Letters to my Husband

I had a tiny precious box; a precious box of human love – my spikenard of great price. I kept it close within my heart of hearts, and scarce would lift the lid lest it should waste its perfume on the air. One day, a strange Deep Sorrow came with crushing weight, and fell upon my costly treasure, sweet and rare, and broke my box to atoms. All my heart rose in dismay and sorrow at this waste, but as I mourned, behold, a miracle of Grace Divine. My human love was changed to Heaven’s own, and poured in healing streams on other broken hearts; while soft and clear, a voice above me whispered. “Child of Mine, with comfort wherewith thou are comforted, from this time forth, go comfort others and thou shall know blest fellowship with Me, whose broken heart of Love has healed the world”.

This time of sabbatical has really put into perspective how true the above quote has been in my life. The human love versus the God love thing. I don’t love well. I try, certainly, but I fall short so often. And inevitably, I find part of my inability to love others has a lot to do with where I am on the grand scheme with God. I took time off simply because I recognized that one of the things that scares me the most about the idea of being married is that I know what I look like on the inside, and I’m afraid of exposing another person to that – on a permanent basis. I was talking with my dad about this – he seemed shocked to find me so unfamiliar with grace. I live, often, in a works based relationship with my God and that is not what He offers. Anyway, I’ve been doing a lot of soul searching. Looking at the yo-yo between love for God and indifference. I hate that I so often place His ministry before Him. But here I was, in the middle of an engagement, freaking out again over stuff that doesn’t matter; when God gently reminded me that part of the problem was that I was not LIVING in relationship with Him. I knew this. And I put off dealing with it, being too busy to do anything important…. But I DO fall apart without Him, and so I needed a bit of R&R (repentance and renewal, though rest and relaxation often stem from that). I’ve been doing a lot of reading and meditation. Praying for gratefulness, a thankful spirit, and real love.

I got to marry the boy that has been my best friend for eleven years. The boy who was crazy enough to ride in the boot of my Geo Spectrum so that everyone in our little group could go into town for the weekend (it’s a 45 minute drive from Comfort to San Antonio). The boy who sold his new truck (only five months old) so that we wouldn’t have to live in debt. The boy who told his boss he was going to ask me to marry him, knowing that he might lose his job, and his ability to stay in this country. The boy who listened when I poured out my sorrows over the beach trip this year (family demand and disrespect of our belief) and DID NOT try to fix it. The boy who seeks after God and hungers to leave himself open to whatever God wants to do in his life regardless of the cost. The boy who is English and loves America. The boy who sat across a log from me once by a stream (skipping rocks), who kind of just stayed with me.

I forgot to be thankful. And now I’m remembering.

I don’t know when it started. Well, yes, perhaps I do. Somewhere in the swirls of eternity. In my human perception I remember little moments, conversations by the Guadalupe, Robin Hood, and movies at staff houses. Long walks and geese in Kew Gardens. Shows in the West End, and the same kids every summer growing up in front of our eyes, becoming adults while we fought against it. Interestingly enough, I don’t remember the moment I first met you. I do, however, remember the moment I first laid eyes on you. When I really saw you.

In the summer before I left the UK, after years of grasshoppers, camp outs, and visits during Thanksgiving Conference, Julie and I met at the Hill for the weekend. We had come to see each other off, as we journeyed to the far corners of the earth. It was your last summer at the Hill as program director. You were having a tough time of it, but you were unbelievably resilient. You were in a re-examination phase, it was hard to watch (as your friend), and yet so beautiful to sit back and see God grow in you. Somewhere in those moments, I thought, “Father, can I be with someone like him?”

I left for your homeland and it became my own. I was a refuge for you from family in a crazy metropolitan capitol … an opportunity for you to get away and hang out with an old friend. We sat under a weeping willow tree and watched your nieces on camera. We took them to the Natural History Museum. Unbeknownst to us, I was quickly becoming a part of your family. And when I finally woke up to what was happening, I couldn’t tell you. After all, you were my best friend. And Friends don’t Like each other.

Amsterdam was a milestone. You became indispensable.

I came back to the United States, changed for life, and ready to flee back to the comfort of Asia. You convinced me to stay. At least, the unknown in our relationship kept me from leaving things unfinished. I knew there was more to you than you believed. I promised to visit you in the mountains, knowing I wouldn’t want to leave your side. I thought you had no idea, but I was wrong. From that moment, one October, you have continued to surprise me with your timing. Some have said that we moved quickly. I think that we have been growing for over ten years. We have suffered with the pain of long distance and laughed at the joy of renewal. We have become a we and are still becoming one.

Here, in the space of this moment there are a few things I wanted to tell you.

You are still my best friend. I’m glad that never changed. You see the things I cannot express, even if it takes you a while to understand what you’re seeing. I am proud of the man you have become and are becoming. You are the greatest encouragement in my life, simply by being present. You are an integral part of the person I have grown to be – I am not me without you.

I am forever thankful that my Father answered my prayer, not with someone LIKE you, but with YOU.

A Harsh Letter's Repsonse

My best friend told me yesterday that this journal makes her angry. She reads it, and sees in it an adulterer and an idolater. Perhaps I have not made myself clear. Perhaps she does not really know me. Perhaps there are strains of rightness in her conclusion.

