Sojourner's Hope

The Worker is Worth His Keep

noreply@blogger.com (Shauna O) — Wed, 04 Apr 2012 20:11:00 +0000

Acts 2:42 says this:

They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and to the fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer. Everyone was filled with awe, and many wonders and miraculous signs were done by the apostles. All the believers were together and had everything in common. Selling their possessions and goods, they gave to anyone as he had need. Every day they continued to meet together in the temple courts. They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, praising God and enjoying the favor of all the people. And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved.

My heart is racing and my palms are sweating as I think of the possibilities, the implications. This was not a people who gathered for a Sabbath Corporate gathering and a small group once a week. This was a people who LIVED together. This was a people who formed a village in the midst of an empire, who formed a counter-culture in the face of oppression, who stood together, daily, with arms linked and hearts connected, exuding the Light of Christ in a very dark place. This was a people who lived their lives focused on the vision of being Jesus’ witness. Period.

And so they cashed everything in, knowing that together, they would take care of each other. Together, they could stand and not be in want. Together, they could demonstrate the compelling nature of our Christ.

All the believers were one in heart and mind. No one claimed that any of his possessions was his own, but they shared everything they had. With great power the apostles continued to testify to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus, and much grace was upon them all. There were no needy persons among them. For from time to time those who owned lands or houses sold them, brought the money from the sales and put it at the apostles’ feet, and it was distributed to anyone as he had need.

The part that speaks a very powerful message is the story of Ananias and Sapphira. They were part of this early faith community, and they too wanted to sell their goods and contribute to the larger vision. So they sold a piece of property and brought the money before the apostles. Except that they held back a portion of the sale for themselves, without disclosing the full amount. They reserved part of the money and did not give it as a whole, but said that they were giving it all. And they were struck dead for the act.

Not a slap on the hand. Not a “well, they’re just not in the right place.” Not an excuse from the community. Not an acknowledgement that it is their money to do with as they please and so the rest is between them and God. Nope.

Struck dead.

I often wonder about Ananias and Sapphira. Did they get scared? Did they have a moment of doubt, or selfishness, and just didn’t see it prudent to give it ALL away? Did they have something in mind that they wanted to buy for themselves alone? Did they doubt the generosity of the community and think that they were going to be short-changed? Did they grow weary of interdependence of the community and wanted freedom to break away? Did they just want more, maybe for their home? Were their needs not being met? What fueled that decision?

Reason and logic of this day and age would say that they were being good stewards, wise to set some aside. After all, it was their money and they can do with it as they please. It is nobody else's business how they decide to use it. You never know when that rainy day may come and you find yourself in need. In fact, I have heard many Christians say, in the midst of discussing this Scripture, that if they were to give everything away, then they would be the ones in need, depending on others.

As radical as it sounds, maybe that is exactly where God wants us to be. Depending on Him, through the generous hearts of each other, knowing that He. Will. Come. Through. Then we boast in nothing but Him.

That was the model that He set for us. Remember, Jesus said, “Foxes have holes and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.”

Jesus was homeless.

As He sent out His disciples to teach and heal and love, He told them, “As you go, preach this message, ‘The kingdom of heaven is near.’ Heal the sick, raise the dead, cleanse those who have leprosy, drive out demons. Freely you have received, freely give. Do not take along any gold or silver or copper in your belts; take no bag for the journey, or extra tunic, or sandals or a staff; for the worker is worth his keep.”

The worker is worth his keep.

The Cost is High

noreply@blogger.com (Shauna O) — Thu, 29 Mar 2012 03:26:00 +0000

Three years ago, when the economy tanked, a husband and wife both lost their jobs. The man in his early 60’s, the wife in her late 50’s, both came home empty handed. The company that she had given years of hard work to laid off all their employees and closed their doors. The nationwide hiring freeze put his recruiting firm out of business. So this hard-working, middle-class couple found themselves with no jobs, and no benefits for their chronic health problems. He was cutting blood-pressure medication in half to make it last longer. She was skipping days of her thyroid medication to stretch it out. They were scrambling to put money together for non-negotiable insulin, and he stopped taking his cholesterol medication because they just couldn’t afford it.

So this couple, in the prime of their lives, found themselves starting over. But they were clever and creative, so they put their heads together and started a small business, making and selling tie-dye clothing and his beautiful artwork. They worked tirelessly throughout the week to get their inventory up, and then traveled every weekend, chasing after arts and crafts fairs to peddle their goods. There was no Sabbath for this couple, but they were growing weary.

They filed for every government benefit available to them at their age, fought against red tape and middlemen, and even still, were just scraping by. Even through all of their toil, though, they were falling further and further behind. So after three years of just trying to keep their heads above water, they made the difficult decision to file for bankruptcy and let their house, their home of 13 years, go to the bank. They had run out of options and energy. They would move to a different state, and share a home with their aging in-laws who were in need of live-in help. Humbled and torn, they began the process of selling off all that they had left.

In late September, my family and I returned to the states from Africa, just in time to help that couple, my parents, neatly arrange all of their possessions on tables in the carport of their home, with paper signs that read “25 cents each.” Family heirlooms, memorabilia from around the world, gifts from family and friends; each item had a story, and piece of our past attached to it. And a person walks up, bargains it down from a dollar and walks away with it in hand, never knowing where it came from, the stories that made us laugh when we talk about it, or the family that we remember when we see it. All of it gone for a couple thousand dollars in two weekends’ worth of yard sales. And then my parents loaded up what was most dear in a small truck, and headed east for Texas, 15 hours away from children and grandchildren, trusting God for guidance and peace.

And I mourn it all.

Probably more for selfish reasons than anything else. And I know it is only a season. But I mourn it nonetheless. To know how hard they have worked throughout their lives, how they have struggled and toiled, I just wonder if we could have, should have, stood together better. The community failed. We failed.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the rich young ruler who approached Jesus, and the early Church community described in Acts, and the modern day Church, and my parents, and countless others just like them, and the lost and broken, and the call to be set apart, be a light, give everything, no poor among them, thousands added daily, addictions and pain, and the power of the Holy Spirit to change it all. And this stirring and this reading and this praying and seeking has left me with a solemn conclusion.

I cannot fully reconcile my life to what Jesus taught because I have spent my life picking and choosing what of it I want to follow. It's just easier that way.

Ugh. I hate putting that out there because it solidifies, confesses, acknowledges the nudging that the Spirit has been doing at my heart.

Yes, I hear you. I just didn’t want to hear you. Because the cost of discipleship so very high, and I. AM. SCARED.

But You, in all of Your unpredictable moves and unreasonable requests, You are good. You do not make sense, as Your ways are not my ways, and You are not safe by the standards I know. But You are good.

And so when You told the rich young ruler, this master who owned everything he could possible need, that he lacked one thing, You didn’t mean that just for him. And Your early church, full of the Holy Spirit, with Your words still ringing in their ears, they knew that. You told him, “You still lack one thing. Sell everything you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.” There was no payment plan, no easing into it, no baby steps. This rich man, this religious leader, knew all the commands and boasted in keeping them, even approached Jesus in boldness to let Him know that all the commands had been kept. So now the next act of obedience, the next step in discipleship.

GIVE. IT. ALL. AWAY.

And Your bride, in the zeal of her youth, did just that.

The Work of Community

noreply@blogger.com (Shauna O) — Fri, 11 Nov 2011 19:23:00 +0000

You may not have known it when I darkened your door for the first time. Maybe you knew and just didn't let on. You were always so gracious. When I came to you first, my brokenness was too profound to call even broken. Shattered might be a better word. Tiny shards blown like chaff in all directions. Too small to even pick up with my fingers. Cuts like that usually don't stop bleeding. Disillusioned. Doubtful. Terrified. I had done this before, showing up with the high hopes of being accepted, of belonging. I had tried before, and just never fit.

Early on, I had to talk myself into going, every week. A small pep talk as I drove, willing the steering wheel towards your house. I knew it would be good for my heart in the long run, even if a bit uncomfortable in the present time. I would do my best to sweep up all the remaining pieces of the heart that could be found, dump them into an inconspicuous baggie, and carry them with me into the small gathering of smiles and warm hearts, hoping that you would be the glue. I know you didn't know about the tears as I left your house, feeling useless and spent. I carried with me a fear of being disqualified for service, no longer useful for anything. Too broken. Too damaged. But you, your warmth oozed and my fragments began to come together.

I tried to hide the times that I would excuse myself from the laughter and joy, slip into the bathroom and cry. I felt lonely, alone, even in the midst of you. I tried to hide it, but my red eyes would usually betray me. But you, you were so gracious. You allowed me to just be, to absorb, to sit silent. You allowed the Holy Spirit to use you, and wounds were washed out by the outpouring, and I began to recognize some of the fragments that were being pieced back together. And you, you just loved.

And when selfish jealously, and self pity tried to creep in and destroy what you were pouring in to, you smiled graciously, and mourned with me. And you didn't know, but your silent presence was life-restoring ministry. And you don't know, but you should know, that the Almighty is using you and you are giving me courage and hope. I watch how he esteems his bride and looks to her where he is weak, and he is not scared or proud, but boasts in what God has done and what God has given him. And I heard how he made decisions based on his adoration of the girl to whom he gave forever after, and how he edified her and she will respect him forever for that. And I see how you talk with my little ones, as if they are yours, and I have hope for them, and me. And I see how he pours out his heart in absolute vulnerability and speaks of a desire to lead his family well, and she, well, the stars in her eyes shine even brighter when she gazes at him. And I am proud, and humbled, and honored to sit in the midst of such a gathering of brethren. And those undecipherable pieces that I was sweeping up before can now be carried to and fro.

And you don't know, but I have prayed for an increase in capacity, an earnest desire to be used again by You, for You, that I may be restored enough that You may be poured out of me. Filled, to be emptied. Wash, Rinse, Repeat. And I have cried, wept bitterly. Will You not use me again? And last night, you blessed me to love on your little ones, and God's grace poured out on all of us. A simple act, and weeks prior I would have dreaded it, knowing that I had nothing left to give. I could barely keep up with my own little people, much less 8 others. But I have asked for strength, and increased capacity, and last night, You. Said. Yes.

