Travelling with the West Wind

Hawkes Bay

2009-02-18T08:41:00.004-07:00

I have placed my feet in yet another ocean.
Our beach hut is along the coastline next to the border. The mountains of Balochistan rise up out of the western desert. Wild dogs curl up in the sand next to my feet.

A short distance from here, the ubiquitous Call sounds over a sleepy nomadic fishing village. There are so many people in the great city, and so few who would venture here to share Hope. It is the undesirable place. The treasure in brown. A corrupt world of crime, hopelessness, filth and despair. We passed through Macchar Colony with its broken bricks, tents and shingle walls. Homes without roofs, trashpits on fire, naked children running through. The stench of life is overwhelming.

We are nine people. Nine vastly different souls who, for various reasons, have chosen to place our hands (and our lives) on this map. What can be done here? We are only nine people...

Do I believe He can change the hearts of 16 million? Can hope come to this desert by the sea?

I have no words to write. This heart has left me beside myself. I live in perpetual moments of unreality - as if this world along the Eastern Shores lay in another dimension. I cannot wrap my mind around the possibilities.

Help my unbelief.

Obadiah

2008-01-22T01:05:00.000-07:00

I have lived in denial for years... the greatest betrayal of all time. A love beyond the universe - outside understanding - and one small choice.

She stood by the window waiting. Looking, in hope, for the one who would come to refuge her from darkness. Her enslavement partially her own doing. It was the courage (or lack thereof) in her that had led to this place. Choose, they said.

She could have opted for simplicity. She could have walked away from her soul and gained access to the "normalcy" of life and living. There were others who claimed she did not have it in her. Dependency.

Years of stories and people linked to her by blood. History. It was not an unhappy bondage - no light thing to throw as a penny in a well. They overlook this aspect. Still, she pondered all these things in her heart: agonized for weeks as the sleeplessness brought age; battled the voices drowning her thoughts; paced back and forth in the weight of the choice; ignored the case of naivety; and finally, chose her soul.

Well, obviously, some said. They had no idea. She brought this on herself, they added. Blind, proud, heartless, ignorant.
Love or life? This is no Romeo and Juliet.

And in the midst of the agony, there was hope... that all would come together in the end. When all had settled. So she packed. Just the intangibles. A few clothes... pictures... memories....

And walked to the glass. Through the rain, hoping for the distant headlights. Days. She never looked away - resolved in her decision to leave it all behind for the promise of something more. I don't know that she left that viewpoint. No anger. No blame. Just a dead stop. Life went on around her. She went through the motions. Other relationships. Phone calls. School. Marriage. Life. Families. She never left the window.

And he never came.

Losing a Child

2007-12-06T12:16:00.000-07:00

Every season ends. Each page must turn and/to reveal the rest of the story.
I’ve never been good at goodbye – especially when I know it’s coming.
I wake in cold sweats… the cry of the child echoing in my conscious dreaming.
Faces flashing through my mind like sepia photographs.
Her eyes haunt me.
This is the time for goodbye.
And I again must wrestle with issues of trust. I walk alone through these pages, as I always do. My arms are empty – the blue eyed one that ceased to be.
Can I leave this child behind? Eternity rides in the balance and I must place her in your hands to save. Will you react? Will you hold my heart-cry in your arms; or will you turn a blind eye to her soul due to the hardness of others like her?
The world turns full circle. The tears, the hope, the rage, the silence, the dawn.
Thirty thousand feet below, Kabul sleeps. And so does she.

As always, the time eludes me – on journeys like this, one day runs into the next. I feel I have shut down my heart. Given way to the awfulness of the change about to occur. Nothing is the same – and we are all too tired to connect. I do the things that are necessary to survive.

Silence permeates the concrete walls around my heart. Echoes of voices long gone … a place of great faith with no hope. Perhaps that is the reason I am so drawn to these dirt streets. I understand the covering and the pain. Life goes on as normal despite the state of emergency. All belief lays low … waiting for a time when it is appropriate again to speak my mind.

The heat beats down on broken skin. It filters to every corner of the city. There is no release. When will peace come? How much death must pass before my eyes … until the time of your coming? Will you restore my child’s soul? Will you bring laughter back to these hollow rooms?
Empty hands.
How long?

And thus we wait. The house is silent. There is no sound of muffled feet or tiny song. No echo of dishes or water splashing over an outdoor drain. There is no one left. No one to tell. Just an empty house…
And the ghost that haunts it.

Soulless

2007-05-21T12:36:00.000-06:00

All I have ever asked for is the truth. No eggshells. No curvy lines.
Yet I see through shadowed glass.... this is all you ever give me.
The grains in the hourglass distort my images.
How long?

My world is smaller than I think… in this jaded picture of myself.
Sad really, that I believe the reflection rather than the reality.
I will survive this windfall – it's not the first time.

If indeed I have created this person I think I am.
Paint my toenails to believe that it makes me pretty….

