Popped Balloons

I'm sitting on the couch with my babies asleep and some coffee beside me.  It would be an ordinary Friday morning if there weren't boxes scattered across my family room.  Instead of going to the park or grocery shopping tomorrow we are leaving Serrano Village and locking up for the last time.  I thought that holding off as long as possible to write that last sentence would make it easier... nice try Kel, it didn't work.  I don't really know what this entry will look like, and unlike most other posts I do not have a progression in mind or some themes I'd like to hit on.  This one is just me saying things out loud because it's time...

I'm sad.  This place grabbed a hold of my heart the moment we started moving.  The refugees flocked to us and random people who'd never met us and had no reason to love us started hauling boxes into our apartment.  An hour later an Iraqi lady came with a plate of fresh baked goodies and told us welcome and she loved us.  Our kids were the talk of the village, and everywhere we went they were scooped up and ushered into apartments to visit with others... my participation was optional.  From the start people opened up their lives to us and I felt safe, trusted and loved in a matter of days. 

It's no secret that this road has been rough, and it didn't consist of delightful plates of middle-eastern pastries and warm home-visits hearing people's life story.  Life has been hard and whether it was external circumstances or things brewing inside our four walls, we were stretched to our personal limits and when the balloons popped we got to see what we were made of.  I haven't thought through this analogy so give me grace if it's awful... but I'm sticking with this popped balloon idea.  I believe that in God's goodness and great love for me He let the balloons in my life get blown up so big that they would burst and the contents would be splattered across the white walls for me to see.  God did that for me and I sit here with nothing but thankfulness for that.  It's in His mercy that He unveils broken things, things that won't survive without being popped and re-filled.

This last year of my life has forced me to press into God in ways I never knew that I wanted or needed.  I think some of my sadness in leaving is that life will become easy again, the hard lessons that rattle me to my core and change the way I see life and God will be lifted.  The pressure gauge will be eased and the desperate dependency to know the power and promises of the God I love will be tested.  Life will become much more comfortable again. 

Why am I crying about being comfortable?  Because my discomfort has brought me to my knees before God, it has brought me to the end of myself and caused my balloons to pop - revealing all the things I thought were okay that in fact were not.  I hated when the balloons popped, but in the aftermath I discovered a God who sat on the kitchen floor with me and held my hand as we looked together at the dirty walls.  He told me some things weren't my fault and He was so sorry that they happened... and other things He showed me were my attempt to make it on my own and yet others were flat out sin and selfishness.  All I know is that every popped balloon meant more freedom and a chance to start fresh with a God who will sit with me in my mess. I also met a God who was eager to wipe away the stains, to sit with me on my floor as we stared at beautiful white walls again, walls He will wipe clean time and time again if I need Him to. 

So... I guess this is it... not for my blog of course because the saga continues on in other ways.  But for this season, living and breathing refugees day in and day out, we say goodbye.  I've loved to hate it and hated to love it... and I know that pieces of my heart will forever dwell within these four walls. 

Not the way it's supposed to be...

For anyone who sits back, today of all days, and shakes their head at how broken this world is - I agree... it's not the way it's supposed to be.  

I wrote this after I sat in my Surge group last night and we went around in a circle stating things in our lives that were not the way they were supposed to be as a result of this fallen world.  I said that me loving and giving, loving and giving out of fear of a broken family or fear of abandonment rather than out of pure joy and freedom is NOT the way it should be.  I have never sat down with God and just solemnly observed how broken things are.  I always have an optimistic closer.  I'm the "yes, but..." girl with a continuous smile.  I cover the bad news... all the time.  Today I didn't.  Today I sat in it and cried over it.  And it felt freeing... in a way I felt closer to God knowing that His heart must ache and groan over what we have made this world.  I know there's good news, and I know Who the good news is.  But it doesn't make the bad news go away.  So today I wrote about the bad news... 