And no one cried, and we laughed and danced with princesses and silly squirrels and talked about choices and honoring mother and father, and wiped runny noses, and pranced with ponies, and we played and built. Yes, we built. And I was built by the grace of little ones as we, many, cuddled, all lap space and arm reach spoken for. And they leaned in with trust and precious eyes of innocence and heaven. You graced me to love them and showed me that I could.

The warmth of the Holy Spirit has poured out its healing upon my shattered heart, and you are the glue being used to bring jagged edges back together, warm glue allowing pieces to find their way back to rightful places, and a sense of wholeness restores the soul. You are purifying the air that I breathe, and refining my vision for the graces of God, and I am seeing Him everywhere. I no longer carry a baggie with broken pieces because the grace of my Redeemer has placed a restored heart back in its rightful place, beating in my chest, and your fingerprints are all over that glue that has bound it up.

I am eternally grateful.

Mourning will one day be dancing...

noreply@blogger.com (Shauna O) — Sat, 05 Nov 2011 23:09:00 +0000

Seven years ago tonight, a boy and girl stood in a church before a pastor and a slew of friends and family, and said forever after. There was euphoria and bliss, but there were also doubts from onlookers, wondering how long it would really last. Questioning eyes and slight shoulder shrugs said, "we'll see how it goes and how long it lasts." So I dug my heels in, determined to prove them all wrong, that we would make it. I painted on a smile in hard times, and boasted loud in the good times. I was sure that my love and determination would be enough for both of us.

There was a night when this boy and girl strolled, hands intwined, on a moonlit night through a nearby canyon while conversation flowed of the future, of family ministry across Africa. Statements were made of family priorities, boldly pronounced that the order would always be God first, then family, then ministry/work, then all other demands of life. But lines are blurred when God and ministry/work take on the same face, and family is bumped further down the line. I wished you had loved me as much as you loved her, or them. I wished that the ministry would be poured into the family as well, but all was spent elsewhere, and we got what little was left.

There was a time that someone spoke to you, saying that "Your pride would be your downfall," and you laughed it off and I chuckled nervously, wondering when. But I dug my heels in and repainted the face whenever it began to droop. Maybe if I were thinner, or more spiritual, or prettier, or nicer, or quieter, or more submissive, maybe he would love me more. I was sure it could all be saved.

But alas, it would not be saved. I have struggled to separate God from you, and was told to be quiet and submissive to the man who is the representation of Christ to his family, but if that were so, then I hate you both. I remember through the years, women would say to me how blessed I am to be married to such a spiritual man, and I would bridle my tongue and nod my head with a forced grin. What is that like, really? Because in my house, it meant abandonment, neglect. Is that what God is like?

I have learned that that is not true. And in God's hate of divorce, His love of mercy is much greater. For the six years prior to this one, this would have been a night of celebration, though hope forced and waning with each passing year. For years I heard pastors talk about the effects of divorce, the ripping of flesh that had been melded into one. Tonight I know that pain. There is no comfort, or balm to soothe the ache, dreams lost and family sacrificed on the altar of ministry.

And so today has become a day of mourning. Mourning for a life that could have been, dreams that could have flown high. But You have said that You turn mourning into dancing, and ashes into beauty, and I am believing and clinging and looking forward to a future, even dreaming again. It is a reclamation of life, and so tonight, amidst the mourning and sadness, I will pour myself a glass of champagne , maybe cry a little, and rest in His Goodness. Even now.

Standing in the Storm

noreply@blogger.com (Shauna O) — Sat, 29 Oct 2011 21:36:00 +0000

I have learned along this spiritual journey that sometimes I am able to walk, even run, learning and loving in leaps and bounds. But there are other times when all I can do is stand, head swirling in the midst of uncertainty, doubt, and pain. You see, as I walk forward, one foot in front of the other, there are moments with each step when I am slightly off balance, one foot on the ground, one foot mid-air. And in seasons when the air is calm and the wind is but a mellow, gentle breeze, these moments of unbalance are absorbed by the forward momentum of learning and loving.

But those seasons when the air is not calm and the wind is not gentle, that slight unbalance makes it more challenging to stay upright. There are seasons when torrents of rain pelt the body painfully, and any moment void of a firm hold may just knock me over, and I will fall apart altogether. There are seasons when the air is so thick with pain and the clouds are so heavy with fatigue that the very hand of God is concealed by the darkness swirling around.

And it is in this season that I live and breathe now.

And so in this season, where I am unable to walk, unable to move forward in my journey without falling over or falling out, unable to see my own hand before my face, much less the hand of God, I choose to ground my feet, and stand. My feet grow roots, and I stand like a tree planted by streams of water, firm and strong, and as the winds of this storm blow back and forth, I will bend and sway under the weight of it all, but I will not fall down. I will not walk away. I will not retreat. And I will not break.

And as the winds grow stronger, I lean in, and cry out for mercy.

ARE. YOU. STILL. THERE???

In the midst of it all, I cannot lift my hands. It hurts too much. My heart, full of fear, doubt, anger, and too many questions to process, weeps. It hurts to praise. A whisper of Your name echoes, reverberates off the walls of an empty chamber hall. And so I simply stand, tears mixed with rain and hail.

On this Rock, I choose to stand. I choose to take my stand.

I do not fall. I do not crumble. I do not walk away.

And it is in this where I finally am able to see Him again, His hand of mercy and compassion holding me up. By His grace alone, I am still standing.

In the midst of a dark storm, when everything in me says to get out, my feet are grounded, my legs are planted, and I do not fall.

That's His hand, holding me up.

And someday, this season will pass. At some point the skies will clear and I will be able to run again. But now, with dark skies and heavy clouds looming overhead, I. Will. Stand.

I will press in, and I will persevere.

I will rest soundly with Your hand on me, holding me up.

Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.
James 1:2-4

*Photo courtesy of FreeFoto.com

The Beating of a Heart

noreply@blogger.com (Shauna O) — Fri, 28 Oct 2011 04:53:00 +0000

You bruised my heart when you banged it around,
You said it wasn't worth fighting for and took it for granted.
In the discovery of the betrayal of vows, it bled heavy, tears mixed with thick crimson, leaving but a pale remnant of the life that flowed through it previously.
Now it beats strange, lopsided, nursing the wounds left by the sickness of disappointment and the mourning of dreams lost.

But it beats still.

How does one recover from such a blow? From one as such that leaves perfect fingerprint outlines on shaken arms or beaten bottoms?
How does one breathe when the weight of desperation and loneliness crushes down on the chest?
The simple rise and fall of the lungs in a previously simple world is so inadequate now, leaving the body starved, lips blue, the heart beating shallow, dull.

But it beats still.

You tell me that God hates divorce and my heart is hard and my god is small;
I open my mouth to speak of His mercy and grace and release from oppression and falsehoods,
but you wouldn't hear it because God hates divorce.
But He also hates pride and injustice and arrogance and oppression and sin and the planks that blur all of our vision.
And so I cling to Him under the shadow of a mighty wing and listen for the beating of His heart.

And it is beating still.

And someday the purple black spotting of capillaries blown open, now painful to the touch, will ease, turning to shades of unspeakable green and yellow that will once again flow crimson.
The vibrance of life is waiting, refilling, beating low and steady as it pushes through the repair of a life in shambles.

But it beats still.
And I forgive you.

All grace and all peace as I venture through a new and scary season of life.

Today I Rode a Bike...

noreply@blogger.com (Shauna O) — Fri, 08 Apr 2011 04:59:00 +0000

Today I rode a bike. I can't remember the last time that I rode a bike...maybe my college years, which I won't disclose how long ago that was. But today, I "rented" a free bike from my place of work, and took a lunch-time ride. As my feet hit the pedal and my legs went round and round on a beat-up beach cruiser, my face lit up like a little girl who just learned to ride for the first time.

WHEEEEEEEE!

I was the only one riding through campus with a goof-ball grin on my face, waving and shouting greetings to all the other bike-riders, sure that they were as elated to be riding as I was. My legs pedaled faster as I dodged pedestrians and the old metal frame clanked with each rotation of the wheels. Onward I cruised, until I had arrived at a nearby neighborhood, and the ghost of what once was.

My destination was an old school, used by the city school district for many, many years, now abandoned due to budget cuts. The clanking frame came to a quiet halt as I reached the corner of the fenced off playground, as one approaching hallowed ground quiets the soul to listen for whispers from the past. And I stood at the edge, wind and whispers blowing through my hair, echoes of ghosts and dry bones laughing through the air.

An empty school is an eerie sight. Unnatural and unnerving. If walls could talk...but even they have been silenced and no ear wanders its lane to listen for tales of little people and growing minds and hearts being formed. And so the walls moan and shift and creak in the stillness of absence. Paint peels down that which was once covered with little hands creating masterpieces, and the playground can no longer be called as such, but merely ground held together by fading structures.

And I begin to pedal again, feet pressing in as heart presses on and begins to weep, hoping the wind will wash the tears away, but it full of laughter and echoes and all that once was. It is noontime. Children should be playing here. Youthful chaos should fill the air. Balls should be bouncing and swings dancing high. But there is only the whistle of the trees who are left to wonder where all the people went.

Pedaling still, pushing down as I circle the block that makes up the now-empty school, play yard, and jungle gym. Circling and pedaling, praying for new life, circling and canvasing the area, covering it in prayer, crying that this path around the land will be claimed, a fire of passion set on this trail, blazes go up to mark all that is within it as hallowed, sacred, set apart for the divine.

Holy. Ground.

with endless possibilities.

There is a community of believers who desire to live out this Jesus calling, who desire to preach the Good News of Jesus Christ through loving, merciful acts of devotion to each other and to the city, and the nation, and to the world.

And it starts here.

We are asking to be made uncomfortable, for comforts welcomes rot and spoil. We are asking for lessons in love and mercy and grace beyond what we are able to do, beyond what we are able to handle.

We are asking You, Jesus. Your kingdom come. Your will be done.

You have given the vision of a community center that reaches deep into the lives of the people of Tucson. Open the doors, Father, and make us uncomfortable, that we may find comfort and strength in you alone, that we may operate outside of ourselves. Give us guidance and wisdom, that it may all be for your glory.

Circle the block one more time. My eyes see the silhouettes of children, short and tall, light and dark, running and squealing. Vegetables are growing tall and baskets are being filled to overflowing. Needs are being met, and there is plenty left over. New life has been breathed into these dry bones, and the hollow echo of death has become the hallowed ground of Life.

