second decade (1 of 3)

I've been in Africa for almost ten years---ten years that seem like a lifetime. I arrived as a clueless 19-year old, with nothing more than a heart for the people of Africa and a suitcase filled with things I deemed important. I've learned a lot on this journey and know I will only continue to learn more. Here are some lessons from my first decade of ministry that I'm taking with me into my second.

• Get clarity on your vision, and stick to it. There will always be a ton of things you can do, but you need to focus on what you should do. Get clarity on the specifics God has called you to, and use that as the yardstick you measure every opportunity against. If you're presented with something that's a great idea, will impact a lot of people, and help meet a need, but doesn't line up with the vision God's given you, say no. Just because you can doesn't mean you should.

• Everyone should know the vision. Your vision statement shouldn't be restricted to a plaque on the wall or a page on your website. It should drip out of you every time you open your mouth. It should come up every time you address your team, explain a decision, or talk strategy. Your team should hear the vision so often that they can--and do--easily share it with others. That means it needs to be concise; if you can't sum up your vision in one sentence, you need more clarity. Momentum in ministry only occurs when everyone's clear where you're headed.

• The right people make all the difference. Look for people who support the vision, are high in competence, are strong in character, and with whom you have chemistry. They need to be passionate about going in the same direction as you, otherwise they'll bring division. Your work is too important not to have people who are skilled at what they do; don't settle for those who are simply willing to serve. You also don't want someone who is extremely gifted but lacking in character; integrity matters highly. And while it's foolish to expect everyone to be best friends, it's vital that a staff member clicks with their supervisor and direct coworkers; the emotional taxing that occurs otherwise just isn't worth it. A strong team multiplies ministry effectiveness.

revolving door

The revolving door of ministry life has always been challenging for me. We constantly have people coming and going through our ministry. Missionary staff leave early sometimes; even if they stay full-term, it's just that: a term. National staff quit, move on, move away. Each year we have interns, and each year we have to say goodbye to our interns. I'm an introvert. And I take a long time to feel comfortable enough with someone to trust them with my heart. I also place high value on friendships and care deeply for people. The combination of all that makes the revolving door of my life that much harder.

I struggle to find the balance between guarding my heart and embracing the reality that we were hardwired for intimacy.

Yet 10 new interns just spun through that revolving door. And here I stand, needing to open my life, my heart, to them. (I sigh at that thought.) I look forward to knowing them all, and I long for the comfortability and familiarity I had with our previous group at the end of last year. It's just the process of getting to that point that is overwhelming to me.

My heart grows weary of the constant hellos and goodbyes.

Though it may take a while, and though it may even hurt, my heart will once again open. Slowly at first, and then like a flower bursting out of a bud, suddenly I'll find myself in a place I never thought I'd be.

ange(red)

The week before Christmas, Joyce's 23-year-old brother died. He was the 5th family member she lost this year. My heart broke for her, with her, as we hugged and cried, mourning her loss and grieving for her pain. She has only one immediate family member left--her sister, whose only child died just weeks ago. Death is that real here, that ever-present. It hovers over villages like a cloud, camps out on doorsteps, knocks down doors with its persistent banging. It's unpacked its suitcase; it plans on staying a while, like an unwanted visit from a second cousin. It's the constant lump in everyone's throat; it's the hole in our pants pockets, making it impossible to hold on to anything. Or anyone. It's the uncatchable thief, stealing not only breath from lungs, but dreams from hearts. It's the elusive serial killer, taking not only lives, but futures. It's the brutal rapist, destroying not only innocence, but untapped potential.

Africa is dying inside. Slowly, yet quickly, in the paradoxical way that AIDS seems to take its time, prolonging misery, pain, and grief, while it rushes in with swift, sweeping force.

Don't look the other way.

Don't look the other way.

souvenirs from madagascar

It is a city like so many in Africa. With a sadness that saturates everything, until it is visible in the rooftops, the bright-colored clothes on laundry lines, the busy traffic. Trash lines the streets. Houses, made of anything and everything, are bursting at the seams with more people than they can hold. Taxis pass by, overflowing with people, luggage, chickens. Children laugh and shout, making a game of an old tire and a stick. There are smiles. There is laughter. Yet, that sadness is still there. It's palpable--reach out and take hold of some. Put it in your pocket as a lasting souvenir. You'll never forget it, that's for sure.

