Discerning.

My coffee hadn't started working this morning (still hasn't, ~10:28 a.m.) and I stared dumbly at two buses that blew by, realizing I could have taken either. Just my route, just my "luck". I don't believe in luck or coincidence in any aspect of my life, so no worries. I trudged along in the mud, trying to shuffle the Merrell boots that have become an ever-popular part of my expat wardrobe around the numerous puddles.

After minimal waiting, a matatu shot up with the conductor waving a sign for Route 111 in my face, asking where I was headed. "Karen? Karen?" "Yep," I smiled, and had no sooner set one foot on the step of the van than it reentered traffic with a lurch. About 30 feet after this, a pleasantly disturbing scraping rattled along from the matatu's undercarriage. In another hundred feet, given that the clatter hadn't ceased, the conductor and driver exchanged a meaningful glance and slowed the van to a stop near the shoulder of the road. They both got out, had a look around the car's perimeter, and thumped the undercarriage a few times. I almost asked if they wanted to borrow the torch (flashlight) I always keep in my backpack, but they had already returned and started the drive. The rattling, scraping ruckus continued. I had to work hard to repress a smile that somehow seemed to teeter on the edge of laughter and tears. I buried my nose in my Bible.

Many exchanges of passengers later, as we were all sitting cozy and cuddled on the various benches, seats, and absence of seats that comprise the innards of that beloved African transportation, the matatu, "We Are The World" came on the radio. I was shocked to hear a man sitting behind me, soulfully following the lyrics until the song's end. Still wondering if I might die from some careening piece of wreckage launched from the van's undercarriage in a fiery explosion of mayhem and uncertainty, I added another question to my morning retinue, a rollover from the previous night, from the previous week, from the previous month, from longer than I have been deployed to Africa: who am I? Seriously, who am I? What am I even doing?

Now, I don't mean that in a bad way. Not at all. I have really enjoyed my time in Kenya and other parts of Africa, and it is easier to reflect on as I watch my passport fill with visas and stamps. Next month, on the 22nd, I believe, I will commemorate one-quarter of my term of service in Kenya as a GEO missionary and the communication specialist for Africa complete. I have many mixed feelings about this.

Lately I have thought about what lies outside the office in Karen. What is vocation? Where is it? Is it in my little office, overlooking the fields of the workers and caretakers at the Scripture Mission compound? Is it lost somewhere in various emails and an endless array of "projects" (what a nebulous word!) that I work just as earnestly to plan as I do to complete them? Perhaps if I get enough done, I will really know some day.

Is it perhaps in the villages, when I feel privileged to take part in home visits to share the Word of God, or perhaps even a message? Is it in providing human care and Christ's mercy to those who attend medical clinics, speaking the Gospel to them, telling them not to worry or be afraid in the limited Swahili that I am trying to grow?

Escapism has lost its luster lately. When fiction can't take you away, or movies still thoughts of the future for no longer than their duration, the questions still remain. The big things. I have been thinking of a desk somewhere, maybe piled with textbooks and essays, dominated by my study Bible that thankfully continues to acquire bookmarks, dogeared pages, and notes in the margins.

Part of leaving was running away, yes. Running away to force myself to do the growing up that I was certain needed to happen, leaving things behind that I couldn't control in hopes that they would improve in some small way, thanks to my absence. Most of my leaving was hoping to find answers, answers to questions that have sat on my heart since high school, and looking to find God on the edge of the uncertain and the uncomfortable.

I will never forget six years ago when the thought entered my mind, when the seed was planted. When I confronted my first collegiate difficulties, then unaware I would overcome them, I had glibly blurted out what I thought was a suitable substitute to my mother, with whom I conferred over the phone. You know, something for just in case that whole college thing didn't work out. Something I thought I might be able to do. It really just came out of nowhere, like an instinctual response. "Well," she replied to my suggestion, "you'll still have to earn your bachelor's degree first." I lost myself in my undergraduate work and the ups and downs of entering adulthood somewhat eased by the rails and bumpers of undergraduate university life.

A few months before I graduated, I remember still, I was standing near Lamberton Hall on Lehigh University's Asa Packer Campus, contemplating the new growth of leaves that would come soon with spring. I can't remember if I said it audibly or so loudly in my head that I should have said it for the world: "I don't want to do this for the rest of my life. I should have been a teacher, or a counselor, or a pastor." I bit my tongue and put the thoughts away like I had done freshman year.

