Simplicity: - Wrecked for the Ordinary

Lottie Moons or Ex-Pimps: We're All Missionaries

Fri, 29 Jan 2010 00:00:00 GMT

I'll never forget the story a friend of mine told me. His wife, who is from a foreign country, was playing a game of Pictionary with him and his family. She came across the word "missionary." Giggling, but slightly confused, she proceeded to draw a rather embarrassing image of explicit stick figures. The word in her culture referred to nothing else but the most common position... in bed.

Obviously, it's an awkward story and an extreme example. Most people in America know what a missionary is. Many may think of people speaking about Africa at their church, asking for money. For others, the kid who was home schooled in a jungle and have a hard time fitting back into society, may come to mind. I've had some several different stereotypes over the years, regarding this breed of Jesus-followers, and now, I suppose, I am one.

When I left the small New England town, I grew up in to come to Texas after high school and join the ranks of "full-time" ministry, several of the less "Christianized" of my friends assumed I was becoming a nun. I laughed in their faces. More recently, as I have tried to explain to people what I do, I've received odd blanks stares, smiles and nods, or the nickname "Lottie Moon."

Wendell Berry said, "The world is babbled to pieces after the divorce of things from their names." I wonder sometimes if the words we use in our culture as Christians to try to better define us instead stifle us.

"Missionary," in referring to Christians who tell people about Jesus, is never in the Bible. In fact, it has only been around for the past 400 years or so. It began with the Jesuits, used for the members they sent abroad. I am not who is full of scrupulosity when it come to word usage. I am not crying heretic because the word is not in the bible, it's not about that. It's more about the way we use the title. The way I have been using it. I am not asking anyone to change their vocabulary, really, just to remember who they are. If you are a child of God, so you won't be able to help but reflect His nature. We have been given the best news in the history, so it's our privilege to share with our backyard and the world.

I have been in Youth With A Mission for about three years now, and still have a hard time embracing the title. "Oh... I am a full time... errrr... Ummm,..(mumbles under my breath) Missionary." Awkward? Slightly. It feels like what I am alluding to is something like this: "I am a professional at telling people about Jesus. And you're not, cause you work a 9-5. Only, I shouldn't say professional, because I am on (cringe) support. Wanna give me money?"

Like somehow, my "calling" is super-spiritual and important. Yuck. We all know there is an unnecessary segregation between the "secular workplace" and those who are in "full time ministry." It seems like on a bus filled with ministers on the road to the great commission, the businessmen would be forced to sit in the back. Maybe we need some more Rosa Park's in the church. There is no separation between our "normal" life and our life as ministers of the gospel. If we have been wrecked by the love of Jesus, we talk about Him. It is that simple. Regardless of where we are working or what we are doing, we are "in ministry." I know this sounds cliche, but I am going to keep saying it until I begin to believe it. I used to think unless I had an official position in a official Christian "organization" I wasn't in God's plan. I thought that if I wasn't running around on some crazy overseas adventure, I was coping out of the great commission. Thankfully, the fierce love of God punches holes in my cardboard boxed ideas.

Last year, I met a woman in Virginia who had been through more hell then I even thought was possible, and survived. I met her in a Teen Challenge center where she greeted me with sparkling eyes and a broad smile, and for some reason felt compelled to tell me her story. She shared how incredible sexual and physical abuse as a child had led her to the streets, and at an early age, she began selling her body for money and drugs. She got to the point where she became a woman pimp, coaxing desperate girls into her lifestyle. She reached the very bottom of her pain, after her baby girl was raped by her boyfriend and she retaliated by stabbing him. Something drove her to run to the nearest church and knock on the door of the parsonage. Now, she was in a recovery program, and her life was one of beauty and hope. Her eyes shone as mine filled with tears. "Now, I think I am ready to share my story."

Missions is simply the willingness to open your mouth and admit, "I once was lost, but now I am found."

When you are really in love with someone, you can't help but want to introduce him to the world. "He's incredible," you will sigh to your best friend on the phone, "I just wish you could meet him." There is a joy in introducing people that you care about to each other. It is the most natural thing ever. You don't do it out fear or obligation. It just is.

I used to think missions meant convincing someone to believe in Jesus and get them to say a prayer. There is obviously all kinds of fear and pressure attached to that idea, because you are trying to get someone to step over the line onto "your side." If they don't make that step, you end up feeling like a failure. The beauty of the gospel is that it is indeed good news- news of something that has already happened. We get to be the ones who announce it. Imagine being a newsboy who got to deliver he paper the day World War II ended. We too are the delivery people- and we have the best news in the world. The war has been won. It doesn't matter so much how the message is delivered.

As the body of Christ we can find freedom throwing our misconceptions of being a "missionary" out the "10-40" widow. We don't need to have all the right training, degrees, answers, words or track records. With our dirty faces, and skinned knees, we can announce with joy that everything the world has been waiting for has already arrived. As a star struck lover we can introduce the one who completes us. As one who is still buried knee deep in the crud of our past, hardly off the streets, we can crack and weak smile and say "I once was lost and now I am found, was blind but now I see."

Brooke is a missionary....errrr.... I mean, lover of Jesus...or something.... in YWAM. She loves to see the world, make up new recipes, and attempt to be a poet. Check out her blog.

Finding Christmas In the Jungle

Thu, 24 Dec 2009 00:00:00 GMT

"Feliz Navidad!" Jubilant voices welcomed us into their home as we made our way up the steep hill in the darkness,towards the twinkling lights, music and chatter. We were ushered in to yet another home in the village, hugs all around, plates of rice and chicken shoved in our hands. Everyone was laughing, and I found myself laughing along, partly because of the contagious nature of the Kuna people's joy, partly because I was overly exhausted, because it was 2 a.m. on Christmas.

Christmas has never been my favorite holiday. The past few years, come about mid November, you can almost see my hair turn green, my eyes yellow and a scowl grow on my face. I have become so jaded. "Oh great," you're probably thinking, "Another one of those 'we have replaced Jesus with Santa Claus, and celebrate consumerism' articles," and although I agree with you, hopefully this is a little more upbeat.

Maybe It's just me, but its like it takes extra effort just to tolerate Christmas, let alone celebrate it. Maybe I am just a cynic. But this year is different. I have more grace on the cheesiness. I can not only tolerate but (gasp!) embrace this holiday. It's funny how sometimes it takes stepping outside of all that is familiar in order to see what is right in front of you.

Spending Christmas in Panama last year was one of those incredibly random spontaneous decisions that turned out to be God. He was trying to get to me in a million ways, those ways that are only possible outside of everything you know. And so it was. Somehow, I found myself far away from my family, snow, and any resemblance of a "normal" holiday season.

I went with my friend Amanda, surrounded by strangers that became friends in moments, partook in the crazy tradition of going from house to house all night feasting. I loved it. Our trip had been a riotous adventure from the beginning. The plan was for Amanda to fly to Panama City and meet my team and I, who were ending our month long Youth With A Mission Outreach. We started in Costa Rica with a larger group and split into a smaller team to go to Panama. Only we never made it over the border. One of the guys on my team didn't have the correct paperwork, so we ended up staying in a small village at on the border.

When Amanda flew in she had to make her way eight hours to our remote location in Costa Rica. I was at the end of spending a month out of country, part of that trying to lead my team after having to throw out all the original plans for ministry out and starting from scratch. It had been frustrating and humbling and I was emotional and tired and just wanted to sit on a beach. Amanda was pumped and ready to go. We said good bye to my team and went off, two American girls alone in Latin America with no idea what we were doing.

We didn't really know where we were staying half the time, ended up at sketchy $5 hostels, meeting some interesting people, like a man who claimed he was being stalked by a panther. We made eggs in a cheap cake pan over a hot plate in the hostel kitchen, and sipped $0.35 coffee on a dirty beach. Living the dream, really. We made our way to Panama city, and outside the city to the Kuna Indian village Amanda had been to multiple times on summer missions trips. There we found a vibrant church community that opened their arms to us, a loving family, that joyfully invited us to partake in their all-night Christmas eve party tradition.

After that crazy night, we slept till the afternoon, said goodbye to the wonderful family we were staying with, grabbed our backpacks and made our way back to the city. We had a little trek to get to the bus stop, through "LOST" like jungles, eying a giant smashed tarantula on the path in front of us. I thought to myself in that half-crazed internal narrator voice, "It's Christmas. I am hiking through the jungle. This is not a weird dream." We got on a bus, one of the many sensibly nick named "Los Diablos Rojos" (The Red Devils.) Each former school bus looked as if it was entered a "Pimp my bus" competition and rode like a carnival attraction without safety features and with four times as many people crammed in the ride.

As we flew down bumpy roads towards the big city, I sat and looked out the window, thinking about how crazy my life was and how far I was from home. During the four hour church service the night before, I had done a lot of thinking. Nothing super deep and revolutionary, more like a simplifying of this thing called Christmas that I have been celebrating my whole life. The idea that God, who is indescribable, full of love and power and grace, put himself into a body of a human being, a fallen and mortal being, to be close to us. I thought of these things, and how they were to amazing for me to even understand, how the most profound truths are the most basic yet most difficult for us to grasp, how it makes sense that this true story would get buried under piles of self gratification.

My thoughts were interrupted as a man got on the bus. He made his way towards the back to the empty seat next to me. He was an enormous guy, completely uncharacteristic of the men there, especially the tiny Kuna Indian's we were used to being around (At 5'8, I towered over the women and men). His size wasn't the only thing that made him stand out, though. In his massive arms, he held a tiny infant.

The infant slept, oblivious to the world around him, to the bumpy bus crowded with people, to the noise and exhaust. The man sat next to me and the baby lay, inches from me. I stared at his perfectly tiny brown nose, pursed lips, eyelashes. How safe and snug in this his father's arms. The most vulnerable thing in the world, a tiny human being, incapable of anything on his own, so fragile. Yet God lived inside this frame.

The thought hit me, choked me up. I couldn't take my eyes off this sleeping infant. This act of love and sacrifice we cannot even imagine, because we are not God, we are so used to being human. To limit yourself into this sort of vulnerability- God pooped and cried and needed a mom to take care of Him, yes, to save us, but to ultimately so that He could be with us.

That Christmas, on a bus in Panama, everything changed.

Brooke is a missionary with YWAM. She loves to see the world, make up new recipes, and attempt to be a poet. Check out her blog.

Religion Is a One Night Stand

Tue, 1 Dec 2009 00:00:00 GMT

I was sitting on an airplane the other day, flying back from visiting a friend in Colorado. Airplanes are the best places for me to think. I stare out the window, thousands of feet above the air, and think about my life. It's like the physical height reflects my mental or spiritual height -- I am able to see differently, looking down on earth below.

I thought about life and the beauty I have experienced and the mistakes I have made. The mistakes seems less significant from this high above, though. I thought about God and how big His love is, and was gripped for a moment by that nearly tangible feeling -- like He was right there, keeping the wings of the plane suspended in the air, keeping my heart in a place of peace.

Above the earth, I realize that we are all people and we are all filled with terrible longings and unfulfilled desires, that we all just want to be loved.

In our search for love, we do crazy and reckless things. We search in bars and the internet and the church and in people just as broken as ourselves. We want this love so bad, but when we try to gain it outside of The One Being who is love, we are cheating ourselves.

I remember being a insecure and scared fifteen year old, giving away my virginity because I wanted to be "loved," because I thought I was the only one who hadn't, because I just didn't care about the consequences anymore. But deep down I cared. Too much. It's miserable knowing that you are cheating yourself, but believing the lie that that's all you will ever get. You begin to think that you may as well take what you can get, because life is harsh and people will use you no matter what. I can hardly believe that was ten years ago.

By the grace of God, I now choose to wait until I am married, not just because "it's the right thing to do" as a Christian, but I am able to see what sex is more clearly. This physical obsessed world may call me crazy, but I have to believe the act is not just an act, but a fusion of hearts- an expression of love to that one person you are safe with. This is why It's sad when people treat sex as some sort of currency. They became so jaded at the spending and using till it isn't worth anything anymore.

Magic is reduced to science.
Soul to soul becomes just skin to skin.
What God created as good, beautiful and mysterious, becomes cheap, vulgar and uncovered.

Throughout the Old Testament, there is this crazy and perhaps offensive symbolism of us as the church being a whore. Running from God, the ultimate lover, to others that just use and abuse. We trade true love for temporary satisfaction, a lifetime commitment for a casual moment- breaking the heart of God, but we are breaking our own hearts as well. I get the feeling it may not be so obvious as blatant fornication. As most things, it's always going deeper then just the physical. We are good at divorcing the body with the soul and sprit, but it's clear they are all intertwined. What we do to one affects the other. It's easy to be distracted by the physical and forget the emotional spiritual roots certain decisions have.

As Christians, we have the bad habit of outlining sexual sin in red and ignoring the heart issues that make us do what we do. Our history is tainted by scarlet letters handed out instead of grace, rocks being thrown instead of forgiveness extended. We are quick to see ourselves as closer to heaven when we abstain from these "sin of all sins," but the irony is, in our self-righteousness we can be further from God then the tired prostitute. Jesus was quick to proclaim this kingdom truth in the things he spoke and the people he spoke too. You may think you are holy because of what you do or don't do, but true holiness is a heart issue- and it only comes from His spirit living in you. We love because He first loved us. We are able to be whole because He is whole in us. There is a mystery in the unity we have with Christ, a mystery that can only be likened to the oneness of a loving marriage.

We cheat ourselves when we attempt to have these cheap encounters with God through a series of meaningless rituals. Religion is all about the act void of intimacy. It says do this and you will be loved, instead of do this because you are loved.

I know people that have slept with so many people it ceases to mean anything. Sure, maybe it's a thrill for a moment, but in the end, nothing is ever enough. It's not just about sleeping around though. A good Christian couple could be physically close but emotionally distant, and cheat themselves out of the fullness of what God intended. I have been to too many churches that are completely void of any life. We talk about going through the motions, but we can't seem to get past our religious tendencies so deeply engrained in us. God is a distant deity to appease at worst, a hard husband that loves us but expects too much of us, at best. We try to make love happen, but it's never enough.

But what is? Yes, relationship over religion, we have all heard that. But what would walking out an intimate and emotionally fulfilling relationship with our God look like? I guess that's the journey we are all on. We talk about passion and intimacy, and it scares most people. It scares me. Yet I know I was made for it. I was made to be one with God, as every human being was.

