Gospel Songs and Little Friends

Did you ever sing Gospel songs with your Hindu friends?

I was sitting in the home of my Nepali friends, helping little Bimla with her homework. She was reading a funny story, stumbling through the difficult words, giggling as she understood what those words meant. Indira, ever quiet and not one to disturb me, was standing beside me with her composition book, waiting.

I had to read her lovely cover - splattered with crayoned designs, white tape and stickers -  two times, until I deciphered it. It said "Jesus loves me."

I thought surely she copied it from some book, some pamphlet that she couldn't read in English.

But no, she understood. She scrunched up her mouth, looking at me like I was crazy. "Jesus love me! See?" she said, pointing with her finger to the words. "Jesus-love-me. Ok?"

And she wanted me to sing a song with her that she had copied into her notebook. Sure thing. I love singing - especially with children!

But the song she wanted to sing was a surprise to me: "You are my all in all."

You have no idea how wonderful it is to worship God in a home where there is very little Light. The two little girls and I sang the whole song all the way through ... and it was wonderful. They were thrilled to sing with their crazy American tutor (me), and I was overjoyed to share that special moment with them.

It's things like that - sharing a bowl of spicy noodles, learning to make Nepali tea, singing a simple song together, killing roaches in their kitchen (yes, I've done it) - that build relationships that will go way beyond words. It goes way beyond the little we are able to communicate.

I get dirty. I get frustrated with them when they've filled the house with pesticide spray and don't understand that they can't stay inside till it airs out. We've dealt with lice, roaches, unidentifiable creepy-crawlies that somehow made it over from Nepal in luggage. I've made countless stupid blunders because I didn't understand their culture, their language, their way of life. But all of that fades when I realize that I'm more to them than a volunteer.

I'm a friend. Somebody they love and trust. Even though I'm crazy enough to want to help them work in their garden, or make jhalmuri after class time. They love me.

And that's priceless.

Thoughts on Benghazi

You all have heard about the violence in Benghazi. The death of Christopher Stevens, American ambassador to Libya. Sam Bacile's film about Mohammad. The protesting and ensuing violence. Even death.

One man's freedom of speech has inflamed half a world. 

I treasure my freedom as a American. I can say what I like, think what I like, write what I like. No one may take away that freedom from me; I am an American. 

We may wield our words as swords. We may kill and destroy and inflame, and no one will stop us. Our tongues can bring death. It's our basic right, this freedom of speech. 

My heart aches as I watch the violence and hatred burn across the globe tonight. I ache because I see lives destroyed. I see hearts forever closed. Friends that will cease to trust me simply because I am American. Lives cut short. 

Will we use our words to bridge gaps, to build up, to speak life into hearts? Or will we use our freedom to destroy?

I have nothing else to write tonight. I am praying for those affected by this tragedy, and for an end to the ridiculous violence. Will you pray with me? 

9/11 Eleven Years Later

Today marks eleven years since September 11, 2001.

It seems unbelievable that it's been that long. It feels like yesterday that I was sitting at my desk, incredulous at the horror unfolding so close to home.

The deep blue sky, cool weather. Total absence of air traffic, outside of the strange presence of military jets and helicopters. School let out early. Dad came home. Everyone seemed to be transfixed, frozen in a state of shock.

The pictures on the TV will forever haunt me. The unforgettable smell of smoke and jet fuel that hung in the air. Intentional mass murder. Flames. Destruction. It was as if my innocence was taken - I never dreamed man could be so savage, so ruthless, so murderous.

But I saw something else, too. Something beautiful. I watched my local neighborhood pack care packages for the families of those killed in NYC. I witnessed men that gave their lives to save victims from the wreckage. Firefighters that gave the ultimate, to save others' lives. These men had families, too - but they gave anyway.

I'm writing this tribute to those of you that suffered so immeasurably following the 9/11 attacks. Those of you that have lost family, husband, father, wife, mother, son, daughter; those of you that willingly, through tears, sacrificed your husbands for the lives of the victims he rescued.

