Well, God has surprised me...

I am not a kid person-whether that means baby, in-between, or teenager. I admire people who can laugh and play with children and actually enjoy it. God must have given those people a special gift that He didn't bestow upon me. Well, a little over a month ago, between the inspiration of a rare spontaneity, the Holy Spirit, and the testimony of a servant-hearted friend, I decided that I wanted to volunteer at our church's youth group until I left for grad school this fall.

The weekend I was planning on talking to the youth pastors about it, I had the whole house to myself. "I'll just relax at home on Sunday morning and read my Bible a little," I thought. But I woke up early from natural causes like usual, and by the time I had done a load of laundry and showered, I noticed that I still had time to make it to church. With a beating heart, I decided, "Okay, I'll do it." At the end of the service I forced myself to introduce myself to the youth pastors and express my interest. She gave me a funny look, and I thought, "Oh good, they don't need me". But she said, "That's funny, we've been wanting people who will help serve the youth."

Tonight was my third night. Every Sunday morning I dread having to spend my day off at church, but every evening I come home full of God's presence and totally glad that I went. I'm a naturally shy person, even around kids 10 years younger than me. I've been trying to observe the dynamics of it all. It's not the best youth group I've ever been to. The first hour we play games and hang out, the second hour there is a message, but the third hour...that's what makes it all worth it. The third hour is devoted to worship and ministering to one another and intentionally listening to what God is speaking to each one of us. It is amazing how much farther ahead spiritually some of these kids are than I was at their age. They actively listen for God's voice, then journal it or encourage another with the word they received. They are practicing and living out a multi-dimensional relationship with the living God, and they act as if that's normal! 

The other kids I pray for. A and A didn't show up tonight, they're the type who dress in all black and don't talk much. Then there are D and C, who need to stop worrying what the other thinks about them and focus on what God thinks of them. E is in the shadow of his spiritually-mature brother, still trying to figure out if he really believes in all this. S is new, but he will do anything to fit in...kinda reminds me of my littlest brother. In fact, this experience has helped me much more in knowing what to pray for my brothers. When I walk into youth group, I feel like every kid is wearing a mask. If only they knew the freedom they could have if they dropped the facade and decided that they must get a hold of God's presence in their lives...no matter what. What can we do to get them to open up and be real? How do we get past the surface into what they're really dealing with in their lives? A smile doesn't mean everything is okay.

I am also not a very expressive person...especially when it comes to dancing. But I've been realizing more and more lately, "What have I to lose?"...well, only more time that I could have in the abundant life with Him. So I danced tonight, and to some Scottish highland music, no less-haha!! Okay, so maybe it's easier in a group of kids than with peers or those older than me. They already think I'm crazy or super spiritual or something. I don't have to live up to a preconceived notion with any of them. They don't know me yet, so I can be who I want to be. I want to be real and genuine. I just want to be available. I know I only have a few months with them, I know I'm not going to revolutionize the youth group at True Life Fellowship, but I'm here for the time being, and God can use me if He wants to.

I think that is one of the reasons ministry wasn't successful for me in Kenya. Instead of being willing to be used where I was at, whatever that looked like, I kept trying to "find my nitch". I never found it, and I wasted a lot more than time there. The reality is, is that here at the youth group, the situation is not much different. Youth are most definitely not my "nitch", and I'm still not some super spiritual person. In fact, the only difference between here and Kenya is that we can speak English and have air conditioning. Oh wait...but one more thing...I'm making myself available.

Tonight a young girl came and sat beside me while I was worshipping. Seba (pronounced "Shaybah" which is Hebrew for "daughter of royalty") asked, "Is God speaking anything to you?" I answered, "Yeah, well, He is more, like, washing over me. I've had a pretty stressful week, and He is just filling me with His peace." She nodded and went quiet. "What about you?" She shook her head. "No, I'm trying, but I just can't hear Him." "Do you want to?", I asked. "Yes." So I prayed for her. "Do you think you can hear Him now?" "I think so a little." She thanked me and returned to her seat. I kept worshipping, but looked back a little while later to see her filling her journal with His words to her.

During the week I'm busy. It is hard to have a genuine time with Jesus every day besides a short Bible reading. I'm learning how to walk with Him and be faithful in the everyday tasks of life, and to truly listen for His voice, expecting Him to talk with me. On Sunday nights I don't come to youth group with a huge revelation or extra spiritual power...I just come available. If God wants to use me, He can. And these kids who are struggling to walk this path and figure out their relationship with God, well, I can pray for them.

a couple of the youth during worship

Broken

Rough hands, worn face

Tired lines, blank gaze

Aching bones, back bent

A pain that stole the innocence

Trails of tears stain pale cheeks

Old eyes betray her youth

When "promises" flash all around 

Look close to see the truth

Strife and worry, fear and grief

What can mend a broken heart?

Valleys etch a weathered face

For too long it's been dark

Too young to learn not to love

Who hides behind the mask?

She must have been a pretty girl

In the mystery of her past

What made her hard and filled this sea

Of discouraged, broken dreams? 

What caused her to preserve herself

With sure, but shallow things?

A search for meaning in this life

A "why" to live or die

A shattered vessel, a million pieces

Do you hear her cry?

Fall away you old woman

Your time has not yet come!

There are still years to live and laugh

And taste the breath of freedom

A heart was meant to beat with strength

Cheeks were meant to bloom

Legs to dance, a zest for life

Eyes to sparkle through

Trade bitterness for quiet beauty

Shape a vessel from the shards

Others still desperately need you

A once healed heart is twice as strong

A Girl Writing

I'm thinking about writing...