So much for that degree, so much for the advising of my faculty mentors, so much for the support and investment and expectations of my parents and family, so much for sense and planning, I thought. It got even better when I hadn't found a job or internship to follow up the achievement of my degree after a year of looking and tailoring my resume at the advice of a friend who warned me not to wait for God to dump a wonderful job in my lap. That summer, I learned what it was to beat my head against a wall, harder than I was told I had done as a child, only this time my forehead bore no bruises. Job applications came and went, most companies not even deigning to grace me with a reply that I hadn't met their lofty standards. I had some interviews, too. Some went well, and I decided no, I couldn't see myself in that office for more than three months. Some could have gone better. Still, I was just there. I remember the compliments and encouragement I received during this time, but they only made me feel more inadequate, because if the problem wasn't professional in nature, it had to be personal.

I took a retail job to start paying my student loans, noticing that as frustrating as my place of employ and my coworkers could be, the customers, the people whom I served, never failed to make my days. Even as what felt like the futility of hawking paper goods and wrapping gifts to the utmost of my limited wrapping skills began to weigh on my shoulders and my mind, nestling into my muscles as tension and disappointment with myself, people were talking to me.

At church they would ask "Have you ever considered ministry? Have you ever thought of being a pastor? Have you ever thought of seminary?" These things I held in my heart and mind, choosing to reply "I mean, yeah, I've thought of them before, sure," but justifying why I hadn't followed up on them only to myself. They had just wanted to make sure I had pondered such options, these people said, because they thought I could do those things and would be good at them. A woman who has known me since before birth, as she has happily reminded me, whom I consider to be both an adoptive grandmother and godparent, approached me one morning after worship, saying that she had something to tell me. She said she woke up in the middle of the night with a thought in her mind, just before this morning, and didn't know why but felt strongly compelled to ask me if I had ever considered ministry as a career choice. I almost didn't know what to say. Again, "yes, I've considered it," but this really left me surprised.

I ended up leaving that retail job to be a substitute teacher for a semester at my old high school, wondering why I had continually forgotten to listen to my parents on that suggestion. Just before starting subbing, I went on a missions trip to Chinandega, Nicaragua to supervise outdoor games for vacation Bible schools that a group from my Southeastern District would be sharing with Lutheran congregations in five villages. Feeling out of place with my limited Spanish, I was surprised to hear the father of three with whom I was running the games comment on how well he thought I worked with the kids and how they listened to me, regardless of our language barrier. More than a few people in this country overseas from my home asked me if I was a pastor, or what year I was in seminary.

Enough was enough, and I finally dumped this shaky burden on my pastor, with whom I was glad to be sharing a room on the trip. He tallied up the number of times I'd heard such comments, suggestions, and questions, and offered up that God was talking to me. Me being me, I argued with him. "Pastor Brian," I started, "I can see what you're saying, but God doesn't talk to me. God talks to OTHER people. I'm just doing the best I can here. I have no idea what business God would have talking to me, of all people." He told me to keep my mind, my eyes, and my ears open.We kept up the conversation with regular meetings when we returned to the States, and he maintained the growing tally. We further discussed this, and he finally found the excuse I had held on to for so long: "Pastor Brian, I'm not good enough." "Of course, you're not," he smiled. "That's why we have Jesus. It's not about being good enough, because if it was, you never would be." That changed things a bit.

Pastor Brian encouraged me to pursue this opportunity to serve as a missionary with the LCMS, and we agreed it would be a good way to better discern a career in ministry while using some skills from my bachelor's degree. It all fell pretty smoothly into place from there. There's a story (isn't there always, though), but the telling's not for this time.

As I fight what I would call the wisdom of man, mainly my own, distractions, my constant failings and battle to repent, and the daily burden of living life overseas, I'm working at staying in the Word, praying honestly, faithfully, and humbly, and searching for signs of the future. I have not been disappointed so far. The signs have been there, showing themselves through circumstances and people I never would have predicted. I am trying not to be like Gideon, asking God for just one more reason, just one more, and trying not to be like Peter, so zealous that I overestimate my own usefulness and abilities.