Kosova

2007-04-06T12:46:00.000-06:00

Kerkoni pra mi si pari Mbreterin’ Edhe drijtesine e Perendise,
E te gjitha kito do t-ju jepen si shtese, Haleluja.
Kerkoni dhe do t-ju jepet, Shikoni dhe do te gjeni
Trokit dhe dera do te hapet. Halelu, Haleluja.

It has been an oddity and a privilege to be a part of this trip. I am pleasantly surprised by the way these students are stepping up to the plate and doing what is necessary. Certainly there are trip-ups and moments when you have to laugh at the choice of fill-in options…
Little bunny foo-foo….

We spent several days traveling.
Liza flew with us while the other students flew with Frank. The three of us took the train into Vienna and walked around the city enjoying the European sunshine. She was so trusting – following us whether we had the time or not. Easy. Low maintenance. One of those rare gems that I would take anywhere in the world.

We met the rest of the group at the airport for the continuation of the journey, and then we oriented with the workers here. I feel like we are in the way – that the workers here do not know what to do with us. Yet the kids are continuing to do whatever is asked without complaining. They are glad to be here, glad to serve, glad to do whatever it takes to be with these Albanian children.

There is only one student that seems full of herself and she is not the one I expected. She is also not bringing others with her.

Yesterday we had three classes of English at several different age groups levels. There were minor frustrations, just in the fact that we wish we could communicate with the children. There is so much we think that is hindered by a lack of verbal ability. Instead, every other thing is significant. No words. Actions. Smiles. Hugs. Pictures. Encouraging nods. Merlinda is an avid photographer at age twelve. Helen handed her a camera and she transformed before our eyes. This beautiful artisan. It was the freedom to move in the way God made her – to be the person she was created to be. Her life is changed… without our doing anything. We just provided the tool. This girl from the bombed out streets of Pristine becomes a photojournalist… a famous documentarian.

In another part of the room, Atlantida tells her stories. She weaves magical tales, spun with passion and joy. Matt listens enrapt, hanging on every word coming out of her nine-year-old mouth. She speaks Albanian. He understands only English. You would never know. This is love – a bridge between two worlds that are seemingly unmingleable. Connection in a single moment. Two souls; a heart for this world that will continue to echo it’s beat through the rest of the steps his feet take. Matt doesn’t know it yet…. That this little girl’s smile is going to change the rest of his life.

Serbia

2007-04-06T12:28:00.000-06:00

She blooms in the midst of her death. Barren green fields. Grey communist sky.
Burned soil and derelict buildings given up for loss.
This world is crumbling.
Few people walk the streets, and those who do rarely lift their eyes. They have passed from anger to despair. Cyrillic hope betrayed its promise years ago.
And yet she stands, defiantly clinging to life – the beautiful part.
Her branches bare – or ripped from her. The left side of her body is aching with decay.
Look deeper. Three shoots lift their heads with delicate buds, pink as cherry blossoms.
I will not go down quietly into the night, she says.

In the last five hours we have had our passports stamped through three countries.

Fledging Kosova, clinging to her right to her own name. Young. Hopefully watching for her own future by clutching a declaration from the past. Illyria asking for her homeland.

I wonder if Phillip would recognize the faces of his Macedonia. The land speaks of Greek shepherds, but the signposts are all written with the large hand of the former USSR.

Serbia placed the Slav in Yugoslavia. Power struggles at the border just because “they could”. Great stakes were lost at the fall of the iron curtain. Scarved babushkas wander through the station waiting for children who have vanished to the cities, or perhaps never came back from the war. White blossoms scattered across the hillside speak of hope…. But is this war really over?

Later…
Serbia hurts me. There are faces here I do not recognize. We sit in the train station watching people… they live in a land, it seems, where it is always winter and never Christmas. The cold November rain streams through a hole in the skylight, adding damp to the haze and smoke. There is a mile of personal space around each individual. No one gets in. Nothing comes out.

There are no children here.

The team has gone to dinner and to see a bit of the capital. We are staying with the luggage. People walk by staring…. Perhaps at our very foreign faces… perhaps wondering how three people could carry all this baggage. These eyes are dark and sinister. Amazing the lengths to which corruption can mangle a human heart.
Who will come and bring hope to this place? Who will stay here and give life to this cave of decay?

Hungary

2007-04-06T12:08:00.000-06:00

Today is always the hardest and the easiest day in M travel. It is the day for transition. A change from the laid back nature of a nominally Islamic culture to the hustle and bustle of an early morning European rush hour. We move into the fold of the former Roman Empire – a world where Christianity probably existed once… in about 325 AD. Since then, the people have been stuck with just one religious group after another.