Today I rode a bike, and I worshipped my Creator, and my heart beat happy all day long.

Will you pray with us, please, as we seek the Father's wisdom for a community center in mid-town Tucson? As proposals are created and grants are being requested, please pray with us, for the gift of Faith in all things? For patience to wait on His plan, and the obedience to act when doors are opened.

Driving by Jesus

noreply@blogger.com (Shauna O) — Thu, 07 Apr 2011 05:43:00 +0000

I was a little late getting out of work. It was 5:10 by the time I closed my office door, 5:16 by the time I was pulling out of the parking lot. Late start on the drive home usually means getting stuck in the worst of the traffic. It was 5:50 by the time I picked up my girls from school, and far later than I wanted it to be for cooking dinner. So I decided we would grab some dinner at a local market on the way home.

A quick in and out, and then we'd be on our way home and getting the girls in bed.

Hurry up, girls. It's getting late.

Bellies are full, but food was still left on the table.

Wrap it up. There's a mouth out there to feed.

So I grab a paper bag and drop in 4 pieces of untouched cornbread, and wrap up a couple of pieces of turkey. Load the girls in the van, and we were on our way. The parking lot was crazy busy as we drove past the Starbucks, the beauty supply story, the Dollar store, and the grocery store. While slowing to allow shoppers to cross, I saw him out of the corner of my eye. A few shops ahead, leaning into a trash can, digging. A large, clear trash bag rested on the ground behind, full of crushed cans. The ends of his pants were tattered and sandals were worn. I saw him, and I saw the bag of bread on the seat next to me.

The food is for him.

Watching the cars turn and pass and park and pull out, watching the shoppers cross the road back and forth, in the midst of little people laughing and shrieking behind me and the news blaring on the radio about war and violence, somehow in the midst of the chaos, I heard that whisper.

That bread will feed him, the least of these.

And as the tires rolled on slowly in the midst of that busy parking lot, my mind waged war with my heart.

How do I...what do I...what if he's not homeless and I'm judging? what if this insults him? what do i say? where do I park? how do I pull out of the way? what about the children in the backseat? ugh! how do I make this work?!

And in the confusion of my pride and disobedience and desire to do right, my tires kept on rolling, and I drove right on by Jesus, with his dirty, torn up pants and matted beard, and hit my hand against the steering wheel with absolute frustration.

DANGIT!

And my eyes well up with tears, and my heart breaks in shame for my disobedience, my cowardice in not stepping up, and the bag of bread on the seat next to me mocks me. Coward.

And I wonder how many times I have driven past Jesus and never even given it a thought. In my hurry, in my avoidance of inconveniences, in my exhaustion, in my ingratitude, in my disgruntled discontent, how many times have I missed him?

Please give me another chance. Please open my eyes. Please break my stubborn pride. Please, give me another chance.

Then the King will say to those on his right, "Enter, you who are blessed by my Father! Take what's coming to you in this kingdom. It's been ready for you since the world's foundation. And here's why:

I was hungry and you fed me,

I was thirsty and you gave me a drink,

I was homeless and you gave me a room,

I was shivering and you gave me clothes,

I was sick and you stopped to visit,

I was in prison and you came to me."

Then those 'sheep' are going to say, "Master, what are you talking about? When did we ever see you hungry and feed you, thirsty and give you a drink? And when did we ever see you sick or in prison and come to you?"

Then the King will say, "I'm tell the solemn truth: Whenever you did one of these things to someone overlooked or ignored, that was me - you did it to me."

Overlooked or ignored. How many times in a day do I overlook or ignore someone? How many countless faces do I overlook in a day? How many blessings have I neglected to give because I chose to ignore? How many opportunities to love did I overlook today?

Oh Father, open the eyes of my heart, enlighten me to see as You see, that I will not drive by you ever again.

Forgive me.

The Slippery Slope

noreply@blogger.com (Shauna O) — Fri, 10 Dec 2010 05:06:00 +0000

The year was 1996. I was entering the second trimester of the school year, and money was needed to buy textbooks for classes. But I had none. I had already spent my school money to feed my drug addiction and alcohol cravings. Classes were just starting and assignments were being made. Read these chapters from these textbooks. Write papers and reports. But there were no textbooks, because there was no money, because there was a beast that needed to be fed.

And then a friend told me that I could make some quick cash. Nothing dirty, more artistic. Just a few photographs. Just take off my clothes, do a few decent poses, I could change my name.

At first I laughed, bashful. I could never...

But then another day of class came and went. No books. No assignment to turn in. And the cravings from the beast were becoming painful.

Maybe I could...just a few...it would be quick...and I could call the shots. Nothing dirty.

So I made the phone call, picked the time and place. Took a shower, took a few shots of liquor, grabbed a few changes of clothes, threw back a few more shots, and walked out the door.

I call the shots. Nothing dirty.

The session was a hour long. And he paid me $300. Enough for a few textbooks. And I wanted to just walk away.

Pretend. It. Never. Happened.

I did that a lot back in those days. And I thought I could rationalize my way through it. It paid for my books, and what was the harm, really? It's not like it was porn. Just a few shots of naked poses. Nothing dirty.

Except that it was. It was my body, my precious sexuality, my precious treasure, the temple, put on display for a stranger with a camera. Sold out for a few coins.

And for as much as I thought I could just walk away like it was nothing, I wanted to run and hide, to put on every article of clothing in my closet, just to make sure that everything was covered. There was a sense of shame, and yet I wanted to be tough. So the hard wall that I had built up around my heart got another layer added to it, hardening me even more, protecting an empty shell inside.

So then when a friend told me that I could do that every weekend while dancing, and make about a grand a weekend, I entertained the idea. And every time the beast needed a fix, I entertained the idea. And every time I wrote a hot check to pay for a few groceries (and beer), I entertained the idea. It would be nothing. It might even be a little fun. I could numb myself with some booze and some drugs, and just go dance. Who cares if someone is watching? It would be nothing. I had already put one foot on the slope. What's another?

By God's grace, He loved me before I ever knew Him, and my foot was caught on that slippery slope to not slide down any further. There were some who were crying out on my behalf, long before I ever knew anything about it. He spared me and saved me, and now, His redemptive grace has come full circle.

More women are currently employed in the sex industry than any other time in history. Our culture has glamorized and desensitized the people to that which is sacred and treasured. There are more strip clubs in the US than any other nation in the world, and the sex industry in Tucson, AZ is just downright overwhelming.

There is much shame and secrecy which surrounds this shadowy industry. Many secrets to be kept. Studies that have been done reveal that between 66-90% of women in the sex industry were sexually abused as children. Compared to the general population, women in the sex industry experience higher rates of substance abuse, rape and violent assault, STD's, domestic violence, depression, and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Fear and distrust holds them captive to the life they know, rather than reaching for the freedom they do not know. Many need a lifeline, but don't know how or whom to ask.

Tomorrow night a community will gather. They will hit their knees and weep on behalf of our sisters in the sex industry. They will cry out on behalf of our brothers, those who are contributing to the system. They will gather on behalf of their siblings, and then two by two, teams will go out as ambassadors of God's redeeming grace, to tell our sisters that we love them, to tell our brothers that they are cherished. These teams will deliver gifts crafted by the hands of a family in longing, selected and prayed over as beacons of Light, and they will stand in the gap, whispering the Savior's Name.

A Lifeline.

Jesus told us that the Shepherd, upon realizing that one of his sheep has strayed, would leave the 99 to go after the one.

We are asking You, Great Shepherd, Go. We are missing our siblings.

Bring my sisters out of darkness and into Your glorious light. Bring her home to the family, and refine us to be nothing but Christ to her. The world has been harsh and cruel, and the enemy has been shouting lies her whole life. Give us hearts that would not judge, and eyes to remember the height from which we fell. Give us tongues that would speak slowly, gently, compassionately, Love. Give us arms that would hold her till the crying stops. And give us patience to hold her more.

Bring my sisters out of darkness. Tell her that's she's beautiful. Tell her how much she's worth. Overwhelm her with the Truth of Your love. Tell her she's not disposable. Tell her she's not worthless. Tell her she's not stupid. Tell her there is someone who cares what happens to her. Tell her, Father, that there is no flaw within her. Tell her, Lord, because it's been a long time since my sister heard Truth. Tell her she's not worthless. Tell her she's worth the blood of Your Son, of the Shepherd who has gone after her. Oh, speak tenderly, as the Lover she's never had.

Tell her that You have come to redeem her from the slippery slope that is taking her life.

Will you join us? Will you pray for the lost? Will you pray for the hurting? Will you pray for the marginalized? Will you prayers for our sisters and brothers? Will you seek them out to show kindness and love?

Because love covers a multitude of sins. And stops the sliding down a dark and dangerous slope.

Could community be the key to radical?

noreply@blogger.com (Shauna O) — Sun, 17 Oct 2010 22:19:00 +0000

The thing about community is that it is messy. People have baggage, and issues, and hurts, and pains, and the enemy feeds them lies at every turn they take. And people, in their hurt and brokenness, believe the lies, take them to heart, and live their lives based on them, rather than believing the Truth. You see, the Truth isn't shouted. It is gentle, unassuming, quiet. It removes any pretenses or excuses that we may carry with us. It frees us from all things, coming and going.

And so all of us, in our brokenness and bondage, fear each other. Either we are judging or being judged. Some may lash out to protect, believing that there is no one who will stand up for us. Other may hide away fearing the harshness of others. This is what we bring to relationships with each other, and until we discover the reality of grace, towards ourselves and others, communities remain a very safe arm's length away. We hide behind privacy and space, and personal preference. We gather with for Sunday service, maybe another night in the week for a small group, and then go on about our quiet, broken lives the rest of the week. Community happens on our terms. We choose when we want to engage and when we want to be alone. And many times fear can dictate these terms.

We read the teachings of Jesus to feed the poor, and so we send a check in to United Way.
We read that we are to care for the orphans, and so we send our check to Compassion.
We read that we are to visit the sick care for the widows, so we send our check to the foundation that will do this.

And our hands are clean, untarnished by the filthy reality of this life, not scathed by the broken mess of lives that comprise people in a fragile world so far from its Creator. And we can go on about our pristine lives knowing that we have done our part to make a difference.