Humbly and gratefully, I ask for prayers. I ask for support. I took a stand in writing this because it's very personal to me, and because I take my career and serving others very seriously. I wanted to hold this in until I was more than halfway through serving my term, but I simply can't contain it anymore. I don't like to speculate wildly or vapidly, and yet that's all I feel I am capable of, given how little I know or how little I feel I am capable of while I continue to forge ahead in sharing the Gospel cross-culturally.

Searching for excuses

I walk a lot of places in Nairobi, and throughout Africa, actually. I don't have a car, which makes me happy. I like to walk, which makes me happy. These circumstances give me a lot of chances to talk to passersby on the street, even to just say "good morning," or "how are you?", usually in Swahili more than English. This also makes me happy. Sometimes it takes me four cups of coffee in the morning to feel like I'm functioning, but I do enjoy these greetings and moments. Needless to say, I'm pretty happy.

Oftentimes on my typical walk to run errands, I encounter street boys who ask me for money in English or Swahili. I was taught to say no when asked for money. I have learned that at least some of the boys who engage in this behavior do have families and parents who care, but they do not want to follow the rules or the way things work in their homes. Because of this, they choose a lifestyle that they feel affords them more freedom.

A few weeks ago, I was on my way to get groceries. I legitimately had no money in my pockets, and felt like a kid running errands for his dad. A young boy with a smudged face and torn clothes waited for me at the other exit of the gas station I was walking through. He looked me in the eyes and asked for money in Swahili. "Hapana ndugu," I told him. "No, little brother." He could have been my little brother, even younger. However, I also felt moved to tell him that I had no food. I thought about this on the way to get my groceries.

I really like apples. I guess I'll eat any kind, but my favorite are Granny Smith apples. I like how they can be both tart and sweet at the same time, and they seem a little crisper to me than other apples. They're even better when they've had some time in a refrigerator. I usually get most of my groceries at Nakumatt, which in my mind is like a Kenyan Wal-Mart. They have food, home supplies, furniture, you name it. 

I walked into Nakumatt, scanning my paper shopping list on the handle of my cart and enjoying the domestic normalcy of it all. I arrived at the produce and found I apparently had a hankering for apples, and yes- Granny Smiths were in stock! Did they cost a bit more? Well, yes, but there's no compromising quality, and I wouldn't settle for one of those red pretenders. I grabbed only a few to be weighed by the produce associate, trying to be conscious of cost, and headed to the checkout.

My bags were pretty heavy, which was unfortunate, given that I still had a bit to walk before I got to my apartment. In re-situating them, I saw my bag of apples and got one ready, just in case I met that boy again.

He was right where I left him, and he looked me square in the eye. I held out the apple and looked back at him, asking in Swahili if he wanted it. He nodded and paused and stared at me and said "thank you." I think I was a little surprised I was in that situation to begin with, and forgot to tell him "Jesus loves you," realizing I should learn how to say it in Swahili. Just in case.

I recently came back from a productive, exciting, and enlightening evangelization and pastoral leadership training trip in Kapenguria, Kenya, and some of the surrounding villages. Unexpectedly, I learned that "Yesu anakupenda" means "Jesus loves you" in Swahili, and thought it would be a good thing to hold on to. When I came back last Wednesday, I remembered I had cleaned out much of my perishable food before I left, to minimize any unhappy fridge surprises.

As I came back from Nakumatt laden with groceries and an even bigger bag of apples, seven, I think, a group of street boys milled around me. "Change?" they asked me. "Hapana," I said, putting down my bags. They looked at me for a second, surprised, while I fished out my bag of apples. I picked one up, and looked back, asking if they wanted one. "Yes," they all said in unison, staring up at me. I put the first apple in a boy's hand, and the other five found homes just as quickly. 

This time, I was ready. "Yesu anakupenda. Unajua yeye?" I said, not caring about grammar, because Jesus indeed loves them, and they understood, nodding and answering yes, they did know him. "Yesu anakupenda, ndugu," I said, looking at one of the boys. "Asante sana," the boy said, thanking me. "Karibu sana, karibuni sana," I responded, welcoming all of them.