We arrived in Budapest before 6am, stashed our bags in left luggage, and went to find coffee. It was a rude awakening to have such bitter winter temperatures after the Balkan’s beautiful March sunshine. The city is grey… as far as the eye can see… from the architecture to the water flowing in the Danube. Everyone is clothed in dark colors aside from the gypsies selling flowers along the streets. We stopped in at a McCafe to get a sense of schedule and to hear devotions. We spent some time praying for one another and then set out to sight see and find a bit of breakfast. Apparently no one in Budapest eats before 7pm, and there was a lot of squirrelly wandering and unpleasant discussion before we all found a place to stop. Why does food have such a power to divide people? We’ve had pizza and McDonalds for a lot of meals – it makes me laugh.

We walked up to the castle to view the city. There were several men dressed in medieval regalia (for the sake of the tourists), and there was a falcon trained for pictures and the like. It was hilarious to watch all the faces of the Japanese students react to these men.
The view from the castle was beautiful – mist rose up from the river masking some of the busyness of the city. It is a mystical feeling – like time and space fuse into one. If you close your eyes you can hear the sounds of hoof beats and the arrival of the Ottoman Empire. The great blue river – home to ships and ships of foreign invaders and curious explorers.

The sun came out as we walked and it warmed up a bit – not much, but still. We were asked to lead around the city, so we gave everyone options in terms of what touristy things that they might like to do. There is a museum of Hungarian ethnography that would have been fascinating, but we only really had time to choose one sight, so we opted for the Holocaust museum. It was interesting to learn that of all the prisoners in Auschwitz, one in ten was either Hungarian or a Romany Gypsy. I chose to wait with Stephanie in a local café rather than see the exhibit (too personal), but it was good to hear about what everyone learned.

Impressions.
Thoughts on compassion.
Jesus looked out among the crowds and he felt for them. In other words, He saw their need and his heart broke inside of Him – on their behalf. As I said before, the city is grey. The people seem grey – burdened with an internal sadness that I cannot comprehend. As we walked across the chain bridge from Buda into Pest, I noticed a gypsy woman kneeling beneath the pylons. Her head was bowed, covered over with a scarf. A blindfold for others and a protective guard for herself. No one really sees her and she doesn't have to reveal her black heart to the world. She can hide her pain and hunger. She does not have to expose her desperate need. There is comfort hiding behind the veil… never meeting other people’s eyes. She begs for money. Perhaps professionally. Still, there is an open question in her outstretched hand. It keeps people out while pleading with them to notice her. Most people walk by – they either do not see her at all or they glare down with contempt.
“How dare you ask me to give you any of my hard-earned god?”
“How dare you openly show me your need and ask me to do something about it?”
“How dare you enter my space and ask me to feel something?”
I find this Western concept of personal space interesting. We are so focused on our own little area of life that we are quick to shut others out. It is this juxtaposition of “know me” and “stay away” that is so bizarre. The beggar woman on the bridge.

We encountered a similar woman on the metro. She looked like she had just been released from a concentration camp. Her hair was matted and choppy, like she had tried to shave it herself. She was dressed in rags underneath her baggy coat. She took an extremely long time to sit down, since her body shook constantly (as if she suffered from palsy). As soon as she sat, people moved away from her. She whispered to herself, glaring askance at the surrounding crowds. Some people looked away – others stared. We seemed to follow her for several blocks, because she got off the train and happened to be headed in the same direction we were. Every once in a while, she would stop and scream accusations at nothing. It was obvious that she was mentally disturbed. I wonder when someone last reached out and touched her. I wonder how long she has suffered from this dementia and what phantoms mock her within her own thoughts. I wonder the fears that plague her mind – things I cannot begin to imagine….
She walks through this alone.

A man falls down the metro stairs and the crowds rush by too busy to notice or to help.
Women sell flowers on the street because this is the only way they can feed their families.
Old men loiter on the corners not knowing what to do with their time.
These people. These are the souls that Jesus had compassion for. They moved his heart to action. How do I show these people that same heart? Is it enough that I noticed them? What does it look like to answer the cry of the beggar woman, to touch the hand of the deranged, to give hope to the blind, deaf, dying, and lonely of Budapest?

We caught the train to Tatabanya and Matt and Zoltan met us on the platform. We walked to the little church and met for their Wednesday prayer fellowship. Jani, the pastor, leads worship there and we were able to join in singing both in Hungarian and in English praise. It is such a joy for me to hear God glorified in many languages – it reminds me of Home. Matt shared his testimony and then frank taught. We got to meet many of the church members and then we gathered so that Matthew could explain a bit about the rest of the week.

We are staying in a ruined medieval castle, high on a hill in the middle of nowhere. I like it.

What lies ahead? What souls will we meet? Will we see them, or will they simply be passengers on a train? We all make choices. Father give us compassion.

In Aeternum

2007-01-16T06:10:00.000-07:00

Another year passes and I find myself turning to the same pages. To you, I bequeath my history.

The book flips open as a melody appropriately haunts the airwaves. Everyone has a hometown - a place where they are never lost. I am never lost when I look into her face. I fly above her, worn and wrinkled, brown from sun and age. She is my beauty, the story I can never tell, the words that cannot seem to form inside my lips.