She sent a letter, out of love, explaining her frustration at my wandering thoughts. At first, I struggled with her harshness – one day, when you’re married, we can talk…. And perhaps you should read ALL my words before casting judgment…

Yet I knew in my heart that my words could easily be misunderstood, and so I returned to her one word. “Thanks”. I suppose she could read that with sarcasm – it depends on how well she really knows the soul within this flesh.

There are a few things that I know. We are all idolaters. We are all Adulterers. We all place people and things above the God we claim to love. I sat, staring at the screen, and asked my Father whether she was right. Then, I called my husband, asked him to read the letter, and calmly requested the truth. “Is she right?” We talked for a long time – and we understand one another.

I am not quite two years into being married. I walked the aisle five days before my 29^th birthday. In my first two decades, I traveled the world, fell in love with God and his heart for the people, and was strongly committed to a life of service to the millions. I have now been called to love just one first and foremost. I cannot say it has not been a transition. But I also cannot say I do not love my husband more than life itself. We are still trying to figure out what it looks like for “you” and “me” to be “us”. We are growing. Everyday, we understand a little more about the circles of love that move in and out of individual and whole.

There are days when it is hard to be in America. It has been something that I have wrestled with for two years. I have never been good at goodbye. Grief has to be allowed in order for one to process through it – only recently have I been able to be honest about the pain, and I am waking up to joy. I am figuring out that I would give it all up again to be with Mark. It does not lessen the feeling that this change has been hard to swallow. I am not perfect. Marriage is not about waking up and knowing what it looks like to submit yourself fully to another person. And I have always been extremely stubborn and strong.

So perhaps she is right. But not in the way she thinks.

I have submitted myself to things other than God and my husband. Right before she wrote the letter, another incredible man in my life noted that there was an absence of my husband in my journals. He said that he understood Mark was not physically there with us, but he also felt that he was not ‘there’ with me. I understood what he was trying to say, because that is EXACTLY what I had been struggling with in London. It was not that I felt single, unmarried. It was that I incredibly aware that, as I led the team, Mark was not a part of that area in my life. It was devastating. Mostly because I could not decide, in that moment, how to extend my love in both places. I am reminded again that there are different shades of love, and I can love both my husband and my people equally yet differently.

I have often chosen to DO for God, and it slowly replaces my BEING with Him. On the other hand, I also love by serving, and in the purest sense of the word, ‘doing’ often expresses an obedience that I cannot speak. The line between the two is fine, and I recognize that I cross it all too often.

I know that I do not really understand what life looks like for women who live in Purdah. I do not presume that my struggle is anything like the nightmare that they live through. It was a metaphor for feelings that I really did not understand, and could not put into words. The dust settles over my heart all too often. I am not great at love, but I am learning. I am not a good friend, but still I try. My life is busier than I would like it, so I am choosing to spend my mornings in quiet.

I am still attempting to figure out what I look like here in this place, now that “I” encompasses two souls intertwined. I fail a lot. But, sometimes, I succeed. And in those moments, I discover that I have a greater thing than I could have ever imagined.

I responded with thanks, because I meant it. A good friend will tell you when they think you're being stupid. One day, though, when she is married and wrestling to find/define herself in her new context, I think she and I will revisit these pages and smile.

Cuimhnich có leis a tha thu

Those few who ventured here found in the wide, cold, windy spaces a correspondent
melody from within their own souls.  In the whispering of lonely winds through the
rocky clefts and in the eerie wail of gulls along high jagged coastlines, the sounds
of desolation gave rise to a solitary joy of personhood unknown to those content to
bask in the warmth of plenty ...  From out of the barren bleakness of wide grey
moors came a silent, answering sense of home into the breast of those who felt the
call of the north.  It was a call not heard by the many.


The air was blue today.  The wind quiet and somehow mournful in its beauty, and I
found that I am most at home in my soul under a grey sky.  It was a gift – My Father
knew I needed the space between and ministered to my heart with foggy seclusion. 
I have been reading a historical work on the history of the Scots.  I think I’m
beginning to understand some of the nuances in my spirit that make me what I am. 
There is a dark part of my soul – a part that few understand and that I have a hard
time explaining to others – perhaps because out of that quiet yet vibrant place
springs hope and fulfillment, and joy.  It would seem that these things do not go
together, except that they do. 


As I have been reading the history of my ancestors, I am slowly awakening to this
paradox.  This passionate light and darkness.  This extreme love.  This benevolent
fire that runs through my veins. This love for the motherland that sometimes
overshadows the love for the land of my birth.  We are a people of the highlands. 
I’ve heard it before, but somehow I did not understand.  I have been reading the
legend of the Stone of Scone. 

It is not that they have claimed the land; it is that somehow the land has been
molded into their character.  The harsher climate, the solitude, the deep grey
expanse of the water, and the hazy starkness over everything.  Life is vibrant
and rich.  It lives beneath the cold.  You have to look for it.  And looking deep
for the mystery within life… well that is what we do.


Today I understood my people.  Perhaps I understood myself.  For as I am learning, 
one must “remember the men from whence you came”.  Not so as to live in the past, 
but in order to look with wonder at the future, and all that you bring with you
into it.  Today I learned just a little bit more about the “great cloud of
witnesses”.  I needed the reflective aloneness, yet knew that I was not alone. 
My soul is quieted again.

