Marcee's Meanderings

The Absence Effect

2012-02-10T20:06:00.008-04:00

What effect does absence have on our relationships? Is it ruinous or does it enhance them? There's the familiar saying, "Absence makes the heart grow fonder" and although I retch at its triteness, I do believe that being absent from someone increases our affection for that person.

I enjoy the presence of someone so much more than being away from him or her, but without absence, would it be as sweet? Extended absence has had a negative effect on some of my past relationships. It made me or the other person forget one another as we called or emailed each other with less and less frequency. Perhaps the nature of these experiences hinges on the heart. A heart that is secure and grounded in the assurance of another person's commitment and love can endure time apart; the body may be absent but the heart remains intimately present.

During those absences, I became nostalgic about these people and I missed them. My memory of him or her became inflated and the person became someone more grandiose and wonderful than what he or she really was; my affection increased for them because they were no longer present in my day to day life. My heart bloomed with wistfulness in such a way that the next time I saw the person, I felt somewhat let-down; reminded of the fact that he or she was merely human like me and not the unduly esteemed version in my head. Henri Nouwen describes these encounters by writing: "(It's) as if we sensed that we were more for each other than we could express." In other words, separation can create a hyper-sense of closeness and longing that cannot be conveyed in togetherness. There are amazing times when deep reaches out to deep and actually meet but it doesn't happen with every encounter.

This absence/presence dynamic that we experience with other people comes with the realization that no person can meet our needs and fill our hearts perfectly. In fact, we should never expect a friend, sibling, parent, or spouse to occupy this role. It's not a possible or fair expectation. The longing we experience for others in their absence isn't always satisfied in their presence because it was created to carry us to our Creator. We crave community and a sense of belonging but find ourselves half-starved until we discover intimacy with God.

To be with God in his glorious presence is better than life. It is life. Paul says in Philippians 1:21, "For me to live is Christ but to die is gain." Jesus told us that it was better that he leave us because he was going to send us his Spirit instead (John 16:7). Even our own departures from God's presence eventual propel us back into his arms because nothing compares to him once we know him. Jesus is completely present with us but absent at the same time. Until he returns, we wait in eager expectation and our affection for him should swell with every day that we seize. With his return, there will be no let-down or sense of disillusionment. For those who call on his name, he will be the joy of our desiring and deep will meet deep and be satisfied. To be absent from this body is to be present with the Lord; absence makes the heart grow fonder but presence is always sweeter.

The Table

2012-01-23T17:16:00.003-04:00

What is the nature of a table? One day, you could use it as a station to hold papers or cutlery but the next day, you could take it to a snow-covered hill and use it as a toboggan. Is the table's nature determined by the wiles of the user or is its nature inherent? Where did the table come from and who created it? Why was the table created and does the creator's intent have any bearing on how it should be used? After it was created, did its purpose become subjective or does it retain the original design of the maker?

We could use the table as a toboggan and it might make a passable sled but could it withstand the rigorous terrain of some slopes and how easy would it be to tow it back to the top? In fact, how long would it take for the tabloggon to splinter and come apart rendering it neither a table nor a toboggan but rather fuel for a fire?

An object is subject to the will of the user and yes, a table could be used as a toboggan but it is best used as a station to hold papers and cups or papercups. That's what it was made for. Deviations from the table's purpose are possible but it doesn't change the original intent of its creation.

Welcome to SK504. Today's class: Research Paradigms and the Worldviews that Shape Them. Loved it. Now, to apply it to practice.

Perfect Love

2012-01-07T17:29:00.005-04:00

A strong positive or negative reaction is a sure sign that the impetus has tapped into a sensitive area and thus merits further reflection. After posting Shane Claiborne's "Letter to Non-believers"* on Facebook, the nature and number of comments and shares reminded me that the presentation of God by the church is a hot topic.

Many people on FB embraced the article and applauded its message. Shane apologizes to non-believers, quasi-believers, and used-to-believe believers for the way that Christians have portrayed God and Jesus. In his words, "God is not a monster." Amen.

The comment of one of my friends made me pause and think twice about the words of Shane that I had eagerly posted on my FB profile. I'm glad she challenged my post because I never want to spout only what "itching ears" want to hear. She wrote, "It's amazing that an article like this was in Esquire... however he sounds just like Rob Bell. Just love, and a big loving God - no talk of sin, grace or salvation. Just picking part of God's character to dwell on is like making an idol isn't it?"

God is love, but is he only love? Yes. Without doing a major exegesis of the Bible, I believe that love is not a part of God's character but it is who he is. God is Love. Love is God.

By dwelling on Love, can we make it an idol? An idol is any object that represents a deity and receives worship. There is no better representation of God than love but does that mean that we worship Love? I need to think about that a little longer.

Perhaps we need to acknowledge that Love as God and God as Love are unfathomable, infinite, and beyond human understanding. Love as God means that it is the purest, most perfect, and passionate love that exists. Human hearts and minds cannot contain or comprehend the fullness of Love but we can bask in portions of it through out our lives.

When we bask in Love, it is a full sensory experience that makes us acutely aware of how small our love is and how finite we are. When Love envelopes me, I see that I am a person who sins. My sin makes me want to curl up as a tight ball in a corner and shield myself from pure, perfect, and passionate Love, but Love beckons me and won't let me go. Every backward and wrong thing inside and outside of me threatens to cut me off, but Love extends his hand and speaks, "My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness."

When Love reaches out to me, how can I reach back? Impurity, imperfection, and weakness cannot abide with Perfect Love. Perfect Love is awesome and terrifying. In a divine demonstration of grace and sacrifice, Love curls up in the corner with me and whispers, "I forgive you." Love's name was and is Jesus. Perfect Love drives out my fear and I am able to reach out to his extended hand. This is what I believe. Grace, sin, and salvation are facets of faith that are vital and relevant for an earthly lifetime, but Love remains forever.

"Love so amazing, so divine. Demands my soul, my life, my all." - Isaac Watts

*http://www.esquire.com/features/best-and-brightest-2009/shane-claiborne-1209#ixzz1iW3GDs7S

Getting to Know You

2011-12-28T11:23:00.003-04:00

Who did you try to avoid this Christmas? Everybody has somebody who they would rather not see, rather not talk to, and rather not be close to. Sometimes, it's inevitable and you have to interact with the person that you would rather avoid. Hopefully, in those moments, you were able to show love and kindness and control the inner cringing that could turn mean or hurtful.

I think the person that you avoided the most this festive season was probably yourself. In fact, through-out the entire year and perhaps our whole lives, we avoid ourselves more than we avoid any other person.

The average person doesn't spend much time by his or her self. When time opens up for us to be alone, we quickly distract ourselves with TV, a book, cleaning, Facebook, baking, or anything else that will prevent us from facing the reality of our aloneness.

In solitude and quietness, the questions start to rise from within us: Who am I? What am I doing with my life? Where is God? Is there a God? What are my dreams? Do I really matter? Why do I feel so alone? In busyness and noise, these questions can be avoided and left undealt with. We stuff them into the closets of our souls where they become skeletons that rattle and unnerve us.

Our determination to occupy our space and fill our time make it very difficult to be silent and spend time getting to know ourselves. Henri Nouwen says that most people would find it near impossible to bear the silence of a monastery. In fact, he says the first months of being there are usually quite tortuous. No one needs you or wants your advice. The absence of music, books, TV, newspapers, iPhones, Internet, and other distractions stir up a restlessness that make people want to run away from the solitude that unveils how alone they really are.

Strip away the trappings of this world and confront your existence. Grapple with the unsettling questions that lurk within you and seek the answers with all your heart. Open the closet doors and turn those skeletons into strengths. Stop avoiding the void inside of you and know that the fullness of God can dwell within you. He can reshape your loneliness into fellowship and infuse your life with purpose and confidence.

Wag Gag

2011-12-16T13:58:00.012-04:00

Last night, Alicia, my sister-in-law, and I had one of the most memorable nights of our lives. What we shared last night will mark our friendship in an unforgetable way for as long as we know each other. In honour of my birthday and because she is heading to Florida for Christmas, Alicia found an excellent deal on Wag Jag and bought a manicure/pedicure for both of us. It advertized a shellac polish and offered hot beverages with a special treat as part of a very attractive holiday package for two. We were both looking forward to a couple of hours of peace and pampering.

As we pulled into the dim parking lot of the plaza we found the unlit sign of the salon. The windows were dressed with dollar-store Santa Claus stickers placed with five-year old precision all over the glass. Alicia gripped the steering wheel and said, "Marge, it's so ghetto. What do we do?" Thinking it couldn't be that bad, we walked through the door only to have the sketchy nature of the place confirmed even more. Half a Christmas tree with its top cut off was perched in the corner. For ornaments, they had creatively tied lip gloss to the branches. The floor was unswept and two of the walls were mere frames. The ceiling was short a few tiles and those that remained were brown from water stains. Adorning the finished walls were purple butterfly stickers and life-changing quotes such as "Dwell in Possibilities". Still, one should not judge a book by its cover nor a salon by its complete lack of decorative sense.

The lady behind the counter immediately advised us that they were behind schedule and that unfortunately, they only had four colours available in the shellac: mint green, blood red, goth black, and lilac purple. Generously, they offered us a normal polish or the option of rescheduling in the new year when they would have more selection. We decided to stay and work with what they had. We sat down in the only two chairs and were asked to fill out a form. A lady came out with two empty mugs, plopped them down on the end table and told us that if we wanted coffee, we could make it ourselves. Since we weren't really in a do-it-yourself mood, we skipped the hot beverage and continued with the forms as we waited for half an hour.

I'm not too embarassed to admit that I have a little bit of discolouration on my two big toes. I asked the mug lady what she thought and she summoned the nail specialist. A lady as tall as I am but 10x as wide came out to take a look at my toes. Her orange T-shirt was stained and untucked from her pants to allow space for the substantial belly that hung over her brown corduroy pants. Placing her hands on her knees, she hunkered down over my bare feet until I could only see the top of her bleached short hair and gruffly announced, "Yep, that's fungus. No pedi for you." Understanding her concern for the pristine conditions of the place, I agreed to a manicure only.

As we continued our wait, Alicia whispered, "Man, I hope it's not a 14-year old working back there." Upon saying this, a four foot, extremely young looking girl walked to the front and asked us what we were waiting for. I think she was a dwarf. Between the beefy nail specialist and pint-sized aesthetician, I wondered if we had inadvertently walked into a circus. I could barely contain my laughter as Alicia slowly turned her wide eyes to me and asked between clenched teeth, "What do we do?!?" We stayed.

Finally, we were beckoned to the back and seated ourselves in some classy wicker patio furniture. We had chosen our colours from a wide variety of 20 Shopper's Drug Mart polishes. I went with a festive, sparkly clear polish and Alicia chose a dark purple for her pedicure. My first clue that they didn't know how to do nails was the "Paint Your Nails by Number" book on their table. My second clue was when the girl pushing my cuticles back said, "You know, I don't really do nails."

Behind me, the beefy lady had placed Alicia's foot unto her lap on top of a previously-used towel after soaking her feet in the previously-used basin. As the lady buffed the bottoms of her foot, Alicia calmly said that she didn't want any razors or cutting done to her feet. Beefy lady said, "Oh no, we don't do that here. They only do that in chop shops." By the time she got to Alicia's second big toe, beefy lady threw her hands in the air and said, "I can't do this. Dwarf-girl*, do you know how to do purple?" So, Dwarf-girl took over and beefy lady sat down to tell us stories of pedicures past about old ladies with so much rancid fungus under their nails that she would have to shovel it out.

Once finished, Alicia realized that she only had her boots to put back on over her painted toes which quite truly were "painted toes" because the polish didn't stay within the lines of the nails. Concerned, beefy lady grabbed a hair blow dryer and solved the problem. After scalding Alicia's skin, she pressed her finger into the polish to make sure it wasn't tacky and left her finger print behind. Since words cannot capture the true artistry of Alicia's toes, there is a picture of the final product below.

Alicia walked bare foot to her car and I drove but not before losing it completely. We could barely compose ourselves so surreal was our experience of the last two hours. Thank you Wag Jag and the choppiest shop of all for the Wag Gag. In both senses of the word, it was an appalling and amusing memory that I will always share with one of my favourite people in the whole world.

*not her real name

Reshaping Loneliness

2011-12-14T15:48:00.005-04:00

I wish books could talk. Sometimes I just love what they have to say so much that I want to speak to their pages and hear them talk back.

I am reading Henri Nouwen's "Reaching Out" for the second time and it is delicious. It's pages are toasted brown on the edges and they smell sweet when I press them under my nose. I do that every few sentences; close the covers and press the book to my nose while I shut my eyes and digest the words that were written just for me in the year that I was born.

The book is as old as I am and although I am certain Nouwen did not put his thoughts to paper just for me, I swear it seems like he did. The entire thing is quotable and all I can say is "Read it!" As for conversing with the content, it has of yet not spoken back to me even while it still speaks to me. Perhaps I can engage it to an extent in this space and invite you to join the conversation or simply listen in at your leisure.

In speaking of the spiritual life, Nouwen defines it as a "reaching out"; a reaching out to one's self, to others, and to God. He says it is a constant movement between poles: the pole between loneliness and solitude, hostility and hospitality, and illusion and prayer. In the spiritual life, we must leave measurements behind and simply face the pains of our human predicament. As we confront the loneliness, hostilities, and illusions of life, we become more aware of our need for solitude, hospitality, and prayer. There are no short cuts in the spiritual life. We must wrestle with the first three difficult things if we are to discover the simple beauty of the last three wonders.

Loneliness is a battle that everyone fights a few times or many times in his or her life. We are not made to be alone but to be in relationship, but how many of our relationships really satisfy us? It's Christmas and the television is saturated with images of shiny, happy people enjoying precious moments of love with other shiny, happy people. Their teeth are snow white, they look good in their clothes, and their lives are fantastic. Every time they look at me from the screen, I am keenly aware that my life and I look nothing like them. We are inundated by messages and images that tell us how social and good looking we are supposed to be.

Nouwen had the same sensation while sitting in the subway. Every where there were advertisements of "playful", "smiling", and "beautiful" people but surrounding him were silent, nervous strangers with their noses in their papers and their hands on their wallets. He wrote,

"(T)he words and images decorating my fearful world speak about love, gentleness, tenderness, and about a joyful togetherness of spontaneous people. The contemporary society in which we find ourselves makes us acutely aware of our loneliness."

We are afraid and we are lonely. We are afraid that we won't find love and we are afraid that we will. We are afraid to be alone but unsure what friendship and intimacy should look like when they are offered to us. In this tender season of togetherness, loneliness can loom. The parties and reunions can even heighten our sense of loneliness. Instead of ignoring this sensation, probe it and question it. Ask where it comes from and what can be done with it. Reshape loneliness; don't let it shape you. It's there for a reason. Reach out and find it.

Sold Out.

2011-12-05T21:39:00.006-04:00

From the realms of PMS and exhausted relief from finishing my final paper, I am writing this blog. As if I haven't written enough pages over the past month, I feel like I need to write just a little more.

This last paper almost killed me. It was a monster that ate me up and spit me back out four times...that's how many times I changed the direction of this academic doozy. It was about the Ayoreo people in Bolivia. For those of you who do not know, I spent a few hours in one of their little squatter villages, Barrio Bolivar, every Wednesday for two years while I lived in Santa Cruz. I mostly played, sang, coloured, and taught Bible stories to the children with a lot of help from some Bolivian friends. If I pulled in with the truck, they would maul the truck and then swarm me so one or all of us were crushed each time. The squalor of their settlement was shocking; the ground was littered with garbage and a stroll around the place always meant walking with eyes wide open for fear of stepping in excrement. The images and the reality of Barrio Bolivar distress me to this day, but my love and concern for them has not lessened either.

So, I wrote about them. I turned them into a topic for my paper. I imagined that I could summon up a solution for the persistent problems that plague the Ayoreo. I hoped that my way with words and convincing arguements would get me an 'A'. I argued that Indigenous Education Reform was one of the answers to the social issues of Barrio Bolivar. I argued that for 20 pages. 20 pages of bunk.

I put the finishing touches on that document and opened up my email to this:

"For those who love Ayore girls: We woke up to sad news this morning. 17 year old Rebeca Cutamurajai (better known as Corea) disappeared on Friday night from Barrio Bolivar after climbing into a taxi to ply her business. Her body was found yesterday on our end of town. A reminder of the urgency of the work among these girls."

"Her business" was prostitution. What business do I have plying my opinions, perched in the halls of pedagogy, with the all the haughtiness of higher education behind me? Do I really believe that education is the answer? I feel like I sold myself for the price of a scholarship. That paper was bull shit. Professor Lafreniere, if you read this, you must know what I really believe: Jesus is the hope of the nations.

All that other stuff was only about the grade.
Rest in peace, Rebeca.

Smells like Dog

2011-11-07T22:22:00.005-04:00

The first rule of thumb at my parent's place: Don't pet the dogs. Trust me, your thumbs will thank me. If you touch the three dogs that roam my parent's property, your thumbs and fingers will still reek even after multiple washings. They simply stink. The females smell worse than the male. The whole lot of them take frequent dips in the putrid back pond and roll in the carcasses of dead critters, but at least the male one, Buddy, doesn't smell like urine. I guess it's because he can't pee on himself but Sophie and Nikki are easy targets. They are more than eager for human attention, bringing gifts of oppossums and snapping turtles as emblems of their loyalty, but nonetheless, no one touches them voluntarily.

For years, my mom has take the Golden Yodle Doodle to the groomers before she has to go to the vet. She gets so embarassed and the groomer lady always complains that she has to wash Nikki two times and she still smells like baby powder with a hint of sewage. After returning from a recent trip to the groomer, Nikki escaped her electric collar, surpassed the fence and basked in the waters of the near-by bog. She returned to the house covered in black and smelling foul. Of course, she was scheduled to go the vet the next morning. My mom was quite concerned about what the vet would think if she brought Nikki in so dirty and fetid. So, Dan threw her in the pond and she smelled slightly better for her 9 am appointment.

The next morning, the vet was carrying out his check-up with Nikki and he turned to my mom and asked, "Does she smell?" My mom's eyes widened as he continued, "I mean, does her breath smell?" As she took a whiff of Nikki's breath, it dawned on her, after years of ensuring that the dogs didn't stink for the vetinarian, it turned out that the vet had no sense of smell.

For the rest of us with fully functioning sniffers, don't touch the dogs.

Free and Flying

2011-10-23T14:15:00.004-04:00

Sitting in traffic may be one of the most irritating experiences ever. There is nothing more frustrating than knowing that a journey of 10 minutes is taking 30 to traverse. For two hours every morning and two hours every evening, the Highway 8 junction between Kitchener and Cambridge bogs down and vehicles of all kinds get trapped in the corridors of congestion. There is no other way for me to get from school to home and home to school. It kills me.

King Street out of Kitchener slides right into this express-way, a third lane that eventually merges into two. Every afternoon, I fly right past the two plugged up left lanes and take the clear one all the way to it's very end before I slip into that mobile mess. Each time, I wonder, "Why aren't more people popping into this lane to loosen up the stand-still?" In fact some drivers will come to a complete stop in that empty lane and signal their way into that sluggish pace long before they have to. Why?

Perhaps people are afraid that they will get to the end of the lane and no one will let them in. Or, maybe they think that other drivers will get ticked off when they see them by-passing the traffic jam. All I know is that when I sit in that stew, I feel frustrated and trapped. I could choose to merge prematurely and blend into the bane of the majority, but why would I when I still have a kilometre of highway that lets me fly?

Strangely, I feel the same way in class at times. Many of my peers are traveling along a lane of thought that states, "There is no truth. Everyone has their own truth; who is anyone to say that their truth is better than another's truth?" These were the words of one of my group presentation members the other morning. Hearing it, I just sat there, merging into her train of thought by my silence, signalling with my non-response that somehow I was in agreement with her conclusion. A little bit of death entered my soul in that moment. It's fingers cupped over my integrity and I felt trapped by my own lack of tenacity. I had come to a complete halt in the middle of an open line of discussion and joined the teaming masses of truth nay-sayers.

Five minutes after the discussion had moved on, I realized that I had to say what I really believed. Gently, I pulled myself back into the right lane and explained that I did believe in absolute truth. There is one truth that can be practiced in multiple ways, but there can not be multiple truths. Maybe it ticks people off. Maybe they won't let you in, but it's better than sitting at a stand-still when you could be free and flying.

To the River

2011-10-11T16:45:00.008-04:00

"It's good to pull people out of the river when they're drowning, but it's also good to go upriver to see who's throwing them in the river."

Working with individuals after they have been abused, undervalued, and bullied has some merit. It is the same noble philosophy behind the parable of the starfish. There are thousands of life-sapped starfish lying on the shore. We can not save them all but we can make a difference for at least one, if not a few, by throwing it back into the ocean.

But what if we did take a stroll upriver and discovered why people are dying in rivers in the first place? What if the reason that the starfish are all gasping for breath on the sand is because some barge has contaminated their watery domain?

A 15-year old girl from a small town does not end up in jail, doing drugs, and dropping out of school because she is inherently flawed. She was born to a dad who wanted a son instead, a mom who shoots up instead of buying groceries, goes to a school with zero tolerance and zero alternatives for "kids like her", and tried a church that wanted her to look less like a boy and more like a lady.

A four year old Ayore child does not board buses by himself to sing and dance for .07 cents of his own volition. A 10 year old Ayore girl does not decide to sleep with an old man for $100 an hour. Their parents choose this for them but their choice is rooted in the harsh reality of poverty and marginalization that began when their culture was stripped away by the invasion of Europeans and corporations in search of petrol-gold.

A middle aged refugee claimant did not come to Canada because he wanted to steal our jobs and milk the system. He fled his home and left lucrative employment because he objected to how multinational companies were not only raping his country of mineral resources but they were committing the violation on the backs of children. Now, he ekes out an existence on the few hundred dollars that Ontario Works provides for his family of four each month.

People need to be pulled out of rivers and starfish should be thrown back into the sea, but there are reasons why they are drowning and dying. I was mad enough to go back for my Master of Social Work not because I want to forsake the individual but I want to understand the larger systems that are working against them...only to discover that I am a part of the larger system that oppresses and throws people into the river. As a white, middle-class Christian with money in my pocket and a car on the road, I am automatically associated with the injustice that I hate.

Acknowledging this association, it will not deter me or what I do, even if it does make my head and heart ache. I do not imagine that all of this can be remedied in this world, but God help me, I am going to walk upriver to find out why people are tossing other people into the river and do something about it.

Hello World

2011-09-22T22:28:00.002-04:00

Immersed and surrounded by ideas, emotions, and lifestyles that push and pull at my comfort zones, my first two weeks at Laurier have been invigorating and exhausting all at the same time. This morning, at an equity forum, we opened the event with an aboriginal "smudge", song, and prayer. The smudge was the burning of sweet grass, sage, cedar, and tobacco in a hollowed out stone. A lady waved the smoke around with a feather and some people took the smoke and moved it over their head and hair with their hands. Another lady explained that the ceremony was meant to cleanse the room and to cleanse the person, allowing him/her to leave behind everything and start the day with a clean slate.

The plenary speaker for the forum was an educated, ex-prof of the University of Waterloo, who had been in Cairo during the recent revolution. His presentation was fascinating and more so since he had been a first hand witness of a such a cataclysmic uprising. During the Q&A, I had asked him a question as to whether the majority of protesters even knew what they were marching for or if they were merely being swept away by the mob. My experience with marching and protesting in Bolivia was that most people were not really sure what the battle was about. As a result, he sat down to chat and have lunch with me.

He told me a story as we had lunch:

A man came to live in a new town with his family. During his tour, the guide led him to the cemetery. Checking out the headstones, he noted that all the deceased had only lived a few short weeks or as much as several years. Appalled, he asked, "Why would I come live here with my family when town members live such short lives?" His companion replied, "No, sir, here in this town, we don't record the lifespan of a person, but the amount of time he or she invested into the community."

My lunch companion then concluded that the true value of a person lies in what they contribute to society. As a current example, he continued to say that therefore Jack Layton was a person of greater value than Stephen Harper. With respect, I disagreed with him.

There will be no shortage of disagreement over the next 18 months of school, but I can learn antithetical perspectives without adopting them. I can also find a wide array of areas where I will agree with some of my polar-opposite peers. My body is tired but my mind is alive as I engage the rigor of academia again. Meditating on portions of the first chapter of Philippians, I pray that knowledge, depth of insight, and discernment will abound in me and flow out of a place of love so that when it comes time to defend the gospel, I can do so with integrity and respect. So that when the opportunity arises, I can share that Jesus is the only cleansing smudge. So that even when confronted with intelligent, educated professors, I can respectfully insist that real value is not measured by what we do, but rather in who we are.

I Don't Want to be a Centipede

2011-08-05T21:11:00.000-04:00

Screwtape and Wormwood have been my book companions recently. The demonic uncle/nephew duo created in the unmatchable mind of C.S. Lewis amuse and teach me even as I read it for the second time. After being ratted out by his nephew, Wormwood, and other blunders, Uncle Screwtape is livid and writing in a rage but he needs to dictate the end of the letter to Toadpipe. Why? In his own words,

"In the heat of composition I find that I have inadvertently allowed myself to assume the form of a large centipede."

