Keep Going

"Merhaba, peynir pide? Iki. Evet, paket. Ne kadar? Tesekkurler." I stood in the little bakery and practised my Turkish with the friendly baker on the other side of the counter. He smiled rather bemusedly but patiently waited for me to place my order, confirmed he indeed had cheese pide, and asked if I wanted it to go. I said I did, so he cut the two pide in half, wrapped them in wax paper, and slipped them along with a couple of napkins into a small plastic bag. I handed the 40 lira to him and thanked him as I turned to go. 

Less than three months ago I stepped off a plane in my new home country of Istanbul, Turkey. I was excited, nervous, anxious, and tired. We'd arrived with 4 suitcases, 2 carry-ons, 2 backpacks, and as many miscellaneous bags of odds and ends that the airline would let us bring without charging us extra. 

A week later, I was sitting in Turkish language classes in Kadikoy. The friendly young Muslim teacher was reviewing the numbers and months with the class. We'd missed the first two days of class as we were in another city doing seminars, but my husband was confident we wouldn't miss much. He was wrong. 

I felt rather overwhelmed those first few weeks. Even though we were in the beginner level, studying at the slow pace, I still felt lost. The teacher was very good; she presented the concept, gave many examples, had us practice, and then gave homework to solidify it in our minds. Yet I often felt frustrated because the course was not set up for people with zero knowledge of the language. As the teacher began to speak less and less in English, and the grammar concepts began to get harder and harder, there were times I sat in class and just wanted to cry. 

"How can I answer the questions if I cannot even understand the sentence?" I wailed to my husband one day when we were doing homework together. He'd lived in Turkey for two years before and, while he hadn't been speaking the language for five years, he had a working knowledge of it and the vocabulary was quickly coming back to him. It took me three weeks in class to realize that when the teacher said, "Tennefus" before our ten-minute break every 50 minutes, that she meant "break-time"! 

Now I had ever so much more sympathy for my foreign language students that I'd been teaching English to just a few short months ago. Now I understood the glazed over looks on their faces, the confusion as I explained the idea of a hook or thesis statement using English words, even though they were advanced level students. Now, as a student, I understood what it meant to feel very very small in front of a language easily being spoken by millions of people. 

But I didn't give up. Even as I aimed my camera at a homework's paragraph and tried to decipher it using Google Translate, I reminded myself that it didn't matter how much I learned as long as I kept on going. There would be bad days but there would always be a good day waiting somewhere. I didn't have to have all the answers and I didn't have to be the star student. I just had to keep studying, keep going to class, and keep trying. 

And now, 2.5 months later, as I sit in class and the teacher chats about her day in Turkish or I copy a sentence off the whiteboard into my notebook, I understand what she is saying. I do not know all the vocabulary and there are still days when I am about ready to cry in class because the word on the board has 3 endings and I am not sure how to decipher all its conjugations, but I am so so proud of myself. I'm learning a new language, I'm speaking it as best I can, and I'm not giving up. 

The Lost Hat

I sat on the bus musing out the window as the city flew by. There was always something new to see as I went to and from Turkish class on the short 10-minute ride. Sometimes there was a shouting match between a taxi driver and our bus driver as both tried to claim the same side of the road. Once there was a scream and suddenly a lady was stumbling out of her seat into the aisle, clutching her ear and grimacing as her seatmate shouted at her. Most of us hadn't seen what had caused the old lady to scratch the other lady's head, but we all peered intently and listened to the old lady who continued her rant. The other lady had found another seat next to a rather portly man who cautioned her with a finger to his lip not to reply to the old lady's ravings. 

"Maniyac" I heard all around me. A young lady put her hand on the hurt lady's shoulder, asking her if she was okay. One little old lady next to me moved forward with great interest to see what was going on. Even though it was a full bus and an empty seat was usually prized real estate, the seat next to the old lady remained empty. She continued to shout. The bus driver leaned over and, in an equally loud voice, told her to be quiet. She refused to listen, reducing the volume but continuing to mumble to herself. 

As we got off the bus, a small crowd huddled around the hurt lady, making sure she was okay. Nobody knew her personally, yet they were concerned. The old lady hobbled off by herself, nearly bent double with age. 

On the way home, I sat with my purple winter hat in one hand, the other protectively holding my backpack so it wouldn't fall and inconvenience the other passengers sitting across from me. As the bus neared my stop, I quickly stood up and followed a young lady to the door. Unlike the metro, which allowed a good 30 seconds for people to get on and off, most bus drivers would only open the door as long as they saw movement. The moment there was none, the door closed, at times trapping a stroller or a purse in its clutches. Then there would be a shout from the passengers and the bus driver would open the door again. As I grabbed my backpack and left my seat, my foot stepped on something soft. I was worried I'd stepped on the foot of the man sitting next to me but I had no time to check. I knew I had to be waiting by the door the instant the bus stopped, so I could get off. 

I stepped off, the doors closed, and the bus continued on its route. I started to walk in the direction of home, then reached to put on my warm winter hat. It was a chilly 5 degrees and my ears were already getting cold. Except my hands were empty. My hat, at that very moment, was sitting on the floor of the bus that was rapidly getting further and further away. 

In that moment I could hear my husband's voice, saying, "You're going to lose that hat one day. You should put it in your backpack." He was right. I'd already dropped it twice in restaurants and each time he had rescued it for me. Except that day he was home sick with the flu and I'd gone to class by myself so he wasn't there to notice when the hat had slipped out of my hands as I'd hurried to get off the bus in time. I was so so sad. I loved that hat. I'd worn it every cold day I'd been in Istanbul. It was in all my pictures. I could probably buy another hat but I didn't want to. I wanted my hat!

Before I knew it, my feet started running. I sent up a quick prayer for God to send traffic and red lights in front of the bus. I knew the bus was headed to two bus stops before reaching the end of the line and starting its route back. If I was quick enough, perhaps I could catch it at the last stop. So I kept running on the side of the road, keeping the bus in view, dodging pedestrians and mini busses randomly disgorging their passengers, praying with each breath that I could catch the bus. 

I didn't make it. The traffic wasn't too heavy and the bus didn't wait for long at the bus stops. Quickly rethinking my strategy, I decided to see if I could make it to the bus stop at the end of the line. The bus would have to do a U-turn and usually there were many passengers waiting to get on at that bus stop so perhaps I would have enough time. 

I reached the bus stops all out of breath. By this point I'd slowed to a walk as I couldn't run anymore. Quickly scanning the stops, I started to panic when I couldn't see the bus number anywhere. Then I looked to the left and saw the bus heading towards me. As it pulled to a stop in front of a very long line of people, I rushed to the back and banged on the door so the bus driver would open it. He didn't, of course, because everyone had to go in the front door so they could scan their cards. I peered inside and at first saw nothing on the floor. My heart sank. Somebody had taken it. Then I looked up and saw my jaunty purple hat, now seated comfortably on the seat opposite where I'd been sitting. 

With great excitement, I rushed to the front door and squeezed my way to the front of the line. A rather unhappy young man let me go in front of him and I quickly told the bus driver "I left my hat on the bus!" while vigorously pantomining putting a hat on my head. He motioned me to go back, opening the middle door so I could get off easily as the hordes continued to pile on behind me. I ran back, grabbed the hat, and waved it madly in the air. He grinned at me from the rearview mirror, giving me a thumbs-up as I hurried off the bus and he closed the door behind me. 

A moment later, I was pulling my purple hat onto my head as tears started to form in the corners of my eyes. I hadn't lost my hat after all. I'd taken a chance, refused to accept that it was lost forever, and ran to rescue it. And God had answered my prayer. 

I vowed I would take much better care of it from now. "I won't lose you this time!" I said as I began to walk home, the hat keeping my head and ears warm in the frosty air. And as I walked, I thought about how God cares so much more for each of us than I cared for my hat. How He was running to rescue each lost person, who perhaps knew they were lost or not. How He didn't give up and rejoiced greatly when the lost was found. Could I have this same passion for lost souls as I did for my winter hat?