As I walked back, I smiled, happy to do that thing for them, and laughing as another street boy ran to the group from across the road, eager to see or share in what they had been given. I had totally forgotten that I had taken an apple from the bag earlier, in expectation of seeing that one boy from before near the gas station again. It's sitting on my counter right now, and I will eat it at some point, that one unexpected leftover. When I found it in my groceries, it was like being surprised with a gift after thinking I had shared all my apples with the boys.

Now I find myself trying to think of food I can carry, should I run into any little or big brothers on my walks and commutes. Writing this made me sing a song we sang in chapel in grade school based on Matthew 25:35-40, called "Whatsoever You Do." I was able to share unexpected food, prayers, and the Gospel with a few other people this past week, too, and I wonder where God will guide me in this new week.

Just a bird

Not hearing or seeing, I must have walked by the bird at first. Moving down the stairs of my apartment complex, I was thinking about meeting a friend for breakfast and actually singing "Three Little Birds" by Bob Marley. I went to bed with it stuck in my head, woke up with it, sang it in the shower, and hummed it while shaving. I didn't realize the oddness of this until I realized I had to get the bird out.

It wasn't "just a sparrow," like so many people think of birds. I have not seen many "just sparrows" in Africa so far, but I'm sure they are around. They're probably just more industrious than their loitering distant cousins, those rotund pigeons that I have not seen in Africa. I recall getting a glimpse of green on its busy breast, and even white and black played across its wings. It was a healthy bird, a good-sized creature, and I was even more disappointed for this to see it trapped inside my stairwell.

I knew, of course, how it got trapped. The wall facing the courtyard of my apartment complex is basically a four-story wall of glass windows. The gate at the bottom is unlocked first thing in the morning, and who can blame a bird for flying in to my top floor? Flying up- it's what birds do.

When I found this bird, it was huddled in the corner on the floor. It began to fly when it saw me. I hesitated for a second, weighing the choices we always have: to free it, or leave it? I have had the feeling that time can always wait for people and animals because they won't be around forever for a while. In my heart, though, I know I am still a Westerner, and raised in a time-oriented schedule, not an event-oriented schedule like much of Africa.

At about the time I got close to it and started to imagine it pecking at my hands in some Hitchcockian fashion (why would I have to touch it or pick it up? my alibi is zero caffeine), it begin to fly and throw itself against the windows. When I opened a window, it decided the best direction to go was away from the window. I decided, in turn, to take the simple approach.

I am so glad no one was in the stairwell to see me lifting my hands over my head, trying to take up as much of the open space in the stairwell as possible. I figured that if I looked that big and threatening, the bird would surely be intimidated and move away and we could avoid any unpleasant avian altercations. This time, the bird caught my vibes and began to fly downstairs a level at a time, trying to keep ahead of this skinny man with his arms outstretched like a goon. I'm not sure if that's really why it flew away, because my degree isn't in Advanced Bird Logic.The gate was thankfully unlocked at the ground floor, and the bird seemed to fly away. I marveled at how easy it was when we seemed to finally understand each other. At about this point, I chuckled about the Bob Marley song and thought about the kinds of breakfast food I could order with guacamole.

After I ate breakfast and had some time out, I came back to my apartment and started writing this blog. "What a great day," I thought. "Here we are: I woke up today, enjoyed some time with a friend and a good breakfast, and I saved a bird. It's far and away a good day!" I then stepped out again to run an errand. Upon returning within an hour again to my apartment, I was startled to find some kind of rustling or shuffling up a few levels in the stairwell. I walked slowly, craning and focusing on discerning the source of this odd noise. as I climbed. The groundskeeper mopping? No, he had already been here, as the floor in the stairwell was wet and now free from the bird droppings of this morning. I purged the thought of a shadowy assailant lurking in wait for me at my landing as I reached my floor (why have I ever doubted my imagination?).

I was startled to see what I am 97.2% sure was the same ruddy bird perched on the landing's railing. I got myself situated and offloaded from my errand, and muttered under my breath about that bird. I was sure I had pegged the blighter because of that inescapable patch of green on its chest. Now, as I came out to shepherd the bird yet again,  I noticed it had a cheeky little crest atop its head that I hadn't noticed before. Writing this now, I am inclined to think of my own hair and my penchant for the color green. After the bird flew downstairs again, seeming to dance on the line of impudence and disobedience, I thought about what I would do with this blog post now.