I'm writing for those of you that labored at ground zero. The firefighters and police officers. All of the people that came together and gave so selflessly. Many of you have suffered ill health as a result. Some of you gave even your last drop of energy and blood to save lives. Maybe you were the child that gave a cold drink to a firefighter. To all of you - even the smallest, seemingly most insignificant hero - thank you.

I'm also writing for those of you that have suffered much fear, pain, misjudgment, prejudice and even hate crimes following the attacks. You were not responsible, and you felt the same horror and cried the same tears the rest of America cried - and yet you became the scapegoat for the tragedy. You, too, have suffered. Deeply.

No, I will never forget that day eleven years ago. Neither will any of you that lost a loved one in that tragedy. I'm praying for all of you today.  God is able to bring joy out of mourning, beauty for the gruesome ashes of tragedy. May God bless and comfort you with His peace!

To watch the live broadcast of the 9/11 Anniversary Webcast today at 8:30am EST, click this link: http://www.911memorial.org

I've Been Wrecked ... For Good

Again, I find my heart a thousand miles away. Pulled in different directions. I close my eyes, and I see my brothers and sisters in Rwanda. Syria. Myanmar. Across the globe. I see their pleading eyes, the children reaching for my hand.

And I reach back ... only to find that my arms aren't long enough. I wake up and realize that I'm in America. Home of the free.

I try hard to live a normal life. When I lay in my bed at night, I really do try not to think of the children sleeping without a home or parents. When I walk the streets of my city, I try so hard not to look at the prosperity and feel brokenhearted for my friends that don't have anything at all to eat for dinner.

Yeah, I try. But I've been wrecked.
I let myself feel. I let myself care - deeply. I felt their pain, their loss, their hopelessness. And it wrecked me for life.

I've sat in refugees' homes and felt the facade of American life slipping from my grasp. I listened to the Rwandan genocide survivor's story and had no framework on which to place the information I was hearing.  I talked with Syrians and Iraqis as they cried out their lives of pain and fear.

It hurts to have your whole worldview broken to pieces.

Sometimes as I try to sleep at night, my heart breaks for so many nations, so many tribes, that sleep won't come. I pray ... but words seem ridiculously inadequate.

I've been wrecked. My life has been scarred by feeling, by seeing, by caring.

I see the world differently. I realize my own fragileness, and as a result of that, I'm able to love deeply. I may only have three short seconds with this person, to shine hope into her life. I may only be able to tell my friends that I'm praying for them, as woefully inadequate as those words are in view of a massacre. But those little things are what makes a different in this world.

I can't change the world. But I can do what I can to make a difference.

I'm glad I've been wrecked. Because it forces me to live life wide-awake. Go ahead and let God wreck your life; don't hold back for fear. You won't regret one second of it.

Reach out Your Hands to the World

In case you wondered, no, this blog hasn't been discontinued. :) I know it's been at least a few months since I last wrote anything here. Life has been wonderfully busy. [End of why-I-never-blog disclaimer]

The Lord has really been narrowing my vision, clearing away the fog on the windshield and showing me PEOPLE. I've been spending the majority of my time in various cities, interacting with many people of many different religions, cultures, languages. Some are living on barely enough income to keep going. Others have all they could ever desire in life. 

I remember one day several weeks ago, as I was walking down the street heading for a refugee's home. It was the lower-income part of the city. It seemed like the Lord opened my eyes and made me intensely aware of the people around me; suddenly they were more than crowds and masses pushing around me, heading to their various destinations. They were people ... individuals - with lives, pain, needs, fears and dreams.

I was waiting to cross the street, and happened to notice that there was a young man in a wheelchair also waiting. His mom stood next to him. They caught my attention, and we chatted a little. Her son is suffering from leukemia. He's barely 21. He's in the midst of treatment, very sick, very weak, and obviously loosing the battle. He looked like a very-alive guy trapped in a painfully failing body ... and it broke my heart. Outside of his tired, discouraged mom, does he have anybody cheering for him? Anybody speaking life into his seemingly hopeless situation? Anybody who will see past the fear of sickness, fear of ______, to give hope to that very-hurting person trapped in that failing body?