A Lady With A Wobble

We made an incongruous couple—the little old lady and I. She, dressed in a thin dress, threadbare shawl over her shoulders, and a scarf covering her head, all three of different fabrics, with her feet shuffled into thick black slippers that were so worn, they were pilling on top like an old sweater. I, in my burgundy pants, bright yellow ski jacket, bright blue shoulder bag, and purple hat with ear muffs to keep me warm in Istanbul's chilly winter, clashing colors yet unconcerned as how warm I felt was of more importance than being a fashion statement at the moment. I stood out; she was lost in the crowd. So lost that I encountered her nearly falling down the incline of the side road we lived off of. I was on my way home after Turkish class, a bag of toilet paper and a paket of cheese pide in one hand, when I passed her. She was struggling to pull a metal cart with a giant bag of recycling plastic strapped firmly onto it. The cart had one wheel; the other was missing. In her right hand she held tightly to a single metal hospital crutch, its screws long gone, a thick white elastic band wrapped around it to keep it together. I hurriedly took the cart from her and asked, "Okay, where are we going?" 

She spoke no English; I spoke just a few words of Turkish after 2 1/2 months of class where we mostly learned how to conjugate past, present, and negative statements. I could recite to her the verb endings for I, you, he/she/it, we, you (plural), and they, but I doubted that would be very helpful. So I pulled the cart and followed her as she stumbled down the road. 

A moment later, her uncertain feet nearly slipped as the wobbly crutch hit an uneven spot. "Yavash, yavash!" I exclaimed, using one of the Turkish words that had managed to stick in my mind. I hoped dearly I was telling her to slow down, not speed up! She slowed her pace a bit, then picked it up again. I kept in step with her, maneuvering the cart around obstacles along our way, a restaurant sign, a chair, a corner of a building, righting it when the single wheel jammed against the obstacle and tipped the cart sideways. Undeterred, the little old lady kept going, step by determined wobbly step. We went down the incline, across the road, down another road, and turned right. At one point she looked at me and asked who I was. Or at least that was what I assumed as I had no clue what her toothless smile was saying as she peered at me out of her flowered scarf. I summoned up all the words I could muster and said, "Hollandalym. Turk'ce orgenciyim. Yabanci." She was confused, thinking I was from Poland, so I shouted "Hollanda!" at her several times until she finally understood. I knew I had butchered all the tenses but at least I had communicated I was studying Turkish and was a foreigner. That was enough for her and off we went. 

After we'd been walking for about 10 minutes, I asked, "Evde nerede?" wondering how much further it was to her house. She pointed up the road aways and continued hobbling along. The thought briefly entered my mind that she could be pretending to be a little old lady and was perhaps leading me down some deserted alley to then attempt to rob me. I didn't have much money on me, though, and decided that if we didn't reach her final destination soon, I could always turn the cart back over to her and be on my way. 

Finally, she stopped next to a door and thanked me. Two older men were standing inside. One came out, thanking me also, and began to untie the recycling bag. I promptly forgot how to say goodbye, smiled awkwardly, and turned to go home. As I started to walk back, I wondered how she would get home. Would she do the trip in reverse—wobbling her way home, only this time with an empty cart? The cart hadn't been that heavy; it was just unwieldy to maneuver. Should I have waited to help her back home? I decided I had done my good deed for the day and continued on home. 

That evening, when I excitedly recounted my day's adventures to my husband, he promptly reprimanded me. "You shouldn't help people," he said. "People who shine shoes drop their kit on purpose, you go to pick it up, and then someone steals your purse. It happens all the time. What if the lady had fallen on the ground and died? What would you have done then?" 

He was right. I'd grown up in an extremely sheltered Adventist bubble my whole life. I'd never lived life in a big city like this where we were on our own. I didn't speak the language and I didn't have a community of friends around me yet. I didn't have any street smarts and I didn't know what to do if I got into a difficult situation. He had a black belt in judo, had lived in big cities most of his life, and knew how to read people while I was a very trusting person. 

"But as Christians, aren't we supposed to help people?" I wondered. 

"Yes, but you need to be careful," he replied. I agreed. And yet I couldn't forget about the little old lady, hobbling and wobbling along with her cart of recycling plastic. What if that had been my mother? A friend? How would I be able to share Jesus through my actions if I couldn't help others? 

It was a question as yet to be answered. 

To Know He Calms My Storms

Absorbed in their efforts to save themselves, they had forgotten that Jesus was on board. ~Desire of Ages, p. 334

It's a familiar story. Jesus steps into a boat and asks His disciples to take Him to the other side of the lake so He can rest a while from the demands of a multitude desperate for His healing. He falls asleep almost instantly, weariness overcoming Him, and into a sleep so deep and sound that the sudden storm cannot wake Him.

I've been out on the Mediterranean Sea when the waves were choppy but it was a clear day and while the boat tipped from side to side, there was no danger of it tipping over or even filling with water. This, however, was not the case on that dark night. The disciples "were in real danger" (Luke 8:23) in this terrible storm that came up so suddenly (Matthew 8:24) as "high waves began to break into the boat until it was nearly full of water" (Mark 4:37).

Seasoned fishermen as they were, they could not save themselves in this frightening storm. They struggled to bail the water out and keep the boat from sinking, doing all in their own efforts that they could, but in a moment of panic they all realized they were going to drown. The storm was too strong and they were too weak.

A couple of days ago a friend and I headed to the coast for a few hours of relaxation after a hectic week. She with a building renovation project for her school for refugee children and I after a three day camp overseeing 50 teenagers, we were both grateful for the call of the sea and its relaxing turquoise blues. After spreading our towels out on the pebbled shore, we made our way down to the water.

The day before, I had been with the 50 teenagers at the sea about 30 minutes north of where I now was. The unusual summer breeze that kept us cool on our campus just outside Beirut now whipped up the shore with crashing surf and waves that made it hard to keep our balance as they pummeled the rocks. I had joined the brave ones in the water, but even though I'd swam out past the first set of waves, the giant waves that crashed over my head filled me with more salt water than I cared for so I soon sat back on the shore.

Thinking it would be the same at the spot we now were, and disregarding the fact that there was nobody else in the water, and only a couple people on the beach, I once again swam out a little past the first set of crashing waves. The day before, my feet were always touching the sea floor but now I suddenly found I could no longer feel the bottom. Then things happened all at once.

I bobbed up and over a couple of large waves but started to feel uneasy and when I turned to look to shore I realized I was further out than I had planned. My friend was about the same distance out but not so close to me and I decided I wanted to head back to shore. I faced the shore and began to swim.

Within a moment, I realized I wasn't getting anywhere nearer to the shore. I could feel a strong current holding me in place so that my attempts to propel myself through the water were helpless. I began to panic even as I thought about what I should do. I remembered reading about how you should swim parallel to the shore rather than tiring yourself out trying to fight a current, so I turned to face parallel but even then the current kept me from moving anywhere, or so it seemed.

As the panic grew stronger and I tried to calm down even as I knew I could not anchor myself to the sea's pebbled floor nor pull myself out of the water by my own strength, I had a moment of lucidity. Let the waves push you to shore.

I knew that when the waves crashed on the shore, they pushed in their wake small stones, depositing them on the shore even as they rushed back out to sea. As a huge wave came up behind me, I instinctively allowed it to push me towards the shore, not fighting it, but allowing it to have its way in propelling me forwards. Salt water was up my nose, I couldn't see anything as the wave crashed over me, and I was terrified, but I knew I was closer to shore than I was a moment before.

A second wave came immediately behind it and this one pushed me into waters where I could get my footing. My knee was bruised from crashing against the shore, I was coughing out more salt water than I'd swallowed in years, and my feet hurt from the rougher stones but I hastily stumbled up the rocky shore until I could collapse beyond the reach of the waves' strength. A flashback of a similar experience from 20 years ago came to mind and I sent up a silent prayer of thanks to a Father Who cared enough about me to rescue me from my stupidity.

