We were a small congregation of Jacobsens who never went more than a month without assembling.  Unfortunately, being the youngest of the group brought my existence under intense scrutiny, my life the subject of great interest to the elders. I tried to be long-suffering, knowing that if God commanded that we love our neighbors as ourselves, then how much more I was expected to love my family.  Though I patted myself on the back a time or two believing I obeyed His timeless commandment to the utmost, I discovered I was way off the mark.  It wasn’t until my life crossed paths with Saul Ziad did I personally come to terms with the divine purpose of love. 

      And by love I don’t mean storgē, that natural affection or obligation that moves our souls toward a spouse, child or pet.  And I don’t mean érōs, which fills us with overpowering, sometimes uncontrollable passion that is motivated by a desire for self-satisfaction, and is most often conditional.  Of course I wasn’t suggesting phileō either, the companionable love shared between friends. 

      The kind of love that impressed itself upon me was agápē, the most noble of all loves that is unconditionally based on the object or person’s God-given nature.  Though Saul never said a word, I clearly heard him through the ashes:  Don’t pretend to love others by what you say, really love them by what you do.

* * *

      At my parents’ Supper Club, the sixth of December, I found myself sitting among people I’d never met and would probably never see again.  My parents talked about how interesting these dinners were, meeting with a new group of people every Saturday for a month before switching to a different crowd.  So tonight was new for everyone.

      Looking around the table it was obvious that I was the youngest, but I didn’t mind.  It was a nice break from classes and campus lunches at North Greenville University where classmates sat around discussing concepts like popular sovereignty.  And no matter where the topic started, it always took a left turn toward the old debate of predestination versus free will, at which point the group would split like the Red Sea. 

      The restaurant was dimly lit by sycamore wall scones, their leaves a blackened rust with tea-stained glass.  The candle centerpieces sat inside small green wreaths adorned with clusters of holly berries and cast a yellow glow across light maple tables contrasted against red brick walls.  I surveyed the four couples around the table between bites, listening to their random conversations and smiling humorously at my mother, who sat directly across from me, our feet bumping occasionally under the table.

      Once the dinner plates were removed, everyone began reclining in wooden chairs, sipping coffee and sharing family histories.  As we talked and laughed, becoming familiar with the personal details of each couple’s life, our voices grew louder and began drowning out those at other tables.

      “The waitress needs to cut them off,” I heard the woman tell her husband in the booth next to us.  No one at our table was drinking alcohol, and I contemplated leaning over and telling the woman as much.  But what good would it do?  They’d never believe we were simply Baptists, drunk off the Fruit of the Spirit.

      So I sat quietly instead, listening to the conversation between my mother and Henry Kadish, an old man in his early eighties sitting next to me.  Occasionally, from what appeared to be a source of habit rather than necessity, he would reach out with an unsteady hand to touch his cane, which hung between us on the table by the crook of its gold plated handle.  He was telling my mother that three years after the death of his first wife he married his second, and then they’d moved from Miami to be closer to his grandchildren.   

      “Olivia,” my mother said from across the table.  “Tell Mr. Kadish where you’re going next week.”

      Henry turned to face me and his eyes, set under untamed eyebrows, were only larger wrinkles amongst more that weighted his lids.

      “I’m going with a group from college to Israel,” I told him.

      “Oh really?” Henry said as a wide smile grew to reveal yellowed teeth.  “This is wonderful to know,” he shook his head vigorously, causing his comb-over to shift slightly.  “When do you leave?”

      “Tomorrow after church.”

      “I see,” he said, pausing in thought.  “How long is your trip?”

      “Fourteen days.  I’ll be home right before Christmas.”

      I watched as he bobbed his head.  “How wonderful!” he exclaimed.  “Do you know yet where you’ll be visiting?”

      “Oh gracious,” I stammered, leaning forward to take a drink of water from the crystal glass.  “I don’t know that I can name all the places.”

      “Tell me this,” his voice indicating an idea clearly weighing on his mind.  “Will you be going to the Jordan River?”

      “Yes,” I answered, certain of that destination.  “In fact, it’s on the itinerary for the first day after we arrive.”

      When he stared at me through squinted eyes for a full minute, I began to wonder if he didn’t hear me, or maybe, because of his age, he struggled to understand.  Then suddenly, he turned his back to me and tapped his wife on the shoulder.  “Maria…Maria,” he insisted.

      “What?” she said, her voice low with a thick Cuban accent.  “What is it?”

      “Mrs. Jacobsen’s daughter is going to Israel,” his smile was buoyant as his elbow made quick jabs into her side.  “They’re visiting the Jordan River.  Maybe she can help us.”