My imagination is so active that I can actually see the mutation happen and even relate to the image. There are days when I feel like a creepy crawler. My attitude is putrid and my mood is dour. I get so ugly and crusty that I'm surprised when others don't withdraw with disgust or crush my crustacean shell with the nub of their heal.

When I feel the little legs begin to protrude and sense the morphing coming on, I crawl into my corner for the better of everyone. Alone, away from others, free of their noise, I am able to shed my skin and nurture my soft side back to life in the presence of Jesus. I don't want to be a centipede, but when it happens, I need to skitter away to another room. It's for the best. Really. And besides, I really don't want to get stepped on.

Just Like Who?

2011-07-15T15:53:00.000-04:00

Kicked off a near-by picnic table, our Welcome Home friends resigned themselves to sitting on the sand. In the marshy corner of the Guelph Lake, Scott, my co-worker, was launching a canoe so that our residents could try paddling and life jackets, some for the first time. Except for a few water bottles and a couple magazines, the picnic table was not being used, but two ladies were seated close by. I sat down and a few others joined me to watch our friends float off into "the sea" and wait our turn.

One of our younger friends had already sat at the table earlier. He whispered, "You should ask if you can sit there first." At first, I thought, "Ask who? This is a public beach and the table isn't being used, is it?" I caught eyes with the lady lounging in the chair and inquired, "Is it okay if we sit here?" To which she replied, "Well, that is something you should have asked first. No, we are using this table and it would be polite to ask us first."

With my eyebrows raised and a nod to my companions, we removed ourselves from "their" table. I glanced over at the territorial lady lounger and read the title of her book: "Just Like Jesus" - Max Lucado.

Thank you dear, fellow beach bum and sister in Christ for being such a generous, brilliant example of what it means to be "just like Jesus".

Twice Cried

2011-06-23T21:51:00.008-04:00

The following is a true story and may not be in good taste for all readers. The person who it's about gave permission to tell it and even to use his real name. For the sake of his wife and kids, I'll just call him 'Clive'.

Clive always buys his work pants a few sizes too big. He often works in small spaces and prefers the comfort of loose clothing. This choice means that wearing a belt is not optional. A belt is a must in order to avoid the constant mooning of co-workers and customers...although for those of us who know him, a half to full moon is not out of character for Clive.

One day, Clive left for work and forgot his belt at home. Arriving at the factory, he realized that the zip ties amongst his tools were the perfect length to serve as a belt for the day. So, he slipped on his pseudo-plastic belt and began the job. As he worked the line, another job was working it's way out, Job #2. He held off on #2 for as long as he could but after about an hour, he hustled his way to other end of the factory, avoiding any unnecessary chatter that would delay his arrival. Once he arrived at the "job site", all the sensors in his body knew where they were and the alarms were blaring. It was now or never. However, "now" was hampered by the fact that he had a fast-secured zip tie for a belt and his tools were a long way away from the washroom. In fact, Clive had effectively zip locked himself into his own pants. The state of urgency was so high that with much struggle and a layer of skin, Clive was able to do what he came to do.

The relief was short-lived. As Clive sat on his white throne, it dawned on him that he still had to get his pants back up. Getting them down had already been painful and his skin was red and raw from that initial experience. The zip tie was firmly fastened. Chewing through the plastic would be impossible and wire cutters meant a walk across the factory floor with his pants around his ankles. Clive eyed the canister of liquid soap hanging on the bathroom wall. Greasing up his stinging legs and hips, Clive lay on the floor, and slipped his zip-tied pants up.

Moral of the story: If you're going to buy pants that are too big, don't forget your belt or you'll be once shittin' and twice cried.

$72 and a Handful of Change.

2011-06-08T00:21:00.006-04:00

I did what I swore I would never do. So many others had done it and were doing it before they got married, so I thought, "Why not?" I did it late one April night, in a moment when my senses were momentarily lost. As soon as the deed was done, I smacked my forehead and lamented, "What have I done?" One click of a button and I was officially a member of eHarmony (eH).

It actually took more than one click of a button. Preparing one's profile is an arduous affair that took me about two hours to finish. It costs $24 and a handful of change per month and I signed up for three...just three...no more than three months. I figured that I would sacrifice a few other social affairs, like paintball, for the opportunity to try the "#1 Trusted Relationship Site - Move Beyond "Traditional" On-line Dating". "Traditional On-line Dating" seemed like a contradiction of terms to me.

The matching began in a fury and from all across Canada. Somehow, in all the time that it took me to fill in the information, I missed the part where it lets you limit your scope to people in your area. I didn't change it. Hey, if Mr. Right was on the West Coast, I'd pack my bags tomorrow. There were seven new matches everyday. I probably have 130+ matches in the cue, waiting for my perusal. 130 matches!! This should excite me and nurture my hope that yes, there is someone out there just waiting for me, a truly compatible match. Au contraire, I find it overwhelming and even suffocating. I did not realize how open and inclandescent the whole gong show was going to be. One knows every person who has looked at his or her profile. They know when you close the match. I closed a few matches based on looks, weight, poor grammar or atrocious spelling. It fostered a spirit of superficiality in me that I did not feel comfortable with. I have loved average looking guys who were gorgeous to me simply because of their character and humour. I did not like juggling communication with four different men at a time. My sensitivities were marred when I felt dismissed and or when I chose to ignore the requests for communication from interested courtiers.

After three weeks, a match did peak my interest. However, after a month of fantastic emailing and one date, that "perfectly compatible match" came to an end as well. Needless to say, eH has been an unsatisfactory, even irritating, experience for me. The question that I have asked myself from the beginning is this: Am I a daughter of the slave woman (Hagar) or the free woman (Sara)? God had promised a son to Abraham and Sara, but they tried to complete God's promise by having Hagar bear a son. Was I trying to manipulate God's purpose for my life through my own wiles and schemes too? Was eH my attempt to force his hand in the relationship realm? Perhaps. Or maybe it was an impulsive act in a moment of boredom. I will continue to believe that God is good and I trust his plan for my life. I'm not saying eH is wrong, but I am saying that for me it was a waste of time...not to mention $72 and a handful of change.

24 Hours.

2011-05-15T14:09:00.002-04:00

A little less than 24 hours ago, I arrived back at Welcome Home. Hugs and kind sentiments abounded as I saw everyone again. Kind sentiments are expressed with words but mostly with food. My beloved housemates immediately began to invite me to sit down yesterday afternoon and eat a meal with them. Once again, today, our friend from Sudan facing a meal alone asked me to join him for lunch. Unlike Canadians, it is unbearable and most aversive to eat by oneself. I feel obliged to eat their food and absolutely rude when I turn down their offers. Quite honestly, most of the fare is delicious but there are times when I've no appetite or just ate or really just want to make my own food.

I've also spent a few of the last 24 hours at the hospital with our newest resident, Regina* She moved in the day after I flew out for Bolivia. Soon after meeting her yesterday, she showed me some blisters on her arms and scalp. She complained that she felt hot in the inside. Her caseworker had brought her to the doctor, but it was too busy, so she was sent back to Welcome Home with a bottle of Advil.

This morning, as I was about to leave for church, Regina asked me to come into her room. By this time, her face was covered in blisters and they were increasing all over her body. She looked like she was trying to crawl out of her skin with all her scratching and the crazed look on her face. Skipping church, we immediately headed to emergency. As soon as the triage nurse saw her symptoms, her eyes caught mine with urgency. She immediately jumped up and grabbed a mask for herself and Regina, squirted sanitizer over every surface and rushed us inside to a sealed-off room. Another doctor, motioned for me to put on scrubs, gloves, and mask too. She had the whole outfit on plus a splash guard that covered her entire face. Needless to say, Regina was distraught and thought for sure that she had contracted some horrible, lethal illness that was going to contaminate the entire human race. I kept trying to assure her with my touch, but she would yelp, "No touch me! I no want this disease coming to you!"

After more than an hour of hyper-hygienic activity and quarantine, another doctor came in and quickly determined what was ailing Regina: chicken pox. Not the next super-bubonic plague or cholera, but every child's worst nightmare clothed in calamine lotion and jeweled with beads of Benadryl.

Regina is drugged up and faces 7 - 10 days of intense itching, but she and the world are going to be fine. It took less than 24 hours to initiate me back into the fabric and flow of life at Welcome Home. My stomach is full and the world is safe. What more could one ask for?

*name changed

Beyond Borders and Belief.

2011-05-05T13:06:00.004-04:00

Here's a story of people from many countries and how God crossed their paths for his kingdom and his glory.

Many years ago, in Bolivia, Marge met a man, Franco, and his wife, Lila. Franco worked as a soccer coach for a team of former street kids. As they faithfully served in South America, they had a baby boy and dreamed of going to unreached places where Coca-cola was more popular than Jesus. Franco and Lila* would invite Marge over for visits and the three became good friends.

Eventually, Marge returned to Canada while Franco and Lila made a big move to India, Lila's home and native land. Who moved first is not important, but the friends went their separate ways. Franco and Lila were faithful to follow the updates of Marge as she moved on to work with refugees and their settlement into Canada. Marge was not as diligent to keep tabs on the little family of three in India.

India has become a country of loose borders with little legislation to assist the constant stream of refugees that cross her frontier. Franco and Lila found themselves befriending those fleeing religious persecution in Iran. One woman, Puna*, immersed in Muslim culture, met Jesus through gospel truth transmitted to her by satellite. She fell in love with the music, the message, and the Man. After taking out a Bible from the library, she was attacked and threatened in the street. Muslims are prohibited from reading the Bible but they are available for those identified as Christians. She quickly fled her home and landed in India until her case was approved and she was sponsored to Canada.

In the meantime, her brother, who once chastised her for watching the Christian programming, became a Christ follower too. While residing in India, Puna's youngest sister, Farah*, came to visit. During her visit, she went to church and decided to embrace Jesus as well. Upon her return to Iran, she was summoned to police headquarters, detained for 28 days, threatened, and upon her release, lost her documents for ten months. Unbeknown to Farah, the Iranian officials in India were watching her every move. As soon as her passport and IDs were back in her possession, Farah took off for India. For awhile, she studied, but her VISA was running out and the expiry date on her passport was creeping closer and closer.

One day, at 4 AM, Marge's mom received a phone call from India. With laughter and little surprise, she asked Marge, "Now, who in the world do you know in India?" Franco, knowing that Marge was working with refugees, was trying to track her down to see if she could help Farah's situation. A couple phone calls later, Marge and Puna connected and met each other for the first time. Their friendship came easily and in short time, they had recruited a Group of Five to apply for private sponsorship of Farah to Canada, where her brother now lived as well. Through various meetings, Skype phone calls, and the priceless help of the Group, every detail came together and the application was submitted to Citizenship and Immigration Canada...with a florescent yellow cover and the word 'URGENT' emblazed in red on the page.

Meanwhile, in India, Farah struggled to keep her spirits up and her hopes high. During some difficult days, a Bolivian missionary serving in Afghanistan came up to India to rest and spent several days with Farah. Her presence refreshed Farah's soul and renewed her faith. Although her name escaped Marge, this single lady was sent by the Spanish Church that she attended in Santa Cruz and Marge had met her a couple times.

From Bolivia to India, from Iran to India, from India to Canada, and from Afghanistan to India, the paths of many have crossed in such a way that they could only be designed by God. And because of this, with great expectation and rejoicing, Farah's application for refugee status was approved and she should be in Canada within the year. To God be the glory!

*names have been changed.

A Lollipop Covered in Cheese.

2011-05-03T11:37:00.003-04:00

My life is full of one amusing situation after another. Tears, questions, and melancholy visit sometimes but I think that laughter is the main feature of most of my days. For instance, since I arrived in Bolivia last week, I've been craving the pacamuto (shishkababs) at Los Lomitos. This past Sunday, Adreana, Timmy & Melinda, and I went for lunch there after church. Well, Adreana and I went to church, Timmy & Melinda skipped (heathens!). Of course Liberty, their daughter was with us. We were finished our meals and I was holding Liberty. As usual, the restaurant favoured us with these terrible, cola-flavoured lollipops. The waiter gave one to Liberty to play with. After sucking on it for a bit, she started to wave it up and down with much excitement and noise. As I watched her delight, I saw the sucker leave her little hand, spinning, stick over candy, candy over stick, right into the bowl of cheesy rice of the elderly couple behind us.

I can still hear the older lady say with indignation, "Who threw that?". I can still see the old man's beady eyes bulging with offense as he returned the lollipop, now covered in cheese. It was hysterical and the aging pair probably felt that my apology was less than heartfelt. The tears were tracking down my face from laughing...I'm laughing as I write this! It was better than dessert and the pacamuto was all that I was craving and then some. I love how God gives us these good and perfect gifts, don't you?

Who You Gonna Call?

2011-03-01T22:55:00.003-04:00

I have 700+ "friends" on Facebook but I did not know who to call when things fell to pieces in my family last week. It's my own fault. Since moving to the Kitchener-Waterloo area I have been a church nomad, neglecting any attempt to find a circle of friends. In fact, I'm quite hesitant to wiggle my way into any person(s) lives. Although I'm not an introvert nor antisocial, initiating social activity is not a personal forte. Faced with the choice of asking someone else to do something or staying at home with a good book or the latest episode of CSI, I usually choose the latter.

I usually choose the latter when life is average and everyday. When life turns ugly, it's nice to have someone who is close enough to call, go out for coffee, and talk to in person. I am thankful for my co-workers and the struggle within my family seems to fortify our loyalty and love for one another. Actually, dear friends from Bolivia skyped me in close succession after everything went south a few days ago. Adreana, my former housemate, called with the tragic but humourous account of our dog, Risky's death. The day after that conversation, I received an envelope in the mail from Adreana that contained a brief note and a change wallet that not only looked like a rodent but was fashioned from rat fur. I was a little afraid to open it, thinking that the tuft of hair protruding from that first tear was some sick memoir of Risky that she wanted me to have. Two other friends, Timmy and Melinda Barr, called and a chat with them is always good for a laugh or twenty too. Those calls were a sweet and welcome distraction from the sad reality of these present days.

When present day reality is hard to bear and friends seem rare, it is easy to look back and long for days gone by or to wish for better days to come. In recent speaking engagements, I addressed that human tendency. We are created for relationship and community. We long for it and when we lose it, we try to recreate it or keep it together even as it crumbles. Yet, human relationships are not God's ultimate end for us. More importantly, we are made to commune with him and we should hang on to all other connections loosely. God's grace and his friendship are sufficient...but I still like coffee, so feel free to give me a call, my treat.

War is Over?

2010-12-06T00:14:00.003-04:00

An hour ago I tried to change the channel, but my friend said, "No. Keep it on this first one." I replied, "I can't. It's too hard. Too difficult." He said, "No. Keep this one." It was a movie called "Beyond Borders" that was out in 2002 and stars Angelina Jolie. Jolie plays Sarah, a wealthy woman who attends a fundraising gala that is interrupted by a renegade doctor accompanied by a starving child from Ethiopia. As the doctor makes his fiery appeal, it was a revolting contrast to see that to garner up some funds for relief, the guests were gorging on gourmet meals and dressed to the nines. Sarah is so moved (or guilt ridden) that she decides to go to Ethiopia, see first hand the harsh reality, and try to do something about it. Thus follows a scene of an emanicipated child being stalked by a vulture while his mother lies near-by, dying from a huge gash in her chest that is swarmed with flies. Both are "saved" by Sarah and brought to a clinic in a refugee camp. When this scene closed, the Christian Children's Fund came on with images of skinny, sad eyed children as John Lennon's song "War is Over/Have a Very Merry Christmas" played in the background.

My friend who insisted that we watch this channel was becoming a little agitated. I sat on the loveseat and squirmed inside, feeling really uncomfortable with the way poverty and hardship were being portrayed on Canadian TV. It seemed pompous and patronizing and more so in light of the fact that my friend was from Ethiopia. As John crooned, "And so Happy Christmas for black and for white, for yellow and red ones, let's stop all the fight", my friend looked at me and said, "Is it finished?". To which I replied, "Yes.", and turned off the TV.

Jesus, help all of us to help better and please come back soon.

Give Well. Receive Well.

2010-10-05T11:33:00.003-04:00

It's hard to help people. Sometimes helping people makes them feel minimized and pokes hard at their pride. Sometimes the helper does not know how to help well and increases the discomfort of the receiver of their good intentions. Sometimes those good intentions are completely and solidly founded in selfishness and ego appeasement. "It feels good to give to those who are less fortunate than I." Pat, pat, pat on the back, good deed done for the day, the week, the month, the year. We feel guilty, so we give. We feel coerced, so we give. We feel heart broken, so we give. We feel. We give.

We give money. We give time. We give food. We give clothes. I work with refugees and refugees are the recipients of a lot of giving. For some, it is a stinging reality to embrace. Several of Welcome Home's residents have left positions of prestige and professional careers to start a life dependant on food banks and Ontario Works. It's a hard pill to swallow and the interactions that they have with Canadians can make the going down easy or cause a gag reflex. A politician at a recent fundraising event, The Ride for Refuge, was boasting about how Canada receives so many refugees from various countries, to which one WH resident reponded, "I hate that. Why do white people do that? What about all the Germans and other people who came here after the war? Why do they only talk about people from South America or Africa as refugees?" In contrast, a little while later, another WH resident commented, "I love your country more and more all the time. Look at this, all these people gathered together, to bike in bad weather for others. This would never happen in my country." Two people from similar situations reacted in starkly different ways to the giving of time and money on their behalf.

Johnathan Edwards penned those famous words reminding us that we are all sinners in the hands of angry God; a harsh but true sentiment. We are all recipients of grace and although our hands were not made to be idle, neither were they made to be tight-fisted. They were made to be generous and to accept generosity. Time and time again, by way of the WH residents and others, I am reminded that we are all refugees. For many Canadians, their ancestors have come from afar but moreso, every person is alienated and separated from God, in need of refuge found only in Jesus. The borders and citizenship lines that are made and the maps that are drawn are insignificant to the Maker of all things. Disregarding them. we look forward to the day when these frontiers will be shaken and replaced with a kingdom that can not be shaken, a city whose architect and builder is God. Followers of Jesus should shake those frontiers now and start building the city today. With regard to giving and receiving, let's learn to do both and to do both well, not imagining that we are either a giver or a receiver, but that we are the two things at all times.

Sing this Song

2010-06-25T14:21:00.005-04:00

Every time I see a flapping flag waving it's national pride on the side of a vehicle, it makes me smile. This small piece of fabric inspires big heart and a lot of noise...especially when it's soccer team takes a win in South Africa. I love it because even though each flag and each team unites the individual nation, the whole world is together.

Inevitably, the nations will find themselves with other nations more and more. At present, I live with an Iranian, a Sudanese, an Ethiopian, two Congolese, an Honduran, two Columbians, and a Canadian. This past week, I ate Iraqi food for lunch on Wednesday and Filipino food for supper on Friday. Canada has been known as a multi-cultural mosaic since my days in high school but I would like us to be more like a tapestry. In a mosaic, the pieces of glass or stone are side by side and separate to produce the picture but in a tapestry,each thread weaves in and out, over and under the others to create the image. Mosaic or tapestry, we live in a small world.

I hate writing 'small world', mostly because it immediately causes "the song" to get stuck in my head and I don't want to sing that song. With increased information and the increased accessibility to fly, people are seeing and knowing more about the globe than ever before. Eight years ago I was still working with Youth for Christ in Tillsonburg. I worked with a guy named Kevin Hiebert and he was married to Caroline. They left Ontario for Manitoba and I had not seen them until recently...in Santa Cruz, Bolivia. One Sunday I walked into church, rounded the corner, and saw Kevin, Caroline, and their now extended family of three children sitting on the bench. An echo of the "holy crap" that flew from my mouth bounced around the sanctuary as we caught up on the last decade and talked about getting together.

During my years in Bolivia, I also met a young lady, Lyndsey Gangel. As it turns out my co-worker, Scott, had also met her...in South Korea. On the tube, in the halls of Welcome Home, up and down the streets, and everywhere, there is evidence of a shrinking world. Life only lasts 80 years and I don't want to waste a one nor live it in an ordinary way. I want to see and do as much as possible and I can, because it's a small world after all.

What's Next?

2010-06-11T16:58:00.009-04:00

"Is anybody okay with the way the world is today? Nobody should be okay with the state of the world."

This was one of the remarks made by a speaker at the "What's Next?" conference that I went to today at Humber College. The conference was great. I enjoy the topics of social justice and sustainable development. Ian Smillie, author and main plenary speaker, spoke well (but straight from his notes) about current opinions on foreign aid and the situation of the majority world. By majority world, I mean what most refer to as the "developing" world or some still say "third" world. I dislike those terms...even though they still slip out from time to time.

Some of the ideas that stuck from Smillie were his perspective on "kiosk economies", his emphasis on new productive enterprises, and his point to keep development efforts simple and local. "Kiosk economies" are common to the majority world. Local women sitting under blue tarps selling tomatoes and lettuce in town that they bought from the farmer down the road, men riding bicycles that have been adapted to boast a cooler full of cold cokes, or even children walking around with boxes full of tasteless gum, all represent a "kiosk economy". Although these small businesses may lend themselves to slightly improved living conditions, the real advances come when new, original enterprises crop up in communities i.e. the grafting of fruit trees. These innovations must remain simple and local in order to attain longevity and impact. Anything foreign must be a service that those with less deem useful and therefore will pay for i.e. cell phones. Smillie also mentioned the importance of teaching women new skills and giving girls an education, a theme I keep hearing in different places and from various people.

On the heels of Smillie, Karen Craggs gave her spiel on gender equality and how one person can make a difference. She was the one who voiced my initial question, is anybody okay with the state of the world? The things written on Karen's heart were very similar to the scribbles on my own. Her passion to do something and live out one's principles resonated with my own determination to not waste this life, but that sense of kindred spirit was dampened by her claim that "the universe" was her guide and one only needed to trust "the universe" and they would not go wrong.

Finally, I went to a session led by two Majors and a Colonel from the Canadian Armed Forces. Being a pacifist in principle, I thought it would be interesting and enlightening to hear the perspective of our nation's army. Although their objective is security, not sustainable development, these men and women create the space for recovery of countries in a post-conflict state. It was intriguing to listen to their on-the-ground accounts of time spent in Bosnia, Sierra Leone, Ethiopia, and Afghanistan. One Major commenting on his time spent on the Ethiopia/Eritea/Sudan border said that as part of a team of six, there only line of defense was, "Stop. If you don't stop, I'll say 'stop' again." Their mention of "the law of unintended consequences" is one that will stay with me as well. Our good intentions, especially ones born of guilt, can snowball into unwanted scenarios. One uniformed peace officer handing out toys from a marked vehicle creates an association that future envoys probably won't welcome. The last insight shared by the soldiers was that much of the conflict in Afghanistan gets blamed on the Taliban when in reality it is the work of those trying to control the opium industry. Interestingly enough, the Taliban is happy to receive credit for these incidents.

Except for the last panel session (where the three panelists seemed most interested in promoting their organizations and crying about lack of funds), the "What's Next?" conference was well done, but it addressed more of "what was" and "what is" instead of "what's next". It was good to share and critique about how to make the world a fairer, better place for all people. It was very good. It is what I want to do and how I want to spend my life. Still, for all our systems and strategies, there will always be failure and frustration. We will always have the poor with us. That's what someone I love tells me, but he also tells me not to despair because he has overcome the world. I am not okay with the state of the world, but I think the key to making it okay means changing the state of hearts, not economies.

The Last Five Weeks and the Next Eight Months.

2010-05-30T17:29:00.004-04:00

Being back in Bolivia was both cathartic and cruel. Cathartic because it satisfied the sense of withdrawal inside me and quenched the longing to squeeze the girls with hugs and kiss their precious cheeks. Cruel because five weeks flew by way too fast and departing so quickly seemed unnatural.

Quite frankly, it felt unnatural to be the visitor. On several occasions, I needed to have a talk with myself to put me in my place. In some respects, jumping right in was simple and needed. On other levels, my input needed to be reigned in. It seemed quite normal for me to tell Daniela to clean out the garbage can or reprimand Yesi for playing instead of studying. Translating and providing leadership to teams were part of my job but not the whole parcel as before. Money matters and construction purchases were no longer my responsibility. The whole five weeks was touch and go as I tried to maneveur myself through what was formerly known as my life and home. I even refrained from removing the blender from the place where my coffee maker used to be in the kitchen.

Some things happened as if they had never stopped; trips to the Ayore village and wine on the porch, visits from Greg and calling taxis to 'la casa de Alison'. My old housemate, Adreana still loves her bed and Heather, the other housemate, continues to rise before the sun. Risky, the dog was more volatile than ever, but Cali, the cat, crawled onto my lap and curled up as if I'd never left. 'Los Chinos' came and went, playing with the girls and loving Bolivia as they do every year. The South American Mission prayer meeting kept meeting and Rosa served up her best dishes of pulled pork and chicken enchiladas. As my brother, Derek, commented, "That lady has perfected North American cuisine!"