There's a challenge I'm facing in my life right now and I have no idea how it will be resolved. In some ways, it feels like those crashing waves that the disciples faced thousands of years ago that were ready to drown them, or the current that threatened to pull me out to sea just a couple of days ago. As I read the chapter Peace, Be Still, I was struck by that single sentence. The disciples had forgotten Who was with them.

I wonder how things would have been different if they had remembered Jesus right away instead of doing all they could in their own efforts first. If, at the first sign of a storm, they had looked for Jesus and told Him, We're afraid, and seen Him calm the storm immediately. I tend to be somewhat of a worrywart and when I was younger, my mother would tell me, Don't worry about something before it's happened, because then you've wasted all the effort. If the disciples had gone to Jesus the moment the storm became bigger than they could handle, they would have saved all their worry and panic and wearisome efforts because Jesus would have solved their problem then rather than after they had tired themselves out.

Perhaps this is how my life is too. Perhaps I'm so absorbed in my own efforts to sort out my dilemma that I have forgotten Who is with me. Jesus trusted His Father implicitly; He could sleep in a terrible storm. Me, on the other hand, finds it easier to worry and cry and spend my time talking to every person around me in an attempt to find a solution rather than simply asking the One Who knows me best to help me find a solution.

There were other boats on the sea that night. Other boats whose occupants were also in danger of drowning. The moment the sea was still, they too saw the miracle of Jesus' power to calm the storm. When I let Jesus calm the storm of my life, there may be others close by who are watching me and seeing the storm settle may be a testimony to them to also let Jesus in their lives to calm their storms.

It was in faith--faith in God's love and care--that Jesus rested. . .As Jesus rested by faith in the Father's care, so we are to rest in the care of our Saviour. . .Living faith in the Redeemer will smooth the sea of life, and will deliver us from danger in the way that He knows to be best. ~Desire of Ages p. 336

To Know Him

I've battled with the perception for 20 years that personal devotions were supposed to be rigidly structured in order to meet the requirements of the good Christian checklist. While a helpful Bible teacher in college encouraged me to start with just 5 minutes a day of reading my Bible, being the emotional sanguine that I am, I didn't manage to stay focused for long and got lost when reading through Leviticus.

Yesterday over pizza and Pepsi, a university student and I wrestled with what it meant to be a real Christian. She's on her exploratory journey while I'm settling in to what seems right for me but even at our different points, with a generation between us, we found understanding in talking through our questions. Frustrated with organized religion that dictated more rote than relationship, we painted mental pictures of what we wished a church and spirituality would look like.

This afternoon I came home from work, exhausted and overwhelmed. It's difficult, sometimes, when the workplace is the ministry, as expectations are then tempered with less professionalism and more religiousees. To be honest, I've been going in to work as late as I can, taking long lunch breaks, and leaving early, using sick leave for a head cold, and just doing the simple minimum to get my hours in. It's been one of those weeks, or months actually, where I'm tired of the interpersonal clashes, the cultural conflicts, and the constant feeling that I can't keep up with doing 2 full-time jobs.

I lay on my bed and reached for my Bible, turning to 1 Peter 5 where I knew the familiar verse lay about giving my burdens to God. As I prayed aloud, jumping right into expressing how very much I needed God because I couldn't handle everything anymore, the thought came to mind again. It was one I'd been mulling all morning.

What if God doesn't expect me to worship Him through deep exegetical Bible study? What if He doesn't want me to worship Him that way? What if He created me to worship Him through walking in nature and observing the insects and flowers and listening to the birds' spring songs and contemplating while listening for His impressions? What if He created me to worship Him through listening to worship songs that speak to my heart with encouragement for that day? What if He created me to worship Him through reading a book such as Uninvited by Lysa Terkeurst that can help me understand human rejection and how I relate it to God? What if He created me to read a single Bible verse and then illustrate it with a beautiful mosaic or write a blog post connecting it to my experience? What if He created me to simply sit on my bed and pray, opening my heart in all sincerity to Him as I express my struggle to trust and believe in His truth? 

Imagining worship in any and all of these ways brought such joy to my heart that I wondered why I'd never realized before that these are acceptable ways to come closer to God. For what is worship, after all, but an experience whereby we step into God's presence as intimately as we can and in doing so, we are changed? Deep Bible study is good, I'm not denying its power to change. But for me, the one who feels and writes and sings and revels in silence, it is drier than a week-old crust of bread.

I used to think God required me to worship Him in penance and that if I tried hard enough, eventually it would become easier and more interesting. But what does God ask for? It's simple enough.  

To walk humbly with my God. (Micah 6:8). To love Him and serve Him with all my heart and soul. (Deuteronomy 10:12). To wait patiently for God, to cry, to walk on solid ground, to sing a new hymn of praise, to trust God, to recite all the wonderful things He's done for me, to listen, to search for God, and to experience joy and gladness (Psalm 40). 

Simply worship. 

You Take the High Road

I watched her swinging 30 feet or more above the ground, her feet gripping a smoothly polished log and her hands holding tightly to black ropes that were fastened to the high ropes course. Her safety harness was hooked to a thin wire above her head and she had opportunity to test its capability as she missed her footing a couple times and slipped off the logs she was carefully traversing in the air to reach the final steel platform that signaled the end of the course.

Not being a risk-taker myself, I was content to watch my friend from the ground, admiring her bravery as she stopped to take a breath. Her legs were shaking from the tension and unusual usage of muscles that hadn't been exercised before. Her hands were sore from gripping the ropes to keep her balance. Yet she continued to swing back and forth, waiting til she was close enough to the next log to quickly lunge for it and try to get her footing secure even as she reached for the next set of ropes.

It was then that I heard a whisper. That's what I do for you. I'm your safety harness, keeping you from falling. When life gets difficult and you feel like it's impossible to take another step, you can take that step knowing I am the solid log beneath your feet and the harness holding you secure. 

When my friend started the high ropes course, the first section seemed easy enough that even I could have done it. It was a set of flat log boards in the shape of an X and all she had to do was step from the middle of one X to the middle of the next. The boards were fixed fairly firmly in place and it was easy to reach the first platform. By the time she reached the next to last one though, a tightrope now required her to carefully slide along, foot by foot, as she used her body weight to lean out and stay upright. Then the final section faced her. This was the hardest of all and by this point it wasn't possible to take the steps down to the ground. She had to go forward.

Life is kind of like that. We are walking along, thinking that it really isn't that difficult after all, but after a while it starts to get a little more challenging. Then one day we find ourself facing a challenge we did not prepare for and it seems impossible to get through. We have no choice though. Some things come to us in life and we have to face them whether or not we want to. It is then that we can be encouraged knowing that even as we step from swaying log to swaying log, we are held securely in God's loving hands. He may not be able to keep us from slipping and falling at times, but He has promised His love will support us (Psalm 94:18).

Every time.

When I Find You

The hardest part about being away from home for me is that I miss having someone to talk to. I know, if I was home right now, my mom would be watching Dr. Phil and my brother would be doing a flight plan on his laptop, and I would be interrupting them with random thoughts that popped into my head. They would be rather unresponsive and would soon return to what they were doing while I would busy myself cooking lunch and listening to Mandisa or Carrie Underwood on my phone.

But just knowing they were there would be enough. Here, I don't have that. I come home after work to an empty room, filled only with stuff, and not with the very real presence of those I love oh so dearly. See for me, oftentimes it's enough just to know my family is home to settle my soul. I can wake up in the middle of the night and be happy because I know I'm not alone.

My sister left home before I did. She was an independent soul who needed to fly and of the 6 or more years she's been gone, she had a flatmate for 4 of them. Life is ironic, that it gives her, the one who is comfortable with silence and being alone, a flatmate, and me, the one who needs people to thrive, a single solitary dorm room where I'm surrounded by young ladies 20 years younger than me.

