Jungle Journeys

divided heart

2009-03-24T07:32:00.000-07:00

Hi dear readers. Well, it’s been a while. Last night I was trying to explain to my grandma why I was late for dinner, and she responded, “I know, it was all of those kids you had to take care of!” I felt a bit foolish. Thankfully, I don’t take myself too seriously and was able to eat the humble pie I was served. I feel that I’m in the same place where blogging goes. Why haven’t I posted? It’s not exactly that I’ve been too busy… I don’t really have much to say. But yet I have everything to say. My head and heart are both full and empty, these days. It’s almost as if they’re too full of conflicting thoughts and emotions that I can’t articulate anything or sort any of it out. So they come across as being almost blank. The other day my dad and sister were commenting on my lack of blogging, though, and my dad said that people like unsorted thoughts… So I’ve decided to share some of mine. The following is something that I wrote (and didn't edit!) a few weeks ago, trying to sort it all out. Read with grace…

How's the transition going? First of all, it’s been amazing. I’ve just loved reconnecting with people I love. This afternoon I was over at my sister’s house. This last week she and her husband have been in Ethiopia adopting a 6 month baby girl, and I’ve gotten to spend a lot of time with their 3 little boys. Before leaving, she told me that her youngest was feeling shy towards me, which is completely understandable given that I’ve been gone for the majority of his life! Well, I made sure to prioritize plenty of special “Owie and Alyssa time” while she was in Ethiopia, and today I saw proof that I’d finally secured a place in his heart. We were in the nursery when Owen got up from his nap and wanted Mommy to get him something from downstairs. Mommy, however, was occupied with the new baby, so she could not help. I offered to go down with him, assuming that he wouldn’t want me because he’d woken up feeling very clingy, and he responded by holding up his arms for me to pick him up! And after his snack we cuddled in the chair and read a book. Life was good.

It’s also been amazing to go to church again. I’ve loved singing familiar songs during the time of musical worship. I’ve loved learning new ones in English. I’ve loved listening to my pastor preach in English. I’ve loved attending a women’s Bible study and not leading it (in English). I’ve loved being a real part of Christ’s local body, as opposed to always feeling “other” and not wanting to become too involved lest I create dependency. I’ve felt so cared for by people who approach me in the lobby and tell me that they have been praying for me these last 3 years.

However, there are also things that I don’t love a whole lot. I don’t love having to drive to get places. In Paraguay I could walk most places in Villarrica, and I took a public bus to get between cities. I miss that. Here, I have to go down to the basement and use our treadmill if I want to rebel against my increasingly sedentary lifestyle. That’s a little depressing. Neither do I love having to stay inside because it’s so cold. In Paraguay we didn’t have air conditioning or heat, so there wasn’t a huge difference between being indoors and out. And even though it was freezing in the Paraguayan winters, the sun was always out so sometimes I would go out onto my balcony in the dead of winter so I could soak in some of the warmth from the sun. I also don’t love the complexity of our lives, here. In Paraguay we had our big meal in the afternoon, and then snacky things for dinner. Also, Paraguayans only use like 10 different foods and cook them all up in different ways. If they have a tomato, carrot, green pepper, onion, garlic, beef, rice, salt, and flour, they’re set for a week. There’s not a ton of variety to their diets, and they’re fine with that. Here, though, we get tired of eating the same thing several days in a row. Everything feels like a bigger deal. I loved the simplicity of Paraguay. And I liked eating my main meal in the middle of the day. And I’m finding the price of new clothes to be quite annoying.

Way harder than those little differences, though, is the emotional confusion. I really miss Paraguay, yet I’m so glad I’m home. Furthermore, I am getting really weary of people. I absolutely love my family and have been dying to be a part of their lives. Yet I’m feeling tired at the same time. Last month my brother and his wife moved to Chicago. I was SO happy to finally be able to be a part of their lives and help them move. Yet I just wanted to be alone. I am exceedingly thankful to be home during this incredible period of my sister’s family’s life. I’m so thankful that I got to help babysit my nephews, last week, while Danielle and Karl were in Africa getting Selah. I wouldn’t have traded one second of it for anything in the world. And I’m so thankful for the freedom to spend lots of time playing aunt and sister, this next week, while Danielle adjusts to life with 4 little ones. But even though I wouldn’t trade it, at the exact same time I just want to be alone. I’m thrilled that my best friend, Sarah, only lives 2 hours away and that we’re meeting for lunch this week, yet I don’t feel like making the drive. I’m thinking about Fiona, Renee and the kids, Amy, and Carol all the time, and am missing them like crazy, yet the thought of writing is so daunting that I’ll go days without even checking my e-mail. I’ve probably checked Facebook twice in the last 2 months because it’s so overwhelming and depressing. And speaking of faltaing in my communication, both Dana and Angela have written or called, and I would genuinely love to catch up with them. But I haven’t called them back because as much as I want to see them, I just want to be alone.

So what’s it been like to be home? Wonderful, draining, and confusing. All at the same time. I wouldn’t trade my life for anything in the world, but tonight I feel tired. Yet I don’t want to miss out on anything, so I won’t say no. So I want to go over to Danielle’s tomorrow. And I want to drive to see Sarah on Tuesday. And then I want to go over to Danielle’s on Wednesday. I’m so excited that Owen’s bonding with me. I’m so glad I get to pay special attention to the older boys while so much focus is (rightly) on their new baby sister. I’m absolutely loving the fact that I’m the one who gets to help out my sister. Seriously. Loving it. But at the same time, I just want to be alone. It’s a bit confusing, really. Oh, and nobody will drink terere or mate with me.

Thank You

2009-01-09T13:17:00.000-08:00

“How are you feeling about leaving Paraguay, Alyssa?” I’ve probably been asked this question at least 10 times in the last week. Trying to be self aware, I’ve probably asked myself the same things four times as often. The only response that comes to mind is “Thankful.” Over Christmas I got to host my beloved family in my beloved town of Villarrica. Despite having neither water nor air conditioning much of the time, I was overwhelmed with gratitude. Renee described it best by saying that when your favorite people come to this place you’ve come to love, your world is perfect for a short amount of time. I felt that. I felt honored that they’d spend the money to come down. I felt deep respect for them that they had such great attitudes despite being physically uncomfortable. I felt pride when I got to watch them laughing with my Paraguayan friends. I felt so thankful.

As soon as they left, I began packing. I felt thankful that I was able to sell, gift, or pack everything in my apartment. I felt thankful for the memories made in that place. I felt thankful that my apartment had become a refuge of sorts, for various friends. I felt thankful for the growth experienced in my small group which met weekly on the red couch and white armless arm chairs of my living room. I felt thankful for the meaningful times I’ve shared with the Lord out on my balcony. As I closed the door and locked it for the final time, I just felt thankful. As we drove out of Villarrica I wondered when I’d be back. We passed the park where I did the majority of my training for the marathon. I felt thankful.

When we arrived at the hotel, I was reminded of the beauty and tranquility of rural Paraguay. I remembered sitting at the dinner table with my family, last Christmas, and announcing that I thought Paraguayan landscape to be my favorite in the whole world. The different shades of greens from the trees that cover the rolling hills like green down blankets set against the blue sky , the birds singing and flying against the backdrop of fluffy white clouds, and the bright purples, pinks, oranges, yellows, and reds of flowers all make me sad to leave this place. The song of the birds and a gentle breeze which ruffles the leaves of the trees fill my heart with pure peace. And then the sweet, sweet company of Ana, Suely, Liz, Giselle and Laudes all make me echo Goeff Moore and the Distance who sing, “It’s good to be alive!” I felt especially thankful as we sat outside on the porch for dinner, last night, looking at the sunset, feeling the breeze, and listening to my precious 12 year olds tell me stories about themselves as little girls (in English!).

This morning the Lord woke me up before my alarm rang and invited me to spend some time alone, with Him, this last morning in El Interior (non-Asuncion). So here I sit before a huge window looking out over the hills, listening to the birds, and watching the girls sleep. I’m thinking back over these last 2 ½ years, wondering where in the world to begin, and the only words that come to mind are “Thank You.” To write out the specific things for which I am thankful feel shallow, because words cannot begin to describe God’s goodness to me over these last years. Yet I feel compelled to do it anyway, despite my absolute inability to so.

Thank You, Lord, for bringing me 5000 from home in order to draw me to Yourself. Thank You for settling me in Villarrica, against my wishes, where I could discover my love of teaching and share life with these amazing young women. Thank You for placing me on this SIM team with the Stirlings, Givens, Stouts, McKissicks, Floyds, Houghs, Stirlings, Givens, Gilliams, Camerons, Elliots, Dreilings, Terhaars, Fiona, Cherlynn, Gina, and Kait. Thank You for quieting me. Thank You for helping me run the Buenos Aires marathon. Thank You for all who came down to visit me- Hope, my family, Carol, the Breuers, Adam, Mel, and Diane. Thank You for the faithfulness of my supporters and churches. Thank You for giving me the opportunity to write. Thank You for calling me to prepare for grad school and encouraging me to read. Thank You for the written word that allows us to draw life from those who have lived before us. Thank You for Augustine and Thomas Merton. Thank You so much for Fiona, Lord, and the plans You have for her. Thank You for la Iglesia Biblica de Villarrica, and Centro Educativo Internacional. Thank You for providing Internet in my apartment. Thank You for Skype. Thank You for Eric. Thank You so much for Eric. Thank You for fresh fruit juice and fresh fruit, in general. Thank You for the cool breezes and the sweet birds. Thank You for my electric blanket, hair dryer, and electric space heater. Thank You for ice and terere. Thank You for this precious 7th grader who just called to me, “Hi Teacher,” from her top bunk. Thank You for nail polish. Thank You for cameras. Thank You. Thank You. Thank You. Thank You for loving me and calling me to Yourself. Thank You for Paraguay. And now, thank You for calling me home.

it's all about me... right?

2008-11-17T11:03:00.000-08:00

My small group has been reading through Isaiah. We've been especially struck by how much God hates pride, His condemnation of those who live as though there’s nothing wrong when things are very wrong, and our smug self-centeredness. In addition, I’ve been feeling somewhat fearful about the future of our nation. Conservatives forecast dark days ahead and their predictions can discourage even the most optimistic among us (which I am not!). On top of the economy, the war in Iraq, our lingering presence in Afghanistan, the tension between Iran and Israel, the elections, and the doom of the first half of Isaiah (we discussed 15-24, last night), for the last week I’ve been making my way through a video on the early Church. Yesterday it concluded with the crucifixion of Peter, beheading of Paul, children being fed to dogs, and the general persecution of Roman Christians under Nero. And I became very afraid (not to mention that when I fell down the stairs, last month, I was faced with my wimpishly low pain tolerance. I remember sitting in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, trying to steady my breathing, and thinking that I'd totally renounce Christ if ever tortured, and that I'd never manage to have a child without an epidural).

And then like a brick it hit me that the persecution I feared for the future is a present reality for much of the Christian world. Present. Meaning that it’s happening now. Happening not even to strangers, but to my “brothers and sisters.” Yet I don’t really care because it doesn’t affect me, personally. In Amos 6:1-7, God challenges His people (who are currently living comfortably in Jerusalem and Samaria) to look around them at the cities that have already fallen to the Assyrians. “Do you really think you’re so much stronger than them?” God asks. “Hello! If they’ve already been destroyed, why in the world are you still thinking that nothing bad is going to come to you?” (my paraphrase). He then condemns them for going about their lives- enjoying nice furniture, eating good food, buying non-essentials like nice lotion- not caring about everything that’s happening all around them, because they aren’t personally experiencing pain. Yet. For their complacency, God says that they will be the first to be taken into exile.

In Isaiah 22:12-13 and then 24:7-8, God seems to be critical of those who are enjoying this life. But God gave us all of these good gifts, right? Doesn’t that mean we should just enjoy them and be grateful? But then I thought about James 4:9: “Be wretched and mourn and weep. Let your laughter be turned to mourning and your joy to gloom.” That sounds a lot like these verses in Isaiah. But why? Again, He created a good world for us to enjoy, right? I was so confused. And then it hit me: right now, the world is NOT good. Right now God has permitted evil to reign and the whole creation is under a curse. Right now, I think I’d have to agree with God’s state-of-the-world address in 24:5- “The earth is also polluted by its inhabitants, for they transgressed laws, violated statutes, broke the everlasting covenant.” And then all of the sudden the beatitudes made sense to me, for the first time in my entire life (italics are my additions):

Blessed are the poor in spirit who walk humbly before God- for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are those who mourn that this is NOT the way things are supposed to be- for they will be comforted when all things are made new.

Blessed are the meek who are unassuming, don’t demand their rights, and humbly serve one another, following the example of their Master- for they will inherit the earth.

Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness to govern this earth- not just personal holiness, but the righteousness and justice upon which the world was founded. Blessed are they who long to see justice come to those who abuse power and wealth to oppress others because they think that no one will stop them. Blessed are they who recognize that there are limits to the laws of supply and demand, that the invisible hand does not inevitably provide for the needs of societies’ most vulnerable members. Blessed are they who long for an equitable distribution of the earth’s resources- for they will be filled when the Lord judges the earth, which He certainly will do.

Blessed are the merciful who extend mercy to the undeserving, because they understand the extent to which God has had mercy on them- for they will be shown mercy.

Blessed are the pure in heart who are not distracted and seduced by their natural desires, but wholeheartedly want to see God’s kingdom come. This includes seeking God’s kingdom MORE than personal comfort- for they will see God.

Blessed are the peacemakers who walk in their Father’s footsteps of working for peace and reconciliation- for they will be called sons of God.

Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake- for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

We are supposed to be living as foreigners, here. We are aliens. This is not our home. This is not the way life was supposed to be. We close our eyes to the injustices and pain of the world, much as the Israelites did when the surrounding nations were being crushed by Assyria. We turn off the news because we don’t want to hear any more about wars and rumors of wars in the Balkans, suicide bombings in the Middle East, stonings in Africa, hostages taken by terrorists, aid-workers killed by radicals, converts mutilated by family members, pastors’ families beaten with iron rods by the governing authorities, Church leaders being sentenced to years of reeducation in labor camps, and Christian schools collapsing on hundreds of children. We turn our heads, close our eyes, turn off the television, and forget about it all. We lay down on our beds inlaid with ivory, eat our choice meats, drink our wine, use our lotions, and refuse to create space in our hearts to mourn for Jacob. Because the destruction has yet to reach our front door, we ignore it and enjoy our lives, pretending that we are living in the good world that God intended. But we’re not. I don’t have the answers. I don’t know how we should live when our brothers and sisters are suffering and we are not. But I know that we cannot continue living as if nothing is wrong. We cannot. We must not.

First they came for the communists, and I did not speak out-
because I was not a communist.
Then they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out-
because I was not a socialist.
Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out-
because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, but I did not speak out-
because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me-
and there was no one left to speak out for me.

written by Martin Niemoeller, a German Christian, in 1945

little girls?

2008-11-15T18:37:00.000-08:00

I’m feeling nauseous. I’m SO angry. Tonight I went to the dance recital of one of my precious 6th graders. Her number was very cute, thank the Lord. She was great. The others, though, weren’t so stellar. The show opened with a group of older girls in red tangoing to “Roxanne” from Moulin Rouge. Now, I'm not criticizing the song, itself, but the context. There were LITTLE, LITTLE kids there and it was SCARY- for ME! And I'm 28! It was dark, the girls were in red, the setting of the song is in a brothel, and it was SO loud and violent sounding. I was really unnerved. Then, unbeknownst to me, one of my little 2nd graders also participated. Innocent, beautiful, full of life, precious, precious, precious 2nd grader. Her group danced to Mambo # 5. Mambo # 5! Now, a group performed that same song while I was a student at Taylor, so I know I can’t be too judgmental (though I was mad at them, too!). And honestly, it’s VERY catchy. I have a hard time not liking it, as a matter of fact. And maybe he’s not talking about getting with Jessica, Monica, Tina, Rita, Mary and all the other girls. Maybe he is really just saying that he wants to flirt with them… all night long. Maybe. So let’s say it’s a really innocent song. But come on- second graders? WHY would anybody with half a brain teach second graders to act like Cuban show girls? I mean- it was SUPER cute, if you aren’t worried about their chastity and future identity as young women. Really, it was. But is it worth it? Let the little girls be little girls, for goodness’ sake!

So I was already a bit piqued about the innocence of my precious Camilla. And then another one of our 6th graders entered as an Arabian belly dancer. Yes, that’s right. 6th grade. Arabian belly dancer. I refused to take pictures. And I gotta say- they were GOOD. They were really good. If I was a man… how can I say this… I wouldn’t have been thinking of them as the 6th grade CHILDREN that they were. That was when I felt physically ill. And honestly, the way they danced took a LOT of talent. But why in the world would you teach them to use such incredible talent for THAT? I don't know- maybe somebody could start a special pre-marital dance studio or something. But 6th graders? It was unbelievable. I left midway through. The girls I came to see had already performed and I was just done.

OK. That’s my rant. I really did try not to be judgmental. I asked myself if it were possible that cultures could celebrate the sexuality of the female body without it being sinful. I asked myself if I’m just being a prude. And then it struck me that a few of my wonderful, godly friends are dancers and have probably learned such dances. And that maybe I’d be a mom, someday, and my little girl would want to dance. And I hope she can. I wish I could dance. But would it mean that she’d be exposed to THAT? Would it be worth it? And then I thought of the time I had to decide whether I’d play a character in a high school musical that had to swear. And then I thought of Jennie, who I’m sure has had to reconcile such things. When is art just art? And when is culture just culture? And when does it not matter, that being art or culture doesn’t make it acceptable or good? I know there’s not a simple answer. Well, I don’t think there is. But if anyone has any thoughts on the topic, I’d love to hear them.

And just for the record- something that struck me several weeks ago- it’s interesting to me how our society both advertises women’s sexuality and complains that they are objectified. Hmmm. Which do we want people to notice about us- our bodies or our brains? Because they sure won’t be struck by our brains on first glance. Unless we’re frumpy. Then they may assume we’re really smart. I ask because it seems a bit inconsistent to draw their attention to our sexuality while demanding that they treat us as asexual beings. If we want an egalitarian society, than maybe we should consider not running around half naked. And men- if you really want to be liberated... or liberating... why not make a conscious decision not to give special treatment or attention to the hot girls? Just a random thought from a boring Puritan.

Let us Rejoice and be Glad

2008-11-05T02:19:00.000-08:00

Come, let us sing for joy to the LORD; let us shout aloud to the Rock of our salvation. Let us come before him with thanksgiving and extol him with music and song. For the LORD is the great God, the great King above all gods. Come, let us bow down in worship, let us kneel before the LORD our Maker; for he is our God and we are the people of his pasture, the flock under his care. Psalm 95

Sing to the LORD a new song; sing to the LORD, all the earth. Sing to the LORD, praise his name; proclaim his salvation day after day. Declare his glory among the nations, his marvelous deeds among all peoples. For great is the LORD and most worthy of praise; he is to be feared above all gods. For all the gods of the nations are idols, but the LORD made the heavens. Splendor and majesty are before him; strength and glory are in his sanctuary. Ascribe to the LORD, O families of nations, ascribe to the LORD glory and strength. Ascribe to the LORD the glory due his name; bring an offering and come into his courts. Worship the LORD in the splendor of his holiness; tremble before him, all the earth. Say among the nations, "The LORD reigns." The world is firmly established, it cannot be moved; he will judge the peoples with equity. Let the heavens rejoice, let the earth be glad; let the sea resound, and all that is in it; let the fields be jubilant, and everything in them. Then all the trees of the forest will sing for joy; they will sing before the LORD, for he comes, he comes to judge the earth. He will judge the world in righteousness and the peoples in his truth. Psalm 96

This morning, let us praise the Lord and rejoice in the day that He has made. Let us thank Him for setting Barak Obama before us as our president. Let us thank Him for sovereignty placing this man in this position at this time. Some of us wanted him to win. Others did not. Let us thank Him that we live in a democracy and had the opportunity to make our voices heard. But now the choice has been made, so let us thank the Lord and honor our government. We prayed that His will would be done. And it was. For those of us who believed that God’s will was to elect McCain, and cannot imagine otherwise, are we really claiming to know the mind of God? Obviously, His will was for Obama. His thoughts are higher than our thoughts, and His ways higher than our ways. For there is no authority except that which God has established. The authorities that exist have been established by God. It is inconsistent to call ourselves Bible-believing Christians if we refuse to believe that God willed Barak Obama into office. And if we fail to honor and respect him, we are disobeying the express Word of God. If God calls us to serve as prophets in our nation, may we be faithful to that call. But may we refuse to be agents of self-fulfilling prophesy and naysaying. If Obama appoints liberal judges to the Supreme Court, let us thank the Lord that he holds in His hand the heart of the king. If American professionals are forced to choose between their convictions and their jobs, let us thank the Lord for the opportunity to suffer with Jesus’ body all around the world, that we may, someday, share in His glory. If life gets harder, let us rejoice that trouble produces perseverance and we know that nothing can separate us from the Love of God that is in Jesus Christ our Lord. Let us do everything without complaining or arguing, that we may be blameless and pure children of God, without fault in a crooked and depraved generation, in which we may shine like stars in the universe as we hold out the word of life. So let us keep a tight reign on our tongues and meditate upon that which we learned in kindergarten: if you have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything at all. But no worries. We have lots of nice things to say, because the earth is the Lord’s and everything in it.