Like I wrote, five weeks flew by. When Timmy and Melinda drove me to the airport it seemed slightly backward. They have always left while I stayed behind. I'm not sure what this longing is that burns inside me. Is it an ache for the circle of friends and sense of belonging that I'm leaving behind? Or is it a call to a new work in Bolivia that won't be ignored? A sense of closure evades me but, at least I know where I'll be for the next eight months. As I walked through the park with a Columbian man and a Congolese boy this afternoon, I realized that if I can't be abroad than Welcome Home is the next best thing, maybe better. Time will fly and time will tell but it is this moment that matters. Pining over the past would paralyze me but seizing the day liberates me to serve and spend my life well. The last five weeks were tremendous and the next eight months will be just as memorable.

He Speaks

2010-04-10T22:57:00.003-04:00

My world is no longer one colour, one language, and one look. It is multi-hued, multi-tongued, and varied. The nations are at the door of my heart and they are knocking it down.

This past Wednesday, I joined my friends Insaf and Nour for their prayer group. It was not my first time and as usual I tried my awkward best to field the greetings and remember how many kisses are the norm in Iraqi culture. Even though I only understand a few words in Arabic, being there feels right and good. This group knows God and God knows them.

During prayer time, there was a profound sense that God was present, filling the room. One lady prayed for me, in English, she asked the Lord to expand my territory and since I had been responsible with a little, that He would give me more. As a chorus of 'amens' rose around the circle, my flesh balked and said 'no' while my spirit lept and said 'yes'. I have questioned my current role so often and wondered if I really have what it takes to manage people and programs. Although very good things, the added weight of working at Welcome Home plus the upcoming trip to Bolivia have combined to cause some stress. There's a verse in Ecclesiastes 10 that says, "If the ax is dull and its edge unsharpened, more strength is needed but skill will bring success." I feel like that ax; the right tool but slow and dull to do the job. I think I have the skills but not the strength to bring success.

Tonight, I visited a new Spanish church. It was suggested by a friend that I check it out. This friend used to be part of an old order Mennonite congregation. The church I went to was not your horse and buggy style meeting place. It was alive and throbbing with the Holy Spirit's fire. After an energetic time of singing, the worship leader called for a time of prophecy. The first recipient of a word was the new 'muchacha' standing in the middle of the sanctuary. I was like, "Yo?! Me?!" I approached the front and the glowing, young woman told me this in Spanish:

"You have been dry and searching. You have felt alone. You have not been able to sleep at nights. You have no idea but there is a heavy calling around you, a great work that the Lord wants you to do."

This stranger saw straight through me and spoke to my very soul. Never in my life have I had such a struggle sleeping as I have in the last two months. My journal is full of searching questions as I seek to understand what I need to do next and where I need to do it. I am alone. I am single and all I hear is the Lord whispering to me, "Though he linger, wait for him."

That girl didn't speak to me, God spoke to me. He speaks and I better sharpen my listening skills and polish up the spirit by which I will hear His voice to do His work with success, skill and by His strength. The nations are knocking and someone needs to open the door.

Looking for a Church

2010-04-05T19:29:00.006-04:00

I am weary and wary of church. Having just moved to Kitchener-Waterloo, I am in the market for a new place to meet, gather, and worship on Sundays. To say 'market' isn't a stretch either. Looking on the Internet for a congregation is akin to trying find Mr. Right on eHarmony. Each church is trying to sell herself as the perfect match for my spiritual needs. Some of the newer bodies of believers advertise a fresh, new way to look at spirituality; places where you will find peace and acceptance. One young man through video testimony tells the listener that "church changed his life". Most of these types of churches call themselves 'cool' names like "The Gathering", "The Meeting House", or "The Journey". These titles are not wrong, after all, the early church followed "The Way". I also recognize that the church I most affiliate myself with calls herself "The Pathway". I suppose that these names just seem to be a brand, a brand of church that wants to portray Christianity in an attractive and desirable light, created to satisfy the individual and provide a non-threatening atmosphere for people to encounter God.

To their credit, many of these churches have a strong emphasis on community and of putting faith into action. In this way, they trump the traditional church which for the most part seems content to spout doctrine and denomination over deeds. Both the emerging church and the established church are the bride of Christ and this blog is full of sweeping generalizations of the kind that I mostly dislike, but I'm trying to purge this cynicism that burns within me before it creates unbecoming blisters on my heart. Perhaps I should lay aside the writings of Brother Yun, the pastor called to wake the Western Church from her slumber and self-centeredness so that she can truly lay down her life, take up the cross and recognize that it is not church that changes lives, but Christ. Maybe I'll start my own church brand and call her "The Cost" or "The Sacrifice".

A church should be very careful how it 'markets' herself because quite honestly, it all seems a little cheap and a little too easy to follow Jesus these days.

With Eyes, Ears, Nose, and Hands Wide Open

2010-03-27T15:34:00.004-04:00

For as much as I dislike public displays of affection, the groping couple certainly does not deserve lashings nor time in prison. Imagine that in certain countries it is illegal to own a pig and tank tops are the garb of whores. If you accidently ran over someone, you would pay a high fine but if you outright shot someone, you would be shot on the spot. I have read and heard of far off, severe places but now I'm told of those realities by people who call these places home.

Last week, at Value Village, I was with a friend from Welcome Home. As we perused the blazer section, one of the employees was conversing with a friend. All at once, the VV employee burst into tears and wailing. I had been eavesdropping but my friend with her level two English believed the woman had lost a loved one. In her country, a person only laments as such when there is a death. I slowly and simply tried to explain that the lady was crying over her drug-addict boyfriend who had recently dumped her and the hassle she was receiving from others for jumping into a rebound relationship with some other deadbeat. Welcome to Canada, land of the free but enslaved by sensationalism.

I spent the morning with this same friend enjoying the sweetness of Elmira's Maple Syrup Festival. It was her's and my first time. The traffic creeped and crawled into town and the main street was overloaded with people and smells. The thick smoke of sizzling pork and frying beef sent my vegetarian companion into fits of disgust. Despite her revulsion, she could not stop staring at the entire pig laid out on the grill and the cooks who pulled chunks of meat from it's corpse. She had never seen swine before and was even more amazed when we passed by a live sow with her ten piglets at "Old McDonald's Farm".

Every five minutes, she would let out a scream as other revellers would pass by with their dogs...on leashes...and many with muzzles. Nothing I could say would stop her from freaking out and digging her nails into my arm flesh. Her fear was mixed with fascination. If it was a small dog, she would kiss her fingers and nervously scratch the person's pet. As children walked by, she would touch them and speak with them as the parent's watched with slight suspicion. Two children sat with elaborate face paint in a wagon being pulled by their father. My friend, intrigued by their faces, leaned over, touched their cheeks, and tried to rub it off.

My friend's enthusiasm rubbed off on me, opening my eyes to the quirks and traits of both cultures. At one point, as we weaved our way down the sidewalk, my cousin's husband appeared. I had not seen him in years so I shook his hand. My friend grabbed my arm and immediately squirted hand sanitizer into my palm. This led to some awkward chit chat as I tried to divert attention from her act of hygenic concern even while the smell of alcohol wafted through the air. I'm not sure who to thank for that situation, her religion's emphasis on cleanliness or the Canadian obsession with killing bacteria. Either way, the days are full of adventure and my eyes are opened wider and wider to the severity and the levity of life in a multi-cultural world.

Rest and Refuge

2010-02-03T21:47:00.003-04:00

Last Thursday I decided to work at "Welcome Home" and this past Saturday, I moved in. "Welcome Home" is a temporary place of residence for refugees seeking asylum in Canada. They can stay up to six months and in some cases, as long as a year. So far, so really good.

Except for not sleeping well the last four nights, life and the people here have been a delightfully welcome addition to my days. The bed I was given was creaky, too short, and dangerous. On the first day, I sat on the foot of the bed and the head went flying up. On the first night, at about 3 a.m., I rolled over and the box spring fell off the frame and onto the floor with a bang. The second night, I awoke to the sound of repeated banging and thought a door was open and flying in the wind. Instead, as I peeked out the window with eyes dry from lack of sleep, I saw a John Deere tractor plowing the back parking lot, hitting the building with it's shovel with each push. Apparently, I'm supposed to get up and move my car when the snowplow comes. Lord, please let winter, or at least the snow, be over. Thankfully, my brother, Dan, and our friend, Dave came and brought me another bigger, slightly better bed, so rest came easier to my tired body last night.

Although physically tired, I've eased into this place quickly. Granted, I have a lot of ropes to learn still, but I'm intrigued and feeling pretty good about this move. I've laughed to the point of tears and been stirred by the absolute tragedy of the circumstances my new friends are facing. One lady is convinced that we are spying on her and suspect her of possessing a bomb. However, because of her accent, this is what I heard," What? Dey tink I haf a bum? I haf no bum. Dey look behind me to see if I haf a bum, but I haf no..no bum!" Meanwhile, she may not have a bomb, but her bum is quite "thick", as she herself described it. As my co-worker, James, breezed passed her back and forth, this same lady commented to me, "He not James, he Windy!" My laughing knew no bounds as I considered the other more flatulent meaning behind his new name.

Refugees come to Canada because they hear it is a welcoming country. When they arrive, they imagine that they are finally safe and free from the horror and danger left behind them. However, most people see them as money mongers, leeches to our system, or an open door for criminals to enter. From my brief orientation, I understand that 98% of refugees are honest and truly fleeing impossible, life threatening circumstances. The Canadian government sends 60% of these vulnerable victims back to their terrifying places of origin. After four days, I can truly say that it would sadden and anger me to see any one of these beautiful people sent back to the hell they so recently escaped. My prayer is not only that I would sleep well but that each one of these individuals would find rest and refuge, in Canada and in Christ.

The Voodoo Factor

2010-01-16T22:17:00.005-04:00

"The person who fears God will avoid all extremes." Ecclesiastes 7:18. To say that the earthquake in Haiti is the direct result of a "pact with the devil" is an extreme and simplistic response to a horrific catastrophe. Imagine the grieving hearts of the family of Christ who call Haiti home when they hear this callous conclusion that some of their spiritual siblings are espousing for all the world to hear. However, to say that the devil had nothing to do with this disastrous event is another extreme that denies an inherent facet of Christian belief. The sum of humanity is body, soul, and mind. The world and all that's in it is both physical and spiritual. Life is threatened by one who prowls, seeking to devour and destroy.

It is no secret that Haitian life is seeped in the practice of Voodoo. 75% of the population claims to be Catholic and 75% of Catholics practice Voodoo. Esteemed and glorified as part of their cultural heritage, it is also a custom that retards and kills social change and transformation. It lights little girls on fire and maims youth as rituals. Even secular sources recognize that voodoo is a religion that emphasizes the capriciousness of life and creates high levels of mistrust within communities (David Brooks, The Underlying Tragedy, New York Times). Planning and development in this context is undermined and neglected. As is evident this week, the lack of good planning and the absence of earthquake resistant development has resulted in "stupid death" and unbearable heartache.

There are eloquent tales told where followers of Voodoo baptize themselves in sacred mud pools. Spirits take over their senses and behaviour causing these worshipers to dance endlessly, granting them insane strength and the ability to launch themselves incredible distances. Madame Dread: A Tale of Love, Voodoo, and Civil Strife offers a revealing account of the author's experience and abandonment of voodoo festivals. Initially craving the euphoric state of spiritual possession, Kathie Karreich eventually avoided the practice because it left her exhausted, spent, and fearful. Voodoo is a system of belief that woos the seeker with ecstasy and power but leaves the reveller wasted, stripping his/her soul of life. A majority population existing in this state of mind (at varying levels) does not lend itself to a responsible society intent on betterment.

The state of Haitian society before the earthquake can be attributed to a plethora of reasons. A history of slavery,dictatorship, and coups, the suffocating sanctions of the international community, the slash and burn ethos that has razed the land of nutrients, all these and more fed the vulnerability of Haiti. Even the well intentioned, multi-millioned attempts at aid have delayed development instead of enhancing it. The earthquake itself was simply the sudden, devastating rupture of the earth's crust beneath an unsuspecting and beloved country. Although not the sum of the cause, it would be haste and foolish to completely dismiss the fact that Voodoo and the force behind it has played a part in the deadly drama unfolding before us today.

Haiti, my heart bleeds for you and my prayers plead your cause.

Inside of Me

2010-01-01T19:18:00.004-04:00

There's a resistance inside of me. A restless concoction of desire for something more than average. I don't always live in ways that correspond with this nature that resides within. Sometimes, I bow to slothfulness and submit to the ho-hum. That's why I read. I read books about other places and interesting people in the hope that their adventures and experiences will somehow be mine if I just press my eyes shut and envision it hard enough. An image will strike me, cause me to pause, and I slip away from here for a few seconds.
For a few seconds, I am no longer seated on the brick stoop of my parent's wood stove, but I'm bumping along a precarious stretch of steep mountain road in Pakistan. For a few seconds, the warmth on my back becomes the sultry heat of the Santa Cruz sierra. In a moment, the night obscures my movements as I make my way to a barely lit cave and a gathering of secret Jesus loyalists. In a flash, I land in Iraq and see the shards of glass protruding from a charred taxi as blood streams down the street and pools in the gutter. Why can't I resign myself to the ordinary and for what purpose am I constantly dogged by the mystique and misery of this world?
Although a new thing springs up, I have yet to perceive it.

A Lighthearted Read.

2009-12-14T19:37:00.011-04:00

After reading many books based on persecution, world hunger, and the dying spiritual state of the majority world, I was becoming a tad too serious. As my heart became heavier and my thoughts drifted into a place of dread more often than not, my mom suggested that I crack open some lighter hearted literature. She then produced a book called, Dewey-The Small-Town Library Cat Who Touched the World, by Vicki Myron.

With hesitation and some reluctance, I decided to take a break from the hard-core books and read the cat book. Apparently, Dewey was and continues to be infamous around the globe. Left in a library drop-box one inhumanely cold night of winter, Dewey put the small town of Spencer on the map. Dewey's fame brought in cat lovers from as far as Japan and people would drive for hours just to take their picture with the Garfieldesque feline. Not only did he beef up the tourism industry for a town hidden by cornfields, but he was the main instrument of healing and counsel for innumerable relationships. I find it incredible that a fluffy pet generated such support and loyalty from a multitude of people all around the world. Individuals as far as New York sent money to help feed the unsuspecting superstar of Spencer, Iowa. Dewey was not your average cat. He only ate the most expensive foods and only for a few weeks at a time before he would decide that he was ready for a new flavour to satisfy his picky palate.

From what I understand, Dewey suffered from a chronic case of constipation that eventually killed him, so I'm willing to cut the lynx some slack. Besides, he was a goodlooking cat (see photo) and seemingly special when compared to his reclusive, stuck-up relatives. I just hope that these same people who so fondly expended their energy and finances to embrace and feed a cat are aware of the more pressing needs of world hunger and acute destitution that encroach major parts of the globe. With about $40 million being spent on pet food today and only $5 million on food aid (in Europe and the USA), I doubt it. (see real time statistics from stopthehunger.com)

So much for some light reading.

The Good News

2009-11-13T18:15:00.006-04:00

Brilliant whiteness and ebony skin, Laker Irene's smile and laugh are inexplicably delightful. You have to see that wide grin and hear her hilarious chortle to understand how infectious it really is. Laker Irene is one of several ladies who make up the MEND project for Invisible Children (IC). According to the Facebook site, MEND is an internationally inspired brand that seeks to provide innovative handbags while at the same time repairing the lives of women in Northern Uganda. Each bag bears the name of the woman who stitched it together. Each bag is story-driven. I like that. I really like that.

A friend pointed out that he disliked the arrogant, "America-to-the-rescue" attitude of Invisible Children. After listening to a few more videos, I agree that there is a current of America's hyper-confidence running through the medium, but I still love the philosophy behind MEND. Despite the bravo of IC's belief that Obama's word will speak rescue and recovery into existence in Northern Uganda, each clip of the MEND ladies was like a serving of sweetness, stirring up joy in my soul. These moms and widows are resisting despair and rising to dignity with each stitch they sew and every bag we buy.

A mom I know is so passionate about her homeland, that she struggles to live in Canada because her heart beats in Iraq. Recently she told me, "Other women, they spend their money on clothes and make-up. Me? I spend on phone calls to Iraq." Her visits to the Middle East are packed with service and heart-felt generosity towards the Church, the poor, the refugees, and to women and children. She can not stop giving. She gives when there is nothing left to offer. She is even giving her daughter away to live, marry, and minister there. Her tales have so inspired me that after Bolivia, my next trip could very well be Iraq.

The same article that saddened me with it's tales of girls enslaved to the sex trade in India also edified me through it's accounts of dignity restored. Not every story has a happy ending but sometimes the plotting of police and lawyers ends the nightmare for a few. The author shares this endearing scene,

"Thirty-plus teenage girls are excited today. They won't have to service customers, nor will they be beaten. Actually, these girls haven't had to service customers for months. They live in a privately-operated safe house, and today my colleagues, the IJM (International Justice Mission) social workers, are throwing a party for them....

The girls have been practicing songs and dance routines. They are eager to please the guests, they exude satisfaction when we applaud. They dance, they laugh, they bicker, and they chat - they're typical teenage girls. Yet they've endured so much."
(Brian Bevilacqua, Bombay Traffic)

The image of a mass of chattering teenage girls, buzzing around without fear, soothes and consoles me in profound ways. It assures me that in the face of atrocity, hope lives. In the darkness of hideous sins, a light shines and restoration shatters the confines of sin into pieces of a new puzzle that these young ladies can start to put together again.

Stories of restoration and light prevailing bring balance to my heart and mind. Prone to dwell on the worst, it does my eyes good to read about Ugandan women who beat the odds instead of being beaten or teenage girls who now dance for fun instead of man's sick pleasure. As for my Iraqi sister, she has shown me what true dedication and sincere sacrifice to a cause and a King look like as a lifestyle. There is no work more urgent, no labour more essential, and no effort more vital than that of bringing God's kingdom to earth as it is in heaven...Laker Irene's smile tells me so.

The Bad News.

2009-10-28T11:49:00.005-04:00

Images of youth with their lips and noses hacked off, the story of an Iraqi doctor kidnapped and tortured, and pictures of juvenile prostitutes swathed in vibrant saris tell the pervasive story of evil, abuse, and injustice unfolding in countless countries. Lately, I have been tracking more and more with the coverage of horrific realities that the majority of the world deals with day after day. In part, this is due to my new role at International Teams. On the other hand, Facebook has opened up entire new venues for staying informed. One of those venues is the day to day updates that I receive from Invisible Children.

Up until recently, I had not realized that I.C. was singularly involved with disbanding the Lord's Resistance Army and the removal of Joseph Kony as the leader of that army. Past reads leave no doubt that the terror Kony is inflicting on five countries in Eastern Africa is bolstered and fueled by the minions of hell. Witnesses recount that the eyes of Kony turn red and I have read that he is frequently posessed by a myriad of demons...where the spirit of a deceased person inhabits the man for a time in order to accomplish some heinious task. Countless thousands of children have been abducted and enlisted under atrocious duress to fight against the government in a war that is more about one man's insatiable drive for power than any viable purpose. After a failed attempt at peace in 2008, Kony reacted in appalling fashion by cutting off the lips and noses of random innocent people, massacring countless others, and abducting over a hundred orphans, sending a clear message to the international community that he is no where near relinquishing his caustic command of terror.

Terror, abductions, and torture seek to reign in communities all around the world. A couple of weeks ago, I met a new friend. Insaf Safou is the International Teams program leader for Impact Iraq. Although she has lived in Canada for a decade, her heart resides in the Middle East. After several hours and edible Iraqi delights, it became clear that this woman is driven by God to defend the helpless and build up the church in her homeland. As we sifted through hundreds of photos, she shared the stories behind the pictures. The subject of one photo was an older gentleman. With a battered face and bandaged arms, he maintained a semblance of dignity by the way he raised his chin and looked at the camera. A Christian doctor, one day he was kidnapped and stolen away by an unidentified group. For an entire month, he was strung up from the ceiling with his hands tied behind his back. Not once was he set free to go the washroom or shower and only on occasion was he given a table to stand on to release the strain of being hung by his arms. Upon payment of a ransom, the abductors released him to his wife and family.

Release from prostitution is the hope of multitudes of abducted girls in India. Abducted or bought to be placed in the sex trade, girl after girl finds herself trapped in brothels at their physical expense and to the benefit of sleazy pimps. These children and young ladies endure endless abuses at the hands of 10 to 20 men every night. Even on their death beds, they are forced to perform. The brilliance of fabrics and paint that frame the entrances to these perverted dens downplay the severity and add to the repulsiveness of the atrocities happening inside. International Justice Mission along with local lawyers and police are working tirelessly to free the unwilling prostitutes and bring their abductors to justice.

Justice is required. Along with kindness and a humble walk with God, the pursuit of justice is what I long for. The three examples of depravity above are not meant to numb us into inaction but stir us into activity. Reading the truth about how the majority of the world lives should not depress us but drive us to defend and protest these wrongs. In this brief article, I have mentioned three agencies who are actively opposing corruption and steadfastly advocating on behalf of the suffering. Look them up on-line. Get involved. Do something. At the very least, be informed and aware that not everyone lives snug as a bug in their home sweet home.

Redefining Me.

2009-10-17T15:54:00.002-04:00

The snow is coming. A few flakes fluttered down this past Thursday. Besides the dread of bad roads and cold that bites the skin, I am relishing the brusque air and the way it leaves the trees radiating the hues of autumn. Slippers grace my feet and the woodstove glows every evening. The smell of apples cooking in pies, cakes, and muffins is synonymous with the season and my mom's efforts to meet my dad's not-so-subtle hints for apple treats. All the sights and smells bleed familiarity and entice me with their sweetness. There is no shortage of goodness in my life.

Life is good but my bleeding heart still grieves. I miss Bolivia.

In Bolivia, I know who I am. I'm Marge. Marge, the master of pizza on Tuesday nights and queen of Shepherd's pie for Friday lunch, who brought groups of girls to Hotel Flamingo and taught them about Jesus, prayer, and how to play a game of Hearts. Marge baked and hosted anyone and everyone who wanted to come for a visit, share a meal, or use the Internet for awhile. Marge would whip up to the airport to pick up a team, lead them through the sights and work of Santa Cruz, and send the group back home with a desire to come back for more. Marge plucked out silly songs with her limited guitar skills and longed to show love to children who were more familiar with the back of a hand than a stroke of affection on the face.

There is no Marge in Canada.

But there is an Auntie 'M'. There is a daughter blessed by parents who care for and provide for her. There is a sister who's brothers and their wives show undeserved admiration and support. There is a friend, although she be changed, who appreciates and savours the laughs and memories of years past. Sara Groves sings,"I've been painting pictures of Egypt, leaving out what it lacked, the future feels so hard and I want to go back. But the places that used to fit me can not hold the things I've learned." A return to Bolivia would be fabulous. It would also be an escape from the difficulties that face me here. I just want to fit better in this present place.

Lord, make me a servant. Take me as you find me, all my fears and failures. Lord, fill my life again.

Drop the Wood.

2009-09-23T11:07:00.004-04:00

Sophie and Nikki saw me coming around the corner of the driveway and ran toward me. Nikki was in the lead but kept checking behind her to make sure Sophie wouldn't pass her unexpectantly. Along the way, Sophie paused long enough to pick up a piece of wood. Both girls had joined me when Nikki decided that she wanted the timber. A vicious tug-of-war began and I opted to walk on instead of getting caught in the middle of a fight. As I reached the door, the pulling was at a stand still but neither girl would admit defeat by letting go of the wood. I turned into the house and thought, "Stupid dogs."

"Stupid is right!" That's what my dad would say. Ten minutes later the two ladies maintained their stiff postures, staring each other down, and fiercely gripping the log by their teeth. That piece of wood represented a game of toss and Nikki wasn't willing to lose ground nor my attention to Sophie. Her jealous behaviour lost my consideration anyway. They chose bleeding gums and splinters in the tongue over belly rubs and ear scratching. All they had to do was drop the wood and I would have blessed them with the affection they were both so desperate to receive.

Quarrels, discord, jealousy, in-fighting, petty grudges and misguided thinking leave us raw and wounded, trapped in a showdown of wits and pride. Stupid is right. Drop the wood. Receive the blessing.

Right Residence.

2009-09-07T13:04:00.004-04:00

Life in a mud-hut village sounds incredibly attractive to me right now. Poza Verde is a relatively remote cluster of adobe dwellings with a simple, but adequate, cement house set in the furthest corner of the village. The house, occupied by Chiquitano missionaries, Mierta and Cesar, has an empty bedroom with an unfinished, private bathroom. I can envision myself living in that space. In some ways, it is an appealing and exotic image.

Imagine what people would say if I chose to exist along side squatter conditions and took on the task of learning a tribal language. Some would shake their heads with incomprehension and confusion. Others would speak with admiration while emphatically stating that they could never do such a thing. The tranquility and isolation of such a setting is both alluring and terrifying. A commitment to such a place would be long-term and daunting.

Searching the vast and complex regions of my heart calls into question the motive and intent behind the appeal. Honestly, the idea of learning another language is more than a little overwhelming and I'm not so sure that I am ready to devote the next large portion of my life to the Ayore ministry. At the same time, I will take on the task if it be the best place for service in the kingdom. Serving with the Ayoreo means that I could still visit the Cristo Viene girls. Or could it be a mere escape of a life in Canada and the tough decisions that choice would entail?