Angie lives on the street. She looks like a tough lady, carrying her bag with her only earthly possessions. We crossed paths several weeks ago, and I didn't realize she was homeless - just thought she looked lonely and tired. I smiled, chatted a little ... and I wish you could have seen her face. I was taken aback at her joy. I think she would have hugged me had she not had her bag in her hands! She's one soul in a thousand in my city - but she's precious in the eyes of the Lord. 

I was horrified to see a lady and her young daughter, sitting on the street in Brooklyn, NYC, begging. They looked so out-of-place, so vulnerable, so lost in the millions of people walking down the sidewalks of that huge city. Both wore distinctly un-American clothing and headscarves. Most likely they are refugees, having moved to that city for the opportunities of jobs, escaping violence in their own country, education ... 

What made me even more concerned was when I met them again in one of the street-side shops. I tried to strike up a conversation with them, and noticed that they wouldn't make eye contact; both mother and daughter flinched. They looked terrified. Are they being used - unknowingly - by someone who has stooped low enough to enslave others? Who took advantage of them simply because they were unknowlegeable; simply because they couldn't speak English; simply because they trusted a man who promised them a bright future? Where will these women ever find hope in their dark world?

One day in the city. Thousands of lives. Thousands of futures. Destinies. What kind of difference could we make if we stopped long enough to see them? To notice them - let them know that we believe they're worth something? If we reached out a hand to give hope? If we reminded them that they're not a lost cause; that there is someone who has hope for their mess? I wonder. I think it could be awesome. 

Friday Evening Thoughts

    Another afternoon is gone, spent with my Nepalese friends. I felt like the foreigner today, as my friends shared little pieces of their culture with me - looking at photos of their homeland, watching a video clip of a Nepalese festival together, while Uncle explained in detail how the festival is carried out ... I understood maybe half of what he was saying, but the other half was spoken by his expressions. He was enjoying sharing his culture with me as much as I was enjoying learning!
    I love watching this family as they interact with each other. Typical of their people, all of the relatives share homes. Uncles, aunts, grandmothers and grandfathers, children and cousins all live together, often in the same home. My friends have two houses, and all of the family members go between both places constantly. Today I asked one of the children who one of the relatives was - cousin, brother, uncle?  She hesitated, then went to ask her mother!
    They're all so close, and love each other so much that the lines are blurred. They look out for each other, go out of the way for each other. They do the same for their friends. I love that. I learn so much from them.
   As I've spent time interacting with refugees such as this family, I'm finding more and more that the American stereotype of people from 3rd world countries is very, very, very wrong (can I even overemphasize that?). They are not dumb people; they do not need special-Ed classes so that they can function in the 'civilized' world. They do understand when you speak about them behind their back.
   Language is a huge barrier. You've probably had the experience of ordering at a ethnic restaurant, and being misunderstood. Maybe you felt frustrated, or though that the people you're dealing with just aren't educated.
    Nothing could be farther from the truth. Most of these people - whether they're refugees, immigrants, or  students - are working hard to learn English. But making a living is difficult. They were doctors, professors, surgeons in their home country; here, they are janitors. They make beds at the local hotel. They work in the Turkey Hill on the corner. And to make a living for their family, they work ... night and day. English class takes a back seat.
    So, when you interact with your foreign friends, know that they're people who are living and often thriving in a place that they do not understand; they are a people who are embracing a culture nothing like their own. They're lonely. Often they're confused, maybe ostracized because of ethnicity or religion. And they would love nothing more than to have a few friends who care ... friends that they can call when they can't figure out how to use their new stove (they cooked over a open fire in their home country). Friends who won't make them feel foolish for wondering how to ride the bus, or how to use American money.
    And I know that you'll find it to be a experience you'll never regret. You'll be blessed, and not just a little - good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over! As you have done to the least of these ...