But it's also a city unlike so many in Africa. The rolling green hills stand out, but that's not really it. In the countryside, on the outskirts of the city, the houses look more like homes, but that's not really it either. The people and their culture are more Polynesian than African, a striking difference. Their facial features are bold, yet soft. Their eyes shine, yet seem dim. Their smiles genuine, yet subdued.

I've never seen rice fields before. They are the vibrant green of limes, and look as soft and inviting as a lush carpet. I'm intrigued by the random clusters of homes built up on a foot or two of packed soil in the middle of the fields. Cows, wading up to their shoulder blades in the soggy foliage, enjoy lunch on-the-go as they munch their way across the field. I've never seen anything like it. It makes me smile. Add that to your pocket. Another souvenir.

I am overtaken by an oh-so-familiar smell. It is distinct, but indescribable. It is memorable, yet impossible to be fully recalled. It is the smell of Africa. In spite of all the differences, I remember I am still here. I am still in Africa. Can you smell it? Once you breathe it in deep, it stays with you. Should you ever smell it again, you are instantly brought back to the very first time. Nothing compares with the smell of Africa. Bottle it up, cork it tight, and put it in your pocket. There will be days you'll long to uncork it, press your nose against the mouth of the bottle, and breathe it in to your Africa-starved lungs.

Truly, these are the best souvenirs.

simple truth

(I wrote this on Christmas, but since we’ve been internet-less for a few days, I’m posting this a bit late…) It’s only Christmas because my calendar says so. It doesn’t feel like Christmas. And not just because I’m in Africa, and it’s summer. This year, Christmas just feels…distant. Maybe it’s not so much that it doesn’t feel like Christmas, but that I don’t feel like Christmas. That makes sense inside my brain; I’m not so sure it does outside of it.

But I’m thinking about Christmas, since my calendar reminded me and all. And the thing that keeps skating around my thoughts is this: There is always redemption. I think God had that in mind on the very first Christmas, and He has it on His mind on this one.

I need to remind and be reminded of that simple truth often.

Months ago, I read something that is so simple and yet so powerful. The Hebrew word shalom (peace) literally means nothing missing, nothing broken. And the word shalim (restore) means as if it never happened. There is such hope, such promise in those words.

Nothing missing. Nothing broken. As if it never happened.

There is always redemption.

Merry Christmas, friends.

holy moment

We experienced a sort of holy moment at our women's conference. One of the speakers had the women partner up and wash each other's feet. It was very "improv" in that we used glasses of water and napkins to do the job, but the awkwardness of the supplies was not enough to override the holiness of the moment.

Throughout the room, women were weeping as they served each other. They wept as they themselves were served. Walls were broken down, hearts opened wide, and the presence of God was thick and palpable.

Linda, a missionary in Botswana whom I respect deeply, called me over. "Can I wash your feet?"

I sat down and removed my shoes. As she started to wash my feet and speak words of affirmation over me, I just started to cry. I can't even put my finger on what it was that moved me; I don't think my heart was stirred by any one specific thing she said or prayed. The whole moment was just overwhelming.

Then we switched places; I washed her feet. We continued to cry together as I lifted her up before our Father.

To be served by this beautiful woman, to be flooded with sweet words from her heart, to be immersed in the presence of God... It was a holy moment indeed.

like now

I have a friend coming to visit on Monday. This year seems to be the exception to the rule in terms of how many of these visits we've been blessed to have. There's no complaints here, that's for sure.

I'm really looking forward to having Laura here. She adds much joy to my life, and I know there are fun times ahead. I'm just not sure my heart is ready yet.

It's still aching from the Natalie-size hole that's been left behind. In my house, on my couch, in my day, in my life. I've been spoiled; I'm not sure I'll ever "recover". I'm not sure I want to.

The revolving door that is my life gets a little overwhelming at times. Like now...

you are not crazy

"You are not crazy." Seems an odd statement to made when asked to speak to our team of staff and interns. But Isaac made it. He said it several times in fact.

He reminded us that we've chosen to fight a battle we don't need to fight. We are fighting on behalf of a people not our own, a country not ours, and a cause we could easily ignore. And while others may think we're crazy for doing that -- may even tell us we're crazy for doing that -- we're not. The size of the task and the significance of the challenges we face don't make us crazy for choosing this fight. They just mean we're courageously obedient.