Knowing

2008-10-29T15:06:00.000-07:00

Wow. I haven't been a very good blogger, lately. It's not that there's nothing to say... it's just that I haven't had the words or creativity to say any of it. Something's coming, though, I can feel it brewing. Sometime in the next few months, I'll be writing about the Emergent Church, specifically reviewing what I remember of Rob Bell's Velvet Elvis and Brian McClaren's A New Kind of Christian. We had an incredible, incredible SIM women's retreat, this last weekend, and talked about it, a bit, so I'd like to articulate some thoughts. But I can't be bothered with all of that, just yet, because I'm into all of the end-of-the-school year jazz, end-of-Paraguay-jazz, preparing-for-the-next-step-jazz (i.e. grad school applications and car shopping), reading up on election news, and irresistible Skype calls. Did I mention irresistible Skype calls? And on top all that jazz, Joel Rosenberg's Dead Heat is consuming (ha!) every "spare" moment I have. But no worries. At the rate I'm going, I'll know how the world ends by tomorrow evening, at which point I may find time to blog. Until then, though, I just came across something I wrote back in March 2008 that may serve as a backdrop to the Emergent Church stuff that I post, later. Thanks for reading :)

Knowing

March 25, 2008

I used to know a lot more than I do, these days. I knew how to be a good Christian. I knew how to inductively study the Bible using the historical grammatical method. I knew the difference between inerrancy and infallibility, and how all scripture was God breathed and good for teaching, rebuking, and training in righteousness. I knew the difference between the civil, moral, and ceremonial codes of the Torah, and that we only have to follow the moral ones because we’re not a theocracy and because Jesus fulfilled the ceremonial part. I knew that God demanded the genocide of the Canaanites because of the cancerous affect their idolatry would have on the purity of Israel’s worship to YHWH. I knew that the conquest was a physical foreshadowing of God’s final judgment. I knew that Israel’s social injustice and spiritual idolatry ticked God off and sent them into exile. I knew that Ezekiel saw His glory depart and then return only with the incarnation of Jesus. I knew that the Sermon on the Mount was idealistic and impossible to keep. I knew that I was saved by grace through faith, because I had believed in my heart that God raised Jesus from the dead and confessed with my mouth that He is Lord. I knew how the Church sold out during the era of Constantine. I knew that I could never participate in such things as the Crusades. I knew that Martin Luther was a hypocrite and anti-Semite. I knew that Hitler used Luther’s speeches to in support of killing off the Jews. I knew how 1948 was a fulfillment of OT prophesy. I knew, though, that God was not pleased with Israel’s treatment of the Palestinians, and would certainly hold them accountable. I knew why the US trade laws needed to be changed. I knew why debts needed to be cancelled. I knew why Christians should never be Rich in an Age of Hunger. I knew that churches shouldn’t remove people from positions of leadership because they were going through a divorce. I knew that girls should never, ever get into the horizontal position with their boyfriends. I knew that Mormans and JWs were certainly not going to heaven, themselves, and were barring multitudes from entering. I knew that missionaries should never impose their home cultures upon indigenous churches. I knew that US Christians should give all their money to starting these churches, yet shouldn’t allow them to become dependant upon foreign money. I knew that missions was to be incarnational, meaning missionaries were supposed to be poor, yet missionary children should never have to actually suffer for their parents’ choices. I knew that God willed that family always comes first. Always. I knew that I, personally, was responsible to free sex slaves in Asia, sweat shop workers in India, Israel, Palestine, coffee growers in Africa, and child soldiers in South America. And I needed to save people from AIDS. I knew so much.

Except Jesus. Sure, He was my Savior. But I didn’t know Him. Since then, everything has changed. Now, I hardly know anything. Anything. Except Jesus. Somehow, I believe that He is merciful and loves me. Somehow, I believe that this love causes Him to point out things in me that are serving as a barrier between us. Somehow, I believe that this love knows my desire to do right and know Him. Somehow, I believe that He knows that I know that I don’t know and He’s ok with that. Somehow, I believe that He knows about my craving for Him and craving for my flesh, yet my desire to let it go, yet my fear of being without it. Somehow, I believe that He is my Shepherd and will unstop my ears so that I can hear and recognize His voice. Somehow, I know that He knows I am just dust and has mercy on me, this rich, spoiled, selfish, wimp of a white girl who is desperate for Him. Somehow, I hope that He won’t let me go to hell. Somehow.

I used to have so many beliefs that tethered me to God as ropes hold a boat close to the shore. I never strayed far, and everyone thought I was really close to God. And I was, geographically. And often times in content, too. But now most of them have been compromised. In their place, God has thrown me a single chord stronger than all the others. But it’s the only one. If I lose it, I’ve got nothing else. I’m scared. And yet comforted. Let us fix our eyes, then, upon Jesus, the author and perfector of our faith, who is surely able to do more than we can ask or imagine, and keep us from stumbling and present us before His glorious throne without fault and with great joy.

an ode to my sister

2008-10-17T04:55:00.000-07:00

The following is actually something that I wrote in July '06, but in light of a few recent conversations with full-time moms, I thought I'd re-post it. You all are my heroes.

At the end of this year’s family vacation in California, I told my sister that the next blog I do would be called, An Ode to my Sister. Spending the entire week with her, her three little boys, and her husband, I was constantly awed by her selflessness. Good moms are nearly always on the clock. They don’t have the luxury of leaving their work at the office. They are always in charge. They are always Mom. Always. And the thing about my sister, is that she never ever complained. Her boys would never know they were wearing her down to the bone. She never made them feel like a burden. Never. She had amazing self-control. I can’t even begin to count the number of times my feelings of frustration and exhaustion would have gotten the best of me. But not Danielle. She always smiled. She always spoke kindly. Even on the plane ride home, after an entire week of running, she sat between her 3 and 4 year old and played with them the entire 4 hour plane ride home. She is my hero. I always talk about how I want to be more like Jesus. Well, for all of my reading, serving, presenting, and teaching, I pale in comparison to my sister, the stay-at-home-mom. And really, when I see the cost of completely giving up my comfort, time, goals, self, for the sake of others, I’m not sure I really want to be like Christ quite that badly. It’s one thing to talk about dying to Self when you know you always have the choice of whether or not you want to die. Danielle surrendered the right to chose the moment she had kids. Dying isn’t optional for her. She never just checks out and goes to her room when she needs some time alone. She’s always on the clock. Always. She is my hero.

more inspired by merton stuff

2008-10-05T17:46:00.000-07:00

Hey, all. I just read an exciting article on BBC. In light of my last post, I thought it appropriate that I pass it on to you. Check it out and let's be sure to be lifting up the Synod, the Catholic Church, and the Italian people in prayer, this next week! Remember Isaiah 40:8- "The grass whithers and the flower fades, but the Word of the Lord stands forever."

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/7653456.stm

Also, here's the amazon.com link to Merton's book, should anybody be interested. But remember my warning- it's not for the faint at heart. It probably took my 5 years to get beyond the first 50 pages! :)

http://www.amazon.com/Seven-Storey-Mountain-Thomas-Merton/dp/0156010860/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1223254402&sr=8-1

merton quotes

2008-10-04T14:55:00.000-07:00

Last week I finished a great book that I’ve been trying to find the motivation to read for several years, now. My uncle had recommended it and I’d bought it, probably back in 2002, but every time I picked it up it bored me to tears so I never made it very far. This time around, though, I couldn’t wait to read it, every night. So instead of giving a summary, which would be impossible to do, I’m just going to share a bunch of my favorite quotes. To give you a basic framework, though, this is a spiritual autobiography. Thomas Merton wrote it in his early 30s, 6 years after entering a Trappist monestary (a very strict order in the Catholic Church). Since I’m sharing so many and you may not want to read them all, I’ve put my favorites of my favorites in bold :) Now, for Merton, himself…

[Languedoc, France] was long wild with heresy, and with the fake mysticism that tore men away from the Church and from the Sacraments, and sent them into hiding to fight their way to some strange, suicidal nirvana (43).

And Catholics, thousands of Catholics everywhere, have the consummate audacity to weep and complain because God does not hear their prayers for peace, when they have neglected not only His will, but the ordinary dictates of natural reason and prudence, and let their children grow up according to the standards of a civilization of hyenas (56).

Who prayed for me? One day I shall know. But in the economy of God’s love, it is through the prayers of other men that these graces are given (109).

The love of pleasure is destined by its very nature to defeat itself and end in frustration (117).

I went into the dark, austere old church, and liked it. But I was scared to visit the monastery. I thought the monks were too busy sitting in their graves, beating themselves with disciplines (125).

But Providence, that is the love of God, is very wise in turning away from the self-will of men, and having nothing to do with them, and leaving them to their own devices, as long as they are intent on governing themselves, to show them to what depths of futility and sorrow their own helplessness is capable of dragging them (136).

I, whose chief trouble was that my soul and all its faculties were going to seed because there was nothing to control my appetites- and they were pouring themselves out in an incoherent riot of undirected passion- came to the conclusion that the cause of all my unhappiness was sex repression!... Day after day I read Freud, thinking myself to be very enlightened and scientific… I don’t know if I ever got close to needing a padded cell: but if I had ever gone crazy, I think psycho-analysis would have been the one thing chiefly responsible for it (137).

I don’t know how anybody who pretends to know anything about history can be so naïve as to suppose that after all these centuries of corrupt and imperfect social systems, there is eventually to evolve something perfect and pure out of them (150).

[I was] like so many others- a Communist in my own fancy- and I would become one of the hundreds of thousands of people living in America who are willing to buy an occasional Communist pamphlet and listen without rancor to a Communist orator, and to express open dislike of those who attack Communism, just because they are aware that there is a lot of injustice and suffering in the world, and somewhere got the idea that the Communists were the ones who were most sincerely trying to do something about it (150).

And that was the end of my days as a great revolutionary… The truth is that my inspiration to do something for the good of mankind had been pretty feeble and abstract from the start. I was still interested in doing good for only one person in the world- myself (164).

(in describing his cross country days at the university) Perhaps I would have been more of a success as a long distance runner if I had gone into training, and given up smoking and drinking, and kept regular hours (173).

The life of the soul is not knowledge, it is love, since love is the act of the supreme faculty, the will by which man is formally united to the final end of all his strivings- by which man becomes one with God (209).

How deluded we are by the clear notions we get out of books. They make us think that we really understand things of which we have no practical knowledge at all. I remember how learnedly and enthusiastically I could talk for hours about mysticism and the experimental knowledge of God [note- academically/ theologically speaking, mysticism is that part of spirituality where the individual has a personal relationship/ experience with God. Merton is here referring to what is typically assumed to be commonplace in evangelical Christianity.] and all the while I was stoking the fires of the argument with Scotch and soda… all one night we sat… in a big dark road house outside of Philadelphia, arguing and arguing about mysticism, and smoking more and more cigarettes and gradually getting drunk. Eventually, filled with enthusiasm for the purity of heart which begets the vision of God, I went on with them into the city to a big speak-easy where we completed the work of getting plastered (224).

I had come, like the Jews, through the Red Sea of Baptism. I was entering into a desert- a terribly easy and convenient desert, with all the trials tempered to my weakness- where I would have a chance to give God great glory by simply trusting and obeying Him, and walking in faith, the way that was not according to my own nature and my own judgment. It would be a land that was not like the land of Egypt from which I had come out: the land of human nature blinded and fettered by perversity and sin. It would be a land in which the work of man’s hands and man’s ingenuity counted for little or nothing, but where God would direct all things, and where I would be expected to act so much and so closely under His guidance that it would be as if He thought with my mind, as if He willed with my will. It was to this that I was called. It was for this that I had been created. It was for this Christ had died on the Cross, and for this that I was now baptized, and had within me the living Christ, melting me into Himself in the fires of His love (248).*

The only answer to the problem is grace, grace, docility to grace (225).

If you don’t want the effect, do something to remove the causes. There is no use loving the cause and fearing the effect and being surprised when the effect inevitably follows the cause (255).

There is nothing wrong in being a writer or a poet- at least I hope there is not: but the harm lies in wanting to be one for the gratification of one’s own ambitions, and merely in order to bring oneself up to the level demanded by his own internal self-idolatry (258).

“I can’t be a saint,” I said, “I can’t be a saint.” And my mind darkened with a confusion of realities and unrealities: the knowledge of my own sins, and the false humility which makes men say that they cannot do the things that they must do, cannot reach the level that they must reach: the cowardice that says: “I am satisfied to save my soul, to keep out of mortal sin,” but which means, by those words: I do not want to give up my sins and my attachments (260).

America… is a country full of people who want to be kind and pleasant and happy and love good things and serve God, but do not know how. And they do not know where to turn to find out. They are surrounded by all kinds of sources of information which only conspire to bewilder them more and more (269).

I had accepted Lax’s principle about sanctity being possible to those who willed it, and filed it away in my head with all my other priniciples- and still did nothing about using it. What was this curse that was on me, that I could not translate belief into action, and my knowledge of God into a concrete campaign for possessing Him, whom I knew to be the only true good? No, I was content to speculate and argue (265).

… the world [of 1939] had now become a picture of what the majority of its individuals had already made of their own souls. We had given our minds and our wills up to be raped and defiled by sin, by hell itself; and now, for our inexhorable instruction and reward, the whole thing was to take place all over again before our very eyes, physically and morally, in the social order, so that some of us, at least, might have some conception of what we had done (271).

Once again, classes were beginning at the university. The pleasant fall winds played in the yellowing leaves of the poplars in front of the college dormitories and many young men came out of the subways and walked earnestly and rapidly about the campus with little blue catalogues of courses under their arms, and their hearts warm with the desire to buy books (283).

The monestary is a school- a school in which we learn from God how to be happy (409).

[on the virtue of Gregorian chant] Instead of drawing you out into the open field of feelings where your enemies, the devil, and your own imagination and the inherent vulgarity of your own corrupted nature can get at you with their blades and cut you to pieces, it draws you within, where you are lulled in peace and recollection and where you find God. You rest in Him, and He heals you with His secret wisdom (417).

There was, I could see, something of a difference between the community proper and the nocices. The monds and the professed brothers were more deeply absorbed in things that the novices had not yet discovered. And yet looking around at the novices there was a greater outward appearance of piety in them- but you could sense that it was nearer the surface. It can be said, as a general rule, that the greatest saints are seldom the ones whose piety is most evident in their expression when they are kneeling at prayer, and that the holiest men in a monestary are almost never the ones who get that exalted look, on feast days, in the choir. The people who gaze up at Our Lady’s statue with glistening eyes are very often the ones with the worst tempers (420).

*When I read things like this, or the writings of the saints, and then hear my fellow (non-Catholic) believers talk about how Catholicism is an impersonal works-based religion, I want to laugh, cry, and scream at the ignorance and smug pride of this assumption. I’m sorry. I know that I’m talking to many people that I dearly love and highly RESPECT in most areas. And know that I’m not judging YOU, but this part of evangelical, Protestant Christianity in which many of us have been raised. And I know that it's really not a Protestant issue, either, but a human nature issue. That's just the way we are. So if you’ve made these kinds of statements, I don’t think it’s a reflection of your heart, but of the Christian culture in which your beliefs about God have been formed. But really, you just don’t know what you’re talking about. I used to think the same thing when my beliefs about Catholicism were based upon what I'd learned from Protestants, as opposed to from Catholics, themselves. I know I’m idealistic. And yes, there are many, many, many Catholics who haven’t a clue as to the meaning behind what they’re doing, especially in areas like Paraguay, where the entire culture is “Catholic.” But the same can be found among Protestants. But if you would read the writings of the saints of old, or get to know the nuns and monks in your area, I think you’d be very surprised, humbled, and challenged by the depth of their faith in and Love of God.

meltdown monday

2008-09-15T04:26:00.000-07:00

Just yesterday I was talking with a fellow missionary and told her that I wasn’t ready to build a theology on some observations I’ve made about possibilities in God’s kingdom. And here I am, at 5:35 in the morning, compelled to post them on the internet for anyone and everyone to see. Lord, have mercy. Reader, consider my idea and judge it for yourself, with the guidance of the Holy Spirit and through the lens of Scripture.

By the time you read this, you will have probably already heard economists speculate that the USA is in for a major financial crisis. Maybe you’ve lost your job. Maybe you’ve lost what you’ve saved for retirement. Or maybe you were in the RV industry and lost your job, last month, and by now you’re deep in bills that you don’t know how you’re going to pay. Perhaps you’ll be redoing your budget in the coming weeks and will consider areas where you can slim down. Please don’t let giving to the poor be one of those areas. If it is, I can almost promise you that such a move would be disastrous. When we’re in financial trouble, our natural reaction is to grasp more and give less. Fight that tendency. In fact, make a conscious decision to do just the opposite. Why? Because Jesus said “Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap. For with the measure you use, it will be measured to you." And know that I’m not saying this as a missionary who’s worried about her support running out. I’m coming home soon. I won’t have a job. I’m in as much trouble as anyone. I do say it, though, as a young woman who’s been away from home long enough to conclude that the Bible is true, and often much more literal than what I’ve always assumed.

One of the things I’ve had to deal with, these last two years, is my response to the poor. Poverty, here, is much more visible than it is, at home, and I’m relatively richer, so I can’t ignore it like I could, before. As I said, earlier, my thoughts are nowhere near ready to confess, publicly (as I’m doing, now), but like Jeremiah, I feel that it’s burning in my bones, this morning. So, this may or not be theologically sound. Take it before the Lord and decide for yourselves. These last 2 years, I’ve concluded that I’m not responsible to judge who is and who is not worthy of my generosity. This conviction has come, largely, by an overall conviction about who God is and what His kingdom is like, but the most influential specific passage of scripture has been Luke 6:30-38. Here’s my (untheologically sound) interpretation, through the lens of the subject of giving to the poor. My commentary is in italics:

Give to everyone who asks you, and if anyone takes what belongs to you, do not demand it back. Seriously. Like, literally. Do to others as you would have them do to you. Not, do what’s right, but treat them how you’d want to be treated. If you were poor, would you like someone to give you stuff? You bet! If you love those who love you, what credit is that to you? Even 'sinners' love those who love them. And if you do good to those who are good to you, what credit is that to you? Even 'sinners' do that. And if you lend to those from whom you expect repayment, what credit is that to you? Even 'sinners' lend to 'sinners,' expecting to be repaid in full. Did you catch that? Lend to people even if you know you won’t be paid back? That’s crazy! Yes, but that’s the way of Jesus. Yes, that’s the way of love. But love your enemies, do good to them, and lend to them without expecting to get anything back. Not just lend to poor people without expecting to get anything back, but lend to your ENEMIES without expecting repayment! Then your reward in heaven will be great, and you will be sons of the Most High, because he is kind to the ungrateful and wicked. Did you catch that? Even GOD is kind to ungrateful and wicked men. Not only is God kind to those who aren’t “good investments” but He’s also kind to ungrateful and wicked men! One of the most annoying things, here, is giving to ungrateful people who EXPECT generosity/ handouts from the rich. But GOD is kind to UNGRATERUL men! Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful. This is the key- We’re to be like our Father. We’re to become conformed to the image of Jesus. And this is what Jesus and God do. Do we think God to be naive? Do we think we have a better system? Do not judge who is worthy of your generosity and you will not be judged. Do not condemn people for the unwise choices that they’ve made to get them where they are and you will not be condemned. Forgive their ungratefulness and you will be forgiven for yours. I’m being serious. Stop assuming that all of this is figurative: Give, and it will be given to you. Seriously. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap. For with the measure you use, it will be measured to you. He also told them this parable: "Can a blind man lead a blind man? Will they not both fall into a pit? Don’t try to discern who is worthy of your generosity, because you’ll mess up in your assessment of things. You don’t know because you still see through a glass dimly. A student is not above his teacher, If God, Himself, doesn’t withhold His generosity from the undeserving (but causes rain to fall on the righteous and unrighteous, alike), who do you think you are to do any differently? If Jesus gave generously to all without finding fault, do you really think you’re more educated or “discerning” than Him? but everyone who is fully trained will be like his teacher. Someday, when you get to heaven, you’ll join Him in judging the nations. But that’s because you’ll be like Him, then. Now, you still see through a glass, dimly. Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother's eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye? How can you say to your brother, 'Brother, let me take the speck out of your eye,' when you yourself fail to see the plank in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother's eye. Even with financial stuff. How do you know how somebody got to be where they are? How do you know you wouldn’t do something different. DO NOT JUDGE. Instead, give generously to all without finding fault, for this is what your Father does. Be perfect, therefore, as Your heavenly Father is perfect.