   
   
    

Christ. Alone.

    I've been taught the meaning of Easter as long as I've been able to understand.  I've heard it from the pulpit as long as I've been in a church. But not until this year has the true meaning of Easter been totally, shockingly real to me. Maybe it's that I feel my need acutely - maybe more than I ever have before. Maybe it's just that I had to see it for myself to really grasp it fully.

    That's why I love this song. I didn't learn this song until last week. And I've been singing it ever since. It makes my heart rejoice. And I want to live in that place of knowing that "no power of hell, no scheme of man can ever pluck me from His hand. Till He returns or calls me home, here in the power of Christ I'll stand."

In Christ alone my hope is found 
He is my light, my strength, my song 
This Cornerstone, this solid ground 
Firm through the fiercest drought and storm 
What heights of love, what depths of peace 
When fears are stilled, when strivings cease 
My Comforter, my All in All 
Here in the love of Christ I stand 

In Christ alone, who took on flesh 
Fullness of God in helpless babe 
This gift of love and righteousness 
Scorned by the ones He came to save 
‘Til on that cross as Jesus died 
The wrath of God was satisfied 
For every sin on Him was laid 
Here in the death of Christ I live 

There in the ground His body lay 
Light of the world by darkness slain 
Then bursting forth in glorious Day 
Up from the grave He rose again 
And as He stands in victory 
Sin’s curse has lost its grip on me 
For I am His and He is mine 
Bought with the precious blood of Christ 

No guilt in life, no fear in death 
This is the power of Christ in me 
From life’s first cry to final breath 
Jesus commands my destiny 
No power of hell, no scheme of man 
Can ever pluck me from His hand 
‘til He returns or calls me home 
Here in the power of Christ I’ll stand

Crossing Cultures in my City...the life of a tutor

It was a Friday afternoon, and I was sitting in the living room of my Nepali friends. Indira was sitting next to me, fiercely concentrating on her spelling homework. Every few minutes she would point to a word, "What means?" I would explain the meaning, and she would be off again, painstakingly scribbling on the lines, erasing, writing again. 

I glanced over to Bimla. As usual she was fully engaged in her work: spelling out each letter, then shouting the full word aloud. Her pronunciation is distinctly Nepali.  She's totally oblivious to my presence. I have to smile - so diligent, she screws up her mouth, pushes her dark hair out of her face and grimaces with all the concentration of a nine-year-old. I ask her if she needs any help with her homework. She looks at me with a look that says, "Of course not. If I needed help I would ask, thank you." 

In between helping my students, I chat with their mom and aunt. I love spending time with them, but so often I just long to be able to tell them how much I appreciate their friendship, their love for me. But I can't. They don't understand me, and I struggle to understand them. I just hope that they can hear my heart even if the language barrier seems very great.

Spelling work completed, I attempted a new method of learning math facts. I pulled my laptop out of my backpack, and all three of the girls were delighted. Bimla scooted closer and started pushing keys, asking "Is laptop?" They were soon racing each other to answer all the addition facts. Success! I relinquished the laptop to Sadi, the oldest student, and all three girls crowded around, pushing, arguing, laughing, smiling. They were having the greatest time. And I was enjoying watching them have so much fun!

All too soon my time was finished and I had to move on. Another afternoon of tutoring. Two hours spent building relationships with my new friends. I can hardly get off the couch without all three of my students hugging me, shouting their goodbyes, clambering for my attention. "Next week, you come back? Yes?" I always assure them that I will come back. They don't know it, but I count the days till I can come back each week!

Relationships. Friendships. Simple things like a smile, sharing a laugh, reading a story, enjoying a cup of their tea ... yaks' milk and everything ... being willing to be lavished with their hospitality when I know they have so little. These 'simple' things build relationships that will affect eternal souls forever. Is it worth it? You tell me. 