But I don't feel courageous.

"You could do anything you want with your life" equals "You are crazy for doing what you're doing."

The constant financial struggle, the ocean-sized distance from loved ones, the mountains that loom before us, all shout, "You are absolutely nuts to be doing this."

But above the din, above the constant noise, is the faintest whisper: You are not crazy. You are obedient.

I am not crazy.

You aren't crazy either.

The work you've chosen to do, the time you've dedicated to your children, the money you've given away, the stuff you've purposefully gone without, the things you've done for God and others... You are not crazy.

You are obedient.

hello my name is

Today I'm secretly wearing a name tag that says:

I'm wearing it because that's what God calls me. I am pursued, looked for, sought after by God Himself. I don't often feel that, see that, sense that. I need to be reminded often of this nickname that He has for me. If the realization that I am sought after by Him really sinks in, I will certainly see myself in a whole new light. I will see a lot of things in a whole new light.

Hopefully the name tag will help me remember.

all of me for all of You

All of me for all of You. Surrender. Hands in the air. Defenses down. Heart open. All of me for all of You.

Here is all I am: My messes, weaknesses, failures. My successes, strengths, victories. Here is all I am: My muddled thoughts, my doubts and fears, my misgivings. My hurts and questions, my joys and confidences. Here is all I am: The parts of me I love, the parts of me I despise. Everything I know, everything I don't. Here is all I am: My pieces, my fragments, my whole parts. Here is all I am: My insecurities, my all-too-securities. Here is all I am: The things I often give and take right back, the things I've never given before, the things I'm not even aware of. Here is all I am: Everything I know I need You for, everything I think I don't. Here is all I am.

Take all of me with Your gentle hands.

Even when I feel I can only open the door an inch, this is me giving You permission to bust it wide open. Even when I feel I'm unable to offer You more of me, this is me asking You to go ahead and take it anyway. Even when I feel I have no words, this is me asking You to respond to my one-word prayers for "Help" with all You know I need.

Be aggressive with me. For I'm not aggressive enough on my own behalf.

Take all of me and bombard me with all of You. All of You is certainly more than I can handle, but I want to feel crushed under the weight of that burden.

That burden isn't a burden at all.

things that satisfy

We were singing a song in worship tonight that had the line:

Only things that satisfy come from You.

Or maybe it was:

The only things that satisfy come from You.

I don't really know. I realized that I'd always heard it sung (or maybe I just sung it wrongly) as the former, but the worship leader tonight sang it as the latter. I pondered the difference between the two statements while singing continued all around me...

Only things that satisfy come from You implies that only good things come from God. Only good things. Meaning no bad things. From the hand of my heavenly Father comes neither sickness, curses, calamity. By His own hand He uses those things to bring glory to Himself and to miraculously bring benefit to my life, but His hand doesn't deliver the blow. Only good things come from Him. Only things that satisfy. There's a difference between something that's good and something that's satisfying. God only gives me things that will bring true satisfaction: that which makes me feel fulfilled, content. What a promise.

The only things that satisfy come from You implies that these satisfying things come from no one and nowhere but God. Anything good in my life, anything that is fulfilling or satisfying in any capacity, has come directly from God. From Him to me. It's easy at times to forget this. To think my own efforts, or the love and generosity of others, or even a good meal is the source of my satisfaction. I'm not looking deep enough when I stop there. God is the source of all satisfaction.

So, all that to say -- I'm not sure what the real words to the song are. But either way, I like it...

And who knew a "the" could make such a big difference.

thoughts

We hosted a pastors' conference this week. Some friends came in to speak at it, and I really enjoyed hearing what they had to say. Here are some of my random note-jottings from the past two days:

• God never insults the dignity of a person by calling them to something easy.

• A good friend isn’t someone who makes you feel better. A good friend is someone who makes you do better.

• Worship is about pursuing God. It’s not about pursuing the feeling you get from pursuing God.

• People’s eternities are changed in an instant; people’s lives are changed over a lifetime.

today

During any given day, so many different things capture me, even if just for a moment. A familiar smell, a favorite song, a sight that brings a smile -- all attached to a friend, a memory, a feeling. They leave me wrapped in a blanket of familiarity. In them I hear faint whispers of home. Belonging. They make me feel comforted.