Terrified, panicked and in shock.  Despair.  Horror.  Lost, confused and numb.  Alone.  Angry.  Hopeless, depressed and defeated.  From living freely to being a wanderer.  No homeland - the wicked regime blew that up.  Broken family, dying children, buried parents.  Weak.  Utter weakness that begins with the physical body but splinters into the mind and infects the entire soul and spirit.  Crippling weakness that a good night of sleep won’t cure.  The kind of weakness that overshadows another day of breathing and thinking and remembering.  Darkness so dark the light seems like a vain imagination. 

This is not the way it’s supposed to be. 

Sad.  So, so sad.  So confused.  Hurt and wounded.  Going through days, submitting to routine without even engaging mentally.  Checked out.  Physically suffering from the emotional storm.  A 12-year old with ulcers.  Doctor says take some Maalox.  I wish Maalox penetrated the heart and made those kinds of cramps go away. 

This is not the way it’s supposed to be. 

Ignore it… time heals all wounds.  Except that’s a lie.  And the storms never stop, they just change.  And before you know it 10 or 20 years have passed by and what should be a mist of rain or a little breeze feels like a hurricane that threatens the entire house.  It’s just a little sprinkle.  Sure… on top of too many covered up storms, too many hurricanes rumbling beneath the surface, too many to tame.  A deep hidden world beneath the public show, and with each passing trial the pressure mounts…. and mounts… and mounts. 

This is not the way it’s supposed to be. 

It’s people who are hurting who hurt people even though they never meant to hurt people.  But those hurt people then hurt other people or instead they turn inward and hurt themselves because they are scared to death to hurt people. 

This is not the way it’s supposed to be.

These tired ol' shoulders

It seems that whenever I sit down lately all I want to lead with is, "Well, it's been a hard few months... but we're still here!!".  But that's been my go-to opener for almost a year now. 

There's a heap of things going on... from our son's pending diagnosis with his muscular / neurological concerns to two broken and unhealthy adults trying to live life together and deal with issues we wouldn't have ever expected.  Oh and the village - can't forget that!  The people, their needs, the practices, the smells, the emergencies, and on and on... Real life has been inescapable, but believe me when I say that we have tried running fast and hard.  We have said without words that it's easier to feel numb, that it's less painful to fill the days with tasks and the nights with Netflix, and to hope that by the passing of pages on the calendar things will improve. 

We were wrong. 

What we have discovered is that being healthy and whole takes work, and you have to look backwards in order to move forward.  My new pastor's wife shared an analogy of a person rowing a boat pressing on powerfully in the water but their actually facing behind.  I'm realizing that I can't get this boat to make serious progress if I don't turn my darn seat around for awhile.  It's messy to ask the questions that bring up old scars, it's terrifying to pray that God would reveal the root of some major issues, and it's humbling to realize that in all of my efforts, we are still unraveling. 

I've had a beautiful few days with God as He has been showing me that this backpack full of boulders that I'm carrying were never intended for my shoulders.  Maybe it has been pride in thinking I could handle things, fix things, or process things on my own... or perhaps fear of handing this bag of boulders over to my God who I am still confused by, sometimes angry with, and perhaps keeping an arm's length away because it's deceivingly easier that way.  So rather than run to Him and joyfully cut off these straps that are breaking my back, I take painful step after painful step... trying to keep it all together, trying to present a pretty little package on the outside when the inside is a decaying mess.  My how He must look on me with sad eyes and a compassionate nod of his head... wondering when I will give up, deeply desiring to take that bag from me... a load I was never designed to carry.  

It's not the emotional act of letting go of my boulders, it's walking away without them and not picking them back up.  And I have sadly began to identify myself with this backpack that was killing me, and sit here wondering what my life looks like if I'm not managing my marriage, fixing my son, and relying on destructive coping mechanisms.  I don't know what it feels like to be free.  But I do know that freedom can be found, and chains that I've bound myself in can be loosed.  I believe there's health and wholeness ahead, but like everything worth having, it will be hard and messy... but the picture on the other side is me hauling the backpack I was designed to carry... full of promises and love, faith and trust.  Cotton balls of freedom perhaps :)

What do we DO here??

What do we even do here?  What don't we do is a better place to start. 