I go to a place of unnamed streets. The dirt lanes collide into one another like the traffic. I go, facing a nation without hope -
Yet they are a people that know my heart, that see the darkness, that stumble, too, around the concept of grace. They are beautiful in their despair while I stand in faith among them. Knowing there will be a day when their eyes will become open. Until then, I walk quietly among them.

I have not found what I am looking for. I live my life to be somewhere else. Anywhere.
I am the fringe. I feel this more than ever on a day like today. I am in the silent place - the route to where I am the most myself. It is, it seems, a long journey through a darkness that ends with hope. It is all I have to give. Here, and only here, I have nothing and yet I am everything.

The desperateness eats me alive, and yet I am happy to give myself away. To something that matters. There is life in eternity. A whole world built in the fabric and dust that plays in the desert wind.

Mubarak?

2006-12-30T03:45:00.000-07:00

Eid starts on the 1^st. It is a little confusing really, no one knows exactly when it will start, because each festival is based on the lunar cycle, but the next full moon is supposed to be the 1^st or 2^nd. Anyway, people everywhere have been preparing, bringing goats and cows home to be fattened up and decorated. Really decorated. It’s sad to me, knowing what I know from experiencing the sacrifice last year. Annie (one of my younger Memni friends – I think she’s ten) calls almost everyday to ask when I am coming to take pictures of the animals.

Let me see if I can paint this for you. The streets are covered with tarps and lights (called a shamiana), intertwining with concrete (Soviet Russia style) apartment blocks, mud, dirt and lots of burning piles of trash. There are people everywhere, going about their business – day to day. Underneath these shamianas are animals (some of these tents, mind you, are the size of a small Costco) of all shapes and sizes. Most people can only afford goats, but some have cows and others camels. More and more animals are brought in from around the country. They are well cared for, tended to night and day, and kept under the watchful eye of (usually) the family or neighborhood children.

Eid preparation begins around a week before the celebration.

Last year I went to participate (this means watch) in the festival with a Bohri family who are very, very conservative. We women went to the upper balcony of the house while the men did the actual sacrifice on the street below us. The animal was tied to a post with two men holding the ropes, and then the head of the family slit the neck, allowing the blood to flow out of the animal. All the blood must be drained for the sacrifice to be Halal (Clean).

This Eid, called Bakra Eid or Eid-al-Fitr is in honor of the Abraham and his willingness to take his beloved son Ishmael to the sacrificial table. Allah provided a goat, but was pleased with Abraham’s faith. There are several days of sacrificing and all the meat is apportioned out by percentage. Some to the mosque, some to the family, and some for the poor. Blood runs in the street turning the dirt roads into deep red clay. The sound of the animals is wrenching. The children splash in the red pools, their bare legs covered.

All this I could take, though it was a difficult experience to swallow, because it seemed that this was a wonderful bridge to share the story of the One sacrifice that made all others unnecessary. I thought it was similar to the idea of the Day of Atonement. If they truly believe that this is a sacrifice to cover sin, then I understand the joy in their celebration.

But I was wrong. And that is what makes this Eid festival so difficult for me this year.

As I have spoken further with families and friends here, I have come to understand that it is not about the sacrifice in terms of its atoning value. Nor is it even in remembrance of God’s faithfulness to us in providing just what we need at just the right time. It is not in memoriam. I think that there are some families who see it as an honor of Abraham for his faith, but the majority of people who I have spoken to just say it is a day to give to the poor. It is about alms giving. Surely it cannot be ALL about that. Surely there is some deeper spiritual value to the slaughter of millions (literally) of animals. Surely the blood means something…..

Being here is beautiful and horrifying all together. I stand on the street corner in my mind hands open, offering Hope. Real Hope. The kind that bankrupts Heaven and still has more to give. But people pass me by.

Funny thing. I will grow old standing on this street corner – because the same Hope I hold in my hands as an offering is the Hope that binds my heart to Believe. That He will finish his work in this city. That He does indeed love this people with a passion I cannot begin to imagine. That they have not ALL gone the way of Pharaoh. That there will be one or two who will one day stop…. And ask me what I am holding in my hands.

An explanation you would understand ... to understand is to see me

2006-09-25T16:55:00.000-06:00

He said it perfectly, and therefore I must quote him. This author/professor of thirty years, one who never ceases to amaze me with his insight into the cultural Jesus, the man as well as the God-man. Dr. Niebuhr taught at Yale. I am auditing a class in Theology and Pop Culture, and we have been discussing this man's thoughts and theories on Jesus' interaction with culture (both his and ours). One must understand his relationship to God before understanding his action with man.