We were made to find ultimate pleasure and fulfillment in this reality. To bathe in complete and total love. To be honest in every way. To be okay in our own skin and know we are beautiful and accepted. We don't need to dress up or dress down or show parts of ourselves to try to gain attention. We don't need to fake it, to go through a tired ritual attempting to find ourselves in a fleeting moment of plastic pleasure. We have the real thing.

Brooke lives in the middle of nowhere in east Texas, trying to live, understand, and write about grace. She makes great pasta salad. Check out her blog.

Thanksgiving: How Rich Are You?

Thu, 26 Nov 2009 00:00:00 GMT

This Thanksgiving morning finds me teary, overcome with the magnitude of God's grace and mercy, in that He has, for His own reasons, chosen to make me an incredibly rich person. They have to be His own reasons; I know my story well enough to know the massive gulf between what I have earned and what I have -- which is why I so often repeat that old Testament chart-topper that says, "O praise the Lord, for He is good, and His mercy endures forever." This morning, I celebrate the same things that many will: home, health, family and friends. But the things I have seen, heard, and learned this past couple of years. Well, they are what push my gratitude from a sigh and a smile to a whole other level.

Today, I write these words from the comfort of my kitchen, having looked into the eyes of many who don't have a place to call their own. I lived up close to those who have no front door to shut against the world, no bed to leave unmade, no cupboard full of snacks. I have seen the haunted expressions of those who share about sleeping outside or in cars. I have heard the horror stories of those who are at the mercy of whoever will take them in. I have watched the frustration of those who are learning to deal with shelter life, which means yielding to someone else's idea of how clean is clean enough or what time the lights should go out.

Today, when I say I am grateful for my home, it means whole worlds of things that had never crossed my mind before. My personal encounter with Melanoma, so many years back now that I struggle to place a date on it, changed my appreciation for my health. It deepened my compassion for those amidst the fight for their very lives. It caused me to take notice of how frequently physical issues change the entire fabric of a life - and even other lives around it. What never used to cross my mind when I said "good health" was the mental health part of that equation.

My journey the last few years has taken me deep into the realities of mental illness. I have watched it rob people of homes, health, and families. I have witnessed it stealing away freedom. I have listened to the way it seduces intelligent, beautiful people across points of no return. I have felt the thickness of the wall it builds between the sufferers and those who love them. I have watched it re-scripting lives with its lies. I have seen how it creates a parallel and dangerous world, right here in the midst of us who live safely and well. I have studied how skillfully it fabricates a screen that causes most of the world not to care at all about its work, other than being irritated or frightened by those in its grip. Once upon a time, it never crossed my mind to be grateful for my mental health. That was presumption on a very high order.

Today, when I wish you good health, or when I am thankful for my own, mental health is at the top of that list. Those of us who have family and friends tend to take them for granted, and it rarely crosses our minds that someone may not have such a luxury. If you've never encountered someone with that kind of poverty, may this be the year you do... and may you be an agent of change in that someone's life.

The old line says "people need people." I used to think it was a lie, back when I believed I was a loner and that I required large amounts of solitude in order to be happy. I was wrong. People do need people. We shape one another. We draw out the poison from old wounds. We stir up the good stuff that's been settled so long that it has been forgotten. We prop each other up.

Do we get it wrong, sometimes? Oh, yes. Often, even. Is it awkward and unlovely, on occasion? Yeah, you betcha. But people without real family and friends are dangerously susceptible. I am grateful for friends and family, not only because they sometimes give me the "warm fuzzies," but also because I need them, and they need me, and the One who designed us all planned it like that.

This Thanksgiving holiday, may you enjoy your turkey and even your football, if that's your thing. But before, during, after, and above it all, may you really know the fullness of your wealth, no matter where you are today. And may the One who let you have it receive all the glory.

Karen was called into hands-on ministry through a painful passage, for which she is grateful daily. Having recently transitioned from working in a shelter to the ranks of the unemployed, she waits with great anticipation for the next assignment.

Resolutions from the Unemployment Line

Tue, 17 Nov 2009 00:00:00 GMT

This past Friday, I joined the ranks of the unemployed when the shelter where I worked did some downsizing. I had never been laid off before; that meeting was short, to the point, and absent the drama one might imagine. Driving home that afternoon, I texted my kids. "On my way home. Unemployed. God is good."

The "God is good" was not so much a celebration (who celebrates losing a job?) as a reminder to myself: the One who has carried me through to this point has not suddenly decided to drop me on my head. In the days and nights since then, He has reminded me of the abundance of His power and presence in my life. God really is good. I don't know what this next leg of the journey will look like. I don't have a map. I have questions without answers. The beauty of having walked along so far with Christ: I don't need to know; I don't need a map; I don't need answers. I have the two important answers: God is good, and I am His.

I do have an agenda for now: do what I know to do, to the best of my ability and with all my might, and rest in Him for all else. So far, I've got a good handle on that. Will I lose my grip on it at some point? Meh. Maybe. Probably. But I know where to go to find it again, should that happen.

Looking back to my twenties and early thirties, I know this about myself: I have enormous capacity for laziness, depression, and selfishness. The Lord has done a great work in me since then, and I don't fall in the ditch so quickly or willingly anymore. But now is the time for special vigilance on that front. So I've been pondering how to structure my time while I'm off. Maybe I'll transition into the next thing so quickly that I won't have needed a plan. Maybe. But if it's not quick, I will definitely lose ground without some structure.

Here, then, is the list, not necessarily in any meaningful order:

1. Get out of bed in the mornings. Does this seem obvious to you? It wasn't always, to me. Life and Holy Spirit have taught me well that sometimes getting out of bed is actual spiritual warfare. No sleeping in for me; that slope is too slippery. I should probably include showering, dressing in something other than pj's, and making myself generally presentable under this heading.

2. Get enough sleep/rest. In a previous testing passage of my life that was a jumble of multiple part-time jobs, I worked a whole lot of sixty- to ninety-hour weeks. I learned a lot about how to keep pressing forward. But I also learned that my emotional, mental, and even physical stability are greatly compromised at that level of exhaustion. I once ruined two keyboards and a telephone inside the space of one week with the combination of unsteady hands and persistent bad judgment on where to set cups of coffee. That's the most benign example of how it compromised me. REST MATTERS.

3. Work out. Oh man. I don't even want to write that one. It's been so long since I've made any serious effort at exercise. But during the aforementioned Working Too Much period of my life, I was doing serious cardio- and muscle-building workouts pretty much daily. It definitely gave me more energy for the battle. It certainly helped preserve my mental health. I think it also preserved my physical health in a major way.

3. Seek employment daily (Sundays excepted). Gotta be that drip of water wearing down the stone. I love to work. I hate looking for work. Looking for work when "I feel like it" is not an acceptable approach, since I detest the process.

4. Open my Bible daily, for more than just five minutes. (I have an amount of time in mind and the worst thing I can do is distract me and you by publishing that.) In every jam-packed portion of my life, I have longed for more time alone with the Word. This is the perfect time to let God reorder my thoughts and priorities, which He'll do if I'll let go of doing that myself and just focus on knowing Him more.

5. Spend time daily in prayer and worship. This is different from the point above. I have come a long way as I've sought to "pray without ceasing" as Scripture instructs us. That being said, I pretty easily slip off into forgetting God is Right Here With Me Every Second.

6. Write daily. Stephen King is one of my favorite writers (haven't read him in years, as part of an ongoing conversation with God about the darker spaces of my heart.) To the point: in his book "On Writing" he speaks to the would-be writer about setting aside a space and a serious amount of time every single day for writing. Write it and then throw it out if you must, but write...that's the basic message. More recently my editor at wrecked.org urged bloggers to write daily, not just when the mood hits. Teachers told me from the seventh grade all the way through college to "keep writing." I've let a whole lot come between me and my writing. This is definitely a "no excuses" portion of the journey. I need to write daily.

7. Create order all around me. I remember complaining to my marriage counselor long, long ago that I didn't understand why having a clean house should make a difference in my mental state (yes, people, I am a recovering disgusting slob). He talked to me about order. He was, of course, right...I think of how deeply satisfied and peaceful I feel after a good deep-clean. My (also unemployed) son and I will be investing a set amount of time per day in creating order in our surroundings. We've already started that, and the results make me smile.

8. Stay in touch with people. Withdrawing tends to be my default setting when I am busy, stressed, or working something out. God created us for fellowship. Fellowship is not only potlucks after church. I need my family, I need my friends, I need my church. And they need me. Holing up does not honor God, and it puts me in danger of wandering off into dangerous places in my mind.

9. Accept help. In another conversation with that same marriage counselor mentioned previously, I complained (do you notice my pattern of complaining?....but then, if you know me or read me regularly, that does not surprise you, right?...) that I didn't like asking for help, didn't like needing help, didn't like the indignity of it. He asked me, "Have you ever helped someone in need?" Welllll....yes. "How did that make you feel? Did you like it?" Welllll....yes. "It felt good?" Um, yes. "So why do you want to deprive others of feeling good?" Uh, so I will accept help!

10. Give. It is absolutely never true that I have nothing to give. If I can live without giving, I am definitely ignoring Holy Spirit's voice in my life. I can give of my time, my talents, my compassion, and yes, even of my funds. I live in the U.S.A. This makes me, even when I'm what feels like completely broke, fairly wealthy compared to the world. I can give.

11. Practice gratitude. I do this as a daily list. Sometimes it's brief. Sometimes it's obnoxiously long. Putting it on a page and sharing it with others takes it to a whole different level, from "nice idea" to "life changer." It shapes my thoughts and attitudes. It holds me accountable. It rescues me from jumping willingly off into deep, dark pits.

12. Celebrate life. Under this category fall things like laughing, singing, dancing, noticing beauty, creating beauty, nurturing growth, learning, stomping out deadly lies, trying new and/or uncomfortable things, and intentionally seeing the best in people (and speaking what I see.)

Why do I share this stuff? Well it's partly my own writing therapy exercise. But I've also noticed that the Scripture that says, "There is nothing new under the sun" is really true. If I need to think this through, maybe one of you out here does too. If so, be blessed. If not, thanks for putting up with me!

Karen Swank seems to see God best from a falling-down position. She loves working with teens, who tolerate her goofy perspectives well. She laughs too loud, dreams outrageous dreams, and is learning that she can't save the world all by herself.

Soul Meets Body

Mon, 16 Nov 2009 00:00:00 GMT

Maybe I am crazy or schizophrenic, but lately I have been more aware of the fact that I am a physical and a spiritual being. It's like I have been able to separate the two, and see who I am really am.

How many people in the world are happy when they stand in front of a mirror? I wonder how many people work hard to make their bodies a certain shape, to buy certain clothes to hide them or show them off. I've been thinking about about how weird it is, I am this person trapped in skin.

But it's so much more then that. I long to have someone see beneath my skin. We all want that. It's the inner core of being human. We all want to be known so bad.

What are bodies really? Just a bunch of skin and bones and fat cells, yet somehow we find them beautiful. I am still not used to that idea, the reality that I am really beautiful. After all, I spent more of my life building the idea in me that I this shell I lived in was not beautiful, that I would never be enough, never be "her," that I needed to change. I am used to being so upset with myself, but not know how to fix it, not think that there was anything I could even do to fix it, I would always be so awkward and uncomfortable in my own skin, that's what I am used to.

This new me, this alive me, this confident me, I haven't quite grappled with the reality that that really is me. I still feel like that little girl hiding so no one will notice her, but at the same time dying for someone to notice, all of her, really see her.

I think I can maybe finally see myself as beautiful, from the inside first, then bleeding out to the exterior.

I think about how sad lust is, because it is such a lie. It's such a lie because it's not the whole package. To want someone's body- someone's skin and bones and fat cells, someone's physical-ness, but not really see the mind, heart, spirit that makes them who they are- that's tragedy. Yet, I do that. I am not just talking about sexual attraction, I am talking about not seeing people for who they really are. I am talking about judging people based on what they look like, then treating them a certain way. This game of elevating people above me, or elevating myself above people.

I am talking about not being in awe at the fact that this person is a miracle and not treating them like they are.

I mean, what if I really just loved my neighbor? Wouldn't that be enough?
Man judges by outward appearance, but God sees that heart.
Do you ever think how incredible that is? God sees the heart.

I watched this new reality show on ABC, "Dating in the Dark." I have to be snobby now and profess this with a disclaimer that I usually DON'T watch reality shows, let alone dating ones. (Actually, I don't really watch TV. Just stupid Youtube videos, Hulu and LOST.) Anyway, I had to watch this show because psychological experiment aspect of it intrigued me. Put people that have never met in a dark room with each other and see how they will connect without having any idea what the other looks like. No first impressions, no physical attraction to lean on, just pure personality. Weird, but fascinating. It was interesting to see who decided to go with the initial connection they had made and continue a relationship once they saw what the other person looked like. It was also interesting to see how people seemed to skip the small talk and go straight to the deep stuff in their conversations in the dark.

Doesn't everyone want someone to see them for who they really are? See beneath your skin?

The crazy thing is: God already does.

I can say this over and over. It's another thing to truly believe it.
Sometimes I am so aware of the fact that God knows me completely and loves me fully. Sometimes that glimpse is enough to help me put aside all my questions, my struggles, my frustrations. My neediness.

I want people to see me, but I need to see people.

I don't think we can really see until our eyes are opened. Our eyes are dirty and pussy and crusted over and must be bathed in the pure water of His complete acceptance and love.
Then we will see beyond our own bodies, and other peoples.

Then the windows to our souls will be sparkling clean and we will be able to see what's really inside a person, what's really inside ourselves.

And it will be beautiful.

Brooke lives in the middle of nowhere in east Texas, trying to live, understand, and write about grace. She makes great pasta salad. Check out her blog.

Book Review and Giveaway: Cold Tangerines by Shauna Niequist

Tue, 20 Oct 2009 00:00:00 GMT

Thanks to author Shauna Niequist, Wrecked is offering three, free signed copies of her book Cold Tangerines. Just answer the question at the bottom of this post to enter, and we'll randomly pick three winners in a week. Find out more at the end of this review:

When I first picked up Cold Tangerines by Shauna Niequist, I have to admit that I was a little skeptical. I was sort of expecting a "Chicken soup for the soul" flavored book, overly emotional and slightly cheesy. At first I was a little annoyed at some of the inane "girly" details she would talk about, but as I delved into the book, it took me by surprise.

Shauna's vulnerable essays of the bits and pieces of her life made me feel like we were sitting in a coffee shop as she shared her story with me. Her words drew me in and took me on a journey with her, zooming in on certain moments that would normally seem mundane, but brought out different insight.