June Sixteenth

On some occasions, I leave England with a sense of being ok with returning. In January, the four days I had in this place were so full, I could barely think straight, I was returning from Karachi, and I was distracted. I arrived in Colorado to a semester full of students, and at the time, I realized that in ministry, they were a priority. They needed to be. God was beginning to create something real with them that had a huge impact on the rest of the school year. God created this trip, but he had to rebreak my heart for the people in order to do so. This refocused my call to the city and made me realize how incredibly deep that passion goes. I am undefined in Colorado because this world passion defines me. There is work at home no matter where you go, and then there are people who are created for nothing else but to live and die on the field.

My old boss once told me that if I could think of doing anything else, I should. However, she said, if I woke up with the dawn, knowing that the field was the only place I could be… well then.
Loving the millions is the only thing I was made for. I know that now.

I like to believe that I am genuine. I want to be a woman of my word. I am the person God created me to be when I am serving on the field. To do anything else would be an affront to the calling. I am so certain of this that the present eludes me.

On crossing this violent ocean
Last I crossed these waters it was to celebrate death. I come to the end of the journey, make amends with the land of my birth, revisit the ancient monuments that led me to You. I am disquieted. The closer proximity veils my heart with questions - I have become a stranger to my own customs.
The water beneath is dark and still, hiding the hollowed out whispers of things long forgotten. A nation of dreamers - and one of them me. In retracing my steps, I notice the colours beginning to change. Things once familiar seem altered, wide-scale. I watch in wonder.
Yet be my peace when my soul is torn by the distance I stand now from Asia.

June Fourteenth

My uncle Joe died yesterday. As did my adopted Grandmother.
Mandie asked how one can possibly leave one's family behind in times like this. It's part of the calling. Death and life, life and death... they are inextricably connected. Sometimes, you have to say goodbye before you go.

I spent the day with a former teammate, mostly talking about the things girls talk about when they get together. We talked through organizational stuff, shared frustration (women in the ministry, home and family positions, wondering why we fight over the positional aspect of who gets to tell people about Jesus, and why it is that if its an 'actual job' it's given to men). She just doesn't want to fight that battle. It makes sense to me - to walk through the doors where God gives you responsibility and calling, and not to worry about the rest. Our leaders have really struggled in our leaving. The region is constantly changing hands, and we all feel the end of the wand their waving.

In Germany they have to think as a region. Not every country has the make up of the UK. We are told that there will be five major people groups that we can work with here (we must be intentional): There are 750,000 of my people in London who do not know their right hand from their left.
We can, of course, make special requests within the context of the UK, since it is unique in its South and Central Asian make up. Still, that decision feels like the death of something. I called and talked to my old boss for a long time. She is eager to have a good friend back in the city. Most of the women on the team seem starved for adult female companionship. I suppose that I am often in that boat with them. I would move here just to serve them - it seems that serving those who serve has always been my thing.

We went to Southgate College. Most of my old students go there or were once enrolled there. It seems that so much could be done in that place, but the few who are willing to go are decades older than these kids. We picked up the children from school and made our way back to the house. We are good friends, Shauna and I. I wish I had seen it sooner, while I was still here. I could have invested so much more into our relationship with each other. I did not realize how much we have in common, how visionary we both seem to be, and how much she teaches me about how I need to grow. It is not bad to be dependent if you are leaning into God.

We said goodbye to Gwyn last night. We met up to see Mr. & Mrs. Smith, an old past time of watching movies and talking. We went back to her house so that she could give me gifts for my parents. Nana and Abu Granddad. I'd like to take her home with me as a present to them instead. Yet, I can only watch her from a distance. Keep several steps behind her in this walk in order to make sure she's still there. I must entrust her to someone else, and yet the pain of leaving is overwhelming. So encompassing that I feel nothing. What is the ministry? Nothing and everything all at once. So we dock on the shore and sit on the pier and drink tea, and then I set her adrift again to make her own way for a while. This is what I must do lest I hold on so tightly that she cannot grow.

June Thirteenth

Dancing as a conversation.We stood on the boardwalk next to the water, looking out over the harbour toward Dover and Kent. Michael was our student – time to learn how to swing. I find the move is appropriate – life is always about the rock step. It is the offbeat and bizarre that makes the day in and day out enjoyable.

Hands. There is touch, leading, guiding, receiving... moving to the music in our heads. Throw me, spin out, and turn in circles until I fall over. If I have faith that you will not drop me, I will put my trust in you. After a while we traded places. Michael decided it was time for us to learn some Kurdish wedding dances. Fortunately I understand the steps. We all entwined our fingers and followed his feet. Ibrahim Tatlisis swirled in the radio waves around us. We laughed as much as we learned. The kids eventually gave up and we switched to Bobby Valentino and Tiziano Ferro. Perdono. I tried to teach Matt how to dance. Gangsta sway. My knees behind his knees, back and forth, speaking and receiving. David tried to mimic us, later deciding it was more fun to just go crazy.

