Why don't you come and spend time with us anymore? You don't eat in the caf and we don't see you! You should seriously think about it, because when I see you I feel happy and at peace. You bring joy to my heart, and I'm saying this with all sincerity.
The very Pharaonic-looking young man with a notable dark beard spoke with great earnestness as I leaned against the steel sink in the front serving area of the cafeteria. He was across from me, leaning against the wall, and another of my former English language students was sitting on the countertop to my right, a bemused smile on her face. I saw her more often as we shared the third floor in the dorm and would pass each other several times a day coming and going.
I've sometimes wondered if my life has meaning and purpose beyond the expected roles I play. I often feel guilty that I don't have enough time to invest deeply in a few close friends or don't have enough language skills to venture out and build community. Sometimes, it's all I can do to show up and get things done, simply because as a single female in a country whose language I do not speak, life isn't as easy and I need to use my energies for simple things like walking to the grocery store to buy toothpaste and toilet paper.
Then there are moments like this evening, when one of the young ladies wrapped her arm around my shoulder as she laughed and shouted out answers to the Mad Libs game the hostess was doing for a friend's bridal shower. The petite girl was one of my first students when I arrived and we built a friendship that continued past the end of that first semester. I'd sat with her when she received news that her grandfather had died and listened as she shared about his deep influence in her life. She still came to me for help with homework and I did my best to encourage and support her.
Sometimes being a missionary isn't about knowing where that obscure Bible verse is, being able to build a house from mud bricks, or being trilingual, though those are all very valid tools. Sometimes being a missionary is about showing up. About being there. About letting God love others and bring them a feeling of joy and peace through us.
One individual life may be of priceless value to God's purposes, and yours may be that life. ~My Utmost for His Highest, Nov. 30
Thursday, November 30, 2017
Sunday, November 26, 2017
Red on Gray
Maybe you should wash the red trousers separately, since they're new and could run, a niggling thought skipped around in my head like kernels of unpopped corn just thrown into a hot pan. But I was lazy, and besides I was washing everything on cold so it should be fine. There wasn't anything in the load that would get ruined. I turned the dial, slipped on my tennis shoes, and left for an evening walk while it washed.
45 minutes later, after doing some arm exercises with a jar of peanut butter in one hand and a jar of nutritional yeast in the other as makeshift weights, I went to get my load of washing out. I threw everything into a plastic bag and brought it back to my room where I began to hang the items on my indoor drying rack. Then I pulled out my gray short-sleeved sweater that I wore with my little black dress. It was no longer gray. Now it had a hue of red, as did a pj top. I sighed inwardly, I had nobody to blame but myself. The offending red trousers, thankfully confined somewhat in their damage by having been washed in a white mesh bag which had now turned pink, looked innocently up at me.
A quick Google search recommended I use rubbing alcohol on a white cloth and try to rub out the stains by transferring them to the white cloth. A trial with a cream towel wasn't too successful and not wanting to spend my entire evening scrubbing like a washerwoman in the 1800's, I pulled out my stain remover bottle. I didn't have high hopes for it; the other times I'd used it for a grease stain it hadn't been too successful. I needed to try something, though, so I read the directions on the back of the bottle and hurried back to the washing machine with the two gray-pinkish items.
After tossing them back in, I poured another generous amount of detergent in the first little drawer. I had no clue whether the stain remover should go in the second or third drawer but decided to put it in the second just to be safe. Then I turned the dial to coloured clothes this time and left it to spin for the next two hours.
When the washing machine finally stopped spinning, I opened up the door and gingerly reached inside, wondering what I would find. I pulled out the gray sweater. It was gray. Not tinged with pink, but completely and totally gray. The pj top still had a couple pinkish spots but they were faint and nobody would see them anyhow so that was okay. I smiled in gratitude as I sent up a quiet thank you to my Father. And I didn't even pray first! I thought.
It's not such a huge thing, I know. The gray sweater could have been ruined and it wouldn't have ruined my life. I'd already burnt a hole in a sheer brand new blouse during my first week here, so I wasn't a stranger to clothing catastrophes. Yet somehow God worked a miracle, with a bit of stain remover, and restored my sweater to me so I could continue to enjoy wearing it.
Somehow, it seems to be somewhat reminiscent of my life. There are times the Holy Spirit is quietly whispering, Maybe you shouldn't say that, go there, eat that, waste your time doing that and I push those unpopped kernels aside, thinking I know better, thinking that even if I mess up, it won't be so bad. Thankfully God is gracious and merciful and many times He comes along with the stain remover, fixing my mistakes and restoring to me what was beautiful before.