      Looking at her husband, Maria obviously understood what “help” he was referring to by the tiny gerbils that wiggled above his eyes. Turning to me she asked with a hopeful smile, “You are going to Israel?”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      She looked to Henry as if to say, This could be it! before returning her eyes to mine.  “Would you please help me with something?”

      “I’d be happy to,” I responded automatically, thinking they were going to request that I bring them back a rock or even a small bottle filled with water from the Jordan.

      Henry’s eyes twinkled as his head turned back and forth between the conversation.

      “And you will be going to the River Jordan?”  Maria asked, as if verifying her husband’s understanding.  Then, with a gentle, unconscious move, she reached for his hand to help hold his tremors at bay.

      “Yes, ma’am.”  I felt myself grinning at the excitement that was mounting in their expressions.

      “I need you to put something in the River Jordan for me.” Maria explained, and Henry’s head shook in steady agreement with his wife.

      “Oh, well,” I said, thinking to myself how easy that would be.  “I’m sure I can do that.  What it is?”

      Marie smiled at Henry and then back at me.  “My dead husband.” 

      The twelve hour flight from Atlanta to the Ben Gurion Airport near Tel Aviv was long and exhausting.  A young child sat directly behind me, kicking the back of my chair, watching to see my reaction through the crack between the seats.  I prayed quickly and silently for the self-control to ignore her, fearing I’d lose my mind, my temper and my testimony all on one flight to the Holy Land.  I was usually patient, but my nerves had been on edge since taking possession of Maria’s deceased husband.

      As I’d walked through the airport and boarded the plane, no one paid any attention to the dead man, reduced to broken bone particles and ash in an eighteen hundred degree fire, fastened to the outside of my backpack.  The Ziploc bag was secure, yellow and blue make green, revealing the remains of Saul Ziad.  Airport regulations required that the human remains be kept out in the open, in full view, so I cinched him tightly to the front pocket where my water bottle was usually strapped.

      “This is so cool,” Professor Ledbetter said from the seat beside me.  As the history professor at the university and the lead director of our trip, I’d needed to get approval for Maria’s request.  Luckily, he’d been more than willing, downright ecstatic really.  Apparently more excited about this particular venture than anything else the group had planned.  “Not only are we going to walk where Jesus walked, but we’re going to scatter the remains of a Holocaust survivor in the Jordan River.”

      “What would Maria have done if we couldn’t do it?” I wondered aloud, looking out the small rectangular airplane window.  “Keep him sitting on her dresser in the bedroom another seven years?”

      Professor Ledbetter shrugged his shoulders, still caught up with the concept of it.  “I don’t know, but something had to be done.  Two men living under the same roof with one woman is one too many.”

      I started laughing, remembering the joy on Henry’s face earlier that day as he carried the Ziploc back across the parking lot after church.  “Yeah, you should have seen how happy Henry was to get rid of Saul.  I didn’t know an eighty-year-old man with Parkinson’s could move that fast.”

      He smiled and said, “I can’t believe Maria kept Saul sitting in their bedroom. It never ceases to amaze me what people will do for the ones they love.”

      The Professor’s comment weighed heavily on my mind during the flight.  Saul had been dead for years, yet through Maria and me, his dying wish was being fulfilled.  I could still see her in my mind’s eye, talking to her beloved Saul before handing the bag to Henry.  You are going to be in good hands, my darling Saul.  You will always be with me, no matter where you are.  I will see you again soon.

      Tears stung my eyes as I considered her words, saturated with sincerity and adoration.  What kind of love births such sacrificial devotion?  The commitment that led Maria to hold onto her husband, even after being remarried over four years, also kept her believing through faith that she would one day carry out his final request.

      It made me wonder, had I been Maria, if my compassion would have lasted so long.  Had I ever loved anyone with such unconditional magnitude?  Of course I loved my family and friends, but did I truly love others the way God intended since Creation?  After hours of deliberation, and being completely honest with myself, I decided the answer was no.

      The Sheraton Moriah was extravagant and the rooms were small, but I didn’t need much.  There were an odd number of travelers in our group and I was given a room to myself, with the exception of Saul, who took the other double bed.

      My hands and feet were swollen and I needed to shower, but the resonant sea drew me outside and down to the Mediterranean shore.  I sat at the water’s edge letting the December wind blow against my skin, enjoying the chill that tingled up and down my arms while sifting smooth white sand between plump fingers.

      “It’s not the safest place for you to be alone this late at night.”