But the thing about Jesus, was that He was a man of the people. He was a man of relationships. He was a man who would stand beside the adulteress and speak beautiful truths over her. He was a man who would speak life into the dead man before Him. He was a man who broke bread with the people as He taught of God's love and compassion. He demonstrated the compassion He spoke of. He lived it out. His life was covered in the dirt and filth of those whom He came to save. He walked the road with them.
And it was an outrage to the religious leaders. It was an abomination to be seen with the sinners with whom He dined. It was unspeakable to allow such women to touch Him.

It was completely radical. And those around Him took notice.

He was different and the gospel he taught was different than what the world knew.

He was inconvenienced by their sudden appearances. He was delayed by impromptu conversations. He was held up by the cry of someone's heart. And He was compassionate and ever gracious. He did not judge and held no record of sin.

But instead He scribbled something in the dirt which held the attention of the accusers. His gaze caught theirs as He leveled the field, "Let him without sin cast the first stone."

We are all broken, and we have been called to community, true bleed on each other community.

They devoted themselves to the apostles' teaching and to the fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer. Everyone was filled with awe, and many wonders and miraculous signs were done by the apostles. All the believers were together and had everything in common. Selling their possessions and goods, they gave to anyone as he has need. Every day they continued to meet together in the temple courts. They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, praising God and enjoying favor of all the people. And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved.

Is this not what we have been called to? Is this not the example that was set for us? What the early Church did was completely radical, completely against the culture of their day, completely set apart. They pooled resources for the sake of living the vision set forth in Acts 1:8, the vision set for them by Christ himself, of being His witnesses in Jerusalem, Judea, Samaria, and the ends of the earth. They gave all that they had to ensure that those among them had what they needed to do what God had called them to do. And they broke bread together. This is mentioned more than once. Community was done on the terms of the community, not on the terms of the individual, when and where he felt like engaging.

Oh how my heart longs to see this come to fruition in our day, to see lives being saved from the hurt and brokenness of a world that does not know Truth, to see numbers added daily because the Truth of God's love and the demonstration of His people living it out is that compelling. Are we that compelling?

A group that is able to come together and get along? A group of the Christians that are able to come together and get along? Now that will get some attention.

There has to be more....

Thinking with my mouth open...and fingers moving.

noreply@blogger.com (Shauna O) — Fri, 15 Oct 2010 22:04:00 +0000

So we are stateside again. Sorry for not checking in sooner. It's been a strange month of readjusting and change. And while change can often times be very good, it remains to be hard. So we are adjusting and reentering a culture that is so different from what we experienced in Africa. And my mind is reeling with convictions and concerns and ideas of the imagination that will only lead me to trouble with many. And yet the gifting that the Spirit has bestowed upon me compels me to speak and share, yet my heart would crumble at the thought of disparaging the beautiful Bride. And so I wonder and pray of where to start, hoping that words of exhortation would move some to action of some form.

Jesus said to His followers, "But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes on you and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, and in all Judea, and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth."

After he said this, he was taken up before their very eyes, and a cloud hid him from their sight. Those were his parting thoughts, laying out the vision and expectation of the Church. What is the Church to do from here on out?

Be His witnesses. Speak up, testify as to who Jesus is, give evidence of His power.

Be like Him.

The problem is, most of the time, this is reduced to just becoming better people, good people who live with superior standards of morals. They have attained righteousness because they don't drink alcohol, don't smoke, don't cuss, pay their bills on time, are responsible citizens, and are just generally much nicer people.

But I must confess that I have met a lot of really nice people who don't know a thing about Jesus, much less love Him. But they were really nice people and, should they come to confess Jesus, would fit very nicely into most churches that I know.

There are also many who I know who I would never guess are followers of Jesus until I see them at a Sunday morning church service with arms raised in emotional rapture. Where was that emotional rapture a few days ago as they looked down on the homeless person begging on the corner?

If we are called to be set apart, then why do we blend so well? Is my heart so set apart that others would know I am different, that I follow a different Way? Or do I try to blend, go with the flow, not make waves? Do I do what I do because this is how we've always done it so it must be the way it is done? But then, there is the Way, and it's different, radical, set apart, and I am drawn to it.

Here's one of the things that I love about Jesus: He put legs on words that He taught. He didn't just sit around, week after week, meeting with His small group to discuss the ins and outs of the teachings of the Prophets. He was a man of action. When he taught that we are to feed the hungry, He broke bread and fed 5,000. When He taught that we are visit the sick, He raised one from the dead. When He taught that we are to care for the orphans and widows, He reprimanded his disciples as He gathered the littles one unto Himself. When He taught that we are to messengers of compassion, and mercy, He stood up for the adulteress. When He taught that we are to give water to the thirsty, He quenched the thirst of a Samaritan woman who had searched for a lifetime. When He taught us to turn the other cheek, He donned a crown of thorns and laid bare His back for 40 lashes. When He taught us that it is better to give than it is to receive, He gave His life for the salvation of the world.

In the quiet places of my heart, there is a stirring that disturbs the hush. There is a rumble that begs for more. There is an uneasiness that is sure it has missed something.

Isn't there more to this life than going through the motions of Church and becoming a really nice person? What do we do with passages like Matthew 25, where are told very clearly that honoring Jesus means feeding the hungry, giving water to the thirsty, providing housing for the stranger, and clothes for the naked, visiting the sick and imprisoned? He did not mince words when He said, "Away from me! I never knew you."

Those words haunt me as I seek Him out.

You know me, right? Am I walking in obedience to you?

And so my heart wonders and imagines. What if we got crazy radical with this obedience to Him?

Oh, mercy, I'm just getting warmed up.

Ocean Hopping

noreply@blogger.com (Shauna O) — Fri, 17 Sep 2010 12:44:00 +0000

We are soon heading to the airport, boarding a plane, and hopping back across the massive ocean that separates our worlds. So many thoughts, so many swirling ideas that are waiting to land, waiting for feet to walk out. Please pray for our journey if you think of us. Traveling for this long with three little people can be very exhausting. We fly out tonight (Friday night by Nairobi time) and don't arrive to Arizona until late Saturday night. Loooooooong journey.

Catch ya on the flip side!

A Slower Pace

noreply@blogger.com (Shauna O) — Thu, 16 Sep 2010 19:45:00 +0000

"Ahh, you have become very fat! Very fat now!"

The whole of his thin, frail frame laughs as he throws his head back in joy, while the men of Western influence chuckle nervously.

“Very fat now!”

He turns to the others and exclaims it again, and the laughter pours forth. Yes, life has been very good to me through the years, full of joys and hurts, tears and laughter, and little hands pull at my skirt. This patriarch of many laughs as he embraces, kisses, and greets all in the room.

It is a large, rectangular sitting room; wooden boards that cover the windows now open wide, allowing the breath of God to blow in and out, and His light is the only source to bring life out of darkness. The old wooden chairs that line the walls around the room tell the stories of visitors past, with dents and chips in the wood, and turquoise cushions peaking out from the shreds of the once brightly colored fabrics that cover them. Beat up wooden tables full of character and years fill the space in the middle of the room.

The walls echo of the lives that have passed through this room, grand and simple. 16 children were born and raised in this place, orphans have been taken in, visitors from afar have felt its welcome, all of their laughter and love now distant echoes in a room that now sits empty most days, save the elders who remain behind. The squeals of granddaughters from afar now awake the quiet memories, their giggles resurrecting the joy for all the years past. As I sit quietly here now and listen, murmurs of meetings, homework, children, laughter, families and life overwhelm my heart. This room has seen much.

And the matriarch stands, in quiet majesty, queen of this home for over 50 years, through births and burials, soft voice carries wisdom dealt out gently, patiently, in a tongue I do not know, this mother in love of mine. The face of this aged woman smiles as a whole as she tends to her man-son, granddaughters trailing behind her step. She serves him his favorite food, after all these years. With joy, she still knows how to make her son smile.

She prays to the God of us all, showing gratitude for years come and gone, for children come and gone, for visitors come and gone, and for the travels that bring them all home again. Wrinkled hands folded, calloused and tough by hard years of exhausting labor in the cools fields of this Kenyan village, the lines around her soft eyes speak of the smiles and squints for a lifetime.

She embodies beauty and grace.

She is clothed in strength and dignity.

She serves us traditional porridge in an old calabash and we drink in the warmth of family and home of his birth.

The brothers gather under the tree, the boardroom of this people, their lines speak of clan strength. Dirty kids chew on sugar cane and enjoy the freedom of spitting out the remains. And we pass the remains of the afternoon in this village out in the bush, the gentle breath of God blowing a breeze of refreshment over our travel-weary souls.

And we are reminded that contented simplicity far outweighs the bustle and noises that would otherwise lure and distract from this plain beauty, and that it is good to be home.

Linking to beautiful Emily at in the hush of the moon.

The Burnt Offering

noreply@blogger.com (Shauna O) — Fri, 10 Sep 2010 10:06:00 +0000

Leviticus 9:24 says:

Fire came out from the presence of the Lord and consumed the burnt offering and the fat portions on the altar. And when all the people saw it, they shouted for joy and fell facedown.

If God would come and consume my fat portions, I would certainly shout for joy and fall facedown. Guaranteed.

Just sayin'.

Have a happy Friday, y'all!

Hakuna sheda

noreply@blogger.com (Shauna O) — Thu, 09 Sep 2010 14:05:00 +0000

Hakuna sheda!

No problem!

There are no problems, indeed.

Hakuna sheda.

Horns sound, hoot in a friendly manner,

Alerting rather than cursing.

Cars weave in and out,

on and off the road,

Taxis and buses swerve in and out,

bicycles litter the road,

while pedestrians weave in and out of it all.

And in this disorganized chaos of Africa roads,

There is an understanding of humility,

Of seeing others as more important than oneself.

Hakuna sheda.

Right of way is forfeited,

Hands wave others to pass or cut in.

Intersections are meetings grounds where one slows down and rolls through,

Rather than cruising through with confidence of right of way.

Hakuna sheda

And with the release of fighting for rights

Comes the release of others,

Allowing each to navigate without judging or irritation.

You cannot offend me,

as I have chosen to not be offended.

Hakuna sheda.