There were many things today that reminded me of my friend. And they made me smile.

And then I got to talk to her online. We commented back and forth about the goofy pictures we took together. And in the way she does best, she made me laugh. Out loud.

The sound of my own laughter was like audible comfort.

Today was a good day.

brokenheartedness

I've heard it said a thousand times. I've probably said it myself equally as many.

Break my heart for the things that break Yours.

And I agree with that wholeheartedly. It's a prayer I need to be mindful of praying more often. I so easily get caught up in the routine, the busyness. The to-do lists and endless meetings. My heart breaks over unaccomplished tasks, unmet goals, insufficient funds, inadequate sleep. My heart needs to break more often, more consistently, for the things that break God's.

God's heart breaks for lost sheep. Prodigal sons. Rich young rulers. Prostitutes and tax collectors. Priests and agnostics. Kings and commoners. And for them -- for the people He loves -- my heart needs to break more. Much more.

Lately, though, I'm even more captivated by this thought:

God's heart breaks for my broken heart.

He loves me that much. His compassion is that far-reaching. His grace is that incomprehensible. God's heart hurts for my hurting heart.

The King of the Universe aches for me. The God who spread out the expanse of the sky, flung the stars into place, set the sun in its perfect position, and carefully placed the moon to simply reflect a light not its own...this God also reaches out to me, pulls me onto His lap, wraps His arms around me, holds me tighter than I realize I need, and refuses to let me go.

He weeps with me.

He doesn't say much; He doesn't need to. He certainly doesn't feed me ridiculous clichés: "Smile, I love you." "I work in mysterious ways." "When I close a door, I open a window." "Let go and let Me."

His tears say enough. They tell me He understands. He cares. He sees my hurting heart and He holds it in the palm of His hand. And He holds it ever-so-gently.

God's heart breaks for your broken heart. I hope there is a peace, a reassurance, in that for you as much as there is for me.

everyone has a story

My waiter was tall, with wide eyes and a big smile. And a non-South African accent. Turns out, he's from the DRC. As I asked questions, his story unfolded.

What's your name again?

Eli (pronounced ellie). E-L-I. I know our French names are different and hard to say.

In English, we'd pronounce your name as Eli (ee-lie). There's an Eli in the Bible, you know.

Really? Are you Christians?

Yes.

Church-people?

Yes.

I love church-people. So you are missionaries?

Yes.

Mmmm... I'll be right back; I want to talk with you...

When he asked "Church-people?", Eli's eyes got brighter. When I told him we were indeed missionaries, you could see on his face the comfort it brought to his heart to be flooded with the familiar.

Eli attended a missionary school very far from his home. Because of the distance, and possibly the expense, he never got to visit his family during his school-going years. When he graduated high school, the country was up to its eyeballs in civil war and it was too unsafe for him to go home. The missionaries helped him escape to South Africa; he's been here for 7 years. He hasn't seen his family for 15.

"If it weren't for those missionaries, I probably would have become a child soldier," Eli said.

He told us we were doing a good job. "I'm proud of you. Keep up the good work." We hadn't told him anything at all about our ministry or what we do. I'm convinced, though, that he could say that -- confidently and genuinely -- because he knows the impact missionaries have made in his life and he's convinced we're having the same impact on others.

My heart will hold onto this for a long time...

just call me spongebob

I've never actually seen a single episode of SpongeBob SquarePants. But I keep using his name lately.

I love learning. I thrive on absorbing things, through a variety of mediums, that will help me grow and develop. Personally. Spiritually. As a leader. I seek out opportunities for it. I ask questions, read books, listen to sermons, peruse blogs.

I love to be a sponge -- soaking in as much as I can so that, later, I can squeeze it out for others. This weekend, I'm being SpongeBob.

We're attending a leadership conference in Durban.

Which means that on top of the awesome soakage-in of great leadership lessons, I'm enjoying the beautiful view of the Indian Ocean, down time with our team, and a day at a water park.

Yeah. Pretty awesome weekend.