      Startled by the unfamiliar male voice, I looked up to see Saliba standing next to me, staring down the beach.  I turned my head to follow his gaze and found a vacant moonlit beach.  “Yeah,” I said with a hint of sarcasm, “I’m in real danger.”

      “Just because you don’t see the danger, do not assume it doesn’t exist.”  His Israeli accent was heavy but his English was good.

      I knew from his bio in our information packet that he was born in Jerusalem, spoke six languages fluently, and was the most sought-after tour guide across the Middle East.  “It’s a beautiful night, I couldn’t resist.”  I turned my face toward the wind blowing off the ocean.

      “There is much to see,” he said, and I could feel him looking down at me.  “Only wait until morning.”

      I sat quietly for another minute, hoping he would wander back to the hotel.  But when he made no indication of leaving me alone, I stood and brushed the sand off the back of my jeans with both hands.  “Guess I should get back.  My roommate might get lonely.”

      He furrowed his brows.  “Are you changing rooms?”

      “No.”

      “You are Olivia Jacobsen, are you not?”

      “Yes.”

      “You were given a room to yourself.  Was that not satisfactory?”

      “Yes, it’s fine,” I said feeling slightly puzzled, unsure if it was fatigue or the crisp night air causing such mental confusion.  “How did you know that?”

      “I looked at the room itinerary to find you.  The receptionist at the front desk told me you were out here.  I wanted to discuss with you the plans I made for…what is his name?  Saul?”

      “Oh.” I raised my eyebrows in understanding.  “He was who I meant might get lonely without me in the room.”

      “Ah,” he smiled, catching my joke.  “Professor Ledbetter contacted me concerning the legalities of scattering Saul’s ashes in the Jordan River.  May I walk you in and tell you my plan for tomorrow?”

      “Sure,” I said, and for the next thirty yards I listened to the preparations made for Saul’s final resting place.

      I was up hours before dawn and decided to shower and dress early.  I took my coffee out on the terrace behind the hotel restaurant.  At daybreak the sun revealed a beach lined with sailboat docks, jungle gyms and workout equipment anchored deep into the sand, and people walking leashed dogs.  I sat there until my coffee turned cold and the sound of clanking dishes echoed from within the restaurant.  I joined the group inside for a fresh cup and the buffet breakfast complete with sliced cheeses, fresh fruit, guacamole salad, pickled fish and pickled plums.

      An hour later thirty-four students, five professors and one dead man in a Ziploc bag boarded the tour bus heading southeast toward the city of Nazareth.  I took a window seat and listened intently to Saliba as he directed our attention to important sights and gave interesting facts along the way.  Coming into Israel’s largest Arab city was breathtaking.  A booming metropolis of cement buildings and red roofed homes cluttered the hillside.  In the middle of it all stood the Basilica of the Annunciation.

      I secured Saul in the seat back pocket in front of me as the bus approached facing the Church and Saliba explained its significance.  “In the early part of the twelfth century the Muslims took control of the Church, which is now maintained by Franciscan Order, and is currently the largest house of Christian worship in the Middle East.  The Ottoman Turks captured the city in the sixteenth century and expelled the Christians, who did not return until almost a century later during the reign of the Emir of Lebanon, Fakhr ad-Din II.  It is believed to be the site of Mary’s house, the very place where the angel Gabriel informed her that she would give birth to the Christ.”

      He stopped us outside the expansive gate designed of iron latticework and nodded his head toward a vacant piece of land near the Church.  “There was great animosity over plans to build the Shahib al-Din mosque on that land.  Ironically, between 1997 and 2002, the Jews refereed the five-year religious dispute between the Muslims and Christians.  But in 2002, the Israeli government decided the mosque should not be built.”  

      I looked back and stared straight up at the church, shielding my eyes against the sun in order to see the murals engraved in the facade.  At the top stood a stone Virgin, wrapped in a kimono with down-cast eyes.  Talk about sacrificial devotion, I thought to myself.  Mary was willing to give up her spotless reputation, the one thing women needed to be respected in her day, to bring into existence the Savior of the world.  And because of her obedience, the Lord instructed Joseph to have compassion on her, something men rarely did in her situation.

      What incredible faith she had, what love for the Lord she possessed!  Would I have been so willing?  I wasn’t sure, and I found myself pondering the question in the back of my mind as we made our way to the Church of St. Joseph, built in 1914 upon the remains of an earlier church dating back to the sixth century.  I was told that the site marked the traditional home of Mary and Joseph, and that under the sanctuary were caves and tunnels likely used in Jesus’ day to store household necessities like oil, grain and wine.