Well, really I think about it every day, but that doesn't help much when it comes to actually doing it. I have faithfully kept a journal for years. I started a historical-fiction book in high school, but set it down after a year or so for personal reasons. Throughout college I began to write short poems on my inner musings. After I got back from Africa, I was determined to publish my journal. I was "supposed" to have it done by last fall. I haven't gotten very far. I didn't make any New Years' writing resolution for fear that I would fail. But that doesn't keep keep me from the desire to write! But why, when I get the time, do I dread it?

I read an article today that inspired me a little. First, commit to write at least 150 words a day. If you write 350 words a day, you'll have a whole book within a year! Second, DON'T edit while writing! I've heard that before, but it's hard for me as I like things to be just perfect.

I sit in the little nook at my writing desk. Something distracts me from my work at hand, a nuisance...or an inspiration? The amber liquid in my delicate cup carries an aromatic fragrance with the steam. I write a word...then stop. What is it I am trying to get across to my readers? I breathe deeply, and my story spills out from me like the ink on my paper.

picture by Henriette Browne

The Dream Deferred

Right now I am scrambling for scholarships for graduate school. Most of the times it feels like I'm shooting in the dark. I mean, how many other people are entering the random drawing for $10,000? What am I up against? What are my chances? Who knows. But..I came across something that seemed right up my ally. It was a short essay scholarship about relations between America and the Middle East. Well, since that is exactly what I want to do, to be a sort of bridge between the two, I grabbed at it. The theme was to be centered around this poem, which was equally fitting for my life story. I thought you might enjoy it...

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up 

like a raisin in the sun? 

Or fester like a sore-- 

And then run? 

Does it stink like rotten meat? 

Or crust and sugar over-- 

like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags 

like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

-Langston Hughes, 1951

10-23-10

After discussing my blog with my dad and step-mom, I came to an interesting realization...I usually only write when I'm depressed. I guess it's some kind of coping mechanism or a stress releaser. Anyway, if my blog has been making you concerned or depressed, breathe a little sigh of relief for me. My life isn't all that bad, I just usually write about it when it is! I'm thinking about giving my blog a much-needed makeover soon anyways. Merry Christmas everyone!

Never Forget...

This is my last night in Minnesota. I don't know where my life is going from here. All my plans have fallen through. Now it's up to God to show me the way. As I move back to Texas, I just want to contemplate on a few things to never forget. I don't want my life to get caught up in my culture and lose what I've learned.

• Snow can be beautiful if you just stop and be quiet for a while to watch it.
• When you see sunlight streaming through a cluster of trees, get in it!
• I actually enjoyed my job, even when I didn't think I did...appreciate what you have.
• Don't rush life.
• Don't forget your priorities, values, and dreams-know what you want and who you are, and stick to it.
• Learn from your mistakes.
• Fully enjoy wherever God has you right now, if you don't, you'll recognize the blessing after you don't have it anymore.
• Spend time with friends.
• Love and serve other people...it will make you happier.
• Remember that God loves you, even when you're doing a crappy job of loving Him back.

I'm sure there's more, but that is what's on my heart right now. I guess it is summed up in this, to embrace your season with a thankful heart. If you live like this, you won't regret wasted years. It seems like I have to learn that lesson a lot.

One Nigerian Night

Another night. Another village. By this time we had traveled through so many villages, bowed before multiple chiefs, interviewed hundreds of local people who didn't have a Bible in their mother tongue. We were on a mission-to analyze the language of the Koro Wachi people, and the dozens of dialects within it, to determine whether or not a translation was necessary. I can't remember what village we were in that night. I was just a young white lady in the middle of somewhere Africa, trying to discover my part in God's bigger plan.

Our work completed for the day, we were ushered through the creaky aluminum gate into the compound of the local pastor. A cluster of tall papaya trees grew near the back. Goats and chickens settled down for the night while a kitten and puppy drew near to sniff out the newcomers. Small concrete and mud rooms surrounded us on three sides in the large open courtyard where the family gathered.

While the women took out the mammoth-sized mortar and pestle to begin pounding the yams, I slipped away with my toiletries to take a bucket bath in the outhouse. Those kind women, of course, insisted on heating the water for me first over the fire. As the water splashed over my dirty, tired body, I felt a sense of peace and renewal. Although I did not particularly like taking bucket baths and using squatty potties, I had grown accustomed to it, and for some reason this night I felt quite content with the simplicity. I combed my hair and wrapped a "kanga" around my waist, and stepped outside to join the rest of the family for dinner.

The night air was perfect. The fire blazed, and oh, how those women laughed and sang as they pounded the yams with their strong arms until it became as smooth as butter! They were giving cheerfully of themselves to honor us. As I sat back in my plastic chair to watch the billions of stars twinkling brightly in the sky, I felt so small yet so loved. Even if no one knew where I was in the world, even myself, God knew and He was watching me. The yams were bland of course, but I ate the meal, thankful for their labor of love. Eventually they noticed my fatigue, and ushered me through the darkness into a small room that was filled with freshly harvested ginger root. The pungent odor filled my nostrils and cleared my head. I crawled under the mosquito net and glanced once out the little window before closing my eyes.

My prayers were different that night. I thanked God for a bath and toilet paper. I thanked Him for a bed and food. I thanked him for people who love other people and for God Himself. I will never forget that one night in Nigeria.