(How do you rate your sponginess, and who/what have you been absorbing great things from lately?)

random ramblings

My ears perk up at the sound of an American accent. I look over to discover six guys around the table, all American. I chuckle at the sight: They're all dressed in shirts and ties, each one a different vibrant color. From deep purple to bright burgundy to coral blue.

Between friendly banter and easy laughter, each one hovers over a newspaper, magazine, sudoku game, or cell phone.

Together. Yet separate.

I enjoy that very same thing at times. I love being altogether separate; with someone, but not necessarily doing something with them. Enjoying nothingness, individualness, in the company of someone I feel completely comfortable with.

The eclectic group of rainbow-colored shirts has grown quieter. Burgundy Shirt is talking, and has captured their collective attention. I wonder what story he is telling. The web he's weaving has them all fully engaged.

The laughter is flowing faster. It's getting louder. And louder. Deep Purple is now dominating the conversation. Apparently, he's hilarious. Uproarious laughter erupts from the table and oozes over to mine. Even though I don't know what's so funny, their laughter is enough to make a smile cross my face.

I just heard the first intelligible sentence in quite a while: "Well, I was born 3 days before the Challenger exploded." I remember watching that event unfold from the security of my tiny desk and chair in elementary school. And Burgundy Shirt was crying in swaddling clothes at the time. His collared shirt, rolled-up sleeves, and bold tie certainly made him seem older than that. But now I see it. His youth.

These young corporates have spent 20 minutes trying to figure out how to split their bill. They've now resigned themselves to asking the waitress to print individual checks. I can't help but laugh.

Why this whole scene compelled me to write is beyond me. The random unfolding before me of colorful sights and sounds seemed to captivate my mind. My pen.

Okay. I thought they had actually tackled this bill-paying quandary. But they're still surrounding the waitress at the check-out, trying to make sense of it. Their ineptness at this simple task -- in spite of ostentatious shirts, Windsor-knotted ties, and pointy black shoes -- is hard not to notice.

Aaah! They've got it.

The rainbow has left the building.

caught in the rain

I love rain.

I love watching lightning dance across the horizon and hearing thunder roll across the sky. A friend and I did just that the other night; we lay on the bed with the lights out and curtains open, watching the artistry of the heavens. Unforgettable moments.

I guess I can't really make the blanket statement that I love rain. Cause it's not always true. I love rain when I'm not in it. When I can hear it, see it, smell it...without actually getting wet.

But today I got caught in a downpour, and I loved every minute of it. I stood with my arms outstretched, and spun around. I even jumped in the puddles. I was drenched to the bone.

But it wasn't with water...

Niel showered me with words from his heart.

The waterfall of his words rolled over me, covered me completely, until I felt I could hold no more. Wrung out, I knew I'd drip love.

And that's something my heart will hold onto for a long time... Will hold onto for a rainy day.

like a river

Follow after peace. I've said that a lot. And now I'm thinking about what that really means. I've always described peace as a calm amidst the storm; a sense of confidence and security when my circumstances are screaming in my ears for me to be unsure and insecure. But I don't think peace always means a complete lack of uncertainty or unsteadiness.

Courage isn't the absence of fear; it's the pushing onward in spite of it. Courage means "doing it afraid". I think peace is the same.

Peace isn't the absence of inner turmoil. It isn't a heart devoid of confusion or unknowing. Peace is the pushing onward in spite of it all. Peace is remembering that there is One who is above the storm, who controls the storm, who holds my hand as I walk through it.

I can experience peace even when my heart feels otherwise.

I can follow after peace even as I second-guess each step.

I can be flooded with peace even while I'm flooded by overwhelming circumstances -- and even when I'm feeling completely overwhelmed by them.

I can be at peace even when I am afraid.

Today I choose to follow after peace...

today's opus

My mind swayed to the cacophony of rustling brown bags as we stuffed and folded all 1800 of them. The constant noise drowned out all lucid thoughts in my head. Conversations were limited, if had at all. There was a sort of quiet amidst the symphony of noise.

And then it stopped.

The last bag was stuffed and folded. Silence covered the room like a quilt. It was so thick, it was almost deafening. There was a peace, a calm, that came with the loud silence.

Noise can be silent.
Silence can be loud.

The dichotomy of the two extremes seemed to capture the state of my mind. It was exactly how I was feeling: torn between the noise and the silence.