So there it is. I really have nothing to say except WAKE UP, AMERICA! Not Wake Up, Walmart (Sorry, D). Wake up, United States of America. We have lived in plenty, yet we have not practiced generosity. After WW2, we were a generous nation. But since then, we have become one of the developed nations with the smallest percentage of our GDP given in foreign aid. Let me ask you a question, this morning. And please know that I’ve already asked it of myself and am begging God for a second chance. What percentage of your personal budget, above your 10% tithe, did you share with the poor, last year? The first 10% doesn’t count, as that’s a debt we owe to God, not a voluntary sharing with the poor. But of the 90% that remains, how much did you give away? We can criticize our country all we want, but since being away, I have determined wholeheartedly that God HAS blessed the USA. She DID honor Him. He HAS protected and provided for her. But what have we done with those blessings? And not just the nation, at large, but what have we, His children, done with those blessings? I fear that our time to decide may be running out. It makes me think of Jane Austin’s Sense and Sensibility, when the oldest brother is given his father’s entire inheritance, and becomes convinced that his father never intended that he share it with his less fortunate half sisters. Legally, he didn’t have to. But what’s legality among brothers? How have we, the family members with wealth, cared for God’s other children who have had to go without? And if the measure of generosity that we have used will, in fact, be measured to us, what can we expect from them, in future years?

My rich brothers and sisters, let us not clutch what we have with white and trembling fingers. Instead, let us this minute repent of our selfishness, give generously even in our poverty, and humble ourselves in acknowledgment of the mercy which brings us life.

God answers prayer

2008-09-07T13:35:00.001-07:00

OK. So have you ever heard those stories where somebody is woken up in the middle of the night to pray for somebody else, and then found out, later, that God intervened at that exact moment in time? Well, I've been a little bit down, this month. July was absolutely incredible. I celebrated my second anniversary of coming to Paraguay, entered into my last year, here, on the field, hosted an amazing group from St. Mark, with Carol coming a week earlier and my mom and sister staying a week later, spent a wonderful week at a Spiritual Life Conference with the other missionaries, enjoyed (and stressed out over) a really successful "English Night" with my students at the school, and celebrated my 28th birthday. I think that's about all. August hasn't been quite so hot, for no circumstantial reasons at all. I think July was just so exciting that I crashed like an overstimulated baby. Besides going into the month on an emotional high, I started applying for grad school and setting ministry goals for these remaining months, here, so I think I became a little overwhelmed by the changes that are coming. Instead of trusting in the Lord's love and goodness, I'd spend a few days really struggling to get my thoughts under control and not spiral into a self-centered and faithless "the world is resting on Alyssa's shoulders and she's bound to screw it all up and who knows? maybe she's not even a Christian" realm of fear. I would try to take my thoughts captive, it was just taking a lot of effort. And when I say "crashed" let me clarify before you're tempted to send down a rescue squad- most people knew nothing about my quazi-crash. It wasn't obvious to others, but totally in my head. And it wasn't constant- just maybe 2 days/ week. Nothing serious, just discouraging.

Anyway, yesterday I admitted to my mom my frustration, and I knew she'd meant it when she promised to pray for me. Then this morning I forced myself to go on a 6 mile walk/run before church. One thing I've found is that when I'm spiraling into this kind of discouragement I've got to take care of my body. The physical and spiritual are SO closely linked! As a thinker, it's so much more natural to spend an extra hour in Bible study or prayer than to get my bootie out the door for a run. But the run is exactly what our brain chemistry needs to pull out of these tailspins. If anybody reading this is in a funk, as I like to call it, take care of your body! And this advice is not coming to you from a skinny "I love sports" exercize queen! I'm the poster child for "if I can do it anybody can do it." Get moving! Also, during my run I listened to worship music and forced myself to focus on God's goodness instead of my own limitations (again, not totally natural). Good move number two. Then church was just great. You can read about it in my other blog: http://www.paraguaydailyreflections.blogspot.com/.

But after church I discovered something that made the morning even more amazing (as if it could get any better). We took communion sometime between 10:30 and 11. Probably around 10:45, we were singing, and though I can't explain it, I knew that I was redeemed and loved by God, and that was all that mattered. God loved me. It wasn't anything crazy. It wasn't a huge aha. It was just a peace. It was as if something touched my forehead and said, "Be Still. You are loved." And somehow, I knew that it was true. This afternoon, I called my mom to tell her about all of the people who came to church, this morning, and at one point she mentioned that their Sunday School class had prayed that God would encourage my heart, this morning. Her best guess is that they were praying for me around 10:45.

SMMC trip to Paraguay

2008-09-01T18:23:00.000-07:00

Hey, all. I thought I'd direct you to my July post the St. Mark Paraguay team blog. For those of you who don't know, I had an amazingly wonderful group of people from my home church come down in July to do a VBS for the missionary kids during our Spiritual Life Conference. I would be remiss to leave it out of my personal blog!!!

http://www.teamparaguay2008.blogspot.com/

Also, I just finished and sent out a prayer letter, last week. I'm assuming that most who find my blog will do so through my letter. But if you happen to have not received it and want to, just let me know and give me your e-mail address. Thanks!

Toilets and Sinks

2008-08-17T20:05:00.000-07:00

This blog entry is dedicated to my father, my future husband, all single non-fix-it-people, everywhere, and Greg Stirling. Yesterday my sink wasn't draining well. After careful inspection, I unscrewed the drain, pulled it out, and stuck toothpicks down there to try and remove whatever was clogging it. I wasn't able to pull much out, so I figured it was just too deep and I'd need to find an alternative solution. Well, I'm pretty sure that's what Drain-o is for, but didn't know if they had anything like that, down here. I know I could have asked somebody, but I decided I'd try one more thing, first. So I took a guess at the most abrasive cleaning product I owned, thinking that maybe if I poured lots of down the sink, its very harshness would eat away at whatever was down there. Well, my sister dumped all of my real cleaning products when she was down here and replaced them with Shakley, and even I could surmise that natural corn and sunflower oils weren't going to cut it. So I settled on Clorox. Well, there I was, pouring bleach down my sink, when I felt my socks getting wet. I looked down, and to my horror, bleach was rushing out of cupboard! Forgetting the typical purpose of this abrasive cleaning agent (and thereby not taking off my jeans, first), I immediately got down on my hands and knees to investigate the problem under my sink, which I discovered to be a pipe that was no longer attached to the sink basin. It had a rubber ring around it that looked like it was supposed to suction on, or something, so I tried pushing really hard to make it stick, but to no avail. Concluding that the bleach must have eaten away at the adhesive, or something, I decided it was time to call in the troops. Looked apologetically at Rosie the Rivitor flexing her muscles on my wall, I admitted defeat and called up Greg Stirling. Surprisingly, the fix-it-man-hero-of-all-single-missionaries-in-Villarrica didn't really know what to tell me, except to call one of our church's elders, Elvio, who was a plumber.

So today Elvio came over. While waiting for him to come, I decided to clean my bathroom sink, because I thought I may have him look at that, too, as it also seemed to be draining slowly. Well, whenever I clean my sink, I just go ahead and clean my toilet at the same time. But today, when I lifted up the seat, I was horrified to find that it was very dirty. How embarrassing! And in my defense, I really do clean my toilet, regularly; I have too many visitors not to. There are events that occure in all of our lives which undermine our greatest attempts to maintain pristine undersides of our toilet seats. I, however, am without men or little boys in my life to regularly leave the seat up and in so doing, inadvertently alert me of such events, should they occure. Anyway, Elvio rang my bell before I'd had time to use the brush in the basin, so I just closed the lid, left the blue stuff in there (because I was going to finish the job after he left), and answered my door. Well, the sink fixing, itself, was a humiliating affair that only a single woman living in a foreign country can fully comprehend. I showed him the drain (which was still laying on the counter), and tried to explain how I'd dumped the bleach down and somehow pulled the pipe out from the sink basin. As another side note, you know how stupid you feel when trying to explain to an auto mechanic what's wrong with your car, when you don't know the words for all that stuff under the hood? Well, try it in another language. I'd tried to prepare myself by looking up words I knew I'd need, beforehand, and writing them on my white board for quick reference, but I still forgot some and sounded even more blundering helpless woman idiotlike than what I already was. Can you even imagine? So without going into great detail, I guess you're supposed to clean the pipes under your sink, somewhat regularly, and you shouldn't need to take out the drain, itself. I don't know if that's a general homeowner thing all over the world, or just here, but I hadn't done it. So there I sat while one of our church elders cleaned 18 months worth of my gunk out of the pipes. How humbling. Then, as if the whole ordeal hadn't been bad enough, he then showed me the solution to my leaking pipe problem: screw the drain back in. I guess the pipe is held up by the screw that I'd removed with the drain. I was SO embarrassed. Then Elvio asked where my bathroom was so that he could dump the dirty sink water crap (no puns intended). Oh my goodness, I can't even begin to express the depth of gratitude I felt to the good Lord, in that moment, as I lifted my freshly cleaned seat to pour the sink water down. I will conclude this blog with an excerpt from my prayer journal, tonight:

"Oh, Lord, You are so gracious and kind. There was absolutely no reason why You would have had me clean my toilet just before Elvio came, except to spare me embarrassment upon embarrassment. Oh, how You love me. Thank You. Thank You. Thank You. Oh, how I love You. Thank You."

Amendment to Image of God

2008-08-12T15:58:00.000-07:00

I feel like such a geek posting this on myspace. But bear with me, if only for my own conscience' sake. Today while I was running, I was struck with large amounts of guilt. "Why?" you ask. Good question. I just did something that annoys the living daylights out of me when other people do it. I asserted something as if it were fact when it was really just one possible interpretation of the truth, and didn't acknowledge that to my readers. So… sorry.

Here's the thing. We're really far away from the time and culture of the Bible, right? So while we totally believe it to be true in its original intention, there's quite a bit of gray as to what that original intention really was. So biblical scholars take (among other things) what they know of the language/grammar (the words that were actually written), the language/ style (the way it was written- "was this meant to be a fairytale, poem, or documentary?" for example), and the historical context (what was going on when the words were written that would give us clues as to why they were written) to figure out what they think the original authors (both human and divine) were really trying to say. That's why you can have 10 different interpretations of the same verse of scripture. And while I certainly think there are some interpretations that do a much better job of combining these things (grammar, style, and context), I want to make sure that I never communicate that one of my interpretations of something is the way it should be interpreted. Period. And I want to always encourage those who haven't gone to Bible school to remember this as well- there are lots of interpretations. That's why it's so important to read from different points of view and then draw your conclusion based on the EVIDENCE, as opposed to what you WANT the scripture to say (which is what we're ALL tempted to do; don't let anyone tell you that he or she does it differently or without this temptation!). Does that make sense? Oh, I hope so.

Anyway- about my thing on Genesis 1-2. This gets a little heady, but my last few blogs have been light and funny, so I think I've earned the right to be somewhat intense, this time. That said, read at your own risk:) Here's what we know for sure (well, kinda- I'm not an Old Testament scholar and I don't know Hebrew. But this is what others have told me we know for sure):

*** Except for Gen 1:27, where the English says "male," the Hebrew word that the author chose to use for "man" throughout Genesis 1-2 is kind of like how we use "man" in English- it can either mean a male member of the human race, or it can refer to mankind in general. My interpretation is based on the general use of the word, in which case, it would be translated: So God says "Let us create humankind in our image, in our likeness, and let humankind rule... So God created humankind in God's image. In the image of God, God created humankind. Male and female God created humankind." Grammatically, it works.

*** Culturally, it's very possible that the authors of Genesis were familiar with the Babylonian creation story, and emphasized certain things in the Jewish story to contrast that of the Babylonians. If you want to ask me about this, I can tell you more (or you can type Babylonian creation myth into your search engine), but here are the basics that I think Genesis was trying to get across (as it relates to my study of the image of God).

The world was created directly through the powerful Word of God in the context of order, peace, and goodness. According to the Babylonian story, the world was created through violence and competition, by the dismembered corpse of a destructive and chaotic goddess.
Humans were created in God's image, and exalted as stewards of creation/ coworkers with God. According to the Babylonian story, humans were created by the gods when the gods discovered their need for menial laborers. So the gods killed one of their own (who happened to be a conspirator with the destructive, chaotic woman god whose body they'd already used to create the physical world), and used his blood to create humans.
Women were also created in God's image, and the first man recognized the first woman as being part of himself and necessary to himself in fulfilling his purpose in the world (notice that God's mandate to rule was given to both the man and the woman, and the emphasis on "male and female God created them"). In the Babylonian story, the female god is the chief enemy of the other gods, and represented all of the chaotic and destructive forces in the world. Kinda makes you hope you're born a boy, doesn't it?

*** OT law protects women. Yesterday I happened to be reading Deuteronomy 21-22, and was struck by the extent to which the law protected women. Typically, when a city was conquered, the men would take and rape whomever they wanted, on the spot. Hebrew law mandated that captive women be taken home, cleaned up, given new clothes, and left alone for a full month to grieve their homeland. Only after that, could the man go in and make her his wife. If he didn't like her, after that, he could free her from the marriage, but could not sell her as a slave (which was common practice), because "you have dishonored her" (meaning she wasn't just property to be had, which was the common view). Now, I sure am thankful that I wasn't a woman in that time, so I'm not supporting the forcible taking of brides. However, I sure would rather be taken by a Hebrew, under Hebrew law, than by anybody else (Deut. 21:10-14). The following chapter, then, gives laws about the consequences of having sex with an unengaged virgin (you must marry her), or an engaged virgin/ married woman (you'll be killed). Again, I'm impressed by Hebrew law's insistence that woman are not just for the enjoyment of men, but must be properly married, protected, and provided for in order for men to have the right to have sex with them.

***Jesus' example exalts women. He talked with the Samaritan woman (big no-no), had many women as followers, appeared to the women FIRST after His resurrection, and treated women with dignity and compassion on a number of occasions.

*** NT teaching frees women. Paul says that men and women are equal in Christ (Gal 3:22, 1 Cor 11:11-12). In the Greek, he refers to Phoebe as a deacon, NOT a deaconess, as our English versions translate (Rom 16:1). But it also teaches that while all are free and equal under the law of Christ, all are also responsible to voluntarily and joyfully submit to one another (Eph 5:21) and bring honor to the name of Christ. Furthermore, we are to humble ourselves before one another and not compete for equality or superiority (Phil 2:3-16, Gal 5:13-26). Therefore, while women were truly exalted, free, and equal under Christ, they were not to flaunt their freedom in ways that demonstrated arrogance, belittled men, or brought disrepute to the gospel. For example, ALL WOMEN of NT times wore head coverings and had long hair except for prostitutes. All women. Not just in the Church, but in the culture, at large. It showed that they were under the authority of their husbands and were women of propriety and purity. Prostitutes, however, and women of ill-repute wore short hair and did not wear head coverings. So it appears that the women of the Corinthian church took Paul's teaching on equality to heart and began refusing to wear the head coverings. There is no doubt that Paul teaches freedom and equality, in Christ. But freedom and equality does not give anybody the freedom to bring disrepute to Christ's name or harbor a spirit of arrogance/ rebellion. I believe this is what Paul was addressing in 1 Cor 11.

OK. Hopefully I'll be able to rest, now, guilt-free. In conclusion- I wasn't there in the garden, that day. I know that may come as a shock to those of you who think I'm pretty perfect, but it's true. Furthermore, I don't know how everything went down. But I do know that both men and women were created in His image, and I suspect that it has something to do with the complexity of the Godhead (aka. the trinity), and the perfection and beauty of God that could only be hinted at through our own diversity. However, I must also confess that there are New Testament passages that clearly speak of differences in position and rank/ authority between men and women (esp. 1 Cor 11, but also Eph 5 and 1 Tim 2:8-15). In addition to that, I think there's something to be said for the distinction between man, who was created from dust and given life through God's breath, and woman, who was also created by God but through the man's rib. I can't figure it all out. But I feel pretty confident that we were all created in God's image with some beautiful differences between us (that reflect GOD!), and then something happened to screw things up. I don't think the fall created the differences, but rather the way our selfishness and arrogance (mis)interprets those differences… blah, blah, blah. Thanks for reading. Talk to me. Maybe someday I'll write a book with your opinions and insights in itJ I certainly know of no other topic with which I've wrestled more than the original creation and design of men and women, the fall's devastating effects on our relationships, and Christ's subsequent redemption through which we can once again experience the fullness of love.

The Image of God in Gender

2008-08-09T16:01:00.000-07:00

The Bible begins with a good, creative, beautiful, imaginative, wise, fun, all-powerful God who created the world. It says that all of God's creation was good, except for one thing. Mankind. God had purposed to make man in God's image, but it was impossible to achieve with the creation of only one person. No one person could ever bear the full image of God, because God was too complex to be expressed in a single human personality. So the perfect man that God had created, perfectly capable, confident, creative, and strong, did not and could not bear the full image of his complex Creator. So God caused the man to fall into a deep sleep, and removed one of the man's ribs. With it, God formed the female man. When the male man awoke and saw her, he recognized that he could only be complete by being together with her. He was not only missing her rib, but also her softness, gentleness, and sensitivity, complexity of feeling, simplicity of trust, and absolute fulfillment in serving others.* These things were as foreign to him as the rib that was now in her body. They had origin in him, but found life in her. She was a part of him, and he would never be whole without her. For this reason, a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife. And when the Two distinct personalities, the male and the female, came together for the first time, something entirely new was created. The two had become One flesh. And it was this new creation, this new man, this marriage of the male and female, the representation of masculine and feminine personalities of God, that could finally reflect God's full image. And with this new creation, this new man which bore the full image of God, God saw all that had been made, and it was very good.

* One of my frustrations with much that is written on the differences between men and women is the simplistic suggestion that any human being can possess 100% masculine or 100% feminine characteristics. Instead, I believe that all people are created with a unique combination of the two, which makes us bearable and functional as human beings. If any man was without some amount of gentleness and compassion, which are seen as being feminine traits, he would be a fearsome creature, indeed. And if any woman were completely devoid of rational thought, she would be annoying and helpless beyond imagination. So I see different traits of masculinity and femininity on a spectrum, with all human beings possessing some of each. For this reason, I get frustrated with books that generalize "men" and "women" because they make it so easy to both wrongly assume things about others, and feel like less of a man or less of a woman because of areas where God has blessed us with traits generally found in the opposite sex. So no individual is without aspects of masculinity and femininity, though gender certainly determines whether a person tends towards the masculine or the feminine.

** This interpretation is just that- one possible interpretation. I added an amendment to this blog, if you want more details.

Kids say the darnedest things!

2008-05-22T21:13:00.000-07:00

Last Friday I mentioned to my 6th and 7th graders that I wouldn't be teaching, next year. I think everybody had known that, if they'd stopped to think about it, but we hadn't really ever talked about it. Well, word spread to younger siblings and cousins, and several of my third graders asked about it yesterday. I confirmed that yes, I was planning to go back to the US, next year. They couldn't quite understand why I would leave, which struck me as ironic since the question is usually why I ever came in the first place! :) So today one of my sweet third graders colored me a good-bye picture (As a side note, this is not unusual. I probably average 2 pictures a day from my second and third graders. They're very sweet. The content of this one, though, is what makes it stand out.). It will definitely make the memory box because of it's hilarity. In total seriousness, Caro wrote, "Teacher Alisa: Behold! I am sending you as sheep among wolves. Therefore, be wise as serpents and innocent as doves. Chao, Teacher Alisa. Love, Caro." Whatever was going through that precious girl's head I will never know.