      Next, driving toward the Sea of Galilee, we stopped first to visit the ruins at Capernaum on the northern tip.  The white wrought iron fence at the entrance of Capernaum held a sign declaring it to be the “Town of Jesus.”  It was where more people witnessed His miracles than any other place, and still many rejected Him.  A synagogue, once a thriving place of worship, had been reduced to rubble.  A wall and a few columns were all that remained.  How could they see and not believe?  I wondered. How could they not adore Him?  Even as I grappled with such questions, I knew that seeing with the eyes and seeing with the heart were two different views.

      We entered Ein Tabgha, Capernaum’s neighboring town, which commemorated the miracle of Jesus feeding the five thousand with the Church of the Multiplication.  I marveled at the Byzantine shrine of the beautiful mosaic floor depicting two fish and a basket of loaves.  Jesus had spent a long day preaching to the multitudes, and despite physical exhaustion, laid His own needs aside to care for the people He’d been sent to save.  His compassion for their physical and spiritual well-being never wavered.

      Suddenly, I was struck by the contrasting notion of what happened on that hillside after partaking of Jesus’ provisions.  Thousands witnessed a miracle, tasted the bread, and devoured the fish.  Yet many, in spite of it all, walked away unchanged.  They left that day with full stomachs, but empty hearts.

      I couldn’t help but marvel at the kind of love that suffers such rejection, yet still continues seeking after those who walk away.  Even when they unknowingly fulfilled God’s final request of Jesus through crucifixion, Jesus poured out His compassion over their hatred, begging the Father to forgive them for what they were doing.  Do I have that kind of love within me?  I left yet another question unanswered to consider later, deciding instead to take pictures of the tiles as the group walked next door to the Church of Peter’s Primacy. 

      I ran to catch up with those who’d gone ahead, but stopped short as I came around to the back of the church, my breath taken by the view.  The Sea of Galilee sparkled emerald green from within the crown of orange and green covered mountains.  A gravel pathway led to a statue of Jesus commissioning Peter with outstretched finger, overlooking the place where hundreds of people with leprosy flocked for a chance to be touched by the Healer.  WEIDEMEINESCHAFE, Jesus appointed Peter.  Feed My Sheep.

      I reached out and touched the bronzed statue turned black over decades of seasons.  But years and weather had not worn away its affect.  Peter, with all his impulsive faults, had been forgiven, chosen and given instructions.  He would be the rock on which the early church was built.  Could I carry out such a charge?  Would I be counted faithful to the death?  I began to feel the weight of these questions, and all the others, upon my heart as I stared at Peter on his knees before Jesus.

      “Olivia?”

      I jumped at Saliba’s touch on my shoulder.

      “I apologize,” he said with a slight grin.  “I had no intention of startling you.”

      “It’s okay.  I was just lost in thought.”  I collected myself and looked back over the vast landscape.  “It’s really beautiful.”

      “Yes, it is.”  He stood at my side staring across the lake as though seeing it for the first time.  “Many from here forget to appreciate its beauty.  They take it for granted.”

      “That’s true everywhere, which brings to mind one question.”

      “Yes?”

      “Why have so few places decorated for Christmas?”

      “To Muslims, Jesus is merely a prophet, and since nearly two-thirds of Nazareth’s population is Muslim, you will not see them honoring Christ as we do.  However, you will begin to see Christmas trees and other holiday paraphernalia as we move closer to Bethlehem.”

      His answer did not settle the question in my mind.  “I guess I just expected more in the place where He lived.”

      Saliba shook his head in agreement, “So did He.”  After a long pause of reflection, he changed the subject.  “We will go eat now.  Then we will go to the Yardenit Baptismal Site and meet with Rabbi Yitz Hirschfield.”

      “Will there by anything I need to do?”

      He smiled, as though touched by my thoughtfulness.  “No, Rabbi Hirschfield will perform the ceremony.”

      I don’t know why, but a wave of disappointment overtook me.  Saul’s introduction into my life began such inward reflection that I sensed a connection that linked us across space and time.  I knew that in the end, I would mourn the death of Saul as many others had.

      Yardenit sat just outside the kibbutz at the base of the Sea of Galilee, designed to accommodate the mass of visitors who flock to the sight.  Rabbi Hirschfield was waiting outside the entrance with a bag in his right hand and a small leather book, its spine worn and frayed on the edges.

      I cradled Saul in my hands and stood beside Saliba, who introduced Professor Ledbetter and me to the Rabbi.

      “Is this the man?” The Rabbi asked, staring at the bag of cremated remains clinched tightly against my chest.

      “Yes, this is Saul.”  Reverently, I handed the bag to the Rabbi when he reached for it.