Oftentimes folks hear of people going overseas to be 'missionaries' and picture the following:  A group of white people in white collared shirts, khaki shorts, hiking boots and tan floppy hats show up in the jungle and spend years changing the people into American-type Christians that fit in a pretty box.  They setup a church with music and teachings and Sunday school.  Often they take much of their culture away because it's not biblical and get rid of their customs that they shouldn't be practicing as new Christians.  After some years the missionaries leave behind a national pastor and hope he does things the way you showed him.  Because duh, the Americans know best!  Come on, tell me the idea of missionaries isn't like that!?!  Ok, I'm the only one :)

Now for the 180.  There is an amazing book called "Bruchko" that tells a story of a young American missionary going into a primitive and violent tribe of Indians called the Motilone. I think he was 17 when he went, and he went all by himself with no backing of any missions organization!  He almost died multiple times.  He learned their language, he learned how they hunted, traded, and worked.  He learned how they held ceremonies for births and deaths.  He participated in their rites of passage.  He became a Motilone to them, a "blood-brother" of the chief's son.  When Bruce Olsen, or Bruchko as they named him, finally told the story of Jesus it was years and years after initially going to be a "missionary" among them.  He told his story in a way that used one of their very own customs that was ingrained  in every Motilone's life; young, old, male and female.  And it wasn't just another story, it was the only piece of an incomplete puzzle that had been troubling them for centuries.  Jesus wasn't an addition to their culture, He was the designer and the foundation of their culture.  He was the one whom all of their culture had pointed to for centuries, and they understood that truth the moment the story was explained.  That's what Jesus is to all cultures.  He is the missing piece, and when presented to the people within the context of their culture, He makes total sense and is oftentimes the relief their souls have been desiring.  (I don't have fanciful ideas that everyone upon hearing of Jesus drops their beliefs in other gods, I'm just making the point of how powerful it is to present Him in culturally relevant ways).  

How amazing is it that God created culture and He is in every culture already, and by His own design? I just love that.  So our job is to find Him in it as we live among them.  And we do it with grace, and patience (lots of patience!).  With genuine love for the people and not an agenda besides that which is pure and abounding in kingdom desires.  We do it with an urgency in our souls that sacrifices self at every corner if they would just see Jesus.  Then, it's the work of God, the heavenly and majestic work of a soul and it's redeemer dancing together to the sweetest song of all time.  Ok, that was sorta cheesy, but I'm not deleting it  :-).

So what exactly do we do here?  Well for starters, we walk around and pray... we get out of our apartment and prayer walk in the complex.  We ask God to show us connections, reveal the "men of peace" like in Acts, we ask that He would orchestrate times of tea and snacks in someone's home, bring along someone who is suffering or rejoicing so we can pray with them in Jesus' name.  We invite people over for meals or for play-dates.  We spend time engaging the people right where they are.  We ask about their cultures and participate in their celebrations, even if they have alters built in their apartments (no joke).   We learn about what is important to them.  Not because we are trying to pull out our trump card one day, but because we genuinely desire to know them.  We are making friends... the kind of friends that care about each other and spend time in community together.  We hang out in their homes and listen to stories and then tell stories of our own.  

We are always praying for God to give us bridges or on-ramps to talk about Him.  In all of these story-telling cultures they enjoy hearing us talk, even when it's about our God.  Unlike American culture, it is considered odd to them if we love our God and then do not share about Him with others (a post on that later!).  So we pray for those bridges, a time in the conversation where we are reminded of a story of Jesus or a story in the Old Testament that shows God's heart. Then we pray for more on-ramps, and thank God immensely that He allows us to engage such precious people as we serve Him. And we eat lots of interesting food.  Prayers appreciated :-) 

Uneaten Feasts

Like so many other things in life, we are doing the opposite of what Jesus said to do.  God hit me right between the eyes this morning as I stared at my blog and read the intro underneath the heading.  "...join us as we LIVE among them, LOVE them practically, and LIFT HIGH the name of Jesus".  We've certainly got the living among them part down, and sadly that in itself takes up most of our personal, emotional, and spiritual strength!  But what about loving them practically?  