Crossing Language & Culture ... and Making Friends

I spent my Friday at Franklin & Marshall college, for a conference about refugee resettlement in Lancaster. We had a fairly large group of people who are serving refugees in a variety of ways, and we came together to learn how we can better serve and assist the people that we work with. 

I loved the wide variety of people we had - Nepali people, a Iraqi couple, a speaker from Burma, a family from the Congo; teachers like myself who work with non-English speakers, folks who help them find homes in the United States, people in the health field who assist refugees in the confusing maze of healthcare.  

What really inspired me was getting to share ideas, challenges and thoughts with so many other volunteers who are working with refugees also. In the last session, we broke into groups of seven, and discussed our city: how are we helping refugees? How are we failing? Are there some things we could do better? Strengths? Weaknesses? 

We came together again, and the staff at F&M put all the ideas into a powerpoint presentation. I was really inspired by the ideas and challenges! Here's a few of our thoughts:

- In Lancaster city alone, we have so many resources that could be utilized. There's many volunteers and several organizations dealing with refugee resettlement, and yet as we were interacting at the conference, we were meeting each other for the first time! (On a personal level, I met a teacher that is working with the same refugee family that I'm tutoring. Neither of us were aware of each other. Now that we've met, we can partner together, share ideas. ) If those of us who are working with refugees were aware of each other, we could better direct our people to the volunteers who would be able to help them. I'm a teacher; I can't help Didi with his taxes. But if I knew someone who could, I could direct him to that person. 

- What about a community center, where we would bring together the various specialties? We don't know where the community services are! If we had a center to direct the refugees to - whether the need be teaching, ESL, driving help, healthcare, etc. - there wouldn't be as many gaps and unfulfilled needs.

-Another thing that we talked about was the language problem. We need to be very sensitive and willing to speak slowly, listen carefully, and not to be afraid to repeat to make sure we got the point across. Possibly something we said could be misunderstood, or mean a totally different thing to our non-English friends. 

It was a exciting conference. I made numerous international friends from around the globe, who are now living in my city. I learned more about how to help my refugee friends. I can hardly wait to head into Lancaster city again this week - but wait, this time I have two families to visit, not just one! :) 

Strangers ... or my Neighbors?

Egypt. Syria. Iraq. Iran. Jordan. What do you feel when you hear of those places ... when you pick up a newspaper, and see a photo of a crowd of nameless Syrians holding signs scrawled with unreadable Arabic script? When your friend gets deployed overseas to some far-off land that is only a hard-to-pronounce name to you? What about when your new neighbor moves in next door, and you discover that they're refugees from Iraq, fleeing war and turmoil?

Maybe you have had a experience like I have. Maybe you were a typical American, living the typical American life, sitting in your far-removed living room watching bombs drop on some country that you never knew existed before.  Maybe you were like me - a 10 yr. old, watching the destruction on television. Maybe, like me, you thought the orange flashes that lit up the night sky over Baghdad were nothing more than that - pretty light in a dark night.

Until you realized that it was not a pretty light. It was no fireworks display. It was war. And war means death. It means lives, torn by loss. People who would never again see the sun rise. Fathers, taken from their wife and children. Suddenly, those streaks of light seemed so senseless.

I remember lying in bed at night, seeing those light flashes when I closed my eyes. Seeing the pleading eyes of the Iraqi children. Thinking of Iraqi fathers not unlike my own. I remember running into a Middle Eastern family at the local WalMart.  I remember distinctly the fear in their eyes as they interacted with my people - knowing that my people were at war with their people.

Yeah, I was really young. I didn't know much. But I prayed a prayer back then that I have never stopped praying - "Oh God, when I'm old enough, send me over there! I want to help those people!"

I think we too easily let distance, lack of knowledge or fear put a barrier between us and the nations ... and our international neighbors. Specifically our Middle Eastern neighbors.

Did you ever stop to think how it would feel to be in their shoes? To be dropped into a nation whose language you cannot understand, whose culture is shockingly different, whose clothing is scandalous compared to what you are accustomed to? What if you couldn't read the labels on the various food products? What if you weren't certain what kind of currency use, or what the monetary value was of each bill? What if riding the bus was the biggest hurdle you could imagine crossing?