As I reached the end of Cold Tangerines, I felt like we could be close friends. I felt like she had given me a priceless gift -- a reminder that life itself is a gift and worthy of being celebrated.

I recommend this book to anyone who is longing for a deeper sense of simplicity in enjoying everyday life -- it's not just for women, either. Her style is Donald Miller-like with its "rambling" memoir style, but somehow there's a different, more hopeful (and obviously, more feminine) flavor. Niequist's perspective is wise, yet child-like, and her writing will capture you with its simple beauty, as an excerpt from her chapter "Waiting," shows:

...I choose to believe that there is nothing more sacred or profound than this day. I choose to believe that there may be a thousand big moments embedded in this day, waiting to be discovered like tiny shards of gold.

It is rare for a Christian author to take you into such truth without a hint of being preachy. In her day-to-day struggles with her body image, in her relationships with her church and family, in the welcoming of her son into the world, Shauna invites you into the deepest depths of her life. She reminds you to stop and see the beauty and wonder of life. Woven throughout the book is a colorful streamer proclaiming that celebration of the little things in life brings a real joy, and a strength to overcome the difficult times. I laughed out loud at moments and was moved to tears at others.

In the chapter, "Needle and Thread," (titled after a Sleeping At Last song) Shauna poetically states:

Art slips past our brains and straight into our bellies. It weaves itself into our thoughts and feelings and the open spaces in our souls, and it allows us to live more and say more and feel more.

I had that feeling as I was reading this book, cracks in my souls were indeed opening up and I could see the light coming in, illuminating the beauty that is already all around me. I walked away from reading Cold Tangerines feeling hopeful, refreshed and a little bit lighter.

****

To buy the book, click the following link to Amazon: Cold Tangerines: Celebrating the Extraordinary Nature of Everyday Life.

To find out more about Shauna Niequist and to read a free chapter of Cold Tangerines, visit: Shaunaiequist.com.

To enter the Cold Tangerines book giveaway, answer the following question in the comments section here: "What's one way that you celebrate the extraordinary nature of everyday life?"

**Announcement: The book giveaway contest has ended.**

Brooke lives in the middle of nowhere in east Texas, trying to live, understand, and write about Grace. She makes great pasta salad. Check out her blog.

Valuable, Beautiful, Worthy

Sun, 26 Jul 2009 00:00:00 GMT

I was reading a novel that I'd picked up at the library, written by one of my favorite writers of historical fiction. I hadn't bothered with my usual habit of reading the back cover to see what it was about; this author could be trusted to be interesting. I was too far into the story by the time I realized it touched on a topic both personal and painful to me (that topic is not the point today, so we'll leave it alone.)

Though I had come a long way in my journey of faith, this was an area I'd held hidden away inside of me, refusing to deal with God about it at all. When the conversation came up in a room, I'd retreat in silence - physically, if possible, but at least mentally. When memories tried to bubble up, I'd squash them and shove them down hard. It wasn't a safe conversation to have, I told myself...not even with God.

After all, I knew His stance, and my personal history didn't jibe with that. I wouldn't talk about it, couldn't think about it, just wanted to leave it alone. But there I was, in the middle of the novel. I'm a compulsive "finisher"...I don't leave stories half-read.

The memory of that horrible, wonderful moment is a decade old, but still fresh like yesterday inside of me. I sat on my bed, the book in my hands, terrified of the pain. "I can't have this conversation, Lord." I was sweating and trembling, and something inside told me I'd surely die if I didn't shut this down somehow.

But despite my terror, I could feel His presence, right there in the room with me. And unlike all those times He'd let me turn away, this time He was gently persistent, speaking to my heart slowly, clearly, and without hesitation. While I choked and sobbed, He drew me forward, coaxing me to trust Him and finish the book.

By the end of that day, I'd worked my way to the last page. My eyes were swollen and my throat raw. I was exhausted. In that afternoon I had faced the fullness of how deeply I had grieved the heart of my Father.

And in that same afternoon, right along with that grief, I felt His unreserved love for me. A love that had been right there, all around me, even in the darkest parts of the journey. A love that had turned always toward me, though I had so often turned away from Him. It wrecked me, and I never remember that day without deep tears of gratitude. That was Day One of my healing, in a part of my heart that had been broken for twenty years.

This week I've been teaching on the love of God, and how it's not like a high school romance. I taught it to high school aged kids who don't do regular church. I taught it to abused women in a shelter. I taught it to junior high girls who know their Bibles and seek the Lord. I told them that God loves you, not because of how you look, not because of how you make Him look, and not because you are useful to Him in some way. That He loves you, not because of anything you do or don't do. That He loves you, even if you don't serve Him, even if you don't love Him...even if you don't believe He exists.

This was not the salvation talk...that's a whole other item. The point of this lesson was that God loves you because He made you, and so He knows the fullness of your value, beauty, and worth. He sees past all of the lies believed, all of the bad behavior, all of the unloveliness. He sees YOU as He created you. Most of us never get much of a glimpse of that.

But He does. He knows. He sees. And He loves. You! Valuable. Beautiful. Worthy.

We are generally not ready for that message. I was certainly not ready for it that day amidst the novel, hearing Him tell me how very wrong I'd been and at the same time how very deeply He loved me. The people I told it to this week were not ready for it, either. I watched body language and breathing change, and eyes cast down as they tried to absorb it. I saw shock in some. I saw tears in some. People being silly grew suddenly serious and quiet.

Do we need to preach sin and repentance? YES. Unfashionable and unpopular as they are, they are an essential part of the message, and we are liars and charlatans if we never touch on them.

But let's not forget the love of God. Shocking, unfathomable, dangerous to religion, and by all means uncomfortable to behold. A small glimpse of it can change a life forever.

May you get a glimpse of it today, and may it wreck you.

Karen is from Aledo, IL. She works in a domestic violence shelter by day, spends her off hours working in youth ministry, and dreams and prays great things while she follows the World Racers' blogs.

What If We're Wrong: Reflections On Faith

Thu, 23 Jul 2009 00:00:00 GMT

Answers are one thing the Christian community has no shortage of. So many of my peers have the most matter-of-fact responses to some of the most confounding conundrums within mankind's general understanding of existence. Whether it's why things are the way they are, why they won't be what they can be, or why they may never be; there's always a coyly rattled off explanation. It's as if most believers should just playfully look at the inquisitor and reply, "Well, someone hasn't been reading their Scripture!"

At the deli/wing-joint I work at one of my managers and I frequently talk about religion. He shares a vastly different set of beliefs than I do; yet our conversations are always civil on both of our ends, even with the intensity of the content of our discussions.

"What if you're wrong, Ben?" He asked one day, "What if there is a right religion and you don't believe it, or what if all religions are wrong?" What I appreciated most was that he didn't ask this in malice; this was genuine inquisition.

"Well, I guess the probability that I'm wrong is the same as Buddhists, Muslims, Atheists, Polytheists, Wiccans, etc. are wrong, but for me my faith isn't about being right. I don't have to be right, I just choose to believe because my Christian conception of God has been relevant to me."

I knew this answer would have bothered a ton of my more theologically conservative friends. They probably would've accused me for having a weak faith because I didn't tell my manager that it was impossible that I was wrong. My manager was stunned. He told me he had never heard anybody tell him anything of the sort. All of the responses he ever got back from that question were mainly accusations that maybe he was wrong too, and if he was wrong he would go to hell whereas the believer would just rot in the ground if they were wrong.

It upset me that the only Christians he has asked that question to were too insecure in their beliefs to embrace the true nature of faith; the possibility of being wrong.

Though Jesus did scold the disciples a great deal for being skeptical of Jesus' nature, he also said that those who trust in him who didn't see him are more blessed than those who did see him (John 20:29). Jesus knew that faith wasn't an easy gig, so why have so many Christians made it seem so simple?

Every person has wondered where the world comes from, how it got to be that some people never lack while others live and die in it, and how it will all end. According to many Christians these questions are all answered simply by creation, sin, and ascension (respectively). Hope and faith only comes into the picture when we doubt these explanations simplicity. Unfortunately, some then use "hope" and "faith" to reinforce the simplistic nature of these explanations. It's almost as if a child uses their own foolhardiness to affirm to themselves that their mom didn't buy them the life-sized Optimus Prime because she doesn't love them, but many Christians call this ignorance "hope" or "faith."

There was survey done recently among third-graders which asked them if they thought athletes taking performance enhancing substances were wrong. An overwhelming number of them said it was wrong because it was cheating. Adults didn't quite rival the number of nays' towards PED's that the kids did, because as adults, we know there are more angle to approach this issue from than just right of wrong. For example, why is ok to drink coffee on the morning to be more awake for the exam than it is to take a nutrient supplement to enhance a workout? Both are using chemicals to enhance performance, so what's the real difference here?

Those third-graders didn't think of that. Maybe if they did they would have though a bit more about their answers, but being that the world hasn't been fully brought into focus yet for them, it only makes sense that they keep very simple lines of reasoning.

In faith, I find that so many adults still subscribe to this type of simple reasoning in the case of God's existence. Too many people "know" that God exists, and only the faint in heart "believe." The Christians who "know" God exists typically also "know" God's stances on political issues (conservatives and liberals alike), the true nature of morality, and who will be going to heaven. This "knowledge," which is sculpted by the fear of being wrong and ultimately not in control, is enforced by feigning childish ignorance to the validity of opposing worldviews.

I thought Jesus said those who believed without seeing were blessed? These Christians haven't seen and seem afraid.

I believe that being "blessed" in the way Jesus used the term is to enjoy in the risks of living in a genuine relationship with a God who can only continue in your life by faith. If we live by faith, then we know when God is speaking to us, instead of how he speaks to everyone. If we live by hope, we know when God is connected to us, instead of as-a-matter-of-factly blasting those who doubt in the object of our connection.

Let's abandon our knowledge in our faith, and be blessed.

Ben is a fourth year student at the University of Delaware studying Mathematics Education. He writes as a hobby, and published his first book in December of 2008. You can read his other works, and even purchase his book at http://somedaypublished.com.

God in the Woods

Tue, 16 Jun 2009 00:00:00 GMT

It's funny to be a person that sees God in a rotting log or busy river water, but I do. In fact, nature is full of these little things that I see God in. I was camping a couple of weeks ago at Bagby Hot Springs here in midwestern Oregon.

Hot springs are, by definition "...springs that are produced by the emergence of geothermally heated groundwater from the Earth's crust."

I know that sounds fancy, but basically it's just hot water from the ground [120℉, to be exact]. In Bagby, they have directed these springs into small wooden tubs carved out of giant logs that offer an inviting place to sit for an hour or two and enjoy the mineral-rich heated goodness.

I love the simplicity of camping. Whether it's the neat camping gadgets, or bringing only what you need for a few days, that really thins out life for a short time.

No computers, cell phones or iPods [not even twitter] -- just water, food, friends and a few good books. Those who have experienced this know just how good food tastes when you're eating for self-sustaining energy.

Most times when I find myself in this wilderness, I process God as though we were both sitting underneath trees or smelling the damp pine-rich air.

To quote one of my favorites artists, "There is a movement in our stillness..."

As I contemplate simplicity and stillness, I find a movement of my soul.

I came across a stunning poem by Li Po called "Conversations in the Mountains",

If you were to ask me why I dwell among green mountains,
I should laugh silently; my soul is serene.
The peach blossom follows the moving water;
There is another heaven and earth beyond the world of men.

In the woods, I find God in the stillness. In the quietness of my heart, He shows me these beautiful things and wakes me up to my imagination -- my imagination to dream and feel that I truly belong to His Beloved.

At times I think, "Really? Really does it take me coming all this way to find that?" It's a question I'm still working on.

Sometimes you don't live in the quietest neighborhood or have the time to center yourself - but in the midst of our busy lives, these woods take me in and remind me that I was created. Like the green mountains and the peach blossoms, I was created.

For a moment, I was a part of the woods. I was part of the wonder and simplicity of the browns and greens.

In the woods, I find myself...a Beloved child of God.

Josh is a Mississippi boy who now lives in Portland, Oregon. He is currently enjoying being a newlywed to his beautiful wife Hannah, who both met in 2007 while serving with Word Made Flesh in Calcutta, India. His interests include: books, gardens, racial reconciliation, southern cuisine, coffee and birds (in no particular order). Josh is also an aspiring: writer, Stumptown barista-extraordinaire and world-renowned southern chef.

Anything You Are Afraid to Lose Owns You

Sat, 30 May 2009 00:00:00 GMT

I glimpsed at a picture of Jesus.

It is hard to describe, as I am sure all images of God are -- yet the moment sticks with me.

I see him walking through a city street. It was Nashville, maybe? Pittsburgh? Dallas?

In a way, the city encompassed a hundred cities, but none I knew. It didn't really matter where he was. There was a purpose behind his every step.

The city has a familiar feel, yet unrestrained by definition. The sidewalks are not crowded; in fact, they are rather empty. I am sitting on a bench on one side of town.

Thinking. Waiting.

For what, I am unsure. But I am there. Sitting. Calculating.

In my minds eye I can see Jesus searching those streets -- not a bathrobe and glowing hair Jesus, but a thirty-something blue Buckle dress shirt and jeans kind of Jesus. He has piercing eyes, and his pace is brisk, mixed with a calculated patience.

It is as if he knows I still need time to weigh the cost.

So he wanders the city, getting nearer to my city park bench but lingering to still soak up the life swirling around him. He enjoys humanity as it passes. He loves them all. But today he is seeking the one over the ninety-nine.

You know how in movie shots the camera pans in on one aspect of a character introduced, but it isn't like an overt "Hey, pay attention to this" moment, just a slyly-placed, close-up shot?

The Jesus in my picture is walking through the city-but the camera edges in for a quick glimpse. The picture heightens as I see his cost. On his wrists the soft pink of wounded and scarred-over flesh edges from beneath his Buckle cuffs. It is a quick flash, but long enough for the image to echo in my understanding.

I do not feel fear. I do not feel shame. I feel an overwhelming truth. Peace floods and my heart yearns to meet that love again. I am left on the bench, still thinking, still weighing the cost. I know that he is about to offer revealed truth. And I want to be ready to accept it.

His dark hair edges from an alley and turns in my direction. The tanned skin around his eyes wrinkles as he smiles. I feel his eyes before he meets mine; a surge of acceptance meets my iris. I realize how much I genuinely love him and know it is my time to yield. As he sits next to me, I also realize this isn't just about giving up a mental idea, it is about forming a new reality-about fashioning an interior life.