Niebuhr describes Christ as "...Mediatorial, not median. He is not a center from whch radiate love of God and of men, obdience to God and Caesar, trust in God and in nature, hope in divine and in human action. He exists rather as the focusing point in the continuous alternation of movements from God to man and man to God; and these movements are qualitatively as different as are agape and eros, authority and obedience, promise and hope, humiliation and glorification, faithfulness and trust.
The power and attraction Jesus Christ exercises over men never comes from hm alone, but from him as a Son of the Father. It comes from him in his Sonship in a double way, as man living to God and God living with men. Belief in him and loyalty to his cause involves men in the double movement from world to God and from God to world. Even when theologies fail to do justice to this fact, Christians living with Christ in their cultures are aware of it. For they are forever being challenged to abandon all things for the sake of God; and forever being sent back into the world to teach and practice all the things that have been commanded them."

From Christ & Culture by Richard Niebuhr

Quietness: A dialogue with Jorges Luis Borges (see below)

2006-08-21T14:06:00.000-06:00

I am assaulted by darkness. The 'writings of light' are elusive, teasing me from the other side of a river I dare not cross. The city is not unknowable. It is a welcome beacon in the shadow of the future – a place I long for and the home of which I cannot speak.

There is nothing sure in life – not even death (though some would argue this). There are days I wish for this time to end. Yet I am reminded that this earth is not my home – and though I have no assurance here that the tears will end, Hope lives in the land across the northern shore.

There is no day and no night. Only time. The one thing I am never afforded. The mist underneath the willow tree that is always just beyond my reach.

Humanity?
I do not want this humanity. I do not understand the dreams that drive us. I do not see the point.
My homeland is the sound of rain on cement, ten thousand languages, a painting inside a cigar box, red sand along the desert shore, laughter heard from across the ocean, the sound of my Father’s voice, the rhythm of his twelve string, Rachmaninoff, and the beat of one man’s heart.

What does it mean that time is living me? Will I wake up one day and wonder where I went?
I have become silent. I do not pass through the multitude now, but walk alone. It is a narrow path that I would not have chosen. I cannot see the finish line.

So this is hope.

Walking anyway.

All or Nothing

2006-05-22T12:04:00.000-06:00

The only people for me are the mad ones,
the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk,
mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing,
but burn, burn, burn,
like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars...
~ Jack Kerouac

The Inheritance of Loss

2006-04-05T11:12:00.000-06:00

Boast of Quietness

Writings of light assault the darkness, more prodigious than meteors.
The tall unknowable city takes over the countryside.
Sure of my life and my death, I observe the ambitious and would like to understand them.
Their day is greedy as a lariat in the air.
Their night is a rest from the rage within steel, quick to attack.
They speak of humanity.
My humanity is in feeling we are all voices of the same poverty.
They speak of homeland.
My homeland is the rhythm of a guitar, a few portraits, an old sword, the willow grove's visible prayer as evening falls.
Time is living me.
More silent than my shadow, I pass through the loftily covetous multitude.
They are indispensable, singular, worthy of tomorrow.
My name is someone and anyone.
I walk slowly, like one who comes from so far away he doesn't expect to arrive.

~Jorges Luis Borges

Dreams of the Colourblind

2006-02-15T08:11:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting here in the early morning dawn, watching the snow fall, listening to the Mask and the Mirror. The trees are dressed in icy garments; they dance with the unseen presence that changes the air from clear to blue.
I rarely sleep.

The echoes of the vendors in the market blend with the words of her music, and I am transported to another place - followed by Afghan boys - shades of fruit and material in bright oranges, greens, blues, and fuschia.

Today I don't want to stay. Today my heart wells up with things too deep for words. Today I have forgotten all but the dust of the desert and haunting green-brown eyes. Today I shroud my face from the heat and cover my head. The sounds of sixteen million people. The air spins around, smoke filled, loud, pregnant with dialects alien and yet familiar. Today my soul is already gone.

I live at a crossroad of left and right turns. Robert Frost could not see the end of the roads that diverged before him. I can. I see the places each path lead, and today I am not interested in the safe one. Today I am tired of walking alone.

I'm sure after another night, I will restore the fortitute that binds my broken soul into one piece.

In your heart, she asks...
In your soul... did you find peace there?

Today

2006-01-12T10:38:00.000-07:00

Today was a full day, a hard day, a good day. It was the quintessential day in South Asia.

I have been overwhelmed by the slaughter of innocent animals. I watched the blood pour in the streets. I heard the sounds of goats, cows, and camels in the throes of death. For what? Some would say it is the annual sacrifice – a remembrance of God’s faithfulness to Abraham and a sacrifice to cover sin. Others say that this is not a sacrifice for forgiveness – it is simply to remember how much Abraham loved God – that he would be willing to give up the life of his only child. Regardless. I stood on the top of a balcony with the women as they recited words from the Holy book. The children ran among us… they were so excited about watching the qurbanis. It is a game. They dance in the blood. Men on the street move from house to house observing each sacrifice.
What can wash away my sin? Nothing but the Blood of Jesus….