Michael looked at me – his eyes asking me to dance with him.
Music is the soul. Dancing is the expression thereof.
A conversation between two people – you cannot go half way or reserve yourself lest you be misunderstood. He reels me in, forcing me to share the pain I’ve been living in, to release it within our comfort for each other. Back and forth, up and down, faces at one moment far apart and then close enough to feel his breath on mine. His eyes never left my face. I danced in circles around him. His hand told me the stories of his people, their struggle to survive, his joy and pain at being in a place he cannot leave behind. I understood him. I told him of my love for joy and movement and friendship – for picking back up where we left off. With others, I would close my eyes in that moment, but his soul beckoned me in. I became a part of him today. The only thing to say was thank you.

All relationships must be akin to this dancing. A friend is one who knows the more intimate details and keeps holding on to your arm. I want so desperately to do life in this moment.

He tried to say goodbye to me. We sat in the car, having dropped everyone off, just being for one moment together. He spoke of freedom, the thing Michael always speaks of. He worries for his family should the government deport him. He does not fret for his own life, that is God’s job, but he frets over the hopes and dreams of others. I love that about him. He tried to say goodbye because there are no guarantees. There is nothing keeping him from being sent to his death in the Turkish mountains. It was his way saying “I loved you the most TerriBroughton”. All I wanted was to kiss his cheeks – Beijinhos - as his older sister and tell him that God knew.

I am ashamed. I give hope to others but cannot hold it on my own heart. I was asked how I would do going home. What will I do? How will I learn to call that place home? I will survive. I will do what I always do. I am ashamed because this is exactly what I fear for Michael. That he will make do, but that he will not really live. Neither of us have freedom. I only know that we are looking at each other from the two sides of heaven’s door. I tell him that I am praying, and that no matter what, I believe that God will preserve him and protect his family.
I need to learn to say thank you.
And Goodbye.

June Twelfth

Sunday was more of the same. We walked through Barnet on our way to church, a 24 year old version of myself, muted by the events of the last few days.

Meredith asked me how I was doing. I never have an answer for that question. I cannot express it. It is no longer that I’m not opening up; it is simply that I have no idea who I am here now.
All the major events of my past occurred in this place.

I followed the path to Jesus here. This is the garden where the seed was planted.
I surrendered my life to the ministry in the Neasden Temple.
I gave my heart to missions on the road to Green Street.
Kent and I parted on the platform of Dalston Kingsland.
I met with Mark on the corner of Piccadilly Circus.
I spent my afternoons in Wood Green pouring my life into Turkish and Urdu.
I learned what it means to be relational here. I learned who I was.
I found the girl I thought I’d lost.
Where will she go when we return to the mountains? And how can I answer Meredith’s question?

We left for Watford, hoping to spend some time with Michael for the evening… to follow up on lasting questions. It was time to talk through family life and faith. We did dishes and swing-danced around the kitchen, laughing over attempts at flips. Michael talked more individually to each of us, focusing on Mandie. He is keen to learn more about his religion. He wants to pray five times a day… to be more faithful in his life with God. He wants to learn the Bible. I asked him whether he would ever have the time away from work, in order to really give it the time needed. Work was not the issue for him – it was freedom.

Michael is not free. He is not free to go from this country. He is not free to make his own decisions about the future. He is not free from the bondage of his religious culture. And yet…

There is something there. There is something that reminds me of our Turkish friend Deniz. Her passion, her drive to see her people come to faith. I believe that, like her, God will keep him in this country until he believes, and then he will be gone. There are too many circumstances, too many miracles, to view it any other way.

June Eleventh

There are moments with Michael that transport me back to years ago. The only difference between now and then would be the absence of slurs between English and Turkish. We sat waiting for him to return from the home office asylum registry. He had a hard experience apparently, because he returned in a state of near mourning. He began to speak to us about the treatment he receives from the government officials. I wish that the British were not so seemingly arrogant in their dealings with foreigners. The whole thing makes me sick.

Michael is a man. He is a good man. He works hard. He shares everything. He owns nothing that he would not give away to his family. His brother’s children are his own. His mother’s admonition is nothing short of the voice of God. He longs to know. You can see it in his eyes. We sat at the Café in the early afternoon, somehow lost in conversation, never once breaking eye contact. He spoke into me while the whole world watched. He told me of his belief – The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Everything he has is from God. There is nothing he would ever complain about since he knows that God saw fit to allow each situation in his life.

Each week he goes to sign his life away. Every seven days, he goes to show the British government that has not gone into hiding. He could bury himself in the city, but instead chooses to be a man of integrity. They allow him to stay one more week. He knows that is all he ever has. If they send him away, he loses everything, perhaps even his life… and yet he trusts that God knows. I have never heard him sound so close to Christ and yet so Muslim.

I cannot speak. Father, will you teach Michael to pray to Jesus?

June Eighth

Yesterday we traveled to Wembley to experience the worship of idols. It seems that no one understands the awfulness of that place, the horror I feel at watching men prostrate themselves before monsters. “Why would people worship elephants?” Meredith asks. Both she and Matt felt like they were walking through a museum on the history of Hinduism. Certainly it has this austere atmosphere. There is no talking allowed. The silence perverts the affect of what this place is.

