“When we are unable to find tranquility within ourselves, it is useless to seek it elsewhere.” – French writer, Francois de la Rochefoucauld

In case you missed it — from the blog, earlier in the week: 

“I remember the way the daddy bent low over his two year old, laying his head on his chest and the way the sobs echoed in that funeral home.”  Read Unwrapping His Promises {the promise of heaven}

“The sun was setting, the loons were calling and I remember describing them as “eerie reminders of the approaching night”. I felt that way, too, in my heart — like I’d been buried six feet under in low self-worth. Read “For If You Think You Aren’t Creative”

These ties that bind and hold us close to ones we’ve never met, they’re real when God holds the strings. Read “Why We Should Love the Broken Ones”

And what I found around the web worth reading…

Risking It … by Susan Etole

What do You do When… by Dawn Sievers

A Little Hope… by Bill Scarrott

Why it Can’t Just be About the Blog Post… by Deidra Riggs

And what is coming… 

Unwrapping His Promises on Monday, the link carnival hosted here.  We will be discussing the promise of miracles.  Download the free printable for details here. 

Canceled — Zimbabwe 

That’s all the subject line reads and I stop there, pray quick before that one click to open the email, asking God for calmness and grace as I read why the door closed.   Because my heart was already over there, with those children, and I had dreamed of holding Simbarashe close, maybe reading him a book and tucking him into bed there at the orphanage.

These ties that bind and hold us close to ones we’ve never met, they’re real when God holds the strings.

My fingers find my home on the globe, here in Iowa, and I spin it slowly, finger dragging across the ocean blue to another home, Zimbabwe, where a little boy sleeps.  A little boy I now call my own.

“Next year, little buddy,” I whisper, “Next year.”

Unexpected tears pool.

And I remember the words, then, by author Frederick Beuchner about unexpected tears.

“Whenever you find tears in your eyes, especially unexpected tears, it is well to pay the closest attention. They are not only telling you something about the secret of who you are but, more often than not, God is speaking to you through them of the mystery of where you have come from and is summoning you to where, if your soul is to be saved, you should go to next.”

Where should I go next?

I don’t know where else I can go but to bow my head and travel to that throne of grace, pouring all of myself out to the Father who controls my life.

It’s here, I discover why my heart had got so involved so quickly.

It wasn’t only that I was going home, back to Africa where I’d grown up as a child…no, it was far more.

It was how my heart had already been broken for the children of Africa — the boy named Panashe who, at only two days old, was found in a cardboard box left to die — the girl with dimples whose stepfather had beaten her until she was too weak to stand against the pain of her world — the one nicknamed Jimmy who’s parents died.

Maybe it’s because I see a little part of me in each of their stories.

Rejection, worthlessness, insecurity — these are the main plots in each of these children’s stories. Unloved. 

“Jesus, hold them tight,” I plead, “Hold them tight until I can.”

Opening my eyes from prayer, it’s as if I’m seeing myself for the first time.

I commit myself then, fully committing my life always and forever — to loving the broken ones. 

If you were one who so kindly donated to help alleviate some of my trip costs, Help One Now will be refunding you in full shortly.  The reason the trip was cancelled was for many reasons — oil prices soared causing the tickets to be an additional $1000 per ticket, a staff shortage in Haiti is requiring the trip coordinator to go there and manage things for a while, and the time frame simply wasn’t working.

Photos courtesy of Help One Now. 

I wish I could remember how those two ideas were connected, but I can’t — because I took that story, with an A+ scribbled near the top, and burned it one day when I was burning trash.

Because someone had told me it was stupid.

And I had believed them.

There, near the hedge behind our house, I watched the flames lick away the pleasure of writing — this outlet for creativity in which I so desperately needed.

After that, I tried painting but crumpled the canvas if I made more than three mistakes. I tried drawing, too, but strongly disliked the tediousness of it.  I tried woodworking and discovered I wasn’t that bad at it, until I got my hand caught in the table saw.

Then came that day, I quit playing altogether.

“Work hard. Be happy.” became my motto and I made money and traveled and chased other people’s dreams — a nice car, fancy dining, expensive trips.

It was on one of those trips, after we had canoed into no-man’s land of Boundary Waters between Ontario and Minnesota, that I sat on a boulder, looked over the sleepy lake and realized I wasn’t happy.