I sat in the parlor at an old Sindhi home and shared my heart. I told the story of Isa, His compassion, His love for us, His sacrifice that covers me. There were many questions. Five women, talking of faith and hope and the beauty and holiness of God. We shared the importance of obedience… that we do not follow God out of duty, but out of love. I told His story. In three years, I have never had the opportunity to share so freely of the story of my Father. And yet, here, on the last day I have in this country, the questions led to answers. May these women know the Truth. May they see His face and know His tender mercy. May they choose for themselves the way that is right. May that know Hope in a world that has none.

A Punjabi grandmother told me that I was a true Pakistani – that she could see it in my heart. This compliment – not so quickly given – I will cherish forever.

I stood in the driveway with the chokidar’s wife, and she asked to come with us to the airport. She and her husband and daughter will see me off. The baby will fret at not seeing you everyday. She will cry. She will worry. She will want to go to America with you. She is not alone. I am always so happy when you are here. I always want to see you coming. I cannot place value on these words. The love that I share with these people – they are my family.

And so again, I stand at the crossroad. I choose to step on a plane headed away from Asia, back to the land of my birth. For the time being, it is my field – the place where I am an alien and a stranger in a foreign land. I will lay awake at night dreaming of deserts and faces, of sand dunes and the call to prayer. I am torn between two worlds.
Still, I have heard the voice of my Father singing over me. I have watched His passion for this people. I have seen His faithfulness to see His desire worked out with these small hands. And, tonight, as the missing has already begun, I am content to leave my family in His hands. I have learned that the people of my heart… are also the people of His.

Yaqeen

2005-12-29T09:58:00.000-07:00

Faces.

The Chokidars’ wife brings their little girl over to show off the new outfits I bought her. She is barely seven months old – head shaved, eyes black as kohl, dark marks smudged underneath with charcoal. She wears twelve colors that all clash into rainbows. Symbols to ward off the evil eye.

Outside the Costa Coffee, in the dead of night, a little boy sits alone in a plastic lawn chair. He is exhausted from the full day’s work. You can tell. No doubt he worked the streets in the Seaside district for twelve to fourteen hours, diligent with his eight year old shoeless feet. Most would never see him – curled up, asleep in his chair, with a bundle of roses in his dirty fist.

Afghan boys run alongside our car as we drive into the Sunday bazaar. They are all ready to carry loads three times their size. They plead in Pashto and Hazari. “Please, me, me, memsahib. Me”. They work all day for several hundred rupees to take back to their families. Four dollars at best. They have camaraderie, like Fagin’s boys in Oliver Twist. I imagine them singing up and down the rows of vegetables…
And Yet. There is something missing. I cannot put my finger on their brokenness. I cannot understand the lengths they will go to sell themselves for money. The price we pay to care for our families. I cannot simply pick one boy to carry my purchases today. I cannot save them, and I cannot give them a home.

She stands right in front of me, by the water-walla, at my feet. I didn’t SEE her, with her beautiful curls and dirty face. She must have been whispering. Bright green eyes and bare feet… lost and alone. I turned to go and she touched me. Not as beggars do, with groping hands around your arms and shoulders. Instead, she placed her tiny hand at the hem of my kameez and pulled gently. Tugging like a child. I turned back and finally saw her baby form – no more than three or four. She was by herself, presumably, though it’s hard to tell. I wish I knew what she needed. I wish I could have picked her up and healed her wounds, touched her heart, healed her soul. All I could do was buy her clean water.

One gentleman. Old enough to remember the Raj. He walks up and down the market holding a wicker basket over his shoulder – longing to be chosen, like the Afghan boys, to carry bags for money. His bright eyes are piercing, but his body is from the grave. He is the Thin Man… tall beyond most from this country, but tiny enough not to have eaten a meal for months. Where is his family? What has befallen that he is here, begging, rather than at home with his grandchildren and great grandchildren? How can he support himself alone? For, after all, who will choose him when his wilted shoulders should hardly support a kilogram of apples?

I do not know how to reach my people anymore. I look at the simple woman in the mirror and wonder where the time has gone. I am alone in this city…. Alone amid my beautiful people, and my soul is broken for them. Yet I have forgotten.

But perhaps, somewhere deep, the girl with dreams of Asia lives within. I still know the wonder of the color brown, and how many shades of it my Father has made. I am still aware of the heart beat of the city, the cries of the people, and the ache of the sound of the call to Namaz. I still lay awake in the dark of night, wondering what miracle it will take to work in this place. I see the bright blues, greens, and oranges, hidden beneath the veil that covers these faces… rainbows in the sand and the dirt. I still see the chokidar’s face burst into smile from behind the gate when he sees us coming.

Perhaps I have not forgotten after all.
The sound of the train as it clacks past the window through the night. The wind blowing in from the Arabian Sea. The smell on the air – of sea and skin and spice, of foreign vegetation and burning trash – of 16 million people.
Most people would notice the darkness, the dirt, the poverty, the filth and the squalor. I look at the faces of these people and I am blind to all but hope. I still believe. I know that my Father has set His face toward the city and its people, and I trust Him.
Yaqeen.