A man’s wisdom gives him patience;

it is to his glory to overlook an offense.

There is a humility here, in this place,

That is unmatched anywhere else.

And I am learning the way of

Hakuna sheda.

Linking up to Emily at in the hush of the moon. Stop by for some amazing poetry.

On Coming Down from the Mountain

noreply@blogger.com (Shauna O) — Wed, 08 Sep 2010 13:49:00 +0000

There is a stirring, a discontent. No, discontent isn't the right word. I cannot put my finger on it. A restlessness that I cannot define.

We go home in 9 days. 9 days before we return to life stateside, to grocery stores and farmers' markets, preschool, Chipotle, girlfriends, walls and fences, rights and privilege, hot showers, reliable electricity, driving on the left side of the road, car seats, abundance, abundance, abundance.

9 days. Have I learned what You brought me here to teach? My eyes have been opened to MANY, many things, but I am slow to learn. My head is slow and heart is stubborn.

9 days. What I have heard, what I have seen throughout the past four months have been incredible lessons in community, what it is and how to live it. In grace; this has always been an ambiguous, churchy word to me, but I have seen it lived out and now know that it is much harder, and much more freeing than I ever imagined. In humility, which apparently I knew nothing about. It is freeing to know, and believe, that there is One who speaks on my behalf, yet incredibly hard to not open my mouth and fight. Learning to ask the questions, "Does it matter? Will this glorify God?"

Community, grace, humility.

There are things in my own life that I know must change, steps that I have taken that have hindered my growth, slowed my faith walk. Finding your way back to the path of God can be challenging, but He has promised that those who seek Him are sure to find Him. And so I seek, grasp, cry out, and know that He will answer.

I want to pray throughout the day, even fixed-hour prayer. I want to be sure to give You thanks before bites go into the mouth, because my eyes have seen and my heart has loved many who do not have such privilege. They have faces and names, bodies that I have held. They are not strangers to me, and I do not want to forget their plight, or the One who provides for us all. I want to be in the habit of feasting on the real Bread of life several times each day, and not when crisis or concern strikes, as that is what will nourish and grow me through all seasons. I want these things not for the sake of being a "better" Christian, but for the sake of knowing You more, walking more closely with You, living out this Christ-life and actually looking more like Christ. I want these to define my life with passion and energy, without becoming mindless routines.

Somehow, this status quo isn't enough. There is a void that has to be filled and my habit and flesh tendency would fill it with worldly things, such as food, or shopping, or just making myself busier to fill that void. But I have learned enough to know that those things don't fill the void, but only ease the pain of it for a short, short time. Here I have not had access to those "drugs" and so God has revealed Himself in mighty ways, as the Comforter and the One who heals.

How can I be truly set apart when my life feels so ordinary, so much like everybody else? How will anyone know anything about Jesus by looking at my life?

I have seen short-term mission teams come and go throughout the summer, so alive, passion burning. They are intentional and focused, set apart for a short season to proclaim the goodness of God. And I too have been a part of such a team, and remember standing at the mountaintop, bold for my Savior, wildly in love and wanting all in my path to receive His blessings of peace and life. But I cannot help but wonder, what happens when this short season ends and life goes back to normal? My summer began with a team, moving from village to village, but when the team left and everyday life resumed of raising up my family of little people, the excitement and passion of a focused purpose quickly waned. Daily trips to the market for food for dinner, sibling squabbles, diapers, upset tummies, temper tantrums replaced travel and interaction and being seen as important, relevant, needed.

And I wondered, "How now, will they know that I am His?"

When you travel with a mission team, life is a bit different. The standard is set a bit higher and everyone feeds off of each other, for better or worse, and the spiritual air is thick with anticipation of God's movement. With the demands of the mission field, it is know that one cannot survive a day, at least not well, without full reliance on the guidance, grace, and mercy of the Holy Spirit. There is much more reliance. There has to be.

And then seasons shift drastically and the excitement of work well done becomes the mundane of routine. And someone says with the best of intentions, "Just give it some time, and everything will go back to normal."

And somehow it always does, except that it is never quite the same ever again because I'm trying to fit all that my eyes have seen and my heart has absorbed into a box that wasn't prepared for such things. And it just doesn't fit.

What happened when Moses had to come down from the Mountain so beautiful and face so radiant, and deal with bickering, rebellious siblings, and squabbling families, and the chores of keeping the people focused long enough to not build golden calfs and call them god?

He threw his tablets on the ground and stomped his feet in anger.

Yeah, I know that feeling.

How do the passions keep from becoming mere smoldering coals?
Is it that we are to be set apart for a mere short season, a 10-week short-term trip, or set apart for life, day-to-day life lived out in sacrifice and humility and community? And in the "normal" day-to-day of life, what is my role in seeing that the hungry are fed, the thirsty are given water, the orphans are cared for and the widows are loved? What is my role in creating and contributing to community, that they may know that we are one?
And how do we do that when we are all seeking to move away from others, with walls that separate us to preserve our privacy and personal space?

I dont' want everything to go back to normal. I want the radical obedience and wild passion of following Jesus. I just need to know what it looks like.

As we are preparing for the journey back to the states, these are the questions I am struggling with, praying for discernment.
How now shall we live? For the next 9 days, I am pondering this with intensity.

What about you? What are your thoughts on community and humility and grace towards others?

I have more thoughts to share on those things soon. They are a tornado in my heart right now, moving too fast to make any sense. Hopefully the winds will die down soon.

Touching Base

noreply@blogger.com (Shauna O) — Fri, 03 Sep 2010 13:07:00 +0000

So, I haven't been around the blogosphere quite as much this past week or so. Today marks two weeks left in Kenya until we fly back to the states, so we have been trying to make like tourists and soak up as much of what we can do around Nairobi as possible. So we visited the Karen Blixen museum and coffee plantation. For those not familiar, she is the author of "Out of Africa," which became a movie in 1985 with Meryl Streep and Robert Redford. Good movie, actually, if you haven't seen it.
We visited the elephant orphanage and had fun watching the silly elephants nurse from bottles. Toria was bored within a few minutes though and ready to move.
So, while we enjoy our remaining time in Kenya, I will try to post some photos so you can see too. Here are some for starters.

Elephant orphanage

African sister love

Always in motion

Spying the elephant in the bush

Peaceful as a flower...

That a Girl!

noreply@blogger.com (Shauna O) — Sun, 29 Aug 2010 18:49:00 +0000

"Look at me, mommy!"

"Mama, look over here! Watch this!"

"Mommy, watch me jump over this!"

These were the shouts that I heard all morning as the girls played on the jungle gym, jumping from the end of the slide, swinging on the monkey bars, climbing up the chain ladder. I smiled as I took in their joy, heart warmed by their play. I was struck by their desire to be seen, for their achievements to be noticed.

"Mommy, are you watching?"

They would stand at attention at the end of the platform, readied in position to launch themselves into the sand pit, and yet would pose, waiting until eyes were on them before making the move. Then, launch! And then shoot up like an Olympic gymnast, arms like arrows extended in the air, body straight and stiff, awaiting the applause.

"Ta-da!"

"Bravo! Bravo! Well done! So proud of you! That was amazing! I can't believe you jumped so high!"

The look of satisfaction, joy, success. They accomplished, and then they were praised. They smile big with pride, stand taller, and are bold and confident to do more. And me, their mama, the one who carried and bore them, stand tall with pride and joy to see my angels fly, to see my girls learn and grow and accomplish through courage. I am so proud of them.

"That's my girl! Well done!"

They have so much to learn, and everyday is an opportunity for growth. They are learning how to interact with each other, learning how to love selflessly, learning how to forgive and make amends. They are learning what it looks like to love Jesus, and everyday is an opportunity to learn more. And I am more proud of them everyday. Not every moment is perfect, and there is still much to learn, but their journey has begun, and my prayer is that Jesus is more real to them and more alive in their lives than I have ever experienced.

And then I just wonder about our Father, the One who has birthed us all by the workings of His mighty hands and the beauty of His own imagination. And I wonder about the Son and how He came to show us a new way, The Way. His teachings were so against the mainstream, so counter-intuitive. He taught us to turn the other cheek, and it sounds altruistic and beautiful on paper, but living it out makes the flesh cringe. He taught us to forgive quickly, and it sounds noble on paper, but then the heart rages against offense and wants to get even. And He taught us to forsake the things of this world, to be sure that the hungry are fed, and the orphans are cared for, to be sure that the poor are looked after. And then we begin to question and squirm, and look for technicalities, and justify taking care of ourselves first.

He taught us how to fellowship with those who do wrong, those who are immoral, and how to speak life and exhortation into such as those, but our lives are so full and so righteous. He taught us how to live in selfless community, looking for the God-image in all, restoring the Father-dignity that the evil one has stripped, but our to-do list must get done and we just don't have time. And what we have worked for, we have worked very hard for, and I like my privacy and my space, and the simple, counter-intuitive, counter-cultural teachings of Jesus become muddled and grey and watered down till the fire in my heart has been simmered into a slightly smoldering coal with barely an orange tint to it.

But then there are voices crying out in the wilderness, prophets in their own day, those who are speaking the stirrings of their heart, seeking out the voice that will guide them in obedience. There are visionaries who are risking it all, and those who are willing to step out. There is a stirring taking place, and quiet revolution seeking to bring Heaven to this broken pit. I have seen their hearts, those who are no longer content with the status quo of a system set in place by tradition or routines. Those who are no longer willing to do what they do simply because this is what we do. There is a quiet stirring, those who are questioning.

If we are told that the picture of the Church is a community that is willing to sell all their earthly possessions and come together, meeting each others' needs completely, are we as the Church not held to the same standard?

If we are told that the picture of grace is a body of people who have set aside their rights and are willing to put the needs of others before their own, are we not held to the same standard?

I just wonder about the ways of the Father, when we get ahold of a lesson, when we share our food with the hungry, or open our doors to someone in need of a roof over their heads, I just wonder if the Father doesn't smile over us.

"That a girl! Now you've got it."

My Story: On Becoming an Empty Shell

noreply@blogger.com (Shauna O) — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 19:42:00 +0000

**This is the next installment of His Story: My Life. If you have missed the earlier portions of the story, please feel welcome to slip over here to see all that has gone before.**

I feel compelled to add a warning of sorts to this particular part of the story, a preface to what is coming. Let me preface it this way:

In America, 1 in every 6 women has been the victim of rape. 1 in 6. Do you know 6 women? Odds are, you know someone who has suffered through this atrocity.