He could say a thousand things. He could give perspective or insight into the relationship I am clinging too. He could legitimately rebuke certain actions I am part of. He could tell me about my sins. He could tell me about promises or hope for my future. He could even call out the woman he wants me to be.

But he does none of these. Instead, he brushes the hair past his face and his eyes meet mine. He opens his mouth to utter a single thought: "Anything you are afraid to lose owns you."

My heart floods with truth-a resolve, a courage. I don't know why-but I reach into my purse and grab my cell phone, shutting it off. The lines around his eyes tighten as he smiles subtly. Truth floods as understanding finally clicks and then, in a flash, the entire picture dissolves.

My eyes snap open as the picture fizzles out from my mind. The dream ends as I roll over to click on my lamp, reach for my journal and write down the single phrase that would spark a redefinition of my life:

Anything you are afraid to lose owns you.

Cassandra believes in living life "mobile like the wind" and is always willing to go wherever adventure takes her. This recent college graduate is looking for her next spot in life and waiting for Jesus' timing to reveal his plans and purposes. Until then... let the imagination roll.

We Have Been Evacuated: Jesusita Fire: Day 4

Mon, 18 May 2009 00:00:00 GMT

I am sitting in my mom's office, which used to be my bedroom. Last night it was my bedroom once again, and today it is my office. My housemates and I, along with 30,500 others in Santa Barbara, have been evacuated. The Jesusita Fire has now burned 3,500 acres. The officials say it has been 10% contained, but to us that seems an arbitrary number. Ninety percent of a fire can still displace thousands of people.

Evacuation, for me, was quite a simple affair. I was out of the house, helping serve dessert to students at an end-of-the-year function at Westmont, my alma mater. A few months ago, in November, another fire, the Tea Fire, ravaged Westmont's campus leaving five buildings burned. While I was on campus, I took a picture of the Jesusita Fire with the Tea Fire-scorched trees in the foreground.

By the way, did you know there are some people who are citizens of heaven? Though they might be evacuated from home after home after home, they are always home. They were never at home in the first place.

I was planning on visiting my parents only a few miles south afterwards, and when I got there, my housemate called to tell me our apartment had been evacuated. There was no way of getting home to grab any of my things Fortunately, I had already packed almost everything I wanted into my car: my laptop, a few days' worth of clothes, and a bunch of books. The one thing I didn't get--the thing I will truly miss if my apartment burns--was my beautiful Tacoma guitar. In Carpinteria, I stepped out of my car to see the sunset obscured by the Jesusita Fire's plume of smoke. [See the picture above.]

This morning I called work to see if the office was opening for business. It was closed, evacuated as well. Then, at around 9, a good friend from Westmont called in tears.
"We're getting evacuated," she said. "They're giving us until noon to get out." Westmont was, for the second time this year, being threatened with fire.

"Have you gotten a hold of your parents?" I asked. Tomorrow, she is scheduled to graduate. Her parents are in town from Washington to celebrate with her. We dare not think about what will happen if the fire cancels those plans. Fortunately, the ceremony is being held on another side of town.

"No, I haven't been able to get a hold of them."

"Shoot..."I said. I thought; I calculated. "Do you need someone to help you pack your things?"

"Well, yeah, but you don't have to," she said, still crying.

"I'll be there as soon as I can."

I borrowed my mom's car, a Toyota Highlander, which is a little better for packing boxes than my two-door Honda Civic, and drove toward Westmont. My heart was beating as I drove toward the shadow of that eerie plume of smoke which hung in the air and blocked out the light of the sun.

When I got to Montecito, the roads were barricaded by police. I drove up and down the hills of the small, wealthy town, looking for a road that had been missed by the police. I didn't find any. The four entrances I knew were blocked.

In defeat, I called my friend.

"I can't get up," I said. "The roads are barricaded."

"Oh, they just started letting people through if they're picking up Westmont students," she said.

"Awesome! Alright, I'll be right there."

When I got to Westmont, it was a madhouse. Parents were parked everywhere, blocking the roads. Students were going back and forth from the residence halls to their cars in the parking lots. The campus shuttle was evacuating students who didn't have cars.

I helped my friend pack and then helped three other friends. By 11:50, when we left, almost everyone was fully out of their rooms with all their belongings.

And so now here I sit, at home--well, my parent's home--at what was my home for 21 years. My cousin is here too. He was evacuated from his home, went to a friend's--which ended up being evacuated a few hours later--and then went to another friend's--which was also evacuated. He was evacuated three times. Now he is sitting in the living room watching the news.

I am at home.

Did you know there are some who are citizens of heaven? Though they might be evacuated from home after home after home, they are always home. They were never at home in the first place.

I would like to live like this. Today I am getting a small chance.

Joe lives in beautiful Santa Barbara, CA. His claim to fame is that he once got seasick just watching a boat rocking in the ocean. He wasn't even in the boat; he was watching the boat! In August, Joe is going on the World Race where he hopes to sound his barbaric yawp from 11 different countries all over the world. He also writes on a blog.

Rediscovering Rest

Wed, 6 May 2009 00:00:00 GMT

It was Saturday, hours before the sun would rise, and I was wide awake. Saturday is my sleeping-in morning - the time that absorbs the impact of the other six days, which generally require me to wake up at 5 a.m. and run until what feels like Past My Bedtime.

But that Saturday, in the dark hours well before five, I was talking as fast as I could inside my head, mind working frantically to unload prayers as heavy as bricks. My stomach was sick from lack of sleep and my soul was utterly weary from a week of one heartache after another.

Later that day I would attend the funeral of someone roughly my age, who left behind 3 kids and 3 step-kids. I had been weeping before God on behalf of the family since Wednesday morning, and the weight of my grief for them had pressed down on me even in my sleep.

Earlier that week, I had prayed while a friend told me the horrific tale of losing a pet in the unexpected and brutal sort of way that leaves scars on the heart. In his mercy, he had left out the worst details; in my imagination, I had filled those details in, and my heart hurt every time my memory returned there.

In a hospital bed not far from me, someone I pray for who has already lost a leg to diabetes was recovering, having been nearly killed by the carelessness of a caregiver. I knew what she did not: more surgery is in her near future. I could imagine her predicament just enough to leave me desperate before God as I carried her before Him in prayer.

Across town, a family close to my heart was probably losing sleep as they absorbed a frightening diagnosis on their grandpa. I remembered my time in both his shoes and his family's, facing the word Cancer and grabbing for faith with all my might. On Saturday morning, the peace I prayed for them was a memory and an idea...not something I had any grip on for myself.

Hundreds of miles away, a new and cherished friend who has added light and laughter to my household worked on plans to follow God's leading to places far from us. Sending a friend joyfully off into God's plan is a process; I was at the beginning place, my heart still protesting the void his absence will leave here.

Within my house, the week had contained the kind of setbacks that required the uncomfortable work of recalibrating expectations, a process that puts feet on the notion of "dying to the flesh" - good in the big picture; not so much fun in the moment.

Mixed in with the stories of my family and friends was the perpetual parade of devastated lives that I experience in my work at a domestic violence shelter. A friend asked me yesterday if anything at work has made me cry lately; my smile was wry as I assured him work makes me cry almost every day. Back when I first started asking God to send me places where most won't go, to pray for those that most have given up on, I didn't guess that tears would become almost like breathing to me. I didn't imagine how sweet the scripture promising that those who sow in tears will reap in songs of joy would become to me. It was Saturday morning, and I was sowing for a mighty harvest.

So inside my head I talked as fast as a girl in junior high with her best friends. The weight of the cares of those around me felt like more than I could bear, and I was in a hurry to tell God all about it. Fix it, fix it, FIX IT, Lord!

And there in the midst of my frantic soliloquy, the whisper began.

I will give you rest.

I heard it, and I just kept talking.

I will give you rest.

Scenes tumbled across the insides of my eyelids, and possibilities played across my imagination.

Still He insisted. I will give you rest.

He is so much more patient than I, never switching to, "Would you shut up already?" or "Calm down!" Just over and over again, slow and calm. I will give you rest.

When I finally grew still, different tears began to flow. Tears of relief and joy. I was not alone, and the weight was not mine to carry. He didn't need my animated replay of Reasons to Be Upset. He knew. He knows. And He can do all of the things that I cannot. Starting with...

...I will give you rest.

Funny thing - once I got off the worry train and just drew near to Him, all of that other stuff was handled. I gave it to Him, and really understood once more that it wasn't mine to fix.

I had forgotten for a little while how to stop doing. I had lost my way for quietly drawing near to my Father. In His mercy, He had come and found me inside my little pre-dawn whirlwind. In His grace, He gave me rest.

Will you let Him give you rest today?

Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. -Matthew 11:28

Karen is from Aledo, IL. She works in a domestic violence shelter by day, spends her off hours working in youth ministry, and dreams and prays great things while she follows the World Racers' blogs.

Sabbath Rests and Influenza

Tue, 5 May 2009 00:00:00 GMT

Where have I witnessed God working lately?

I have been sick (influenza). Now, you may be expecting a message about how God healed me, saving me from the anguish of this terrible virus. But that is not what He had in mind. I say, "He had in mind," because that is exactly what I had in mind...

Instead, I went to see the doctor who prescribed me Tammiflu and put me out of work for four days. Now, the Tammiflu does a fantastic job of knocking the flu down to size. I felt much better in about 24 hours, not 100%, but better. However, a combination of the Tammiflu and the still-active influenza made me drowsy and more than a little scatterbrained. And that is really where my lesson began.

The Lord said to Moses, "Come up to me on the mountain and stay here, and I will give you the tablets of stone, with the law and commands I have written for their instruction." -Exodus 24:12

I have been taught the Idea of taking a Sabbath many times. But this time, it finally stuck; it finally made sense to me. God told Moses to "Come up to me on the mountain and stay here..." What a strange way for God to phrase walking directions. I mean, when you're on top of the mountain, you're on top of the mountain, right? But there is something more to it.

See, God knows the human mind, and so He knows that our nature is to begin planning and preparing our way back down as soon as we get to the top of the mountain. God knows that in this process, Moses won't be mentally present on top of the mountain, and he'll miss it. And God wants Moses to be fully present, resting and aware of what God is doing.

So back to me and the Tammiflu...

On the second day, I was mentally alert enough to feel like I should be accomplishing something. I mean I have lessons to write for my students, I have a stack of books I need to read, I have pod-casts to catch up on, I have disciples to catch up with, I have a blog that needs another entry, e-mails to catch up on, dishes stacking up in the sink, work schedules to write for 40+ employees, a new store manager to train... I have a lot on my plate!

But each time I tried to do something, I just couldn't stick with it. My reading was at best schizophrenic with four books and the Bible going in one hour alone. I couldn't stand long enough to do any meaningful amount of dishes. The notes I tried to type for my blog were not coherent (not that they always are under normal circumstances). I couldn't concentrate long enough to dig through any significant amount of e-mails. I would loose track of what was being taught in pod-casts... Do you get the idea?

In the midst st of all this, my wife was trying to take care of our sick family. She was taking the kids to different doctors appointments, dropping off prescriptions, picking up prescriptions, dispensing medicine, cleaning and disinfecting the house, doing all of the shopping & cooking..... All in all, she was being Supermom!

So, I finally gave up and just sat down on the couch and said, "God, help me do something." And then, it happened... My 18 month-old daughter curled up in my lap and just held me, just stayed there with me for I don't know how long. I felt as if God was saying, "Stay here."

Of all of my children, I think she and I have the worst relationship. I know that sounds crazy because she is only 18 months old. But my son and I wrestle and play and have had a lot of alone time in his almost seven years. And my three year-old daughter cooks with me almost daily, invites me to play dolls far to often, and always gets herself involved in what ever I'm doing. But my youngest daughter and I don't have that kind of relationship...

It dawned on me that I was missing it. I felt God slowing me down and saying, "Don't get so caught up in doing that you miss the gifts I have given you."

So, thank you God for influenza!

Tom is a radical insurgent for Christ. He is bi-vocational working as a youth pastor and managing a large bookstore. He lives with his wife Kimberly and their three incredibly unique children in southwest Michigan.

Simple Spirituality Interview with Chris Heuertz, Pt. 2

Sun, 3 May 2009 00:00:00 GMT

Continued from Simple Spirituality Interview with Chris Heuertz, Pt. 1:

In this second piece, I want to go into a couple of questions that I asked Chris Heuertz about his new book Simple Spirituality, particularly in regard to the Church and social action.

I also wanted him to elaborate on his previous statement, "Simplicity for simplicity's sake is legalism", which is a paraphrase from Richard Foster's book, Freedom of Simplicity.

Foster writes:

And most dangerous of all is our tendency to turn any expressions of simplicity into a new legalism. How quickly we calcify what should always remain alive and changing. How soon we seize upon some externalism in order to judge and control others. How much we like these nice, easy ways to determine who is in and who isn't; who has it and who doesn't. (Foster, p. 112, Freedom of Simplicity)

Heuertz says, "It's how that gets fleshed out. Simplicity unto itself becomes austere aestheticism... we've missed redemption from the grace of simplicity." He's concerned about referring to simplicity as "trimming the fat" and is conflicted about not including celebration or generosity in these conversations, because if we don't, "we then back ourselves into legalism."

"It becomes an illusion of spirituality. Simplicity could be about tidying up our image, like a kind of a spring cleaning," Heuertz states. "Go without food so somebody else can be fed, that's simplicity. That's creative generosity."

Drifting away a bit from the legalistic aspects of simplicity, I asked Chris about the affluent Church, and why it struggles so much with simplicity.

"Have we reduced our engagement to social action, and also evangelism?" By this, Chris explains that we tend to separate what people need.

For example, how some believe evangelism is more important than social action, Heuertz explains that we need to view it more in terms of a "holistic" Gospel.

"It is about holism and human identity. There is a fuller sense of complexity as a human, which includes any expression of human need. It is never a formula." (Chris brings up the fact that Jesus told His disciples to follow Him, but also told them not to tell anyone what was happening. - Reference: Luke 9) It shows that Jesus was not about formulas. It shows that Jesus did not care about the idea of Himself [in regards to ego], but offered humanity a holistic connection to His Body and to His Kingdom.

In concluding thoughts, Chris told me, "We just don't know..." We just don't know all the ways we as humans interact with Christ. Heuertz invites us to explore this relationship with God and to seek out our relationships with others and within our communities as holistic followers of Christ.

Some personal notes I have taken from this conversation are that Chris seeks these things out humbly and in very intimate ways. With inner conflict regarding turning simplicity into a product, Chris relates to ways of exploring this celebration, and questions the ideas that get tagged with "simplicity".