Then 3 hours, later, I was with my 6th and 7th graders reviewing for our big exam. They were playing a game where one student sits facing the class, while another writes a vocabulary word or phrase on the white board above his head (where he can't see it, but the rest of the group can). His team, then, tries explaining the word or phrase (using English, of course) so that he can guess it. The phrase, at hand, was "for the rest of my life." They tried telling him it meant forever, to no avail. So they started describing a wedding ceremony, where the priest asks the bride and groom to commit their lives together 'til death do they part, at which point one of the smartest, funniest, most witty kids said, "It's a really long sentence!" When I first heard it, I thought he was describing marriage as enduring punishment, but then I realized he was just referring to the length of the phrase, itself! I just laughed and laughed and laughed (to myself, of course! : )

A Realized Goal

2008-04-19T21:14:00.000-07:00

Guarani is both the name of the second language spoken in Paraguay, as well as the name of the indigenous people that at one time covered most of Paraguay, as well as parts of Brazil, Bolivia, and Argentina. It means "forest people." Today's Paraguayans are the descendants of Guarani women and Spanish conquistadores. This cultural heritage is very important to the Paraguayan people. In addition to Guarani being one of the 2 official languages, Paraguayans have an amazing understanding of the natural healing properties of plants. They call these plants "remedios" translated remedies, and put them in their terere or mate. Terere and mate are teas made from a type of holly leaf. The yerba leaf is steeped in hot water for mate, and iced water for terere. So, back to the remedios.

In the smallest of supermarkets, a large section is devoted to at least a dozen remedios. Some of these are added just for the taste, but others are used for the medicinal benefits. You can also buy them on various street corners where indigenous people bus into the city every day to sell their wares. They also come door to door in large baskets, and can even be bought in the terminals. Somebody sets him or herself up with yerba (the holly plant), and hot or cold water (depending on the season), dozens of different remedios, and a single cup or hollowed out bull's horn, with a special metal straw called a "bombilla" that has a filter on the end (so you don't suck up the yerba and remedios- you can only drink mate or terere through these straws). You just approach these vendors, pay them a mil, and get to choose which remedio you want! Then they make you up your very own mate or terere! You drink it, of course, using the cup and bombilla that they provide. When you're done, they rinse out your cup, rinse off your metal straw, and wait to loan them out to the next customer.

Part of me is awed by their use of the remedios. Until an hour ago, another part has always been a bit skeptical. For example, yerba is a known stimulant. One time I mentioned that I was having trouble sleeping and one my friends suggested that I add some remedio to my mate before bed (I don't remember what it was). This remedio was known to induce sleep. I was just a little confused, though, about the efficacy of adding a depressant to a stimulant… I kinda laughed about it, but she was completely serious. And this young woman is very sharp. It's not like the people who use remedios are just those who don't know better. The most professional of the professional use remedios. And really, who am I to think that scientists' Pepto Bismol is superior to something already existing in nature? I'm not willing to dismiss the remedios. So anyway, I'm pretty curious about these things, so lately I've started branching out and trying to use some of them, myself. Several weeks ago, I bought some "menta'i" that I've been sucking down all day with my terere. This morning I picked up my little bag of leaves and turned it over to see what ailments I'd been relieving. And this is what I discovered, "stomach settler, stimulant, tonic and antispasm, anxiety pain, vomiting, upper repertory/ chest problems, asthma, and boosts your appetite!" WHAT? It's been boosting my appetite? Wonderful. That has always been the express goal of my life. I'm so glad to know that it's finally been realized.

Mafia

2008-04-10T21:17:00.000-07:00

OK. Really funny story. One of the first commandments for the missionary is to never criticize one’s host culture or government. So let me be clear that this isn’t a critique on the public’s perception of political transparency, but merely a funny story.

I taught my 6th and 7th graders to play Mafia, today. Have any of you played this game? Basically, the narrator deals out one card to each player, and the cards reveal if that person is one of two mafia, the town sheriff, or the town nurse. Throughout the game townspeople keep dying and it’s the town’s job to discover and sentence the mafia, while the mafia are trying to kill everybody off without being discovered. Wow. Describing it all, I’m feeling a little guilty for teaching the game, in the first place. But not too guilty. My kids REALLY got into it and had a ton of fun, not that that should have any bearing on its appropriateness, but still:). The humor highlight for me, though, was when one of the mafia (Diego) slipped the sheriff (Esteban) a mil (money), because Esteban had found him out, and Diego was hoping to keep him quiet. Funny- I had never before considered that strategy.

Mother's Shoes

2008-03-26T09:42:00.000-07:00

There are 3 crippled people that I know of in Villarrica, because they sit outside the grocery store and beg. The one guy is about my parents’ age, I’d guess. He’s pretty good looking. He doesn’t seem at all ashamed. His upper body is very built because his legs are deformed and he gets around by walking with his arms. Then there’s a kid in a wheelchair who sits with his mom. I think he might have cerebral palsy, but I’m not sure. The third is a heavy set woman who crawls around the dirty sidewalks outside of my apartment. I’ve been around, a few times, as she’s crossed the street, and I get embarrassed by all of the traffic that has to stop and wait for her. I never know whether I should offer to help or ignore her. I mean, what would I do to help? It’s not like I can throw her over my shoulder. But it feels wrong to just pass her and do nothing.

Paraguayans have mixed reactions to beggars. I often feel twisted up, inside, because Jesus plainly said to give generously to all who ask. But that couldn’t have been what He meant, because we know that giving to the undeserving only perpetuates the cycle of poverty, right? One time I gave somebody money and one of my Paraguayan friends told me that it is only "los malos," the bad ones, who beg. She said that "los buenos," the good ones, find other ways of surviving. They would say that the adults could get desk jobs if they wanted them, and the crippled child is probably just being exploited so that his parents don’t have to work. In Asuncion there are a ton of kids that beg, as well as mothers with babies on their hips. People tell me that I shouldn’t give them money because the kids will just take everything home to their alcoholic, abusive, and lazy parents. They say that some women actually share babies to carry when begging, because they evoke more sympathy.

It’s like that in my home culture, too. I’m always torn when I go to Chicago. I want to drop my quarters into the Styrofoam cups of those sitting alone, but usually don’t because my head tells me that the money will likely be used on more booze. However, I also know that many people’s choices are directed by unjust systems, created by the privilaged minority, that don’t give poor people many good options. And this extends to the international poor. For years I've blamed the United States’ greed for the world’s poverty, and talked a lot about social justice and unfair trade barriers. As a rich American, then, I’ve always felt exceedingly guilty for my White, American Privilage, and the extent to which I was contributing to the oppression of the poor. This guilt persuaded me to give a lot of money to the poor, but for all the wrong reasons. I gave because I was afraid of being punished for my wealth, as opposed to giving out of generosity and love. Since I felt that it was my responsibility to give but didn’t want to perpetuate bad systems, I felt burdened to discern between those who were poor because of their own choices and those who were merely victims of injustice, so that I could direct my giving, accordingly. But lately, I’ve changed my mind. I no longer feel the burden to rightly judge, because I no longer feel obligated to give.

I no longer feel obligated to give because I’ve seen both sides, now. Warning: huge and unfair generalizations coming. You will either love me or hate me based on my next paragraph. Also, the situation in Paraguay is NOT representative of the entire world, so I still believe that corrupt systems are responsible for a lot of poverty and they need to be changed, despite what I'm about to say. Now, back to blogging. I know the lives of my supporters, back home. I know of their honesty, integrity, hard work, and generosity. I also know that these values are not part of Paraguayans’ cultural heritage. They are brave, warm, flexible, and tranquilo (relaxed and fun-loving). These character traits are admirable, but not exactly wealth creating. People make choices and choices have consequences. Some people chose to work their butts off and sacrifice relationships in the process. They are relationally poor, but materially rich. Others relax and drink a lot of terere. They are relationally rich, but materially poor. Neither group should necessarily be pitied and rescued. That’s belittling because each group must be allowed to make its own choices, and accept the consequences they bring. In addition to this natural propensity toward enjoying life (as opposed to working it to death), Paraguayan leaders have never been praised for their transparency. A lot of money (not to mention people) have gotten "lost" through the years. For these reasons, I can no longer blame the US for Paraguay’s problems, or obligate my friends, back home, to provide for my friends, here. One of my young friends to whom I’ve given a lot, laughs about the fact that she cannot save money. Whenever she has a little, she spends it before the day is out. A lot of my supporters, on the other hand, aren’t impulsive spenders and do save. I cannot claim that those who have become wealthy through hard work, frugality, wisdom, and honesty (whether individuals or governments) are morally obligated to share the fruit of their labor with those who are unhappily reaping what their own hands have sown. That’s not fair.

Yet neither was it fair that God had mercy on us and became a man. I’ve always struggled to receive His grace, probably because I’ve never really given it. But I am the lazy, greedy, insolent, crippled beggar who never learns and always comes back for more. Just like Paraguay, my human culture is headed for destruction by its own doing. He wasn’t obligated to do anything about it. It wasn’t His fault that we made poor choices. We brought it upon ourselves. I brought it upon myself. He wasn’t bound by some cold theology. He didn’t have to come. Obligation cancels out love. But although He didn’t have to, God loves me and so He came, anyway. And not only did He come that once, but He keeps coming. I screw up and He still comes back. I am the one who has nothing to offer. But God still loves me. What if the Father had said to the Son, "You know what? This whole ’I’ve come for the sick/salvation by grace through faith thing’ really doesn’t give people much of an incentive to clean up their acts. Let’s scrap it and create a system in which the consequences are more reflective of their choices." But He didn’t. Though it hasn’t fit into any kind of effective model for social change, God has continuously and freely shown me love and mercy. Mercy. Free. I am that crippled beggar. But my Father sends rain on the righteous and unrighteous. And my Father pours out blessings upon ungrateful men. I am that crippled beggar, but I have been adopted. He didn’t have to and neither do I. But I want to be like my Dad, and I know no greater joy than to stumble about extending mercy like a little girl playing dress up, clumsily parading through the house in her mother’s shoes.

tag

2008-03-22T21:18:00.000-07:00

First of all, I had posted a new blog, earlier this week, and then removed it. I’m sorry to any of you who were confused by this move. It was called Shining Like Stars and dealt with the nature of missions, salvation, and spiritual fruit. If any of you would like to read it, let me know. Secondly, I’ve been virtually tagged by my sister in Elkhart, Indiana. Have any of you been tagged, yet? I didn’t get a very clear explanation of this game, but I think it means I get to tell you 10 things that you may not know about me and then tag 5 others. OK. Here goes...

I pretend to be deep and into making a difference in the world. I’ve been a missionary, a teacher, and a youth pastor, and I want to be a professor of theology, someday, but my favorite job was baristaing (being a professional coffee maker) at The Crossing.
I was once the youngest member of the Cleveland Little League’s All Star softball team.
I love my balcony, especially around sunrise and in the rain. I have a hammock and homemade compost bin under the roofed portion. Next week I’m hoping to plant a balcony vegetable/ herb garden with seeds from my wonderful sister-in-law, Kristin.
I don’t change my sheets nearly enough. I should make a chart to remind me.
My favorite (and only) pieces of furniture are my extension table and spice rack that my granddad made me for college graduation, a twin bed frame, dresser, and nightstand that he made for my mom when she was little, and the bookcase that I designed and built with my dad.
I got detention in the 7th grade for starting a riot in PE. Our teacher, Ms. Wesdorp, hated us slamming our locker doors so several of us did it over and over again just to make her mad. She came in and only caught one girl and gave her detention. I announced that wasn’t fair because there were obviously several involved and our teacher was obviously being discriminatory. She responded that if anybody else wanted to come forward she’d gladly write them up, as well. So, full of holy justice, idealism, and insufferable insubordination, I announced that I, too, would gladly suffer her fate.
This may not be news to anybody, but I also sat through one or two Saturday Schools in high school for having too many tardies.
I’ve come to LOVE helping kids learn, especially those to whom it doesn’t come easily. When we were dividing up the English classes, this year, I volunteered for the 3rd graders, a class that has had the reputation of being incontrollable since preschool. I acted like I was being a virtuous martyr, but really I was excited about the challenge of it all.
I just killed a fly by clapping my hands above it the way my grandpa taught me.
OK, I’m back. I just took a break to go wash my hands from the fly guts. I think I’ve always repressed my secret desire to be a cheerleader, and hidden it by making fun of them, instead (my sister receiving the brunt, of course). Yesterday I taught 10 girls, ages 7-22, the "We’re Dynamite" cheer that I’ve had so much practice mocking through the years.

Storytelling and Handholding

2007-12-09T21:21:00.000-08:00

Picture yourself in a kitchen. Strip out all of the cupboards, shelves, counters, and food. Good. Now get rid of the table. You can leave a few chairs. Turn out all of the lights except for one. Turn off the hot water. Unplug the fridge and remove the door. Good, now it can be used as a storage unit for your random dishes. Did I mention that your dishes absolutely cannot match? Next, tear out the tile floor and cement foundation, so that you're down to packed earth. Replace your dog with 4 roaming chickens, 2 ducks, a rooster, and freshly hatched chicks. Your dog can keep the cow company, outside. Finally, build a little fire in a stone bowl, and set it on a stool in the middle of the room. Great. Now we're ready to bring in the chairs for our budding children's ministry! It was in this setting that I led the most fun Bible study of my life.

One of my goals was to help train 2 teenagers, so I got to discover my own creativity in finding memorable ways to teach without spending much money on resources. And God has been so good in giving me ideas. I know they were from Him because the best ones were usually last minute additions. For example, one evening I was planning to teach on Gomar and Hosea. I know that sounds crazy as a children's story, but prostitution is an accepted part of this culture. A mother once told me that drugs and prostitution were her greatest fears for her daughter. Girls often sleep with teachers to get good grades or pay their way through school, and fathers commonly pay for their sons' first visit as a right of passage. Anyway, we were going to talk about God's relentless love, that night. On the way out the door, I remembered that bridal shower game where you make a wedding gown out of toilet paper, so I asked my ride to hold on while I ran across the street to buy TP. Another thing I loved about God's inspiration, is that the ideas would often evolve with later lessons. It was that Hosea night, in fact, that I had the random idea of using different colors of water to represent different nations, and mixed them all together to show how Israel became dirty (like a prostitute) when she worshiped other gods. Then this last week, I thought to use Clorox bleach to restore the water to its original clarity. And I discovered that the Clorox took a minute to take effect, so if I worked fast I could dump some red food coloring in bleach (which the kids just assumed was water), say that it represented Jesus' blood, and pour it into Israel's dirty water to make them clean! Then, I had the idea of cutting hearts out of black fabric and having each of the kids baptize their heart in Jesus' blood, and they could see hearts could becoming clean, too! Anyway, that's what I mean by evolving. Back when I first thought to use water to symbolize Israel's impurity, Clorox wasn't even on my mind's horizon. But everything tied together so perfectly. Anyway, every week was a blast!

I decided to teach them the Story of the Bible, by teaching them a scene/ story every week, going in chronological order, beginning with Adam and Eve. For every story, we made up an action step and built a mime that takes us all the way through to Jesus. Paraguayans are story people. We finished up our series, this last week, with Jesus' life, death, and resurrection. I'd met, earlier, with a Guarani speaking member of our church, who talked with the kids about Jesus' desire to have a relationship with them and led them in "the sinners' prayer". Most weeks, I felt like I could get by with shoddy Spanish and a bunch of games/ dramas/ etc, but didn't want to risk confusion on this one. After they prayed, the believer in whose house we met prayed for all of the kids. I've had a lot of questions, recently, about the salvation process, especially with young children whose parents are not believers, themselves. But I do know that God loves these kids and on December 5, 2007, they invited Him to clean their dirty hearts and be their friend. And that's super exciting.

Besides it being a fun and challenging teaching experience, I also grew to love the kids. A few months ago, I noticed that Paraguayan little girls are always holding hands. I have nephews, so I don't know if this is true for little girls, across the board, or specifically in Paraguay. But I've noticed it, here. They're so sweet and honest in their invitations for friendship and connection. They run around the playground holding hands. They go to lunch holding hands. They chase boys holding hands. They do everything holding hands. When do they lose that instinct? A few months, ago, one of the Kapi-I girls took my hand as we ran out to play Hide-and-Seek. It was really uncomfortable for me. I mean, it's sweet to grab someone's hand, squeeze it a little to say "I care" and then let it go. But holding hands as you go from place to place? After a while, I casually pulled away. But then I remembered my hand-holding observations. What an honor! Immediately I reached for hers, again.

My mom always taught me that people don't care what you know until they know that you care. In Kapi-I, I learned that care equals play. Most nights, we'd finish before the adults and go out to play Hide-and-Seek. I hated it. These little kids were the descendants of forest dwelling Guarani warriors. They were quick, agile, and stealthy. I, on the other hand, felt like an overgrown white moron. I could have them cornered at only a meter away, and they'd somehow dodge my grasp. I was "it" every other round. "Why in the world did they want me to play?" I would always ask myself. It certainly wasn't because I offered good competition. But every week they'd eagerly take my hand, and with their shining eyes and radiant smiles they'd ask me, "Vamos a jugar?!" So every week I put my comfort and pride on the shelf and decided that so long as they wanted me, I could do nothing better with my evening than run around a muddy field in the dark with a bunch of little Guarani warriors.

By the way, grapes and watermelon are now in season. YUM!

Augustine Quotes

2007-11-10T09:40:00.000-08:00

I just finished reading Augustine’s Confessions and it was incredible. Check out some of my favorite quotes:

What can any man say when he speaks of Thee? But woe to them that keep silence- since even those who say most are dumb (3).

[reflecting on his infancy] And when I was not satisfied… I grew indignant that my elders were not subject to me and that those on whom I actually had no claim did not wait on me as slaves- and I avenged myself on them by crying (5).

What is it to me if someone doesn’t understand this? Let him still rejoice and continue to ask, “What is this?” Let him also rejoice and prefer to seek Thee even if he fails to find an answer, rather than to seek an answer and not find Thee (6)!

For the tedium of learning a foreign language mingled gall into the sweetness of those Grecian myths (14).

Yet, by Thy ordinance, O God, discipline is given to restrain the excess of freedom; this ranges from the ferule of the schoolmaster to the trials of the martyr and has the effect of mingling for us a wholesome bitterness, which calls us back to Thee from the poisonous pleasures that first drew us from Thee (14).

Hear my prayer, O Lord; let not my soul faint under Thy discipline, nor let me faint in confessing unto Thee Thy mercies, whereby Thou hast saved me from all my most wicked ways til Thou shouldst become sweet to me beyond all the allurements that I used to follow. Let me come to love Thee wholly, and grasp Thy hand with my whole heart that Thou mayest deliver me from every temptation, even unto the last (14).

[reflecting on the value placed on rhetoric and being a persuasive speaker] I do not blame the words, for they are, as it were, choice and precious vessels, but I do deplore the wine of error which was poured out to us by teachers already drunk. And unless we also drank, we were beaten, without liberty of appeal to a sober judge (16).

[on the sins of his youth] What shall I render to the Lord for the fact that while my memory recalls these things my soul no longer fears them? I will love Thee, O Lord, and thank Thee, and confess to Thy name, because Thou hast put away from me such wicked and evil deeds. To Thy grace I attribute it and to Thy mercy, that Thou hast melted away my sin as if it were ice (28).

For I had my back toward the light, and my face toward the things on which the light falls, so that my face, which looked toward the illuminated things, was not itself illuminated (63).

And what kind of burden was it for Thy little ones to have a far slower wit, since they did not use it to depart from Thee, and since they remained in the nest of Thy Church to become safely fledged and to nourish the wings of love by the food of a sound faith (63).

For our stability, when it is in Thee, is stability indeed; but when it is in ourselves, then it is all unstable. Our good lives forever with Thee, and when we turn from Thee with aversion, we fall into our own perversion. Let us now, O Lord, return that we be not overturned, because with Thee our good lives without blemish- for our good is Thee Thyself. And we need not fear that we shall find no place to return to because we fell away from it. For, in our absence, our home- which is Thy eternity- does not fall away (64).