A question and allegory briefly crept into my head as I hoped the bird had finally flown away downstairs to its freedom. Why would that bird come back to be trapped again? It seemed as though it had come back purposefully, willingly. I imagined myself as that bird, and if God had been in my position. I am beyond glad that our God "is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love," and that His ways are not our ways (Joel 2:13 ESV; Isaiah 55:8 ESV). "'For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways, and My thoughts than your thoughts,'" He declares through the mouth of the prophet Isaiah (Isaiah 55:9 ESV). But there is more. Further, respectively: "'Yet even now,' declares the Lord, 'return to Me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning; and rend your hearts and not your garments,'" and "let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts; let him return to the Lord, that He may have compassion on him, and to our God, for He will abundantly pardon." (Joel 2:12-13a ESV; Isaiah 55:7 ESV)

I love that, the image of rending hearts, not garments. However, birds don't know any better, and I was left with the constant realization that I will be again trapped in sin and come back seeking freedom offered by my Creator again and again. Clothes can be bought at many places, in many styles, and for a variety of prices, but there is only one way to rend and bring about a new heart. That is through confession and the absolution offered by God. We are to always seek His face and His will in our lives. Christ is the bridge between our unworthy deeds and the rightfully high standards maintained by God the Father in the Law, and during Holy Week and Good Friday, we are especially able to appreciate His total fulfillment of the Law and prophecies which we were never able to fully obey or understand.

Dear Heavenly Father,
as I ponder the humble and almighty sacrifice of Christ, Your Son, I give thanks that He did what I cannot. He lived a perfect life, fulfilled every precept of Your Law, and atoned for all sin. Help me this day and every day to rend my heart, not my garments, and so leave the Old Adam and the sins that seem to cling to me behind me, seeking You so that I may diminish and Christ increase within me. I ask this in the name of Your Son, my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

That's why.

"Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it."

I still haven't seen all of that movie, "Ferris Bueller's Day Off," but it stuck with me enough that it was what I remembered while I looked through the past eight years of my pictures on Facebook. It's like a time capsule in plain sight, holding memories, friendships, feelings, and even dreams from back then. I like to do that every once in a while, just look back. It's usually embarrassing, but it reminds me God has a plan when I think of how far I have come and how far I still have to go. Whoever thought I would have gone to Lehigh University and been an RA? That I would have acted in high school? That I would have changed so much and in some ways not have changed at all? I still can't believe a lot of that, and I still can't believe I'm in Africa, and it's Holy Week. I did a lot of reflecting on my life, my mistakes, and my need for a Savior today.

That horrid question "why" used to be the motivator for my life, so much so that I was told by my fourth grade elementary school teacher that I would never be able to attend the United States Naval Academy. She reminded my mother that midshipmen need to follow orders, and if I was asked to make my bed so tightly that a quarter could bounce off the sheets, I would ask "why?" and be punished. Now whether such a condition at the Academy is true or not, I don't know. Perhaps someone who has been there and done that will vindicate my beloved teacher. That being said, "why" made me look askance at everything I did, said, and thought. That doesn't leave a lot of room for the enjoyment of life, for actually living.

Somewhere, and I can point to those wheres, God gave me a little nudge out of the door, like Gandalf said he gave to Bilbo in "The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring." Actually, He gave me a lot of little nudges. Change scared me pretty badly, because it meant something new, something hard, starting over, finding new friends, learning new ways of doing things-newness. As I sit and reflect while writing this, I realize I had been fighting God the whole time. Sometimes it was overt, sometimes it was subtle, and I feel bad looking back on those times when I did it without realizing it. The worrying, the stressing, the agonizing over picking the "right" words, the "right" decisions. If what is "right" becomes a point of contention between you and yourself, it's good to take a step back and get the second opinion that should have been first in God's Word.

Somewhere, I decided to stop sweating the little stuff. Somewhere, I was emboldened by the Holy Spirit to start pushing the big stuff-to dare to do the things that I didn't think I could do, to explore and grow in my faith, to take chances, to learn to live without fear. As stated by H. Jackson Brown, Jr. in his book "P.S. I Love You" but commonly misattributed to Mark Twain, I began to "throw off the bowlines" and "sail away from the safe harbor." When I started doing that, I found that "why" wasn't the all-important guiding point. "Because" took its place as justification, and if I ever needed to shut down a "why," I could take it to God in prayer and find it in the Word.