What about how hard and inconvenient it is?  No one told us that.  What about when they just want to use you for what you know, or ask you about working the system for more money without having to work?  Or ask you to help them get out of government trouble when you told them beforehand not to lie on their taxes.  Do you help them?  What about when you plan big gatherings for special families only to have them not show up?  What about when the kids are mean or disrespectful with your belongings?  What if they make fun of your son who is behind in his development?  What do you do then?  

Loving people practically.  It's easier to write on a cute tagline than actually flesh out in real life. But the truth is, the picture of us living here and having to "deal" with these refugees and all of the annoying and sometimes hurtful things they do is just a clear picture of how Jesus has to deal with me daily.  I get upset that they are being dishonest on their taxes, like I've never manipulated anything for my own gain.  Or I get so mad that I warned them ahead of time that making a choice would come back to bite them, as if I have never heard God tell me no and did it anyways.  And I put forth effort to host them, I clean and cook and spend hours preparing a feast... to have my heart dashed.  So God has never laid out riches and blessings before me just to have me decide something else was more important?  And kids make fun of my baby... as if I have never pridefully judged someone thinking I'm better.

The only way we can be that "city on the hill" or the "light on the lamp stand" in spite of our emotions of frustration, hurt, or flat-out annoyance is to remember how incredibly gracious God is with us DAILY.  The lengths it takes Him to love us daily is far more than He is asking us to do for these refugees.  So when I am hurt or mad, instead of closing all of our blinds for a week and pretending to be "busy", God asks that we still be that city on a hill, a place people can look for unconditional love and grace.  A place that doesn't exist in their world.  A place that says they can stand us up ten times and leave us with uneaten feasts, but if they come on the 11th time, surely a feast will still be waiting in their honor.  He does it for me constantly, shame on me for saying they had their chance.  

A refugee stole my baby!!

You've heard me talk a lot about the beautiful and refreshing dynamic of this communal living in the past.  The everything in common reality, the focus on relationships over task, the warmth of people who aren't mere neighbors, but friends and even family.  Today is not that day.  Today I'll choose from a plethora of instances that made me want to go buy a house, with a garage, hence a garage door opener, so I can go home and park in the garage and shut it immediately without anyone have a chance to barricade us!  It's been one of those months!

The other day I was paying bills while the kids were in the playroom together.  I was in the bedroom busying myself with things I can only do when the kids are doing their morning Independent Play time.  Basically, Dani goes into the pack and play with toys, and Levi hangs in the room with toys, and they play.  Alone.  Daily.  So in this scenario they cry.  Often.  Can't fit the toy through the hole?  Cry.  She has something I want.  Cry.  Immediate and urgent craving for crackers.  Cry.  The list goes on, but they work it out and I find it important to teach them the value of this independence.  Plus I like to pay bills without a 1-yr old pressing the big blue power button on the computer.

So to make a long story short, after realizing they had been too angelic for too long, I poked my head in to find an empty room.  Surveying the room and our apartment, I knew before my evaluation that (a) they had not escaped on their own and (b) they were not abducted by some bad man in dark clothes with a ski mask @ 9:00 on a Tuesday morning.  I knew a refugee took them.  I just knew it.  Crying babies heard through an open window in our community is a wide open invitation to *help*.  Knowing this didn't relieve my panic, so when I walked out of my door and saw them across the way in my neighbor's apartment with huge smiles as they sat on their couch eating bananas and watching TV in Arabic, I was pretty stern in my stance of "You cannot come in my house and take my babies".
Them: "They were crying!!!"
Me:  "Yes, but you can not come into my house and take my babies" (thinking: "If whimpering is a big deal you would call the police if you saw how we do time-outs!")
Them: (picking up on my unhappy face and serious tone) "Oh, this is a problem for you?"
Me: "Yes, big problem.  I am not happy.  You scared me, I didn't know where my babies were!"
Them: (Clearly understanding now) "Oooohhhhh, sorry sorry sorry (insert lots of Arabic), no problem now, sorry sorry sorry..." (more Arabic and patting their hearts showing me they feel bad)... this goes on for some time

Anyway, the wife didn't know that the husband and daughter rescued my children that morning, and what did she do that afternoon?  Swooped Dani (14-months) off the patio while she was playing.  A little African girl was playing inside with Levi and said, "Ummm Kelli, that lady is taking Dani".  TWICE in ONE DAY!  This time there was no rescue, just a desire to get some grandbaby time.  Like borrowing a mop and assuming I know she'll return it when done.