He gives me more than I deserve. He is good and He is good to me. How can I doubt Him then with the steps ahead that I cannot see? How can I fail to trust that He is preparing a life of fulfillment and joy, not only in the life to come, but in this life also?
He has saved us and called us to a holy life—not because of anything we have done but because of His own purpose and grace. ~2 Timothy 1:9
45 minutes later, after doing some arm exercises with a jar of peanut butter in one hand and a jar of nutritional yeast in the other as makeshift weights, I went to get my load of washing out. I threw everything into a plastic bag and brought it back to my room where I began to hang the items on my indoor drying rack. Then I pulled out my gray short-sleeved sweater that I wore with my little black dress. It was no longer gray. Now it had a hue of red, as did a pj top. I sighed inwardly, I had nobody to blame but myself. The offending red trousers, thankfully confined somewhat in their damage by having been washed in a white mesh bag which had now turned pink, looked innocently up at me.
A quick Google search recommended I use rubbing alcohol on a white cloth and try to rub out the stains by transferring them to the white cloth. A trial with a cream towel wasn't too successful and not wanting to spend my entire evening scrubbing like a washerwoman in the 1800's, I pulled out my stain remover bottle. I didn't have high hopes for it; the other times I'd used it for a grease stain it hadn't been too successful. I needed to try something, though, so I read the directions on the back of the bottle and hurried back to the washing machine with the two gray-pinkish items.
After tossing them back in, I poured another generous amount of detergent in the first little drawer. I had no clue whether the stain remover should go in the second or third drawer but decided to put it in the second just to be safe. Then I turned the dial to coloured clothes this time and left it to spin for the next two hours.
When the washing machine finally stopped spinning, I opened up the door and gingerly reached inside, wondering what I would find. I pulled out the gray sweater. It was gray. Not tinged with pink, but completely and totally gray. The pj top still had a couple pinkish spots but they were faint and nobody would see them anyhow so that was okay. I smiled in gratitude as I sent up a quiet thank you to my Father. And I didn't even pray first! I thought.
It's not such a huge thing, I know. The gray sweater could have been ruined and it wouldn't have ruined my life. I'd already burnt a hole in a sheer brand new blouse during my first week here, so I wasn't a stranger to clothing catastrophes. Yet somehow God worked a miracle, with a bit of stain remover, and restored my sweater to me so I could continue to enjoy wearing it.
Somehow, it seems to be somewhat reminiscent of my life. There are times the Holy Spirit is quietly whispering, Maybe you shouldn't say that, go there, eat that, waste your time doing that and I push those unpopped kernels aside, thinking I know better, thinking that even if I mess up, it won't be so bad. Thankfully God is gracious and merciful and many times He comes along with the stain remover, fixing my mistakes and restoring to me what was beautiful before.
He gives me more than I deserve. He is good and He is good to me. How can I doubt Him then with the steps ahead that I cannot see? How can I fail to trust that He is preparing a life of fulfillment and joy, not only in the life to come, but in this life also?
He has saved us and called us to a holy life—not because of anything we have done but because of His own purpose and grace. ~2 Timothy 1:9
Saturday, November 11, 2017
My Sister
You are my sister, she said, as she held my hand and kissed me on the cheek three times. The quiet woman with black headscarf, the one who sold tofu and peanut butter and soymilk and granola every Friday morning on the steps of North Hall, the one who exhibited great strength as her husband battled illness, stood there holding my hands and calling me her sister. It was in that moment that I knew I had been made for this.
I struggle a lot with feeling less-than when it comes to measuring up to the Christian walk. Those struggles are heightened by living in a country that hosts millions of refugees and whose languages I do not easily speak. I am still figuring out life here, how to buy groceries regularly, where to go for a dental check up, and how to maneuver unspoken cultural expectations. I see what appears to be everyone other than me becoming fluent in Arabic, visiting orphanages, and providing for the needy.
It's when I compare myself to others that I feel frustrated. I wonder if the small things I do even make that much of a difference and feel like I should be doing bigger and greater things. Then God gives me gentle moments like today when I realize that He is doing things I cannot even understand.