A young woman, not so far removed from myself, stands at the back of the sanctuary. She is bright – in orange and yellow kameez – a sharp but brilliant contrast to her long dark hair and milk white skin. Her daughter, blonde curls and giggles, mimics the men in the hall. Bends her knees, works her way to the floor, tummy and face to the ground. Her mother encourages her beatitude, praising her for giving the gods “the worship they deserve”. I cannot decide whether I am disgusted or heartbroken.

This was the place my soul broke open. This was the door that God used to fling wide open the world of South Asia. I sat on the marble stairs and wept, wondering how I could not spend my years serving these peoples. I lost my heart that day. I never assumed that once it was gone, I would continue to feel the pain. Once, aeons ago, a friend told me that I would love the millions. “Beautiful harvester”. I presumed that giving your heart away would mean that it was gone. I was wrong.

I took the students to the Gudwara in Southall and the second largest mosque in the city. I wish there were words for the fullness in my heart for the people here. We entered the temple separately and made our way up to the worship area. I do not have the same feelings there as I find in the Mandir, yet there is still an emptiness that reverberates through the hall. They read the words of the guru, singsong in their language, only echoed by each soul. The sounds pound off the walls, beating in my ears… praise to a god who cannot hear them.

Here, when the music starts, the people begin to leave. This is a strange contrast to the set up I’m used to. Each individual leaves alone. There are no family groups aside from the father with his daughter to our left. They come together. They leave alone. I do not understand the separation. Grandmothers wander through the crowd, bowls in their hands, passing out blessings. Their gift is food. A doughy mass of sweetness and cardamom, leaving scented oil on your hands, glue on your tongue, and sorrow in your heart. They give their namaste with smiles on their faces. They have no idea. They look for peace but find it eludes them, and they make up for the lack in their human community.


Later.
In the afternoon, we moved to the center of Regent’s Park. The walls in the tube station are lined with cameos of Sherlock Holmes. People do understand that he was a fictional character, right?! The Mosque is one of the largest in this area. It is predominantly attended by Arabs, North Africans, and well, tourists. It is centrally located for the sake of the seeker. It is open to the public under the proviso that women cover their heads, everyone have long sleeves and trousers, and that there be a certain amount of respect and reverence in the decorum. Fortunately, we have been carrying dupattas with us. It was amusing to watch the shock on the Somali guards’ face when we all reached for them – as if covering, for us, was a daily occurrence.

The men worship on the ground floor. An elaborate, but empty room where shoes are left at the door and the imam chants prayers toward Mecca. The woman move through a series of corridors to the balcony. The whole area is covered with woodwork. A lattice framing so that no one may glimpse inside. Some would call it protection. We entered during the afternoon prayers … moving along the wall at the back of the room. There was a line of women, ranging in age from seven to seventy, sitting on their knees in front of the paneling. In unison, they bowed, heads to the floor. Bow, rise up. Bow, rise up. Smaller children cling to their mothers but are unanswered in their cries. The prayers must be finished. As if God would be angered at them for attending to the needs of their children. After several minutes, a young woman comes from the rear to comfort the little girl. She is not allowed to pray today. She is unclean.

I do not understand this. I do not understand a god who blesses a woman with the ability to bear children, but curses her during this part of the cycle. I do not understand the jealousy of a being that requires a mother to ignore her screaming child in order to finish the routine of worship. For that is all it is. A routine.

Prayers are concluded and the women begin to leave. No one looks in our direction. One girl, not more than nineteen, sat bathed in baby blue. You could see she was extraordinarily beautiful. She remained, rocking back and forth, stretching her arms to the sky, beseeching Allah in her silent movements. She was so obviously in need of special answers. She was broken – you could hear it in all she did not say. Was she seeking a husband? Was she childless, unable to bear sons? Where was her search leading her?

I couldn’t bear to watch her any longer. I simply wanted to put my arms around her and pray on her behalf. I had to plead to the only God who will ever truly hear her.

As we left, we were stopped by another sister who wondered if we had questions. Do we have questions?! I asked her about her background. Whether she had grown up Muslim or had converted. Her father was Arab, her mother French. She began to wear her burkah three years previously, but that is apparently only the beginning of the process of discovering Islam. I asked many questions about hijab, respect for and between women, the types of prayers and rituals that go on at the mosque…

The thing is, I could not get past the whole idea of covering as the beginning of salvation. When I asked Jesus into my life, I experienced freedom form sin and an eternal security. My life is then a process of getting to develop my relationship with Him. According to this woman, the beginning of salvation is hijab. The process starts, for her, when she enters the burkah. Live in a sea of black. Cover everything. Do not show yourself. You are not worthy to be seen, lest you cause another to stumble into sin. The progression of choice. I receive freedom. She lives in bondage.

Paul used to be a Christian.
We went downstairs to meet the boys and were invited into the main room. This is a rarity not offered to Muslim women. I find it odd that we would be allowed to enter a room where men worship Allah. I wonder if, in reality, it is only men that truly worship Allah. The guys were sitting crossed-legged on the floor speaking together of faith. David and Paul were deeply engaged in conversation while Matt sat and prayed. One of the older men introduced us and asked if Paul would mind our joining them. As we spoke, I wondered about his history. He never really smiles. Well, I must clarify. He certainly shows his teeth. There was no emotion in his facial expressions. He was content to explain to us his belief but had no heart. I never experience death like I do in this place.