So, the big question... what is God showing me?  To get GPS chips in my kids.  Just kidding.  Kind of.  He is showing me a few things.
* I still have no idea what community is... No clue. 
* "Neighbor" in the bible is translated "friend" in the Hebrew, and I still live like I have neighbors.... not close friends who are personally involved in my family life, and definitely not the kind of friends from other cultures who intervene in your life when you need *help*. 
* Am I opening up to the community?  Or just living here?  Are we really truly here with our hearts?  God is revealing an absence of heart within us. 
* Spending time with home-sick friends so they can receive love from my babies is something that makes their hearts overflow.  I need to do it more.
* Is "Independent Play" reasonable in a cross-cultural setting?  What does that portray to my neighbors as I hang laundry in the other room while my babies are isolated and whining in another room?  If I foster the importance of independence, am I setting them up for success in an American setting but predisposing them to a mindset (and a heart!) contrary to that of the rest of the world?  Hmmmm.... heavy stuff to ponder as a mom...
* Boundaries is something they need to learn.  Taking babies from homes and patios without telling the parent is something they can go to jail for in this country.  They understood.  And in a shame-based culture, they were very uncomfortable to see me unhappy with them.

It was a valuable lesson all the way around.

Disclaimer: For any of you who still feel uncomfortable about the baby-napping incident(s), I will keep my door locked during Independent Play... if we keep that going!  :)

Knee-Lift Reactions?

We all know how it goes when a doc taps your kneecap and up flies the bottom half of your leg. Not a thought enters your head, no time lapses between the tap and the reaction, and it’s as if you have no say.  There’s no pondering, or negotiating, or waiting to see if your leg will react.  It’s immediate and absolute, and your input wasn't part of the equation.

My pastor Jeff Jackson recently sent out an email challenging us to watch a youtube video of Pastor David Platt interviewing a young missionary to Uganda named Katie Davis.  After almost 45 minutes of hearing awe-inspiring/downright crazy stories of a young, single girl having spent a lot of time and heartache in the bush of Uganda, he asked if she thought what she was doing (adopting 14 orphans and she’s younger than 25!!) was radical.  She said NO.  She said it is seen as abnormal, but it shouldn’t be.  Through a grin that was overflowing from the springs of her heart she said that it was a natural response to what God had done for her.  She said, “How could I not?”. 

Nowadays we see a girl like Katie Davis and place her in an elite group of Christians that God has called in an extreme way and equipped with a special power to accomplish the radical things He asks her to do.  What we should see is another run of the mill Christian taking God at His word.  What we should see is a God worth sacrificing everything for.  We should see the God who can now reach abandoned children, befriend widows and feed the hungry.  We should see a woman so serious about her God that the woman in the story is a mere afterthought.  I’m sure Katie Davis wants to be seen that way.  But instead, we glorify the girl and think, “I could never do that”.  But her response is, “In light of what God has done for me, how could I NOT?”.

Enter in uncomfortable part of the blog…

If our spiritual “nerve-endings” in our “knees” were working, there wouldn’t be any more orphans left in our counties to adopt.  There wouldn’t be widows without a strong sense of family and love and acceptance. The sick would be prayed for.  The hungry would be fed.  The needy would be clothed.  The people in our lives would know, without a doubt, that we love them more than we love ourselves, our time, and our possessions; and we would show them that on a regular and practical basis.  We would live on little so we could give much. We would over-love regardless of the cost.  We would do all of the simple things that Jesus modeled and we would do it immediately and absolutely.  Because how could we not??  In light of all He's done for us, how could we not?