Staying in Canada means personal reinvention and discovering a new niche in the familiar but poorly fitting attire of my home and native land. It's wardrobe is excessive and there aren't enough hangars in the world to hold the extent of it's extravagance. It is bothersome to know that we camp more comfortably than the majority of the world lives. It makes me want to inflict myself with inconveniences and deprive myself of comforts.

Frustration over conveniences and abundance is not a just reason for returning to Bolivia. To use the Ayore people as a way to spite wealth is wrong. The Ayore people can not be my excuse to stay in connection with the Cristo Viene girl's home. Last of all, they should not be my escape from considering the options before me here or the possibility that perhaps, life in the city of steel is where I need to reside for now.

Lifespan

2009-08-26T23:20:00.009-04:00

Bugs gross me out. Mass groupings of insects send waves of repulsion through my body. For this reason, my nose was more than a little itchy when I saw two strange creatures mating on the back tire of my bike. They were large and seemed too drastically different to be engaging in reproductive activity. The one on top was vividly green, vibrant, and winged while the one on the bottom was the colour of dirt, dreary, and wingless. I grabbed a near-by stick, half-closed my eyes, knocked the mounted pair of my wheel and pedalled off to the camp bathroom.

Shortly after, I searched for the two lovebugs so that I could show my Dad. My Dad is a walking Wikipedia and despite my aversion to insects, curiosity trumped my disgust. I wanted to know what class of gross I was dealing with. Dad readily handled the pair of bugs and quickly pronounced them not two but one...one bug, a cicada. Cicadas emerge from their own bodies as a completely new creature. There is no spinning of a cocoon. It's not even a shedding of skin as a snake would do. Their actual body cracks open and they crawl out with a brand new one.

I know cicada bugs. Cicadas were my constant companion during the dozen years that I worked at a tree nursery. They are those irritating singers in the tops of trees who trill loudly when it's hot...as if we needed reminding. However, last week was the first time that I heard the story of the cicada bug. Dad told me that a cicada lives 11 years underground, tunnels above ground, mates, and dies. No wonder they're so obnoxious, I would be too if I lived such a brief life. The majority of their lifespan is spent beneath the earth. They burst forth from the dank dirt and are released from their drab, grub-like form as a fresh, green creature with the power of flight. That's exciting. That's incredible. All that fanfare happens just so they can mate and die.

With my eyebrow raised, I asked my Dad,"That's it? What's the point?" Both of us shrugged and shook our heads as Dad tried to give the bug a fighting chance on the trunk of a pinetree.

The point is that I am a new creature too. I am new. The old is gone. The span of my life is not long. I want to do more than just tick off a few people with a shrill song. Finding a mate is one of multiple longings stored in my heart, but not the most essential nor urgent. I lived 22 years in darkness. I will spend eternity in the light.

Bike with Me.

2009-08-12T14:03:00.005-04:00

Bikes are the best. Pulling the pedal back with balls of my feet and hopping onto the seat sends me back in time. I drew out a bike from the caverns of the shed and made my way down the swerving drive. The house I grew up in passed on my left, but it isn't the home I remember. The present people have neglected the finer points, like cutting the grass and cleaning up garbage.

Once I hit the road, it was a straight line to Concession four. I opted for the least hilly terrain since it has been a few years and these knees have experienced little of such activity. A bug smacked my forehead and I closed my mouth to prevent potential consumption. The ride was surreal and nostalgic. All my senses told me that I was back home, but my desire to greet two old men on porches with "Buenas tardes!" reminded me that home was two places. So much was the same and so much was different. The masses of stables along the way boast of the success of the near-by racetracks and their accompanying slots. Old man Larry's place is boarded up with plywood and the drunk has probably passed out for his last time. The ditches are still hemmed with Queen Anne's lace and the fragrance of ragweed and honey thistles still sweeten the air. A bloated diaper expands on the gravel side, a common sight in Bolivia, but the seven Tim Horton coffee cups tell me where I really am.
I know where I am but, I don't know where I'm going. A bike ride can be a random diversion through country blocks without a real destination. The point is the ride. The idea isn't to get anywhere but only to absorb the passing beauty and enjoy the exertion of muscles long laid fallow.
I will absorb this blessed life, enjoy the surrounding beauty, and I will find my way home again.

Road Trip

2009-07-29T20:07:00.003-04:00

The first time I left to live in Bolivia was a sobbing, blubbering affair. I was bawling as I hugged my nephews and nieces good-bye for a year and they were crying because it was time for bed. At the airport, Mom weeped, Dad had tears streaking his cheeks, and I hugged my parents longer than I ever had in my life. That first term was almost a year. Initially, it loomed before me like an interminable stretch of Prairie road, but time flies and that first term turned into a five year trip.

From the plains, one sees the foothills long before they are within reach. Although visible, it can take hours for a car to enter the mountain range. A bored passenger will glimpse the mighty precipices on the horizon and be re-energized for the journey...only to have the excitement fade as the clock continues to drag and the scenery remains monotonous.

At times, this is how I feel about going home and about whatever is coming next. Since March, I have had the inner knowledge that I was going home in August. With a ton of teams and the regular routine, the thought of leaving was not at the forefront of my mind. Everyday was filled with the familiar and there was a lot of comfort in "more of the same". Today, the mountains are in sight and the straight, smooth road is about to swerve...almost. The last team has come and gone, the normal activities are tapering off, and I'm booked to fly in a week and a half.

The confusing part is that I don't know where I'm flying to. I'm not sure if I'm leaving home or going home. I have said 'welcome' and 'farewell' so often that my own seems void of meaning. We say the same things to different people over and over again. So much so that I just don't want to hear them said to me nor repeat them to others. Can I infuse "I will miss you" with new energy and meaning or has it become as dull as an endless Saskatchewan plain?

The first time I leave to live in Canada will happen next week Saturday. The next phase in my life is yet to be defined. The road yawns before me and begs me to persevere. I just hope the 'getting-there' hasn't dried up my tears.

Change My Eyes

2009-03-29T11:15:00.004-04:00

Her skinny head turned and looked at me with full brown eyes. She kept munching from a clear, pink plastic bag of scrap food, left in the garbage by some passerby too full to finish. I don't know her name because I didn't take the time to stop. Why didn't I stop? I was on a mission. I had a team. There were stores to hit and souvenirs to buy. Andy and Olya were waiting in the plaza. I was busy. Too busy to care about a young lady dining out of the trash. Now, her eyes won't leave my head.

Something is wrong with my eyes. Something is wrong with my heart when the sight of a human being eating out of the garbage doesn't cause me to stop, talk, and make an offering of real food. My callousness grieves me. "Love must be sincere". This love is in me. He is near me, he is my mouth, and in my heart. Where was it yesterday? I missed the opportunity to feed and love Jesus when I walked past that girl. A puffed up sense that my agenda was more pressing than God's image in need hurried me past the scene. Change my eyes, God, change my heart.

"Do not be proud, but be willing to associate with people of low position." Romans 12:16

1..2..3.., Jesus Loves Me.

2009-03-07T12:26:00.009-04:00

Last year, the girls learned a song in English that begins, "1..2..3.., Jesus loves me..." They nailed the first lyric and then fell into a mumble, jumble of nonsensical words that still sounded really cute. I suppose that they learned all they really needed to know in that first line.

There are three steps that one takes in order to live in the presence of the Lord which are outlined in Hosea 6:1-2, " Come, let us return to the Lord. He has torn us to pieces but he will heal us; he has injured us but he will bind up our wounds. After two days he will revive us; on the third day, he will restore us, that we may dwell in his presence." The return to the Lord is authentic repentance. I refer not to a sense of guilt or regret over the consequences and personal detriment that our wrong brings, but to a wretched place of despair and lament over the sin that occurred and exists in our life. One should not stay in this painful place of poignant grief over sin but after a sufficient and sorrowful recognition of the grief imposed on God and others, move on to the spacious places of revival and restoration. Arriving here is like a homecoming or a spring rain. It is a reclaimation of the knowledge that Jesus love us. However, arrival requires departure and as anyone who flies knows, sometimes departures are delayed.

Departure from depravity is a difficult thing. The more one dabbles in it, the more one becomes entrenched in it. An innocent taste of forbidden fruit becomes the unrestrained indulgence of repeated offenses which are inherited by generation after generation. It is diabolicol and rooted in the kingdom of Satan. I am convinced that we have frosted the truth of the spiritual battle with the icing of what is sensible and grounded in reason. We do not want to talk about the reasons why a man in Saskatchewan would slice and decapitate a stranger on a bus, putting the pieces of the body into his pockets. We want to avoid the reality that there is a 14 year old girl who has memories of being raped by uncles and their friends at the age of two. Where do these twisted and hideous impulses come from? In a distant village, parents are selling their own children to men who will buy them for $100 a night...and then, the mother and father sit and wait while the 'customer' gets his money's worth. The question remains, where do these despicable and destructive desires come from?

The devastation of depravity is not so distant to me anymore. It is as near as the Cristo Viene girls whom I love and evident in the Ayore villages where I spend my Wednesdays. It has ventured so close as to effect my dreams and burden my spirit. I woke up sobbing this morning. My last dream before waking up was of me scooping up a little waif of a toddler boy who was being violated by a group of men. In my dream, I pushed my way through the small mob, crying out the name of Jesus, and took up the dark haired victim into my arms. One person challenged my right to stop their activity. I knew in my sleeping state that I have no right, but Jesus has every right and God decided that I (we) would have the authority to prevent these atrocities in the name of his son, Jesus Christ.

Do not insulate yourselves and imagine that these atrocities are taking place 'somewhere else'. The faces in my dream were familiar and left me with the distinct impression that these abuses are not relegated to Bolivia. Although this dream was intensely disturbing for me, I am not left without hope. In fact, my disgust moves me to fight and stirs up such a determination within me that I wonder where and how to expend my offended sense of justice and righteousness. Please pray with me and my companions that we would be shielded from depression and hopelessness. Please pray that adults and children alike, the perpetrators and the victims, would be repentant, revived, and restored to the awareness of Jesus' love and live in his presence.

My Beautiful Life

2009-02-04T21:18:00.006-04:00

I am looking older. Don't deny it, I know it's true, and it's okay. Most of the wrinkles come from laughing... some are from sadness. I had some wee pictures done today so that I can buy my permanent residence VISA in Bolivia. Those awful things made me look haggard and skeletal. Seriously, I need to put on some weight.

The weight of familial struggles has made being in Santa Cruz a little more difficult. Usually one to handle stress well, I believe that this time I am feeling the effects of the heartbreaking reality of the ones I love. God's grace has carried me through and his graciousness has allowed me to have some amusing moments. One of the Spanish words for 'funny' is 'gracioso'. I don't think that is a coincidence.

Yesterday, a group of us went to the airport to pick up a new guy, Andy Schwab. Ten minutes after departing the airport, I looked to the left and saw two police officers on a bike. Despite my admonitions to the other passengers to not look to the left, the pair of law enforcers motioned for Andrew, the driver, to pull over. Four white people in a vehicle equals free lunch for two for the entire week...if they pay the bribe. The uniformed men requested Andrew's licence and asked where the insurance and maintenance stickers were; a license was presented but the stickers had yet to be stuck. Hence, they told us that we must head directly to 'transito' (headquarters), not pass go, and pay the 100 boliviano fine. They followed the van as we went on our way.

At the next stoplight, Andrew entered on a green but, due to the unfathomable lengths of the intersection, the light turned red before he reached the other side. The green and white clad officers motored up beside us and frantically waved at us to pull over, all the while yelling, "What's the matter with you? Don't you know how to drive?" The bad cop (although I'm not sure which one was the good cop), approached Andrew and began to treat him in less than nice ways. Mr Not-so Nice announced that because Andrew was an unfit driver, they would have to confiscate the vehicle.

Up to this point, I had been seated behind Andrew, quietly counselling him to stay calm and patient. However, when that cop went off like that on my friend, something tripped in my head. All I can say is that I would never speak to an OPP officer in the manner that I addressed this sir yesterday morning. After a brief chat with our director, we were advised to offer the man 50 Bs and assure him that the stickers would be purchased and stuck on the windshield within hours. We opted to not offer the bribe. Instead, we found ourselves on our way to transito again in order to pay the fine.

A third time, the officers veered off to the side and we followed suit. I called, " Here comes the bribe"...and it came....all dressed in white. We paid and went on our way for 50 Bs.

That was yesterday. Today we almost BBQed a small rat but that is a morsel of a tale best served on another day.

Of Rats and Senores

2009-01-24T13:05:00.002-04:00

Adreana and I returned home from our time back in North America and were warmly welcomed by a committee of rats. The warmth came not from the rodents but from the weather and the band of furried brothers had taken up residence in our washing machine. Every day they enjoyed a free continental breakfast as they munched on the buffet of veggies and fruits that have grown up out of our compost and gladly helped Risky, my dog, finish off his chow. A kindly and attractive techinician came and carried off our washer, returning it the very next day. We are grateful to be able wash clothes again, especially since we were using our neigbours and his machine is also on it's way out.

Speaking of rats, about half a year ago, Senor Orlando showed up at my door. He was vending bags of sweets and looking for old shoes and broken down electrical appliances in an attempt to generate support for a home of boys from the streets. He was amicable and even spoke of a missionary couple that I know from Youth with a Mission. He even wore an official (albeit faded) name tag pinned to his shirt pocket. Every couple of weeks, Orlando would show up, we would chat and I would hand over any odds and ends that would help his ministry. A couple days before I left on my most recent trip home, Orlando mentioned that their centre also did wood work and if we ever needed furniture made that we should contact them. Adreana and I have been talking about getting a book shelf for quite some time. I mentioned it and before I knew it, he had me contracting him to build it for us. I gave him 200 bolivianos and told him that he could deliver it when I came back in January.

A couple days after my January 5th return, Senor Orlando rang our bell. It was a cheery reunion as we sat on our patio and caught up. He told me that they had been 100 bolivianos short on the shelf but that it could be done and delivered by the next day. I was also invited to a program that evening for 200+ people which addressed the dangers of drugs and life on the streets. However, the presentation was a DVD and they didn't have a player....

I never would have handed over my DVD player if it weren't for the scripture that I had been meditating on when the doorbell buzzed. I had just finished reading and underlining (in red pen) Romans 2:13, "For it is not those who hear the law who are righteous in God's sight, but it is those who obey the law who will be declared righteous." In conjunction with that, I was thinking about how we should give freely, without restraint, and how when someone asks something of you, you should give it without expecting anything in return. With this verse in my mind, I was asked by a man, whom I only knew in passing, to lend him my DVD player. Needless to say, we won't be watching any movies this weekend and our books remain stored in bins and mildew.

Although it gets me really miffed to think that I've been conned, I believe that if I hadn't given what he asked for, I would have been wracked with the sense that I fallen short of righteousness...especially considering the immediate context of verses that I had been meditating on. Perhaps, Senor Orlando will still return and I will have been wrong about his rat nature...then again, the cell phone number he gave me is a direct line to someone whose name is not Orlando.

The rats are still around but between shovel beatings and poison, we will exterminate them. I have faint hope that Senor Orlando will return and if he does I have entertained thoughts of giving him a righteous slap on the face....just to be honest.

The Micah Challenge

2008-12-26T14:18:00.006-04:00

Calvinettes was where I spent most of my Friday nights in my early adolescent years. I suppose this club could be likened to the Girl Guides but, with a Christian Reformed twist. These days the group is called GEMS, perhaps because we are meant to be "little Christs" and not "little John Calvins". The club revolved around attaining badges and making crafts. The few badges that I did aquire rarely made it to my scarf (my mom was not inclined to sew) and craft time was personally arduous, to say the least.

Those badges may have been forgotten in my mom's sewing box, but the citation that we repeated at the beginning of every night is triple stiched into my head. Our counselors would ask,"Calvinettes, what does the Lord, your God require of you?" All Calvinettes would respond,"To do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with our God. Micah 6, verse 8." The significance of those requirements did not move me much then, but today they are the push behind my shove.

The desire to battle injustice presses inside me, pushing me to do more, to live purposefully, and to figure out the best way to act according to my convictions. I doubt that I am the only Christ follower who feels the urgency to do something along with the exasperation of not knowing how to follow that lead. In fact, I am convinced that inaction is the reason why so many Christians end up complacent and spiritually stunted. Repentance and sorrow over sin has led to salvation but salvation never led to a readiness to see justice done (1 Corinthians 7:10,11). The joy of the Lord ceases when the strength he gives us isn't used to bring his kingdom on earth as it is in heaven.

My brothers once took me to a movie they had already seen because they wanted to watch me cry. Tears are a good gauge to figure out where God wants you to live out His will. If there is nothing that gets your ire up and causes righteous angst within you, stop reading and continue your pleasant, shallow life. Somehow your salvation did not produce indignation, alarm, nor concern for those who have been wronged or injured. Idle living is sinful. Stop doing it and learn to do right! Isaiah 1:17.

The problem that exists for the rest of us is determining what wrong(s) we must address amongst the multitude of atrocities to choose from. Sadly, the options are endless. In the last few weeks, I have weeped over child soldiers in the Congo, daughters as young as 5 being sold to brothels in Thailand and Cambodia, and elderly residents being abandoned by family in a retirement home in Brantford. Who will rescue them from their savage environments? Who is speaking up, loud and indignant, for those who have been silenced and violated? Thankfully, there are a plentitude of organizations, such as International Justice Mission, the Christian and Missionary Alliance, and my own mission, International Teams working on behalf of those who are defenseless and weak. The Tamminga family, called by God, along with their staff, have embraced the retired and forgotten. Who will you embrace? What indecency can you work to make right in the name of Jesus?

Not surprisingly, I am still craft-challenged but, the admonition to do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with my God remains embedded in my head. Living out this mandate will break your heart but God will use those cracks as the means to pour out His spirit. That which breaks your heart is the very thing that needs your time, your money, your voice, and your love. The Lord our God requires Micah 6:8 of us. Although we may meet these requirements imperfectly, we must seek justice, encourage the oppressed, defend the fatherless, and plead the case of widows. These are the causes that were seeded into my heart through a verse memorized years ago and the standard by which I long to abide for all the years to come.

Bazaar Banking Interaction

2008-11-13T16:58:00.002-04:00

Here follows my strange, only-in-North America experience at the bank:

After requesting what I'm sure was my 100th replacement for a lost ATM card, I was directed to Malorie, who kindly guided me through the process of getting a better, smarter VISA card for my buck and business. Little did she know was that my "business" was not your typical run of the mill variety. Here are some bits and pieces of that bazaar banking interaction:

Malorie - "Oh dear, it says here that you're a 'minister of religion', is that true?"
Marcee - "Well, I'm actually a missionary at a girl's home in Bolivia, so I guess that was the closest thing to who I am."
Malorie (slightly thrown off) - "Really? So, I guess you can't, but do you want to be a priest or something?"

Malorie - "Can I ask you a few questions? Good, what are three of your financial goals?
Marcee - "Ahhh, I don't know, maybe get some new clothes every year. Honestly, when I die, I don't plan on having too much stuff. If I have enough for the basic necessities every month and I can provide for the home and ministry, I'll be happy."
Malorie - "Ohhhh,....that's so....spiritual. I mean, I'm just so used to the SW Ontario lifestyle you know...fast paced and modern."

And finally,

Malorie - "Can I talk with you about opening a savings account? You only need to keep $5000 in it in order to make 2.5% interest."
Marcee - "Miss, I would never have that much money just sitting around. It would be given away somehow."
Malorie - "Oh, wierd, I mean, that's so spiritual. You would just give it away to the children?"

This was the gist of the conversation to the best of my ever short memory.

God's Nose is not in the Newspaper

2008-10-29T10:43:00.006-04:00

The combination of a father and his newspaper usually makes a Q & A session from a child an impossibility. Assuming that this scenario transcends personal experience, every kid who has tried to squeeze an answer out of Dad while he reads the daily news can testify that their efforts were in vain. The question, "Dad, is it okay if I go to Susie's after school today?" and the question, "Dad, do you mind if we take little Danny out and use him for target practice with Roman firecrackers?" will receive the same response, "Hmmm? Mmm, hmph." Occasionally the answer will vary to, "Go ask your mom."

Sometimes, the dismissive, unattentive reply is exactly what the child desires. He or she is not looking for a clear answer, he/she wants a vague answer that can be interpreted in favour of what the child really wants to do. Other times, a son or daughter does need a thoughtful, considerate response from their father. Questions about the future, about big purchases, about work, or about beliefs weigh heavy and are lightened by the insight of a wise parent.

I am a King's kid with questions. Once upon a time, God would speak clearly to me through Scripture and the Holy Spirit regarding specific decisions that I had to make. Something happened that made me skittish and hesitant to believe that the Lord speaks to me and I can actually hear him. It has effected our relationship and changed the way we spend time together. I shy away from seeking answers and keep my questions to myself.

But God's nose is not in the newspaper. He gladly puts down the printed page and gives his full attention to the inquiries of his children. King David consulted the Lord all the time. All his military moves were directed and approved by God. The amazing part is that the Lord's responses went far beyond a mere nod or shake of the head. I have heard people say that God always answers prayer with "yes", "no", or "wait". What are we thinking? The God of the universe surpasses the three syllable deity that we have imagined him to be.

In 2 Samuel 5, starting at verse 17, David asks God if they should attack the Philistines. The Lord answers, "Go, for I will surely hand the Philistines over to you." God ordained this victory, but once again, the Philistines crept into Israel's territory. David inquires whether he should attack again. Beyond the clarity of the first reply, God dictates a strategy, "Do not go straight up, but circle around behind them and attack them in the front of the balsam trees. As soon as you hear the sound of marching in the tops of the balsam trees, move quickly, because that will mean that the Lord has gone out in front of you to strike the Philistine army." Reading this detailed, considerate response from God, it struck me that he's the same God who wants to speak to me today.

More than "Hmmm? Mmmm, hmph.", more than "yes", "no", or "wait", the Lord's responses can be clear and direct. The paper is closed and on the table. God is giving me his full attention. Is this kid ready to hear the answer to her questions?

Being a Bride

2008-10-06T12:01:00.005-04:00

Be it common knowledge or not, Bolivia has been going through some serious trials as a country these past weeks. It's been painful to watch the news, not only because of the startling images, but the journalism is so poor at times. Besides that, it's frustrating to watch the endless, fruitless dialogue between two very different political camps. The general feeling is that Evo Morales and his anti-imperialist, socialist agenda are here to stay.

They are here to stay and they bring anti-evangelical sentiments with them, making the pervasive question,"What will happen to the missionaries and the native, protestant church?" Evo has stated,"Bolivia is for Bolivians." His semanal sacrifices to the Pachamama are clear statements as to where Morales religious ties lie. It's possible that foreign Christian workers will be pushed out of the country...hopefully later than sooner. What does this mean for the church that would remain? There are some who bemoan the day of our departure and lament that without foreign missionaries, the church and it's work will suffer. Others have said that the bride of Christ in Bolivia has become fat and lazy and perhaps this pressure and potential persecution is the perfect remedy for their spiritual sedentry. My personal opinions side more with the latter thought than the prior.

Being of such opinion requires a personal evaluation as well. I can not make such a statement without looking in the mirror myself and recognizing that the Canadian church is no blushing bride either. I have always believed that if I were to be a bride, I would then be a wife who would maintain herself and not let herself go. I have looked on while some friends who "got their man" lost interest in their appearance and slowly abandoned their efforts to look attractive. All my life, I have watched my Mom go into the washroom at about 5:15 pm to fix her make-up and brush her hair because my Dad would come home at 5:30pm. The church, world-wide, is married to Christ, but neglectful to nurture the marriage. I am the bride of Christ, but I am not always faithful to my husband. Sometimes I smell bad because of my sin and instead of righteousness, I am clothed in disinterest and desire for something or someone else. My efforts to keep the spark in this marriage are half-hearted and the love I first felt has been reduced to a decision to stick with it.

It is right to stick with it. Jesus is the One for me, but I feel like a middle-aged spouse who wakes up one morning and asks her husband, "Who are you?". After so many children and the passing of years, the couple stop getting to know each other. Perhaps a little scare or a large scale threat is exactly what a pair need to remind each other of the importance and value of the other. If a military seige and political persecution will remind the church of their first love and solidify her loyalty, then may they come. As for me and my battle to be the bride I once was, I want only that which will make me surpass the affection and the passion I used to have.

Who's Laughing Now?

2008-07-30T10:55:00.002-04:00

Lucy is laughing now...if she is still alive. Lucy was this batty old lady who lived behind the Tillsonburg Upper Deck youth centre where I worked for four years. We had a lot of fun with Lucy and she really did hold a special place in our hearts. The feelings were never mutual. Lucy resented us and the kids that our centre attracted. All ages of teenagers would frequent our place to play pool, shoot hoops, buy pizza, or chat at our snack counter. Her attempts to drive them away were hopeless. The broom beatings and tongue lashings only served to encourage the youth to bother her more. I truly believe that even though our presence was a ministry to the young people, it played a part in pushing Lucy further into her madness. She simply could not tolerate the "riff raff" of society hanging out in front of her house.