We spent the afternoon sitting in plastic chairs around the metal serving deck, listening to a young man share his conversion testimony. Then five of us piled into a friend's car and headed to the Armenian section of town where the woman and her husband lived, so we could drop them off. The three of us ladies squeezed into the back seat and the men sat in the front. As we bounced along the potholes and drove around triple-parked cars, I listened to the comfortable hubbub of their conversation. It was all in Arabic but I picked up a few words here and there. I thought about how, even if I could speak Arabic, I would likely not have said much anyhow as I was generally content to listen in groups.
As we drove along, I realized something that amazed me. I've been in many settings before where people are speaking another language, and I've felt awkward, left-out, and uncomfortable. I was not feeling any of that, this time, though. I felt completely at peace, content, and as if this was exactly where I was meant to be.
People who pass through ask me, How long do you plan to stay here? I know it's a standard question coming from their curiosity, but lately my reply has been changing from As long as God keeps me here to Forever, unless God tells me otherwise. I can't tell the future and I don't want to limit my Father Who knows exactly where I can serve Him best and be the happiest doing so. Yet it is the most wonderful thing to understand when I am in His will and tonight was one of those moments for me. I still haven't been blessed with the instant gift of tongues, I still have limited energy and resources to invest, but this one thing I know. I am where God wants me to be and I'm doing what God wants me to do. And I couldn't be any happier.
I struggle a lot with feeling less-than when it comes to measuring up to the Christian walk. Those struggles are heightened by living in a country that hosts millions of refugees and whose languages I do not easily speak. I am still figuring out life here, how to buy groceries regularly, where to go for a dental check up, and how to maneuver unspoken cultural expectations. I see what appears to be everyone other than me becoming fluent in Arabic, visiting orphanages, and providing for the needy.
It's when I compare myself to others that I feel frustrated. I wonder if the small things I do even make that much of a difference and feel like I should be doing bigger and greater things. Then God gives me gentle moments like today when I realize that He is doing things I cannot even understand.
We spent the afternoon sitting in plastic chairs around the metal serving deck, listening to a young man share his conversion testimony. Then five of us piled into a friend's car and headed to the Armenian section of town where the woman and her husband lived, so we could drop them off. The three of us ladies squeezed into the back seat and the men sat in the front. As we bounced along the potholes and drove around triple-parked cars, I listened to the comfortable hubbub of their conversation. It was all in Arabic but I picked up a few words here and there. I thought about how, even if I could speak Arabic, I would likely not have said much anyhow as I was generally content to listen in groups.
As we drove along, I realized something that amazed me. I've been in many settings before where people are speaking another language, and I've felt awkward, left-out, and uncomfortable. I was not feeling any of that, this time, though. I felt completely at peace, content, and as if this was exactly where I was meant to be.
People who pass through ask me, How long do you plan to stay here? I know it's a standard question coming from their curiosity, but lately my reply has been changing from As long as God keeps me here to Forever, unless God tells me otherwise. I can't tell the future and I don't want to limit my Father Who knows exactly where I can serve Him best and be the happiest doing so. Yet it is the most wonderful thing to understand when I am in His will and tonight was one of those moments for me. I still haven't been blessed with the instant gift of tongues, I still have limited energy and resources to invest, but this one thing I know. I am where God wants me to be and I'm doing what God wants me to do. And I couldn't be any happier.
Thursday, November 2, 2017
The Bravery of One Who Explores
People tell me I'm brave to venture off by myself but I shake my head and wonder why they think so. After all, I have to explore and it's the only way I can do so without spending all my money on Ubers! Yesterday afternoon, the sun was shining amidst a week of heavy rain, and the sky was a perfect blue. I knew it was the right time to take the excuse of needing to pick up brochures from the Ministry of Tourism for an incoming group of Very Important People, so I slipped on some comfortable boots, grabbed my umbrella in case the storm clouds returned, and headed down the hill.
I lucked out this time. A childhood friend was driving in the same general direction and offered me a ride. As he parked, I stepped out into traffic and walked the last 5 minutes to Dora, the Grand Central Station of Beirut. I knew the bus number I needed to take, #2, but I didn't know where it stopped. I looked carefully and spotted one but when I went up to ask the guy where the bus went, I found out it was headed in the opposite direction. I needed the one going to Hamra, not Antelias. He nodded across the street so I dodged taxis to the pavement where I parked myself to wait.