Currently in the US, every 2 minutes, someone is sexually assaulted. Every. 2. Minutes.

Do these numbers astound you? They should.

And the effects?

Victims of sexual assault are: 3 times more likely to suffer from depression, 6 times more likely to suffer from PTSD, 13 times more likely to abuse alcohol, 26 times more likely to abuse drugs, and 4 times more likely to contemplate suicide.

How ‘bout them numbers?

1 in 6.

Every. 2. Minutes.

3. 6. 13. 26. 4.

Times more likely to have a life in ruins. Absolute shambles.

That’s the general reality. Now here was my reality.

I don’t think the reality of that disgusting four-letter word really sunk in until a few days after the event. There was a hollowing numbness that had begun to creep in, almost immediately, a battle between what was reality and what was merely a horrific nightmare, and somehow, in my mind, if I could make it all just a horrific nightmare, then it wasn’t real. It didn’t really happen. And the heart began on a slow journey of death that would leave nothing more than a black lump of coal in my chest. I was working on a new reality.

It started with a really, really, really long, very hot shower. Scrubbing, weeping, scrubbing, red, raw skin, more scrubbing. If I could just get that filthy feeling off, out, away. More soap, more scrubbing, clawing, rubbing, more soap, till all that was left was raw, exposed nerve endings, skin that bled in the heat of the water, and a heart that bore a bruise that would not heal and could not be comforted. The pain and humiliation and shame were all too much to bear.

Whenever I closed my eyes, I saw them. I could smell the cigarette-stained hand that muffled my screams for help and held my head in place. I could feel the death grip on my hands, binding them above my head, out of reach to fight and protect. I could hear the sneers and evil laughter of the ones watching, like a hyena’s cackle. Vile and disgusting, as my strength was not enough to protect myself, and my cries of “NO!” fell on deaf, evil ears. And so he had his own selfish, revolting way with that which did not belong to him.

And my world fell apart.

And when he was done, they threw me in the back of the truck, and drove back into town, even dumped me outside of the front gate of my house, and drove away with their squeals ripping the night air apart.

Tell me it didn’t happen.

No one ever has to know.

What does it really matter, anyway?

A few nights later, I met a “boyfriend” at the pizza joint down the road from my house. I wasn’t straying far, and it was the first that I had gone out since my world was turned upside down. We ate pizza, little conversation, and then we drove me home. As we sat in his truck, just outside of my house, he leaned over and said to me, “I heard about what happened the other night.”

“You heard?”

“Yea, and just so you know: it’s cool if you want to be a slut.”

“what?” It was barely a whisper at first gasp, disbelief knocking the wind out of me. And then picked up force. “What did you just say?”

“I’m just saying, if that’s what you want to do, it’s cool.”

“I said NO! Over and over and over again! I screamed it. I cried it. I said NO!”

“Whatever, slut. Get out of my truck.”

Looking back on that day now, I wonder if it was visible, the walls that went up. I wonder if someone looking at me from the outside could see the hardening process take place, because it was almost instantaneous. Walls, like Fort Briggs, shot up around my hard, creating a shell of the former me. In that moment, I decided I could tell no one, because no one would believe me. I just heard it. He didn’t believe me, that I fought, that I struggled to get free. He didn’t believe me, but blamed me, labeled and insulted me.

And I could not call my family on another continent and tell them what happened. What if they didn’t believe me? What if they blamed me? What if they got angry or called me names? I couldn’t bear it. There was just too much shame, embarrassment, humiliation, and filth. Stripped of dignity, stripped of strength, I vowed to rebuild my strength on absolute protection.

I could tell no one.

But in order to quiet the painful reminders, to shut the heart up in all its brokenness, to silence the hatred of self, it would require outside intervention. And an addiction is ushered in.

My Story: The Ecuador Year, Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (Shauna O) — Sun, 22 Aug 2010 17:46:00 +0000

**This is the next installment of His Story:My Life. To catch up on the first portions of the story, feel free to jump over here.**

The Dream to the Nightmare

I lived with 3 different families for that year in Ecuador, and the first two were in the small coastal town of Portoviejo. My first family had a set of twin girls who were around the same age as me. I cried for the whole first month that I lived in Portoviejo, overwhelmed with homesickness and never being able to understand what was being said to me, or about me. I think that sweet little family thought there was something seriously wrong with me, and when they spoke to me, they would raise their voices a few octaves, just short of shouting at me, as if the lack of comprehension was a hearing problem rather than a language problem. I tried to explain, in my broken, broken Spanish, with several pauses for flipping through my dictionary, that I just didn’t understand the vocabulary yet, and so then they began to speak as if in slow motion. I understood and appreciated the intent, but it really didn’t help, as then everything sounded funny and weird and loud.

After a month or so of living with that first family, it was decided that it just wasn’t a very good fit, and I was moved in with a new family, a little more in town and little less loud. This family had only one daughter who was a year younger than me, and turned out to be a lovely host sister. We became friends quite quickly, and she was determined to help me learn to speak. I think she was very excited to have a sister, and she and I got into lots of trouble together.

When school started, I was taken to the seamstress to have my uniform made, which was a humbling experience altogether. I come from German-Scottish roots, which does not produce fragile people, for the most part. And compared to the smaller frames of Ecuadorians, I was quite the giant. So as I am being measured for my skirt, which was like a turquoise checkered picnic blanket, the seamstress mentioned that I was quite the “gringota” and would require much fabric. Sigh. Gringota.

I was learning the intricacies of the Spanish language, and seeing that you could tack an adjective on to the end of end of any word. So I was often referred to as “gringa,” which simply means “white girl,” but by adding “-ota” onto the end of it, I was now “big white girl.” There were three other Americans living in Portoviejo at the time with the same program that I was in. They were small and cute and were lovingly referred to as “gringitas,” the “-ita” making the white girls small. I liked the term gringita. It sounded dainty and sweet. It sounded like something you would say in a high-pitched voice to a baby, or endearingly to a cute little girl, while gringota sounded like a word that would boom out of the mouth of the giant at the top of the bean stalk. The other girls on the team, they were gringitas, but me, I was gringota. And now a gringota with a turquoise checkered picnic blanket wrapped around my waist. Lovely.

So school started, which was quite a shock to the system. It was an all-girls’ school, each one in her turquoise checkered picnic blanket. The classrooms were lined up next to each other, forming a large square of classrooms with a spacious courtyard in the middle of them all. The courtyard has a grassy area on one half and a basketball court on the other with cracked cement, old wooden backboards and rims with no nets. I wondered about the basketball court, given the apparent lack of height to the overwhelming majority of Ecuadorian girls, but maybe it was just something that was a standard part of schools.

My host sister and I would wander into the courtyard in the morning, waiting for the bell to ring signaling the beginning of class. My host sister was more like a rock star in those days, showing off her gringota, and all the little girls of the school would crowd around and press in with too many questions, their long dark hair pulled back so tightly into ponytails that their eyes were lifted up into Asian accents. They would all giggle as I struggled to comprehend what they were saying, pausing them every few words to thumb through my trusty pocket dictionary with frayed edges and tattered corners. I didn’t understand most of what they said in those days, but they quizzed about my old school, and my family and friends in the states, trying to get a picture of what my home was like.

Then the school bell would ring and squeals would fill the courtyard as chaos ensued and girls ran to their classrooms with no windows and no doors. We stayed in the same classroom all morning long, and sometimes a teacher showed and sometimes no one showed up for hours. So the scene from the courtyard would continue in the classroom right up until a teacher showed up and sent everyone to her own seat.

It was interesting taking classes in a Spanish all-girls’ high school, and most of the classes I had already taken in the states and most of the material I already knew because I was a teacher’s pet. But it was fun to learn that organic chemistry is essentially exactly the same in Spanish as it is in English, and that made it fun, assuming organic chemistry can be considered fun.

So we would spend our morning sitting in our one classroom, waiting and wondering if a teacher was going to show up for this hour, and then we were excused for the day at lunchtime. I really loved this part of their culture. The entire family would arrive at home for a massive lunchtime feast, and then lay down for an afternoon siesta before returning to work.

For us, the end of lunch signaled beach time, so we would hop onto a taxi bus, again with no window and no doors, and make our way to the nearby beach, where we would spend the rest of the day playing in the waves and dumping back cervezas at the local bar called Topless. We would show up at the house briefly in the evening for a light dinner with family and then meet friends in town for more frolicking foolishness.

It really was a pretty good gig for a rebellious teenager, where it seemed we could really do whatever we liked. And right up until the heinous happened, I felt like I was living the high-life. But then there was a night that we went out, and I made the grave mistake of staying behind when my girlfriend said it was time to go. I told her I would be fine, as I was there with friends, and I was sure that they would take me home. And I shot back another swig of Cana Manabita which was more like firewater than anything and burned liked flames to old planks of wood as it traveled down my throat. And she kept asking and urging and I kept telling her that I would be fine because I knew all the guys there and I would be leaving shortly anyway, I just wasn’t ready quite yet.

Oh but if I had been ready. If I had gotten up, set the firewater down and slurred out a goodnight to all there. If I had walked away with my girlfriend that night, rather than staying, continuing to throw back shots of firewater, how different my life would have looked. That night changed everything.

My Story: Ecuador Year, Part 1

noreply@blogger.com (Shauna O) — Sat, 21 Aug 2010 11:47:00 +0000

**This is the next installment of His Story:My Life. To catch up on the first portions of the story, feel free to jump over here.**

Just Getting There Was an Adventure

I have avoided writing this chapter. If you could have seen the skillful procrastination techniques that have gone into the avoidance, they might have impressed you, or saddened you. To put into words all that happened in that one pivotal year is, to some degree, to have to walk through it, yet again. It no longer shatters me, as many, many years have passed since this one pivotal year in my life, but to spell it out is vulnerable and slightly scary. I had a counselor, for a short time, who asked me to write about what happened down there in that small South American country. She knew my love of writing and thought that it might be helpful for me to express, through my love of words, what took place. Oh how I hated her for that. She tainted my gift with ugly words, and I hated the words that spilled out, evil that oozed, and I wrote it for her, forming into creation on paper the sin that took place, but then stopped going to sit in her office and allow her to pick open my heart; and then I stopped writing. For years. It was all just too ugly, seemed unredeemable.