      “Follow me,” he directed.

      The group fell in step behind the four of us as we walked along a worn path beside the Jordan River.  I noticed the Rabbi nod at a guard standing watch at the base of the baptismal site.  Then he quickened his pace, avoiding eye-contact with both tourists and guards, and wondered where he was taking us.

      “Where are we going?” I whispered to Saliba.

      “There is a law against dumping in the Jordan.”

      I touched my fingers to my lips in a gesture of concern.  “Could we get arrested?”

      “Yes,” he said, but then realized my surprise at his response and attempted to reassure me.  “Do not worry.  Rabbi Hirschfield’s uncle is one of the guards and he has made arrangements.”

      The Rabbi stopped when we reached a section of the Jordan that was nearly fifty yards from the baptism sight and separated by dense vegetation.  He poured the majority of Saul’s remains into a small gold container, which he’d pulled from the bag, and began the Kel Maleh Rachamim – the prayer for the soul departed.

      “Ayl mō-lay ra-chamim, sho-chayn ba-m’romim…” he prayed in Hebrew, and we stood reverently listening for several minutes.

      At the close of his prayer, Rabbi Hirschfield reached into his bag again and pulled out a spade.  After digging into the moist black earth, mounding the soil to the side of the fresh hole, he poured the remaining ashes of Saul Ziad into his final resting place.

      Suddenly, I felt myself begin to cry.  Tears, heavy with grief, rolled down my cheeks.  I was weeping for a man’s soul whom I’d never met.  I knew so little of Saul Ziad – only that his family was Jewish and that they’d been sent to separate concentration camps during the Holocaust.  His mother and father were later murdered, but he had been rescued by the Polish army, and eventually made contact with a distant aunt who took him into her home and raised him.

      I wanted desperately to ask Saul if he’d lain awake at night, his body ravaged from beatings and malnutrition, questioning the love of God.  Did he come to believe that there were times, even in grave silence, when God was at work?

      Maria admitted that Saul disregarded Jewish principle, being cremated as his parents had been, so I was aware of the significance of the burial process and the belief that Jews held about the sin of cremation.  The Rabbi wished to fulfill Saul’s dying request, yet needed to, for his own conscience, hold true to his religious convictions.  He filled the hole and then stood in silent respect by the flowing stream.  With his eyes closed in prayer, the Rabbi raised the gold jar and emptied the ashes of Saul Ziad into the sacred waters of the River Jordan. 

      I bowed my head and closed my eyes, feeling an inexplicable loss deep in my heart.  Saul had returned to the earth from which he was taken, and I couldn’t stop the tears anymore than Saul could have stopped death.

      I was overtaken by the supremacy of love’s conception that had been lived out before my very eyes.  It was at that moment that I caught a glimpse of the reason behind Mary’s sacrifice, the motivation behind Jesus’ compassion for people, the understanding behind Peter’s acquiescence, and the pledge behind Maria’s devotion to Saul.  They carried within them the power of unconditional love.

About the author:

Lucy Sizemore is relatively new to the professional writing scene, though the Lord has been engraving stories on her heart for many years. Loves Final Request won First Place in the Angel Tree Contest and The Gift of Writing Award at the 2009 Southeastern Writers’ Conference.  However, it has not been previously published and Kucy would love for it to be available to influence others for Christ.

The Lord sustained His people for forty years in the wilderness by miraculously providing fresh manna each morning. Regardless of how much manna they collected, it was always enough nourishment for that day. Similarly, the Lord wants to sustain us, every day, with fresh “spiritual manna” from His Word. The Daily Bread Bible study is one of the simplest ways to begin discovering the specific truths that the Holy Spirit has for us each day. This method involves five steps that will help you to meditate on a single passage of Scripture, discover its full meaning, and begin applying it to your life

To begin your Daily Bread Bible study, follow these simple steps:

Step 1 Choose a passage, paragraph, or chapter to study
You will get the best results when you work your way through the Bible systematically rather than randomly. By studying the Scriptures in this way, you will also become familiar with the whole counsel of God’s Word.

Step 2 Pray – Ask God to meet with you
Before you begin your Bible study, spend time in prayer asking the Lord to reveal Himself to you through His Word. Ask the Holy Spirit to help you see Jesus today.

Step 3 Think about the passage you are studying
Reread the passage a number of times and thoughtfully consider what it is saying. Meditate upon the meaning of the text and how you can apply it to your life. Apply these six “P’s” as you think through the passage:

1. Picture it! Visualize the scene. Imagine how you would react if you were there. How would you have felt to be a part of what was going on? Is there anything in your life today that you can compare this situation to?