Across the street from where I live in Bolivia, a new madness has had it's grand opening. The neighbour in front of us has decided to turn his place into a billards establishment. First of all, please understand that I love to play pool. However, pool places in Bolivia have a certain character and reputation. They attract the "riff raff" of society. My mouth gaped in disbelief as I watched the man and his friends carry three green felted tables onto his patio. My rantings and ravings began almost immediately and I debated how to rid our street of this dark presence. I wondered if berating graffiti would do the trick. I thought to give that man a piece of my mind. Perhaps a call to my landlord or an angry complaint to the Flamingo neighbourhood board would make this nightmare disappear. Meanwhile, my pessimistic mutterings have been met with much amusement by my friends, Adreana and Greg. They think I'm over reacting and exaggerating the seriousness of the situation. So far, they say, there have only been 12 year olds playing the pockets. For now they may be right, but I still have visions of passed out drunk men laying on the street dancing in my head. I envision inebriated punks peeing on my bushes and I hear the pounding bass of their music-less music.

Go ahead and laugh Lucy. My broom is ready for the riff raff.

Double Takes

2008-04-27T17:58:00.003-04:00

I can honestly say that almost every day in Bolivia has it's own unique story. One morning last week, the bell rang and the water metre man was standing outside my gate. Normally he measures the water metre with his little machine thing, hands me the bill, and leaves. Apparently he woke up on the chatty side of the bed that day. He began to comment on my height and said that he was still a little taller than I (unusual!). He asked if I was German and I told him my family originates from Holland. At that point I was opening the gate to my missionary neigbour's place so that he could work his water ways over there. The conversation continued and I thought, "He is quite good looking...and tall! Maybe he follows Christ too!" He whipped out his metre one more time, looked me in the eye and said, "Como se consigue su numero?". Which in English means, "How does one get your number?" I held his gaze, slightly unnerved, but not too much because being hit on by Bolivian men is a regular occurence. At which point he shook his head, laughed, and clarified,"I mean your feet! Where do you find your shoe size?" So, instead of flattered, I was reminded of my freakish size.

The same week, while at the girl's home, Hermana Delmira and I were cooking lunch when the phone rang. It was the mayor's office with an offer of clothes for the home. I'm told that when the mayor and company call and have something to donate, one always says yes or the next time you will be bypassed. Off went the Hermana to collect on the call. She arrived a couple of hours later accompanied by two mid-sized cattle trucks full of clothes...old, out-of-date, really smelly clothes. It was not the handful of bags that my co-worker was expecting when she set out. The act of charity on the behalf of the local government turned into a forced acceptance of unwanted clothing on our part. In reality, we helped them, they did (and do) nothing for us.

It is a good rule of thumb to take everything you hear and see in Bolivia...and wait. Wait until you are sure that what you are hearing and seeing is really what you think you are hearing and seeing.

Sorry, no picture of the water man...

Attack of the Mandarin

2008-04-04T14:25:00.007-04:00

A mandarin was launched at full force by one our teenage girls the other week...at my head. It was not an isolated act of insolence but the peak of accumulative, hate-laced actions over the last half year. It made me so angry that I swung myself around and whacked her arm while screaming about her lack of respect and obedience. Not exactly what I should have done in retrospect but that was my reaction. This young lady, Marielena, walks by me and hisses, "I hate you". She slams doors in my face and brazenly does the exact opposite of what I ask her to do. She lies to me constantly and refuses to accept responsibility for any chore or misdeed that pertains to her. Although I have received the brunt of her calculated evils, other girls have had their cheeks gouged, hair pulled, and one of the cats almost lost it's life. When I saw her squeezing our smallest cat, her eyes bore the intent to injure and perhaps kill. Her moods can swing from destructive to carefree in just seconds. It is baffling and utterly bewildering.

Perhaps the most baffling part of it all is that she has also written me letters requesting that I adopt her and bring her back to Canada. She has asked my friend and I to be her parents. She has given me several bracelets and coloured me pictures. Some days, she will hug me desperately and plead with me not to leave. Marielena is without question the most needy and infuriating girl that I have ever had to work with.

This past week at a missionary meeting, we listened to Gary Smalley speak about anger. I freely admit that Marielena makes me angry every time I see her. The Smalley video made me remember a time when my Dad became very angry with me for making my youngest brother bite my other brother. I denied it vehemently even though it was true. As I lay in my bed, my Dad came into my room and apologized for his anger...even though he was completely in the right. That memory and it's impact led me to invite Marielena over for a supper and a special chat.

As soon as we entered the house, she became indifferent and unresponsive. I gave her some food, made some tea, and we played a game of UNO. Afterwards, I showed her some pictures and videos on my computer. She started to relax and laugh with me. Finally, I began to address the real reason I had invited her over, our volatile relationship. Shortly after I had hit her arm and yelled at her for the mandarin attack, I read this from 1 Peter 2:23, "When they hurled their insults (insert mandarin here) at him, he did not retaliate; when he suffered, he made no threats. Instead, he entrusted himself to him who judges justly." I am pretty sure that Jesus did not see citric fruit flying past his head. I am also certain that what he did see and feel and experience profoundly transcends the minimal abuse that I receive. With this in mind and Smalley's admonition to humble ourselves, I asked Marielena's forgiveness for my anger and impatience towards her. I told her that I wanted to work at improving our relationship and my responses to her. Assurances of love and care were offered to her. Her initial indifference returned but a few tears did slip out as she covered her face with her hands. As I like to do, I prayed for her and over her.

After a lengthy period of silence, I got up and said that it was time to return to the home. She arose with a steady glare and stomped her way to the truck. The short ride was stonily quiet and upon arrival, I reminded her that I loved her and she could speak to me at any time. That suggestion spurred her to slam the vehicle's door as she continued to stab me with her eye darts.

Driving back to the house, I waged war with Satan and told him he was a loser who may as well back down. I realized that he had been gaining ground within me and that was why my reactions to Marielena were so fleshly and unChrist-like. Some days, I just want to kick the Devil in the face. Instead, I will hurl my best weapon at him and God can crush him later. "Do not repay evil with evil or insult with insult, but with blessing because to this you were called so that you may inherit a blessing." 1 Peter 3:9. I will hurl it with all the force of Christ in me.

Candy Fillings

2008-03-05T10:33:00.005-04:00

In recent weeks, I have had this pervasive sense of being tied up in a strait jacket. A jacket created by my frustration of knowing that modes of behaviour should be changed and yet, not brave enough or capable enough to implement that change.

I refer to the blatant lack of financial resources to meet daily needs at the home. School began and there were no supplies for the girls. I took out $100 and handed it over so that there would be notebooks and pens. Month after month, the water bill brings despair and stress into the life of Loly, our director. My first impulse is to withdraw the money or send off emails looking for cash. Initially, this reaction was personally rewarding. To be able to pay a debt or buy necessities felt good. It does not feel good anymore. It feels wrong and pointless. The cavity is being filled with candy and instead of a remedy, we are aggravating the ache of poverty.

A friend from one of my home churches sent me a thought that he gleaned from a Hamilton conference on poverty. He wrote that our goal is not the elimination of poverty but, the stimulation and fostering of resiliency in the face of it. I read this and loved it. As Jesus himself told us, the poor will always be with us. Poverty is an inescapable reality. The question is am I coddling it and stimulating it's growth or am I acting in ways that are responsible and purposeful? Or, in acknowledging the staying power of poverty, do I justify my inaction and remain distant when I should be relocating myself to really be with the poor?

A lot of these inquietudes arose after reading Shane Claibourne's book, Irresistible Revolution. One of the over arching principles of the book is that there are a lot of believers who are not active and a lot of activists who do not believe. What we need are more believing activists. This morning I read in 1Peter 1:13, "Therefore, prepare your minds for action." I read this short sentence and felt the arms of my self-imposed strait jacket tighten their grip. Where within me are the Houdini measures that I need to take to find release from this confinement and bring freedom from the insanity of band aid solutions?

First, I need to listen intently and search with the greatest care the wisdom from our great Sage, God Almighty. Taking time to consume the Word and allowing the Spirit to speak his insights into my heart and mind is not a perdition of time. It is the all important base to any venture worth undertaking.

Second, I need to stop mindless giving. This is hard when there is an immediate and pressing lack brought to your awareness. Do I forfeit all relief efforts or only filter them more frequently?

Third, the investment into sustainable and viable enterprises within the homes must become a priority. Recognizing the need for this, I also know that I am not equipped to take this on by myself. Los Carpenteros, a group of men from the South Western Ontario region, have begun and maintained a movement of micro-credit unions that has met with success in both Honduras and El Salvador. Businesses receive loans which are slowly paid off by the national entrepreneurs. The result is one where both giver and receiver maintain their integrity and sense of ownership. This style of giving must be introduced to the NACER homes. I know it and so do our directors, Miguel and Edly Zuchetti.

Feeling tied up does not extend to the lengths of my tongue. Verbalizing the frustrating reality and penning potential solutions are easy for me. The hard part is creating the catalyst for action. The trick that alludes me is how to rid myself of my abstract restraints and reserve the candy for kids and not cavities.

Brain

2008-02-28T12:42:00.003-04:00

Last Thursday after homework was finished, I took the girls down the street to a small, concrete soccer area. Some neighborhood boys were already there and so we played a few matches with them. On the sidelines sat a little guy with a pathetic kitten bearing subtle Siamese markings. I would not have noticed except that it cried a lot and my younger girls were trying to take it away from the kid. I went over and asked the keeper of the cat, "Is this your kitty?" He said yes but that his mom had told him to get rid of it. "Where is it's mother?", I asked. He replied, "She died and I think it would better if you took care of it ma'am." Dogs are my animal of choice and this flea bitten creature with eyes full of mucous wasn't stirring up warm, fuzzy feelings of any variety. All eyes on me, I agreed to care for the cat and show the girls our responsibility towards God's creation.

In this way, I became the official owner of Brain. This feline bears a startling resemblance to the Pinky's counterpart, the cerebrally blessed rat who wants to take over the world every night (It's an Animaniacs cartoon for those of you who are lost). The other cats have not confused her for a rodent yet and continue to leave their left overs on the lunch room floor. The other morning I woke up to find only the whiskered nose of an ill fated rat lying on the tiled ground. I can only hope that some day, Brain will also contribute to the elimination of rats at our girls's home.

The Blog Lives!!

2008-02-20T14:26:00.002-04:00

In all honesty, I did blog while I was home and staying at my Mom and Dad's place. It was all written and ready to be published when the dial-up internet decided to hang up and I gave up! I am astonished by the amount of people who ask me about my blog and why it has been so neglected. One gentleman even convicted me of abandoning the world of blog for the insanity of Facebook. I stand accused and guilty of that charge.

As it is, months have passed since I wrote about the land we found in August, 2007. There were a few months of doubt as the director of the NACER homes, Miguel Zuchetti, hemmed and hawed about the rightness of this particular plot of land. In all fairness, he just wanted to cover it in prayer and not jump into anything too quickly. His caution and perceived resistance proved to be a huge test for me. In my heart of hearts, I was supernaturally convinced that there was no other property worth considering. I held on to that sense of conviction but, mostly I claimed the sovreignty of God Almighty and trusted him with the outcome.

Before leaving for two months, Miguel made the decision to pursue the land I fell in love with. Others had expressed their approval and every person who has seen this hectare agrees that paradise has been found and at a decent price!

Over the past year, $25 000 has been raised through a variety of sources. However, a half a year ago an idea crept into my head that a typical Bolivian dinner would be a super way to raise awareness and funds. I recruited my family and some friends, and in less than a month, the Light in Bolivia dinner was planned and organized. Two hundred people were fed and informed. In fact, we were saying no to people in those final days. God blessed those efforts and thus far, another $25 000 has been raised towards the purchase of the land. He is a loving and provisional Father!

Many individuals have written generous cheques but the story that boasts of God's provision the most involves a man I have never met. During the dinner, friends from church beckoned me from the microphone to their table. Joining their circle, the father told me that he had been meeting with a man from Bolivia and that their last conversation turned to the topic of the homes and myself. The whole time, their son kept repeating, "Don't believe it! You're being punked!" At some point, this Bolivian businessman took out his cheque book and filled it out in the amount of $5000. Seeing that donation and realizing that it came from a stranger, I was more inclined to believe the funny-guy son at my side. Truth is, it was not a trick and God is a specialist when it comes to delightful surprises!

I am learning to be more delighted and less surprised when the Lord acts in my life and circumstances. He is the Father of lights and I praise him for every good gift!

Paradise Found

2007-08-03T19:11:00.000-04:00

I would say it is like being in love, but I am not sure I know what that feels like. Besides, can someone really be so consumed by something like this? It is all I have thought about the last three days. Ever since I saw it, I can not get it out my mind.

Before I saw it, I said to my two companions, "When I see it, I want to know that it's the one. I want to have a supernatural sensation that this is the one." Just before we rolled up to the discreet laneway, the three of us had prayed that God would turn Miguel's hands the way the car should go. I peered down the drive and as I strove to see what lie beyond the locked gate, the bulging base of a towering tiborochi tree peeked back at me. Glimpses of tropical vegetation framed the narrow vista. As if it were the wardrobe into Narnia, I felt drawn to enter and explore the lengths of this land.

We waited in the taxi for a time, until the landkeeper arrived from picking up his boy from school...on his pedal bike. Swinging gates ushered us into the park-like atmosphere. Posh palms and plants that oozed with purple flowers followed the lead of an unpainted, picket fence. A thatch roof cabin sat beside a bare terrace, empty and waiting to be transformed into office space. The terrace begged for blossom bearing vines to climb its naked slats. I smelled the smoke of sausages as they sizzled over a charcoal BBQ. I heard the chiming laughter of Dora and Bella as they chased one another in a round of tag. The chatter of English and Spanish filled the air for a moment and I saw teams of volunteers coming to construct a casa along side their Bolivian brothers. I envisioned the silhoutte of a home with windows that shut and a roof that keeps the rain off bedroom floors.

I love this land. I want to go in and take this land...for the girls, for the Lord. I want the girls to dwell in this land. Its bottle-like porportions have imprinted themselves in my mind. One encounter with its loveliness has ruined me for other lands. Yet, I am not the only one who must love her. She must be loved by a handful of others before she can be bought. God, if this is the piece of paradise that you have saved for my girls and their new home, I trust you to do the taking.

Seven Years

2007-07-14T14:44:00.000-04:00

Seven years of working in ministry. Seven years of raising support in order to serve with non-denominational agencies. Seven years of seeing God's unfailing provision. Seven. The number associated with God, wholeness, and perfection. As a friend commented the other day, "Seven years? About time for a sabbatical don't you think?"

Truth be told, I've been pondering the possibility of a life outside of ministry as a profession. I hear myself saying with regard to the future,"Maybe I'll go home and look for a 'normal' job." When I reflect on the time I spent working at Connon Nursery, I don't find that I was anymore ministry minded pruning plants then I am running regular one-on-ones and discipleship groups. I desire that all of me exudes Christ and that everything I do is an oozing out of God in me. Even if I do secure a regular job, it's a given that I would get involved with some service related to missions and youth. No doubt, I will advocate on behalf of my girls and this country, Bolivia, for as long as God allows. A yearly return by myself or with a team is appealingly ideal.

Reading through Colossians, it says at the end of chapter one, "We proclaim him, admonishing and teaching everyone with all wisdom, so that we may present everyone perfect in Christ." I'm not sure that I'm presenting anyone perfect in Christ. The Cristo Viene girls seem neither hot nor cold when it comes to their faith. So many youth and old friends from past years appear to have veered way off track, abandoning or minimizing the truth that once captivated them. Who have I presented, perfect in Christ, to the One who I can't live without?? After seven years, it appears that I have nothing to show for all my admonishing and teaching.

This is no attempt to generate a show of commentary telling me that the work will bear fruit with time. Colossions 1 wraps up like this."To this end I labour, struggling with his energy, which so powerfully works in me." As I look longer at the verses, I realize that this perfect presentation of others to God is not about personal accomplishment. Those presented are not perfect because of my efforts, but are seen as perfect because they are in Christ. The ambition and acts that have been mine in the last seven years have been a struggle born out of his energy working powerfully in me.

Seven years. You'd think I would know this by now.

Christ Come

2007-06-18T19:50:00.000-04:00

'Cristo Viene' is the name of the girl's home where I work. It means 'Christ Come' and yesterday I desired his return in a desperate way.

The bus took me an hour and twenty minutes out to a town called San Luis where a few of the homes gather every Sunday for a church service. Yesterday was my day to take charge of the girls but, when I arrived (a little late), the location was void of people. Returning to the one and only road back to the Nacer home, I was waiting on the edge and watching as a man crossed the two lanes. His silhouette appeared as the letter 'Z' against the still rising sun. The crutches were as crippled as the man himself. Each step spanned a few slim centimetres as he struggled to cross the road. Meanwhile, a transport truck quickly approached the stumbling sir. From a few hundred feet away, I earnestly prayed that the man would cross the half-way point and that the looming vehicle could decrease enough in speed to give him a few more precious seconds. Helplessness paralysed me but not as much as it must have overcome the now trembling man slumped at the side of the road.

The man boarded the same bus as I. Actually, he didn't board. Two battered crutches were stored under a seat as two other passengers pulled him by the armpits, face down and along the floor, onto the bus. His shriveled, twisted legs were clothed in ragged, baggy, and dirty pants. He rocked on his seat and I noticed that he had a sweet, safe face. Within seconds, the smell of urine filled the air and when I got off the bus, I noted that he had wet himself.

I have not a clue where this man was going. Perhaps a church service to remind himself that his present reality will come to pass. Perhaps a local bar to drink so much that he temporarily forgets his sorrows. The dust on the dirt road to Nacer was darkened by my tears. My eyes and heart weep for the shame and sadness that exists in this world. My depths cry, "Cristo viene! Christ come! " Please come.

La Vida Loca

2007-06-03T18:04:00.000-04:00

Blogging has not been a priority for me these days. I've been pleased to just answer emails and respond to Facebook remarks. Besides that, my head is so full of stuff that I'm not even sure what to write. I suppose this blog will only be a wrap up of all that's been going on for that past few months.

Life, and my house, has been full of people and activity. Ruthie, the Georgian, hooked up with me and the kids from February to mid-May. She loves it so much that she's working day and night to be back here by August 2. The day before Ruthie flew out, my sister-in-law, Alicia, and our friend, Julie, from church, visited me for two weeks. Both of them gave much of themselves to my girls, doing crafts, painting bricks, cutting hair, and playing soccer...of course. They loved the girls and my girls loved them too. To have family here was such a treat for me!

The same day that Alicia and Julie flew in, my old housemate, Alison, also flew in for ten days. In little more than a week, Alison spent time with her friends here, packed up her things, and left Bolivia for good. The sweet thing was being able to travel to Semaipata with her, Alicia, Julie, and handful of other missionary companions. Although, I'm sure Alicia thought it was less than sweet when a small frog bounced off her face in the middle of the night and suctioned itself to the wall above her head.

Twenty-four hours before Alison departed, Adreana, my newest housemate arrived. I should say that before my house turned into Hotel Flamingo, my other housemate, Heather, also left for a seven week furlough. She plans to live elsewhere when she comes back.
This morning, ten wonderful young adults from Toronto Chinese Alliance Church went back to Canada after spending nine days with me and all the homes. All of my co-workers had travelled for one reason or another and initially, I was overwhelmed by the thought of handling the team on my own. Thankfully, Adreana stepped in and gave me hand. The truth is that this team was so great and so funny, that I don't think I would have minded having them all to myself anyway.

So right now, I have noone to keep occupied except myself...until tommorow afternoon. My old Spanish teacher and friend, Mauge, is coming to stay with me for a day and night. The next few months bring dozens of visitors. Laura and Shavonne are visiting from Kitchener-Waterloo (June 10-July1). Two teams from Georgian and Virginia will arrive in July, not to mention the coming of my brother Derek and his wife, Renee on August 6!!

Come on down to Bolivia and get hooked up with 'la vida loca', everyone's doing it!

Facebook Confessions

2007-04-30T21:31:00.000-04:00

Admittedly, I was slightly freaked out I saw fourty four messages from Facebook in my Yahoo account in only a few hours after signing up. The numbers continue to climb and I am amazed at how many people want to be my friend...or how many people are just nosey to find out what someone they used to know is up to these days. I had no idea this phenomenom was sweeping across the nations...how long have I been out of it anyway?

Apparently I am considered 'elderly' for a facebook user, but I'm down with that. My old Youth for Christ supervisor, who's opinion I respect a lot, quickly emailed me to say that he was not a facebook fan. I can certainly see why. The whole thing has an exhibitionist flavour. People everywhere hanging their stained and holey underwear out on the wireless clothesline for all to see (unless you've adjusted your privacy settings and from what I can tell, not many do). My other friend and old co-worker commented that it reflects the 'reality TV' mentality that reigns. We want to be the all seeing eye, to know what is happening in the small worlds of others so that our own world seems that much larger.

Despite it all, I find myself spinning into the vortex of pokes, walls, and gift giving. I like the wall writing, but the poking practice baffles me. Is a poke meant for the unsure? Those who want to be friends with someone but aren't sure about the other person? Instead of a real message, they send out a hesitant, virtual poke to test the waters? Or is it for those who don't have the time and simply want someone to know that they were thought for all of the two seconds that it took to click 'poke'? As far as paying one dollar to send a graphic gift to someone's page, forget it! Who falls for that gimmick? True to my Dutch heritage, I took my free one and sent Ruthie a pair of sunglasses...at least she can't lose them or break them.

I like Facebook because I've met plenty of old friends and reconnected with youth that I used to work with in Canada and abroad. It's been a hoot to joke around on each other's walls and see the pictures. For me, the albums are the main attraction. I love looking at the faces of old buddies, seeing the girlfriends, spouses, and children that I've never met. Several people look more gorgeous with the passing of time. I find it hard to believe that dozens of my old youth are married or getting married!

Speaking of old youth, there are plenty who are pursuing God and the good things above. I am encouraged by the amount of my old kids who are revved up for missions or whose relationship with Jesus takes first place in their lives. I've also been distraught and bothered by the amount of now-grown up teens who are living with their boyfriends/fiances, proclaimed agnostics, unsure about their faith, and clearly living a self-indulgent, hedonistic lifestyle. Some are only swimming in a shallow sea of doubts, but it seems that several have plunged into a murky, tormented ocean of sin...and seem oblivious to it! It breaks my heart, especially when a handful were those I considered leaders and pace setters for their generation...for this world!

Facebook, I confess that I love you and I hate you. You have brought me laughs and pain. I'll take you, because I can't leave you.

I See You

2007-04-09T20:12:00.000-04:00

I see you. I see you when I close my eyes and I feel your presence in my heart. I see you on the ground, grabbing my hands, and lifting me up towards the ceiling by your feet. I feel your scratchy face as you kiss me goodbye before you head off to work. I see you loping along a trail and cocking your head when you hear a bird call, telling us all what it was. I feel your pinch as you try to quiet me in church. I see you sitting on the pew with your legs crossed, leaning forward, chin resting on the palm of one hand, and listening intently to the words of the pastor. I feel the buzz of a battery on my tongue as you assure me that it won't hurt a bit. I see you shovelling snow like a mad man and hunched over the hood of a car, tongue tickling your moustache, whether you have one or not. I see us paddling down the creek on Father's Day and I feel the rushing water as we tip out and watch the oars and the canoe float away from us. I feel the hug you gave me before I boarded the plane and I saw the two tears that trickled out of your eyes.

Tears spill from my eyes now and my heart twists in agony to think of your pain. I see you Dad, and Abba sees you too.

Worthy of Tears

2007-03-31T15:53:00.000-04:00

Tears press hard against my eyes as I try to accept the fact that Milenka and Daniela are being taken away.

While I was home for Christmas, two sweet waifs weaved their way into the girls home. They came with hair that looked as if their locks had been chopped by the wrong end of the scissors. Their tummies protruded above the waistline of pants that required more of waist to keep them up. Their ability to identify objects and speak Spanish were not more advanced then that of an infant. A toilet was a tank of water to play in rather then a place to pee...that was done wherever the urge hit. Dad's drug habit gets worse everyday as he eeks out a so-called life on the street and Mom finds relief from life on the road as she slowly dies in a hospital from AIDs, complicated by tuberculosis. Their arrival at the home meant departure from a downward spiral into more of the same.

As their hair begins to be slightly longer then a buzz cut, the municipal government will snatch them out of our hands and move them to another home. Not because they have not done well with us, they have. In four months, their stomachs have retracted to a normal child-like bulge and for the most part, their pants remain up. Their vocabulary as developed at a dramatic rate, being able to identify colours, call the right person by their right name, and tattle tale as every toddler tends to do. Squatting has been replaced by urgent cries of "Pee! Pee!" and "Caca! Caca!" as the nearest capable person sweeps them up and rushes them to the nearest facility. Flushing the toilet remains entertaining with or without the unmentionables. Sadly, Dad and Mom have not gone through the same monumental changes as their lovely children.

Milenka and Danila will be taken from us because the authorities do not see our home as a place for young children. It exists for older children and teenagers who have been abused and/or abandoned. They may be right, but Milenka and Daniela, you are still worthy of my tears.

