had lost it's button long ago. She held the other pair with pride and a longing look in her eyes as her gaze turned back the hands of time to long days walking the sands in Niger,Africa. She had just returned from West Virginia where she and her family spent their final days with the family patriarch. He was celebrated with love and care and she was remembering those tender years of her childhood spent in the land that was most precious to her father.
     When they were looking through his mementos and boxes of memories kept in closets and spaces unused in the daily scheme of life, she found 2 pairs of sandals wrapped up in a shower curtain. It hardly occurred to her that it was rather odd that they were packed in plastic curtains, because the thought of her daddy keeping her favorite sandals and bringing them all the way back to the states was precious.
     "Can you put them on?" I asked incredulously.
     I placed the sandal in her hand, anxious to see her slip her foot into the goat skins. She rolled her pants up and lifted her foot up to place it in the sandal. It was just like Cinderella slipping her foot into that glass slipper.
     "It still fits!" I exclaimed.
     And she just marveled at the sandals on her feet. Maybe she was remembering the hot earth under her feet, the dark night sky filled with bright stars lighting her path as she walked in her goat sandals, breathing in the night air, moments before she climbed up onto the roof to sleep under nets and a canopy of stars.
     Cinderella is all grown up now, far away from Niger, but somehow I think she still awaits her Prince, the one who rides upon the great white horse.
    
 

   About 5 years ago we returned to the states from Africa and I experienced a huge culture shock.  I was so surprised and extremely unprepared for the emotional roller coaster and had very few tools to help me understand these conflicting views and philosophical musings I found myself engaging in about life. I wanted to be neutral, but knew that everything was skewed by my personal experiences. I had to be comfortable with that knowledge and accept the truth about myself and those around me.  And the truth is that I had come to realize that I understand people from a limited viewpoint, and I don't always agree with certain cultural norms. I saw a rugged, organic kind of care and compassion that comes in community that can't be purchased. 


Everything seemed to be shared corporately where we were living in Zambia.  If you had a well with running water, you shared it with all your friends. And you were happy to do it. Actually it was an honor because water was prized - especially clean water. Your neighbors came to wash their clothes and you helped them. Their children brought plastic gas containers recycled into water carriers and filled them at your spigot or hose.  Or you gave a friend a piece of soap and they had a jolly time bathing in your water supply. Plates and dishes, pots for boiling water over the fire were all washed at your well. This went on all day long, into the dark night and they never ran out of conversation or smiles. Their need became a social event filled with laughter, sharing, caring and honoring the needs of others.

Sweat, Dust and African Pop Music

     Lily and I were jogging late in the morning and I spotted my neighbor standing on the side of the road, at what I assumed was a bus stop.  And sure enough as I peered up ahead there was a white mid-sized bus with big black letters that said something about transit. Within a few seconds I was back on a road trip from Ndola. We had just finished haggling over how much money we were going to hand over for ten stuffed dolls and animals at the postal service.

     "500,000 Kwacha!  That's obscene for a few puppets," I moaned under my breath!  It's for the children!" I pleaded with the postal worker.

     That didn't seem to dent the look of disdain on her face.  I'm not sure at what price we ended our negotiations, but after a long, arduous and hot wait in line and another long and heated debate over a few stuffed toys, we made our way to the bus terminal. She didn't know it, but these toys were puppets, a precious gift from the states - the efforts of a fund-raiser initiated by a handful of teens who wanted to make a difference. They wanted to help us. We trained the Zambian and Congolese teachers how to tell bible stories to the children using these puppets.  Most of them had never seen a puppet.

     I couldn't make sense of the tangled mass of buses, and so we began rapping on the doors of a few buses with drivers, seeking the nearest transport to Luanshya.  After several inquiries - most understood English, we were directed to a bus toward the back of the lot.

     "When do you leave for Luanshya?" Dan (my husband) asked the driver.

     "It is full, we go," said the driver.

     "Well, that narrows it down," I thought, but we climbed into the empty bus anyway and made our way to a metal seat near a window.  A few minutes later an older black man stepped onto the bus rattling off a message of sorts in what sounded like Lunda, and we were promptly ushered off, following him to another bus that looked so full it was about to explode!  Dan squeezed into a seat with 3 large, sweaty black men, while I opted to use my precious cargo as a seat in the aisle, facing the back of the bus.  Baskets full of fish, greens and plantain were stuffed under seats and in between riders.  A chicken was squawking somewhere in the back and a crying baby was loosened from it's mother's back, swaddled in a colorful chitenge, to rest comfortably on mama's lap.

     We roared off onto the city streets making our way to the only highway in Zambia, careening at about 120 kilometers.  Jarring bounces, the loud motor sounds, Swahili banter and laughter were all part of the ride and I rather enjoyed the adventure, except for the temperature.  Even with the windows open and the dust breezing in, the heat was unbearable. Perspiration ran down my face and body.  Relief did come when a dusty whoosh of air blew through my window and cooled me off as the breeze touched streams of sweat against my flesh.

     Vendors poked trinkets, roasted corn and fruit through open windows at bus stops.  African pop music blared on radios, the rhythms were beginning to sound and feel familiar to me.  Inexpensive wood furniture lay sprawled against the dusty terrain along the road.  I never saw trash or litter, even on the busy streets in the center of town.  Nothing lay unused.

     Two hours later, we stopped at our destination. We stepped off the bus and my body was still vibrating from the bumps and loud vibrations, making a lasting impression in my African memories.  Clutching my valuable box, I imagined the looks on small black faces, the children excited to see the surprise that awaited them behind the curtain.