2. Pronounce it! Read the verse aloud several times placing emphasis on a different word each time. Note the different shade of meaning that is added by reading Psalm 25:15 in this way:

“MY eyes are ever toward the LORD… “ 
(This is personal – my responsibility.)
 
“My EYES are ever toward the LORD… “ 
(What are my eyes focused on today?)
 
“My eyes ARE ever toward the LORD… “ 
(Are, reveals a resolute position.)
 
“My eyes are EVER toward the LORD… “ 
(Forever and always: no turning away.)
 
“My eyes are ever TOWARD the LORD… “ 
(Am I heading toward Him today?)
 
“My eyes are ever toward THE LORD… “ 
(He is the one and only Lord”)
 
“My eyes are ever toward the LORD… “ 
(Make a list of the names and attributes of the Lord.)

3. Paraphrase it! Restating the passage in your own words helps you to understand it better. Using contemporary language to express timeless biblical truths helps you to bridge the gap between the past and the present.

4. Personalize it! Put your name in place of the nouns or pronouns that are used in the Scripture and read it aloud (i.e., For God so loved ____________).

5. Pray it! Make the verse a prayer. The best way to express faith in God is by taking the promises and truths found in His Word and praying them back to Him.

6. Probe it! Use the S-P-A-C-E-P-E-T-S acrostic to help you locate the different themes of the passage.

Step 4 Plan one application
Write down one application based on the insights you have discovered through your study of the text. Writing your thoughts down will help you to fully think them through and make them easier to remember and apply. It has been proven that writing promotes memory, and helps you to express what you have learned more clearly, to others. Remember to make your application personal, practical, and provable.

Step 5 Carry your favorite verse with you
On a small piece of paper (i.e., post-it-note or index card) write down the verse that impacted you the most from your study and carry it with you throughout the day. Occasionally, pull the card out and read the verse. This will help you recall what you studied and keep those truths fresh in your thoughts. You might also want to use this system to begin memorizing Scripture.

The next two images show a sample of the Daily Bread Bible study method. 

Learn more Bible study methods by visiting http://www.LearnToStudyTheBible.com.

BUY THE BOOK!!!

About the author:

Andy serves as an associate pastor at Calvary Chapel Old Bridge in central New Jersey where he oversees a vibrant junior high ministry. In 2009 he published his first book Learn to Study the Bible: Forty Different Step-By-Step Methods to Help You Discover, Apply and Enjoy God’s Word. His greatest desire is to equip and inspire God’s people to dig into the Scriptures and begin comprehending and applying the richness of His Word into their daily lives.

You can follow him on Twitter at… @andydeane

This lack of knowledge of the Word of God puts the church on very shaky ground when it comes to several aspects of our Christian walk. People become easily swayed by ‘false’ doctrine, we cannot effectively share the Gospel with a lost and hurting world, and we are unable to defend the faith with unbelievers who often know the Scriptures better than we do.

That’s why I love people like Andy Deane who write awesome books like Learn to Study the Bible: Forty different step-by-step methods to help you discover, apply and enjoy God’s Word!

Andy recently sent me a copy of his book to check out, and I have to say that I am quite impressed! This book lays out several different study methods, and provides practical examples of how to use them. There’s even section on how to do devotional readings.

In response to the question about why we should study the Bible, Andy had this to say…

As nice as it is to dine at a fine restaurant, nothing beats sitting down to a delicious home cooked meal. The same can be said of feasting on the Word. In the body of Christ we have been gifted with many wonderful Bible teachers who serve up hearty meals that help us come to a better understanding of certain passages. However, the real meat and potatoes of growing in truth comes when we roll up our own sleeves and learn how to prepare those meals for ourselves. Learning to study the Bible is as easy, and diverse, as learning how to cook your favorite foods. Don’t let anything rob you of experiencing the best God has for you, personally, in His Word today.

Andy has also been kind enough to share some of the methods that he teaches in his book here with us at bibledude.net! In this special series by Andy Deane, you’ll see great posts on the following study methods…

• [study method #1] the daily bread method
• [study method #22] thirty day method
• [devotional strategy #6] have a plan
• [devotional strategy #9] favorite verse study method
• [devotional strategy #10] be ready for spiritual battles

It is my prayer that these study methods help you grow in your knowledge and hunger for the Word of God. I also encourage you to buy the book, and try even more of these awesome study tools. And when you buy it from the BibleDude Store (powered by my cool affiliate relationship with Amazon), not only do you get a good price, but you also help to keep this website alive!

I started thinking about the people that I would eventually meet there… What would they look like? How would they act around me? How would my presence touch their lives?