A friendly older man stopped his taxi right by where I was waiting. I said I was waiting for bus #2 to Hamra and he grinned and told me it would be along real soon. He spoke in Arabic and I in English but we managed to understand each other easily enough. After waiting 8 minutes, I began to get a bit nervous as the Ministry would close in an hour and I didn't know how long the bus would take to get there. The taxi driver noticed and reassured me that the bus was right around the corner. Sure enough, a couple minutes later bus #2 appeared and I hopped on.
It was a fairly new bus and the driver handed me a little blue ticket when I got on. I found a seat near the back by an open window and settled in. I peered at my mobile, studying the map on my Zawarib app, and trying to calculate where I should get off. Soon the bus was full enough and off we toodled.
Every time I get on a public bus in Beirut, my heart feels light and free. Whether the bus is packed full with day labourers heading back after a long day's work or whether it's just me and three other people riding along in silence, I feel deep joy to be out in the city. It's as if I come alive. I am content to simply sit and watch the world pass by. In those moments there are no responsibilities, no expectations, no demands. It's just me and the city I've grown to love with all its idiosyncrasies.
After an hour and numerous stops along the way, the bus reached its final destination. The only problem was, I hadn't reached mine. I knew I was about 13 minutes drive away, according to Googlemaps on my trusty mobile, but I was supposed to get off the bus unless I wanted to pay again and I had no idea if its return route would take me closer to where I needed to go. So off I got and hailed the first taxi driving by. He didn't know where the Ministry was, but he decided I could navigate so I got in and we drove for about 10 minutes in thick traffic.
Finally, we were close enough that I could pay him the $1.33 fare and walk the rest of the way. I was quite pleased with myself to find the sign that clearly indicated the Ministry of Tourism, along with beautiful posters decorating the glass doors. Until I realized the building was locked. On all sides. When I peered in, I saw empty display cabinets that used to hold brochures and realized the place was deserted.
Then I looked around and realized I was good and truly lost. I was not in a place I had been before, though I was supposedly in Hamra. I didn't know how to get back to where I'd gotten off the bus and there were no buses in plain sight. After checking Googlemaps again, though, I realized that I was not too far from the sea and I knew that bus #15 went right alongside the sea. So I pointed my nose in the direction of the compass and set off.
I stumbled across a farmer's market and bought chocolate/agave energy balls, mini wild zaatar and goat cheese pastries, and stuffed aubergine. I paid the man at the stall of multicoloured jars filled with labneh balls that looked just like mozarella, jams, and chili-stuffed olives, and then I forgot my stuffed aubergine. I was about to cross the street when I realized my plastic bags were full of sweets and pastries but no aubergine, so I quickly returned, apologetically smiling at the man as I retrieved my expensive jar and hoping he wouldn't think I was stealing it.
It was not more than 15 minutes and I was at a familiar corner by a mosque I passed when I rode the #15 bus. I'd just missed one but it wasn't long before another came along and I hopped right on. Then it was back to Dora where the driver let us out right by the taxi depot instead of several hundred feet back so that we had to walk. I then set off to find my final taxi back to the university.
Relying on my old trick to walk out of the roundabout area and start heading in the direction of home, so I could get in a taxi that was already headed my way and preferably already with passengers so he wouldn't charge me an exorbitant fare, I walked a little ways and then stopped to wait. The first taxi wasn't going my way and the second taxi asked for 10,000 which was outrageous. I shook my head and waited for the next taxi.
An older jovial looking man with a Tivoli Paints set of books under his arm grinned at me, as the second taxi sped away. He'd heard me say Sabtieh and quickly told me in Arabic that he was headed that way too, so he would flag down the next taxi for the both of us. The third taxi came along, this man was headed our way, but after I told him I wanted to go to the university, he said, Wait, which school? I told him and he quoted a 4,000 fare which was reasonable so I nodded and got in. The older man got in too and then a Bangladeshi man headed to Dekwaneh got in the front. The older man tried to make some light conversation, but I had exhausted my Arabic knowledge so I just smiled and nodded but soon he realized I couldn't understand and turned to talk on his mobile.
Three hours after I'd set out on my adventure, I was climbing out of the taxi and heading back to my office. So ended another adventure when I could breathe in deep and keep the memory to tide me over til the next time I felt the need to explore.
I lucked out this time. A childhood friend was driving in the same general direction and offered me a ride. As he parked, I stepped out into traffic and walked the last 5 minutes to Dora, the Grand Central Station of Beirut. I knew the bus number I needed to take, #2, but I didn't know where it stopped. I looked carefully and spotted one but when I went up to ask the guy where the bus went, I found out it was headed in the opposite direction. I needed the one going to Hamra, not Antelias. He nodded across the street so I dodged taxis to the pavement where I parked myself to wait.