Drink or Die

2007-03-11T14:38:00.000-04:00

Deep thirst is dreadful. When the need to drink is so intense, one is tempted to throw back any type of liquid that may refresh. Sailors, stranded at sea, often sooth their parched throats with salt water, only to find the substance that was to bring them relief, brought them insanity instead. I can relate. Once a week, we head out to the country to do some work with the boy's homes. I have been told by various doctors, including Bolivian ones, not to drink the water out there. It contains an ulcer-causing bacteria, of such that I've already received the effects of this invisible bug. Still, when a naive boy comes beaming up to me, bearing a cup of sloshing water, I have a hard time not drinking it. They are so eager to quench my thirst and I don't want to offend. Plus, the water is so clear and cool and my head is usually pounding from dehydration. The liquid practically screams,"Take! Drink!"

Jill Pole was a girl who found herself lost and thirsty in the land of Narnia. Alone in a forest, left stranded because of an act of pride, she hears the rippling of a stream and follows the noise. Upon arrival, she found a lion resting at the side of the water. Her thirst was so bad and becoming worse with every passing moment, but her fear and dread of the creature paralyzed her so that she went no further. The lion stared at her for what seemed like eons and finally spoke to her in a voice different from a man's. It was "deeper, wilder, and stronger; a sort of heavy, golden voice",

"Are you not thirsty?"
"I'm dying of thirst," said Jill
"Then drink," said the lion.

Jill hemmed and hawwed, wondering if the lion might go away while she drank and whether or not he might eat her if he stayed. At the same time, she found herself drawn to the magnificent beast and stepping closer to what she desired. Finally Jill said,

"I daren't come and drink"
"Then you will die of thirst," said the Lion.
"Oh dear!" said Jill, coming another step nearer, "I suppose I must go and look for another stream then."
"There is no other stream," said the Lion.

People everywhere are dying of thirst but do not dare drink from the only stream that can drench the dryness within their depths. If they only knew the One who speaks to them, he would give them living water. Instead they cup water from other streams as their knuckles bleed and scrape the bottom of dry river beds. They sip from other sources, but find themselves fooled, partaking of libations that honour other gods and rob them of their senses. There is no other stream. Drink the water that Jesus gives and it will become in you a spring of water welling up to eternal life.

(references taken from The Silver Chair, C.S. Lewis, and John 4)

Preaching Opinion

2007-02-06T20:40:00.000-04:00

The pew was hard and there was no room for my knees, but so far, the message had been right on the money. A dozen of my girls were scattered around the sanctuary, some listening, some snoozing. The pastor was speaking on the family and marriage. He invited husbands and wives to sit side by side and emphasized that one's first priority and ministry were toward one's own family. He transitioned into the topic of homosexuality and the sadness of our changing situation. Countries around the world are sanctioning same-sex marriage and allowing adoption within this 'alternative' context. My head was nodding in agreement but soon cocked to the side when he asked, "Brothers, do you know what the root of homosexuality is? Why it is becoming such an issue these days?" People were glancing at their neighbors and I threw a few backward looks towards my girls. Returning my attention to the front, I heard the pastor answer his own question as if it were the most obvious conclusion in the world, "Unisex!" "Yes, brothers," he continued, "Unisex clothing and men who wear their hair long!" He went on to say how even a slight shag on a man contributed to the problem of homosexuality. His next verbal burst of bunk began with this question, "Brothers, which gender wears their hair parted in the middle?" Congregants everywhere were whispering amongst themselves and my eyebrows almost arched above my head when he declared, "Women. Men should not part their hair in the middle." He went on to point out all the women present who styled there hair as such. Little golden stars get glued behind the names of women who keep their hair long and perfectly parted.

As I sat there with my ear-lobe length hair and the majority of my strands parted to the left, I realized that their would be no sticker for me this night. I wondered if I should be confessing my trespass of too little locks on the right side of my head. Instead, I stood up, gathered my girls, and left. This was not the gospel, but a pious preacher who thought the pulpit gave him the right to spout erroneous personal opinion.

God knows the number of hairs on my head. Whether they are long or short, parted to the left or parted to the right, does not add or take away from the perfect, unconditional love that he has for me. "It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery." Galatians 5:1. And those are his words, not mine.

The Most Excellent Way

2007-02-04T15:56:00.000-04:00

The man is out of his mind. He rambles and roves around the ramshackle bus stop, waiting for the next #2 bus to come to a screeching halt. Once it arrives, he rounds the beaten up vehicle, inspecting the tires for air pressure and sliding the windows on their runners to make sure they open. One too many sniffs of paint thinner, or perhaps an overly hard punch to the head, and the man thinks he´s the official inspector of the #2 line of micros. Most of the drivers and passengers ignore him and some shuffle closer to the aisle. Once in a while, a hand will extend out the driver´s side window and drop a 1 boliviano coin into the shaking, soiled palm of the mumbling man. One afternoon, a driver leaned out his window and began to speak with the apparent outcast. ¨How are my tires?¨, he said, ¨Are they getting flat?¨. He continued to interact with the man and in the end passed a 5 boliviano coin to his waiting helper.

Helper? Maybe not so much, but the driver saw the humanity in this hobo and affirmed what he saw with his words and his reward. It was so simple, but what I witnessed was the most excellent way, the way of love. There is no fear in love. I admit that this man unnerves me and I´m not so sure I should be the one to embrace him, but I almost cried in my seat because I know that he deserves love and needs love.

God has been teaching me a lot about love since returning to Bolivia for another year. 1 Corinthians 13 was one of those chapters that I would often bypass because of it´s familiarity. My eyes would roll when I heard of yet another couple choosing it as their wedding passage...how about some originality people!? The profundity of these verses was lost to me. Thankfully, God shows me when I´m being a donkey and reveals to me the mysteries of his word...even the words that I think I know too well.

Something is different in me. Living here has changed me. The Holy Spirit is changing me. My love is bigger, my patience is longer, and my self control has grown. I arrive at the home each day with one goal: to love. Everyone needs affirmation that they are loved. Even the girls who aren´t very helpful or don´t seem to contribute much to the ambiance of the home need to know that I love them. They must hear that God loves them!

I was privelaged to see the short exchange of love between a bus driver and a disillusioned man, but I´m not the only one who saw. God sees every moment when we express our love...and the ones when we don´t. Follow the way of love. All other routes go nowhere and lead to nothing.

Driving Under the Influence

2007-01-05T17:28:00.000-04:00

I drink and drive. My car is like a pub on wheels. Getting behind the wheel is like sitting at the bar with an old friend. Pushing in a great CD, the lyrics and rythym enfold me and I drink...from the Spirit...the one Spirit that we were all given to drink. In these moments, my vehicle becomes a meeting place, a space of sweet communion between my God and I. Sometimes I arrive at my destination and I delay getting out because the air is so warm, the music so poignant, and His presence so tangible.

I'm going to miss my mobile chapel once I'm back in Bolivia. In four days, Bolivian soil will be under my feet again. Person after person will ask if I am looking forward to going "home" and then they stop, unsure whether I consider Canada or Bolivia my home. My home is in Christ. Words from 'Our Daily Bread' echoed this sentiment last night at dinner, "...We can be at home in any dwelling, for our safekeeping lies not in the place where we live but in God Himself. We can dwell "in the secret place of the Most High" and "abide under the shadow of the Almighty". There, in His presence, under his wings, we find refuge. The eternal God becomes our dwelling place. (ODB, January 4, 2007). My abode defies place and country. It can not be pin pointed on a map. Home is a sense of belonging within that springs from the shelter of almighty wings.

My love for Canada, my family, and friends is huge, but I feel good about returning to South America. I love to travel and suffer from a constant itch to change the scenery. Perhaps this is why I derive so much pleasure from driving. The scenes vary from road to road but there is a sentiment of constancy and familiarity that comes with the journey. The music goes on and God is the same inside and outside the borders we've made.

Unusual Yuletide

2006-12-26T12:53:00.000-04:00

Green grass covers the ground where a white blanket should lie. This Canadian winter is anything but a Canadian winter. Granted, I am still chilled to the bone most of the time, but these days reflect very little of the winter ones I used to know.

Christmas came and Christmas went. Even though the climate is changing, the motions of celebrating this festive season remain the same. The Saturday before Dad's birthday we trek out to choose and cut down our tree. Dad starts and ends the dressing of the tree. First, by stringing the lights and finally, by adding the touch of a home-made star on the top. The cut-out cardboard star, wrapped in aluminum foil is a tradition begun by my Grandpa and continued by our family every year. The rest of the ornaments are hung by my four year old nieces...the bottom half of the tree is well endowed. One branch bears two shiny globes, a ceramic angel, a wooden bell, and a little puppy on a string...which you can only see when you part the thick mass of tinsel thrown on by my two year old nephews. This Christmas tree wouldn't be featured in any magazine but it does reflect the the excitement and fascination of kids who are crazy about the holidays.

My youngest niece, Hayley, was the greatest gift under the tree. We did, we put her under the tree and watched her reaction. Eyes darting and limbs bursting from her body, it seemed she would explode from sensory overload. Hayley even starred as baby Jesus in a short movie. Having an infant around is a great visual for the rest of us. The reality of Christ's entrance in the world stares right back at us every time we hold and admire Hayley in our arms. Did the eyes of Jesus fixate on the stars above the stable and did his little arms flail with emotion at the sight of shepherds and sheep? I'm sure they did.

In a week, my mom will play her part in the whole Christmas tree saga: removal and disposal. In two weeks, I'll be back in Bolivia. This Christmas may have been unusual in it's lack of snow, but it was wonderful to be present. The greens grass didn't dampen the thrill of this grown-up kid who is still crazy about Christmas.

O Canada, O Convenience

2006-12-14T19:20:00.000-04:00

After spending most of the day at the International Team's office in Elmira, I headed home and pulled into an Esso to fill up. Actually, I can't fill up because my Honda Civic has a hole in the gas tank and anything over ten bucks just spills onto the ground. At any rate, I sidled up to the pump and proceeded to get out of the car. With my ATM card ready to insert into the machine, I noticed a man walking my way and coming around the hood of my car. I wondered why he was approaching me and if maybe I should have known who he was. Short moments later, I noticed the Esso emblem and his name embroidered on his shirt and realized that this service station actually provided full service. Fumbling with my words I said, "Oh you're the...you want to...." He just smiled and responded, "That's okay, you go right ahead", and headed back inside the kiosk.

Pulling away with a semi-full tank, I couldn't believe how quickly I've become used to this automated, impersonal society. Gas stations in Bolivia are still full service and some locations are staffed by pretty little things in short skirts, low cut shirts, and high boots. Everything in Canada is automated and super convenient. Parking fees are paid through machines, Walmart offers self-check-out aisles, and all your Christmas shopping can be done on-line and delivered right to your door. If you desire, you could choose to never have another face-to-face human interaction for the rest of your life!

Bolivia may be full of inconveniences, but it's rich with human interaction. Perhaps for some, the thought of less live contact with others is a relief. It means less strife, less friction, and less 'pointless' chit chat. Besides relationships can be messy and potentially painful so why risk the off-chance that a new one might begin?

I know this is the Canada in which I live, but I just sense that something has been lost. It hit me again as I got closer to home and saw the sign for Pete's Garage and Gas. Yellow, unlit, and swinging from a rusty steel pole, it's only companion was a small shop boasting plywood for windows. And I wonder who was Pete and if maybe I should have known who he was.

Where's My Woolies?

2006-12-01T23:29:00.000-04:00

A week and one day ago, sweat was oozing out of my every pore and there was nothing more appealing then the thought of a Canadian winter. Complaining about the weather is not something I want to do, but can I just say that I haven't seen the sun in five days?!? Temperatures have been fairly mild but I believe the second ice age is arriving as I type. Winds, like snowy ghosts, are frenetically dancing around the house. The radiant heat of the woodstove wards off the chill from my bones, but I can't go too far before the freeze seeps in again. In fact the location of this computer is almost too distant for me to absorb the warmth, but that is a sacrifice I will make to post a blog.

It was as I sat through a more than 2 hour long Christmas choir concert, that the rain turned to snow and the temperatures plummeted below zero. There were over 130 voices that participated in this very traditional, typical choir event. It reflected all that I grew up with: organ, unadorned walls, suits and skirts, peppermint bags, and Dutch people warming every pew!

I was invited to the concert by my friend Joni, who also comes from solid Dutch origins. I mentioned to her that at one point I rejected all the traditions and trappings that came with the Reformed church. Today, although I love the new music and manners of "doing church", I also appreciate anew the hymns and highly structured worship of the Reformed church in which I was raised. I do not adopt some of their doctrinal stands, but my sense of oneness with these bodies of believers has been restored.

The Lord caused some verses from Isaiah to come to mind as I've been mulling over these things. "Listen to me, you who pursue righteousness and who seek the Lord: Look to the rock from which you were cut and to the quarry from which you were hewn" Isaiah 51:1. There is no escape, I have been cut from the rock of the Christian Reformed Church, but more poignant and pressing is that I've been hewn from the quarry of Christ. Denominational differences are harped on way too often, the question at hand is are we listening to the Lord and looking to the Rock of our salvation?

Excuse me while I ponder these thoughts a little closer to the beckoning flames of the woodstove.

A Sensational Day

2006-11-25T20:47:00.000-04:00

The long and winding road is my parent's drive way as it curves into the depths of our property. Nestled right where I left it a year and a month ago is our house (slightly bigger due to an addition), sitting like an old friend on a grassy rock, waiting for my return. The addition is Dan and Alicia's apartment which was a work in progress last year at this time. I've been dying to see the finished product, so at 2am last night I crept into their quarters. Since the two of them are on their way back from Florida right now, they didn't get to hear my ooo's and aaa's over how smashing everything looks.

Home is a good place. The sights, sounds (or lack of sound!), and smells wrap themselves around me and massage my heart with their warmth and familiarity. Every trip between Bolivia and Canada is like moving through a portal from one very different world into another. In my first day back, I've already appreciated the following things:

- the sweet sensation of warm water falling from the tap
- unthinkingly going to place my TP in the garbage can and having to remind myself that for the next while, I can flush the stuff down the toilet
- how wonderful my family is and how precious my nieces and nephews are to me
- the thrill of driving...even though I left my license back in Bolivia...oops!
- 7am here feels like 3am there....man, it stays dark long and gets dark early!
- not being in a perpetual state of dripping sweat.

The first day back has been sensational. I trust that the next six weeks will be just a superb!

A Beautiful Man

2006-11-18T20:45:00.000-04:00

An old man and his grandson boarded the bus today. Old is hard to judge here, since age is difficult to determine based on appearance, but he must have been in his late sixties. All of his wrinkles curved up and even with a straight face one could tell that this man spent most of his life in a state of smile. His eyes glimmered with glee and I thought he was more appealing than any of those stretched, surgerically altered types you see on TV and in magazines. Here we have these famous "somebodies" spending sickening amounts of money to maintain a facade of youth and I was admiring an unidentified "nobody" in the middle of nowhere Bolivia. By the way the grandson beamed at his grandfather, there was no doubt in mind that my eyes beheld a good man. His wrinkles testified to the hardness of life, but a life where smiling was still supreme. He truly was a beautiful man.

Love is in the Looking

2006-11-17T20:36:00.000-04:00

Love is not gazing at each other but looking outward together in the same direction.

I know I'm single and as such this line that I read in a magazine shouldn't really apply to me, but I like it and it keeps popping into my head. In terms of romance and pairing up, I think it's a one-liner worth adopting. The key to successful relationships is unified vision and shared passion. Although this certainly applies to non-platonic relationships, I feel it works in the realm of friendships as well. My dearest and most cherished friends are those with whom I share a common sense of God's call and movement in our lives. They are fired up about missions and anxious to hear and follow the leading of Christ. As we view life, the same things strike us as funny and we find ourselves thinking the same things, if not saying the same words at the same time. The connections that I cherish most are the ones where all eyes are fixed in similar directions.

I write similar directions because I realize that there has to be room for some variance. How wretchedly boring life would be if we were all doing the same thing. There are always things to look at in the peripheral, but when all eyes are fixed ahead, there is only One in our line of sight, Jesus Christ. Love is not about gazing at one another, but about serving others and setting our sights above.

And by the way, this time, next week, I'll be on a plane, flying home to see the ones I love so much!

He Called a Fool

2006-11-13T10:39:00.000-04:00

Who were you when you were called? Paul tells us to think about that, so that's what I've been doing in recent days. Who was I when I was called to Bolivia?

When I came to Bolivia, I didn't come with eloquence or superior wisdom. In fact, I came speaking Spanish like a pre-school kid. Any 'wisdom' I may have attained in Canada flew out the plane window as I landed smack-dab-in-the-middle of a world where my Canuck culture became irrelevant, best left in storage until my return. I came to testify about God, but found myself cursing the barking dogs and struggling to grasp the ins and outs of people who seemed to see the world through different glasses than I. I resolved to know nothing while I was here except Jesus Christ and him crucified...there was no other choice because I really didn't know anything even thought I thought I did. He was the only one who I could speak too and know that he understood exactly what I wanted to say. I came in weakness and fear, and with much trembling. I knew not a soul in Cochabamba and my concept of the living conditions initially caused me anxiety and dread. My message and my preaching were not with wise and persuasive words, but with hand gestures and grunts filling in for the words not yet registered in my brain. Yet, the demonstration of the Spirit's power amazed me constantly as vocabulary I didn't know I had would come out my mouth. Through it all, my faith came to rest not on man's wisdom, but on God's power.

These days I'm grunting less and I have a firmer grasp of the way this latin world runs. The temptation to rely on my own wisdom and strength is stronger, but I heed the counsel of Paul to remember who I was when I was called to Bolivia. I remember who I was when I was called to Christ himself and I am humbled even more. Thank you Lord, for choosing and calling a fool like me.

Walk Past My Vineyard

2006-11-01T22:42:00.000-04:00

Bronchitis, intestinal ulcers, and a skin rash (unrelated to the manicure) are my excuses for not blogging for over two weeks. The recent past has been a mesh of minor miseries and yet, I find myself in good spirits. Even the appalling realization that somehow the 80's infiltrated the world of fashion while I've been gone, failed to plummet me into despair. Alison came back from two weeks in Costa Rice with current magazines in tow. Sweater dresses, polka dots, tights under shorts, and tapered pants filled page after page. Forgive me if upon my return I fail to aclimatize to a climate of fashion that I left twenty years ago.

Sickness has been a part of my regime as of late. In the midst of endoscopies and dropping off 'samples' of bodily excretions, I also managed to forget my VISA card in a bank machine and my camera disappeared. This is not meant to be an invitation to a pity party held in honour of Marcee. In fact, all of this has truly been character building. Each time a bomb dropped was an opportunity to not get worked up and stressed. The card and camera were just things...things of value, but certainly replaceable. My poor health has been cause to ask this question,"How closely connected are spiritual and physical health?"

Sometimes, a lot of times, I think that full time ministry is the worst thing for my spiritual health. Prayer with others and discussion of Christ occur frequently through out the day, but personal discipline in the areas of intercession and Bible study decline the more involved I am with the work at hand. Life has been very 'involved' as of late.

Contemplating the extent to which the spiritual and the physical are attached, I read from Proverbs 24:30-34:

I went past the field of the sluggard

past the vineyard of the man who lacks judgment;

thorns had come up everywhere,

the ground was covered with weeds,

and the stone wall was in ruins.

I applied my heart to what I observed

and learned a lesson from what I saw:

A little sleep, a little slumber,

a little folding of the hands to rest-

and poverty will come on you like a bandit

and scarcity like an armed man.

I know that I have been a spiritual sluggard and I've lacked judgment in how I spend my time. To risk a cliche, I get so involved in the work of the Lord, that I neglect the Lord of the work. Thorns have been coming up and around this branch of Christ and in effect, the spiritual wall that hems me in and protects me, is in ruins. I've chosen to fold my hands in rest instead of prayer and opted to sleep instead of seek. Applying my heart to what I read and learning a lesson from what I'm seeing in my life, I believe that the physical and the spiritual are one and the same. Nothing occurs in the one without having effect in the other. Poverty of health came upon me and scarcity of insight beseiged me.

Still, peace and contentment reign in me. Nothing can separate me from the love that is mine in Christ Jesus my Lord...he loves me still...even if I wear a big-buckled belt over a polka-dot shirt with tapered jeans and a banana clip to boot.

The Insanity of Vanity

2006-10-12T22:53:00.000-04:00

Last week one of the girls asked me to be a hand model for an exam she was taking in her beauty course. Several of our girls are attending a local tech school, learning skills and trades that will help them find employment in the future. It's fabulous and I am very grateful for the lady who helps to fund this venture.

Rosario, the young lady who needed to "borrow" my fingers and nails, frequently polishes my nails and I trusted her abilities.

Entering the class room late (an attempt to be more Bolivian), I positioned myself in the salon's chair. As I perused the room, I became aware that all the files and cuticle cutters were being passed around from person to person...without disinfecting them.

At this point, I remembered a 20/20 type program which investigated several manicure/pedicure salons where sanitation was not a priority. More then pretty nails, women were leaving with serious blood infections, one of which created huge, gaping sores in the legs. My dad turned to my mom and I and sternly said, "I better not hear of either of you going to one of those places!"

The visions dancing in my head were not pretty and I proceeded to pray with fervency in Jesus name that he would protect me from any ghastly diseases. Trusting my health into his hands, the girls asked me to soak my nails into two bowls of warm water. Not so bad except I had to suspend my arms in the air for such a long time that it felt more like a Billy Blanks work-out then a pampering manicure.

Fingers soaked, the fun part of polishing began. Sitting pretty in my reclining chair, a fiery sensation began to move up my back and down my pants. Jerking from the pain, Rosario reprimanded me for messing up her work on my nails. What else is a person to do when an army of small, red ants are milling up out of the seat crevices and dining on one's body? A perfect polish was the least of my concerns; being a smorgasboard for blood thirsty ants seemed the more pressing matter at hand.

Thankfully the ants did not ravage my skin too savagely and so far, there is no sign of infection coursing through my veins. Perhaps the apostle Peter's wife had a Bolivian manicure at one point and that's why he advised women that their beauty should not come from outward adorment, but from the inner self. The price of vanity is less dollars in Bolivia, but more pain then I ever bargained for.

The Secret Ingredient

2006-09-23T20:23:00.000-04:00

I pulled a 'mom' the other day. My mom has a tendency to not look twice when taking groceries off their shelves in the store. As a result and much to my dad's chagrin, it's not uncommon for her to come home with an item that she really didn't intend to buy.

In thinking of something new and fun to do with the little girls on Tuesday afternoon, I thought to make play dough and searched the Net for recipes. Several of the sites stated that 'cream of tartar' was the secret ingredient to making a choice batch of play dough. At the store I was pleased to find several bottles and swiped them off and into my cart. Arriving home with my purchases, I prepared some play dough ahead of time. I threw in the items, carefully measuring each one, and made sure not to forget the most magical ingredient of all: cream of tartar.

Placing the mixture over low heat, I began to stir. The formation should have taken few minutes, but after five, it was still lacking several play dough qualities. Except for the fact that the colour was pink, it resembled Campbell's Chunky soup. I began to wonder, "Fork or spoon?". I thought, "Where did I go wrong?" and beckoned Alison to the kitchen. Initially she had nothing to offer, but at the sink she picked up my empty bottles of cream of tartar and asked, "Um, is this what you're using?" Although it may look the same in colour and texture, and the bottles are freakishly similar, meat tenderizer does not replace cream of tartar as the secret ingredient in play dough.

Learning my lesson, I whipped up a successful batch and pulled together a simple teaching to share, using play dough as my illustration. The most obvious passage that came to my mind was Isaiah 64:8,

"Yet, O Lord, you are our Father. We are the clay, you are the potter; we are all the work of your hand."

As the little girls decorated old margarine containers to store their play dough, I explained the simple message of how we were the play dough in God's hands. I asked them to think about that every time they played with their play dough. We can trust his shaping and forming because he is a good Father.

I was enjoying this idea so much, that I opted to use the same theme for my Wednesday morning devotional with the ladies. As each squeezed and held a piece in their hand, the Spirit's presence led to a super cool time of sharing and praying together.

On a roll with the play dough theme, I prepared some more and used it for my Friday chat groups. Laying out all the ingredients before the girls, I related how the flour represents our most basic make-up, that of dust, our flesh. The salt speaks to us of our role as Christ followers in the world. The water and oil remind us that soft hearts are needed so the Holy Spirit may be poured in and make us maleable to his will. The secret ingredient is God's grace found in Christ. A package of Kool-aid, although not essential, makes play dough a whole lot more fun and delightful to use.

All these elements are essential to the creation of play dough. However, it's formation does not occur until it is placed over a hot coil. This heat is necessary to bring the ingredients together. Similarly, God uses the difficult times, past and present, to form and shape us. Sometimes we turn things upside down as if we are the cooks and God is the play dough. We, the formed, say to the one who forms, "You didn't make me, you know nothing." (Isaiah 29:16). Typically the pot doesn't reprimand the potter. The Kool-aid moments, the salt of the Saviour, the oil of the Spirit, and the flour of our flesh over the reddening coils of crisis all work toward the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.

Still, sometimes his purpose is unclear, our calling is cloudy and we find ourselves ranting and raving in the direction of a certain Deity. He understands but he wants us to know that he is completely trustworthy and so very good. Unlike me, He won't throw in meat tenderizer when the recipe calls for cream of tartar.