I sat on my bed feeling rather sad this evening and wondered why. Then I realized it was because I hadn't had any quality talk today. Sure, I'd seen several people throughout the day, all nice people, who had popped in to my office or called and we'd chatted a bit. But I didn't have time to sit with someone for an hour or even 30 minutes and just relax into the conversation knowing I was understood. I'd listened most of the day but I hadn't been heard.

I am thankful for those in my life who sense my need to be heard and patiently listen without making me feel like I am too much. While it may seem like a simple thing, it is a profound gift for me because I spend most of my day being the hearer. My heart is full when someone really notices me through what I'm saying, because it is in that moment that I know--I am home.

Within the Simplicity

I came here not knowing what I would be doing, though I had high hopes of being the traditional missionary. I was going to paint murals in underprivileged neighbourhoods, volunteer at a refugee school with traumatized children, bring bags of food to poor families struggling to survive in the community, do Bible studies with university students who were searching for meaning, and learn Arabic so I could communicate easily and build relationships with the pharmacist and cashier and hairstylist. Alas, I failed terribly.

I've been here 2 years and I still haven't visited the refugee school. My language skills are poor and I haven't connected with any of those I had planned to. I've not accomplished enough to be considered a true missionary. Instead, I feel like I've taken more than I've given, as my community has poured time, food, and love into my life. I've tried to repay it in kind but never can keep up.

This morning in staff worship, the assistant chaplain asked us, What does it mean to store up treasure in heaven? He'd been pondering the verse and I'll admit that, while I previously wrote a beautiful blog that seemed to wrap up the concept neatly with a bow on top, I didn't quickly share it with the group. I realized that my previous analogy was rather paltry when considering the verse once more. That's the beauty of the Bible--that its depth never ceases to astound.

The rich young man came to Jesus asking what he was to do. Jesus replied with the commandments relating to others and the young man earnestly answered that he was doing all those things. Then, Jesus said, sell everything and follow Me. This was where the young man's heart could go no further. He had dedicated himself to doing. He had spent his life being faithful to what was tangible, what could be seen. Now he was being asked to be. This was a concept so foreign to him that he could not accept it. He gave up on fulfillment and a lifetime of meaning because he was unable to be a follower of Jesus.

The treasure wasn't measured by wealth, neither was it defined by a rigorous list of commands. True treasure, stored up in heaven, was only accessible through a genuine commitment to the One Who understood what treasure represented. To treasure something is to put that object above all other objects. To treasure someone is to see that person as the most important person in your life. You will set aside anything or anyone else that gets between you and your treasure.

When Jesus asked the young man to follow Him, He was asking the young man to change his framework of reference from one that perceived treasure in heaven as being accepted for achieving perfectly the written law but to see the treasure as a relationship with the One Who wrote the law and represented the law. Yet even more than the law, Jesus represented mercy and grace. If the young man had understood this, he would have joyfully followed Jesus.

Perhaps this is what Jesus is asking me to do in my life. I believe it is important that we meet the needs of others to the best of our ability. However, I am learning that a relationship with Jesus must supercede all others, though not to the exclusion of others. Perhaps God did not call me here to be a traditional missionary. My calling may be to the long-term. To settling in to the fabric of life so closely that I become one of the many threads of colour in the patchwork quilt of  my community. To be faithful in the small things because that is where servanthood really comes to life.

I'm learning in my relationships with others that they do not expect me to do as much as be. Though I've spent most of my life looking for ways to help others, my true friends do not base our friendship on what I can do for them. They simply enjoy who I am as I enjoy who they are in return. Time deepens this connection and I'm grateful for the ones who continue to show me that I have value because I am a part of their lives.

Perhaps a true missionary is not fulfilling the expected traditional roles. Perhaps it is being and in the being finding fulfillment in Him.

Rest for the Weary; Joy for the Sorrowing

I'm tired, Father, I told God as I spent time in my devotions this morning. Sundays are my treasured days because they are usually unhurried where I have time to study my Bible, talk to God in earnest, and not be tied to work or gym or one of many social activities. In reflecting on the past weeks, though, I sensed that life was wearing me down. There were some challenges in both my ministry and personal life that were not resolving themselves as easily as I had anticipated and I needed to take a break.

Please show me Your presence, I prayed. I was thinking specifically in relation to something I was puzzling out, but in my plea I didn't lay out a fleece. I simply asked God to show Himself. I needed to know He was present in my life; I needed to sense His power.

After looking at my rather long list of to-dos for the day, half of which should have been finished the Friday before except I'd played hooky and spent the day out with two dear friends, I picked the one task that was least urgent. I decided to work on my taxes.

Several weeks earlier I'd started the process, but back then I couldn't log in to my account due to some technical glitch and when I got an update that the glitch was fixed, I was too busy to refocus. Today, though, something prompted me to briefly log in and see what my estimated tax payment would be.

Ever since I began working, I have received tax refunds. I always overpaid a little, thinking of it as money in the bank, so I would get a modest refund which would usually cover my car insurance for the next year or some such expenditure. This year, though, was going to be different. The entire year I had been employed outside of the US as a missionary and my simple income had not been subject to withholdings.

Somewhat nervous about making sure I had enough money set aside to pay my taxes at the end of the tax year, I went online a year ago to find a tax calculator and figure out approximately what percentage of my salary I should be saving each month. Then, every month when I did my accounts, I carefully set aside that amount just as I set aside my tithes and offerings. My mother, an accountant, had taught me well to budget so I wouldn't have to rely on credit cards to manage.

I spent some time clicking through the various windows until I came to the end and watched the program crunch some numbers, spitting out a final figure. I looked at it in disbelief.

Going online and finding the tax tables for 2017, I searched for the correct line item. There seemed to be a significant discrepancy between the amount the tax program was showing me and the amount the tax table displayed. When I went back to the tax program, though, and expanded the menu I realized there was some small matter I had forgotten to calculate.

I'd forgotten the federal deduction and tax credits.

After calculating those, my gross income dropped significantly and the taxable income's tax on the line item in the 2017 tax table now matched precisely with the tax program I'd been using. I stared at the numbers in silence for several moments as tears began to fall.

Each month, I had been setting aside more than I needed to save. I didn't know, but God did. It wasn't such a huge amount of money, but as I looked at the figures and realized the total was equivalent to a month's salary, I was in awe at how God had orchestrated it. He was saving the money for me so I could be blessed with a beautiful surprise at just the right moment.

I don't have a specific need for the money right now though it will most likely go into my savings fund for a car. Yet it's not the actual money that surprised me as much as the realization that God is taking care of my every need and not only that, He also blesses me beyond what I could imagine. Every month, as I faithfully set aside the small amount, He was multiplying it so that at the end of the year He could give me back more than 2/3rds of the money I had been saving.

In Jeremiah 31:25, God promises to give rest to the weary and joy to the sorrowing (NLT). In Hebrews 10:23, God says He can be trusted to keep His promise. The miracle I'd just witnessed was not directly tied to any of the questions I had been asking God for answers to but it was a clear indication that God was present in my life. His power and His care was shown in a moment but through a miracle that had taken 10 months to be revealed.

If God can take care of me in these things, can I not trust Him to provide for all my other needs? We can be confident that He will listen to us whenever we ask Him for anything in line with His will. And if we know He is listening when we make our requests, we can be sure that He will give us what we ask for. 1 John 5:14, 15

Within moments God can reveal His presence. His presence that was with me all the time.

To Be Seen

Excuse me for being honest, really, it's your personality. So you really aren't married? I laughed as I shook my head. No, I'm not. I guess it must seem strange in a country where marriage is very much acceptable here.

The kind looking man with salt and pepper hair and a full beard had come into the classroom just a few minutes prior with two college-age guys. They were the late arrivals from one of the 15 or so universities that were part of the university fair in Roumieh at a French-speaking high school. The placard outside boasted a Trilingual school which I thought was quite impressive and the kids easily switched between French, English, and Arabic as they talked with recruiters.