That Middle Eastern family you just walked past on the street - they're living here because they were hunted like dogs in their own nation. They have very few friends in America. They've caught every flu and cold since they moved to the U.S., and so have missed alot of their English classes. They are ashamed of their inability to understand or to communicate in English. They would be delighted to have a friend who they know truly loves them - in spite of their poor English.

Those strange-looking ladies two blocks down - the ones with the headscarves - they're living in America, seeking higher education. One is married and has three little children who demand her attention. Recently their homeland was at war. All of the resources they had to their name were suddenly unavailable, as the leader of their nation froze all assets, and though they diligently worked two jobs at night, it was not enough to pay tuition. Nor to provide sufficient food for the family.  They were desperate. They had never experienced this sort of difficulty before. They didn't know where to turn. They felt very alone in this strange country.

Story after story after story, of people ... refugees, immigrants ... real people with real lives, with real pain, and real needs. I think we need to throw our lives into their lives - be willing to hurt with them, be willing to risk being misunderstood, be willing to give our time and our money. The world is at our doorstep - oh Lord, give us Your eyes, and let us see the world around us like You do! 

Glimpses of Syria

 Syria. It's been in the news constantly the past while. We all know that there's fighting. Killing. Death. Uprising. Protesting. Maybe we don't know all the why's of what's going on. Maybe we've taken a minute to read a news report, or to pray for the Syrians who are experiencing the horrors of civil war.

Do you feel like it's removed from your daily life? Like you just can't imagine it?

Dawn has come again. You're awake, though weary after another restless, cold night. The fear of yesterday plagued your night with dreams … full of terror. You're hungry, thirsty, weary and cold. Your brother was killed four days ago, brutally murdered as he attempted to flee to safety; there was no funeral. In shocked silence his body was buried quickly, unceremoniously, under the guard of loyal friends. It is necessary to remain watchful. Even while the burial took place, shots were heard nearby. The tension never ends. Syrians are calling it a genocide. 

Your normal routine is a thing of the past. Tears fill your eyes as you go out on the streets. Houses and buildings that were once beautiful are now reduced to shambles, pockmarked with huge holes. Bricks and broken shards of rock and metal litter the street. Blood stains. Used shells. The silence is deafening. Those who have not fled the violence are fearful to leave their houses, choosing to remain out of sight. Establishments are shut down. Busy streets are now empty, littered with the evidence of war.

Then you see a child, standing in the middle of the street. She is beautiful, so innocent, surrounded by destruction ill-fitting with her beauty. Her simplicity and happiness in the midst of death and pain tears at your heart – you wish to take her, protect her, keep her safe from the horrors of what your city is enduring. She is holding a metal pan, reaching her arms out to the sky. She is so thirsty that she is willing to risk her life to catch a few snowflakes, to melt and to quench this terrible thirst. 

Her mother and baby brother cower inside the basement of their house. Father was killed in the fighting last week. He went out to find food to feed his hungry family, and he never came back. She smiles, oblivious to any threats around her. Her smile seems to betray her inner strength; she has not given up hope. She is alive. She is Syrian.

A hour later, fighting breaks out on your street, and the dreaded shelling begins afresh. You turn to flee, only to be knocked unconscious and thrown to the ground by a bomb exploding nearby. You lie on the street until you regain consciousness. Pain wracks your body, and you know it is impossible to try to walk to safety. You are alive, but just barely. Involuntary tears run down your face as the pain becomes nearly unbearable. You must get medical help – but there is no such aid.

Would you be horrified if I told you that this story has been repeated over 7,500 times? That over 500 of the casualties were children? And over 64 of those killed were mothers?

It's true. And this story continues today … right now as you're reading this. Syrians are living out something that we Americans cannot fathom. They're hungry. Thirsty. There is snow on the ground, and they have no electricity. No heat. The wounded suffer without adequate medical assistance. They are being killed by the hundreds every day. Children are dying simply due to lack of food and water.