In conclusion, with the words of Foster fresh on my heart: "How soon we seize upon some externalism in order to judge and control others. How much we like these nice, easy ways to determine who is in and who isn't; who has it and who doesn't."

I am encouraged to seek out this lifestyle celebration. To celebrate simplicity with my sisters and brothers, and what that looks like in my own community.

If you haven't gotten a chance to read the first part of this interview with Chris Heuertz, just follow this link.

To find out more about Simple Spirituality - Learning to See God in a Broken World, click here or click on the book image to the right.

Order Simple Spirituality by Chris Heuertz on Amazon.

Josh is a Mississippi boy who now lives in Portland, Oregon. He is currently enjoying being a newlywed to his beautiful wife Hannah, who both met in 2007 while serving with Word Made Flesh in Calcutta, India. His interests include: books, gardens, racial reconciliation, southern cuisine, coffee and birds (in no particular order). Josh is also an aspiring: writer, Stumptown barista-extraordinaire and world-renowned southern chef.

Prayer Is Not an Option

Wed, 29 Apr 2009 00:00:00 GMT

"Not everyone who says to Me, 'Lord, Lord,' will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only those who do the will of My Father who is in heaven. Many will say to Me on that day, 'Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in Your Name and in Your Name drive out demons and in Your Name perform many miracles?' Then I will tell them plainly, 'I never knew you. Away from Me, you evildoers!'" (Jesus, recorded in Matthew's gospel)  

"You search the Scriptures because you think they give you eternal life. But the Scriptures point to me! Yet you refuse to come to me to receive this life." (Jesus, recorded in John's gospel) 

Think about this for a minute: your friends are talking about movies they like when somebody immediately remembers a great piece of Hollywood gossip. "You guys know [insert actor/actress]?!" Your reply, caught in suspense already, probably sounds like this, "Yeah, what about him/her?" But do you know this person? Or do you simply know a lot about this person? There is a difference. 

I used to idolize Dave Matthews. I could tell you about how he was a bartender at Miller's in Charlottesville, VA. He had a little demo that he asked local talents Leroi Moore and Carter Beauford to assist him in recording. I could tell you about them sneaking their underage bassist in and out of the bars just long enough to do a gig. I could even tell you about his sister being murdered by her own husband. But, while I know a lot about Dave Matthews, I do not know him personally.

Far too many Christians have grown up in churches where they hear an awful lot about God, but they are never encouraged to know Him personally. Prayer is made to sound like extra credit. The focus in churches is to sing a few songs and think about God or to hear a preacher list three or five brief points about some passage in the Bible. We walk away having thought about God and heard about God, but never spending time with God, getting to know Him better. Everybody tells you that you have to know God, but if it's so important, why is that not the focus of our church services?

Why do so many think that God can't speak to us in the present day? You will hear that God spoke long enough for the Bible to be written, and now we only hear from Him as we read it. I think it's quite true that God's Word speaks to us today through the power of the Holy Spirit living in our hearts. But I also think that God can speak to us, Spirit to spirit. It is more a question of whether we want to listen, to take the time out of our busy schedules to just "be still, and know [He is] God" (Psalm 46:10).  

The point of the Scriptures at the top of this post is to show us that knowing a lot about God or even doing a lot of great things in His Name is not the same as knowing Him. We have to be a people of prayer. He wants to hear it from you. He wants to be with you and hear about what hurts you and what thrills you and what struggles you are facing. I can know [my wife] loves me, but if I never heard her say it, I would never experience the great feeling I feel when she actually does tell me.  

We cannot be a people who simply admire God or admire Jesus and the things He did on earth; we have to be people who know God. Unless we know His voice, how will we be able to discern the truth from the lie? The world's system has seeped into the Church so much that now we can only argue with each other about what God wants from us. We've replaced the voice of God with lists of rules about our clothing or our entertainment choices. We don't have to pray and ask God to lead us; we have our rules. It has become so much about the rules that people just ask what they have to "do" to be a good Christian. In other words, what activities do I have to stop taking part in to be considered a "Christian?" 

Somebody somewhere decided that God couldn't lead His people with the conviction of the Holy Spirit, so codes of rules and regulations were made. This boils down to little more than our own measurable standard of how "good" somebody is, especially in comparison to ourselves.

However, the Bible says that God looks at a man's heart, something we can't see, while man can only see the outward appearance (how they dress, how short they keep their hair, how close they are to perfect attendance in Sunday school). We have to know God. We can't be content to know about Him or to hear about somebody else's relationship with Him. We have to know Him personally. We have to spend time in prayer, revealing every detail of our lives to Him, telling Him what He means to us*, praying that His will would be done on earth--even above our will.

We can't afford to live life with a checklist of good deeds, scratching off when we go to church each week or when we read a chapter in our Bible before we fall asleep or when we hold the door for an elderly person at the mall. The time is coming soon when God will shake everything that can be shaken, and all of our half-hearted worship will be stripped away. The only thing that will survive this is our relationship with God.

We cannot neglect genuine prayer.

Matt lives in South Carolina with his wife, Michelle, and daughter, Charis. He has a passion for authentic relationships and true, heartfelt worship.

What Lies Behind The Northface

Thu, 16 Apr 2009 00:00:00 GMT

I am not typically a fast driver, but one Wednesday morning my roommate's car found a whole new gear on southbound I-95. In twenty-five minutes I had to be in a lecture hall located a half-an-hour away taking an exam worth a quarter of my final grade.

The weather was cool, but I knew that by the time I had gotten out of class it would more than likely be warm enough to where I would either carry my jacket around, or never feel the full offering of the weather on my arms. Though the risk was moderate, it had much to teach me.

I think that God calls all Christians to live in such an aggressive manner. Instead of always taking the safest route possible, and covering up for the fear of slight chills, God calls us to leave our comfort zones in order to later experience the fullness of His warmth on our skin.

I look at the story of Abraham, who went cold for many years while his wife couldn't conceive, only later to be the Father of All Nations. Take Samson, who froze in the Philistines' prisons, but soon would find the means to blot out thousands of God's enemies. Because these individuals cried and rejoiced with God it seems pretty obvious they lived passionately in their relationships with Him.

I cannot say that slight discomfort during a classroom-commute compares to infertility or execution, but I do feel that spiritual truth can be found in even the most mundane of settings. Too often do I hear Christians talking about living radically for God, meanwhile endorsing walls of emotional barriers in relationships with non-Christians, members of the opposite sex, and even their peers. Everyone seems to be so afraid of feeling emotional pain that we all put on our own jackets daily so as to never feel any weather on our bodies.

I am not saying that a T-shirt in a snowstorm is a good idea. Know your limits. The Scriptures tell us to "flee from temptation." However, when we are focused on maintaining emotional distance from our peers we may never show them God. Instead of risking pain from true commitment we go for half-hearted friendships, romances, and mentoring relationships. We want to look like the best Christians possible, so we only allow people to get close enough to marvel at our enamel. Unlike Jesus, who allowed His relationships to take on full identity, we want to save as much face as possible. In Elizabeth Ellis' article "Living Passionately" she had this to say:

"To make a commitment is to risk the failure of that commitment. To experience beauty is to open up the possibility of being shattered by tragedy. To want something badly is to take the chance that you might not get it. He who embraces and invites life willingly invites sorrow as the risk taken in owning the fullness of life and companionship.'"

These words ring so true in my soul. I actually copied them off a poster I wrote them on at the foot of my bed! I believe that God does His best work in the parts of us we can't see. With this in mind, why is it that so many of our relationships are focused on the parts of us we can? We worry about the words we use, the clothes we wear, and the feelings we vocalize. Whatever happened to freedom? Whatever happened to devotion? For that matter, whatever happened to the risk that comes along with devotion? It seems that all of these things have fallen asunder because of the fear of being vulnerable.

I am not saying that coats are frivolous to our wardrobe. People fight and die for the simple luxuries that our jackets can offer. However, when we gird our spiritual loins with full winter apparel we are ceasing our ability to be affected by our environment. Yes, we will be safe, and safety is a virtue. However, never allowing earnest relationships to penetrate our layers isn't virtuous; it's cowardice. Samson went cold for a while so that he may catch fire for God's purpose. Jesus wept for the spiritual frostbite He would feel on the very cross where He would inevitably quench the flames of sin's retribution.

As Christians, if we want to truly live on fire for God, we should leave our coats on the rack. We should allow our love for God to be unyielding, unrelenting, and uncomfortable. Consequently, our relationships with His creation should show those same qualities.

Ben MacKinnon is a fourth year student at the University of Delaware studying Mathematics Education. He writes as a hobby, and published his first book December of 2008. You can read his other works, and even purchase his book at http://somedaypublished.com.

Simple Spirituality Interview with Chris Heuertz, Director of Word Made Flesh

Sat, 4 Apr 2009 00:00:00 GMT

Part one of a two-part interview with Chris Heuertz:

There are certain people in life that you meet and have the opportunity to share a good conversation with, and this conversation is usually one that leaves you feeling a little conflicted, convicted, and overall... thankful.

I've had the opportunity of listening to Chris Heuertz speak on occasion, and getting the privilege to steal some of his time for an interview was a breath of fresh air.

Interviews are tough sometimes, and what I would say I had with Chris was not an interview, but a conversation involving the engagement of both. There were a few questions I asked Chris, but mostly tried soaking in his words the best I could without breaking off on some entirely different tangent.

His new book, Simple Spirituality was released last Fall, and I recommend you picking up a copy whenever you can get around to it. Though it's a title that Heuertz is somewhat conflicted with, he shares his wisdom on the topic and celebration of simplicity.

Chris is a great conversationalist - and in general, a person. I would expect that his humility and humbleness would downplay any "overly" kind and affirming words, but I have been challenged and encouraged by his journey towards God's heart. I hope that I can express Chris in a way he would want others to see, not only as the International Director of Word Made Flesh, but as a broken and conflicted follower of Christ whose heart is led to the most vulnerable of the world's poor.

Word Made Flesh is a non-profit organization that places intentional and relational communities around the world to "serve Jesus among the most vulnerable of the world's poor". Heuertz finds it important to emphasize "among" rather than "to" the poor, simply because of the relational and intentional aspects of serving among his friends who happen to be poor.

I asked Chris where his heart first began to see the world as a very broken and hurting place - - only to learn that his journey was a progression of himself interacting with his faith. He was "coming to terms" with these faith interactions as he traveled throughout reservations of New Mexico and the inner city streets of Chicago, Illinois.

Chris took a semester off and traveled to the Middle East where he found himself in Palestine and in the city of Jerusalem kicking soccer balls with the street kids. It was a time where he found himself asking hard and conflicting questions about poverty, oppression and injustice. The answers he had heard didn't add up and ached to learn more about the root of these crippling issues, as well as his own heart for the world's poor.

In 1993, Chris traveled to Southeast Asia where he began volunteering with the Missionaries of Charity in Calcutta, India. It was here that Chris was able to meet and converse with Mother Teresa, who founded the Missionaries of Charity. He volunteered at Kalighat, the home of the destitute and dying and describes the experience of tending up to 50 dead bodies during his time there, a haunting and sacred experience. This would be a devastating experience for a college kid. From this point on, Chris describes it as the "vocation that found me".

When Simple Spirituality - Learning to See God in a Broken World landed online and in bookstores, I knew it was a matter of time before I would be re-living some of the painful and beautiful memories of my own journey to Calcutta, and remembering the flesh of its crippling poverty.

Heuertz states that the title reflects on the intention that we have "complicated simplicity as a faith tradition, and that it is formed by our relationship with God so that we can nurture intimacy."

"Simplicity is something that should happen naturally," says Chris, "...it cracks and pops and feels right. It allows this relationship with God to work. It's not formulaic; it's a core value of our relationship with God."

Chris then went on to describe this communication with God in relation to communication in marriage. Both are necessary in order for the relationship to work. As Heuertz says in regards to relationship, "Nail those down in place before you get down into the more complex aspects of marriage to work. These are no-brainer touch points that have to be in place."

In my own concern of social justice, I asked Chris if there were aspects of spirituality, missions and simplicity that were being turned into a product. He laughed, and informed that the new book, or should I say "resource" he's working on for the Duke Divinity Center for Reconciliation touches on some of these complex issues.

"It's a conversation about trends in missions," Chris says. He probes the issues of "opportunity-based" missions and the "career missionary model", in which families used to devote 40-plus years to serving in another country.

"It is in these models in which we have to understand the responsibility of our relationships with the people we are advocating for, rather than who has the 'sexiest cause for advocacy'," Heuertz explains. "There is a concern that social action will be void of relationship. It is about the relationships with the victims. If we lack these relationships, it's dangerous for the cause; it would be commodifying people."

When listening to Chris, there is a tone of urgency and legitimacy that gives us a new found sense of responsibility. His experiences and the stories of his friends beg us to question the foundations of our faith traditions and how we live our lives among the hurting places of the world.

Continued in: Simple Spirituality Interview with Christ Heuertz, Pt. 2

You can find Chris speaking on Youtube here.

To order, Simple Spirituality - Learning to See God in a Broken World follow this link.

Josh is a Mississippi boy who now lives in Portland, Oregon. He is currently on his way to marrying his fiance, Hannah, who both met serving with Word Made Flesh in Calcutta, India. His interests include: books, gardens, racial reconciliation, southern cuisine, coffee and birds (in no particular order). Josh is also an aspiring: writer, Stumptown barista-extraordinaire and world-renowned southern chef.

Insecurity and the Googly-Eyed Monster

Wed, 1 Apr 2009 00:00:00 GMT

He was only four years old, but he already had developed a very effective technique: he grabbed another child's arm, twisted it around behind her back, and then lifted it fast and hard. Every time he did it, she was left helpless, standing bent over and completely unable to extricate herself.

I was his babysitter and I couldn't get him to stop practicing... and I was taking it very personally. I got angrier every day about it.

On her birthday he wouldn't countenance any celebration, but drowned out every happy word with his certain pronouncement that, "I am still older than you," until at last she asked me tearfully, "but it's still my birthday,

right?" I wanted to pound him into paste.

Every time I praised anyone else in the room, he took it as a personal attack on him - an indirect statement that if it were true about another, it certainly was not true about him. It got harder and harder to like him.

He had a good mom, and one day she called me almost in tears to confront me. Inside that conversation, the ugliness in my heart was revealed to me and I remembered once again that he was just a child, and that it was my job to see both the beauty and the brokenness within him. In her maternal boldness, she rescued me from being just another of the many forces driving the insecurity in him, and we made a turn for the better after that.