M and I had left the university rather early as our taxi driver was double-booked and had to head to the airport right after dropping us off so he could pick up an incoming guest lecturer. When we reached the high school, one of the teachers kindly told us that being we were more than an hour early, the classrooms were still in use and we would have to amuse ourselves until it was closer to starting time. We left the pop-up banners and roll-on suitcase in the lobby appropriately titled Salon and headed off to find a restaurant so I could get something to eat.

Following Googlemaps, I was about to head off a side street to find Mounir, a restaurant that M told me was one of the most expensive around where a glass of water cost $10, when we spotted a Resto Cafe right in front of us. Though named Taj, there was nothing Indian about it, as it was a simple fast food snack shop and hangout for the local high school kids. Still, they had French-fry sandwiches so I ordered one, M got a bottle of water for 66 cents, and we sat to chat, surrounded by casually smoking high schoolers.

A side note on the French-fry sandwiches. These are my downfall and the reason why I spend endless hours at the gym! Each thinly rolled up sandwich comes stuffed with coleslaw, perfectly sour cucumber pickles, sweet ketchup, spicy toum (garlic spread), and about a pound of salty French fries that have just jumped out of the fryer. Each bite is an explosion of ying and yang and I cannot go more than a month without ordering one from Al Mazar at the bottom of the hill.

After eating and returning to the school, we set up inside a classroom that appeared to be meant for two universities. We claimed the only teacher's desk for our supplies, since the other university hadn't appeared yet, set up a banner to attract kids inside, and soon M was in the hallway gathering small clusters around her as she explained why they should come study at our university.

Nearly 30 minutes later, the other university showed up. We smiled and exchanged hellos as they entered, I perhaps a little too enthusiastically because I was so happy to see someone I recognized from previous orientations. They set up their brochures on one of the front desks, then the older man wandered over to try to chat a little. I explained my Arabic was very little and his English was marginally better than my Arabic so he began to ask where I was from and what I did. The usual questions.

So you are here, living in Lebanon, you and. . .slight pause. . .your husband? He asked most sincerely. I laughed and replied, No, it's just me! He seemed surprised and asked why. I shrugged. I guess that's just the way it is. I didn't have a clever or witty answer to give at the time. It wasn't long before he came back around to the same topic, again asking to be sure. Then he asked me for my phone number.

I'm not very good at avoiding direct questions. I have friends who are masters at returning awkward questions with blunt answers that make the questioner squirm. I have friends who avoid questions by simply smiling and not answering them. I have friends who can talk in circles around the person until they are completely confused and never did get the answer they were looking for. Unfortunately, however, I've been blessed with the inability to make up anything on the spot.

My feeble attempt at giving him a different number, by shuffling for the brochure and mumbling that he could reach me there, was met with an insistent, No, I want your number. I wasn't able to pay dumb to that direct question either, so I meekly dictated it to him. He gave me a missed call, which is how things are done here, so I could save his contact info in my phone. He said it was nice to see me, I agreeing that I remembered seeing him at orientations previous and he, not catching what I said, said Yes, not just at orientations but elsewhere also!

Some students came in and he went over to the opposite corner of the room. Within seconds my phone buzzed, then buzzed again. I opened it up to see that he'd sent me a photo of himself along with his name. I pretended to be intently busy sending text messages whilst trying my hardest to figure out how to get through the next hour with Mr. Friendly in the same room!

Thankfully, time went by rather quickly and when he came over to ask M a question, we found out we had friends in common. As we packed up to go, he and his team left first, with friendly goodbyes and a handshake. I knew his name now and at the next orientation I would be able to greet him and say hello in a kind way. Though he seemed nice enough, I knew that our communication would be limited going forward as we were coming from very different backgrounds, he being from the majority religion in the Middle East and I from a small minority denomination.

I learned one thing this afternoon from that interesting encounter. The gentleman was bold enough to approach me and intentional in letting me know that I was special. Sometimes it's easy to forget to see other people. We rush through life, intent on our tasks, looking to accomplish huge goals, when there are human beings standing right in the middle of our path waiting for us to see them. Instead, we maneuver around them as if walking around a light pole, our heads down as we furiously tap on our plastic and titanium devices that rule our lives.

Do we really see others? Do we take the time to sit on a green wooden bench on a Friday afternoon as we spend a few moments chatting with students who are enjoying the unusually warm February sun? Do we stop in to say hello in the morning when passing by windows of faces, or are we more concerned about checking work emails from the weekend? Do we offer a refugee family a ride home after an evening program at church or do we shake their hand and then hurry to our home so we can be out of the cold?

When Jesus was here, He saw the unseeable. The world teaches those who are middle or upper-class to ignore those perceived as beneath them. It diminishes or removes their worth as valuable human beings created by a God Who really cares about them. Stopping to talk to a drunk man, encouraging him to swap out water for whiskey, and then buying him a fried cauliflower sandwich is not what is taught in the textbook of life. Yet this is the very reason why we should go against what is expected and be intentional in seeing the humanity hidden underneath.

Jesus saw the woman who had been bleeding for 12 years and tried to shrink into anonymity in the crowd. He saw the lepers who had been ostracized and left to beg far removed from community. He saw the widow whose only son had just died, leaving her without male protection. He saw the prostitute who had questioned countless times why religious leaders were her main source of income. He saw the helpless cripple who had waited more than 38 years for healing by a pool that disappointed. He saw the children and their mothers who were longing for a touch of blessing. He saw the short man whose stature had diminished in society because he had the odious task of collecting government tax. He saw the little boy with enough food to feed the faith of thousands.

Jesus saw those who others looked right through.

I used to think that the familiar admonition, Wherever your treasure is, there the desires of your heart will also be, (Matthew 6:21) was a reminder not to focus on material blessings but on spiritual blessings in heaven. In other words, instead of spending all my time working long hours and worrying about having more money, I should focus on getting to know God and thinking about heaven. It was a nice enough cliche thought but as I reflected on this afternoon's experience, a moment of illumination occurred. 

The treasure is not my spiritual blessings. It's not even numbers of people who are saved because I've shared God with them, though this is another common fallacy we all too easily subscribe to. 

The treasure is the person who is standing right in front of me. Right in front of you. Waiting for you to see them. To really see someone and cherish their value is a gift we are honoured to give. This is what it means to be a steward of what God has given us. It means to treat not only the earth and the possessions we have been given as a sacred responsibility, it means to treasure each person we have been privileged to share life with. To desire the best for them as we learn more about God and what His plan is for us. 

This is our calling; this is our blessing. To treasure the sacrament of earthly life within the context of God's desire that eternal life be given to all. Then we will truly understand what it means for the desires of our heart to be fulfilled (Psalm 37:4) when we take delight in God. As we truly see others, we shall be truly seen by Him so that one day He will invite us all to enter into the limitless joy of His kingdom (Matthew 25:34-40).

Made in China

It was something rather small and insignificant. A piece of plastic with two metal prongs, painted all black, made in China, to which a USB cable attached. The other end of the USB attached to my phone or my power bank and when all three were connected, there was power.

I'd come home from an evening out with friends and as I was walking up the two flights of stairs to my dorm suite (room plus private bathroom), I texted my mom and brother to see if they were back from church yet. I usually called them Saturday evening as the time difference with them being 10 hours behind and my brother's super early morning shift job during the week made it somewhat difficult to connect at other times.

I settled on to my bed to wait, but as I looked at my phone, I suddenly saw my battery life draining away. Rapidly, minute by minute, the battery went down, til in less than 10 minutes I had lost 10% of my already low battery life. I hastily plugged in the black converter plug with attached USB cable. I checked my phone a couple minutes later, as I knew it would ordinarily charge at 1% a minute or quicker, and was dismayed to see that the battery wasn't charging. On the contrary, it had gone down a couple more %'s.