I was still eagerly aspiring to honors, money, and matrimony; and Thou dist mock me (90).

[regarding his philosophical/ theological questions] I continued to reflect upon these things, and Thou wast with me. I sighed, and Thou dist hear me. I vacillated, and Thou guidest me. I roamed the broad way of the world, and Thou didst not desert me (90).

Active efforts were made to get me a wife. I wooed; I was engaged; and my mother took the greatest pains in the matter (100).

[in the period following his conversion] The examples of Thy servants whom Thou hadst changed from black to shining white, and from death to life, crowded into the bosom of our thoughts and burned and consumed our sluggish temper, that we might not topple back into the abyss (149).

He is Thy best servant who does not look to hear from Thee what he himself wills, but who wills rather to will what he hears from Thee (194).

It is not the uncleanness of meat that I fear, but the uncleanness of my incontinent appetite. I know that permission was granted Noah to eat every kind of flesh that was good for food; that Elijah was fed with flesh; that Joh, blessed with a wonderful abstinence, was not polluted by the living creatures (that is, locusts) on which he fed. And I know that Esau was deceived by his hungering after lentils and that David blamed himself for desiring water, and that our King was tempted not by flesh but by bread. And thus, the people in the wilderness truly desired their reproof, not because they desired meat, but because in their desire for food they murmured against the Lord.
Set down, then, in the midst of these temptations, I strive daily against my appetite for food and drink. For it is not the kind of appetite that I am able to deal with by cutting it off once for all, and thereafter not touching it, as I was able to do with fornication. The bridle of the throat, therefore, must be held in the mean between slackness and tightness. And who, o Lord, is he who is not in some degree carried away beyond the bounds of necessity? Whoever hs is, he is great; let him magnify Thy name. But I am not such a one, ‘for I am a sinful man.’ Yet I too magnify Thy name, for he who hath ‘overcome the world’ intercedeth with Thee for my sins, numbering me among the weak members of His body; for Thy eyes did see what was imperfect in Him, and in Thy book all shall be written down (199).

How then, shall I respond to him who asks, ‘What was God doing before He made heaven and earth?’ I do not answer, as a certain one is reported to have done facetiously (shrugging off the force of the question), ‘He was preparing hell,’ he said, ‘for those who pry too deep.’ It is one thing to see the answer; it is another to laugh at the questioner- and for myself I do not answer these things thus. More willingly would I have answered, ‘I do not know what I do not know,’ than cause one who asked a deep question to be ridiculed- and by such tactics gain praise for a worthless answer (223).

This way of Thine is too far removed from my sight; it is too great for me. I cannot attain to it. But I shall be enabled by Thee, when Thou wilt grant it, O sweet Light of my secret eyes (228).

Thou, O Light and Truth, wilt show me (232).

[a refrain repeated about many subjects] All this, in Thy sight, is clear to me. Let it become clearer and clearer, I beseech Thee, and in that light let me abide soberly under Thy wings (246).

For they all have the same end, which is temporal and earthly happiness. This is their motive for doing everything, although they may fluctuate within an innumerable diversity of concerns (281).

Electricity Failures and Falling Walls

2007-10-14T21:22:00.000-07:00

Usually we leave between 6:30 and 7. At 6:25, I still hadn't run off pictures of Joshua and the Battle of Jericho, so I called Josephina and asked her to pick me up at the Shell station, instead of my apartment, and ran down to make copies for the kids to color. By 6:35, I was waiting outside. Instead of the van pulling up, Mario Luis came bounding across the parking lot, thrilled to report a delay in our departure. The old van had finally had it and was being repaired in a garage a block away. I absentmindedly asked the Lord to heal our van. An hour later, we were off.

Instead of disembarking at Ramon's, like we normally do, we sardined ourselves together to make room for 10 more women and children, a third of whose breasts were nursing tiny babies. After about 7 minutes, we stopped in the middle of what appeared to be a vacant lot. I had thought we were to be going to the home of a new believer. She'd invited us to do the study there, that week, to include her "marido," the man with whom she´d been living but never married. I heard some murmurs about electricity, and then followed the others out of the van. In the 7 minutes between our departure and arrival, a storm had arisen. Thus, as soon as I climbed out, my eyes were violated by hundreds of particles of swirling earth. Upon opening them, again, I looked above to see trees' branches being violently whipped by the angry wind. It was an awesome night. Unfortunately, the wind had knocked out the house's 2 lights (which is why I hadn't noticed it, earlier), so we weren't sure how to proceed. After some time of huddling together to protect the babies from the beating earth, Augustine called us over to the house, where we joined hands to pray. The prayers of these young believers were as simple as the storm was ferocious. They recalled Jesus quieting the storm. They thanked God for forgiving their sins. They humbly committed their lives to proclaiming His glory. Then we began to sing songs of joyous praise and heartfelt adoration. Then the lights came on.

We thanked the Lord, and prepared for the study. The adults sat in a circle in the outdoor quincho, while the kids and I circled around a tiny folding table in the outdoor "kitchen." After setting it up, our hostess ceremoniously covered it with a table cloth. I noted the irony in this kind gesture, given the dirt floor, pots and utensils hanging randomly from the ceiling, and chickens running underfoot. But it was beautiful. Amidst the howling wind, I bent down and began asking my kids questions about our love story. We reviewed the love of God, independence and separation of man, and the story of the exodus, which demonstrated both God's faithful love and uncontested power. Then we acted out the story through the mime that we'd been building, each week. Upon discovering that none of my co-leaders had read the assigned story, I determined to tell it, myself, going heavy on action and light on words.

So we stood up and everyone "wandered" through the kitchen to symbolize Israel's 40 years in the desert. Then we all cut our throats to show the death of Moses and that entire generation. Then we were ready for Joshua. So we left the kitchen area and formed a circle around a large pile of bricks that were lying about 5 meters away. The bricks represented the walled city of mighty Jericho. I gave the instructions- we'd march around it in silence 6 times, and then when I gave the signal on the 7th vuelta, we'd all shout, "God is strong! God is strong!" and blow our pretend trumpets. They LOVED it! The little girl behind me couldn't stop giggling (during our 6 silent laps), so I kept turning around to shush her. That was a nice touch, I think. Finally, the seventh time came, and we shouted and trumpeted our little heads off. And do you know what happened next? The wall fell down! (not really. use your imagination), and we rushed into the city and killed everybody (not really. we just mentioned that that's what the Israelites did). The end. It was a little anticlimactic, but that's okJ So then we went back into our outdoor kitchen and I passed out crayons and pictures for everyone to color. Now, Paraguayan children aren't used to our North American classrooms with resources galore, so they are amazing improvisers. 4 or 5 kids used the little table. A few used their own laps. A few sat on the floor and used their chairs. And one used the back of her little brother, who sat on her lap. It was pretty amazing. I've come to love their lack of expectations and delight with whatever they are given. So they focused on their pictures while I looked over their shoulders and praised their choice of colors. They are always so proud of themselves; I love it! At one point, 2 of my favorite little girls wandered off to the side of the house. I found them squatting in the dark and went over to check out what they were doing. "Making pee!" they giggled. Oops. I probably shouldn't have interrupted. Anyway, when we were finished coloring, we stood and sang our Pharaoh song with motions, packed up the van, and headed home. Back in my apartment, I washed my hair two or three times to get all the sand out.

I love Kapi-I nights. I'm always exhausted, going into them, but return wired and fulfilled. It makes me think of how Jesus said that His "food" (or energy) comes from doing the will of His Father. Going to Kapi-I is the easy part of being a missionary. It's the fun part. It's the part that makes for good photos to be sent home. Therefore, it's that which starry-eyed idealists imagine when they're applying to serve overseas. And it is not disappointing. It's every bit as wonderful as the pictures and stories portray. Unfortunately, it only accounts for an hour of each (168 hour) week. But the other hours are for another time. As far as this one goes, I promise that it's every bit as romantic as the best of dreams.

Pride of the USA

2007-10-05T09:52:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: I am NOT a political scientist, sociologist, or economist, so I really don’t know what I’m talking about. I am a dabbler. And I’m a children’s Bible teacher… without technology. Anyone who knows anything about the above mentioned fields should proceed with huge amounts of grace. And please do tell me where I’m off base. Seriously.

The collective voice of the United States of America’s elite might be more like God’s than that of any powerful nation since Israel’s united kingdom under the great king David. Especially the democrats. Especially the ones on the coasts. Our founding fathers did a brilliant job of balancing power in the government and creating a constitution that provided its citizens the freedom of movement and creativity, thus promoting growth and maturity. Therefore, humanity in the United States is becoming more like the most perfect being we can imagine, which is God. Christians, Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Bahais, Pagans, Agnostics, and Atheists alike, are developing toward this ideal. Here’s how I see it…

A trillion years ago, God creates humankind to be a reflection of Him (oh, and I’m not a scientist, either). He created us in His image, and breathed His life into us, as stewards of His good world. We, however, didn’t want to be stewards. We wanted to be owners. We got it into our heads that we were capable of ruling ourselves. So we separated ourselves from the Creator-steward relationship we’d had with God. We’ve tried independence, and we’ve done a really sucky job. Sure, there have been bright lights of human goodness every now and again, but as a whole, we’ve bombed. I can think of very, very, very few exceptions to the rule that I learned in my political science classes: power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts, absolutely. Powerful groups of people exploit weaker groups to their own advantage. Almost always. Still, though, there’s something deep inside of us that knows this can’t be right. Like seedlings growing toward the sun, we reach toward goodness, selflessness, and love, despite our natural tendency to be selfish and tyrannical. We all desperately want to be good. And in the US, I think this acknowledgement of the evil of selfish power, and the desire to be good, to be the kinds of people that we somehow know we were meant to be, has somehow been able to grow.

Dressing down, producing good art, and theorizing about human goodness are all luxuries of the privileged. Dr. Richard Allen Farmer is the best dressed man I’ve ever known. He is also black. I remember him telling us that a white man is automatically taken seriously. But a black man always has to begin relationships by proving his legitimacy. I’ve noticed a similar phenomenon in Paraguay. Women tend to be very conscious of their appearance. They show their social standing through their make-up and dress. I, however, have nothing to prove. I’m a North American. I’m rich. Everyone knows it. So I can dress however I like while maintaining my respectability (I think… maybe not! J ). I think I might have been in a world history class when I learned that the level of cultural advancement can be measured by a people’s art. When they get beyond having to spend all of their energy on the necessities of life, time is freed up for creative pursuits. I wonder if a similar statement could be made about human goodness. When you know you don’t have to beat your neighbor to the store to get the last loaf of bread, you are a little more free to consider sharing as a means to making the world a better place. Typically, it’s not the poor peasants who have created the philosophical theories that have shaped political process. It’s been university students that have called for change. University students are among the privileged.

The balance of power, constitutional freedom, and material wealth have allowed citizens of the United States of America the luxury of thinking about, and growing toward their ideal. And I think they’re really close to achieving it. The universities in the US are calling for social change. They’re basically full of political lefties who think that we should use our power to help the less fortunate. They are championing the poor. I think this sentiment is from God. They reject power that exploits the masses for the benefit of a few, including them. They call for freedom. That’s from God, too. Jesus said that He came to provide freedom for the captives and good news for the oppressed. We want to care for the poor. So does God. We want to care for the environment. So does God. We want peace in the Middle East. So does God. We want freedom. And we realize that it’s not happening. We are trying to make it happen. We instinctively know that it should. We’re trying so hard. And we’re disillusioned because we see how messed up we still are. We oscellate between hope and despair. We all echo the cry of Ray Lamontagne, “How come? How come I can’t tell the free world from a living hell? How come?” We know that our freedom shouldn’t cause suffering on the other side of the world. “How come all I see is a child of God in misery? How come?” We know it shouldn’t be this way. And we’re committed to change. But how? Nothing is working. “It’s just man killing man killing man killing man killing man killing man. I don’t understand! How come?”

Sometimes we like to turn up Josh Ritter because there’s something in his anger that soothes our own. We join him in his accusations, “If God’s up there he’s in a cold dark room. The heavenly host are just the cold dark moons. He bent down and made the world in seven days. And since then He’s been walking away… if what’s loosed on earth will be loosed up on high, it’s a hell of a heaven we must go to when we die… ” We know something is wrong. Most of the suffering also know that something is wrong, but they’re not in the position to question it or consider affecting change. We, however, in the United States, know that something is wrong, and we feel responsibility to grow toward that light of our ideal, that all might live fulfilled and free. In this desire, we are a lot like God, minus the ability to bring it about, of course.

Our big Achiles’ heel, though, besides the roots that stubbornly dig down to secure our own comfort, pleasure, and position, is that age-old issue of independence. We were not created to be owners. We are not smart enough. We were created to be intelligent, but accountable stewards. None of us knows everything. Even the most intelligent of scientists study to discover that which they do not know. Through the middle ages, church leaders abused their power to manipulate and silence the masses. They intentionally kept them in ignorance. In response, we rose and claimed the right to direct our own destinies, rejecting submission to our human lords of knowledge. Like our commitment to securing a better future for collective humanity, this was like God. But we took it farther, submitting to no power, neither human nor divine, setting ourselves up as little individual gods of our own universe. And this has put us at odds with God, the Ideal with whom we have so much else in common. We have become like Him, because we were created to be like Him. But our insistence that we stand on equal footing will be our destruction. Throughout history, He has been faithful to His word, opposing the proud and giving grace to the humble. Let us take heed and submit ourselves to the benevolent but absolute authority of our God, the Creator and Owner of the heavens and the earth. If we refuse to acknowledge Him, we will bring our own destruction, no matter how godly we may become.

wealth, identity, and love

2007-08-23T09:48:00.000-07:00

This morning I was reading Psalm 10, and it caused me to reflect on the idea of God as the defender of the poor, followed by questions about my own attitudes concerning the poor. The following were some of my conclusions.

I think the main reason why it is harder for a rich man to get into heaven than it is for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, is because of the way wealth insidiously affects the wealthy person’s identity. He tends to see himself as being capable, which affects both his relationships with and identity before others and the Lord. First, his wealth tends to lower his esteem of the poor. Unconsciously, he sees them as a group, instead of individuals, and assumes that they are content with their lot because it’s all they’ve known. He sees himself, in contrast, as being so different from them, that he looks past their pain. As an example, I draw attention to the way I don’t make as much of an effort to learn the names of people from the colonia, or market people, as I do professionals and students. I see professionals and students as individuals with an interesting story, while I view those from the compania only as members of a larger group, that is too different from me to understand. In this way, my view of the world is distorted and I am less likely to treat my poor neighbor with the unconditional love characteristic of those in God’s kingdom.

Secondly, his wealth tends to lower his dependence on God. Throughout the Hebrew Scriptures, the Israelites go through cycles of being desperate and crying out for deliverance, being rescued by the Lord, experiencing His blessing, growing self-sufficient and satisfied, and then coming to ruin, only to cry out again and begin the cycle, once more. This is one of the themes, in my opinion, of the story of God’s people. I’m also reminded, at this point of a (probably fictitious) story in Christian tradition of Augustine walking through the streets of Rome with another believer, who proudly reflected on the wealth surrounding them, “Well, we Christians can no longer say ‘Silver and gold have I not!” to which Augustine wisely responded, “True. And neither can we follow it with ‘Pick up your mat and walk.’” Similarly, I remember being struck by Amy Charmichael’s observation in A Chance to Die, “We claim to be strangers and aliens in this world, yet we settle down as if we’re right at home and plan on staying for quite some time. It’s no wonder that apostolic miracles have ceased. Apostolic living certainly has.” Wealth naturally blinds us to our dependence on God, because our reality is that we can meet all of our own needs. It is only by taking God’s word at face value, which requires a choice to live by faith rather than sight, that we will see the reality of our poverty before Him and rest in His provision, alone.

Finally, I’ve become aware of how, in our North American culture, at least, our wealth affects our identity by allowing us to be “with it”. If we have the money to do so, we’ll show that we’re all right, by hurriedly replacing our colored outdoor Christmas lights when white ones have come into vogue, stowing away our tapered Jeans and leg warmers until they show up to our complete horror 20 years later, replacing our dishes with each new season, and remodeling our homes every 10 years. If we don’t do these things, we are devalued in our own eyes, and in the eyes of our society. When we see a missionary who comes home on furlow and looks 20 years behind, we say “Oh, bless her heart (that stupid idiot)!” Now, we kinda give her a break, because her ignorance is explainable; we know she’s been gone. But when we see people in the street who aren’t with it, we turn them in to What Not to Wear, not just reflecting on their clothes. Our judgment of them penetrates to their ignorance or naiveté, as a person. Now, I’m not criticizing people for loving the latest styles. My sister-in-law is an interior designer and a VERY good dresser. She loves to express her creativity by putting together fashionable outfits off of 7 different sale racks. God created beauty, so this is wonderful, so long as it doesn’t become a measure of her, or others’, worth (which it doesn’t… because she loves me! J). When style turns into a means of determining “with-it-ness”, it becomes either a blinder or a burden, depending on which side of the fence we fall, thus distorting our reality and robbing us of peace.

So, what do we do about it? I am convinced that God is not opposed to material wealth and beauty. More and more, I see that He is the God of unlimited resources and abundant love who created this crazy amazing world in which we presently live, while He is busy building us heavenly mansions in which to spend eternity. Our God is the fountain of inexhaustible wealth and power. So I cannot see it fitting that He requires us, as His children, to live as powerless paupers in order to please Him and secure our places in heaven. Jesus follows His statement about it being harder for a rich man to get into heaven than for a camel to get through the eye of a needle by saying that what is impossible with men is possible with God. I think, then, that the 2 keys have to do with identity and love. As the natural consequence of wealth is to raise one’s confidence in himself, thus resulting in self-sufficiency, lack of dependence on God, and devaluation of the poor, we must resist this natural trajectory and seek humility before God and neighbor, alike. Secondly, once we see the relationships between ourselves, our God, and our neighbors as they really are according to the true reality of the unseen world, we must cultivate His love in our hearts, using our resources as a means of extending that love by giving generously, as we, ourselves, have so freely and abundantly received.

Body Heat

2007-08-15T21:24:00.000-07:00

Did you know that when King David was old, he was always cold, at night, in spite of his blankets, so they hired a young boy to sleep with him and keep him warm? It's in 1 Kings, no joke! And remember the passage in Ecclesiastes where it says that when two people lie down, together, they keep one another warm? I will never read those passages the same, again.
Until coming to Paraguay, I don't know that I really knew what it was like to be cold for extended periods of time. Our winters, here, are actually warmer than in Indiana, but nobody can afford central heat. The only places to escape the cold are under my electric blanket, in the shower, or under my hair drier (an ingenious discovery… my hair's been straight a LOT, this winterJ). At our GBU retreat, this weekend, though, I learned another trick; find a bedmate. I think I broke one of the 10 commandments, Friday night, by envying Liz and Lety, the sisters who shared their twin bed, below mine. The next morning, 16 year old Cecia confessed that she'd frozen through the night, and asked if she could sleep with me, Saturday. I didn't know that was allowed; I'd assumed only sisters with a special bond could get away with such close community (remember we were in twin bunk beds), but I gladly agreed, thankful for anything that would take off the chill. When it was time to get ready for bed, I realized that it wasn't just Cecia who had learned from the night before. All of the girls pushed their bunks side by side, and rearranged the blankets so that we could all bunker down, together! It was one of the funnier, more eye-opening experiences of my life. And we didn't just share the blankets, we shared one another's body heat- I'm talking 4 unit, platonic spooning chains! Judging from their naturalness, I was the only one to whom this was foreign. They'd all grown up sharing the family bed on cold nights. And you know what? It was kinda nice. First of all, it was really warm. Secondly, it was cool to see how they achieved the same results (getting warm) by relying on one another, that we do in North America, by using technology. Thirdly, I didn't feel alone

Brocoli and Pineapple

2007-07-02T22:06:00.000-07:00

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. This morning’s trip to the market confirmed it all. I’d been in the States for the past three weeks, so I guess I’d missed the gradual change of seasons, making its reality both thrilling and abruptly stark. On the thrilling side, I found giant heads of green broccoli, one of the foods for which I’ve had the strongest cravings in recent months. I’m not sure how long they will last, but I’m pretty pumped, to say the least. On the stark end, the growing season for pineapple has sadly ended. The only ones sold, now, aren’t as sweet, imported from Brazil, and nearly $1 each! They’re breaking me, these South American fruit sharks. Imagine living in a place where you can’t buy whatever you want, whenever you want it. It’s a tough world.