A friendly older man stopped his taxi right by where I was waiting. I said I was waiting for bus #2 to Hamra and he grinned and told me it would be along real soon. He spoke in Arabic and I in English but we managed to understand each other easily enough. After waiting 8 minutes, I began to get a bit nervous as the Ministry would close in an hour and I didn't know how long the bus would take to get there. The taxi driver noticed and reassured me that the bus was right around the corner. Sure enough, a couple minutes later bus #2 appeared and I hopped on.
It was a fairly new bus and the driver handed me a little blue ticket when I got on. I found a seat near the back by an open window and settled in. I peered at my mobile, studying the map on my Zawarib app, and trying to calculate where I should get off. Soon the bus was full enough and off we toodled.
Every time I get on a public bus in Beirut, my heart feels light and free. Whether the bus is packed full with day labourers heading back after a long day's work or whether it's just me and three other people riding along in silence, I feel deep joy to be out in the city. It's as if I come alive. I am content to simply sit and watch the world pass by. In those moments there are no responsibilities, no expectations, no demands. It's just me and the city I've grown to love with all its idiosyncrasies.
After an hour and numerous stops along the way, the bus reached its final destination. The only problem was, I hadn't reached mine. I knew I was about 13 minutes drive away, according to Googlemaps on my trusty mobile, but I was supposed to get off the bus unless I wanted to pay again and I had no idea if its return route would take me closer to where I needed to go. So off I got and hailed the first taxi driving by. He didn't know where the Ministry was, but he decided I could navigate so I got in and we drove for about 10 minutes in thick traffic.
Finally, we were close enough that I could pay him the $1.33 fare and walk the rest of the way. I was quite pleased with myself to find the sign that clearly indicated the Ministry of Tourism, along with beautiful posters decorating the glass doors. Until I realized the building was locked. On all sides. When I peered in, I saw empty display cabinets that used to hold brochures and realized the place was deserted.
Then I looked around and realized I was good and truly lost. I was not in a place I had been before, though I was supposedly in Hamra. I didn't know how to get back to where I'd gotten off the bus and there were no buses in plain sight. After checking Googlemaps again, though, I realized that I was not too far from the sea and I knew that bus #15 went right alongside the sea. So I pointed my nose in the direction of the compass and set off.
I stumbled across a farmer's market and bought chocolate/agave energy balls, mini wild zaatar and goat cheese pastries, and stuffed aubergine. I paid the man at the stall of multicoloured jars filled with labneh balls that looked just like mozarella, jams, and chili-stuffed olives, and then I forgot my stuffed aubergine. I was about to cross the street when I realized my plastic bags were full of sweets and pastries but no aubergine, so I quickly returned, apologetically smiling at the man as I retrieved my expensive jar and hoping he wouldn't think I was stealing it.
It was not more than 15 minutes and I was at a familiar corner by a mosque I passed when I rode the #15 bus. I'd just missed one but it wasn't long before another came along and I hopped right on. Then it was back to Dora where the driver let us out right by the taxi depot instead of several hundred feet back so that we had to walk. I then set off to find my final taxi back to the university.
Relying on my old trick to walk out of the roundabout area and start heading in the direction of home, so I could get in a taxi that was already headed my way and preferably already with passengers so he wouldn't charge me an exorbitant fare, I walked a little ways and then stopped to wait. The first taxi wasn't going my way and the second taxi asked for 10,000 which was outrageous. I shook my head and waited for the next taxi.
An older jovial looking man with a Tivoli Paints set of books under his arm grinned at me, as the second taxi sped away. He'd heard me say Sabtieh and quickly told me in Arabic that he was headed that way too, so he would flag down the next taxi for the both of us. The third taxi came along, this man was headed our way, but after I told him I wanted to go to the university, he said, Wait, which school? I told him and he quoted a 4,000 fare which was reasonable so I nodded and got in. The older man got in too and then a Bangladeshi man headed to Dekwaneh got in the front. The older man tried to make some light conversation, but I had exhausted my Arabic knowledge so I just smiled and nodded but soon he realized I couldn't understand and turned to talk on his mobile.
Three hours after I'd set out on my adventure, I was climbing out of the taxi and heading back to my office. So ended another adventure when I could breathe in deep and keep the memory to tide me over til the next time I felt the need to explore.
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