Suddenly I was in a panic. What if there was an emergency? How would I be able to call anyone? What if someone needed to get ahold of me? I lived by my phone, constantly on the WhatsApp message app for work and social life. My friends knew if they texted me, I would reply within seconds, and was always ready for a spontaneous outing. 

I quickly looked for my spare USB cable and switched it out for the one that was currently attached to the converter plug. I waited anxiously for a few more minutes but it had made no difference. In desperation, I switched my phone to airplane mode. I finally found out that if I pushed the USB cable into the converter plug in a particular way, it would slowly charge. By the morning, however, it had only charged 20% more than 8 hours previous.

The next three hours were spent deleting apps, installing anti-virus and optimizer apps, switching between airplane mode and non, trying all 3 USB cables, trying different outlets, researching rooting online, starting the process of moving all my photos from my phone to my SD card so I could contemplate a factory reset, and reading countless threads relating to battery drain on LG G3 phones. By the end of the three hours I was thoroughly exhausted, utterly confused, and my phone was somewhat happier because at least the rapid drain wasn't happening anymore (though I couldn't tell you why!!!).

I charged my phone with my power bank that, happily, had a full charge from before. All day Sunday I nursed what power I did have, keeping the screen on 0% brightness, so it would last. The next morning I asked a friend to pick up a new converter plug for me as I did a slow charge via USB cable on my work laptop. By mid-afternoon, my friend had returned with the new converter plug. I plugged the phone into the outlet, held my breath, and waited.

A couple hours later, my phone was at 100% charge. The panic vanished as I realized I was safely back in the land of the functioning cell phones again. And somewhere in there, there seemed to be a lesson I needed to learn. . .

There are days when I realize I'm running low on power. Spiritual power, that is. Not that I'm a spiritual superwoman or anything. Just that I'm needing that strength which comes from feeling closely connected to God and for some reason, even though I'm praying and reading my Bible, I feel like the power is draining away quicker than I can recharge.

This has been one of those weeks. I've been reaching out to God and I know logically that He is close by me but emotionally, I'm struggling. This is the reality of not only a missionary but any Christian. We go through valley experiences and forget that there are hills behind and before us.

Maybe, though, what is broken is not my prayer time and Bible reading. Maybe the USB cable that I thought wasn't connecting isn't the problem. Maybe it's the converter plug. The converter plug takes the power and changes it into something that the phone can recognize. Similarly, what I've been missing is connecting with God in a way that fills my soul. I've been focusing more on the people in my community, more on the challenges in my personal life, and more on the negative emotions I've been feeling.

A converter plug cannot equate with friends, dear as they may be. They cannot connect me to God through their power. Neither can having an easy life because then I would not even bother to connect the USB cable, because everything would be simple enough. The negative emotions act as a drain so that even if I'm plugged in, my battery is dying. The only possible explanation for a perfectly functioning converter plug is a deeper, more intimate knowledge of Who God is, how He sees me, and what He wants for my life.

I think one of the hardest lessons to learn in this Christian experience is that I need to stop trying. I'm not saying I should stop reading my Bible or being kind to others. But I'm a natural type-A perfectionistic personality which means my focus has been on that USB cable of action rather than on the converter plug of power that changes me through His ability. As I've been learning from someone very close to me, God does not expect a frenzy of purpose. He invites me to be still and know He is God. To sit silently, waiting to receive, in a Mary-experience.

All I needed was a new converter plug to get a fast charge to 100%. Fully charged. Fully connected. Fully converted.

Black on Black

Please help us find the keys, God, was the silent prayer going up from all three of us as we scoured the rapidly-darkening pebbled seashore. It seemed somewhat hopeless, like the proverbial needle in a haystack. Did God really answer prayers for grownups like He did in My Bedtime Stories? Maybe we would just have to find another way home that evening. Until I heard my friend give a shout of joy and looked up to see her holding something that glinted in the last bit of daylight.

It had started out as the perfect wintery day. Two friends and I had spontaneously decided to take advantage of the unusually clear warm weather and head up the coast to the oldest continuously-lived in town in the world. It was a favourite place to go, from its glittering Christmas displays and techno-lit tree to its azure blue waves slipping up onto the rocky shore to its cobbled stone streets lined with cedar-filled souvenir stalls. No matter how often I went, I still felt like I was discovering it for the first time all over again.

After reaching the town, we took a side street that ended at an idyllic spot. Here a stone built restaurant sat by the sea, its outside tables set so the patrons could gaze out for miles as they indulged in traditional Lebanese favourites. We found a place in the warm afternoon sun and quickly ordered hummus, tabbouleh, batata harra (spicy potatoes), mouttabal (babaghanoush), and other delicious mezze to round out the meal. Dessert came afterwards and we were treated to a spread of sweets that filled our hearts with delight.

We changed our shoes to more comfortable walking ones, left most of our belongings in the car, and set off to walk along the pebbled seashore. Northern Lebanon's beaches are mostly covered with small round stones and soon we were rock-hunting for different colours and shapes, occasionally sending a stone or two out to sea with a skip and a jump.

One of my friends decided to take some wave footage and as he bent down to catch the perfect angle, a sleeper wave surprised him. He quickly jumped back and scrambled up the rocky slope, though not quick enough as the wave still caught him. We laughed and continued on walking. The sun set behind a strip of cloud set on the horizon by which time we'd already turned back towards the parking lot where the car waited.

As we started up the steps to the road, my friend asked, Do you have the car keys? None of us did and after he searched his pockets several times, he realized that neither did he. We urged him to go quickly to look for it, knowing the tide had been coming in ever since we'd first set off on our walk. The sky was beginning to darken and we couldn't remember where he'd tripped after the sleeper wave chased him. Was it before or after the little shack on the side where several men sat smoking arguile?

Turning on our cell phone flashlights, we began to search as we slowly retraced our steps to the end of the rocky beach and back, praying silently as we looked. The keys were black and the majority of the rocks on the beach were a light colour but each time our eyes caught side of a black spot it turned out to be just another rock. It seemed impossible, especially as the tide coming in would likely have already caught the keys and taken them out to the open sea.

I began running scenarios in my mind. I knew we could take a public bus back to the campus but then we would have to come back with the spare key and I later found out the key to the house was in the car. Strangely enough, I didn't feel panic, though I knew my phone battery was getting low and my spare battery pack and cable were also in the locked car. Yet I felt that God had a purpose and would work things out.

Wait a minute, let me look at that picture you took, my friend said. I'd snapped a photo just after he'd dodged the wave and as we peered at the photo, he suddenly spotted a large triangular rock. He scanned the rocks in the darkening light and pointed to the water's edge. There, that's the rock!

At the same time, my other friend gave a shout, holding up something small and black that glinted. The keys! She had been standing just a few feet away from the triangular rock when a chocolate wafer wrapper caught her attention with its metallic gleam. For some reason she stayed in that area, looking more carefully at the ground, until she spotted one of the keys.

We sent up prayers of thanksgiving and hurried back to the car where we quickly found out that, while not soaked, the electric key fob had taken in some dampness and refused to unlock the car. More prayers of petition went up as soon the valet guys came to help and a borrowed blow-dryer from the kitchen and thirty minutes later, the familiar click sounded and the lights went on inside the car. The second miracle of the evening as it was a Sunday and no keysmith would have been anywhere to be found.

To this day, I wonder if an angel moved those keys before we found them. I'm sure my friend was dodging the waves much closer to the water yet we found the keys higher up on the rocky shore. If they had fallen out when he jumped back, they would have been buried in the sand or taken out to sea very quickly with the incoming tide. It was a miracle that they were where they were, a miracle that there was a chocolate wrapper nearby to catch my friend's attention, a miracle that they were even found in the dark, and a miracle that they were dried out enough and on time to get us back home.

God could have chosen not to answer our prayers that evening. It is true that there are times in life when we ask God for something and we feel disappointed because He didn't answer as we expected He would. We question why, when we are doing everything seemingly right, God doesn't honour our decisions and grant us our requests, especially when He has promised that we can ask and it will be given to us.