God gave me the best "because" of all. Perhaps you are familiar with it, as it's quite well-known. Most of us know it by heart, and I unfortunately thought it was overused when I was younger, perhaps from memory verses in Sunday School. I want to come back to that "because" in a minute.

In the meantime, it's good to reflect back on a life because it reminds you who you are, who you really are. To step outside of your comfort zone, to examine your robes washed clean and white, washed daily. God says through the prophet Isaiah "Wash yourselves; make yourselves clean; remove the evil of your deeds from before My eyes; cease to do evil, learn to do good; seek justice, correct oppression; bring justice to the fatherless, plead the widow's cause." (Isaiah 1:16-17) Now, I don't know about you, but I know I can't remove the evil of my deeds from before God's eyes. I was born a sinful being into a fallen world, cursed before my time. This week, though, this Holy Week, the holiest of all weeks, sets the record straight. A man, a real, living, breathing, human being, comprised both fully of God and fully of man in ways that I cannot and will not ever truly understand, had to die for me and you. I mean, He didn't need to die. He could have chosen not to. And why wouldn't He? He died in a hard way, in a mean way, no peaceful drifting away in sleep or even quickly, being taken by surprise violence. No, He died on the cross because He chose to, because the only action that would amend our filthy records was the cleansing blood of a man who made the really right decisions, a life beyond mortal comparison and mortal comprehension, impossible for humanity. Only a man who could die, and only God who gets all things right, who makes all things new, who is perfect, could fulfill our transgressions.

The apostle Paul writes in his letter to the Romans thus: "For while we were still weak, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly. For one will scarcely die for a righteous person-though perhaps for a good person one would dare even to die-but God shows His love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us. Since, therefore, we have now been justified by His blood, much more shall we be saved by Him from the wrath of God. For if while we were enemies we were reconciled to God by the death of His Son, much more, now that we are reconciled, shall we be saved by His life. More than that, we also rejoice in God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have now received reconciliation." (Romans 5:6-11)

"Weak." "Ungodly." Those are strong words. This a strong time of the church year when we are reminded of the breadth and depth of our iniquities. A deed of love stronger than our original sin, the wrongs brought into the world at its inception by Adam, was performed to erase them. Just like that. The burden taken from our shoulders to Christ's. All sin that was committed, is committed, and will be committed was taken by Him, as by a father who sees his child carrying a box too big for him. Perhaps the child wants to prove himself to his father, and struggles to trudge ahead on his own, seeking parental acknowledgement. Perhaps the child carries something in the box that he does not want his father to see, only too like a child to forget that his father is taller than he and sees everything contained in that box. Maybe even the child does not want to loosen his grip on that box because it is "his" box, and he knows its contents with both a revulsion and a sense of familiarity. To release it to his father would surely be doom, that others might know his faults and weaknesses.

I want to come back to my best "because," though. "Why, why have you made me wait this long," you might ask? I really believe it is the best "because" not because it's mine, but because it was given to me by the best.

Jesus told Nicodemus "For God so loved the world that He gave His only Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send His Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through Him." (John 3:16-17)

That's why. It's really so good, it's the "because" to end all questions. As the apostle John tells us in Revelation, Christ says "I am the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last, the beginning and the end." (Revelation 22:12-13) Christ finished our sins started by Adam at the Creation, and He has begun our new lives in Him as the final answer to all questions and uncertainty. He is the promised and awaited Savior foretold by God's prophets and necessitated by our sinful human nature. Friday is the day we fulfill our Lenten journeys and meditations in His death, and await His joyous resurrection and victory over death for all of us.

It is a good time to think about our boxes. Do we still clutch them? If so, why? Why, when we have a Father who wants more than anything for us to relinquish them to Him so that He can put them far behind us? Why, when He wants to guide us ahead in His peace and on His paths of "steadfast love and faithfulness?" (Philippians 4:7, Psalm 25:4, 10) Why carry our own boxes of unrighteousness-filled sin when we could instead walk with Christ? Why let "sin reign in our mortal bodies" and be ruled by law when we can be governed by grace, as Paul says? (Romans 6:12-14) Why, when we could listen to Christ when He tells us "Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you, and learn from Me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy, and My burden is light"? (Matthew 11:28-30)

During this Holy Week, I ask myself why indeed would I hold on to such a thing as my box, and give thanks that I do not have to.