Here, all alone, I found the courage to pull from my backpack a pen and paper and begin to write.

The sun was setting, the loons were calling and I remember describing them as “eerie reminders of the approaching night”. I felt that way, too, in my heart — like I’d been buried six feet under in low self-worth; every time a creative urge was born, the darkness abiding in my heart snuffed its life.

But as I wrote, my nose picked at the scent of the fire, ears caught the flapping of the tent door, and my eyes saw the sun surfing the tiny ripples of the lake.

There, I felt God for the first time in years — encompassing, His arms supported… me.

Me. Self-worth discovered. Here, writing in my notebook, I had found it using the secret key of writing to unlock the communication necessary to live fully aware of God and His great plan for me.

I scrambled along the dusty trail back to the tent and found my pocket Bible.  Returning to the boulder, I slipped my tired feet from my shoes and touched bare skin against the cool rock and it was as if I were standing on holy ground so I wept ink into that notebook and found myself again.

A battle had been won. 

A battle that had begun in the fourth grade, there by the hedge as the flames licked away… me.

Consider these thoughts for further contemplation found in the book The Artist’s Way, by Julia Cameron.

“Parents seldom respond, “try it and see what happens” to artistic urges issuing from their offspring.  They offer cautionary advice where support might be more to the point.  Timid young artists, adding parental fears to their own, often give up their sunny dreams of artistic careers, settling into the twilight world of could-have-beens and regrets.  There, caught between the dream of action and the fear of failure, shadow artists are born.”  – Julia Cameron

“Very often audacity, not talent, makes one person an artist and another a shadow artist — hiding in the shadows, afraid to step out and expose the dream to the light, fearful that it will disintegrate to the touch.” – Julia Cameron

“Nothing has a stronger influence psychologically on their environment and especially on their children than the unlived life of the parent.” – C.G. Jung

Linking today with:

And

He sends the picture by email, a picture of what they will have engraved on their little boy’s tombstone and everything within me wants to shout no, that none of this is okay. But it’s not the picture that troubles me — the picture is perfect.

It’s a little boy, hand in hand with Jesus, walking together.

But something catches my eye.

The way Jesus is looking down at the little boy, watching him as they walk. And likewise, the boy is smiling, looking back at Jesus.

I’m sitting in Panera Bread, studying for finals when I see the picture. Becoming silent, my friends ask and I tell them, my voice becoming soft as I wrestle the emotions.

Death doesn’t come easy. For some, it is fear of what they will gain — heaven or hell. But for some others, like me, it’s the fear of loss.

Losing that connection, that tangible way of holding one you love close; to feel their hand in yours and look deep within their eyes and see that life which makes them ‘them’.

That’s what troubles me.

And when death comes knocking, it’s this severed connection that makes my heart ache. It’s what makes everyone’s heart ache.

Because I remember.

I remember the way the daddy bent low over his two year old, laying his head on his chest and the way the sobs echoed in that funeral home.

And the brother, asking his mother, “Can we open his eyes? Just once? I want to see his eyes.”

And the mother, stooping to hold her son, saying, “Honey, your brother is gone. You wouldn’t recognize his eyes because it’s only his body. He’s already home with Jesus.”

I hold the baby, my nephew, pressing his soft cheeks against mine, and close my eyes as I think about what the mother just said: How the eyes are the gateway to the soul.

Trying not to think how awful this scene is, I pray. Desperately, I pray for each one in this room.

And as an escape, I turn my thoughts toward heaven.

I imagine them, together in eternity, and the way Jesus looks into the boy’s face and no words are exchanged but there is something, an unexplainable something, that happens between them.

An exchange of soul words.

“I see you. I see you, my son. I see your soul, your spirit, and you, my child, you are my precious and beloved.”

Someone’s singing now, soft words bringing comfort to this setting here in the funeral home.

Voices, perfect harmony, they calm my heart and I sway in that funeral home, lost in the moment with the warmth of the baby, asleep, but so alive in my arms.

Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling..

A lump forms in my throat.

Calling for you and for me..

Tears roll freely now.

See, on the portals He’s waiting and watching..

Eyes closed, I listen to each and every word.

Watching for you and for me..

And the first thing He’ll do when I arrive on that yonder shore?