Stories Told and Untold

2006-09-16T17:42:00.000-04:00

An old peanut butter jar full of tape worms. Congratulations Dave V, you're good, but Jer you knew where they came from. I promised to post the accompanying story but as my brother Derek forewarned, I fear I may lose some readers. Perhaps I'll spare you the details and those of you who crave strange and unusual stories, feel free to make a request in the comment section.

I will say that this shot was taken at a home for the developmentally and physically challenged that I recently visited with our girls. The home is called Eben-Ezer and little did I know that it is under Nacer ministries as well. It was a memorable day. My girls were especially amused when one of the boys took a shining to me. His affections were humourous and a little frightening at times. The majority of the girls rose to the task by embracing and accepting the boys. A few were uneasy and nervous but, I had some serious pride for my chicas. By the end of the day, I wasn't the only girl who had a guy with a crush on me.

Our task consisted in cleaning, cooking, and chatting with the guys. In Canada, where there are high standards for hygiene and basic by-laws regarding building structure and integrity, it is still a challenging experience to work in these environments...challenging in a sensory kind of way. As in your sense of smell is assualted and your sense of sight sees images that you wish you hadn't seen. In Bolivia, where standards are different and by-laws may exist in an unenforced kind of way, the sensory challenge is a billion times more intense. Still, the girls cleaned every nook and cranny from the bedroom to the bathroom, and even washed some pretty ripe, reeking clothes. They even withstood the discovery of the tiny, gecko carcasses.

One of the reasons why my affection for the girls swelled in me this day was because I was witnessing the desired end result of discipleship. It doesn't do to walk people through to an understanding of Jesus unless they grasp the concept of service. Show me your faith without deeds, and I will show you my faith by what I do. Inactive faith can not save you. You MUST be serving in some shape or form. Yet, let's not deceive ourselves either, the work by itself is meaningless too. If I give all I possess to the poor, and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing. It's a package deal here folks: faith, deeds, and love, take them all or throw in the towel.

Our kids, my girls, have received a lot...from others and from various countries. They have been served much by dedicated folk and people who really 'get' Jesus. Granted, they've been dished out a lot of brutality too, but it's all for nought if they don't arrive at a place where they can be a blessing in as much as they've been blessed. That dear readers, is part of my mission for the time that I am here.

My other mission is to determine whether or not my own intestines are residence to a tapeworm or two, but that is another story best left untold.

What Z'it?

2006-09-09T14:28:00.000-04:00

As kids we received Owl Magazine, a fact filled, fun nature magazine. It was always a good day when Owl arrived in the mail. My favourite feature was the back page called "What Z'it?" The page would exhibit six magnified close-ups of some thing, be it human, animal, or inanimate. The reader would have to guess what the six magnifications were. In memory of this superb magazine, I post this "What Z'it?". Feel free to muse, guess, and imagine what the above photo may be. In a few days I will let you all know what it is along with an accompanying story. Dear housemates, if you read this, you aren't allowed to comment.

The Aroma of Home

2006-09-03T20:18:00.000-04:00

Longing for home gripped my heart this morning and wrenched it like a soaking towel. It twisted and dripped ache into my gut and then hung me out to dry. Like an intense craving, it passed, but I could liken it to the pangs I feel when I've been deprived of coffee. First, I think, "Mmm, I would really like a cup of coffee right now." As my head starts to ache and I get closer to home, the anticipation of putting on a pot and pouring a mug of this gorgeous indulgence takes over. The gurgling noises of the coffee machine and the fragrance of this liquid godsend suggest that I just may be addicted to the caffienated brew.

My inclinations towards home are similar. This morning I thought it would be great to be enfolding my mug on my parent's sofa and gazing out one of the many large windows at the grand forest that borders our lot.

By the time I get home, the view will more than likely be what you see above. Anticipation intensifies the closer I get to flying home. My heart aches and the sight of sweet faces on my screen saver suggest that I just may be addicted to my loved ones.

A similar longing flooded in this morning as we partook in the Lord's Supper. The service had been lengthy, not dreadful, but somewhat extensive. The pastor had several closing points that only served to open new series of insights which led to more finishing remarks and even more novel insights. Mentally interjecting 'amens' and hoping that telepathy had some worth, the final 'let us pray' signaled that it was almost time to leave the building...until I saw some leaders lift a table laden with lace and bearing wine with a platter of bread. Instead of dismay that departure would be delayed even longer, the sight of the sacred supper drew me to stay the length. How long had it been since I had last took the bread, drank the wine, and did this in remembrance of Him? Too long. Being the first Sunday of the month, family and friends were probably dining in memory of our Lord the same morning as I.

Every day the distance between the memory of our Lord and the meeting of my maker gets smaller. Am I excited and filled with anticipation? Not every second, but the pangs for those celestial shores can hit me hard sometimes. For to me to live is Christ and to die is gain. Those moments this morning and the frequent longings to see His face suggest to me that I just may be dependant on Jesus. There is a waiting though and a patient, sometimes impatient, prayer, "Lord Jesus, come quickly!".

Let's wait together. Pray together. While we wait, I'll put a pot on. We can chat about anything, laugh about the latest silliness, and confess a bit of homesickness. Would you like sugar and cream with your coffee?

Mis Propios

2006-08-31T13:42:00.000-04:00

Inspiration is everything when it comes to writing. For that reason I am wearing my black T-shirt with red and white lettering which states in no uncertain terms, "Everyone loves a Canadian girl". In the case of this blog, the logo should read, "Everyone loves a Canadian team". And why not? The very fact that the most recent team was from my country and even my province makes them worthy of love. These nine teenagers and six adults were my own, or as we say in Spanish, "mis propios"!
Unlike the last teams, this one was not here to work on the Cristo Viene boy's home. Their objective was to get to know the guys so we paired them up with a few and sent them off to do chores. Some made bread, others cleaned bathrooms and washed the dishes of eighty odd people, but Andrew impressed me with his pig handling. Being the youngest didn't deter him from jumping at the chance to help with the swine. This particular afternoon a hog had been selected for the butcher block. An unbeknowing Andrew found himself dragging an uncooperative pig by the ears from its pen to the flatbed of a truck as it screamed in blue murder protest.

Splitting their time between the Nacer homes and another ministry, El Jordan, we found ourselves making daily trips from the country into the city and back again. On our way back to Nacer one evening, the bus made a pee pit-stop at my place. Anne, a smiley, upbeat person, entered our living/dining room and said, "Wow, you're house is so cute. How do I say 'your house is beautiful' in Spanish?" I made the translation for her where upon she turned to my blonde haired, blue eyed house mate and stammered,"Tu...casa...es...bonita!" To which Alison replied,"Thank you. I speak English."

As per norm, there were many humourous occurences. Hands down, Nick had the best Smeagol imitation I have ever seen! Sara earned the nick name 'Waxine' one evening as we hung out at the girl's home. In the midst of translating, Sara approached me with eyes as wide as saucers. She was concerned because after sharing her name with Vicki, the girl had stuck her finger in her ear and then repeated the motion with her own ear. Far from being a new form of greeting, Vicki was trying to let Sara know that her name means 'ear wax' in Spanish. Hence the nick name.

Each member contributed so much to the trip. Tim and Anne brought down their dentistry skills and spent hours doing cleanings and root canals. The whole team could sing, but Mike, Bronwyn, and Ben blessed me tons with their musical gifts. Lana touched the lives of many women with her testimony and gentle spirit.

The neatest tale comes as a result of dozens of soccer jerseys, shorts, and socks that the team brought down with them. Days before their arrival, Miguel, the director, had been at the home where I work. The girls have been training for a soccer tournament and begged Miguel for some shirts to play in. He said that they would have to ask God about that request because there was nothing he could offer them. As soon as he saw the set of 16 shiny, maroon tops, he beckoned me over and told me to tell the team how they had provided an answer to prayer. This Saturday (and Saturdays to come) our girls will proudly play in matching uniforms, remembering that God knows and grants the desires the desires of our heart. (I want to post a picture but blogger won't upload the shot!)

With so much more to tell, all I can say is thanks to 'mis propios' for being here. Thanks to Paul, whose story is book worthy, for leading and guiding the team. It was good to say 'eh' without a single reaction and wonderful to spend time with some fellow Canadians. Come back anytime, but bring cold weather and Tim Horton's with you!

Mercy Falling and Failing

2006-08-26T13:01:00.000-04:00

The team from Oshawa Canada left this morning. I want to and will blog about them, but something more urgent presses upon my heart today. Christ's compassion crowded out my insides and pushed sorrow into my heart as I drove to the airport this morning. Some time has passed since I began living in Bolivia, this impoverished yet captivating country. Poor, struggling people pass by my eyes daily to the point that they become part of the scenery. I don't care to admit it, but there are days when the poverty doesn't even phase me because it is so rampant and typical.

Rising at dawn to bid farewell to my Canadian compatriots, the Spirit stirred up my dormant empathy and tears. Sitting behind a strange man in his taxi, an emotional outburst would have been inappropriate, so I battled the billowing sadness within. Initially I was fine, driving past the regular beggars at their regular intersections as they approached vehicles asking for money. Then we drove past a young man, leaning against a wall, looking content, but clearly a street dweller. He had no hands. His arms went as far as the nubs of his elbows. Like an unexpected wave from behind, concern and worry for his well being hit me hard. I wondered what it must be like, to be limbless in a country where even the fully limbed find it difficult to eek out an existence. As a young man, what plagued him as he pondered the future? Profoundly bothered, I fervently prayed for all those with physical losses in Bolivia.

Shortly after, in a traffic filled part of the city, surrounded by noise and mayhem, an old man sat on a curb. Arms draped over his knees and head drooping between, the sight of him crushed me. On the ground, to his left, sat a yellow box of chocolate. Those bars represented his livelihood, a life of wandering from car window to car window, trusting that some gluttonous driver or passenger would give in to their cravings. What would it be like to be elderly and reduced to selling junk food just to survive? Again, I was deeply moved and prayed again for all the aged, despairing people in Bolivia.

My heart and emotions were moved tremendously this morning, but now questions mark my meandering thoughts. Why were young and old stuck on the streets? Did the old man not remember his Creator in the days of his youth, before his hands trembled and his eyes went dim? Proverbs says that lazy hands make a man poor and diligent hands bring wealth, but what if in trying to be diligent, the hands of a young man were lost? The children of a righteous man will never go hungry, so are they suffering for the sins of their parents? Could they have been so wicked that their income was punishment instead of life? Questions shaped by ancient words of wisdom, escaping answers for eons of years.

Endless need can overwhelm one person. It would be impossible for me to help every hurting, desparate individual in Santa Cruz, let alone Bolivia. Doling out time and love to twenty-six, attention-craved teenage girls is already a consuming and demanding task. A few verses come to mind as I travel this train of thoughts: John 9:3, Romans 3:10, and Proverbs 11:25. Check them out and chew on them for awhile. Put together with the help of Holy Spirit, I am able to handle the misery and misfortune of everyday life in Bolivia, but the truth is, I'm still chewing.

Walmart World

2006-08-15T20:23:00.000-04:00

I am about to embark on another ten day journey. The next team arrives tommorow morning and I thought to whip up a blog before I pretty much vanish for the next week and a half. With every group that comes and goes, my heart attaches and detaches, but I wouldn't trade this aspect of my work for anything. As much as I love the girls, I dare say (again) that nothing fires me up more then working with mission teams.

I actually don't have to much to offer up this time around. However, I have been thinking a lot about community and what that means and what it looks like. Last Wednesday was the first of weekly devotionals that I'll be leading at the girl's home for all of us ladies in charge. Commenting on our changing world, we all recognized that community still exists but it sure looks a whole lot different then it did fifty years ago. My parents grew up in small towns, attending one church, and hanging out with a mostly unchanging crowd through most of their years. The idea is nostalgic and comforting, like the smell of apples cooking on a fresh autumn day.

Life started out this way for me too. Now, with Internet and travel, my community is truly world wide. It's wild, vast, and overwhelming. At times I feel like a two year old in a massive Wal-mart, separated from my mom and wandering through the looming shelves of economy sized shampoo and underwear. Sometimes I grab onto a familiar looking pair of pants only to realize that the face looking down on me belongs to a stranger. "Attention customers, we have a lost girl, looking for community in aisle two, wearing a brown tank top, blue jeans, and white flip flops. Could said community claim her at the returns desk?"

As I live in this scattered, spreading global village, wholeness and a sense of personhood come from the constancy and permanency of Christ in my life. A year ago my brother, Daniel, married my third sister, Alicia. Between the ceremony and the reception, I recall feeling a strange sensation beneath my ribs, like four walls were closing in on my heart. I paced a small room at the hall, asking God to help me. I wanted to run, but being the MC kind of obligates one to stick around. The claustrophobia left me and I was able to master the ceremony and enjoy the evening immensely.

What hit me? Was it the beating realization that this union left me as the solitaire, single sibling? Maybe a little, but I think it was the ever changing back drop of life that made me choke momentarily. My community was under construction again and my emotions had to do a quick detour in order to get back to the original route.

The original route is the realization that people weave in and out of our lives, but God is the one working the thread. I thank Him for those who came in once and never returned. I praise Him for those friends who enter and re-enter from time to time. I glorify Him for the loved ones who are always with me and love me no strings attached. Most of all, I am just glad that I am my beloveds and He is mine. As a grown two year old in a Wal-mart world, my hand is held by the hand that created community. Who's holding yours?

Bless Their Hearts

2006-08-06T13:56:00.000-04:00

The Georgians have left Bolivia.
Blogging about my unforgetable week with this good looking crew will console me in their absence. They left such a short time ago that I can still smell them. I'm not joking. Four bags of their clothes are sitting in my bedroom and the smell of their sweat, perfumes, and detergent fills the air. My house mates have to plug their noses and beg for mercy as I borrow their detergent and say sorry for the odour that is emanating from the bags. Once again, there was a lot of banter between myself, the representative Canadian, and these fifteen Americans over the English language and the proper pronounciation of certain vowels. I'm not sure if I corrected them at all, but a few of them were saying "eh" by the end of the week (don't deny it Ben!). I am most definitely saying "y'all" more often then I care to admit.

Through out the week, I was continually impressed with the godliness, perseverence, generosity and fearlessness of these men and women. They faced the ferocity of Nacer's farm animals and the unexpected appearances of Bolivian wildlife in brave and valient ways. Who can forget how Tim took down the charging ram, risking his own life to protect the ladies? Or the brave bull riding of Ben as he tamed Betsy, the bucking cow? Nothing matches the stoicness of the girls as they sifted through mounds of potatoes, risking life and limb, to find those not infested with writhing larvae in order to feed the hungry horde. Although no one witnessed the battle, Timmy tells of the time he entered the guy's cabin and a large lizard of gecko proportions fell from the ceiling and landed on his shoulder. Courageously, he fought and rid the room of the beast, saving the rest of the men from certain death.

Countless laughs and cherished memories are mine now that this group has gone home (not to mention the thoughtful gifts they gave me before departing!). I can not forget the way I felt as I watched several of you carry on conversations with the boys you were building for. Arms draped around their shoulders, you poured out your heart and told your jokes to these loveable lads. It didn't matter that it was all in English, these kids were left feeling valued and honoured. Thank you.

Thank you for all the work you did...at the home and at relationships. You played and layed bricks hard, leaving an impression that will last a long time. You raised up walls one brick at a time and laid a floor one painful stone after another. May this work last long but may the work that God has begun in you last forever. Each one of you is worthy of greater honour then the cement you poured or the beams you raised. God is not unjust; He will not forget your work and the love you have shown Him as you have helped His people and continue to help them. He is worthy of all honour for the work he does in us. May we hold to the courage and the hope of which we boast! God bless your hearts and I'll see y'all again sometime soon eh?

Amistad

2006-07-23T23:07:00.000-04:00

TFF:True Friends Forever. Please raise your hand if you have ever written those three letters on a scrappy piece of paper and passed it to your best friend (at least for the day) back in the days of gradeschool. I think I finally threw out all my love notes and hate mail from those elementary days before I made the move to Bolivia.

Today was El Dia de Amistad in Bolivia, Friendship Day. It reminds me a lot of Valentine's Day with similar cartoonish cards handed out and flowers marketed everywhere. For the past two weeks, we've had fun at the home with our "amigas secretas", passing notes, gifts, and trying to figure out who our illusive buddy could be. The last two Sunday messages have sprung from this dearly loved holiday as well. It was the first sermon that really moved me, wringing my heart and causing me to feel for the first time in months.

Someone I love and care for hurt me so badly and my reaction was to withhold my friendship from him. It began as a mechanism to protect myself and evolved into a prideful stand against someone who had rejected me. Beaten and betrayed, I became a person I didn't recognize. Determination to be distant and aloof was destroying my joy and robbing me of cheer.

As I sat in the service last week, all the defenses I had put in place crumbled to pieces. Jesus called Judas "friend" even as the betrayer planted his lying lips on his cheekbone. Friendship is not about what the other person does or does not do. To be a friend is show yourself a friend. While these truths seeped into me, I resolved to do as much as it depended on me to restore a cherished relationship.

"Do not withhold good from those who deserve it, when it is in your power to act." Proverbs 3:27. Are you withholding your friendship from someone? Are you trying to punish another by being stand offish and cold? Maybe they don't deserve it, maybe they do, but YOU deserve the peace and relief that comes from healing a rift when it is in your power to do so.

God provided sweet companions for me as I poked my way through the fog of a lost friendship. I recognize them as being there and give thanks for their presence in a time when I was so removed and unmoved by the goodness of God and life. Countless souls walk the trail with us and many veer to another route, but the One who sticks closer than a brother is the most constant companion of all.

Life is Good

2006-07-21T13:16:00.000-04:00

Right now there is canteloup, honey dew melon, pineapple, strawberries, peaches, apples, bananas, madarins, and papaya in our fridge and hanging out in our fruit basket. Life is good.

Gasp!

2006-07-17T21:23:00.000-04:00

I like air. Contests to see who can hold their breath the longest never held much appeal for me. Panic engulfed me when a pesky brother or obnoxious male class mate would shove my head under water in a sick attempt at humour. My dad used to pin pillows over our faces much to my horror and the squeelling delight of my brothers. Personally, I find comfort in the whole breathing thing.

Physically speaking, I inhale and exhale without much thought. It's not until I am robbed of this very natural action that I acknowledge my dependancy on oxygen. Spiritually speaking, my soul was inhaling and exhaling the fragrance of God. The respiration of His presence became ritual and routine. In some ways, this is exactly what we strive for; practicing the presence of God, praying without ceasing, etc.. However, a spread of fingers had submerged my soul into a swamp of resentment and bitterness. My spirit stopped breathing the sweet scent of God's presence and a darkness began to suffocate the life of Christ in me.

Recently, most of my blogs have been whimsical and light of fare. I had nothing to offer in the way of godly insight or inspiration and wasn't ready to acknowledge my apathy. My old school journal is bleeding with ink; black and blue blood spelling out the awful places I have visited of late. I am ready to share some of those wounds and sores now by paraphrasing parts of my journal here.

"What kind of God am I serving and encouraging others to follow?...I'm still mad at God for what happened to me and for his "trick" to get me back here. I've been crying out for a long time, saying, "Something's not right between God and I and can ANYBODY help me?!? I cast out my lines of spiritual disorientation and no one bites the bait. No one grabs me and shakes me, not a soul dares to take me on and challenge my apathy. Where are those who would surround me, push me around a little, to slap my face instead of pat my back? I'm so far from where I used to be that I wonder how I can ever get back. I've gone on a hike, a long hike, and forgot that I have to cover the same distance in order to get home."

Yesterday the oppressive hand released it's grip on my heart and I realized that I was holding my soul under water. I burst through the surface and gasped at God's love and longing for me. I walked way too far, but I didn't have to walk back. I was carried, exhausted and relieved, back to the shore in arms of everlasting love.

I realize it is risky to put my raw and painfully honest meanderings out there. More and more, I think it's what needs to happen. I post this parade of thoughts in the hope that it will help someone else escape the drowning effects of apathy, resentment, and bitterness. Don't stay under too long, gasp in the goodness of God!

Say Wha'?

2006-07-10T21:02:00.000-04:00

Good googa mooga!! What just hit me? A team from Waynesboro, Virginia.

Last week we were blessed to host a team of seven from the United States of America...or if you would ask one of them where they were from, they'd say,"'Murica". But, "thad ain' nuthin' budda thang", "cusin" Larry was having a "grit time" teaching us Canadians the finer points of the English language. As I admonished the kids not to learn English from these superb, grammatically-challenged folk, Mikee was wagging a finger and telling me he was "gonna' learn me sumpin'". "S'not purdy" trying to translate from English to Spanish when you're just not sure what is being said in your first language. Somehow between shouts of "Good googa mooga" and "Lawd have mercy!", we managed to cross the communication barrier. If you "wan' s'mo" of this fantastic Southern drawl, I will post a few more favourites at the end of this blog.

Arriving on the 30th of June and leaving on the 7th of July, we celebrated both Canada Day and Independance Day together. Canada Day brought fireworks, patriotic cake, maple leaf tatoos, and the faithful flag. Independance Day bore gifts of Tootsie Rolls (pronounced with a long 'o'!), patriotic pins, miniature flags, and smarties (a.k.a. rockets). Quite honestly, I think the red and white kicked some red, white, and blue butt

Our party may have rocked, especially our rendition of the national anthem, but this team broke the mold in other ways. A few days into the construction project, the five men were forced to deal with the varying opinions of several different Bolivian workers regarding their bricklaying. In one day they managed to lay 20 bricks. Each time they set down a row, a man would approach and tell them to rip them out and do it a different way. Needless to say, frustration built faster then the wall they wanted to finish. During lunch, they discussed their situation and decided that they needed to return in humility, clearly stating that they were there to serve.

It was tough to come down with certain expectations and discover that what they expected was quite different from the actual experience. Granted, this is typical of short term mission trips, but this team had character and personality. The authentic presence of God evidenced itself from the way they handled the construction site to the way they loved on our kids.

Adreana, Julie, Jeff, Joe, Mike, "Cousin" Larry, and Dave (Mister America), thanks for coming down and sharing so much of yourselves with us. You brought muscle and memories, you gave laughter and tears, and you left a hole and a longing for more of the same. God bless! Y'all come back now, ya' hear?

Please find Southern US English with accompanying Canadian definitions below.

Glossary

Ain' nuthin' budda thang - It's nothing.
Good googa mooga - Oh my goodness!
Wan' s'mo'? - Would you like some more?
Mum n'dem' were der' - Mom and they were there.
Flash dem coconuts - Show me your muscles.
Where da' ball? - Where is the ball?
Get ou' da doe! - Get out the door!
POE -lice - police.
S'not - It's not.
S'purdy - It's pretty.
Murica - America.
Lemme learn ya' sumpin' - Let me teach you something.
Yer as cuntry as cornbread - no translation.
'Ceptin' I don' use 'em all - Except that I don't use them all...as in they don't use all the consonants.
Slick as snot on a doorknob - no translation.

Murphy Brought Mayhem

2006-06-29T14:27:00.000-04:00

Murphy came for a visit the other day, and he brought his law with him. I certainly didn't invite him, but he came and wreaked havoc in my house. Lindsay met him too, but I was the one who had to deal with his obnoxious behaviour for most of a recent afternoon.

It all started when I invited the other lady workers at the home to come down for dinner and dessert. Perhaps he took it personally that he wasn't asked to come too. I was bending over to put something in the garbage when he grabbed the back of my head and whammed my forehead into the corner of the cupboard door. Doubled-over and trying to recuperate, I wondered how he got in and fought the urge to curse loud and long. Not even five minutes later, while I was peeling back a can of tomatoe sauce, he took the lid and sliced my pinky finger over the razor edge. As blood dripped out of the clean, gaping cut, the smell of something burning reminded me that I had cakes in the oven. Forgetting about Murphy, I opened the door and saw that the cake mixture was overflowing the two loaf pans and creating a third cake on the bottom of the oven. At that point I gave up the fight, and let a few profanities fly out.

Lindsay, who was recuperating from some bazaar, swelling bite beneath her eye, entered the kitchen at about this time. I explained that we had an intruder named Murphy in the house and she graciously offered to continue with the dessert portion of the meal.

Completing the last layer of lasagna, I went on a frantic search for tin foil...a fruitless, frantic search. Since the noodles were already doing some idiotic curl upwards, I didn't want to risk drying up the dish by not covering it. There are three small convenience stores in our neighborhood, surely one of them would sell tin foil. As it turns out, convenience stores aren't so convenient in Bolivia.

After a nice stroll around a few blocks, I came back empty handed. Lindsay was throwing together her trifle and I chose to check my email. As my butt hit the chair, there was a yelp and a bang from the kitchen. Murphy was back. He had reached around Lindsay, grabbed the dessert bowl and threw it on the floor! The nerve of that guy!! Thankfully, this time there was an exception to his law and the container landed right side up.

Somehow, despite the intrusion and inconveniences, everything was good to go before 6pm, the hour our guests were to arrive. Unfortunately, Murphy must of thought it would be funny set back their watches, because they didn't show up until 7:40pm. June 27, 2006: the day Murphy brought mayhem to the house of Marcee. Dang that Murphy!!