Sometimes we think the only face of insecurity is the tentative one, constantly asking to be confirmed. While that face can be frustrating and even irritating, it's not terribly hard to find a place of compassion for one who openly and desperately begs for continual validation.

But then sometimes insecurity doesn't settle with asking - sometimes it demands. It persuades its prisoner that everyone else is getting a better deal, and drives a person to smash, squash, and otherwise hurt people in pursuit of feeling less like nothing.

Encountering an insecure person, we are often easily fooled into seeing insecurity as arrogance. After all, the receiving end of bullying is a place that blocks our view of the persecutor's pain, isn't it?

We were in the classroom and she was acting out. I was substitute teacher for the day, and her antics were preventing forward progress. Again and again, I gave her "the teacher look" and directed her to be still. At last, she exploded in anger. "Don't look at me again with your googly eyes, you freak. I hate you!" The low chatter in the classroom rippled with a shocked giggle.

There are fewer forces more malicious than the consensus of a high school classroom that is slipping out of control, and for an instant, I felt the full brunt of her attack. Yeah, my eyes are big, and magnified by high-powered glasses. I had never thought of them as "googly" before - ouch.

But I had grown since those days in the toy room with that insecure boy. With Holy Spirit talking to and through me, I saw through the brick wall of her bravado, past the raging storm of her bad behavior, and there like an enormous flashing neon billboard was her pain, lashing out to destroy everything within reach, in hopes that she might finally stop hurting. This was the face of insecurity.

As quickly as the insult had arisen in me, it died. Her words rolled away, robbed of their power. I looked at her again, and in my chest was a physical ache for her captivity. My prayer was silent, though inside me it was a shout. Father, rescue her! No movie-scene drama followed; we got through the rest of that hour and she left class mad when the bell rang.

She never hated me again after that day - never called me another name. I encountered her in a lot of other classrooms, and the day came that she sought me out to quietly bare her soul. I hadn't gotten a bit prettier; my eyes were as "googly" as ever. But in them, I think she caught a glimpse of what I could see in her - both the beauty and the brokenness.

I'd love to write here that she was instantly and utterly healed from the pain that drove her, but the truth is she was not. I watched her hurt herself and others on a continual basis, and the last I heard, she was still struggling. Still, I know for sure that in the passage where our lives touched, she heard the whisper of the One who moved in and through me - the One who brushes aside the brokenness that makes her hate herself, and sees the fullness of her beauty.

My ongoing prayer is a celebration that He finishes what He starts. I haven't seen it yet, but I look forward to seeing her in eternity, finally free from her captivity.

Insecurity holds many captives in the world around you. Today, I invite you to ask Holy Spirit to work in you and through you, to set those captives free.

It costs... but they are worth it.

How about it?

Karen is from Aledo, IL. She went to Monmouth College and studied Latin and English. She is a biological mom of two children and surrogate mom/friend/advocate for a whole host of children. She would like to meet every wounded soul that I've she's ever known... as a child, before the "damage was done" so she could tell them how much they are loved.

Words of Solomon: Meaningless, Meaningless

Tue, 31 Mar 2009 00:00:00 GMT

You don't have to go far to experience the affects of depression. Even if it's not something we would consider our selves prone to, It's all around us, whether it's the severely medicated type, or just an occasional bad day. Our world is broken, and our souls are broken. Not everything is lollipops and flowers.

But, is there such a thing as "good depression"?

Is it healthy to have a certain level of meaninglessness in life? I am beginning to think so. I have been reading Ecclesiastes, again. It is such a fascinating book to me. Maybe it feeds something in my melancholy, always-hoping-for-rain writer's side.

"Meaningless, meaningless, everything is meaningless," the author says. The word is "hebel' and means emptiness, vanity, something unsatisfactory.

I heard somewhere that, though many people think it was Solomon writing, that really it's some unknown author personifying the King. Whoever it is, I wonder if maybe they wrote it on a dark rainy night, or at least maybe it was raining in their soul. I wonder if maybe it is a poor man, who sees the meaninglessness of wealth, or a rich man who has ceased to put his hope in wealth. I can understand where he is coming from. It's a long journey for every human being to find the simple truth "money doesn't bring happiness" to be true. It's a common message in modern movies and classic novels, but it is still so hard to grasp.

As I read further I began to see that the message in Ecclesiastes is deeper then just a lesson in wealth and poverty. Like all the books that surrounds it, it contains the type and picture of the new covenant- the truth that wisdom mean accepting Grace. The author shares that he has discovered that the righteous and the evil have the same fate.

Often, in this broken world, someone who spends their whole life doing good things, can still be met with tragedy. On the same note, someone who could spend their days living for themselves and causing others pain, may have a long prosperous life. It's the age old question, that unanswered causes so many to turn from God, "Why do bad things happen to good people?"

I wonder if this is God's introduction of grace- no matter if you are good or bad, you can't make it. You need a savior. You cannot strive to perfection enough to make your life happy.

When Jesus died on the cross, when the new covenant came to pass, the ground was leveled- the mountains were made flat and the valleys were filled in. In other words, those who are "the greatest sinners" have just as much access as those who are "a picture of perfection." It completely negated what we do, therefore creating complete dependence on Jesus as our savior and offering us complete freedom to live life with Him. This is the good news, anything else is a mockery.

Towards the end of the book, the author of Ecclesiastes concludes that since the same fate happens to both the righteous and unrighteous, (or really we are all just unrighteous!) we may as well find joy in living life- in work and feasting and being with the people we love. There is no sense in striving, it is empty to try to toil and gain your way towards anything: wealth, status, power and righteousness.

In Chapter 9, verse 7, he states, "Go, eat your food with gladness, and drink your wine with a joyful heart, for it is now that God favors what you do. Always be clothed in white, and always anoint your head with oil." There it is! The new covenant! Live in freedom; enjoy life, because God favors what you do!

The word favor is "Ratah," which literally means, "To satisfy a debt." The white robe and the oil is a picture of the bride of Christ and the Holy Sprit. Now, we can do all things because the Holy Spirit will guide us. We are free being completely dependent on Jesus.

Meaningless, meaningless.
Striving to climb a little higher is meaningless.
Striving to be good enough to be closer to Him is meaningless.
The debt has been satisfied.
We are robed in spotless white.
Oil drips down our heads.

God is here, now.

Brooke is a full time missionary with Youth With A Mission and wanna-be writer. She loves to write things that challenge the status quo of Christian culture, that give people a glimpse of the adventure it is to follow Christ.

Perceptions of the Ordinary

Sat, 28 Mar 2009 00:00:00 GMT

He stood in the shower, his left hand firmly grasped around the rusted showerhead, his head hung over his chest, eyes closed. The hot water poured over him like a monsoon gale over a peninsula, but he did not stir. The steam rose from the puddle at his feet, curling around his muscular legs and powerful chest, filling the small white room, then spilling out the window he had cracked open. Finally he moved, his head slowly lifting, then his whole body tensing, his hand gripping the faucet as if it was a solitary hold that was the only thing left which kept him from falling into eternity.

He opened his eyes, his eyelids flicking small drops of water away from his face that joined the spray of water that washed over him. Gradually his mind cleared, and he caused his left hand to release its hold and turn the small dial by his knees which stopped the stream of luxurious warmth.

Stepping from the porcelain casket that had threatened to swallow him into its comfort, he shook the water from his body, simultaneously shaking the weariness from his mind and the doubt from his soul. Looking into the mirror, he lifted his drowsy eyebrows, only to be stared back by the steam that had fogged the looking glass from corner to corner.

Drying away the steam with the corner of my towel, I finally found my reflection, and the tired blue eyes, the dripping red hair, and the soft jaw that returned my blank stare replaced all my dreams. The muscular legs were changed to my own lanky legs, and the powerful torso became the pale, scrawny upper body that I knew resided below my neck. I sighed a long, drawn out sigh then watched as the steam quickly invaded the mirror once more, reinstating its command. I closed my eyes and imagined myself falling, slowly and peacefully, down, down, down and suddenly I had to put my hand against the wall and grab onto the sink as my head started to fall forward, carrying my body with it.

I pulled myself straight up, opening my eyes just long enough to confirm my body's angle to the floor. I slapped myself in the face, in an attempt to wake myself up, and was rewarded with a crisp smack!' sound. It had done nothing to remove the shadows from behind my eyelids, but I smacked my face again, just for the sound. Smack!' I dried, dressed, and departed, walking out the small door of my apartment with my Eastsport backpack slung over one shoulder, my right hand pushing a green, military style hat over my soggy hair.

I stepped off the top step of the steep, narrow stairway that leads to the front door of my apartment building, and when I hit the second step my backpack slapped into my back, propelling me forward. I descended the stairs like some human slinky, my backpack pushing me off every step to the next. I reached the bottom of the steps and swung open the huge front door, stepping out onto the porch then down onto the sidewalk. My face met the frosty cold air with surprise, and I quickly zipped my coat up the remaining few inches. The coldness was just a few degrees above being bitter, and it quickly opened my eyes and immediately put a spring in my step.

The one thing I really appreciate the winter is that the cold wakes you up; during the summer, I constantly feel drowsy, and the heat makes me want to just sprawl out on the floor of my room and do nothing. When it's cold, you have no choice but to keep moving, keep your blood circulating. So when I stepped outside, I became fully awake, fully aware, I picked up my feet and walked like I meant it, I suddenly had purpose: keeping myself warm.

Early morning in the city is nowhere close to what it is out in the countryside. In the country, the entire ground sparkles with dew, the moist brown earth looks soft and inviting, the trees are full of color, and unseen birds celebrate the rising of the sun with beautiful song. Over a far horizon, the sun peeks out its warm and welcoming face, and you can practically hear the angels singing out in bright and joyous voices, until God hits the snooze button on the Archangel Michael's head and they become peaceful once more. On the other hand, in the city the sidewalk is bare and dry, the dirt is a dirty grey, clumps of snow and gravel litter the side of the road, and 18 wheelers drive through on their way to an early delivery.

Short Mexican men are picking up newspapers and unlocking the front doors to the restaurants they open along Broadway, while skinny young guys covered in tattoos walk the sidewalk picking up trash and emptying all the garbage barrels that are full of Caroline Street's beer bottles and pizza boxes from the night before. A bird can be heard here or there, and somewhere a young girl is crying, but all other noise is drowned out by an air horn being blown obnoxiously on Route 50.

Something about waking up early and walking Broadway early on this particular morning changed the way I looked at the city of Saratoga. The incessant noise didn't give me a headache, the Mexicans didn't cause me to grumble and moan about illegal immigration, and the garbage littering the street didn't make me want to cry because of the immorality of Caroline's regulars. Instead, I saw a beauty in all of it, a realization that all of it was God's creation.

As I kicked along a piece of iced dirt, I was amazed at the beauty of sidewalk, of gravel and of the dirty brick buildings that poured smoke from aluminum chimneys. A trucker suddenly came to a halt at one of the countless red lights, and his hydraulic brakes squealed and screeched in dismay, my soul rejoicing at the noise as I thought of how God had created all sound, and this was as beautiful as choruses sung by shining, winged beings. My wet hair had begun to freeze in place, my eyelids were permanently open, not a speck of drowsiness left, and I thanked God because I didn't want to miss a moment of His beauty.

God is present at all places, and His splendor is apparent in every created thing, when we only take the time to look for it. Rolling hills, bushy green trees, dewy grass and brightly colored birds are perhaps easier to see glory in, but I think it's less because God is more present in the countryside, and more that it's just that we tend to be more amazed at what is new to us, what is unfamiliar. A farmer grows tired of waking every day to the same pastures, the same cows and chickens, the same sunrise he's seen a thousand times, but when he walks into a city he is amazed as his gaze rises to stare at the towering skyscrapers and buildings larger than entire cornfields. God is the same God in the city as He is in the country, it's only the eyes we see Him through that make a difference.

I can think of no more wonderful experience than to wake every day with new eyes, to be amazed with every tiny detail of an environment or to be enamored with every word a friend speaks. Rather I find that I am continuously bored by my surroundings, because I have seen them all so many times before. I wake to the same tiny, cold room every morning, emerging from my room to the same four guys I have been living with for months, walking the same streets to the same job with the same coworkers in the same city I have been in since as long as my mind seems to care to remember.

Everything that I was once passionate about I now find uninteresting, and everything I was once amazed by is ordinary, everything that I used to enjoy has become tedious and monotonous. And if I find this dismaying now, how much worse will it be when I am married and wake some morning to look at the woman beside me and wonder "Why the hell did I ever marry this person?" Walk to the kitchen, wondering "How did I ever come to a point where I decided to buy this house? Why did I decide to have these abominable creatures called kids? Why am I working at this job that I cannot now escape from, because I have a family to support?" I can only hope that when I come to this point, I will turn to God's Word for encouragement, that I will look to the Body of Christ for love.

Basically the only guidance I can offer if you have come to a point like this in your life are the two things I just listed: read God's word for encouragement, and spend time with the Body of Christ, the church, to receive the love we as humans need to survive. Pray about it, ask God to give you new eyes, to "open the eyes of your heart." In addition to this, I would tell you to change things up a little bit. Break your routine, quit a habit, do something you've never done before. I become extremely restless pretty often, which is I why do things like move out of my parents home at 17, quit my job to hitch-hike across the East coast, or even just stupid things like walk Saratoga for hours during the middle of the night between long shifts at work.

But you don't have to be stupid to break out of a monotony; you can do something as simple as waking up a few hours earlier than usual and going for a walk, meeting a friend for coffee or a game of chess and a good long talk, starting a journal and writing your thoughts out. When you are in a situation you face every day that there is no escaping from, think about it in a new way, look for details you haven't noticed before, put time and effort into learning something new about the person you are with. Not that it will be easy; it is extremely difficult, and before you can even start, you have to break past all your own inhibitions and obstinacy. But, in the long run, it is well worth it.

Andrew currently resides in Saratoga Springs, NY where he lives in a small community called the Ragamuffin's Rest with three other Christian guys. He is an avid writer, photographer and film-maker, but is currently paying the bills by working as a prep chef in a cafe.

Simplicity as Legalism

Fri, 27 Mar 2009 00:00:00 GMT

Chris Heuertz, the International Director of Word Made Flesh says often, "Simplicity for simplicity's sake is legalism" - and it has been a process for me to digest this statement.

Theologically, I don't feel as solid as I do with other things. When people want to talk theology, I tend to back down a little. So, I took the word "legalism" and plugged it into various sites in which I could get a solid definition I could work with, and to somehow crunch out something that made sense.