We talked of sin, and the price for its forgiveness. We spoke of the penalty as well as the assurance of heaven. He talked around our questions, never really answering us, and contradicting himself whenever he did. He claimed that the unforgivable sin was to believe that there was anything to worship other than Allah. To believe he has a consort is to believe as an infidel. It is idol worship. In this way, we are put in a place where we can no longer exonerate ourselves. He says he converted from Christianity, yet that means that he once believed that god had a second. He used to believe Jesus was God. If this is truly an unforgivable sin, why even try to follow Islam? He’s already doomed.

I don’t believe in a God who would condemn seekers for eternity. I cannot fathom a Being that would call people to perfection and then give them no hope for eternity. Why would you love someone you could never BE with? His emptiness broke my heart. His words were deep and shallow. He was given to us to convince us, but all he ever did was turn us away. If there had been any shred of emotion or truth in his words, he might have been influential; but there was none, and we left his presence deeply moved by sorrow for his soul.

I stand in hell, holding eternity in my hands… but no one is interested.

June Seventh

I feel like I’m missing me. Perhaps it’s just God that I’m missing.
It is an overwhelming place here. I read the quote above after three days of writing nothing. I am too afraid to feel here. Too afraid to miss the life I had, lest I choose to go back to it. I am petrified of staying where I am. I am horrified at the thought that I will never return here. And so I say nothing.
Anna Nalick once wrote “I feel like I’m naked in front of a crowd, cause these words are my diary screaming out loud”. When I open this book, I expect to find myself. I came on this trip for all the right reasons, to do what everyone says I am supposed to do. I am trying to multiply myself. Everyone says that I am here in the States to give others an opportunity to go. I am always trying to be the person that is expected of me. But… what if God is not saying and of these things? What if His voice is not in the thunderous echoes of everyone else? What if indeed it is I who has the call to these people? What if this is the place He has told me to wander to?

I am afraid I can no longer think this way, and so I turn myself off. I pray through the streets but only see the people dimly. In moments, when my vision clears, I cannot stay. It is too much to bear – to be torn between the man that I love and the people that I have chosen.

June Sixth

So...Yesterday was hard. Very hard.
We went to church in a West End theatre. I think the kids experienced a bizarre combination of culture shock and expectation. There is a reason why I chose this specific setting for Sunday morning. The worship time is vibrant and fun - it’s a concert. What I love about the church is that it reaches the post-modern, up and coming generation in a way that NO other church in the UK (other than maybe soul survivor) does. You are greeted at the door, but not just greeted... You are spoken with. There are people who ask about you, where you're from, what brought you, where you normally worship, how you are. They are not looking for pat answers. I don't think anyone could walk into this church unnoticed. If someone asks "How are you?? They are not looking for a "fine thanks". Each of the students picked up on that and really appreciated it. Each of them said that we in America had a lot to learn from that.

Later I made a few preamble statements about the culture of the church in the UK. I explained that I had taken them to this church in particular because I wanted them to experience something that was moving incredibly in the lives of the younger generation in the city. It is a definitive contrast to the type of church I went to in the three years I lived in London. It is not a dead church as many are. It is a going movement within the next generation. It loves its people, and AS Much as it's a "rock concert", I cannot fault them, because although the show is flawless, there's not a person on the stage or in the audience that is not genuine. You can tell. They're jumping around and throwing their hands up and WORSHIPPING GOD, and I'm excited about that. I would rather take Gwyn or Michael to something like that and follow up on the theology in discipleship, than take them to a dead church.

We spent the afternoon with Gwyn. She and I just pick up where we left off. She asked me about baptism again, one moment when we were by ourselves. She asked when I was coming back permanently. She said that I had told her long ago that there were some classes she needed to take before she could be baptized. Again I explained that they were not classes as much as us studying together to make sure she understood what it was and what it symbolized. You do not get baptized to join a church as much as it symbolizes your relationship with Jesus and what that means to you. You do not get baptized if you do not love him and follow Him. We need to talk about all that. Oh... she says. Okay... so when are you coming back? I take that to mean "When can we start talking through this?" We have hilarious pictures of us playing twister with the kids in Gwyn's extended family. Anyway, it's hard for me to see her on such an infrequent basis, especially with the questions she's been asking.

RAB'be guven butun yureginle kendi aklina bel baglama
Yaptigin her iste
RAB'bi an Osenin yolunu duze cikarir.

June Fourth

So we have spent the last two days with my Turkish brother Michael and his siblings. Mostly Michael. We went up to his restaurant in Watford yesterday evening for dinner with former teammates and their kids. Michael took us back to the kitchen and then proceeded to have me show him how to make Turkish coffee for the students. Hilarious. He KNOWS how to make coffee; he was just being my kid brother and showing me off - how much he taught me and how much I have become Turkish. Today we spent the morning in Southall and the guys made two new friends. The girls and I shopped for Salwar Kameez, while looking for people to begin conversations with. Meredith made a new friend in the shop where Mandie found her outfit. We had an interesting time looking for Salwar for Meredith, since she's 4 ' 7. It's hard to find kid's sizes that don't look like kid's suits (frilly, pink, overly dramatic).Meredith, in exasperation, turned to the lady who owned the store and said, "Do you have ANYTHING my size?" The lady smiled and said, "Well, I am your size"... At that moment, we all noticed that they were looking eye to eye. Meredith asked her if she'd be her new best friend. We will return later to talk when it's less busy and we can chat over chai. This afternoon we went back to Michael - at his other shop in Camden Town. Rather than being so duty oriented, he sat with us, and ate with us, and then actually left the shop in his brothers' hands and we roamed Camden together for a couple of hours. He's SUCH a flirt.
Beautiful boy - I blinked and he turned into a man while I was gone.