In Transit!

I have always written and enjoyed it as a form of decompression and processing. Sometimes I can say better in writing what makes sense in my head but gets lost on the way to my mouth. Though I am making the electronic transition as I explore new ways to share the Gospel, I still enjoy the feeling of a pen and paper. It seems a bit more permanent, something to take along for the ride or share in the future. Handwriting can be an even more intimate way of connecting with someone's thoughts, fossils from another era of a life. This is an excerpt from my print journal, written during the long day of travel from Baltimore to London to Nairobi.

January 22, 2014
(referring to my carry-on containing camera, lenses, etc. having to be checked at Heathrow after it had made it across the Pond just fine on the previous airplane)

"When I bump against the constraints of materialism, worrying about "needing" things, and other challenges, a bright part of me shouts for joy at the prospect of difficulties, the certainty of growth. "One challenge down, only a million to go!" this little fellow seems to exclaim. My faith is not based on things here, that fail and break. I am reminded that, while there can be great consternation in seemingly being robbed of one's expensive, fragile and "necessary" possessions (that aren't even yours), such matters are out of my control once they have occurred. There is peace interspersed among the conflict. There is certainty above, not below.

I am reminded that I am here right now partially because I wanted a challenge, something new. Probably even something "not easy" and even "unexpected," and this elicits a guilty smile. Guilty me? Heavens, yes. "And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to His purpose" (Romans 8:28), and "if God is for us, who can be against us?" (Romans 8:31) A better man than I, made better by his own blessed struggles, forgiveness, and growth as directed by God, gave me these passages from His Word to share. So I shall hold onto them, just as surely as I shall (and must) cling to the grace and salvation offered me by Jesus Christ, who gave it to me freely, fully knowing I would never be able to repay Him or be worthy of His actions and presence in my life.

It is too short a life to hurt for cameras, cords, and computers, especially when they are beyond my control. I expected God to give me at least one test, though I did not ask for it. I will wait to see what He grants me and accordingly directs in my life and work. But isn't it enough to be alive, healthy, whole, and as happy as possible in Heathrow Airport while I wait for my Lord's guidance? I am very inclined to think so.

It's strange to ponder modern travel. In a matter of mere hours, home and pop! eight hours' difference. It's equally as strange to arrive at the same conclusion regarding writing. Blank page to scribbled blotter. It seems to me there would be a more rational process, but perhaps that is why it can be be intimidating. It doesn't make good sense, yet there it is persisting, no less. The more nonsensical it becomes, the longer it persists. Or that's vice versa?

It is exceedingly difficult to focus on any one given thing at any point in time right now. I feel as though I have the attention span of a gnat, the only other option I am capable of focusing on is sleeping, and I shouldn't butcher my body clock any worse than it already has been.

I will say that the scenery has been nice so far- France, some of the Alps, the Mediterranean, and some vast and textured deserts. They do not look like Western deserts because they are browner, which may have something to do with the former presence of tropical rainforests in Saharan Africa. I recall those being mostly from Libya into Sudan. Since then, it's been too cloudy to get a good look, probably due to the angle of the sinking red sun. It's 7:05 p.m. in Nairobi, with just three hours left on the flight. I honestly feel more anxious now than I did before, thinking of the culmination of this travel, work, and prayer, and perhaps even slightly from the notion of my bags cut free somewhere outside of my understanding.

The middle road is enough for us and more!

With this post, I am taking some Scriptural meditations I had originally posted on Facebook and sharing them with everyone, including those with whom I am not friends on Facebook. Reading these passages, comparing them with other passages, and processing them via writing provides deeper insight for me. I hope that these thoughts will prove as beneficial to you, dear brothers and sisters, as they have to me. Peace to you in Christ!

Proverbs 30:7-9 ESV
"Two things I ask of You; deny them not to me before I die: Remove far from me falsehood and lying; give me neither poverty nor riches; feed me with the food that is needful for me, lest I be full and deny You and say, "Who is the Lord?" or lest I be poor and steal and profane the name of my God."