And they feel totally forgotten – or ignored – by the world. They feel alone. They are living this tragedy without anyone to encourage them. One citizen writes from Syria a day ago: “God is the only one who cares. We are alone.” Is that true? Can we let that be true?  

This story is compiled from numerous accounts from the front lines in Syria. It's fictional, in that it is not about a single, real person. Rather it has been compiled from the lives of many Syrians who are living this nightmare, and who survived – so far - to tell their story.

I write this so you can know in a personal way what so many people are experiencing daily. I write so that you will never again be able to read a news report without feeling the pain and agony of a people not so unlike our own - and that it would drive you to action. Above all, I write so that you will pray, and that you will pray from a heart that has felt the pain of Syria. I believe Jesus weeps over Syria. Do we?

Volunteering Day #1

Scanning the street, I located a parking spot and pulled next to the curb. Swallowing my fear, I double-checked the address I was given, and stepped onto the sidewalk. It smelled weird: a odd mix of curry and spices foreign to me. My arrival was obviously a object of curiosity, as numerous doors opened and several people stepped out to watch me walk by. I smiled, trying to look like I knew just what I was doing there - even though that was far from the truth!

I found the Nepali family's apartment without any trouble, and before I even knocked on the door, it flew open and a smiling, cheerful Nepali girl motioned for me to come in.  She shut the door behind me, and we proceed to greet one another - though she speaks very little English, and I speak absolutely no Nepali. Her sister, a older, much more traditional Nepali lady, stands and greets me in the traditional manner - hands together, slightly bowing,"namaste". She speaks no English, and is illiterate even in her own language.

So far, so good. I kept glancing at my cell phone, hoping that any minute now, my American contact (who knew this family) would arrive. She promised to be here! This is terrifying! These people speak no English, we cannot communicate, and worst yet, there is a continual stream of brothers and sisters and uncles and aunts, all coming to see the new English tutor - me. Terror fills my heart. Another round of greetings!

I finally gave up on the hope of having another American around, and just threw myself into the situation. "So ... do you like living in America?" My attempt at conversation was met with that all-too-familiar look. Okay, better try again.

Thankfully, after the initial feeling of fear of not being able to communicate, the three girls whom I was assigned to teach arrived home from school. The two youngest immediately climbed up on the couch next to me, and begin to whisper to each other, giggling.

The girls have obviously been very diligent at school. They can read fairly well. "e-l-e-p-h-a-n-t...says ephelant? Yes?" At my uncertain look, she scoots closer. "How you say?" She puts her dark hand on my arm, questioning. I notice for the first time the henna drawings on her hands and arms. Her trust and love for me, a perfect stranger, warms my heart. We sound out the word together, and she so painstakingly tries to imitate just how I pronounce it.

All too quickly, we're through all of their homework. These girls are incredible - they've adapted to their new culture so well, and so bravely! I find myself not wanting to leave. I love these girls; I love this family. I think ... well ... this cross-cultural thing isn't as scary as I thought!

Walking out their door and onto the sidewalk again, I suddenly feel like these people aren't just refugees anymore. They're friends.  And I can't wait to go back again!

Maybe you caught it already, but the above is my experience as a volunteer English/homework tutor. It's scary, and uncomfortable, and stretching - but the rewards are so worth the effort! And in case you wondered, I'm not working in a foreign country; the family I work with lives within 15 minutes of my home town. 

Encounter with Uncontacted Peruvian Tribe

First thing this morning, I heard about a tribe by the name of Mascho-Piro, living within the Manu National park in Peru. They are totally untouched - every time outsiders attempted to make contact with the tribe, they were either unsuccessful, or were killed. Of course there's the fascination of realizing that there's people out there who are totally removed from the life that I know; that there's people living without technology, and the basic things that I take for granted.
But worst than all of that ... they're living without Jesus.  And they don't know it.
One man, Nicolás "Shaco" Flores, was able to make meaningful contact with the tribe. He befriended them and learned to speak their language. Many others have attempted to communicate, but no one was able as this man was.
Nicolás "Shaco" Flores was shot by a arrow on the outskirts of the Manu National Park, in November, by the tribe he wanted to befriend.