At five, he had to leave to close the other shop. Matt and David went with him and decided to hang out for the rest of the evening, making deliveries, washing dishes, whatever he needed them to do. Car time is good deep-talking time. Meredith, Mandie and I went back to Turnpike Lane to pray through my old stomping ground. Tomorrow, we go to Gwyn's. Gwyn is also a Turkish Kurd, one of my former students and a very dear friend. I asked Gwyn if she wanted to come to church with us, and she has a driving lesson at 11, but instead she will ask off work and go with us next week. She has come such a long way in her journey. I talked to her on the phone today and she asked when I was coming back permanently. She's been counting down the days, since I said it would be "only one more year".

I come here and I move right back to where I was when I left. There's so much to do. There's so much that needs doing. I speak to Gwyn and Michael, and I see two people who fill up their lives with work because there is no longer anyone to play with. They have no one to talk spiritual questions through with. They long to go to church with someone, to learn more about our Best Friend, but no longer have anyone to ask. There are few churches that are relevant to their culture or generation. The families here have children and not the time to go to a Turkish club to celebrate a birthday until all hours of the night. Here I get to rejoice with people, walking with them as they journey their way into the Kingdom.

Daryl has resorted to "TerriMartin"...I live in a different world here. I am the woman I have known. There is purpose here. They need us here.

Returning Home

I walk along these streets – somehow haunted by the voice of a young woman I once knew. Every avenue has a story. Every turn a memory. In each footfall, I take a step back in the pages of my life. It is bittersweet – a longing I somehow do not mind. London is forever a ghost town. A city that tells a story from long ago.

There are inexplicable ties that bind us together. I have stood at the door of eternity, hand in hand with these friends. Love’s labour is never lost. My life is somehow told in two places. Birmingham and London. It seems that the things that break my heart remain in these two cities, and the present in my world is often left within them as well.

I left the flight in my own plane of existence, and found myself doing the welcome home dance. David looked at me as if I was stupid. There’s no use explaining the joy I feel – only Mark understands the passion of revisiting our city. I wonder how these students will experience my hometown. I wonder if they will struggle through the idea of m-tourism. I wonder if they will find a lack of love in the world that they find here and seek to find what God will do. I question my ability to really show them. They will see what they choose, and they will have to open their eyes.

We sat on the tube, tickets in hand, money received, somewhat dazed from the long night over the Atlantic. We barely noticed her enter. Her shalwar kameez was blue and lavender, like the colour of the sky in fog before the darkness settles. She looked around for a seat, since she carried a large bag and several other items. David realized she was there, and moved to offer his place. She simply stood there. Soon, Meredith shifted seats, and the woman moved to sit between us, more comfortable to place herself among women. She smiled and nodded her thanks. She seemed overly concerned for me as I laid my suitcase on my knees… forever made to mother people. Koi Bat Nehi.

I imagine her name is Fatima, Zayneb, or Khalida. She settles and I ask her if she has far to travel. In broken English, she replies that it is not far to Hammersmith. Her gestures along the journey make me wonder about her language limits. I think we would have chatted the time away if we had been able to. I really need to start back up on my Urdu. In contrast, a young woman stands across the aisle by the other door; phone stapled to her ear, jeans as tight as they come, blathering gossip intermixed with expletives. They could be mother and daughter but for the generation gap.

There is so much to do here. One is gentle and meek and loves the law of her god. She is humble but misguided. The other is blatant and distrusting, and IF she serves a god, it is certainly not her parents’ deity. How do you reach them both? How do you bridge the gap between generations? How could one person speak into such different worlds?


My favorite Turkish restaurant is under new management. After so long away, I wonder if people will still recognize my face. There are a few friends that still work there. Our waiter was pleasant as we slowly spoke our orders in Turkish. Two British friends joined us for rounds of karisik meze and yemek. The students were great, willing to try even kidney and taramasalata (both disgusting). I sent them on a scavenger hunt. I wanted the students to have an opportunity to ask questions about culture; usually, on a first day, with peanut butter on the brain, queries do not come quickly. Mandie and Matt came into the restaurant with a key chain full of evil eyes and elephants.
Why would someone put the evil eye on the same chain as the good luck charm? Why not just have the elephant and not the eye? If they are Muslim, do they believe in luck? Aren’t they monotheists? Isn’t this idea like serving another god?

And so it begins.
Don’t’ ask me, ask them.

Meredith was shown the purpose for hijab and the burkah. She bought a head scarf and was taught how to wear it properly. She believes the woman she spoke with was from Eastern Africa. I didn’t realize that there were people from this country living that far down Turnpike Lane. The saleswoman’s husband sat silent, reading the paper. I need to teach the students observation. There will be times when questions do not work, and all you can do is pray blessings on the house. Speak to God on their behalf. Touch the doorposts as you leave. Leave His aroma behind you. Watch.