So, I got to thinking about broccoli, pineapple, and life. I think one of the myths of the enlightenment is that life can be all good, all the time. Maybe it wasn’t the enlightenment and I just made that up to sound smart. But really, I feel like I’ve grown up in a wonderful American dream bubble, protected from the harsh realities of life in a broken world. My life has always been really good. And when it wasn’t good, my dad could either fix it or I felt guilty for my feelings, assuming that I was somehow failing in allowing their persistence. There was always something to be done to escape the things about life that I didn’t like. When I didn’t like my food, I’d send it back. When I was cold, I’d turn on the heat or get another blanket. When I was hungry, I’d go to the fridge. When I had a headache, I’d pop two Advil. But when I hit college, I started seeing that some parts of life were just plain ugly and bad. People were mean and friends died while they were still young. After unimaginable suffering. Some things couldn’t be fixed. So I grew resentful and decided that life was just plain hard. No good, just bad. I was sad a lot. But recently I was reading over my notes from a sermon I heard by Rick Warren, last June. He said that pain and happiness are like railroad tracks; they never really separate. Life contains both, and you’ve gotta be able to experience both, simultaneously. This morning I thought of it, again, with the broccoli and pineapple.

I’m learning that I’m not a huge fan of change. I always know, in my head, that good things are probably waiting on the other side of the change, but I still deeply grieve that which I’m leaving behind. Sunday morning, as I said good-bye to my family, I felt nothing but heartache. Flying into Paraguay, though, I was happy to be back. Not just joyful in the spiritual sense, but genuinely happy. In Time Goes Away, Rosie Thomas asks, “How do we make the moments last? How can we get them to stay when everything passes and time goes away?” On my last trip to Iguazu Falls, I vowed to leave my camera at home on my next visit. Each time their grandeur overwhelmed me, I would busy myself trying to capture what could never be represented by a small, inanimate photograph. In so doing, I missed out. I think I do that with life, too. I exert a lot of mental energy trying to do the impossible: capture and memorialize my very favorite of life’s seasons, so that I can pull them out and relive them in the colder months to come. Besides missing out, I’m falsely assuming that the future will hold no beauty. No longer do I want to ask how to make the moments last. Instead, I’d like to be fully present in each of them, trusting that new pleasures will come to be lived in place of the ones that have past. I recently heard that the only place missionaries are truly happy is on airplanes, because they’re always looking ahead to the next thing. They can’t wait to come home, only to find that home isn’t everything their memories have created. The same is true, then, for their fields of service. I don’t want that to be true of me. I hope it doesn’t have to be true. In His famous sermon on the mount, Jesus encouraged tired crowds to trust God with tomorrow’s problems, because each day had enough trouble of its own. I wonder if we couldn’t apply the same principle to joy: Don’t worry about trying to bottle it all up, today, because tomorrow will have it’s own.

This evening I steamed my broccoli and it was delicious. I’ve probably never enjoyed broccoli so much in my entire life. Gracias a Dios.

Resurrection

2007-04-07T09:17:00.000-07:00

Last week was disgustingly hot. Everyone kept saying that it meant we were in for a good rain. Good rains always follow intense heat. Sure enough, our respite came on Sunday. Clockwork. After the rains, we welcomed a few blissful days of cool breezes and overcast skies. These are the ones when I wonder if anyone in the world could be enjoying more beauty. But then I remember that I’m only soaking in today’s perfection because of yesterday’s relative hell.

Sometimes I feel overwhelmed by the pain of people around me. Sometimes I feel like the things that we do in church must seem really far removed from everything that’s happening in their real lives. Lately there’s seemed to have been a bad news bug going around. And this is Semana Santa, the week when all of Paraguay celebrates the resurrection of our Lord. But some people get sick and have to die. Others grow tired of us and choose to leave. Sometimes people that we trust steal our money. Sometimes they lie and rob us of our good name. Yet in the midst of it all, Christians gather and proclaim, “He is risen! He is risen, indeed! Hallelujah!” What does that even mean? How can we celebrate when our entire worlds are caving in around us, crumbling to pieces at our feet?

I believe that we can rejoice because piles of rubble are the excavation sites of miracles. Jesus never gave sight to someone who could already see. For how many years did the young man born blind hopelessly suffer before Jesus walked by? Neither did Jesus strengthen the legs of those already walking. But how long had the lame man been sitting at the side of the pool, unnoticed and neglected? Jesus didn’t calm still waters. His new wine didn’t supplement overstocked shelves. .He didn’t give fish and barley loaves to those who were already full. And He wouldn’t have risen unless he had died.

This is the night when Jesus offered His body and blood to the disciples. On this night, His agony caused Him to sweat blood in Gethsemane, pleading with God to spare Him of the suffering to come. This is the night that He was betrayed and was tried for crimes that He didn’t commit. On this night, His closest friends denied ever knowing Him. But He walked through this night. He died. And then on Sunday morning, He rose. Tonight’s disappointments are excruciatingly real. But so is Jesus, presently sitting at the right hand of God, our heavenly Father who dearly loves us. In this confidence, let us cling to the hand of Him who intimately understands our sufferings, as we esperar (wait / hope) for the morning when we will finally share in the glorious joy of His resurrection.

So I Eat Ormigas

2007-02-16T09:19:00.000-08:00

It’s true. I don’t know how many or how often. But I know I eat them because I live in a country where they invade kitchens whenever cooks leave the room. Monday I saw, paid for, and moved into a beautiful one bedroom apartment perfectly located in the center of Villarrica. Its cream ceramic tile and off white/ pale yellowish walls give it a clean, fresh feeling. It has a good sized balcony, just perfect for sitting outside and drinking coffee (or terere, if you’re Paraguayan) while looking out over the tops of trees, tiled roofs, and tall stone walls. I’m hoping to put a small round table out there, someday. I can open the balcony doors and the window above my sink to get a pretty good cross breeze across the apartment. I just love it. Except for the ormigas (that’s Spanish for ants, by the way). They’re still a little gross.

I remember Carol telling me when I first moved to Paraguay that ants don’t discriminate between rich and poor. That conversation kinda went in one ear and out the other until this week, when I began to have ant problems of my own. It’s so true, though. See, they gather whenever you’re not in the room or look the other way. Really. And they’re obnoxiously tiny. My counter is black and marbly, so I can’t really see them (good move on the part of the owner, I think) unless they’re on non-black things like washcloths, food, utensils, etc. Anyway, there’s absolutely, positively no way to avoid them. Really. I’ve asked missionaries and Paraguayans alike. My boss told me about a time when he set a pretzel on the end of the couch and put it in his mouth a few minutes later and felt his mouth moving. Yup. His pretzel had been covered in ants. Bummer. In the last week, the good Lord has performed a wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles, for which at least 2 special people in my life have been praying for 26 years; I’ve become more meticulously clean than my mother, Beth. En serio. I won’t even eat a meal anymore before all dishes used in its preparation have been washed, food put away, and counters hosed down. Ants may come, but they’re not going to leave muy satisfecha, if I can help it. I’ve stopped spraying because it feels pointless and the other day I brought a Nemo cup to my mouth and it still smelled like Raid. That can’t be healthy.

Last night I was at a prayer meeting (good missionary move, I know) and my mind wandered a little when Eva was praying in Espanol. I was really trying to stick with her, but accidentally distracted myself with thoughts of certain ant infestation back on the home front. Then I thought of that watch-the-ant proverb. Now, I know Solomon was referring to the cultural heritage of ants’ German Mennonite work ethic, but my thoughts were elsewhere. No matter how many I killed, it was as if none had ever died. The fallen were replaced by ranks of fresh ants ready to annoy me by their very presence on my cutting board. They were an indestructible army because of their willingness to die. If the dead ants had really cared about preserving themselves (and they had the “luxury” of rational thought), they wouldn’t have dared show their blasted bodies in my presence. But they didn’t care about their individual lives. They cared about their mission. They weren’t individuals. They were a group. Together they formed a body. Their mission was to annoy me. Mission accomplished. True, they could have stayed alive by running away when I came in the room, but they would have then failed to fulfill their mission. In managing to save their lives, they’d be choosing an existence of unfulfilling mediocre ease.

So then I thought of the Church, springing out of soil watered by the blood of saints. I thought of ancient Rome and Europe during the reformation. And I thought of China. And of Ethiopia. And of Indonesia. And of the Middle East. And then I thought of myself. And of modern Europe and North America. At a missions conference in December, I heard an African pastor compare the growth of the Church in the 2/3 world (what we used to call “Third World”) with its decline in the West. He suggested they would in fact be drinking from a poisoned chalice to adopt the Christianity of a dying Western Church. That’s a tough pill. Is it true? Is our theology really that far off? Or is it our practice that needs attention? We talk about dying to ourselves and being instruments available unto the Lord. But I care a whole lot about my own life. I really hate being too hot, too cold, too hungry, too sick, or too tired. I can’t tolerate feeling lonely, rejected, belittled, unappreciated, and overlooked. Without even thinking, I jump to my feet when I feel that my rights have been violated or I’ve been treated unfairly. I don’t want to be anybody’s doormat. And I assume that God, too, wants me to be comfortable, esteemed, and loved in and by this world…

Food for thought.

Community pt 2

2007-02-01T22:12:00.000-08:00

“’Don’t you go talking about things you don’t understand, Nikabrik,’ said Trufflehunter. ‘You Dwarfs are as forgetful and changeable as the Humans themselves. I’m a beast, I am, and a Badger what’s more. We don’t change. We hold on. I say great good will come of it… we Beasts remember.’” Though it was set in the fictitious land of Narnia, CS Lewis’ forementioned commentary on human nature resonates with me; I have such limited perspective. Part of me wants to blame this shortsightedness on the enlightenment and modernism. I wonder how our faith has been affected by the basic assumption that seeing is believing, anything trustworthy can be reproduced in a scientific lab. Hebrew prophets recorded God as saying, “test me and prove me.” But we think you can’t prove something unless we can see, understand, and calculate it. Spiritually, then, our eyes naturally default to accepting that which is before us, rather than believing what is, that which might be just outside the realm of our immediate experience. But maybe it’s not the Enlightenment or Modernism. Maybe it’s just fallen human nature. Maybe. Regardless of how and why it came to be this way, how quickly we forget what’s True. I think that’s one reason why we were designed to live in community, to remind one another of who we are, what we’re about, who God is, and what He’s about.

I often forget that God has given me unique abilities. Sometimes I think I missed roll call on the day when He “led captives in His train and gave gifts to men.” Nearly 2 years ago, I sat in my first official SIM interview with Ruth Clark and Lilli Palacio. I think they were supposed to be interviewing me, but we got sidetracked and spent the majority of our time talking about the Bible study I had been leading. I had also been wondering if God could use me because I was such a Jack-of-all-trades, master-of-none. They enthusiastically brought light to all of the ways that God had been preparing me for this next step, focusing, though, on their observation that God had perhaps given me special abilities to teach the Bible. I walked out of their office feeling affirmed and empowered to continue the journey.

I remember the Sunday afternoon before I left for Paraguay, when my family went around the dinner table and all shared one of my qualities that would serve me well on the mission field. We wrote them all down on a piece of my mom’s “Beth Riegsecker-Lugbill” paper and I carried it with me to the Ortiz’ home in Villarrica. I got it out several times in the privacy of my bedroom, trying to knock truth into my brain when it felt so far away from my current reality.

When I returned home in December, we sat around that same dinner table, and they shared reasons they were proud of me. I just cried and cried and cried. The things they were saying felt so far from being true. I felt so unaccomplished. I felt like a survivor, but certainly not a thriver. I felt like I had been a little beaten up and came home pretty bruised. But they told me that I had done some things well, that I wasn’t a failure. Their affirmation has kept me going.

“I hate being a missionary. I hate being a missionary. I hate it. I hate it. GOD, I HATE THIS! Why do I have to do this. I absolutely hate it!” I was walking out to Grandma and Grandpa’s slate-blue jeep in Archbold, Ohio. It was parked outside Fairlawn Haven Nursing Home, where my Grandma Lugbill was trying to recover from her most recent bout of strokes. We were most likely taking our last family picture. I couldn’t stay for the picture, though, because I had to catch a stupid plane bound for the largest missions conference in the US. That’s right, I was on my way to encourage young people to become missionaries. So the photographer positioned me and my mom behind the empty couch, and took our picture alone. She’d paste it into the family shot, later. Grandma was wheeled in. Her face was freezing. She was disoriented. She didn’t know who I was. I hugged her, gave her a kiss, and said goodbye, because I was in a hurry to catch my stupid plane. Then I called my brother over and told him goodbye. I would be flying directly from the stupid conference to the east coast, where I’d have a month of training in teaching ESOL, during which he and his new wife would fly back to California. I wouldn’t see them again until… I didn’t know when. Maybe 3 years. It probably wouldn’t be that long, but it might be. I just hugged him and cried. I didn’t want to let go. But I had to catch that stupid plane, so I walked out into the freezing cold to the slate blue jeep with my mom, and left the rest of the family behind. I hated being a missionary. I just hated it. I hated being alone. And I was on my way to tell kids to become missionaries. Boy, would I be convincing.

At Urbana, I was surrounded by people who had been there. I was first welcomed by familiar faces. Willy and Angela were there. Dave and Sheryl. Bob Hay. Oh, how I needed to see them. I just hated being a missionary. I hated saying goodbye. I hated it. I needed to see them. They were familiar. They were safe. And then there were the new people. I sat by Dan? that night. He had been a TESOL teacher in Japan. He had thrived. He had left his mark there. He hadn’t looked back. He inspired me to try and do the same. And he had a sweatshirt that said “Free Hugs.” Then there were Marcus and Jen. I didn’t get to spend a whole lot of time with them, but their gentle presence encouraged me to embrace life’s pain and allow God to shape my character through it. Then I met Laura, Pam, and Chris. They had all worked with university students in South America. They had loved it. They had lived in the moment and invested in the lives of young people. We had lunch, one day, and they shared their experiences and ideas with me. We talked about life, too. God used them to give me some hope that these next few years could be filled with good things. Before coming to Urbana, I didn’t want to go back to Paraguay. I knew I had to, but I didn’t want to. I was feeling everything in my immediate realm of experience. I was remembering the loneliness and frustration of Paraguay and the pain of goodbyes. I was forgetting the joy of being God’s instrument. I wasn’t looking through eyes of faith, waiting and hoping for what would be. My will was changeable. But my fellow SIMers reminded me of God’s goodness and faithfulness. They listened to my story and freely told theirs, both important steps in affirming my calling and lightening my weary heart. I needed them.

I spent last Saturday evening at the home of 2 AMBS professors. For two hours, they advised me on steps to take toward reaching my goal of going to graduate school. We discussed my interest in ethics, other religions, peace studies, and Christianity. By the end of our time, together, they said it sounded as if I should pursue a degree in Biblical studies. Everything always comes back to this. Try as I may to enter into a more “applicable” or prestigious field, it always comes back to teaching Bible. I’m so thankful that I have people in my life to recognize and affirm this natural and exciting direction.

Finally, last night I drove down to my alma mater and had dinner with an old professor. I didn’t know exactly why I was making the trip; the weather was bad, gas expensive, and time short. But whenever I meet with this woman, I leave feeling more at peace with God, and mysteriously awed and inspired to seek His face. Furthermore, she is one of the only female professors that I know, which makes here a good candidate for my questions about grad school. I spent a lot of the drive considering what I wanted from her and how I would direct the conversation. Should I just come out and ask her to be a professional mentor? Should I tell her my story? How much? Should I ask her for a book list? Should I ask about a research paper to do in Paraguay? About 30 minutes from campus, I remembered God’s faithfulness, and the gracious resiliency in Faye’s eyes. “This evening is Yours, Lord. You know what I need. Please direct our conversation as You would have it go. I know You love me.”

We went to Ivanhoes and found a booth in the back. We talked a little about her job and the transition that she was experiencing, and then moved into descriptions of my last 6 months. About an hour into our time, together, I noticed myself smiling a lot and giving professional missionary responses to her questions. I didn’t like it. I wanted to be real with her. I wasn’t doing as well as I was communicating. “Dr. Chechowich,” I began, “the two years after graduating from Taylor were good years, for me. I feel like I really began taking charge of my life and making decisions. During those 2 years, I became the person that I wanted to be. But these last several months have been really hard, and I feel like I’ve taken several steps backward. I don’t feel very resilient, these days.” She didn’t deny it. She didn’t say I was fine. She didn’t say I was being too hard on myself. But neither did she help me come up with an action plan. She told me I was going to make it. She encouraged me to keep going. She told me that there were times to do things we didn’t feel like doing, and times to treat ourselves like we’d treat a good friend. I told her I was the kind of friend who’d bake you a pan of brownies. She asked what was wrong with that? Maybe not the whole pan, she said, but a plate with a few brownies can communicate a lot of love and make a lot of things feel better! What a statement. Thank you, Dr. Chechowich. I had gone in wanting to talk busness. But the Lord knew what I needed, which was to talk life. I’m not sure if Faye had that sense, or not, but she was certainly guided by Him and inspired me. She knew that my life was more important than my career. And she encouraged me to live well. Thank You, Lord.

The community keeps us on track. It reminds us of what we know though we cannot see it. It speaks the truth when we’re forgetful. I’m so thankful.

Turkey 2

2006-11-26T10:01:00.000-08:00

Today I had dinner with one of the girls who sells the valentine cards. I am so ashamed. I know this isn’t a good place to make public confessions, but neither is it a good place to make public fun of people, which I did in my last entry, so I’m out of good options. I just feel sick. Over the last number of months, I’ve trained myself to avoid eye contact with beggars and kids trying to sell things on the streets and buses, because when you look at them they assume you want something. So I just don’t look at them, anymore. Jesus wouldn’t do that. I hate the way they swarm you when they think you’ll give them something. Crowds gathered around Jesus because He healed their sick and filled their stomachs. “And when he saw the crowds, he had compassion for them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd” (Matt 9:36). I have in no way been acting like Jesus. I haven’t just been mean, I’ve treated them like they weren’t people, like they didn’t even exist. That’s so unJesus.

So this afternoon I made cupcakes and went down to a corner where the kids get on and off of the busses. I was planning to treat them like human beings and pay a few of them to practice Spanish with me. On the way, a raggedy girl approached me and started begging. My first reaction was to ignore her. Then I remembered Jesus and I looked into her eyes (while still saying no). But then I remembered that I was on my way to hang out with beggar kids and moments before asked the Lord to direct me to the right ones. She said she was so hungry and wanted money for dinner. So I asked her what she felt like eating. We were outside a mall, so I directed her inside up to the food court. She got a hamburger and fries. I got a pizza. I’m not used to seeing people eat that fast. Looking at her skinny arms I couldn’t eat much of my pizza. She took the leftovers home to her pregnant mom and 5 siblings. She told me all about the cards. She buys 30 of them in the morning for 3 mil. She sells them for 1 mil a piece, so she ends up making 27 mil for the day (just under $5). Her mom uses the money to buy milk for the baby.

It didn’t take long for her face to transform into that of a child. She turned into a little girl, again. Her eyes became lighter and wider. She smiled. She was really cute. She told me about her family and her favorite subjects in school. She told me which soccer team she likes. She’s only 12. I told her I was a missionary. She didn’t know what that was. I told her God had sent me to tell her that He loved her. We walked around the mall for a while. She got some pineapple juice.

When we got back outside it was dark. The busses aren’t safe at night. It’s one of the first rules; never take the busses at night. I still had enough money for a taxi. Before we parted ways, she hugged me and said thank you. People never hug in Paraguay. There was a creepy guy hanging around. I was so freaked out that I was just concentrating on getting safely to the taxi stand that I forgot about her, for a minute. Before getting into the taxi, I looked back to make sure the guy wasn’t bothering her, but she had already left. She was going to take the bus. I consoled myself by telling myself that she wasn’t a target, like they say I am. Well, she wasn’t a target for robbery, that is. My stomach turns when I consider how vulnerable a desperate, degraded 12 year old girl really is. I just feel awful.

And he said to him, "You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the great and first commandment… Whatsoever you do for the least of these, you do for Me… And a second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself.

Father, forgive me. Forgive me for intentionally hardening my heart. Forgive me for ignoring the poor. Forgive me for treating them as if they were subhuman. Forgive me for scorning them in my heart, and then for publicly making fun of them in my last blog. Forgive me for forgetting why I’m on this earth. Forgive me for taking Your family name in vain. Forgive me for refusing a glass of cold water. I have not loved. I have not reflected Jesus. And God, keep her safe, tonight.