So, I guess the purpose of my writing this is clear: I hope above hope that many of you who read this will pray for the Mascho-Piro tribe. They have very little hope of being reached by the Gospel. Due to their evident desire to be left alone by outsiders, the Peruvian government is trying very hard to keep others from invading into their territory. Their tribe fears outsiders, and outsiders fear them. And there is no one who speaks their language, who has made any meaningful contact with them.

It reminds me of the Auca tribe so many years ago, before Jim Elliot and his four fellow missionaries were willing to risk everything for their salvation.  I'm praying for this tribe ... that God would send someone who is fearless. And that someday, JESUS would shine from the Mascho-Piro!

day 14 of 365...

Wow, it's been awhile since I posted anything here! My apologies, people. Blogging doesn't have priority in my life. ;)

I've been loving life these first few weeks of 2012. That sounds trite, but I'm serious - God has been doing things in my heart that I never expected or dreamed He would do. And I'm absolutely thrilled. Crazy busy, dealing with health struggles, learning a 2nd language, sewing dresses for two weddings (and all 10 dresses need to be done in a month. On the same date. Go figure.), childrens' ministry - just life - and finding Jesus sweeter than I ever knew.

I've been thinking about life in general, about a new year ahead, about the shortness of my life, as I have been reading through 2 Cor. 4-5.  And a few verses shone out to my heart: "But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us. We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed.."

And then the part that hit me the hardest. ".. always carring in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our bodies."

And almost without a breath, it goes right into verse 16: "So we do not lose heart.." (Like, there's purpose in this pain! See past it!) "..Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day.... as we look not to the things that are seen, but to the things that are unseen."

Yeah. Does that blow you away like it does me? I read it and just sat there, with overwhelming thankfulness to God. I thought of all the pain of the past months, all the challenges, the things that seemed so wrong; all of the health issues...the places I want to go, but can't, because of them.  And it was like God said, "Wait. I've got a purpose in it. See past it! There's something more here!"

So ... we don't have to loose heart. I'm not loosing heart. I'm thrilled that my life - one of millions of people on this earth - has a purpose. And I'm thrilled that God is always doing a thousand times more than we can see. And He can use the brokenness in my life for good.

God is so good!!

2012 and my one life to live ..

    Well,  it's the first day of 2012, and I thought that warranted a post here. Yesterday I thought about the tradition of making New-Year's-Resolutions-That-I-Never-Keep, and that seemed pretty lame to me. I don't believe in resolving to do something that I know I'll not do past next week.  :)
    But regardless, I was really challenged by the suggestion to pick one of Jonathan Edward's Resolutions (http://dailychristianquote.com/dcqresolve.html) as a goal for this coming year.  Having read much of Jonathan Edward's writings and sermons, I have a high regard for his life and testimony, and have been incredibly blessed by his humility and heart after God.
  So I picked one of his resolutions as something that I want to remember throughout this coming year, and the rest of my life: "Resolved, never, henceforth, till I die, to act as if I were any way my own, but entirely and altogether God's."  And also, right along with that, was the second resolution: "Resolved, to endeavor to obtain for myself as much happiness in the other world, as I possibly can, with all the might, power, vigor, and vehemence, yea violence, I am capable of, or can bring myself to exert, in any way ... "  
    That's what I want in this next year.  That's what I want in my life.  To live life with all I've got - I like that word violence in this context - for the glory of God, in a way that speaks of my owned-ness, with as much might and power and vigor and violence that I'm capable of. In Jonathan Edward's words, "to live with all my might while I do live." 
    I'd love to hear what God has put in your hearts, as you look towards another new year. What's your goals, visions, desires?