Housework

We've been doing some work on the house. Painting walls in a couple of rooms, getting some work done on a ceiling and installing a fan. We just varnished some cabinets in the kitchen trying to help them look more like ten years old instead of forty.

After spending all day working on them Marcus came in and said, "I don't see a difference." He's right. Not having the original dried up cabinet to compare it to, they still don't look that great. 

Nancy comes in and says, "They look beautiful!" She's right. She's made a lot of meals in that kitchen and knows exactly how much better things look today than yesterday.

Still, even as she says it, I can see the spots that aren't right, the things that could be better, the stuff I don't have the skill to fix on my own. 

We all have character issues we need to work on. Someone may come to me and say, "Jeff, you shouldn't have said that." That may be true, but it's easy to get defensive and think, "At least you got the filtered version."  

If a friend doesn't have the old version of my character to compare it to his judgement is likely to be harsh. 

At the same time, someone may congratulate me on handling a relationship well. But I have a hard time accepting the complement because I see the things I could have said better or the friendships I've blown in the past.

I still see the hidden flaws that need work.

I think the beauty of God is he knows exactly how much work we've done and exactly how much is left. Somehow the evaluation is both serious and compassionate. It's exacting and full of grace.

And if we let him, sometimes through the help of others, we can get  help, even with the things we don't know how to fix on our own. 

No Gift to Bring

I was pulling into a Walmart parking lot yesterday, listening to the classic rock station, when "The Little Drummer Boy" came on. When he got to the line, "I have no gift to bring." I almost lost it. Something about the weight of it struck me like never before.

I had to pull it together before anyone saw me. It's not very manly to be weeping in Walmart the day before Christmas. Somehow, "No, no! I was really just listing to classic rock!" didn't seem like a believable excuse.

The irony of the Christmas story is, God was born in a manager, with seemingly nothing to offer. No wealth, education or power. Others had to warm, wipe and feed him. He had nothing.

Thirty three years later he gave what only he had, what only he could give. We are the ones left wanting.

We are the ones who are truly powerless, naked and exposed. We bring nothing to the table, no wealth, wisdom or power, in need of being warmed, wiped and fed. In need of salvation. And it is there, in our emptiness, that we are loved.

Like the Little Drummer Boy, we have nothing God could need or want. Still he looks into the heart of each one of us and says, "I know you. I love you. And I love the way you play that drum."

You are the one he came for. You are the one he loves. Merry Christmas. 

Hopeless

This place is a mess. Russia, Ukraine, a new cold war looming, Syria, ISIS, Iraq, Afghanistan, Sudan, Nigeria, Ebola, slavery at an all time high, the economy, income disparity, race relations, civil unrest... am I missing anything?

I think the thing that troubles me most is, this is humanity at its greatest. This is us at our apex. We have more money, more affluence, more education, more food, more leisure and more comfort, more technology, better health care and greater access to information than at any time in human history.

The level of pain, complexity of the issues, the lasting impact of today's decisions on tomorrow's circumstances only lead to a sense hopelessness.

And still, there is beauty in the world, life, love and reconciliation. Like good blues, painful lyrics mixed with captivating melody, underpinning the pain is something beautiful, something that gives us hope.

Something deep inside us tells us it shouldn't be this way. It motivates us to act, to weep, to speak out, to provoke change.

It tells us things won't always be like this, there will be a new day, a day of unity, a day of healing, a day of peace. We can taste it here, like a free sample in a chocolate shop, and it resonates with our soul.

In our quest to be free, free to live our own lives, find our own answers, make our own decisions, free from oppressive rules and lists of dos and don'ts, free to create a world we want, free from some God and his judgement, we have run from our hope and into despair.

But hope is out there. He is waiting for us. And is name is Jesus. 

A Broken GPS

Nancy and I were driving recently and our GPS kept telling us to get off the highway. It was the wrong way to go, but as we passed every exit it told us to leave the road.

Missionaries run into this trouble all the time when they return to the U.S. Their cultural maps haven't been updated. Imagine how many roads have changed in your hometown in the past 20 or 30 years. Our culture has been no different. So as missionaries return they frequently make wrong turns as they try to navigate cultural cues.

The reality is, this can happen to anyone. We all know people who just can't seem to make good decisions. Even though they may know the right road, time and again they seem to make choices that are self destructive.

Sometimes I think we minimize the potential reasons for this. We can quickly dismiss people as "bad" or tell them if they prayed harder, REALLY listened to the Spirit and  read their Bible more, then they wouldn't keep making mistakes.

It may sound like heresy, but sometimes that's not enough.

God did not create us in isolation. We have all been put here with unique gifts. And some people are really gifted at healing minds.