I called this post “knee-lift reactions”.  Instead of a knee-jerk, it seems like we often lift our knees slowly and steadily, inch by inch when we feel good and ready (myself included!).  Orphans are loose cannons that might have negative effects on our children... and talk about adoption being expensive!!  Widows… who even thinks about widows??  I know I don’t!  The sick?  They have hospitals.  The hungry?  Food shelters.  The needy?  Goodwill.  The homeless?  They’ll use the money for beer.  Or better yet, they got themselves into their situation… if I help them I will just be re-enforcing their choices.   We have reasoned God out of the picture completely, and the scariest part is, we've done it without even knowing it.

But what if we just reacted out of an inability to do otherwise?  What if our own comfort, time, money, or lives were so far removed from the equation?  After all, it is the love of our own selves that keeps us from showing the love of God.  If we took ourselves out of the picture, and focused solely on God, all of our lives would look like Katie Davis' in some form.  I'm not saying we should all fly to Africa on a one-way ticket, but David Platt put it beautifully by saying that God demands a blank check from us the moment we decide to bare His name.  It's not being radical, it's being obedient.  It shouldn't be extreme, it should be normal.  The underlying foundation of her life is an involuntary response to the saving grace of Jesus.  It's pure and simple.  It's a knee-jerk reaction, not a knee-lift with a step here and a step there.  It's immediate and absolute.  And it's out of a heart that says, "It hardly seems like enough God, but here ya go".  May WE be those people who when tapped, we react.  May we throw our comfort and desires at His feet, and exchange them for depths of fulfillment we wouldn't even dream possible.  

God ripped our rug

     We used to have a rug.  It was so pretty.  It was a big, sturdy rug.  We liked it so much that we moved from house to house with it.   We got it as a joint present to each other right after being married, and when we moved from our first house in California we brought it to Arizona, and then we put it in our last house as well.  Wherever we have gone, we have joyfully carted it along.  It was a big, pretty rug... and we wouldn't dare consider living without it. 

     This was no ordinary rug.  It wasn't what was on the design that made it special.  It wasn't the warmth on your feet, or the decor it brought to the room.  As our children grew it wasn't the comfort it brought to their crawling knees or toddling toes.  No... it was much more amazing than all of that.  It was underneath the rug that made it so special.  This rug had special power to take away our problems, to eliminate our stresses, and to bandage up the hurts.  It made the past seem perfect, the present satisfying, and the future exciting.  There was one rule though... you can put whatever you want under the rug, but you cannot take anything out.  

     This system was obviously working wonderfully, and why wouldn't it?!?  I mean, who wouldn't want a magical rug that could hide anything uncomfortable or unhealthy?  Sweep it under and just move on with the day!  Talk about ideal.  Well it wasn't until we moved into Serrano Village that things started to change (how many times have I said that?!).  We realized soon after arriving that our magical rug got ripped during the move in a few different places.  We tried to put the couch over one tear and the coffee table over another... but there wasn't enough covering that would reverse the damage and replenish the "magic".  Furthermore, when we lifted up the corner to put something under it, some of what we swept underneath came out of a rip!  UGH!!  After a few months of trying to work with this broken rug, we finally realized our efforts were in vain. 

     When we began this process in the Village with hundreds of refugees, we knew it would be a little about what happened because of us and a lot about what happened inside of us.  In this episode of our journey, God ripped our rug.  He is good, so he ripped our rug.  He is loving and deeply involved in our personal, day to day lives... so He ripped our rug.  On one hand I'm experiencing God in a sweet and gentle way, letting me work through things and know Him deeper so we can go further down this road.  But on the other hand, He is showing me that He is still GOD.  He is still righteous.  He is still the judge.  He is holy and He doesn't share my heart with unhealthy habits that sacrifice integrity for comfort.  He is God, and I'm glad He ripped our rug.  See ya rug, you were never as pretty as I made you seem, and I need you far less than I ever believed...

PAUSE!!!

Surrendering is sometimes very un-fun.  Yes, un-fun.  Yesterday I was sitting on my patio while the babies were sleeping and the chorus of a song came into my head that says, "In joyous surrender, with our eyes fixed on you..." and it actually made me shake my head 'no'.  Since I'm talking to God again (we had a dark spell for about a week) I told Him that at this juncture in life I reject the notion of surrender being joyous.  Right now it just sucks.  It's raw, uncomfortable, scary and affronting.  How else to say it besides simply un-fun.