But the year that I lived in Ecuador wasn’t all bad, and it’s important to remember that there were some very beautiful things that happened there, some wonderful friends were made there, who, thanks to the power of facebook, have recently reconnected with. Some very fun times were had while I lived there. I’ll start there.

I spoke a small amount of Spanish, four years worth of Spanish class in junior high and high school, only to realize that I hadn’t the foggiest idea of how to put together a full sentence in Spanish, but could recall a few vocabulary words, which weren’t really that helpful. But when the day arrived to leave, my folks had driven my to New Orleans to pick up the flight, and gave tearful, fearful goodbyes right up until I boarded the plane. We had a layover in San Jose, which turned out to be about 8 hours longer than the scheduled one-hour layover, and I remember sitting on the blue short carpet that was full of dirt and smelled of old cheese. I sat in this small, foreign airport, kicking myself for packing my fat, little pocket dictionary in my suitcase rather than carrying it on with me, searching frantically for a white face, someone who might speak the same language as me and yet have a clue as to what was going on and why we weren’t boarding the plane at the scheduled time.

I found a large group of people who appeared to be waiting for the same flight, and so casually slipped into their group and followed them in line, right up until I realized that they were actually leaving the airport and getting on a bus. Panic ensued and I began barking at anyone I could about whether this was the group waiting for the flight to Guayaquil. Everyone I saw said yes and I was sure that it was a communication error, but was herded onto the tourist bus nonetheless.

To this day, I do not know if the tour was arranged by the airline or airport or the city or who, but the whole lot of us who were waiting for the flight to Ecuador were given a wonderful tour of the exotic city of San Jose, Puerto Rico, winding down narrow streets laced with enchanting flowers the size of my head. We stopped at a hotel where we were served an amazing lunch, and I didn’t understand what was happening or what was being said, but just went with the herd and hoped beyond hope that we would eventually land back at the airport. We did, eventually, land back at the airport and before I knew it, the plane was in the air and we were on our way to Ecuador.

Salt of the Earth

noreply@blogger.com (Shauna O) — Thu, 19 Aug 2010 18:32:00 +0000

This is a follow-up post (#3) to a series on "Salt." To read the first two passages, feel welcomed to visit here and here. Thank you for stopping by. Karibu tena (Welcome again).

Our mornings in Kenya are ushered in with the giggles of waking girls to brilliantly painted African sunrises and traditional Kenyan tea, the sweet aroma of milk boiling, tagless tea bags steeping on the burner in the old aluminum teapot that spits out drops of tea like a camel spitting at tourists who get too close. The milky brown joy is then poured from the state of bubbling bliss into a deep blue thermos, where it remains piping hot until being poured out like an offering into the waiting altar of mugs. It is the custom of the Kenyan morning. If there is nothing else, there is tea.

I gingerly sip on my second cup for the day, having jaunted to the market in between the first and second. As I am chopping the vegetables that will escort the softening beans for dinner, my teacup sits faithfully next to me on the counter, steam twisting and dancing toward the heavens. I think of worship and being salt and being alive in Christ, reveling in the freedom that only He provides, pondering all that the freedom has done for me, wondering how now I shall live for the freedom, all the while curling the fingers under the bell peppers so as to not chop off the tips.

My hands are stained with the perma-scent of fresh cut purple onion and marvelous cloves of pungent fresh garlic, as that seems to be a staple of most everything that is prepared in this kitchen. Into the pan, chopped pieces of crystal-colored onion with a deep royalty clothing the outside. Bits of garlic cling to it as a true BFF, that they may go through the fire together.

Mark 9:49 says, “Everyone will be salted with fire.”

I ponder this phrase as I light the fire under the vegetables for a quick sauté, the sizzling of the oil and browning of the veggies telling a story of their own.

We will be tested, sprayed and dashed with fire at different points in our walk. If we are to become the salt of the earth, as Matthew 5:13 says, then some refining has to take place so that we are of good flavor to our surroundings, and not spoilers.

Bell pepper, onion, garlic, and a dash of olive oil over the blue-orange flames of the burner create an aroma that is inebriating. The lungs expand fully, taking in the scent of a meal worthy of royalty. After the veggies have reached the perfect shade of golden brown, they are dumped into the pot of half-softened beans, along with diced carrots, a healthy dash or two of cumin, and a generous sprinkling of salt over the top. Tenderly stir it all together to allow the salt to pull out the very best of all that has been thrown together. That is what salt does.

When we enjoy the feast in the evening of all that has simmered throughout the day, it is not the salt that is applauded. Nobody comments on how wonderfully salty the salt is, but rather how delicious the beans are, how the vegetables and spices have combined so beautifully, how the garlic is so rich, how the carrots are so sweet, how the soup is perfectly flavored. Nobody comments on the salt. But if it is missing, it is surely noticed, as one by one, hands reach for the shaker resting in the middle of the table.

Shake, shake, shake, shake….slurp the soup…roll on the tongue….not quite there…shake, shake, shake…tongue dips to soup, roll around….perfect.

The beans are divine!

When the salt is present, when the right amount has been added, the brilliant flavors of others are brought out enhanced. The entire lot shines because the salt has done its job, without reward or mention. Its humble station is to lift others up and make them better.

You are the salt of the earth; but if the salt loses its flavor, how shall it be seasoned? It is then good for nothing but to be thrown out and trampled underfoot by men.

You, dear sister, dear brother, are called to be the salt of this rock; the seasoning that brings out the best in all those around you; the flavor that needs no recognition on its own other than to see all those who know you be built up and blessed to the fullest potential.

It is a humble lot to work for the betterment of others, without craving applause. But we have been called to be the salt. When we are missing, when we have not shown up in the humility and servanthood that was demonstrated for us, it is noticed. It is felt. It might not be verbalized, but the hearts have recognized that the salt is not there.

Shake, shake, shake, shake…toss a warm, friendly smile at a hurting soul…see the eyes lift at the thought of being seen by another….shake, shake, shake, shake…touch the arm of the homeless woman asking you for money…see the hardened shell crack at the power of a gentle human touch…shake, shake, shake…send an encouraging note to sister on your heart...see a heart encouraged to persevere in difficult times...shake, shake, shake...cook dinner for a family experiencing hard times and drop it off anonymously...see a family giving gratitude to the Maker for providing...shake, shake, shake...see your world seasoned with love and kindness.

When the salt is there, in gentleness, in humility, in quiet servitude, not seeking self exaltation, but longing to see the hearts of others lifted, when the salt is there, it may not be called out in recognition or gratitude, but it is noticed. It is felt. And the Father is ever glorified.

You are the salt of the earth.

How are you flavoring your world?

Today I am linked up to wonderful Beth's site, I should be folding laundry, who challenged us this week to capture "in the kitchen" photos. Hop over to check out some really stunning photography.

The Bride

noreply@blogger.com (Shauna O) — Wed, 18 Aug 2010 14:44:00 +0000

Words are too easily spoken,
in haste, in anger, in foolishness;

creates division and assumptions.

Where words are many,

sin is not far behind.

And there was one
who sent a message to the groom,

Disparaging the bride.

The audacity, the bold-crass move of

Tearing down the bride

to the covenant bridegroom,

Cutting down perceived faults

Launching arrows of half-truths based on

inadequate knowledge

And perceived judgments.

Going to the groom to tear down the beloved bride.

What sort of evil does this?

But my heart too has unleashed disdain for another’s Bride,

Her brokenness and faults apparent in such human ways.

My heart has criticized her fleshly manners,

and the hurt has welcomed bitterness,

which always leave the door open for resentment.

Unsuspecting expectations sprawl out in disappointment;

The lofty standard of holiness left in unattainable air.

This Bride is fallen and not as perfect as her beautiful Groom,

And so it has been held against her.

Judge not my Bride,

for She is my body.

She is my love,

and the One for whom I have already

spilled my blood.

How His heart must ache when we, His children,

speak ill of His beloved,

speak ill of each other.

And yet the Bride is called to be one,

unified,

Christ glorified,

Father magnified,

Prodigals stupefied,

As they gaze in wonder and awe.

What sort of evil tears down the Bride to her Beloved?

The evil lurks in my own heart,

While repentance has served its eviction notice.

This is an early link up to beautiful Emily's blog, in the hush of the moon. Be sure to stop by there Thursdays for some amazing poetry.

Don't Forget the Salt

noreply@blogger.com (Shauna O) — Tue, 17 Aug 2010 13:50:00 +0000

This is Post #2 in a series on "Salt." Please feel welcome to slip over here and here to read the other posts in this series. Karibu tena (Welcome again).

I walk to the local market, at least a few times a week to get our fresh kill or straight from the garden produce for dinner that night. I buy a bag of dried red beans, a few small purple onions, several plump garlic cloves, deliciously green cilantro, fist-sized bell peppers and hot, red tomatoes from a lady named Royce at a shanty kiosk that sticks out a bit into the road. Her kiosk is one of many that have been shabbily built up on government land along a road that can barely be called a road. Built of stolen/borrowed planks of battered wood, sheets of tin, and cardboard to fill in the holes, each of the kiosks are illegally occupying the land on which they stand, and so can be bulldozed by the government at any point in time. Everyone knows. But for now, local farmers run their businesses out of these roadside huts, seeing the temporary benefits far outweighing the potential risks.

Royce teaches me to speak some Kikuyu words as I fumble to buy our goods, her warm smile welcoming us back over and over again. She pulls off a couple of bananas to hand to the girls who are clinging to mama’s side as cars inch behind us on the narrow dirt road. The girls thank her for the bananas and then we all smile and wave at each other, the language barrier preventing much further conversation.

“Roishio!” she yells. Tomorrow, we will see her again and bid goodbye in the language that she taught us. The basket weighs heavy in my hand as we make our way back home along the rough dusty road, just wide enough for two cars to barely fit side by side. The potholes make it a challenge to drive down, so cars weave in and out and around each other to make their way, dodging the many pedestrians bustling up and down the street all the while. The goats lazily scoot off the road as the roar of an engine approaches, and then makes it way back to whatever trash it was consuming. I understand why the ladies opt to carry their baskets on their heads rather than allowing the rough straw handles to cut into the palms. One doesn't have to walk very far before the weight of the fresh produce really settles in.