When we know the choices we should make and ignore them, there is probably a reason. It could be something hardwired from birth or that got rewired in our youth through experiences with family and friendships.

For some reason our GPS keeps telling us to pull off the road and its constant yammering is really difficult to ignore. So eventually, we give in, make choices we know will hurt us in the long run, for short-term reward, then hate ourselves for it later.

It doesn't have to be that way. If we're humble enough and brave enough to tell someone, there is healing. You aren't alone. Things can get better with God's help and the help of others who understand.  

Hope

Our dog Abby LOVES to play. When I get home from work, I go out back and throw her ball. So, from the moment she hears the garage door goes up, she absolutely flips out. She runs in circles all over the house, back and forth from me to the back door.

She's inconsolable. Hope oozes from her every fiber, expectant that I will play with her. It's contagious and it draws me outside.

Hope is an interesting word. In English, when we use hope, there is a level of uncertainty. We don't know if what we hope for is ever going to be achieved. But I learned recently, the word Paul uses in the New Testament is different.

The hope Paul talks about is something we have yet to attain, but there is a certainty we will attain it.

I heard an interview with a former Vietnam POW. When asked how he survived such horrible conditions, when others didn't, he said, "I always knew we would get out of there." When asked about the guys who didn't survive he replied, "Oh, they were the optimists."

Understanding the interviewer's confusion he smiled and continued. "The ones who died were the ones who would say, 'we'll be out by Christmas' then 'we'll be out by Easter.' When it didn't happen, they gave up.

"We had the realistic attitude that we didn't know when we would be freed, but we would be freed."

That is the hope of the Gospel.

Our lives can be overwhelmed with uncertainty, heartbreak and pain. And we have a hope. It's not a "Pollyanna hope" that ignores the realities of our circumstances. It is a hope that acknowledges the struggle but that we do not struggle alone. One day, the one who loves us will come and our hope will be reality. 

Ferguson

The day after the verdict in Ferguson the debate continues, "Was the shooting of Michael Brown justified?" How we answer that question probably has a lot to do with our race.

If you're white like me you're likely to believe the shooting was warranted. Michael must have done something to provoke the police officer. The police don't shoot someone for no reason, so Darren Wilson must have had no other alternative.

As I hear folks on the news make points and counter points it makes me sad because I really think it's the wrong question.

The question we need to ask is, why would an unarmed 18 year old boy attack a police officer? Cop or no cop, who in their right mind would punch a guy with a gun? Until we answer that question, nothing is going to change.

The thing I think we miss in our debate on race is we are culturally separated. There are social norms and cues we miss when we communicate with each other. Because we come from the same country and speak English we think we're speaking the same language. We aren't.

The prisms through which we see life skew our perceptions of reality in different directions.

Those prisms are created by our experiences, our race and socioeconomic realities. All of life is seen through my context, which makes it extremely difficult for me to understand yours.

There is no scenario where would think the rioting last night was justified. And I've never been a young black male in Ferguson. Until we are willing to address the issues that created an environment where my view could be so vastly divergent from those who lit the fires, we will never solve the issue of race in America. 

Time

We live in a society of instant gratification. I can have food, entertainment, banking, education, news all delivered directly to my couch. And I can access it all from my phone.

What sucks is, most of life doesn't work that way. Things of substance, things that matter, take time. Google might help you diagnose an ailment, but it won't make you a doctor.

The same is true for relationships. There are no quick fixes or shortcuts if we want them to be healthy. If we want them to matter, it takes time.

One of the most difficult aspects of cross-cultural ministry is differing perceptions regarding time. In Latin America, if you're waiting to meet someone and he shows up a half hour late without an apology, you might think he's rude.

If you're rushing to a meeting and don't stop for a five minute conversation with a friend, he would think the same of you. No one is being rude, the cultural norms are different.

If we struggle with our fellow human beings, how much more is our quick fix society culturally separated from an eternal God? When you exist outside of time what does it do to your perspective? I think it's why he always seems so slow.

When trying to build a cross-cultural relationship you need to adopt their cultural norms, even when you may not understand them. I think that's true in faith as well. We won't always understand God and his timing, but it may help if we took some time to slow down. 

Problems Painting

We're trying to do some work on our house to bring it out of the 1970's. So, the popcorn texture on the ceiling is gone and we've got some new paint on the walls.

Marcus, Kelsie and I were all painting away when Nancy walked into the room looked at the wall Marcus was working on and said, "You missed a spot." She rapidly followed it with, "Oh, and one there. And over there."

You could tell by his expression Marcus was about to "hand" her his roller.

Marcus wasn't doing a bad job, there were just some things he couldn't see from his perspective. Nancy wasn't trying to be critical, she was just standing far enough back she could see where his roller hadn't laid paint evenly.