Can real surrender be joyous?  Can we hold things precious and sacred to us and open those hands as an offering to God with joy?  If you can't does that make it less of an offering?  Does it matter if it's through tears and doubt and fear?  

Often in life we take something that is unfavorable and contrast it with something favorable.  Yes it's a hard season because _________, but at least we still have __________.  Generally both of these things are physical, which is normal because the most obvious trials or blessings are things that we can see.  But what happens when you've given the tangibles away?  What happens when you have trouble filling in the positive blank when you just look around at the reality of life.  The second blank ceases to be a something and is FORCED to become a someone.  We get Him.  We are forced to receive Him more fully, lean on Him more dependently, and seek Him like He really is here. 

This season has taught me that it's okay to question and it's okay to distrust God (did she really just say that?).  He can handle it.  And He knew that I would get here.  It would be ludicrous to leave my kids with someone I heard was a really neat guy who adopted all kinds of orphans, helped people recover from deadly diseases and went to sit with the elderly to read them stories and say, "Since I've heard you are such an awesome person, here are my kids... I'll just leave you guys alone!  Do with them whatever you see fit, you don't even need to ask me.  Good or bad, I'll just adjust, because I know you are right".  That would be silly in the physical realm of life... so why is it so bad to say PAUSE! in the spiritual realm when we just aren't comfortable?

So here I stand... paused.  I'm hand in hand with my God and we are halfway across the bridge.  We aren't looking behind or ahead, just pausing and taking in the beautiful landscape around us.  To the right is everything I've given Him, and if we keep walking left it's giving Him more.  It's my kids, it's our safety, it's whatever He sees fit.  He is quietly telling me things about Himself, loving on me and not judging me, telling me stories of times past, and confirming the reality that He dwells with me all of the time.  He is telling me often that He loves me unlike a love I have known.  He is letting me walk if I want to, and sit when I need to.  He is soft and sweet, understanding and patient.  He is my God whom I will follow to the other side, when I know Him more deeply and trust Him more fully.  And He is okay with that.  He is my God. 

Oh, to be Spaghetti!!

I was once told of a word picture to describe the differences between men and women's brains. Men have waffle brains, women have spaghetti brains. Men have compartments and can function efficiently within each segment regardless of what's happening in the others (to a degree of course). Women on the other hand are completely interwoven, like noodles, and if something is happening on noodle number four it's happening on noodle 79. I've been seeing this waffle vs. spaghetti idea play out in the different cultures here... and as we live life in the Village, I realized that as always it's an 'us versus them' thing and yet again we are the odd-balls. So in this addition, we are the waffles and they are the spaghetti.

As Americans, we are masters at compartmentalizing our lives. We call it "switching gears", so in keeping our waffle analogy, this means hopping over the wall of thin bread into the next waffle square. The sqaures are anything in your life... work, family, goals/vision, parenting, friendships, church, relationship with God, finances, neighbors, etc, etc. Think about your own life and how many different squares you have, and if they are truly related to one another. I find that some of my squares can (and do) exist completely independent from the others, although that is changing rapidly!

The spaghetti-types would be everyone except us... as always :). Their lives are giant plates of noodles, the sticky kind that you can't pull apart and it looks more like a confusing clump than individual strands. Everything connects, everyone is part of this messy plate, and they don't know anything different, and I asume they have no desire to (well... maybe the youngsters being raised here, but that's another post entirely). The idea is that everything flows into everything else, and this big hot mess is the beauty of having all things in common and owning the true identity of group or community.

I submit to you that their God, gods, religions, idealogies - whatever you want to say - is the sauce. It is poured over everything, and the entire plate is saturated by it. Their faith and gods are at every turn, under all they do, and covering each move. We tend to live our spiritual lives more like a waffle topping plopped onto the middle that may or may not spill over into each square. Our work, school, finances, even relationships can be untouched by this and it can just stay in the section of church and maybe a quarter of our finances and relationships. It's an interesting concept, and it has probed me to really live like my kids and nieghbors and money and husband and church are not only connected but saturated by Jesus. Oh Jesus, fill up these squares, every single one!!!