Feel like Turkey?

2006-11-25T22:15:00.000-08:00

Have you ever thought that your life would make a good movie? Yesterday was one of those days. I woke up before 4 with a pounding headache and itchiness from my fingertips to my toes. I think I’ve recently discovered an allergy to mangoes. Can we just say BFB (Big Fat Bummer)? One day we woke up and every street of Paraguay was covered in fallen mangos. Naturally, we ate mangos for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snacks. The next morning the size of my face had doubled, with my right eye swollen completely shut. After 24 hrs of steroids and benadryl, the effects of my mango gluttony began to subside. I think I’m still breathing the pollen into my bloodstream, though, so I’m on the 24-7 Actifed/ Advil overdose plan to reduce the itching and sinus pressure. Anyway, my Thanksgiving started out by satisfying my drug habit. Several hours later, I took off for 6 hours of private Spanish instruction. It’s important to note that I was still wearing my glasses, on account of my tired eyes/ sleep deprivation issues. I was not in top form.

So I walked the 10 minutes to Sacramento, and took my stand on the side of the double lane highway. I was having a little trouble flagging down my bus (hacienda senas, I learned yesterdayJ), because I couldn’t make out their numbers until they were barreling past. Finally, though, I saw a “55” and stepped out into the middle of the left lane to wave him over. Now, note that I am the only one who boarded at this time. I was not at a bus stop. Those don’t exist. You just stand on the side of the road, wherever and whenever you please, to catch the next passing collectivo. Therefore, instead of me having to walk an extra 2 minutes to a bus stop, the bus stops every 10 seconds to pick up random people scattered along its route. I really think someone should give this system a second thought. Anyway, I paid my 2.200 when I boarded and settled in for the 10 minute show. er, I mean ride. The next person to board was a man selling pineapples. After him came the guy with sunglasses, chewing gum, socks, earrings, CDs, fingernail clippers, and an assortment of other treasures. Then came the girl with the cards. They look like the valentines that you exchange with your grade school friends, and they have a note attached that says something like “I’m poor and I don’t have a way of earning money, so I’m selling these cards. Would you buy them as a demonstration of mercy and compassion? God bless you.” I had seen all of this, before. But then I had a surprise. The next guy to board starts out, “Good morning, everyone. On your ride to work, this morning, I have a very exciting offer for you! Did you know you are breathing in ugly air that will eventually kill you? Our world is being trashed and you are at risk, together with your aging parents and precious children. But I have a solution for you. This is my miracle powder. Dissolve 2 tablespoons in a glass of milk or water, morning and night, for the rest of your life and your health will be spared. In the stores, you can buy one week’s worth of my miracle powder for 25.000, but this is your lucky day! I am offering YOU a special price of just 5.000! Care for yourself and your loved ones. Buy my miracle powder, today.” Then he went down the isles and people really bought the stuff! I was in absolute shock. Not 2 minutes later, another guy got on and gave another presentation for another product. And people bought his stuff, too! I was witnessing Paraguayan infomercials on a public transport!

When we got close to the school, I made my way to the back and pulled the cord above the door. The driver threw open the doors as he was coming to a quick stop, I jumped out onto the curb, and it sped along its way. On my way inside I passed a guy who declared, in English, “Oh my G--. You are so beautiful!” I’m sure it’s one of the only phrases he knows, because it’s a statement that I’ve heard by countless Paraguayan men. Same phrase. Same obnoxious vocal inflection. Somewhere in Paraguay, I’m convinced that there’s a “how to pick up a Peace Corp Volunteer” class that teaches its pupils to say, “Oh my G--. You are so beautiful!” And just to make sure you don’t think I’m exhibiting false humility, let’s remember condition of my face. Those of you who have seen me in my glasses understand my reason for doubting this man’s sincerity. For those of who you have not had such a privileged viewing, I assure you that there is a reason for my denying you. It was at this point that I just started laughing and wished someone were following me around with a video camera.

OK. So then I had 3 hours of class with a new teacher named Edgar. He has spent some time living in the States, so he knew that it was Thanksgiving. Naturally, all of our examples were related to celebrating the holiday with loved ones. We were working on the subjective grammar structure, so we had to make sentences that followed the pattern “It’s necessary that… It’s important that… It’s horrible that…” He would ask me questions, using one of these phrases, and I would have to respond. Our class went something like this (in Spanish):

Edgar: It’s necessary that you eat turkey on Thanksgiving.
Alyssa: It’s important that you…
Edgar (interrupting her): No, Alyssa, use necessary.
Alyssa: It’s not absolutely necessary that you…
Edgar (again, interrupting her): No, Alyssa, you need to practice the affirmative response.
Alyssa (feeling the potential of prolonged tiredness, loneliness, and glasses induced ugliness combining to create sudden and unexplainable weepiness): It’s necessary that you eat turkey on Thanksgiving.
Edgar: Exactly, Alyssa. It’s necessary that you eat turkey on Thanksgiving.

That’s just one example. We had 3 hours together.

Everything, though, turned around after lunch, gracias a Dios. I typically (por lo general, I’ve learned this week) avoid Paraguayan coffee, because I know that to drink it would just be setting myself up for extreme disappointment. And I emphasize extreme. On this occasion, however, I was beginning to wallow, and didn’t think that a lousy cup of coffee could make things too much worse. So like a country singer who had just lost my house, dog, boyfriend, and taste for quality, I approached the counter of Havanna’s and ordered a shot of Italian Espresso. Little did I know the impact of that decision on the remainder of my life, here in Paraguay. That little Paraguayan barista served me the most nirvana inducing shot of espresso that I have ever experienced. The moment it hit my lips, my body fell into an immediate state of deep tranquility unlike anything I have previously known. As I stood to make my way back to the classroom, my entire body felt as if it had just received an hour long massage. Is that what drugs feel like? If so, it’s good that I never tried them at Taylor, or I would have been a quick addict.

After class, I went grocery shopping and then headed back to the guest house to prepare Thanksgiving dinner for myself and Fiona, another SIM missionary. Fiona’s British, so it was her first time eating a Thanksgiving dinner. I have an amazing mom and grandma who always cook, so it was my first time preparing a Thanksgiving dinner. I felt like such a grown up. I was greatly enjoying myself until I couldn’t turn on the stove for the fried chicken. It had been working earlier, so I assumed it had run out of gas. The woman who manages the property wasn’t home, so her daughter gave me keys for the downstairs kitchen. So as not to create extra clean-up, I prepared everything upstairs, limiting the downstairs one to the use of the stove and oven. This meant countless trips up and down the stairs, in and out the doors, both hands occupied with pots brimming with hot grease and boiling water. The evening was not tranquilla (a favorite word of Paraguayans).

Gracias a Dios, almost no tears were shed on my first real holiday away from home (talking on the phone with Grandma Betty was a little much). On the contrary, it was a very funny day, earning it a noteworthy place in my personal history as the most ironic, thus far. If only I’d had my camera for the Paraguayan infomercial. Oh, and today I discovered that my gas hadn’t run out, last night. I had unplugged the stove to beat my mashed potatoes.

Fellowship of Suffering

2006-10-01T09:21:00.000-07:00

Last night I laid in bed for over an hour, crying almost the whole time. I missed home so badly. My mind kept replaying last week’s scene of Renae softly rubbing Cora’s back, immediately jumping to memories of my own mom. It created a physical ache in my chest. Then I’d picture Lindsay taking Eva’s hand during Thursday’s prayer meeting, coming before the Lord as husband and wife, and be filled emotion, once again. I kept asking God to hold me. My whole being was just aching to be held. I wanted my mom, my dad, my brothers, my sister, my grandparents, my aunts and uncles, my cousins, my pastors, my friends, my future husband, my God. I really wasn’t feeling too discriminating. People here don’t hug. I was absolutely craving physical touch. Last night, I didn’t want to mask the pain by distracting myself with a book or a movie or a letter home. I just wanted the Lord. I want to get to the place where I can be ok with just Him. I kept asking for Him, and I completely trusted Him. But I couldn’t feel Him as deeply as I wanted. There had to be more. There had to be. But He wasn’t filling the void. I felt so lonely. All I could do was espero for someday. But could I bear the time between now and then? And then I got so mad at myself. Why was I so upset? God had blessed me with so much! Why couldn’t I focus on all of His gifts? Why couldn’t I have more joy? I felt like such a failure. Mind over matter, Alyssa. Come on, stop being so self-centered. I felt like such a failure for feeling sorry for myself. I wanted to talk to Lori. I knew she’d understand loneliness. I can’t understand hers; it’s so much more profound. But I knew she’d understand mine. I’m sure there are many days, no, many times each day, when she has to turn her head away because she just can’t watch mothers interacting with their little girls. Sometimes, you don’t want people to say anything conciliatory. You want to look into their eyes and know they understand. You just don’t want to be alone. Last night, though, I felt really alone. I just cried and cried and cried. And it was storming, outside.

I woke up, this morning, to crashing thunder and heavy rain. I wanted to skip church more than anything. But I went and it was incredible. God gave me joy during the time of musical worship. Joy. What a gift. My brain checked out toward the end of the Spanish sermon (as it regularly does), but something the pastor said made everyone start hugging one another. It was a church service unlike any I had ever seen. Last night I had laid in bed craving the embrace of my dad, grandpa, uncles, and brothers. This morning, for the first time in Paraguay, I was hugged by Joel, Cecia, Janice, Laura, Lucas, Leti, David Chamoro, Maka-ko, and Ana. It was incredible. Thank You, God. Thank You. You are good. Thank You for loving me. And thank You for demonstrating that love in such a specific way.

Many people were tearful. At one point I was standing with David, Cecia, and Janice. David noticed Ana standing alone, whispered something to the girls, and they went over to hug her. Soon after, I looked over and saw Leti sitting by herself, eyes red and face downcast. I went over to her, moved the books on the seat next to her, sat down, and put my arm around her slumped shoulders. She laid her head on my shoulder and just cried and cried and cried. I knew the feeling. We didn’t exchange any words for the first 5-10 minutes, at which point I asked if she wanted to talk. She said no. A few moments later, I felt led to ask if she missed her dad. She nodded yes. “Me, too,” I said in a broken voice. We both started crying, again. We didn’t have to say anything else.

My pain can’t be compared with Leti’s. Her dad abandoned their family to start a new one in Argentina. She’s only 15. I have felt dropped and abandoned, though not by my dad. But I still miss him, a lot. I’ve felt really alone, here. But I know that my dad loves me. I can always go back to him. He hasn’t chosen to leave me. I wish rejection and loss weren’t a part of my life experience portfolio. I wish I never felt alone. This morning, though, I was so thankful to be able to cry with Leti. I still can’t wait for Christmas, though.

sweet surrender. blessed hope.

2006-09-04T09:29:00.000-07:00

God is so good! I’ve often heard that the brightest dawns follow the darkest nights. I haven’t posted anything, lately, because I’ve been really down and lacking in creative energy. Yesterday was especially tough. I’m going to share a portion of my journal from last night and this morning. I think it probably shows my distress, but what I cannot communicate is the way He transformed my heart. I can only describe it as the breaking forth of the dawn. He lifted me to my feet, removed the heavy burden I had been carrying, cut through the fog, and infused me with the most incredible joy and peace that I could imagine, directly into my heart. At one point, I was so overwhelmed with joy, that I grabbed a Bethel College Chapel Band worship CD (“Eversing”). my blue, green, and yellow tie-died Discman, teal winter puffy coat, and ran outside to another missionary’s huge backyard where I could sing to my heart’s content. For over an hour, God gave me the sweetest time of worship and prayer, right in the middle of their volleyball court, surrounded by fruit trees and mandioca plants. It was so so so good. I’m sad to think that my words will never communicate my heart’s lightness. If you are experiencing a time of darkness, I pray that hearing of God’s faithfulness in my life can bring you a tiny bit of hope. Living underneath that cloud is awful. But He is there. He is there. He wants to free You. He is with you. Hold on until He breaks forth into your darkness and brings you into His glorious light. He will do it. I promise. He loves you and wants to lift you up. Hold on. Hold on. Hold on. He’s coming soon.

Before reading, however, I must warn you that this entry contains some bad language. I'm really sorry if you're offended.

Sweet Surrender. Blessed Hope.
September 3-4, 2006

And God cannot be mocked. A man reaps what he sows. I have been sowing to both the Spirit and the flesh. I feed both. I want both. I’m scared of living without either. Life without Spirit means an eternity in hell. Mortification of the flesh means hell on earth. Feeding the flesh numbs the discomfort. I cry out to the Spirit, but embrace the flesh. I hope for the Spirit, but rely on the flesh. I ask to be filled with the Spirit. But I just don’t wanna be empty. Who really cares where the filling comes from? If it’s gonna be, it’s up to me, damn it, and the flesh is a hell of a lot more reliable. I know where (I determine that). I know when (I determine that). I know how much (I determine that). I know the results (law of diminishing returns). I know.

Do I want this knowledge? Did God really say you can’t eat from any of the trees in this garden? The cost is really high. But if it’s gonna be, it’s up to me… Right? Are there any alternatives? Yes. But it’s a costly and risky exchange. I can transfer the ultimate responsibility for my life from me to God. I can continue crying out to Him, hoping for Him, and asking for Him. And that’s it. If He doesn’t pull through, He doesn’t pull through. But He says He’ll pull through. Can I trust Him?

OK, God. I am yours. I trust You to care for me. I trust You. But I’m really messed up. Really messed up. I always crawl off the alter. I don’t know how to stay up there. But I trust you. I trust you. God, my flesh… please do something about it. Please crucify it, God.
“Alyssa, I already did.”
God, I want You to crucify my flesh.

“Alyssa, I did. I did. I did. Believe this, my dear child. I am living in You. My Spirit is inside You. It has already defeated the power of sin and death. It is stronger than anything in this entire world, as well as heaven and earth. Stay close to Me, Alyssa. I will never reject You. I will never leave you nor forsake you. I am with you. I already know you. I knit you together in your mother’s womb. I know you and I still chose you as my own. I still called you, justified, and glorified you, even though I know You, Alyssa. It is a done deal. Done. Finished. Stay close to me. As for the cross, you’re right. It does hurt a lot. I know. But, Alyssa, I am here. I love you. I’ve already been there. You’re gonna make it because I am with you. Alyssa, I have already been there and I would never want anyone I love to endure it. But I also know what’s on the other side. It’s so good, Alyssa. My resurrection, glorification, freedom from my flesh, and abiding in the presence of the Father is so incredible. Trust Me. That’s the only reason I allow you to go to the cross. It’s not to prove yourself to me. It’s not because you are a bad person. It’s not because you’re dirty and you need purging. It’s not any of these things; that’s why I had to go. You just have to follow me. But it’s so good on the other side. I want you, here. And until you get here, I will be with You, there, and that will be worth it, too. I am with You, Alyssa. I know You and I love You. And when you get here, it will be so good. I will say, ‘well done, my good and faithful servant. Come and share, compartir, in your Master’s happiness.’ And We will worship the Father, unhindered by Self. You will worship Me. Alyssa, You’ll freely worship! You’re right. The cross is painful. It’s an instrument of torture. But it’s effective. It’s one hundred percent effective. Its victims never hang there, forever. They die. And then they’re brought down. And in our case, they’re raised to new life. You’re gonna make it, Alyssa, as long as you rely on Me. You’ll finally rest. I am with You. I am with You. You will not be alone. Abide in Me. Stay close to me. I will never leave You alone. I love You. Stay close to Me. I will never leave You alone. I love You.

Why is surrender so beautiful? Why does my heart want to jump out of my throat when I hear these songs about surrendering everything to Jesus? That should be scary. Letting go usually implies something negative. But I want to do it. I can’t wait to do it, because I know the object of the surrender. I can’t wait for You to take it! I love You! Thank You for taking it! Thank You for taking me. I love You. You are so beautiful. You are doing it. You are faithful to finish what You started. You are bringing forth fruit. One day, I will stand before Your throne. Hope and expectation. That about sums it up. Thank You for hope, dear Lord. You are so good! So, so good. Thank You for giving me hope. Thank You for the reality that gives weight to the hope. Thank You for both the hope and the reality. You are so good. You are merciful. I love You. Thank You. I just can’t say it enough. Thank You. Thank You. You are good. Thank You. I love You. Thank You.

Initiation Day

2006-08-11T22:23:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a big initiation day. First, I became Paraguayan. On my way to buy groceries for my offical initiation, I accidentally entered into the ranks of Paraguayans who have been burned by motos. Motercycles here are $500-$600 and you can set up monthly payment plans, so they’re a really good transportation option for people who don’t make a ton of money. There are actually more of these family vehicles than cars. Usually the 2 or 3 kids sit in front and the parents will wrap their arms around from behind. Therefore, nearly everyone has had a moto burn. It’s the type of thing that usually only happens once, though, because you tend to learn your lesson. In the states, parents warn their kids about touching hot stoves. In Paraguay, I’d imagine warnings abound about not touching hot motos. Unfortunately, I missed that lesson and now have a 2 inch seeping burn. But hey, I’ve joined the ranks.

Anyway, I got my groceries and went over to Laura’s house for my first attempt at co-hostessing a surprise birthday party for our friend, Joel. Actually, it was my first attempt at cooking in Paraguay. I didn’t think about the foolishness of combining the two events (cooking and doing it for large number of people) until I was in the grocery store and I realized that I wouldn’t have the same ingredients. Hm. We were going to have a penne carbonera, of sorts. Well, I’d just put in things that sounded like they’d go well together. They had the basics- milk, pasta, cheese, and bacon. It was when I got to Laura’s that I learned the Spanish equivalent for the English phrase, I’ve bitten off more than I can chew (Yo abarque mas de lo que aprieto, for those of you who are curious). You see, Paraguayans don’t measure with ounces, cups, tea spoons, or tablespoons. Hm. I had always been taught that exact measurements were pretty important with baking. Well, I certainly didn’t have the “run to Dairy Queen and pick up an ice cream cake” option, so I eyeballed everything and hoped for the best. Boiling chocolate pudding over the stove for the first time and beating my own whipped cream was also somewhat nerve racking, but what could I do? If the brownies didn’t turn out, I’d need the pudding and whipped cream to mask their taste in my Death by Chocolate. I had already dug my hole pretty deep, after all. Many deep breaths and over 2 hours later, we sat down to eat. It was actually pretty good. After the meal, Laura leaned across our large dinner table to congratulate me and tell me I had passed the test. I didn’t know I was being tested at the time, but she told me that this had been an initiation, of sorts; if they liked my food, I was going to be accepted into their friendship circle. I guess I’m in. I’m so excited! I really enjoy this group. They’re a bunch of young teachers from the school where I teach English. Laura’s South African, but she married a Paraguayan while she was over here as an exchange student and now they have 4 kids. All of the others are in their early twenties. I think God knew how much I would appreciate being initiated, so He covered my cooking with extra grace.

OK, so back to unofficial initiation- the burn. My little sister, Noemi, just came in to ask if I’d like a really good natural remedy for my leg. I said yes, assuming that she was much more experienced in treating Paraguayan moto burns than was I. When she left to go get the remedy, though, I began to have doubts. Natural healers around here prescribe some pretty interesting cures. Earlier today, I heard of a woman being instructed to tie two frogs to her open wound. Supposedly, the infection would be transferred to the frogs, and she’d be healed as soon as the frogs died. After the frogs died and she didn’t get better, she went to a medical doctor who ended up extracting several spoonfuls of maggots out of her leg. I was recalling all of this while my little sister was outside fetching my remedy. When she returned from the front yard holding something green, I nearly hit the roof. I was so thankful when I realized it was a leaf, but still wondered what I had gotten myself into. She proceeded to cut it open and pour its sap onto my burn. She said it was a very, very good remedy. It was aloe vera! Yeah. She took me outside their front door to see the live plant. And here I had thought it was just landscaping. Oh no, my host family has an aloe plant growing outside our front door and I’m supposed to go and get fresh aloe as often as I’d like until the burn heals. Are any of you that cool?

Making Myron Proud

2006-07-30T01:01:00.000-07:00

My church in Goshen is really big on community. I never really got on board, though. It’s not that I didn’t believe it was important. I just couldn’t ever figure out how to create it. And as I often do when I can’t figure something out, I responded by not trying. Now that I’ve moved to a different hemisphere, I think it’s finally starting to make some sense.