As we make our way through the street on the small journey home, we hear the shy whispers of nearby children, “Mzungu! Mzungu!” as they tap their friends on the back to be sure everyone gets a glance at the white women and her somewhat white children. They laugh, gazing in wonder and awe, peeking from behind corners or mothers' skirts.

A woman in brightly colored dress and braided hair stops me as we are walking, basket growing heavier by the moment. “You don’t have a helper in your home to do this shopping for you? It’s unusual to see someone like you here.”

I smile and laugh, not really sure how to respond, other than to assure her that we enjoy getting out and meeting the people in the community.

“Are you sure you don’t want a helper?”

“Asante sana, mum. We are doing ok with it. Tutuanana.” I know we will see her again, as many faces are becoming more familiar as we walk through the community.

“Habari asibuhi, Mama!” We wave to the gentle, old mama at the end of the row. She doesn’t speak a lick of English, but has a smile that could save the world. She is usually hunched over a massive pot of maize boiling over hot coals.

"Mzuri sana, rafiki! Mzuri sana!" She says she is doing very well, and we buy a large bunch of bananas from her. She bags up some boiled maize to carry home. The men will enjoy the maize. We fumble through the language to agree on payment.

“Bei gani?” How much is it?

She responds in a soft Swahili and I have no idea what she just said, so I hand her a few coins, hoping it will be enough, and she passes a few coins back in change. We laugh and I bid her goodbye for now.

“Asante sana, mama. Tuonane kesho.”

“Karibu tena, na tena!” she responds. Yes, we are welcome again and again.

We stumble over rocks and trash, stepping wide to avoid the holes and divots in the road, passing ladies sitting inside of ruddy kiosks having their hair braided. I see a foot sticking out of another one with the toes being painted, by a man no less. Fresh chapati is being cooked next door and the smell is just downright intoxicating. The air is full of such a potpourri of aromas, from the row of butcheries with fresh goat hanging in the windows, to the leg that is roasting just out front, to the various fruits and vegetables that are expertly lined up out front of each kiosk. This small strip of road is busy, crowded and full of life.

A small girl with braided pigtails on her head toys with a plastic bag, blowing it up in the air and chasing after it as it floats away. A roar of boys pours down the street, dragging behind them juice boxes that have been cut in half with four wooden circles added all around. A boxcar derby has been created and the boys are racing to the finish to see which juice box is still intact by the end, scattering goats and dogs along the way. For some reason, an old, beat-up bathtub has made its way to the side of the street, sitting just outside of a broken down wooden shanty structure, now being used to hold supplies for the vendor inside. And the street has become a veritable graveyard for broken down buses. Currently there are 5 lines up on either side of the end of the street, just past the end of kiosk row. They are stripped of doors and window, tires long gone, just empty shells of a structure. I have seen them cut down and taken apart, small bit at a time. A plate of steel cut out by one group of men, bumper stripped by another, hood lifted by yet another, until it is cut down to not much of anything. Then a fire is started and an empty space revealed until another bus dies.

We wave to everyone and greet all those we pass as we finally make it to our gate.

The security guard unlocks the black steel gates and greets us as we pass. “Karibu, mama. Good to see you again.” The girls run ahead and play a bit more carefree now that we are inside the confines of the neighborhood. Once we finally make it back to our house, I reach in to unlock the padlock and we all file through the door.

Time to get to work on dinner. It’s ten o’clock in the morning.

I set the water to boil over our two-range gas burner. Red beans are added to the water, as veggies are being chopped and sautéed. All is thrown into the pot to simmer for the day. Knife and cutting board are washed by hand in the cold water and set on the rack to dry. I turn to walk out of the kitchen, and pause. I have forgotten something.

The salt.

Without salt, all the fresh deliciousness and amazing flavors that are simmering in that pot for the next several hours will remain unlocked, hidden from the taste buds to enjoy. I walk back to the burner and reach into the cabinet just above it to pull out the small bag of salt. Pour some in my hand and sprinkle it around and around the pot, eyeballing and guestimating the amount that will bring out just the right flavors.

Now we wait until the evening.

Join me over at So Much Shouting, So Much Laughter to hear the stories of other pilgrims and sojourners.

It's Kind of Like That

noreply@blogger.com (Shauna O) — Mon, 16 Aug 2010 19:19:00 +0000

My youngest daughter is 15 months old. She is chubby, and funny, and beautiful, and precocious, and manipulative, and cuddly, and a monster, and outrageously precious, sometimes all at once. There are days when I just absolutely cannot get enough of her. She is my baby. My last born. I want to eat her up, especially those cheeks, have mercy! She loves my lap, or my hip, or my back. She loves being close and snuggling in. And I, being the mama who adores her girls, would hate to miss an opportunity to snuggle.

These days are passing quickly, as I am acutely aware, and so desire to soak up every last giggle possible. The days and weeks seem to be melting into months and years that are flying by more quickly than my mind can grasp. Everyday, small though it may be now, my precious daughters are inching further and further away from needing a mama like my 15 month old needs her mama now, and the pain and joy of it is almost too much to bear.

But then there are days when she screams if I have the audacity to even consider setting her down. She hits her sisters or pulls their hair. She grabs toys away and then cries that I won't pick her up. There are days when I am quick to roll my eyes because the baby is crying yet again. Days when I pretend to not hear her when she wakes from her nap too early. Days when I absolutely need a break from her. There are days when all three are crying at the same time, or all three are fighting each other for the same toy.

There are days when being a mama is not fun at all. But then, I'll hear a giggle, or I'll hear two fighting girls say sorry to each other and hug. My oldest will flash me a smile, or sing me a song. My middle will make a funny face or do a dance for me. And the youngest will gingerly climb into my lap and make herself at home, directing my hands to wrap around her. My heart turns to mush and my love for these girls is absolutely out of control.

I'll ask my oldest, "Do you know how much I love you?"

And she'll reply, "Yes, mama, I know. To the moon and back again. I know, I know."

But she doesn't. She doesn't understand that this human heart, this once cold rock that beats hard in my chest, this wellspring of life in me is so fully alive in love with her. She just doesn't understand the depth of it all yet.

The girls were watching the Disney cartoon movie of Tarzan this afternoon, and at the very beginning, there is a scene where the mama gorilla is rescuing the baby who will be Tarzan from the leopard. And the mama is relentless in pursuing and protecting the baby. She fights and tumbles and growls, and tucks the baby under her arm in the safety of her warmth and strength. And she fights like only a mama knows how, with every breath in her.

And my oldest says to me, "Mama, I wouldn't mess with that mama gorilla. She is fighting and protecting that baby."

"Yes, baby. That's a mama's heart, to protect her young."

There are days when my girls need to be disciplined, and I hate it. With everything in me, I hate it. As the infraction is going down, I think to myself, "No, please don't do it. Don't take it there. Let's not get it to that point! Please, make a good choice here. Let's not go there!" But they are children and their hearts are rebellious at times, foolish at times, undisciplined. And I hate it. So we discipline, in firmness, in swiftness, and in absolute love. And when it is done, tears flow, and hugs abound as they are reassured that Mama loves them no matter what. And we pray for wisdom to not make the same mistakes again. But they do happen. And it is dealt with in the same manner. And I love them still.

I am learning day in and day out about the love of my Heavenly Father, who, for most of my Christian walk, has been like a disappointed grandfather, sitting high above, removed, arms crossed, looking down his mighty nose while shaking his head in disdain.

"She did it again. Why won't this girl get it right? She messes it up every time. Will she ever get it right?"

That is not only hard to live up to, but it's hard to get close to. If I know that I will only disappoint and let Him down, why invest in trying to get close to Him? I only feel bad about myself when I am around Him. I cry in shame, wishing and wanting to finally get it all together. I hang my head, embarrassed, broken on the floor, knowing that I have no right to stand.

Matthew 7: 9-11
Which of you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him?

If I, in my brokenness, in my evil, in my sin, know how to shower unconditional love on my children, recognize when they need discipline for the sake of saving their lives, and live to see them built up and flying, how much more will the Father in heaven dole out love for His children, for me, holding nothing back? Oh. My. Goodness! I can't even wrap my mind around it!

When my children smile, my heart comes alive. How much more the Father! When my children learn a lesson and stand tall because of it, my heart wells up in pride till my chest has doubled in size and my throat is all choked up with emotion. How much more the Father! When my children need discipline, it crushes me to the core. How much more the Father! But when the discipline has been administered, the relationship restored, and laughter has resumed, I feel such a completeness of joy in the growth that has taken place. How much more the Father!!

I would never dream of looking down on my girls, even in my most exasperated state. I would never dream of throwing my hands up in the air and giving up on them, for anything at all. I dream of how they will excel in life. I dream of their potential and all that they will grow into. I revel in how beautiful they are, everyday. I catch myself everyday staring in awe, at each one of them, marveling at their incredible features, these precious creations of the Most High.

Now, if I am capable of such love for these precious children, how much more the Father. He dances over us. We bring joy to Him. He sings over us. When we fly, the heart of the Father is honored. When we fall, the heart of the Father is broken. When we need discipline, the Father rebukes, as one who loves His children. His statutes are not there to suck the life out of us. He doesn't sit on a high removed throne shaking his bony finger at us with all his rules. He is the preserver of life, because He revels in the love of His children.

Being a daddy's girl myself, I get that. Oh, to make my Father proud. His love, my Abba Father, my heavenly Father, is kind of like that, only so, so much more.

But let all who take refuge in you be glad; let them ever sing for joy. Spread your protection over them, that those who love your name may rejoice in you.
Psalms 5:11

My newly begun, yet ongoing list of God's goodness

Thank you, Abba Father, for:
#2. Discovering that the love of the Father, my Father, is so deep, so personal, and so amazing.
#3. Blowing raspberries on a round baby belly
#4. Deep belly laughter of three little girls being tickled
#5. Being caught staring at how beautiful my daughter is
#6. The 3-yr old who asks for "pachati" instead of "chapati"
#7. Sunday afternoon alone to shop at the Maasai market

Take a peek over at Holy Experience to see what others are thankful for today.

Have you counted your blessings today? What are you thankful for?