Forbidden

2005-12-07T12:52:00.000-07:00

The wind blows torrents through my body, rip across the veil of miles and hours I somehow cannot give.
Climaxed in the One I failed to be.
I wait among the driving rain, hidden in the shadows, drenched and unaware.
The time is at hand.

You once danced black against the barrier of my soul - so unabashed in your love that I could withhold from you nothing. I delve too deeply. You see, and yet you don't see, the cast expanse that I am willing to let go. Older songs speak the words we cannot run from. The color hides the terror...
The knock of death and the temptation to be still.
One step ensues the chaos.

There was a dream of worlds not so strange; security in the solitude. I did not see the coming storm. Break lose the tie that no longer meditates over my mind. I linger, embracing the pain, welcoming the ice, the peaceful fear of standing in this... the echo of myself.
No one but you will ever hear me.
Find me in the river's overflowing banks, forgotten in my decision not to flee.

Calls the Midnight Hour

2005-12-06T23:12:00.000-07:00

An amalgam of thoughts runs through my head.
Fearful symmetry - the kind I understood it to be - questions my mind refuses to process. I am stunned by the depth of your words, though I should not be. They are too truthful to say out loud.

They said that the world is a vampire -
I gave my soul to be poured forth for it, and taking all,
I found myself with love to spare but none to give.

I know not when these sacred spires become walls of glass. Perhaps I cannot look into the mirror after all. Enclosed, you may say by choice, yet not without the capacity to ache for you. Wavering, Wandering,
Lost to the query of how to become whole if it is indeed the distance that turns you away.

Again, I stand at fault, desperately seeking a cure for that which cannot be.

We have been simple pilgrims. Palmers forging the way between two worlds and alien to both.
I long for home. My soul is with you.
Entangled webs like poisoned ivy; fettered verdant chains around my heart... not that I don't appreciate the scenery.

You asked what I want. Clouds of thoughts, hurricane dreams. ...
I wait to see, and long to love you.
A voice echoes through the air, the sound of silence that shakes the frost from the firs. The space between the ice and snowdrops; a thin layer that only leaves me questioning the duplicity of this created sphere.

And where then, do I stand? A traitor to my people either way, and lost to see the jagged edge of love. I hold my breath; await the declaration of the color of the dawn. For I am born of two worlds, and not apart from each.

If you die, I die with you.

Mercy Street

2005-12-04T07:22:00.000-07:00

You walked across the room - the fiery space between the ghosts of all things past and the reality of present longing. Surrounded by faces, yet alone.
I caught your smile.
You, lost and lonely, the darker soul that shapes my truer nature.
I am lost in the stillness - the space of things our voices will never say.

At first, she claimed, I could not reconcile the difference. There was a look that passed between you - the kind that lovers give yet not.... one meted by the separation of all that has gone between.
She was right.
And there, in that place, watching every move you made, I reconcile myself again to the person I have become. You are, of course, the better part of me.
Hope.
That for this short moment I will feel whole again. That I can live the shadowy nature in my other soul and know that someone understands.
That as for this, the passing here, has worn us still the same.
That now we see the things we could not fathom on that platform.
We know.
It is all I'll ever need.

The words we never say...

2005-11-07T11:17:00.000-07:00

Mr. Jones says that the hardest thing in life is having the words in your heart that you can't utter.

There are the things we leave. Perhaps we fear the words in refrain. Perhaps no language covers the depth of such emotion. We prefer the nothingness to the unexpected. What if. What if all the things I dream never come to be?
What if I never sit beside you as you sleep? What if we live our entire lives separate not apart?

There are things we cannot promise. Perhaps we realize the allowances of our present lives. Perhaps we see the future consequences. We know too well the heart of humankind.

Do we spend our lives not really listening?
We live in regret for the sake of sidestepping the inevitable.
After all, the best deceptions stem from the souls of those we love the most.

I live in a realm where no one knows me… where I choose how much to give. I know perhaps a handful that have ever seen my heart. I live in a world of shadows, a place where the mind is everything so that I never have to feel.
For what would happen if I let in these emotions? What rending of my soul? What blood would be spilt for the love of those I lost? I need grace to survive this.
Yet I have no concept of something that cannot be earned. I do not understand a Love that asks for nothing in return.
I am an orphan.

In the midst of all that I cannot see, I still cling to my Father with my whole heart. I hold to with unwavering faith, weep with the hardship of exile, and hope in the sole consolation that one day I will look Him in the face. How can hope spring from a life that holds so little faith? How can I fathom the depth to which Love will go to rescue me? This Love …. That asked us to live our lives apart. That requested the wrenching of two souls. That chose to move us in different directions so that we could accomplish even more.

I long to go home. I long to be with you.
I live in brokenness. I suppose, in the end, this too will make me beautiful.