The reality, though, that I'm learning is that there are so many more variables in the equation of petition than simply ask and receive. Yes, salvation is as simple as that yet even salvation is contingent on a continuous connection with God that changes our hearts in a miraculous way. The gift of salvation is given when we believe but we cannot only believe and then expect to follow our own path. To whom much is given. . .much is expected. . .Luke 12:48

When we ask, we have to recognize that God is not only working with us but with other human beings who also have free will and choices to make. God is also thinking about what is best for us, even when we don't always understand the implications. The battle between good and evil means that often life is difficult and requests are not always answered with a definite yes.

Yet somehow, that evening, God knew it was best for us to find those keys. He had a purpose, both in allowing the keys to get lost and in carefully helping us to find them again. We had walked past those keys twice when there was more daylight out, first on our way to the car as they were lying not 20 feet from the steps, and then when we'd realized we'd lost them and began to retrace our steps. Why God didn't open our eyes to see the keys then, I don't know. Perhaps it was to build our faith in a God Who cares not only for the universe but also sees the smallest set of keys on a dark seashore.

A friend once told me that God doesn't expect us to trust Him without giving us evidence to base our faith on. I tend to have a memory of a strainer where I forget the miracles right after they've happened. I think God is very patient with me as He continues to give beautiful reminders of how much He cares and wants me to know that He can be trusted. And if He can be trusted in the little things, can He not even more be trusted to take care of the more important things?

10 Liter Water Jug

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

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

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.

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.

A Total God-Thing

It all started a couple days ago. I'd checked one of my work emails and forwarded an announcement about a classical piano concert at a nearby university. The pieces looked interesting enough, but I wasn't sure I would enjoy listening to piano for an hour and a half. So I pushed it to the back of my mind and carried on with my day.

This afternoon I looked at the event again and decided I would try to go. I messaged just about everyone I could think of but to no avail. One friend thought she would be able to go but ended up not being able to. So I headed down the hill to Mr. Cocktail where some friends were meeting up to celebrate a birthday. I hadn't been sitting for long, however, before the strong impression returned to go to the concert. I Googled safety in Uber at night and safety in public buses at night for single women and didn't get much. So far, I'd made my own rule not to be out after dark by myself, just because I'm a more cautious person.

I decided it would be best not to go, and tried to forget about it altogether, but suddenly the impression returned. This time I decided to heed my impulsive nature and go. I abruptly took my leave of the group and headed out the door. I hailed the first taxi that came along and asked if he would take me to Dora. The guy nodded and I hopped in.

The next impression that came to me was to ask the man if he spoke English. As soon as I'd entered the taxi, I'd noticed the cross hanging from his rearview mirror, the clean car, the sign for no smoking, and that he was well-dressed. So I asked him. He replied in perfect English and asked how he could help me. I asked how much he charged if I would book him to pick me up from the university where I was going to the concert and bring me back home. He quoted a price, we negotiated a bit, and settled happily on a fair price.

Then the guy asked, Do you know Ana? I was surprised, of course I did. Ana had been studying at the university a couple of years ago and we had become good friends. George, the taxi driver, told me that his wife had taught Ana Arabic but they'd lost touch when Ana left to pastor a church in Europe. We exchanged phone numbers, I promised to call when I was ready to be picked up, and I hopped out of the taxi in time to catch the #15 bus to Bahrie.

A half hour later, after I'd exited the bus and found my way down several dark winding streets to the university and then to the assembly hall where the concert was being held, I took a moment to think about the amazing providence that had connected George and me. Out of all the taxis in Lebanon, I picked his. And me being naturally shy had spoken up, out of which we were able to make the connection of a mutual friend. It had to be a God-thing.

While taking a selfie in the beautiful old-style hall, I noticed an alumnus from the university I work at, sitting several rows behind me. He joined me for the concert and afterwards immediately offered to take me home. Again, God worked everything out in His perfect timing so that I had a ride home and could spend some time talking to a guy who is on his own faith journey and beginning to attend the university church quite regularly. There are few Lebanese young people in our church and it is my dream to see that number increase but we have to befriend the ones who are there so they feel welcome and at home.

There are times when I question my calling, question whether what I'm doing is really making a difference, question how God can use someone who isn't a doctor/nurse/teacher in His kingdom ministry. Then there are times like tonight when I realize that it isn't about me. It's about being obedient to Him and as I follow the footsteps already marked out before me, He will bless my simple efforts and show me once again that He has a work for me that is just as valuable as that of any other person who is committed to Him.

And when it happens, it's always clear. It's a total God-thing. 

The Becoming

When life settles into the mundane, it's easy to lose sight of the vision. Oswald Chambers talks about this, when he refers to living in the valleys because we cannot be perpetually on the mountaintop.

When I first arrived, a year and a half ago, I went through a series of valleys and mountaintop experiences. At first I was somewhat apprehensive that I was reverting to my teenage sanguine ecstatic-happy/down-in-the-dumps moods. Then I realized it was a normal part of life. I had uprooted my world to settle down in a somewhat familiar milieu but was having to readjust my expectations and the rooting was gradual rather than instantaneous.

There was culture shock. Not just once, but several times, at the usual landmarks of time. Because, of course, I had to follow protocol. I'm traditional like that, even when it comes to emotions. Then there was the life changes that came, as friends moved in and out of my circle and I pulled closer or backed away. The dance was somewhat awkward at times, other times it felt like I'd seen and done it all before, but I found myself exchanging girl-talks for smoothie nights for toddler babble for still-waters conversation within less than a year. It was a little too much, it seemed.

My job changed, responsibilities were added, and I learned to teach with confidence even as I stared at the textbook wondering if the grammatical rules had ever made any sense since I'd tried to learn them in grade school. Then I was coordinating a department and suddenly realizing that there had to be a point that I stopped saying yes and started to take care of myself. Sure, I generally kept within my work hours and had started declining some requests to help out at church if I was already doing something in church that Sabbath. But I realized that something was not quite right.

I get the 1,000 Missionary Movement e-newsletter whenever it gets sent out and the last one had a devotional thought by a woman whose advice made me pause. She talked about how there were a lot of expectations placed on her about how to live out the spiritual disciplines and she found herself feeling overwhelmed by it all. Until she took the time to do 5 things. Pray, read, write, exercise, and listen to music.

I've blogged about this before, that when I first came to Lebanon I had decided I was going to say yes to every request for service, assuming that was God's calling through the person who asked me to help out. I've taught lesson study, painted a wall downtown, swam in the Mediterranean Sea, supervised 30+ teenagers at a three-day camp, brushed up on my piano skills, edited a doctoral dissertation, and started leading out in a small group for TCK university students. I am thankful for the stretching times, the fun times, the leaning-on-God times. Every experience has been one I can look back on and know with certainty that I've grown because of them.

Yet sometimes the doing crowds out the becoming. Jesus' prayer for His disciples was that they would become one, become united, just as He and God the Father were (John 17:21). His entire purpose for that was so that the world would see and understand the Father's love and this love would be revealed through His disciples. Jesus didn't pray that the disciples would fulfill a checklist of requirements--He prayed that they would be changed.

All through my Christian walk, this is the one theme that keeps returning to the forefront of my consciousness. Becoming. Changing. Being more like Jesus. Learning to rest in Him, listening for His voice, letting Him carry me over the rough paths of life, so I can in turn share the peace and love He wants to give to others through me.

I know some great Christians who are committed to a cause. They wake up at 4 am for their extensive quiet time, they never have time to just sit quietly and talk for a couple of hours because they have to prepare for the next ministry event, they sit on 15 committees, or they focus on a subset of the church to the exclusion of the others. I'm not saying they're not doing anything worthwhile; God uses everyone and I'm sure He has a plan for their service. I'm just realizing this is not the direction I want to go.