It has been too long since I have sat down and processed Scripture this way, and even longer since a blog post! I am woefully backlogged. Though I love the privilege of digging into the Word, it is also a great privilege to be able to share it in this way.

A lot of people ask me questions these days. "Where are you going?" "When are you going?" "What will you be doing?" "Aren't you scared?" Oh dear. I truly love sharing what I know and sharing the Gospel and the work I will do. These never cease to bring me joy, but there are some times when I am unwrapping a day or considering the future and all I can do is rub my eyes. Too often I throw myself under a bus that has yet to turn the corner as I wonder "how will I get this done?" or "am I hiding my Gospel light or God-given gifts under a bushel?" Sometimes I have to brace for the kind words and expectations brothers and sisters have for me. It seems at times that I can't say "to God goes the glory!" fast enough.

This proverb, which takes the form of a prayer, extols the middle way. Attributed to a man named Agur, about whom we know little else, this prayer asks that God give to Agur just enough. Just enough for his life, just enough for that moment. Often daily, I have to re-center and remind myself that God has a plan for me, that He has not brought me to this place in my life to leave me. In fact, He has given me more than enough. He sent His Son to atone for my sins, and He gave His Holy Spirit to me to always guide me. I know that God has done this for me and all people because I experience His love and forgiveness daily. I know that He has done and does this in perpetuity for all people because He has given me His Word. I have found His Word to be good all the time in my life, and His promises have never failed me.

2 Corinthians 1:20 ESV
"For all the promises of God find their Yes in Him. That is why it is through Him that we utter our Amen to God for His glory."

Attitudes of Gratitude

Ponder with me for a second the topic of gardening. Let's purge the blackened husks of the over-fertilized and the under-watered and imagine an ideal plant. It's green, it's got a nice flower of your color and choosing. It's just about as happy as a plant can be. Think of a rose! Think of chrysanthemums. I'm pretty happy now, too. I'm glancing guiltily over to my windowsill collection and lamenting that none of them will ever share their "happiness" with me in the form of such blossoms...I'm looking at you, Bedraggled African Violet #1!

Back on point. We have our flower, we've had our fun getting here. But how did we get here? Sure, we dreamed this beauty up, but that's just it: we dreamed it. We didn't get our hands dirty, we didn't open up the roots, pick the choicest spot for sun, we didn't pick a beautiful pot or a healthy plot of dirt. These take time. These take energy and planning. I guess I'm also thinking of a plant that has some growth behind it, because if we chose to grow our metaphors from seeds that's a whole 'nother story.

What I'm trying to get at while enjoying wandering around the garden in my mind is that, like our metaphorical plant, growing an "attitude of gratitude" takes time and work. It is indeed something to enjoy like the sight of a flower, but an attitude of gratitude, as it was so infectiously put to me, is not simply an object in our lives. Rather, it shapes them.

How often do I let the things that I feel, the things that I want, the things that I think I "need," get in the way of what is important, what is absolute, and what is truly good? More times than I can count. We are told to pray "Your kingdom come, Your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven," in the prayer our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ teaches us in Matthew 6: 10. We are commanded to "rejoice always" in 1 Thessalonians 5: 16. As we follow David's example in Psalm 34: 1, we are to "bless the Lord at all times." We are told to "to love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your minds" and also to "love your neighbor as yourself" in Matthew 22: 34-40. It's not about us at all. An excellent way to keep this focus is by being mindful of and grateful for the many blessings that we do have. These gifts from God surround us so consistently that we forget them and often complain only about what we haven't got, or what went wrong. We live in a fallen world. Disappointment can seem everywhere at times. But we are not of this fallen world, as Jesus says in John 15: 19, and this world is still part of God's perfect Creation. Rejoice that you have been here, that you are now, and that you will be with God the Father one day again, thanks to the selfless gift of the Son's death on the cross and resurrection for us.

I started this post a couple of weeks ago and couldn't seem to get back to it, both due to mental busyness and computer/internet issues. If I had published this previously, I would have had to include an update. Between then and now, I've learned some tough lessons with humility and gratitude. They were difficult because they were meaningful and worthwhile. I am blessed to have such loving, understanding, and patient people to call "family" in this life, and as my guides for learning to walk in God's ways for the next. I see His love and blessings through them, perhaps more often than they realize.