David will struggle. I see the furrow in his brow and I wonder the thoughts in his mind. I will struggle. I stand at the door to my past looking into my future. I must believe that God will work in this place - that He is passionate about the ten million souls that make their home here. These are His people - not just mine.

Hard Questions

Brian McLaren inspires me to think much more than I'd like to about the reformation of the church from the modern into the post-modern world. He challenges my theology and invites me to think more expansively about my faith. I have been engrossed in A New Kind of Christian.
Within the dialogue between the characters, I found the following:

"I believe with all my heart that if there is any way for individuals to be rescued from their wrong choices in life, I believe they will be rescued and redeemed. But I also believe that we have the sober responsibility of realizing this: we are embarked. We are becoming on this side of the door of death the kind of people we will be on the other side.
And for that reason, the reality of death gives us an important gift everyday: it reminds us that we can’t keep putting off the work of becoming. It tells us to prepare to meet God then by entering into a relationship with him now. It echoes the words of Jesus, “Turn to God because the kingdom of Heaven is near.” Because someday it will be time to turn in our final exam. Someday the teacher will say, “Time’s up, pencils down”. Someday the essay that we have written with our lives will be complete.
What we will have become on this side of the door; that we will be on the other. That fact means that we live every moment at the nexus of peril and possibility."

So I have spent my quieter moments pondering these words. If every moment in my life on this side of Heaven matters, then am I who I want to be? Am I who God wants me to be? Am I walking in the path that God has destined for me?
In one of his Narnian Chronicles, C.S. Lewis represents a man who spent his life serving the wrong god. He is faced by Aslan, who in effect, says that a life spent serving well is equal to a life serving Him. The idea he conveys would facilitate a theology that agreed that all religious people, those who truly follow hard after their gods will enter Heaven – because their service was, in essence, unto the Lord. The point is that one cannot serve evil with good. So, even though they called God by the wrong name, they were faithful. Their faithfulness is to be rewarded with Heaven. As the author says, "this both inspires me and bothers me". For me, reading through those pages, I thought, this sounds incredible, and yet it smacks of “many ways up the mountain”.

I cannot say that I have changed the way I think. I still believe that there is only One Way. He is the Truth and the Life. However, this certainly changes the way I think about people. It challenges me.

The point is that no matter how we live, we have to face God someday and be ready to make an account for how we lived. I cannot judge who I will one day meet in Heaven – I’m sure I will be surprised by who I find there. That is not the point. The point is that I only have one life and then I’m done. Thus, the questions I asked at the beginning of this reflection. This is my life – Am I living it to the fullest capacity (even in the small things) that I can? Am I worshipping and glorifying God in the greatest and the tiniest things? Am I living, or am I simply surviving? Am I affecting the people around me with the joy that I have within? Can people see that I am on my way Home? Can they see that I am part of something greater than myself? Am I encouraging them to walk alongside me on the journey? Or, tragically, am I merely watching my feet as I shuffle along my own way, oblivious to the hearts and souls of others?

Please Lord, let me live.

Love Actually

Long ago, an old friend told me that love was not limited to one person. At the time, since I was desperately in love with him, it did not seem possible. It looked a lot more like unfaithfulness to me. I didn't understand him - or perhaps the real truth was that I didn't want to hear him.
I look back on that day, misty on the train platform, and I think I understand what he was trying to tell me. It is human nature to love. It is our passion to love with everything. When the game is not played the way you expect, that emotion simply moves to a different place.

That day seems like a thousand years ago - a memory somehow etched into my mind for lessons later on. Love can be a lot of things... unrequited, missed, unrealized, fulfilled, compelling, complete... but in reality its greatest performance lies in the choice.
Take for instance, that the Saviour chose to die so that I would not have to.
Or perhaps the vows we make to our spouses - the promises we keep whether we like it or not.

I have loved a few men in my life. My brother from the day he was born. A good friend that stayed a good friend. A young man serving in Africa (he never knew how much). My father, who always says the right thing. And, finally my husband, an artistry ten years in the making. I have loved them all differently, but I have loved them. Perhaps, now, I understand.

And to my friend on the platform that afternoon... thank you... For finishing what you started.

These Midnight Visits in my Mind

I woke to speak with you - alone yet entwined in this dark room, one thousand miles lost somehow on the flicker of the dampening candle. I reach across the silence for your hand; warmed by words unspoken. A soul that speaks beyond the language of our sound.
Here, in this space of our union, the thoughts begin to flow. Visions and hopes painted in sorrow and laughter. Just the way it's always been ... for this time never changes.
Tomorrow, when the wisps of wicker smoke have faded to stillness and the light of the dawn extinguishes these ghosts of dreams unseen, I will open the day in solitude. A remnant smile left over on my lips and an awareness that I am not on my own. The song plays rhythmic in the quiet corridor.
I have built up this house, a firm foundation of the person I have yet to become. A tower around the nature of my soul that I could never lock you out of. The image there is not unlike yourself. One heart, one mind, two worlds. Outside this universe we sang the same song. Perhaps the explanation, then, is not so far removed. Reality requires me to take my hands from the keys - this tune was never mine to play.