Alison, Risky, and I

2006-06-23T00:02:00.000-04:00

Soup of the Day

2006-06-20T19:56:00.000-04:00

I was going to just title this blog and post the picture and it probably would have had the desired impact. However, my mouth is like a split gut and words are always spilling out everywhere. I can't resist elaborating on the meals I've had this week. Speaking of gut, have I mentioned the delightful fare of stomach stew and giblet goulash that was recently served at the home?

With regard to the posted photo, I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw this chicken head's vacant sockets staring up at me. A few minutes prior, one of our youngest girls was telling me how much she enjoyed chicken brains. I really didn't believe her, until she cracked the skull open like a walnut and consumed the mush inside! I tried to control my reactions, but they must have picked up on my revulsion as they proceeded to dangle the ripped up cranium in front of my face, inviting me to partake.

Yesterday, Lindsay and I headed to the Nacer boy's home. Near the dinner hour, one of the guys beckoned us to the kitchen to show us what he was preparing for dinner. As we approached the metal cauldron that sat over an open flame, the boy grabbed a large wooden ladle and began to swirl the boiling broth. A sick feeling washed over me as the large head of a pig was pulled out of the bubbling depths. We were told that the head needed to simmer in the soup for several hours so that all of it's flavours would seep out. I've never really been a big fan of the flavour of head, but I did manage to consume half a bowl.

No, the picture would not have been sufficient on it's own to convey the outlandish meals I've been eating as of late. I do apologize for not tacking warnings onto my last two entries. I realize that their content may revolt and disgust some of my readers. Welcome to my life. Soup anyone?

The Nightlife of a SWMF

2006-06-13T22:08:00.000-04:00

Earlier this evening I had a good chuckle as I read the update of an old friend from Youth for Christ. Married and living in the west of Canada, the majority of her email centred on their newborn child of 6 months. She spoke of a "Baby and Me" group and the squealing noises of her son. I thought it was cute. It caused me to reflect on how life changes.

Less then a decade back, I would have been mortified if my Friday night consisted of anything less then going out with a few friends for drinks and dancing. Granted my entertainment choices have changed considerably, but nightlife certainly isn't what it used to be. Allow me to elaborate.

Most recently, Alison discovered that our dog, Risky, is infested with ticks. He has two varieties of ticks. One is smallish and red and the other is the size of large raisin, grey in colour. Our poor canine is being drained of blood and probably being given some dreadful, mind-eating disease in return. Alison, valiant and strong of stomach, has spent hours picking the suckers off of Risky's skin.

Last Friday, I overcame my strong gag reflex, and with the help of my friend Lindsay, the three of us took on Risky and plucked the putrid pests together. After drowning them in a rubbing alcohol, we gathered them into a glob on our tile patio.
At this point, the real fun began...especially for one who comes from a family of pyromaniacs. What a sweet feeling of revenge and satisfaction coursed through me as we set the little buggers on fire.

At one point, some one commented on the fact that it was Friday night and we were gathered around a small mound of charred tick corpses. Perhaps we should have wept at our pathetic plight, instead we found it quite amusing and spent the next half hour cracking jokes about how we were "livin' la vida loca"!

The nightlife got a little more "loco" last evening. Lindsay and I headed to a gala good-bye party for some friends of our Nacer homes. The food was pretty decent except for one particular item bearing a startling resemblance to something you would blow out of your nose.
However, our dinner didn't even compare to the one the dogs were devouring back at home. Coming through the gate, our dog and the neighbor's puppy were licking there chops on the porch. I looked at Lindsay and said, "Is that a diaper?"

It was.

These days the only ones consuming alcohol are nasty ticks and the only things dancing are the flames as they consume their inebriated bodies. Ahhh, the life of a single white missionary female.

Microwave Popcorn and Peanut Butter

2006-06-02T21:49:00.000-04:00

By the sound of previous blogs, one might think that I'm totally down on the home. Admittedly, I tire of the clinging, hair pulling, stomach poking, and frequent put-downs but quite sincerely, these girls are endearing. As mom advised me just the other day, when the going gets rough, remember where these beauties have come from.

Where have they come from? The entirety of their stories remains unknown to me, but I do know of a few pasts. In one case, the mother of one of our 13 year old girls, prostituted her daughter for financial gain. Another older teen was sexually abused by every male in her family, except one...he only physically abused her. Unimaginable terrors forced upon innocents by the very people who should have defended and protected them. How can I stay gloomy for very long when my past reflects not one iota of their pain?

Despite the tremendous abuse these young girls have experienced, they maintain some sense of innocence, naivety, and wonder. My mind was blown tonight by the reaction of the girls to our microwave and more specifically microwave popcorn. Most did not know what a microwave was nor how to operate one. They fought to be the one to push the buttons. All eyes were fixed on the transparent microwave door as the inflating bag and popping kernels did more to entertain then their favourite TV show, El Cuerpo de Deseo. Their wonder continued as they secured spoons and gorged on my jar of peanut butter, finishing off what was left of the crunchy spread. Later, after our discussions, our cordless phone with it's handset locater was the object of much fascination and Alison's magazine from The Pottery Barn stirred up an ocean of "ooo's and "aaa's".

Although I am disillusioned with many aspects of my being here, one thing is clear. These girls are precious. They are gorgeous images of God. They deserve my love and an unlimited supply of grace. My burning desire is that every one will be as enthralled with Christ one day as they were with microwave popcorn and peanut butter tonight.

To Captivate

2006-05-30T20:39:00.000-04:00

If you're looking for a compliment, you won't easily find one at the El Cristo Viene girl's home. Flattery is a waste of breath and words for these ones. Physical defects such as the large zit on your chin or the mole that sticks out on your neck are open topics for discussion...they're even willing to pop the pimple and pull off the mole for you. Weight is a popular target for chatter and nick names are more often created on the basis of some weakness, physical or otherwise, that you may have. One of my nicknames is "Palo" and that would mean "Stick".

After having my haircut and coloured in Cochabamba, I returned to the home and several girls made it very clear that they did not like my "nueva look". One girl began to call me "paja", which means straw and the rest highly recommended that I grow it long and one length. Let's just say that if you have self-esteem issues over your physical appearance, you won't leave our home feeling confident in your appearance.

I admit that I spend time each day straightening my hair and putting on make-up. I think about how I look through-out the day and will do an occasional check-up on the hair status. The hair review is essential. Fingers constantly rake their way through my hair during the day as the girls, in their habitual way of lice-checking, automatically search their neighbor's scalp.

People bug me about being too concerned about my appearance or spending too much time in front of the mirror. After reading "Captivating" (Stasi and John Eldridge), I realize that this is a current that runs through most women. We want to be beautiful. Those ladies who shun this idea have lost, in some way, the essence of their womanhood. We're not talking beauty as defined by Hollywood, your mother, or the loser kid who sat behind you in math class. It's a magnetic, drawing force that eminates from within a heart that is committed to her Creator. It is a recognition that although God names Himself Father and identifies Himself as male, that we are also made in His image. Those deep seated tendancies that guys like to dismiss as "Women!" are rooted in the One who made us. We like flowers, perfumes, and new clothes. Typically we want to talk things out and save friendships, guarding them like a heirloom without price. We are women and we have our quirks.

Captivate is the word that most stays with me after finishing the book. It's the title and rightly so. Our role as women is to captivate the people in our lives, particularly men. Not just boyfriends or husbands, but all men. Not just in a sexual way, but in platonic and philadelphia ways. As Christ dwells in us, we become more and more captivating to those around us. Females can be catty and downright nasty. We can be pushovers and withdrawn as well. What we are originally programmed to do is captivate. It's there, inside each one of us, somewhere. I love the line in Song of Songs that says, "You have stolen my heart, my sister, my bride, you have stolen my heart with one glance of your eyes."

My sisters, my fellow bearers of estrogen, I encourage us to seek what it means for us to be more captivating...we will uncover it as we look for more of Christ. Men, read the book. If you want to get the females in your life, please, read the book.

The Womb of Dawn

2006-05-15T16:17:00.000-04:00

"From the womb of the dawn you will receive the dew of your youth" (Ps.110:3). I crawled out of dawn's womb this morning but the dew of youth must have missed me, leaving me as dry as Gideon's fleece.

My cell phone crowed at 5am this morning. Seriously, the alarm clock cock-a-doodle-doos and I have no idea how to change it...my electronic ineptness is far reaching. The question is why was my cell set to awaken me when the only living thing that should be stirring at that hour are the roosters?

Every day at 5am, the girls slide out of their sheets and start their day with chores. This morning they tried to snuggle their way back into dreamland, but the evil gringa lady (me) peeled off their blankets and allowed the cold to drive them out their beds. If the chilly air wouldn't do the trick, the threat of icy water did.

I had no idea that I was going to be spending the night. I didn't even think I was going to be at the home yesterday. Upon arriving at church, Cleidy, one of the older girls, set the keys in my hand and told me I was in charge for the day. The workers take turns on Sundays and I have third Sundays...which is next week. Still, I agreed to stay. After a full day of mothering 26 girls, I was awaiting the return of Tia Eli. At 10pm, I was informed by a few chicas that the Tia wasn't coming back until the next day. A small detail that no one let me in on.

Anger flamed within me. I was the last to know something when I should have been the first to know. Blame it on Bolivian culture if you will, this oversight irritated me. It felt like someone was sweeping a cactus across the inside of my ribcage. With each passing, my annoyance level increased. The inner pricking continued for some time before I allowed myself to chill and relax.

Occasions such as these occur on a frequent basis in Bolivia. It is better to say that you are coming somewhere, even though you know for sure that you are not, then to reply in the negative. Calling if you can't meet a commitment is not necessary and there is no such thing as a "set time" in this country. The only thing set in stone is that the time and day of your appointments will probably change...at least four times...guaranteed.

For this reason, the best beatititude to have in Bolivia is, "Blessed are the flexible, for they shall not snap." Still, the next time I have to sleep over with the girls, I hope to have some advanced warning. Leaving the womb of dawn at 5am is a tad pre-mature in the day. A two day heads-up will help me prepare for the labourous responsibility of waking and preparing 26 females for breakfast and school. Until then, I'll be retreating back into the blankets, saving my greeting of the day for a later, more reasonable hour. Cock-a-doodle-do!

Being Frank on Being Single

2006-05-11T21:49:00.000-04:00

There is a line by Don Miller that categorizes men as those who search for someone to complete their life and those who search for someone to join their already complete life. I'll just add that this same division splits the women. Since I'm being frank, I have to say that I'm not sure what category I would slide into. Most of the time I think I fall into the latter category. Years ago, I realized that no guy could ever satisfy me in the same way as my Jesus. After several painful experiences with guys, the love of Christ came and soothed my bleeding heart. It continues to assauge my inner aches and pains. No doubt about it, I'm good to go with just me and my Lord. On the other hand....

My journal records a day, not too long ago, when I was envious of two pigeons. Everyday there are two pigeons who roost on the roofline of our neighbor's house. It's like "their" spot. There they sit snuggling and preening themselves. A pair of blah birds concocting their own rooftop romance. Sometimes they perch on opposite ends and so it's not like they always have to be together. Other times, one will fly off without the other, but it never tarries to return. Somehow, they are always drawn back to each other. How can this cooing couple be so committed and dedicated to one another? Because they don't think.

They don't set themselves on a branch somewhere and debate whether the pigeon with the cute white feathers or the one with incredible green eyes is the right one for them. They don't care if he cracks his seeds with his beak or his claw or if the scraps get stuck in his beard. Their relationship isn't complicated with emotions and fears. They don't lie awake at night (or whatever birds do when they sleep) and worry about missing God's will for their lives. To exist is His will for them and by they their existence they obey their Creator. Yet, not one of them can fall to the ground with out the Father knowing. He feeds them and follows them as they flirt and fly. So, how much more valuable am I?

There's no way I'd want to be a pigeon, although it would be fun to frequent parks and poo on people's heads, and besides, how do I really know that it's the same pigeons together all the time? No, it's definitely better to be single and human.

So, yes, I am the oldest and I am still single. Am I o.k. with that? Most of the time. Do I want to get married someday? Of course...I think. Until then, Psalm 102:7.

My Eager Expectation

2006-05-05T22:00:00.000-04:00

A determined group of indigenous people have shut down a major highway and are fighting to reposess land taken from them by the whites. The strife has created a tense atmosphere and the newspapers can't get enough of the story. The stand-off has endured for months and has been the cause of concern for many local residents in the Caledonia, Ontario area.

Conflict reminiscent of Bolivia is taking place in a town twenty minutes from where I grew up . Rich, persuasive people, usually of European descent, taking advantage of a poor, disadvantaged sector of persons, usually of native origin. My mom told me of this showdown between some of the reserve Indians and a landowner who is building on their property. I laughed loudly, immediately recognizing the irony that the "dangers" of living in Bolivia are the same ones that exist in Canada. It might have something to do with a universal sinful nature that has no regard for skin colour or ancestral background.

It seems as if the trend of trampling Latin countries by world super powers is slowly coming to a halt. The red light to foreign input and influence is blazing bright as a force labelled the Pink Tide crashes over South America. The Pink Tide is the wave of leftist leaders that are sweeping across the continent and gaining momentum as they join forces against foreign influence, particularly the United States. This tsunami is breaking over Bolivia as well.

This past week, President Evo did the unthinkable and actually followed through with a campaign promise. No one thought he would do it, but he came into Bolivia's gas reserves backed by the army and with much fanfare declared that his country's gas fields would be nationalized. The atmosphere was that of a national holiday. There have also been rumours of an announcement which will initiate the removal of all land owned by foreigners so that it can be given rightfully back to the Bolivian people.

Land is the source of endless contention. A person will forfeit his life for the sake of tierra that by rights is theirs. As we complain and holler about who owns what piece of the property pie, the land itself renders it's own petition. The whole of creation groans as in the pains of childbirth, yearning to be liberated from it's bondage to decay. This world was made subject to frustration by landowners who pursued their own will instead of God's. (Romans 8:20-22, Genisis 3:17-19)

In Canada and Bolivia, Caledonia and Santa Cruz, you will find discontent and the potential for disruption in the ranks, especially amongst those who feel demoralized. Roadblocks and uproars come with the territory. The future is opaque except for one clear circle in the middle. Take a peek. It's the glory to come, the redemption of our bodies, and the freedom attached to being a child of God. For this I wait in eager expectation!

Life with Al

2006-05-01T21:00:00.000-04:00

9pm, too early to go to bed, what to do, might as well blog, about what? Karina a.k.a Kara a.k.a.

AL

For 19 years old, this fellow Canadian hailing from B.C., has proven that age has nothing to do with maturity...well, almost. Her commitment to God and honest insights have convicted me and caused me to review my own faith on frequent occasions. Her running commentaries on the homes and Bolivian culture are refreshing, but mostly just stinking hilarious.

A cold weather system moved in to the area a couple of weekends ago while we were visiting the home Nacer. Bed space was limited, so we shared. One night she hopped in bed and jumped back out. I asked her what she was doing and she said, "I'm getting the flannel, Marge." To which I responded,"Great, I get to sleep with Al." Henceforth, she has been called Al and she calls me Marge...it doesn't matter why she calls me Marge.

Now, I realize that many of you may not have found the previous ancedote that funny, but Al will be literally delighted to see this blog...or she may literally shake me by the shoulders and literally swear at me in Spanish. She literally uses the word "literally" 30 times in every conversation, I never exaggerate.

One of the problems that comes with learning a second language is that your first language suffers. You start to forget words or replace them with Spanish ones. Doubts over pronounciation and spelling increase. The making up of words, when you are at a loss for them, is not uncommon. One ends up speaking two languages (or three if you count Spanglish), but neither one very well. Maybe this is the excuse we can make for Al's rather unusual prayer not so long ago.

It was the team's last night and we were sent out for 15 minutes with explicit instructions to pray alone and to be quiet. Al and I opted to pray together but still intended to be reverent. We began to pray specifically for people and as Al started to pray, she said with deep passion, "O Gord, we fall at your teeth." Certainly she meant to say, "O God/Lord, we fall at your feet", but something got lost in the brain to mouth transit. Meanwhile, I was thinking "gourd" and envisioning this large, squash deity with dazzling dentures. Needless to say, the sancitity and solemness of the moment was lost.

Al goes back to B.C. in less then 4 weeks. I'm hoping she can sneak me in her suitcase, maybe hide me under her hideous plaid flannel shirt...customs wouldn't go near the thing anyway. Bolivia has been blessed to have her here. She will be missed by the guys and girls of the homes and by Marge. May God's face shine upon you Al!

Picture Perfect...Sometimes.

2006-04-24T20:26:00.000-04:00

I just spent the past two days trying to amend my blogpage. I had written a bit on some humourous happenings but somehow it got posted twice. This drove me batty! It irritated me to no end to have a duplicate entry on my blog and I wasn't able to rectify it. It was like a picture hanging slightly slanted on the wall or open cupboard drawers in the kitchen, it had to be straightened, it had to be closed.

I'm not anal in all areas, only certain things bug me. Like tags sticking out of shirt collars and calendars that don't show the right month. Incorrect spelling and grammar on my part grates my nerves, but I can handle it from others...most times. Can one be a part-time perfectionist? By the clutter that gathers on my bedroom shelves and the dust that rests on every ledge, I vote 'yes'.

My dad is the same way. He can leave his clothes and towel stranded and smelly on the bathroom floor and the evidence of his latest sandwich making venture all over the kitchen counter, but the garage is cleaned and organized every Saturday. Painting with dad takes perfectionism to a whole new level. Lines must be clean, watch the ceilings, and don't skimp on the paint...I must have heard these guidelines a thousand times. Apparently my brother Dan is even worse!

Where do these perfectionist tendancies come from?

"Perfection is fundamental to God's character. Because he is perfect, he could only make a perfect creation. Creation has changed..., but in the beginning it was just right! God said, it was good. It was perfect." (The Stranger, John R. Cross)

Seems I was doomed from the get-go. Not only do I have an earthly father who is a partial perfectionist, I have a heavenly One is completely perfect. The gene of perfectionism is attached to my physical and spiritual DNA. Clearly, it doesn't extend to all areas of my life or character, but this trait has something to do with the fact that I'm made in the image of the Perfect One. If a displaced picture or incorrect calendar bother me, how must God feel as He watches this distorted world? When He looks upon me? How much longer Lord, will You hold off and resist the urge to straighten things up and clean up shop for good?

Beyond Assumption

2006-04-18T11:48:00.000-04:00

Never assume anything. Never underestimate what God is doing. A team of teens from Saskatoon, Saskatchewan are returning to the plains today after eight extraordinary days in Bolivia. Some had never been beyond the sprawling skies of their own province until they boarded the plane just over a week ago. This afternoon they will fly over continents to arrive in Canada again, hopefully changed and impacted by their experience.

Over the week, I assumed that most of them had not been overly impacted or spiritually moved. My impression as I watched them interact and mingle with each other and our own Bolivian youth was that they were here to have fun and seek adventure. I pulled out stickers labelled "superficial" and I slapped them on several foreheads. Instead, it was my evaluation that fell flat and proved shallow.

I fled the farewells that will be happening in a few hours, but I was there last night as 23 of us sat down and delved into the depths of the past 8 days. I was moved by what several of these young people had to stay. Along with some of the other leaders, I recognized that I had stereotyped a number of these adolescents and categorized them inappropriately. One young man made a comment that struck me profoundly. Speaking of the street kids and of the Nacer homes he said something like this, "I don't get it. I saw these kids on the streets, living hard lives, and I wondered why they stayed there when there are places like Nacer that they could run to...and then I realized that we're the same way."

We are the same way. Street kids prefer the streets because that is what they know. The lime jugglers, flame throwers, squeegie kids, and glue sniffers are their family. The canals and sidewalks are their domain. The freedom from restrictions and authority beckons insistently and unceasingly. Our homes offer a sense of normalcy and regularity. They provide beds, clothing, and food. Sounds like a good deal, and yet the allure of city avenues and constant traffic draws kid after kid back into it's lair.

So often we lie in our own dismal dens of fleshly desires and selfish demands. Self-pity is having a party and we just can't turn down the invitation. We opt to wander the streets of egocentricity and sleep on the cement of self sufficiency. We juggle thoughts of indignation and resentment, tossing up justifications for all to see. We've sniffed the vapours of our own foolishness for so long that the wisdom of seeking refuge and security doesn't even register.

My assumption about these teenagers was a poor one. God is always at work in all of us, at every age. Last night, one young man spoke briefly but more deeply than he may have realized. Thanks for coming Saskatchewan team! Forgive me for not saying goodbye. Keep on being impacted and being an impact for the kingdom. Don't let anyone look down on you for being young, not even a fellow Canadian who underestimated the potential and the character of some unforgettable highschoolers.

Bovines and Beer

2006-04-06T21:32:00.000-04:00

Whilst I flounder in obscurity over many things, laughter still finds it's entrance. Ironically, God has matched me up with a housemate who lives in the same dry place where I seem to spend a lot of my time these days. We are two women who love their Lord intensely, but at present, feel as if they have been cut off from His
affections. Still, we are devoted to the One who stole our heart and soul, determined to obey even if it kills us.

As our spirits dehydrate in the desert of doubt and disillusion, we do encounter oasis' of amusement to relieve us from time to time. The most recent source of refreshment came from bovines and beer. A few days ago, we were discussing the rarities of Bolivia. Particularly, we were commenting on the fact that the corner bookstore sells cerveza. As we amused ourselves with this oddity, I looked out the window and said,"Alison, there is a large cow standing at our door." To assure myself that this was no mirage, I took some footage of the beast, which I would post if I knew how.

The desert, or the "dark night" as Manning defines it, "is a very real place, as anyone who has been there will tell you"....it is "marked by dryness, barrenness, desolation, and a profound sense of God's absence. The dark night is an indispensable stage of spiritual growth..."

If I could, I'd take the red-eye out of this dark night and fly to a place a little more comfortable and familiar. In fact, when my mom told me how much I was getting back in taxes, I thought,"Hmm, enough to get me home and then some!" Amidst my musings, a verse came to mind,

"Consider it a sheer gift, friends, when tests and challenges come at you from all sides. You know that under pressure, your faith-life is forced into the open and shows its true colours. So, don't try to get out of anything prematurely. Let it do it's work so you become mature and well-developed, not deficient in any way." James 1:2-4

Thankfully, my dark night is marked with moments of hilarity, but that doesn't change my Houdini tendancies. I face a sand dune of a decision; will I scale this mountain of blazing granules or balk and flee for familiar shores? If the restlessness of the dark night or the strength sapping desert is what I need to endure for development and growth, then switch off the lights and turn up the heat. This weary wanderer has no desire to be a spiritual runt.

Peace Like a River

2006-04-03T22:13:00.001-04:00

The mountains melt like wax before the Lord and yet I come before Him unmoved day after day.
The earth is set on it's foundations by You, it can never be moved, and what will be, will be.
Nothing can alter what you have ordained, and yet I can do so much to put into motion your ordinances.
Families of nations will ascribe to You glory and strength that is Your due, but right now I think I'm due my family and my nation.
You guard the lives of those who are faithful, but at the moment I wonder how faithful I am.
Shedder of light and joy in the hearts of the righteous, why is mine so sad?
Still, I praise You, because you are worthy and with me.
In the midst of sadness, I sense absurd peace.
As I nurse a hurting heart, it is well with my soul.

River Memoirs

2006-03-29T21:20:00.000-04:00

Looking back at the times I've spent in a canoe, I realized that there is not a single time where one thing or another didn't go wrong. All of my canoe experiences involve flipping, flooding, or loosing certain essential items, like oars. I've been knocked out by fallen trees and stranded by shallow waters, yet the tranquility of floating down a ribbon of water still allures me. Every bend holds a surprise, a lanky blue heron or an acrobatic fish, the dainty drink of a white tailed deer, or a cantankerous duck with her fuzzy brood.

The journey down a creek or a river need not be rushed but absorbed. Arriving is insignificant, breathing in the moment is utmost. I prefer to sit with my oar across my lap then to dip it into the stream and pull it back. Let the current take me where it will. The problem is that the canoe doesn't always stay centred. It veers to the shore or begins to circle in every direction. At times, the current turns swift and the craft begins to capsize. In these moments, the oar should be used, to give a little push or to guide the canoe through the rough rapids.

This canoe fixation was brought on by a quote in Brennan Mannings other book, The Signature of Jesus. The Ragamuffin Gospel was such a good read that I decided to jump right into another one of his works. This is what he says,

"While faith is a gift of God, it calls for rugged effort on our part if it is to bear fruit. Modern-day hermit Carlo Caretto writes, "God gives us the boat and the oars, but then tells us,'It's up to you to row.' "

I'm in the boat of belief but the oar of faith is lying on my lap. My approach to canoeing has become my approach to following Christ. What beautiful sights am I missing because I'm jammed on a muddy shore? How many gasps of wonder are left unuttered due to senseless circles in the same spot? How often do I have to tip in the rushing rapids of life and soak myself in tears before I learn to pick up my oar and row?

Capsize me again for you, my Jesus. Teach me how to handle the oars and as I flow with your Spirit, may I recognize the right moments to rest. Knocked down or stranded, your river of life still bids me come.