Last Friday night, I moved into the home of a wonderful Paraguayan family. They are teaching me about community. Allow me to recreate our first introduction. Carol (a seasoned missionary) and I drive up to a very typical looking Paraguayan home, get out of the car, and clap to alert them of our presence. A fourteen year old girl comes around the corner to welcome Carol with besitos, one kiss on each cheek. She proceeds to lead us through a tall door that is just wide enough for my body, into a tiny family room. Inside, we are warmly greeted by Noemi’s mom, Edy. After besitos, she leads us through another body-sized doorway into what looks like a study. Here, we all squeeze in amidst a couch, two arm chairs, two bookcases, an electric keyboard, and a small table and desk, both covered with books, papers, and music. While Carol and Edy are talking, I look through the next doorframe to see a small bedroom containing two twin beds and two wardrobes. I assume that I will be sharing this room with Ana, Noemi’s older sister. I tune back into the Spanish conversation between Carol and Edy, at which point I realize that the girls both sleep in the bedroom, and I am going to be spending the next 5 months in the study, which also serves as a walkway between the family room and the girls’ bedroom. Bedrooms clearly aren’t designed to be lived in, here. They’re designed to be slept in. Living rooms are for living. Together. I was to live as they do. Together. All the time. Taking a deep breath, I very quickly came to terms with two realities. First, my living situation was perfectly designed for me by my loving heavenly Father. Second, His plan included chipping away at my very sacred need for personal space, privacy, and time alone.

I want to learn to live as a Paraguayan. Therefore, instead of freaking out about seemingly impossible situations, I try to think, “If this is a part of a Paraguayan’s every day life, there must be a way to make it work.” I need time alone. Just ask my family. I get really irritable without it. I lose perspective. I need it. My time alone enables me to love my time with people. But somehow, Paraguayan young people don’t get much of it and they seem to be coping quite well. They couldn’t have all been born extroverts. Come to think of it, a lot of the world lives in really close community. How in the world can the introverts in these cultures maintain their emotional stability?

Well, I have a hypothesis. I will be putting it to the test throughout the coming months and might graduate it to the theory stage by December. Could it be that what I’ve labeled as a need to be alone is actually a misdiagnosed need to rest? We all have a Self that we like and another that we try to hide. When alone, our unlikeable Self can exist without our likeable Self having to exert the energy required to subdue it. In this place, we can be real. We don’t have to fight with ourselves. We can rest. I’m not talking about ceasing to fight against sin, but against those parts of our personalities that we just don’t like. Maybe maintaining our own idea of a socially acceptable persona takes a lot of energy and we just get really tired. Maybe that’s why people in Latin and African cultures tend to be so happy. Christians in these places are especially free from the need to perform. Since they live together all the time, they can’t hide. It’s impossible. So they don’t. As a result, they have to accept one another as whole people.

According to First John, fellowship is walking in the light and walking in love. How interesting. Isn’t walking in the light refusing to hide the Self of which we are ashamed? And what is love, if not resisting the temptation to despise a brother who has dared to expose his unlikable Self? When I really think about the people in my life, I realize that I only pull back from people when I am fighting my feelings. When I am able to rest in their presence, however, I can be with them indefinitely, without needing time alone. I rest with some people because they bring out my likeable Self; I never have to hide my unlikable Self from them because it doesn’t seem to exist. This fellowship, however, is based on a false reality. Sometimes, though, I don’t hide because I know that I am wholly loved. This must be true fellowship.

So, how do we get there? I don’t know. I don’t like crying in front of people, but nearly everyone here has seen me cry. They’ve seen me laugh a lot, too, often through my tears. Last Sunday, I left the group because I was feeling weepy and didn’t want the others to see me cry. God really got after me, though, about this whole fellowship thing. So I wiped my eyes, waited for the redness to fade, climbed the stairs leading back up to the sanctuary, and rejoined the group. A few minutes later, one of my new friends, Joel, introduced me to his sister, Sarah. “Oh, my best friend’s name is Sarah!” I said, happily. “Do you miss your friends?” Joel asked. I burst into tears. Then I started laughing and apologizing for being such a crybaby. They hugged me, we all laughed, and my love for life quickly returned. I wonder how long I would have taken to come to that place, on my own. How long would have I isolated myself, waiting for the emotion to pass?

On another occasion, I was ecstatic to hear someone describe me as always having a smile on my face. Given that she was included in the “everyone” who has seen me cry, I had been worried that she thought I was an emotionally unstable wimp. But she seemed to understand that the sad moments were just a part of the whole. What a blessing to be seen in this way! Is it possible that this perspective has actually become natural for people who live in close community? How do we have true fellowship? I don’t know. But for me I think it has started by determining that I will allow others to see the Self of which I am not particularly fond. This means that I can neither suppress it nor isolate myself when it appears. In fact, I should probably stop referring to it as a separate Self. Besides giving my readers concern for my mental health, I really should embrace it as being a part of my whole person. For me, having true fellowship includes loving those around me, and embracing them as whole persons, as well. Granted, this all sounds much prettier than it actually is. Not better, but certainly prettier. Walking in the light means being misunderstood, judged, and rejected. Walking in love means being cut on people’s rough edges. Paraguayans refer to a lot of things as being feo. Ugly is our best English translation. The muddy road is feo. A kitchen before it is cleaned up after dinner is feo. Words that hurt others are feo. A person’s behavior can be feo. I bet fellowship can be really feo. But I bet it’s worth it.

Walking in light and walking in love. I wonder if this will help me thrive in such close community. I think it’s what I’m observing from the Paraguayans. It certainly lines up with Scripture. If I stop fighting my Self, maybe I won’t be so tired and need so much time alone. Maybe. Maybe I’ll actually prefer communal living over the independence to which I’ve grown accustomed. How freeing. Right now it’s still a hypothesis.

An Ode to my Sister

2006-07-19T01:01:00.000-07:00

At the end of this year’s family vacation in California, I told my sister that the next blog I do would be called, An Ode to my Sister. Spending the entire week with her, her three little boys, and her husband, I was constantly awed by her selflessness. Good moms are nearly always on the clock. They don’t have the luxury of leaving their work at the office. They are always in charge. They are always Mom. Always. And the thing about my sister, is that she never ever complained. Her boys would never know they were wearing her down to the bone. She never made them feel like a burden. Never. She had amazing self-control. I can’t even begin to count the number of times my feelings of frustration and exhaustion would have gotten the best of me. But not Danielle. She always smiled. She always spoke kindly. Even on the plane ride home, after an entire week of running, she sat between her 3 and 4 year old and played with them the entire 4 hour plane ride home. She is my hero. I always talk about how I want to be more like Jesus. Well, for all of my reading, serving, presenting, and teaching, I pale in comparison to my sister, the stay-at-home-mom. And really, when I see the cost of completely giving up my comfort, time, goals, self, for the sake of others, I’m not sure I really want to be like Christ quite that badly. It’s one thing to talk about dying to Self when you know you always have the choice of whether or not you want to die. Danielle surrendered the right to chose the moment she had kids. Dying isn’t optional for her. She never just checks out and goes to her room when she needs some time alone. She’s always on the clock. Always. I left that week realizing a small extent of my selfishness and realizing that I am definitely not ready to be a mom.

Ten Days In

2006-07-18T01:01:00.000-07:00

After a day of being continuously awed by God’s involvement in my day of travel, my plane landed in Asuncion, Paraguay, around midnight on Fri PM/ Sat AM. Bob and Carol Givens, the seasoned missionaries who will be responsible for my transition into Paraguayan life, picked me up and drove me 3 hours south to their home in Villarica, a town/ city of 40,000 residents (in addition to about 30,000 residential college students from the surrounding areas). Saturday night, they held youth group at their home and I got to meet several 15-21 year olds. Sunday morning, 150 people gathered in their back yard for a monthly church service. After the service, the whole church ate together and played games, and then the Givens packed up and we left for SIM Paraguay’s annual Spiritual Life Conference, a week where all of the SIM missionaries gather at a campground for worship, fellowship, and teaching.

At the conference, I was blessed to have meaningful conversations, fun playing volleyball and catch-phrase, and spiritual preparation for the coming months. Most of my teammates are between 25 and 35 years old, married, and actively parenting several young children. As I am missing my own sisters and nephews, I’m thankful for the chance to be involved in the lives of other young families. Getting to know the other single person on the team, Fiona Cooper, was also a real blessing. Fiona is from the UK, currently teaching English at a university in Asuncion, and 6 months into a 2 year term. Additionally, we spent a lot of time with Hannah Smith, an MK from Kenya, who will be in Villarica with me for the next 3 weeks. Spiritually, God just showed up over and over again, assuring me that His presence would continue to surround me in this new season of my life. He is so good.

This past Friday, the conference ended and I joined 9 adults and 5 kids on a trip to Iguazu Falls, the most amazing waterfalls in the world. I’ll post pictures. They seriously put Niagra to shame. They are in the area where Paraguay, Argentina, and Brazil meet. Also, its convenient location makes the Paraguayan boarder city, Ciudad del Este, the black market capital of South America! Exiting, huh?:) At the end of the bridge that connects Brazil and Paraguay, all cars are searched because Paraguay taxes all goods coming into the country (for sale in Ciudad del Este). Things being carried in on foot, however, are not subject to this tax (because the assumption is that people are carrying it in for their own use, as opposed to resale). To get around this tax, trucks are unloaded on the Brazilian side, and then carriers are hired to carry the goods across the bridge. Once on the Paraguayan side, moto taxis wait to take the carriers back to the Brazilian side so they can do another round! I have a picture of some girls throwing boxes over the bridge to a boat below that collected the merchandise! Ah, yes, it was an exciting trip, indeed. Unfortunately, it’s usually the only city that tourists ever see in Paraguay, so they leave with a negative and very incorrect perception of this hospitable country. Back to the falls, though. The falls were amazing. What more is there to say. When you all come to visit, I’ll take you. Until then, I’ve posted a few pictures and a 15 second video that I took while there. Had I been alone, I could have stayed for hours…

Tomorrow, I’ll do laundry, regroup, and possibly move in to my host family’s home. The Ortizes have 2 daughters, Anita who is 21 and Naomi who is 14.

As far as how I’m doing, I’m wonderful. I’m so excited to be finally living the days I’ve dreamt about for the last 10 years. I love all of the newness. I am amazed by the need to slam on the breaks for the random cows that in the roads, receive odd satisfaction from the nausea that comes from the bumpiest cobblestone on which I’ve ever ridden, still appreciate the roosters who wake me between 5 and 6 each morning, savor the smell of empanadas and chipa in the streets, am willingly allowing myself to become addicted to terare, the national drink, adore the language and perspectives of my Canadian and British colleagues, and LOVE playing games with Paraguayan youth who make fun of my Spanish. This first week, I’ve easily taken over 500 photos, (and deleted over half of themJ). More than anything, though, I’ve loved resting in the knowledge that I’m where the Lord wants me, and that He will never leave me or forsake me.
As far as prayer goes, please pray that I adapt to the lack of time alone. Basically, I’ve been with people almost the entire time I’ve been here. Despite the wonderfulness of my teammates, it’s been exhausting! I probably haven’t had as much time by myself as what I require to function long-term. I went into this week understanding that I was being given an incredible chance to begin building relationships with my new teammates. Since most of them live at least 3 hours away from my new home of Villarica, the time at camp was a unique time. Ideally, however, I would have had a bit more time by myself to process all of the newness. But I didn’t and God’s grace has been working overtimeJ I would imagine, though, that my life with the Ortiz family will not include as much independence as what I’ve been used to, either, so just pray that I’m flexible and the Lord supplies my lack.

Also, despite being surrounded by people all the time, I’ve had times of feeling alone, as well, and have felt fearful about the loneliness that these next several months will bring. Up until the week before my arrival, I was anticipating fellowship with 3 other single young women who would be arriving, this summer. In a matter of 2 weeks, though, I’ve been disappointed to learn that they will all be working in other cities. The Lord has made it clear that He plans to richly bless my relationship with Him in these next 5 months. And He has certainly proven His love for me, so I completely trust Him. This peace, however, has come only after a few tears. Please pray that I come to know Him as my companion and friend.

So, that’s my life. Sorry this is so long. I think this is longer than any e-mail you will ever receive from me, but I went with it since it has been such a big first week. Thanks for your patience and friendship. You’re great. Come to Paraguay.

Crazy Emotions

2006-07-05T01:01:00.000-07:00

For the past 24 hours, I’ve been saying a lot of goodbyes. I’ve been surprisingly unemotional. Then at the dinner (lunch) table with my family, I completely broke down because I wouldn’t be able to throw my sister-to-be a bridal shower because I’ll be in Paraguay the months preceding her wedding. My breakdown came out of nowhere, lasted all of 30 seconds, and left as quickly as it had arrived. Several hours later, I lost it again when I tried to relay a conversation I had had with my nephew. I wasn’t feeling any emotion when I began, but started sobbing just seconds into the story, as if somebody flipped on my heart’s grief switch without my knowledge! A few days ago, Braden and I were playing softball, and I told him that when I come home from Paraguay, he’ll be on a real baseball team and I’ll sit in the bleachers to cheer him on. Sometimes, the thought of returning to find my 1,3,and 5 year old nephews 4,6, and 8 is more than I can bear.

These days my emotions are best illustrated by Indiana weather: entirely unpredictable. “How are you feeling?” everyone keeps asking. Well, this week my feelings have pretty much run the gamut. Gratitude. Self-pity. Joy. Peace. Depression. Anticipation. Anxiety. Gratitude. Confidence. Discouragement. Excitement. Peace. Fear. Awe. Nostalgia. Gratitude. Impatience. Anticipation. Peace. Absolutely nothing. Is that normal? I think I’m going to have to get used to tears and purchase a new bottle of waterproof mascara.

What I hate more than crying, though, is not crying. Already, there have been a few times when someone that I love has started to cry when struck with the reality of our upcoming separation. Since my own emotions are so weird, I often don’t cry back. I feel like that communicates my own lack of grief. It’s not that I don’t treasure these relationships. My emotions are just operating in overload mode, and I’m finding it difficult to manipulate them. I hate that! I dread the Sunday afternoons in Paraguay when I know that my family is sitting around the dinner table in Indiana, dialoguing about the relevance and faithful application of Scripture in today’s culture. Hopefully I’ll still be experiencing enough newness that missing Braden’s 5th birthday won’t be too overwhelming. I’m sure I will have to guard against depression, though, this Thanksgiving when I imagine everyone strolling the streets of Chicago, drinking apple cider and looking at the window displays on the Magnificent Mile. I know there will be times when I will miss Sarah so badly that I will turn on one of Dad’s worship mixes, collapse on my bed, ask Jesus to come and minister to my loneliness, and cry and cry and cry. Some Saturday nights will be hard, too, when I will so badly desire to be among the dear community that commissioned me, last night. And dang it that I’ll miss seeing my baby brother turn 21. Some days, I’ll really need Angela’s contagious joy, the inspiring sparkle in Hope’s peaceful eyes, the reassurance of Gene’s warmth and friendship, Myron and Dana’s encouragement, friendship, and wisdom, and Jodi, Eileen, Carol, and Ruth’s warm affirmation. On those days, I know that the Lord will provide through His own sweet presence, through His creation, and through His people. But I’ll also grieve. And He’ll grieve with me, because He didn’t create relationships to be broken. Even if I’m not crying now, I can assure you that when my tears do come, they will be almost unbearable.

My emotions are weird. Their unpredictability forces me to fall back into the faith that God can control them so they achieve that for which they were created. In that confidence, I can rest.

Sand or Sidewalk?

2006-06-28T15:30:00.000-07:00

Real life is hard. But real life is also beautiful. I am sitting at a picnic table just one street away from Newport Beach, about 45 minutes south of Los Angelos, California. I cannot actually see the ocean from where I sit, but I can hear it and feel its salty breeze. I am clean, having just showered and applied SPF 8 suntan lotion smelling of tropical coconut. It has been a wonderful morning. About 3 hours ago, I went out to the beach, alone, and began to run. I didn’t know where I was or where I was going. I had never been here before. I had tried to come with a friend, several months ago, but instead we ended up at a nearby beach called Balboa. I remembered it being fairly close, though couldn’t remember its exact distance. This morning, I had several hours before having to be somewhere, so I set out to find Balboa Pier.

It was amazing. Still being pretty early in the morning, the only other people out were surfers. It reminded me of a time my roommate and I got up early to watch the sunrise in Salema, Portugal (my favorite place in the world). That morning, we were alone except for fishermen coming just coming in for the day. There’s something wonderful about early mornings on the beach. People aren’t there to be seen. They aren’t looking for approval or acceptance. They aren’t wearing masks. They go because they want to be there and have a relationship with the ocean. It was, without a doubt, the most beautiful scenery I’ve ever enjoyed on a run.

The water was enticing. I loved being as close as possible to the shore. As a result, big waves often forced me to jump out of the way and sprint to higher ground. I felt lighthearted and free. Only once was I caught at my own game. Ironically, it was the only time that I was squarely facing my foe. So captivated by the ocean’s beauty, I had stopped running in order to savor the moment. Memorized, I was completely oblivious to a big wave preparing its break close to the shore. Without warning, it completely subdued my feet, socks, running shoes, and ankles. I suppose I could have avoided the soaking had I paid closer attention to the warning signs. I don’t savor enough moments, though, so it was worth it.

As I neared the Balboa pier, the slope going down to the water increased, so that I was running on the side of an incline. It was really hard. Running on the sand is already hard. But this became so hard that I finally gave up and moved to the sidewalk above. I immediately noticed was how easy it was to run on smooth, flat, hard concrete. I could cover much greater distance without near the effort. My second observation was that the people I passed up on the sidewalk were perfect. They poise was perfect. Their bodies were perfect. Their clothes were perfect. Their hair was perfect. Their ipods were perfect. They were purposeful. They were exercising. That’s probably how they stayed so perfect. But they were primarily alone or in perfect pairs. Soon, I realized that I could no longer see the ocean or hear the crashing of its waves with nearly the intensity as I had before. How symbolic. We try and try to protect ourselves from hardship and pain. We use technology and innovation to accomplish tasks with greater efficiency and consistency. But in so doing, we must remove ourselves from real life, thus removing ourselves from both the beauty and the mess. Despite my disappointment that I couldn’t simultaneously experience both the majesty of the ocean and the ease of the sidewalk, I continued running on the sidewalk because I was tired.

On the south side of the pier, I returned to the beach’s sandy slope to reflect on the trajectory of my life. Until recently, I have been a sidewalk girl. Afraid of failure and rejection, I have chosen to walk the paths of least resistance. I have exchanged the acute pain of specific rejection for the pervasive ache of love’s absence. I have been missing out. Without love, what is life? I have heard it said that change only takes place when the pain or risk involved with remaining as you are becomes greater than the pain or risk of moving forward. Through a process spanning 5 years, my fear of an insignificant life devoid of love became greater than my fear of rejection, effort, and pain. And so I began creeping toward the shore. It has been wonderful. It has also been very difficult. But more than anything, it has been real. Sometimes the water has gotten too close and I have run away. A few times, I’ve been in the middle of savoring a moment and gotten drenched. But it has been real.

After several minutes of thinking, I left Balboa and headed back to Newport. I started out on the sidewalk because the sand had tired me out. I couldn’t do it, though. I couldn’t stay there. After only 10 minutes, my tired legs carried me back down to the shore. The sound of the roaring ocean once again filled my ears. The mist of its spray cooled my body. It was beautiful. It was majestic. It was real. I saw a sailboat. Being nearly two hours from when I started out, I was now surrounded by families. Children sat building sandcastles, dirtied by the sand, but having a blast. Their laughter filled me with hope, joy, peace, and perfect contentment. Proud parents were taking pictures. Teenagers tried to stay up on their boogie boards. People were loving life. Once I saw a little kid trip over his feet and bite it pretty hard. But he got back up. Soon, he was laughing and playing again. They were so different from the people up on the sidewalk. Their imperfect faces and bodies radiated joy.

I suppose now that I have run near the ocean, it has awakened my senses and found a way into my bloodstream. Sometimes I get so tired that I have to retreat for a short periods to recover my strength. But retreat removes me from reality. Now that I have been intoxicated by real life, self-protection and ease are no longer worth their high price, so I return. I have traded the sidewalk for the sand.