And as I looked around at the people there in the airport I could not help but to think about how rich we are. I hadn’t even experienced how poor the people in Kenya and Uganda were yet, but I was already feeling like we Americans had quite a bit of excess. There were lots of very well-dressed people walking around carrying their fancy bags, and it was obvious that the large majority of people there had ‘enough’.

Then a dude that works the desk at one of the gates walks by me carrying his half-empty Starbucks Iced Vanilla Latte (just a guess). He carried his cup like it was a badge of honor, or some sort of clothing accessory… almost like Flavor Flav wearing that big clock necklace. People carried their Starbucks cups almost as if to say, “yeah, I’m in the club too.”

Then I start to notice all of the other ‘Starbucks accessories’ that people had. I wondered whether we have become a society that needs to be connected by our ‘badges of honor’? Is this what we do in order to help us feel like a community? This question really started to bug me…   Why can’t we connect and grow in community without the need to identify with each other using these badges? Community and connection should be much more organic than this, shouldn’t it?

Eventually I boarded my plane and began the 17-hour (only counting flying time) journey from Tampa to New York to London to Nairobi. Even while on the planes, the whole trip still seemed somehow surreal. I couldn’t believe that I was actually about to be in AFRICA! After lots of flying, and eventually meeting up with the rest of the team in London, we landed in Nairobi safely.

As I got my passport stamped and started walking down to baggage claim, the only thing that I was sure of was that life was never going to be the same. It was dark outside already (it was late in the evening when we landed) so I could only see what was lit up, but it was different than what I was used to already. The open-air baggage claim area was hot and smelled like sweaty people. But that was okay with me because it meant that nobody could smell me either…

The ride over to the guest house where we stayed our first night was dark so it was difficult to get a real feel for what Africa was really like. I would have to try to save my first impressions until morning. For now it was simply time to get to bed, but how could I curb my excitement for the whole night? I felt like a 5-year-old kid trying to go to sleep on Christmas Eve anticipating what the morning would bring…   in AFRICA!!!

Mary, outside a tomb, carrying ointments
and a storm of grief,
hears the voice that calmed the waters
in tones of comfort:
‘Be still and know that I am God’.
 
At an Emmaus home, over broken bread,
in a storm of confusion,
hear the voice that calmed the waters
in tones of understanding:
‘Be still and know that I am God’.
 
Thomas, alone in the crowded upper room,
filled with the raging storm of bewilderment
hears the voice that calmed the waters
in tones of inclusion:
‘Be still and know that I am God’.
 
Peter, at the lake-side, ragged and wretched
in the paralysing storm of guilt,
hears the voice that calmed the waters
in tones of reconciliation:
‘Be still and know that I am God’.

About the author:

Keith Wallis is an engineering designer with affectations of being a poet.  He’s a moderator at ChristianWriters.com and Keith’s blogs are :”Wordsculptures”:  http://wordsculptures-keith.blogspot.com/ and “Wordling”: http://wordbrief.blogspot.com/, his website is: http://wordsculptures.co.uk/

A lifetime ago
traffic’s roaring battlefield held me
death row captive,
nowhere to hide,
no way to survive.
I turned my back to oblivion
awaiting the inevitable
stamp of death.
A moment ago
the future was a closed book
the past – another lifetime
about to be forgotten
just an imprint on the highway.
Then unsolicited hands reached down
with Samaritan soul
with Shepherd heart
with compassion.
I recognised, in His eyes,
another death row victim
on another highway of destruction
and the unsolicited hand
of grace
that surrounded me.

About the author:

Keith Wallis is an engineering designer with affectations of being a poet.  He’s a moderator at ChristianWriters.com and Keith’s blogs are :”Wordsculptures”:  http://wordsculptures-keith.blogspot.com/ and “Wordling”: http://wordbrief.blogspot.com/, his website is: http://wordsculptures.co.uk/

LIETNHOM, SUDAN — For Deng Agei conflict is a part of life.

After living through two decades of civil war in South Sudan, relative peace had come to his village of Lietnhom, where he opened a microbusiness and sold a variety of household goods and food items. But conflict found him once again when a clash between clans devastated his village last year.
 
When the market in Lietnhom burned so did his shop leaving him with virtually nothing. Both his inventory and his monetary savings were in the grass-roofed shop. He estimates his losses were about $2,500. But, he decided to rebuild and start his business again thanks to the local village bank. This bank, a concrete structure that held $4,000 of members’ savings, was one of the few buildings in the village that was untouched during the clash.
 
“I was only able to rebuild my business because I could take out a loan of $75 from the village bank,” he said.
 