Time

2005-10-29T21:17:00.000-06:00

A luxury I am not afforded
and so I justify the need to tell you all I am
within this space.
A single glimpse into the core of this small womanchild.
A simple wish to understand a way to make this easy.

But I have seen the miracle of friendship
I have felt the sacred twinge that I have seen this place before.
I have known the wonder of a mile turned to a moment
and I have heard, that as for this,
it is not what you give, but what you give up.

We waltz around the endings
I stood beside you, caught your arm, and trusted you with my silence.
Because you knew
That I could not get tired of looking at your face
(even with predicted changes)
I do not fear the thought behind the shadow, the path obscured and hidden
Tentatively step to the edge
To be reminded
Your heart is pure, and that is all I need to know

What do I do with this?
That I could look into your eyes forever.

Scent and Memories

2005-08-27T08:08:00.000-06:00

I love incense. Sandalwood and vanilla; musky spices (though never Patchouli) that transport one to a much different place. I suppose that is a part of the foreign heart in me - although I loved incense long before I loved South Asia. The smoky remnant somehow brings me home.

I think smells are cool. Freshly mown grass. Petrol. Pipe tobacco - cherry and peppermint like my Papa`. Linens that have been dried on the line. The breeze over the water. Spices along the roadside Asian markets - cumin, jasmine, fennel, and garam masala. I love the smell of the wood pews and paneling in old British chapels. The smell of the forest after it has been raining. Irish cream and coffee. The wind as it blows the night air across the track at my old university, playing Fields of Gold. I love that we were created to associate smells with memories. Someone across the room lights up a Marlboro Red (and only that particular cigarette), and I am transported to a small house in Western Virginia, where my Dad and I would sit together in the big red chair (God bless the 1970s) and read until I fell asleep, head against his chest - there was always a remnant of that smokiness. My dad is amazing. He took me on dates to Hechinger's, the local hardware store - it was my favourite place to go with him. Fresh wood shavings and sawdust. The scent of burning autumn leaves in the distance.

Prayers

2005-08-27T07:52:00.000-06:00

Father, Hold me in this empty place. Alone and still not apart from You. Somehow You have woven Your threads through the tapestry of my being, and the pulling apart in the day to day renders me smaller than usual. How I have longed for You. I cannot be in need while You are strength to keep me standing. You knew this time would come - You gave us grace to trust You with each other. Teach me to miss Your presence, Your Kingdom, Your home, with the passion and depth I feel on these days. You are the first One I love. But Father, I am small - I cannot do this on my own. Be close enough to hold me in the now.
Thank you for the gift of understanding, and despite the pain, for having a heart that ran deeper than my mind.

In case you ever wonder

2005-08-27T00:01:00.000-06:00

It is hard to describe the connection, the kinship, the complexity of the bond I feel with you. If only there were words to explain this. It seems that now is the time for details... For seeing beyond the printed thought into the manner by which we speak. "There is a real pleasure in finding oneself under our own roof, in the midst of your own people - when you come to a place in search of solitude and repose". You have so easily become one of my people.
The darkest path we walk upon - the questions, fears, and doubts that would drag us off the jagged path - The unknown was never as frightening as the cavern without your presence.

The metaphor of my life unfolds to reveal a different version of the scene ahead. Perhaps this new chapter will reveal the beauty of another David ... as I am forever Jonathan.

Somewhere, here, in the silence of this room, I feel your heartbeat, a musical timbre that somehow metres my own. The sound of hope and wonder mingled with the flickering light - a whisper of aloneness. The presence of your hand lingers in my mind. How I long to dance again in you. I can feel the ocean pound against my chest... you have to go away. Would you find the words to take this simple heart along with you? Underneath the clouded sky I found a home; a place of shelter in the space between. The mist outside my window claws at the pane; masking the air with a surreal impression fit for the mood in my pen. The words play translucent before my eyes.

Strength. I saw a glimpse of myself - a lightening twist across the sky inside your soul. How could I give you anything less? The ghost of former days, the overwhelming colour that gathers in the evening sky, the meaning of stillness in the words that we have left to see...
These are tomorrow’s dreams. So I lift my eyes to the story left in today. For that is all I have.

Letters to my Husband

2005-07-12T12:24:00.000-06:00

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

2005-07-12T11:56:00.000-06:00

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

2005-07-12T11:21:00.000-06:00

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

2005-07-12T11:10:00.000-06:00

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

2005-07-12T11:04:00.000-06:00

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

2005-07-12T11:03:00.000-06:00

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

2005-07-12T11:02:00.001-06:00

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

2005-07-12T11:02:00.000-06:00

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

2005-07-12T11:00:00.000-06:00

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

2005-07-12T10:59:00.000-06:00

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

2005-07-12T10:58:00.000-06:00

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

2005-07-12T10:57:00.000-06:00

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

2005-07-12T10:56:00.000-06:00

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

2005-07-12T10:55:00.000-06:00

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

2005-07-12T10:54:00.000-06:00

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

2005-07-12T10:46:00.000-06:00

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.