He’ll look, look deep into my eyes.

If you are reading this post in an email or RSS reader, you can click here to see the rest of the entries.

Thank you for stopping by and unwrapping His promises with us.  If you are new to the community, welcome!  If you are linking with the community, you can grab the code here for the button. Oh, don’t forget to enter your link below.  Next week, we will be discussing The Promise of Miracles.  Please click here to download the details. We’d love for you to join us! 

A small boy collects the money, shouting up to those sitting on the benches to make room for one more.

Tension fills the air, all these people… everyone rushing home before the darkness settles over the village.

The darkness of night is everyone’s least concern. It’s the darkness of sin everyone fears.

In broken English, my friend had told me that morning, “Witches. Witch doctors. They are coming to convention here.”

“Why haven’t we heard about it before today?” I asked, searching his face for the grin telling me it was a joke.

My friend, Daniel, stammers and says it, “The devil. He calls them. He tells them where to meet. And they are coming.”

Chills run the length of my back and I run desperate to find my dad and stricken with fear, I tell him we have to leave Techiman.

Now.

Before the devil starts walking the streets. Before he starts looking for wandering souls. Before it’s too late.

But my dad calms us, reminds us that God is stronger than even a convention of people who’ve sold their souls and become Princes of Darkness . He pulls from the shelf then, his worn Bible and reads a scripture and I don’t remember the words but I remember they were God’s words to us and I wasn’t scared anymore.

But that was in the day, when the sun was still high in that African sky.

They say fear and courage are brothers, that they live well together within the heart and after that day back in 2004, I agree.

Because God gave us all just enough courage that we didn’t crumple on the floor in fear.

It’s dusk now and I sit atop our concrete fence watching the mob of people boarding the buses. I glance at the huts around me, wondering which of our neighbors has plans to attend a convention tonight.

Many people are carrying their Bibles.

And then, my friends arrive at the gate, worn Bibles in hand also.

“You need your Bible,” they tell me. “In case evil comes to your house. You need your Bible.”

They tell me stories and I believe only half of them because this land is riddled with superstition and fables passed from generation to generation. They tell me, that last time there was a convention, someone was killed because they believed in Jesus.

Soon, they leave, headed for church.

“It is better to be surrounded by many people who have God than to be alone with God when Satan is near.” He tells me just as he steps outside the gate.

I nod, fear creeping in again.

Night falls and I can hear the singing, a beautiful lull of voices rising and falling coming from distant churches.

Looking out across the dimly lit village, I know somewhere — somewhere in this town, a large group assembles for the night. They will speak in tongues, I know, because I’ve heard them… many times. They will chant. Throw themselves prone on the floor. Incense will be burned. Flesh sometimes ripped. Blood spilled.

The next morning, I hear what happened.

How the demon had sneered. Stepped left. A human, covered in flames. Stepped right. A dance between evil and good.

How the boy had thrown his Bible yelling for Christ Jesus, Christ Jesus, Christ Jesus, please save me!

How a demonic scream had pierced the silent night as the Bible collided with fire and the human had crumbled, smoldering ashes — a shell of a broken person, now dead.

How the boy realized it was his mother he had killed.

They say this boy was on his way home from church, walking quickly late at night and he was still within hearing distance of the church, a church filled with fathers, mothers, and children who loved God and they were swaying, singing with reverence for their Lord and Savior to be near them. Their voices rising and falling but the song never ending because this is what we need when faced with darkness — a never ending communication with the One who saves.

I need thee, O I need thee;
every hour I need thee;
O bless me now, my Savior,
I come to thee.

Personal note: This story is composed of the truth, as much as we could sort out. Like I said, superstition often creeps into the minds of the dear people of Ghana and not always is there proof. But this I know. The evil they fear? It’s real. Very, very real. Please don’t forget to pray for them, the ones who carry their Bibles and sway in churches for strength. 

This land, dark earth soil, turned now and filled with seed, will become a picture of beauty.

Green, youthful stalks of corn shooting upward, drenched in sun and song and they will dance in the cool Iowa breeze. And the beans, a mosaic of beauty, shorter than the corn but lining the fields with an intricacy only they can portray.

I wander the land, lost in thought and dreams, many of which begin with “what ifs” and “what would have been” and “what will be” statements.