I found legalism' in a section of Christian theology and took a deep breath. It wasn't nearly as intimidating as I made it out to be, and I do have a better understanding of its terms when paired with Simplicity.

"Simplicity for simplicity's sake is legalism."

I came up with this definition for legalism in terms of Christian theology:
" An allegation of misguided rigor, pride, superficiality, the neglect of mercy, and ignorance of the grace of God or emphasizing the letter of law over the spirit."

If we seek out simplicity for the sake of being simple, then it is defeating the purpose and emphasis of it in our spiritual brokenness and our Communion with God.

I struggle with the fact that we have a choice to live simple. We have progressed and acquired so many things in our lives that we must fight for our spiritual simplicity. We get rid of Facebook and even our cars to find that simplicity, but that doesn't matter if our Communion with God has not changed.

If we turn simplicity into something that is popular, it is defeating the purpose of its humility.
Word Made Flesh has what they call, "Lifestyle Celebrations". Simplicity is one of these celebrations, and states the following: We celebrate simplicity as our privilege in identification with Jesus and the poor.

Simplicity is a privilege. It is how we create Communion with Jesus and with the poor.

It is how we identify with Christ and the poor.

We have to be careful. Being proud of simplicity can often be a bit more damaging in our hearts than I feel we tend to imagine. I feel as though there may be a line separating living poor, and living simple. As our friend Shane Claiborne says, "Simplicity is in relation to your neighbor. If your neighbor has four cars, than you think having two cars is living simple."

This is tough for me. It is this pride of simplicity that is damaging, especially to my heart. It is worthless to be proud of your own poverty as well as simplicity.

In the words of our other dear friend, the late Rich Mullins, "Being proud of your poverty is the same as being proud of your wealth." As this radical Jesus movement makes its way across the eyes and ears of the younger generations and my own, we have to be so careful to not turn this into a product. We have a tendency of doing that. We take something rich in depth and turn it into a formula for success - whether with people or financial security. It's sort of like social networking - the way socializing used to be, and the way it is now with Facebook and Myspace.

Dear brothers and sisters, let us find the simplicity of our hearts. Let us seek Communion with God and may we see it as a privilege to identify ourselves with Christ and the poor.

Josh is a Mississippi boy who now lives in Portland, Oregon. He is currently on his way to marrying his fiance, Hannah, who both met serving with Word Made Flesh in Calcutta, India. His interests include: books, gardens, racial reconciliation, southern cuisine, coffee and birds. Josh is also an aspiring writer, barista-extraordinaire and world renown southern chef.

Unanswered Questions

Wed, 4 Mar 2009 00:00:00 GMT

I am assembling a TV cart with a pile of assorted pieces surrounding me. My frown is deep as I study the instructions, but it's coming along swimmingly, really. "How are you so good at this?" She picks her way through the pile of parts, glancing at me as she asks.

My gaze doesn't waver from the instructions, but I change gears for a minute. "Even when I was married, I had no one to help me with stuff like this. It just made more sense to learn how to do it well."

From the corner of my eye I see her shaking her head. "How long were you married?" Her tone completes her unspoken disdain.

"Oh, about fourteen years." I can never remember the exact number and I'm too busy to do the mental math. I grunt, pushing two interlocking pieces together and trying not to smash my thumb again in the bargain.

"Why in the world did you stay so long?"

I pause, remembering instantly a multitude of good times, grateful that all the yuck in the decade between now and then has not destroyed every memory. A massive tumble of questions of shared blame bounce at electron speed through my head, and I consider how different the world looks to me now than it did back then. I filter the sharing level to fit the situation, and leave it at simply, "I have this thing about commitment."

"Your religion." The words tie everything I'm about into a tiny package, and toss it into the garbage. And then she moves on to her next task, the conversation apparently forgotten as quickly as it has begun.

My religion. It's funny, but my faith had very little to do with my actual life back in that horrific passage that was my divorce. My staying had nothing to do with obedience to God and everything to do with keeping my promises and finishing what I started. I wanted to prove those who had said it was a bad idea from the start were wrong. I wanted to be a Good Person, strong and capable. I wanted my kids raised in an intact home. I wanted to save my husband from his own demons.

I certainly didn't ask God whether I should stay or go.

After all, I had started the marriage in passive aggressive defiance toward God, trying to force His hand into blessing me because wedding vows had been said in His name.

After all, God and I both knew the multitude of ways my thought life and actions didn't line up with His instructions.

After all, maybe if I asked Him, He'd say, "I'm not going to fix the relationship, and it's never going to get better, and I want you to stay anyway."

So I didn't ask. My staying wasn't about my religion, any more than my leaving was.

We lived in a house without air conditioning, and in the heat of the summer on occasional desperate nights in the throes of the worst of it, I got in my car and drove to the country, finding a place where no one would hear me through the open windows. Parking my car in the ditch along the gravel road, I turned it off and wailed, screaming at God and begging Him not to let this happen to me.

My religion lived mostly inside of Sunday mornings, other than those scenes in my car and the occasional guilt-laden prayer. It didn't fix anything. And it left me grasping clumsily for words when in the midst of leaving, he asked me wasn't I "one of those Christians" and shouldn't I be forgiving him rather than backing away.

My religion was murdered during that passage of my life. It was a long, slow, choking, ungraceful and unlovely death. When it finally died, what remained was me, defenseless and desperate before the God with whom I'd played games.

At last, I was broken enough to know my need for more than Sunday school Jesus. Separated from my strength and self-sufficiency, I finally began to really see Him, and really fall in love.

My religion. How do I tell the story of who I was, and who I am, and how different the two really are? How can I give her a glimpse of the One who gave everything for me? How can I make her understand why I so gladly "waste my life" for Him?

I sigh as the pieces snap together, smashing my thumb one more time.

Maybe I'll find the words tomorrow.

Simplicity and Simpleness

Wed, 18 Feb 2009 00:00:00 GMT

Tonight I listened to an interview on the radio with former president of Botswana Festus Mogae. He has won numerous awards for excellence and leadership, served on national and international financial organizations, and instituted reforms that made Botswana one the most prosperous and least corrupt nations on the conflict-ridden continent of Africa.

It wasn't very long ago that his country was in the top 25 nations worldwide in poverty. AIDS has ravaged the country and refugees from neighboring Zimbabwe have exacerbated the unemployment problem. Yet the discovery of marketable raw materials and wise leadership have led to an amazing turnaround, so that it leads the world in the increase of per capita income. The government offers free health care and education to all of its citizens, including AIDS medication and the care of orphans. Not content to merely treat AIDS, he has initiated programs to deal with the root causes of HIV infection in his countrythe mutual sharing of sexual partners and rampant alcohol abuse.

It was an amazing story from a wise and humble man who put his country first and sought to forge a new era in Botswana's history. It made me long for an American politician who works consistently for justice, peace, and mercy. Inevitably it made me think of two verses from Scripture that I wish we took more seriously as Christians.

The first is from Matthew 10:16 where Christ urges his disciples, in the midst of wolves, to be as wise as serpents and as gentle as doves. Another passage was that of the unjust steward whom Jesus praised, despite his imperfections, as being wiser in his dealing than the children of the light. In both passages a connection is made between wisdom and dealing well with the responsibilities entrusted them.

As Christians who want to re-imagine culture we have to consider what it means to be leaders in this transformation. Some of us have been called to be Shane Claibornes, others to serve as missionairies, and quite a few to be justice-minded soccer moms. But there is an equally important need for some of us to take up the heavy mantle of wise Christian leadership. Too long we have let the secularists have culture while we retreated into our enclaves of Christian subculture, attempting to save the world through catchy t-shirts for Jesus and mosh-pits of faith and brotherhood.

I have only recently come to terms with what Paul intended when he admonished us to grow up and put away childish things. This is a real battle, something that we who love social justice know very well. The world is infused with and distorted by evil and it is our job to fight it, for only we understand that the problem is not simply lack of education or any number of "'isms" but is a battle with the Prince of this world. We have a hope, that when we as an army assault the gates of Hell, it cannot stand. We have the power to change the world.

Justice is not merely something that is dispensed from Washington or implemented in the inner city. It can be exhibited by the Fortune 500 company that decides to raise the wages of its army of developing world workers above mere subsistence. It may be shown by the college president who makes sure that all people are treated with respect on the campus (even the Christians!). And it can be exhibited by the local politicians, lawyers, and judges who are the functional arbiters of justice within our communities.

I pray that this call will stir some to be courageous and strong, diligent to study and think deeply on the universe-transforming aspect of the Gospel, the good news that Jesus Christ has risen and is victorious over death, and that He sits enthroned over the whole of creation, longing to exercise His power on our behalf in the redemption of the world. I pray that we would cast off simpleness of mind and instead live simply-but-wise in a world full of ravenous wolves. I pray that we would be as wise as former President Festus Mogae, a child of the world who is an example to the children of the light.

Tom is an avid Cubs fan whose most recent laudable achievement was singing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" dressed as Harry Carey at the local minor league baseball game.

The Responsibility to Care

Wed, 11 Feb 2009 00:00:00 GMT

"Most of these kids were adopted out into homes that then eventually gave them up so there is a lot of hurt and pain."

I sat in the car nodding my head and listening intently to the woman explaining where she was taking me.

I was traveling with CTI Music Ministries as a musician, and we were performing that day at a boys and girls camp/school for troubled and orphaned kids. I was shocked to hear of the majority of their situations. The woman talked for a while longer about how she had come to work at the school and the work they did there. Basically they took unwanted children and gave them a place to call home, an education but most of all a hope for the future.

We pulled up onto the campus and I went to meet the rest of my team. We set up for a concert, sound checked and tried to prepare ourselves for the kids we were about to minister to. They started to trickle in and then in a matter of minutes we were encompassed by kids. Laughing, sitting silently, arms folded, hugging, eyeing us with wariness.

At that moment I was scared. I was scared because, up until this point I had never meant these children before, so I had an excuse for not caring. I didn't want to care. I didn't want to see their plight or the pain in their eyes. I didn't want to acknowledge the awful things that happened in their lives. I knew I couldn't make a difference in one song I sang or played, so why bother?

I went into my year with CTI with a large dose of optimism and an even larger dose of naivete. I wanted to touch people's lives. I wanted to impact their hearts for Christ. So why, when face to face with a situation that called for both of those passions, was I rethinking my availability.

A lot of times, Christians, in order to disguise the fact that they're too scared to make a difference, will say things like, "Oh yeah, kids aren't really my thing so I don't really want to invest in this ministry," or, "Yeah my heart is for America, so I don't get involved with foreign missions." God knows I have done this many many times.

I'm not going to lie and say that my heart was filled with warm "mushy gushies" or that I was the best example of Jesus to those children. I will, however, confess that I struggle with caring. I have a hard time investing. Yeah, I'm full of big speeches about making a difference and loving on people, but I fail constantly.

Those kids were quite the group - lively, talkative, sweet. I'm so privileged to have met them. I'm also yoked with a responsibility to never forget them, to tell their stories over and over, to help the plight of orphans, but most of all to care.

If you liked this article, check out: When Orphans Worship

Vanita has just finished a year of touring and serving with CTI Music Ministries. She has a heart dedicated to loving and creating music, traveling, and the pursuit of whatever God may have in store for her.

The North Side: Looking Beyond Appearance

Wed, 4 Feb 2009 00:00:00 GMT

During the fall, I worked on a congressional campaign in Alabama. From the beginning, I was cautioned not to go to the north side of the city.

It was the low-income, predominately black area of the city. Though I understood that demographically, the black communities had a history of voting a certain way, I had an inclination that it needed to be reached. After all, they were people too. Didn't we want to reach everyone?

It's useless. A waste of time. Dangerous. Forget it. But the desire persisted.

After I'd finished organizing people to hit the major upper-class, predominately white communities, the north, lower income communities, still remained unreached. As a result, I called up a friend and had her pick me up. I told her there was a precinct that needed campaigning. The two of us together could probably finish it in an afternoon.

Emily drove up to headquarters, I climbed into her silver Mini Cooper, and we whipped out of the parking lot, headed for the north side. I didn't tell anyone where I was going. I was following a gut feeling. Someone needed to go there.

We were two white girls in a Cooper-I think Emily was even wearing heels. We felt as if we were about to cross the boarder into East Germany. We were giddy with the excitement of going where no conservative had ever gone before. If the campaign could be won, it would be won by our efforts.

Somehow it felt darker on that side of the city. Maybe it was just the dismal landscape. The bricks on the houses were crumbling; the driveways were overgrown; trash was a common decoration in practically every yard. But the scenery only added to the adventure.

Then the fun began, as well as a very enlightening experience for both of us. We went from house to house, enjoying every moment of persuading people that our candidate was worth the vote. Yes, we received our share of catcalls.

And only once, when a car drove slowly by and the male driver and passenger took the liberty of checking us out, did I feel like death by drive-by was imminent.

Even so, we made a very interesting discovery.

Similar to every other door-to-door experience I'd had, we had our share of people cuss us out, slam the door in our face, or tell us to get lost. But there were also a good number of people who joined us on their disintegrating front porches and talk to us like we were their neighbors or old friends.

As the hours passed, we found we had forgotten what part of the city we were in. It was just another neighborhood; just another house; just another person and any initial fears subsided completely. When I arrived back at the campaign headquarters and the rest of the staff discovered where I had gone, I was assailed with accusations that I was nave, stupid, and that I had wasted my time.

From the demographic survey, that may have been true. Perhaps it had been a waste of time. But, I argued, in a close race when every vote counts, maybe it would have been better to not overlook a community simply because it's predominately black.

The argument continued and my fellow coworkers' disdain for the black communities surprised and saddened me. After we ceased to arrive at a conclusion, we put a lid on our views and talked of other things.

Later, when our candidate lost the race, I wondered if, in these changing times, it would have been beneficial for the campaign to spend some time laying aside historical prejudices; bridging age-old gaps and entering long avoided territories. Or at least, it might have been an adventure.

If you liked this article, check out: Repairing Broken Trust

Katherine is a freelance writer and blogger. She loves to go on random adventures and work odd jobs, if only to have something to write about. When she's not adventuring, she is playing sister to her girlfriends, guyfriends, and five younger siblings. Katherine lives in Alabama with her family.

Perusings of a Recovering Hope Killer

Wed, 28 Jan 2009 00:00:00 GMT

"I have no fear of drowning. It's the breathing that's taking all this work..."
-Jars of Clay, "Work"

Yesterday morning, a respected elected official in my town killed himself.