It may seem counter-intuitive to want the Mary experience. Martha, after all, was meeting the physical needs of hunger and thirst, practical in her Christianity as she prepared a sumptuous Middle Eastern meal. She wasn't doing the wrong thing. Jesus simply said Mary had chosen the better part. She sat at His feet soaking up His love and wisdom and peace--content to rest in the becoming. Meanwhile, Martha was in the back of the house busily doing.

I'm learning that in order to focus on the becoming, I need to jealously guard my time and fill it with good things that will help me to thrive spiritually. Yes, there is a place for service and I should not become an ascetic hermit who solely strives for a spiritual connection. But when my heart becomes unsettled and it feels like I'm only down in the valley, it's then that I must step away from societal expectations and refocus.

After the culture shock resettled and I was comfortable in my place here, I experienced deep peace and abiding joy. Several clear Ebenezer stones were set up as I marked the places where God was showing me He was not only fulfilling the desire of my heart to return, nearly two decades ago, to this country, but He was also clearly indicating that I was in His will. I woke up each morning thankful for my mission and eager to see what God would bring that day.

Then I went through several months where the peace and joy vanished to be replaced with questioning and uncertainty. As I struggled through some of the life changes mentioned earlier, I wondered if perhaps I'd misread the signs and the path I'd chosen was not the one mapped out for me. My prayers seemed to reach the roof and stop there.

Until I began to search to connect with the God I knew I desperately needed to be close to. I began to withdraw from the rush to fill my calendar with events and to fill my time instead with what I knew would fill my heart with peace. Listening to Christian music, writing blog posts, having uninterrupted time to pray, looking for flowers in nature, spending an evening at the gym, walking on the promenade before sunset, each activity perhaps seeming pointless in the grand scheme of saving souls but I knew they were exactly right for me.

Today I stood on the roof, hanging up my clothes, and I took a moment to really look around. I'd been so busy lately, there wasn't even time to breathe in the cooling autumn air as the humidity began to dissipate and the zeez chirped even louder in excitement. I marveled at the 10 or more different types of trees that surrounded the patch of campus I could see, then my eyes strayed to the Mediterranean Sea--a sight I never tired of seeing. Imagine, I thought. I get to live in the mountains and see the sea every single day. Life can't be any better than that! That evening, instead of editing a dissertation, I cooked a tasty meal for the next three days and relished the simple joy of cutting the ends off the green beans and frying tofu and mushrooms on an electric burner. I was happy. Peace had returned to my heart and I knew I was where God wanted me to be.

The becoming is ever so much easier than the doing. 

In All Things

There's a verse a couple of my guy friends have been throwing around a lot lately. It all started on the way to the airport, when one of them was telling a funny story they'd heard from a work colleague that week. The crux of the story centered around a little kid using a Bible verse to outsmart his bullies. Instead of quoting the verse, though, he simply shouted the reference at them each time they tried to bully him until they finally got tired and left him alone. The verse? Romans 8:28

Now the verse has become a sort of reply-all in a humorous sort of way. They'll say it to tease me, annoy me, or simply to get out of answering a question. The other day, one of them even signed the reference from across the room while I was working out on the stair-climber at the gym. Yet in the midst of all the bantering, the truth of the verse is not lost. In all things, God works for our good.

Yesterday I went to the gym for the first time this week and spent some time using the various machines to work the upper and lower body. Because I'd increased the number of reps, I was rather sore today. By the time I left work, I was not in the mood to go to the gym but I knew if I didn't go, I would not be able to get in my 3 times/week that I normally went. Both of my rides weren't able to go and I found myself staring at a little black car wandering a virtual map on my smartphone, as I waited for an Uber taxi to arrive.

The driver was very polite and dropped me off at the gym promptly. I went in and was happy to see the stair-climber free so I spent the next 25 minutes climbing in beat to the canned music whilst observing everyone around me. Then I hopped on the treadmill for a few minutes to wind down.

I needed bread and some fresh produce and had spotted a small grocery store just up the road so after I'd finished at the gym, I headed there to pick up some staples. Soon my return Uber taxi had arrived and we set off back to the university. I climbed the last bit of hill, and then two flights of stairs, to my cozy room.

There I dropped the bags of groceries and sank onto my bed. I did it. I went out of my comfort zone, booking taxis and buying groceries and going to the gym by myself. There seems to be a lot of that in my life these days--the stretching and pulling that comes with living life on my own. There are days when I feel very accomplished, like today, and then there are days when all I can handle is work and then I retreat to my room to write, read, and rejuvenate.

In all things, God works for my good. Today He worked it out so I could get my workout in and buy the groceries I needed. Two days ago He worked it out so my ride didn't go, because He knew I wouldn't be feeling so good and would need to get some extra rest instead of workout. I marvel daily at how intimately God knows me and how perfectly He orchestrates happenings so I can look back at what seemed confusing and realize He had already worked it out.

In all things.

Three Words

I think you're someone that people don't have to impress, you're friendly and easy to be comfortable with, she said. It was Saturday night and we were playing Table Talk, a game with cards that each had a question to answer. After we'd picked the question Describe yourself as your friends would in three words, and we'd each done so, Gregory suggested we repeat the exercise but this time we go around the room and describe each person in three words. It seemed like a fun exercise.

When it came to my turn, I heard the usual words people had used to describe me before. Organized, friendly, smiley, cheerful, composed. Then it was Paula's turn. Paula and I hadn't interacted much during the school year, other than a birthday party for her boyfriend and a day at the beach with several of the dorm girls, we'd just said hi when passing in the hallways. Yet somehow, she had picked up on a trait that I'd never seen in myself but had always longed to have. To be someone that people felt comfortable with.

We sat there for an hour and a half, two MEU staff, the assistant pastor at the Bouchrieh church, a volunteer doing an internship with ADRA, and a sophomore MEU student ranging in age from early 20s to late 30s. As we laughed, teased each other, shared favourite memories from childhood with Mom or Dad, or took time to answer the more serious questions, the dividers between TCKs and monoculturals, old and young, guy and girl, liberal and conservative, fell away. Each of us a different nationality, from Jordanian to American to British to Mauritian to Brazilian, we instantly found commonality in the shared life experiences we connected on.

Even though we didn't all know each other well, we were also able to find three positive things to say about each person in the room. The affirmations of God's character was a special gift that I will always treasure. It wasn't a fancy room, just an office with 5 mismatched chairs pulled up in an awkward circle. It wasn't a grand event, just 5 friends hanging out on a Saturday night, finding joy in the simplicity of words. Yet it was perhaps one of the most precious moments of my experience here as we spoke truth and love into each other's lives.

Today I woke up feeling somewhat discouraged. The day before I'd been talking to my mom, trying to figure out my long-term goals and whether that involved staying here or not. She encouraged me to think of returning to the US in as short a time as three months, if I found that my social life here was nonexistent. It was tempting. Life in the US was much easier. My self-imposed mission call to show my Lebanese friends that not all missionaries came for a year or two and then left suddenly seemed hollow. How did I know it was what God wanted me to do? I knew God could use me no matter where I lived, whether it was in the US, Europe, or the Middle East. Yet I was still restless.

When I woke up, realizing how I felt, I asked God to show me today that He was orchestrating things in my life. As I dressed for church, I listened to Nick Vujic's exhortation to look for God with the promise that I will find Him. Sabbath School's song service was filled with songs of knowing that God was with me--like All The Way My Saviour Leads Me. In church, a trio sang my favourite hymn Be Still My Soul and the phrases sank into my heart--in every change, He faithful will remain. In vespers that evening, Sahin showed us that the command most often repeated in the Bible is Do not fear. Fear disappears, though, when we trust God and trust comes when we love Him fully.

I don't know my future. I can make my plans but I want to be open to God's redirecting if He has a better plan for me. But through all the uncertainties, I'm thankful for these little glimpses of graces where divine flashes through the curtain between the unreachable and humanity, reassuring my heart that I'm where He wants me to be. Just three words--but they can make all the difference.