Now, one year later, he says his business has grown larger than it had been before the market went up in flames.
 
To celebrate their successes, their perseverance and the obstacles they have overcome, Lietnhom residents recently held a dedication of the bank building – the first village bank in South Sudan. There are now more than 460 members and savings of $12,000 in what has been named the Amat Wuot Community Bank, which means “a union of communities” in Dinka, the local language, because it is bringing together members from various clans, including the two clans who fought last year.
 
“We are kinsmen, and this bank will bring us together,” said Vincent Bol Yak, Sudan People’s Liberation Movement Secretary Gorgrial East County.
 
“The idea that a bank could bring together a community is a compelling story,” said Craig Cole, Five Talents President and CEO. “To think that economic development is happening in an isolated village is awe inspiring.”
 
Five Talents is working with a consortium of partners, including the Episcopal Church of Sudan, to provide business skills training to beginning entrepreneurs. The village of Lietnhom is made up of members of the Dinka tribe, who are traditionally pastoralists. Therefore, they are having to learn for the first time how to save and use money and how to start and manage a microbusiness.
 
“The local church is working in a practical way to help its people and its communities come out of a desperate situation,” Cole said. “The church is carrying out its mission of reconciliation in a profound way.”
 
The bank’s concrete structure has become a symbol of stability and reconciliation in an area that has a history of conflict and volatility.
 
The signing of the Comprehensive Peace Agreement between north and south Sudan in January 2005 marked the end of the Second Sudanese Civil War, which had lasted more than 20 years.  An estimated two million people were killed and four million displaced during the second civil war, which began in 1983. In comparison, an estimated 300,000 people have been killed in Darfur and another 2.7 million forced from their homes since violence erupted in 2003, according to the United Nations.
 
“My hope for southern Sudan is to see sustainable development and lasting peace,” said Rev. Thomas Anei, Five Talents Fellow and project officer. “I have a heart for the people of southern Sudan. I want them to be really transformed, to come out of poverty and to create more jobs. We have been in war for all these years, and this is our chance to rebuild our own lives.”
 
And, not only is this the first village bank in South Sudan, but it is also being led by a woman. 
 
Ahok, who was recently named chairlady, has also taken three loans to start and expand two businesses – a household goods shop and a restaurant – in Lietnhom. She now has an income of $1,250 per month, which allows her to pay school fees for her five sons, including her oldest who attends secondary school in Uganda because there are none in Lietnhom.
 
“I want to make sure my children are in good health and go to school,” she said. “I don’t want them to be like me. I cannot read and write.”
 
Due to decades of war, entire generations did not have the opportunity to receive an education. It is estimated that 80 percent of south Sudanese cannot read or write. Therefore, this multi-layered program has introduced literacy, business planning, savings and credit training and small business development into the Lietnhom community.
 

Established in 1999, Five Talents provides funding for business training and thousands of loans, ranging from $50 to $300, across Africa, Asia, and Latin America. Each loan finances a microbusiness that, in turn, supports up to nine other people. A majority of the loan recipients are women.
 
Five Talents is based in Vienna, Va., with an office in London, England. For more information, visit http://www.fivetalents.org/.

In May of 2009 I joined a team of businessmen from around the United States as Five Talents International (FTI) sent us out for a Business as Mission (BAM) Trip to Kenya and Uganda. FTI is a faith-based organization that fights poverty with microfinance. They work in areas where there is extreme poverty and help to provide small (micro-) loans to people to help them start businesses that help them pull themselves out of poverty.

The BAM Trip that Five Talents sent us out on is designed to support the local microfinance programs. We went to teach two-day seminars on basic Christian business skills that help the loan clients to be more successful with their businesses. We taught things like how to choose a business, marketing, finances and record-keeping, and how to build a business plan.

While on this trip I journaled many of my thoughts and experiences. I wanted to share those thoughts and experiences here….

• day one: arriving in nairobi
• day two: the road to thika
• day three: visiting the clients
• day four: first day of teaching
• day five: finishing with our first group
• day six: starting with the next group
• day seven: wrapping up business in kenya
• day eight: a retreat to remember
• day nine: headed to kampala
• day ten: the road to kasese
• day eleven: a walk in the clouds
• day twelve: teaching in uganda
• day thirteen: our last classes
• day fourteen: back to kampala
• day fifteen: headed home

So get a cup of coffee or tea (preferably from Kenya or Uganda), get comfortable, and enjoy the journey! And for more of the experience than what is shared in this ‘africa diaries’ series, then check out everything that is tagged with africa ‘09 as a part of this mission trip.