This morning, I sobbed myself sick driving to work as I prayed for his family and our community. The sky was gray, and my windshield coated with the grimy film of too many rounds of defrost cycles. The roads I traveled were lined with the filthy snow of January in Illinois, and the happy people laughing on my radio station were in jangling discord with the reality of my day.

I didn't know him well, but our kids went to school together...and once upon a time we belonged to the same church...and my office coordinated with his on election issues. Our lives touched just enough that I knew his name, his face, and his voice. Still I find myself reeling.

One of my very strong gifts is empathy. Unlike sympathy, which is basically feeling sorry for someone, empathy is feeling some part of their pain along with them. God awakened this gift in me along about the time I got serious about praying for others...it's not hard to pray for almost anyone from the place of empathy.

He leaves behind a wife and three kids. Peering into the landscape that surely surrounds them, I stood once again in moments of my life when something both Horrible and Irrevocable has occurred, and I remembered how time completely stops and reality becomes the most unreal thing of all. It left me crying out for comfort for them, knowing there must surely be so very little of that within reach right now. The world through that lens seemed an unbearably harsh place, bordering on uninhabitable.

Despite how badly I did not want to go there, inside my mind I stood beside him in his last moments, and though I don't know what drove him there, the force of something strong enough to rob a 61 year old man of his most basic resources is something I can grasp just enough that it makes my knees knock and leaves something inside me screaming in horror. No part of me condemns him...I just want to grab his hand and rip him out of that moment, back from the edge of no return.

Hopelessness. Is there anything more frightening?

If we who are in Christ have hope only in this life and that is all, then we are of all people most miserable and to be pitied.
1 Corinthians 15:19

I don't know where people without faith turn for comfort in these situations, where nothing can be understood or explained to any satisfaction. My comfort this morning was this: I am in this world, but not of this world. I am an alien, a stranger, an ambassador with a message, but this place is not my home. If there is any other comfort to be had, it is well beyond my view and far out of my grasp. At times like this I feel the "other-ness" of who I am acutely, and it gives me a small sliver of something to hold on to - just enough to get me through the day.

The hope I hold onto for him, and for his family, is that perhaps they too are aliens. I know they did church - I hope and pray with all my might that he had found his Savior before he went on, and that his family already knows the only One truly worth clinging to.

Driving home from work there were more tears, and I considered how readily we all too often conspire to stifle, squash, and even murder hope. It's so easy to expect the worst, to presume every negative possibility, to speculate pointlessly on every item that can go wrong. Grieving over the end result of hope successfully eliminated in one life, I am convicted of every hope-killing tendency in me, and determined to hunt each one down and cut it off. I can't do it alone, but I know Someone who will go along the journey with me, and do all the things I cannot.

Hope. It's a matter of life and death. The only true Hope far surpasses this bleak, gray, cold world...but you and I can either nurture or sever the tendrils that sprout from every person, reaching for that Hope.

What will we do?

What I Pray For You

Wed, 21 Jan 2009 00:00:00 GMT

You asked me once what I pray for you. I was busy, buried under the mountain that the "to do" list had become, working every minute I was awake and functioning on only a few hours' sleep most nights, and said I'd tell you more later when I got dug out a bit.

But that was only partly true. I really was quite swamped, but that might not have been the whole reason I didn't talk it through with you. After all, regardless of how much time I don't have, praying for you is a priority in my life.

It's just that some places are so intimate that they won't fit inside of words. The gap where I stand, pleading on your behalf with the One Who loves you even more than I do (something I can scarcely fathom), is one of those places. When I am asked about that place, I tend to give light answers like "I pray lots of good stuff for you." It's an easy truth, intended to deflect further questioning and change the subject.

But you asked, and the truth is that what I do on your behalf in prayer is not some sort of voodoo hocus pocus magic witchcraft thing. So it need not be held in secret - the beauty of truth is that it does not require the cover of darkness. You want to know how I pray for you? You got it.

It always starts with gratitude. The fact that He loved me enough to give me you to love...it perpetually astonishes me. How can it be so? I didn't earn this gift. If we were to get right down to what I have earned, I'd be alone in some bleak and dismal room. But He loves so much better than our perceived worth. So as I come carrying this gift that is you close to my heart, I am undone. Yeah, I pretty much always start with shocked and happy tears.

And then there is this little mutual celebration time. Holy Spirit and I...we just look at you together and say to one another how beautiful you are. We talk about things you've said and done. We never get tired of talking to each other about how great you are. We wish together that you could see yourself as we see you. There would be so much freedom in it for you. This is an important part of what heaven will be: finally, you will see yourself as He does. Oh, I can hardly wait for that!

And this conversation...it's not like 2 clueless and distant relatives who don't know the half of your story and think you are better behaved than you really are. I mean, we see you in the whole (obviously He sees MUCH more clearly than I do). We see your struggles and your falling down, but in this place, those don't diminish you at all. In this place, struggles and falling down are not obstacles to the view of this truth: you are made in His image. You are infinitely more wonderful than you begin to imagine.

The fact that I get a peek at this makes me feel like His Very Favorite Person. And the truth is, He is especially fond of me. And the truth is equally, He is especially fond of you.

A miracle in the midst of this conversation is that He teaches me much about the way He loves me, as He loves you through me. It's been very hard for me to understand or believe in love that never wavers, no matter how much I screw up. I know you understand what I am saying there...it's part of our common ground. I wouldn't dare to imagine the magnitude of His love for me, except that He gives me a view to it in my relationship with you. Even when you've hurled your very worst at me, it hasn't diminished my love for you or my view of you by even the tiniest bit. If that's true about my love for you, it's immensely more true about His love for both of us.

But enough about me.

Some of the other things I pray along the way for you:

*I thank Him that He finishes what He starts. He has started an amazing work in you. You are not where you were when it started...nor where you'll be in its completion. This is very good, and is a great comfort to me when circumstances might tempt me to believe the process has been abandoned. He is working in you and through you and He'll Never Quit. Period.

*I thank Him that what others might have meant for evil, He is working for good in your life. You've been lied to and lied about. You've been blamed for much that isn't yours to carry...sometimes that blame came from others, and sometimes you've simply blamed yourself. Your actions and intentions have been misunderstood and maligned by some who should have given you the benefit of the doubt. You have been abandoned by family and friends for reasons that had nothing to do with you and everything to do with their own demons. You have been seduced into self-destructive choices. All of these things and so much more could be used by an enemy to destroy you. I kneel at the Father's feet, rejoicing that He can use every one of these things for good in your life, despite what the Great Liar tries to tell you every day.

*I thank Him for things that I see in/for you. Some of those are now; some are yet to come. Still, they are. These include (and I'm surely not remembering every one of them while I put them on the page):

*That you are blessed as only His children can be. That you hear and follow His voice, so you are blessed when you come and when you go. Blessed in your family, in your property, and in your finances. Blessed in your body. Blessed wherever you go. Blessed in the face of your enemies.
*That you hunger and thirst after truth and righteousness.
*That you know and understand His Word. That you can never get enough of it. That you continue searching out and finding the truth in it about who He is and who you are in Him.
*That you are both bold and gentle in speaking His truth.
*That you walk in the fullness of His plan for you...this means that you don't miss the good stuff!
*That you are His voice to people who would never approach "the church."
*That you lay down the things you hold that are hurting you, stealing from you, and killing you, and know true freedom.
*That you find the "secret place" that is intimacy with Him, and you are ruined for anything less.
*That He gives you favor with people and access to the places He most desires you to go.

*And of course I pray for those surrounding you. Their touch on your life demands it. Your touch on their lives requires it. Praying for you inherently ripples outward. This is part of God's economy, which is too deep a thing for me to explain.

How do I pray for you? Well, that's the part that words can capture. There's more to it, but sometimes, you just have to be there, you know? I spend a lot of time there - I prayed for you when I woke in the night, when I woke in the morning, and throughout my day I'll pray for you again, as I tackle that "to do" list.

My life might look ordinary. But from an inside view, it's anything but. The time I've spent in prayer for you...it's an incredible item on the list of reasons that I am forever wrecked for the ordinary.

Book Review: A Beautiful Fall by Chris Coppernoll

Wed, 14 Jan 2009 00:00:00 GMT

Even though we live in an age of feminism and equality (and I'm no exception: I remember bristling with indignation when boys in college seemed put off by my ambition, instead preferring girls who were more or less paying tuition for their "MRS" degrees), I have to admit that a large piece of my heart is undeniably romantic.

It seems to be part of the female wiring to long for love and family, even as we simultaneously strive after a purposeful career. What they don't tell you in college is that, while you can be anything you want to be, you can't be everything you want to be. Something's gotta give.

I find myself caught in this dilemma now, being 26, single, and in medical school with grandiose dreams for my future practice, but still hoping that "someday my Prince will come" - and won't mind not being the center of my world. I was thus attracted to Chris Coppernoll's second novel, A Beautiful Fall as an allegory for my own story.

The tale follows Emma Madison, who left her home in small-town Juneberry, South Carolina twelve years prior in order to pursue her law career in Boston - and never looked back.

She's suddenly called home again when her father suffers a heart attack. She intends to stay for only a weekend, but she puts off her return when she runs into the friends she left behind, who always wondered why she had disappeared so suddenly and so completely, and revisits her old flame, Michael Evans.

With her company pressuring her for a speedy return to Boston and her promising career, Emma is caught between two worlds: the fast-paced life she chose, complete with a wealthy, eligible, and successful suitor, and the small town full of those she grew up with, and the man who has always loved her.

Not surprisingly, Emma discovers what most of us already know, but often forget: that success in the eyes of the world amounts to very little, in the absence of love. As 1 Corinthians has it, "If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing" (13:2).

The story is an entertaining, light read with recognizable characters and a satisfying ending. It affirms biblical values, and instills hope in the career-driven, the heartbroken, and the idealists among us, that perhaps God has a plan for our love lives, after all, if we'd just quit fighting it.

If you liked this article, check out From Soul2Soul to Providence: Interview with Chris Coppernoll.

You might also want to check out Chris Coppernoll's first novel Providence: Once Upon a Second Chance.

Lauren holds a biochemistry degree from the University of Arizona, and she is currently studying naturopathic medicine in Tempe, Arizona. She also has a background in the arts, particularly theater and creative writing, and she hopes that (sometime prior to graduation) she will eventually stumble upon the perfect integration of her seemingly disparate interests.

New Year's Confession: My Addiction to Anxiety

Wed, 7 Jan 2009 00:00:00 GMT

As the new year comes upon us, many will be going through the age-old exercise of deciding on resolutions to better ourselves somehow. By now we've all heard the traditional stable of references to dieting, education, finances, or banishing bad habits. These will continue to be revisited each year, hopefully with increasing success. My list will probably include aspects of these things, in addition to one thing I haven't heard mentioned before: dealing with addiction to anxiety.

Revelation of this addiction started earlier this year when a health problem began to rear its ugly head. What I specifically have is not important to the discussion, but after several doctor visits and a surgery I now know what was plaguing me. While anxiety, stress and worry do not directly cause my health issue, they do exacerbate the problem and make it much less manageable. In other words, now that I have this problem the more I worry, the worse it gets.

Getting to the point of admission about my addiction was not an easy road. I'm pretty laid-back, I thought, easy-going. I sure let a lot slide, and I don't indulge my perfectionist side so much anymore. But as I prayed through the diagnosis of my health concern, asking God to reveal what I'm to learn through this, the Holy Spirit began to make it crystal-clear: I was not taking every thought captive and making it obedient to Christ.

I'd heard the verse long ago, 2 Corinthians 10:5, and a good friend had reminded me of it every so often, but I have to admit it's something that I easily glossed over in my Bible reading, didn't take it very seriously. Which now is a glaring indication of my problem, not controlling my thoughts. I suppose I thought it was something I'd deal with later, and now here I am, a longtime Christian with the thought control of a child. Not good.

What exactly is an "addiction to anxiety"? For me, it manifests by playing out every possible scenario of a future situation. Or it may be imagining a situation that may never even happen. Simply, it's considering worst-case situation of everything that I encounteror might encounter. Twinge in my arm? Probably cancer. Finances low this month? It might be lower next month. Friend going on vacation? They might die in a freak accident. Any future thing? Gotta think through now how I'd deal with it then.

My childhood took place in a high-drama, unstable environment. Details aside, suffice to say that you never knew when the next blow-up was about to happen or for what I was going to be accused, reasonably or otherwise. There were a lot of rules, yet they were always being conveniently changed without notification. Looking back, I'm surprised my adrenal glands weren't shot from the constant tension by the time I was 18.

Getting out of the house made a considerable difference, but I now had to contend with the responsibilities of the world. When I worked my office job back in the States, the environment was naturally chaotic and unbalanced, so I just blamed my anxiety on that. As I left the job to go into the mission field, I remember thinking that I wouldn't be as stressed anymore. Of course there would be problems to face in my new endeavour, but the mission ministry was someplace I wanted to be, and the job was not my calling. While the job stress definitely went away, my mind started finding other things in our new environment to be stressed about. Being in a new country came with a huge amount of possible things to go awry. I could go on and on about specific scenarios, but that's not the point.

And my point? I really wasn't trusting God with all of my life. Sure, I was taking a big leap of faith to come to Western Europe depending on fundraised income and having to figure a new culture out. And I trusted that God had brought me here for this. But it became evident that I didn't believe I would have the future strength to face a new challenge, change, or disappointment, so I would put an awful amount of thought-time towards how I might deal with a bad situation. I forgot to be anxious for nothing (Philipians 4:6) and that His grace is sufficient for me, His power made perfect in weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9).

WIthout the reality check brought by my health issue, I was just replacing anxiety with anxiety, worrying over a new thing once another was resolved. It was similar to how an addicted person sometimes moves from one specific addiction to the next: give up smoking, turn to food. In my case, I had a short-term memory about all the times God had richly protected or provided or even gave me supernatural strength through some of the most difficult times in my past. Yeah, He came through this time and it all worked out, but what about tomorrow? Don't worry about it, Jesus says (Matthew 6:34). Easier said than done, but definitely worth doing.

The good news is that I've already started working on my new year's resolution last month. It's taken time to retrain an out-of-control mind that wandered from calamity to calamity, and I still fall down a lot. But people around me are starting to notice an outward difference, even those that don't know my secret addiction. "You look healthier," or "you're outlook seems so much better" they've said. Recovering from a lifelong stronghold of worry, I'm taking more and more of my thoughts captive to Christ.

C. Holland is a full-time missionary to Western Europe since 2007 and a regular contributor to Missionary Confidential, a blog detailing the unvarnished highs and lows of the missionary life. You can find it at www.MissionaryConfidential.com.