The tractors, they’re busy raising dust on fields and gravel roads.

I watch them as they drive past me, farmers waving friendly but their eyes fall quickly back to their fields — loyal to their occupations.

The farm will always be here, I know.

Leaning against the grain bins, I watch the grass bend and the pattering of a robin pecking and poking its way toward food, toward sustaining life.

And I wonder if I too, maybe, am doing that.

Just pecking and poking my way toward finding my life, that career and dream which sustains me, yet all the time carrying me away from the farm where a little part of my heart lies.

It makes me sick, thinking about it.

The stomach knots hold tight when I think of the swing in the loft, the way I used to chase my pet rabbits through the maze I’d built out of hay bales, and the time spent riding to and from the field atop a pile of corn in a gravity wagon.

My children, if I have children… what will they have for memories? The question lingers long like the scent of just-turned soil.

A rooster runs across the yard.

The rooster we chased for three days after the chicken coop door had been left open.

The rooster which, every morning before dawn, bravely crosses the yard and climbs on the front step and salutes the morning sun, waking my mother before sneaking back to its place in the barn.

I’ve named him The Rogue Rooster and I laugh now, imagining the way his red hat, also known as a cocks comb must jiggle just like an antique alarm clock jiggles when the bells start knocking.

These memories, they’re mine.

Fond memories.

So now I understand why my dad, when congratulating me of another semester done, has a look in his eye that tells me he wishes he could say more.

In one breath, he tells me, “I’m so proud of you. You’re living my dream.”

And another breath, this one just a sigh, words breathed but unsaid is about here, this Iowa earth. It’s his life, his legacy, and his knees are giving out and in a few years, he will retire.

But the farm, it will always be here.

I promise that to him, today… because a man’s life isn’t over when he retires from this life.

His legacy carries on.

And the grandchildren, they’ll be told the story of The Rogue Rooster.

For all of you who’ve been wanting to follow me on Facebook, I finally have a page.  Please consider joining the community of friends.  

And also, linking this post with Jennifer Lee today… consider stopping by her blog for more stories. 

I think this, as I read the words, not once, not twice, but over and over.

“He staggered not at the promise of God through unbelief; but was strong in faith, giving glory to God.” – Romans 4:20

Fingers trace the words again, looking for a loophole, a way out of not having this kind of faith.

Because the truth is, I stagger. I stumble. And often, I don’t have belief.

“The important thing to remember when we stumble,” I remember an elderly church member saying, “is we don’t forget to pray before picking ourselves up.”

I take comfort in this.  Because this much, I do.  When I stumble, it’s God I cling to; it’s the throne of Grace I crawl to.

But I read the ending of that scripture again.

“But was strong in faith, giving glory to God.” 

“I wish I had this strength.”

But my whisper is lost in the longing.

Today, and every Monday following, I invite you to join me in unwrapping His promises, gaining this strength and belief in the goodness of our Lord.

Next week’s promise can be downloaded here. Stick it on your fridge, by your computer, fold it in your pocket. Allow yourself to think for a few days about this promise and then… write.

If you have a blog, you can link your post here every Monday.  (But if Monday doesn’t work for you, Tuesday or Wednesday is great too.)

If you don’t have a blog, you can share your thoughts with me by emailing them to duane2scott@gmail.com. (I may ask to share your thoughts here on the blog.) 

It’s warmth penetrates the room, sneaking through blinds to fall across the bed we sleep on.

“Just a nap,” I told her earlier, “Won’t you come nap with me?”

She’s wrestling with the vacuum hose when I tell her, making this house into a home and she doesn’t want to give in but I go anyway, taking the dog with me.

She’ll surrender eventually.

So we sleep, until I wake up and she is beautiful lying wrapped in peace. And I want to wake her, tell her I miss her and I want to go and do and just be together.

The dog, so plush and furry, lies on the floor… also deep in sleep.

I want to wake him too. To squeeze him tight until he’s gasping for air but he knows it’s just me and the weird way I love.

All I have to do is move.

The dog will wake up and Southern Gal will slide her warm arm across my bare chest and hold me tight, pulling me deeper under the covers.

But I don’t.

I just lie here, hand laced in hers, and dream of five minutes from now, when my life will be the dream I awakened too.