We need relationship. We can be too close to a situation to see it clearly. We get so caught up in the pace of life, we don't always take time to step back and evaluate how we're doing. We need people who can come to us and say, "You're missing some things."

We need to "paint" together. Marcus may have received the advice better if Nancy had been rolling the wall with him. If we are not sharing life with someone, we should not expect them to receive critique from us. The right to speak has to be earned, usually by lots of time walking through life together.

Time adds perspective. Nancy came in after some of the paint had time to dry. There were spots she could see that weren't clearly visible earlier. In the same way, there are things you can see in your 50's that you just can't in your 20's.

It's why parents are constantly telling their kids what to do even after they're adults. Part of it is muscle memory but it is also because time has provided perspective. The problem is, if we aren't "painting" with our kids, it doesn't matter if we're their parent.

What makes me wonder is, if I can gain perspective in 20 years, how can I possibly understand the perspective of an eternal God? The only thing I can think of is through time, relationship and a lot of painting together.

I Wish Mom Would Die

You never dream, when you've been raised by a loving mother, that you'd think something so awful. I recoil at the title, yet it's how I feel. I never imagined a scenario where it would be possible.

But this is where Alzheimer's has taken me.

I love my mom. I love who she was. I even love who she is now. People who love me ask how she is. I understand. I ask my dad the same thing when I call. But we both already know the answer. She's alive. That's it.

What is hard to explain is Mom is just there. She lays in bed. Someone moves her to a wheelchair. Someone feeds her. And for most of that time, she just stares. Her eyes, once loving, are now vacant, sometimes confused and even afraid. We are way beyond the, "Does she know you?" question.

She's been this way for years. It's been 13 years since we noticed her decline, over 6 years in a nursing home, most of that without any real communication.

As the title indicates, her condition has taken me to some pretty dark places and forced me to wrestle with some pretty difficult questions. What would I do if it was legal to end mom's life? What would I do if I am diagnosed at 60? Would I move to Oregon like, Brittany Maynard?

What would be the most loving thing for Mom? For me? For my family? And as I try to work through what seems like a loving response, what does the suffering of a faithful saint say about God?

I don't think I have good answers for those questions. But I think sometimes we make the mistake of too quickly short circuiting the pain. It's like taking morphine to stop hurting when we touch a hot stove.

There are things we learn in suffering we can't learn any other way. Something about it forces us to shed pretense and platitudes. It makes us real.

I don't understand the purpose of Mom's suffering, or my dad and sister's as they care for her. Still I try to trust the God she loved and long for him to take her home.

A Prayer For Our Country

I woke up this morning to giddy Republicans celebrating the senate take over, and Democrats mourning the potential of a lame duck president for the next two years.

The question now is, will they be able to do anything, or will they descend into the name calling and finger pointing we've grown so accustom to?

In times of transition we are reminded to pray for our nation and for our leaders, but I wonder if we've been doing it wrong.

We tend to pray for things like, freedom, prosperity and security and it's natural to do so. But we've had those things, and even unparalleled power, for years. Still we hear, "Our country is headed in the wrong direction."

It makes me wonder if we're praying for the wrong things.

What if, instead, we woke up every morning and prayed, "Lord bring revival, in my nation, in my church and in my heart. Help me to do justice, love mercy and walk humbly with you. And help me to love you and love others more than my own freedom, prosperity and safety."

I'm not sure that's the kind of prayer that would change the nation in the next two years, but it might change me. 

Self Aware

I think the greatest gift we can give to the people around us is to be self aware. I can learn scripture and quote from Romans better than Paul, but if I've never dug into the darkness and light of my own heart... cue the clanging bell.

There are a few questions I think we should all ask ourselves:

Who has God created me to be?
Knowing our areas of strength is crucial, but it's more than just knowing our gifting. We are each unique creatures with unique abilities to touch the lives around us. Understanding and accepting our unique wiring sets us free to engage in whatever setting, church, work or neighborhood.

What are my limits?
The difficulty in answering this question is we seldom deal with it honestly. The needs we see may be so great we overextend. Or our insecurities prohibit us from accepting challenges. A balanced understanding of our capabilities and insecurities combined with the difference between what's stretching and what's exhausting can be a lifelong struggle.

What are my areas of struggle?
We all have hangups, or more plainly, pet sins. Stress, exhaustion, loneliness, pain can trigger all kinds of poor choices. What are they? What are my triggers? Why? If I hate myself for doing the same thing over and over, at some point I should stop and ask, where it comes from?

Whose am I?
This is really the most important question. Is there really a God who loves me? So often we gain our self-esteem from the three questions above, what I do, my weakness and my failures. None of those things will tell me who I am. Understanding my intrinsic value gives me the freedom to dig into the other three questions without fear.

For a long time I didn't like questions like these, or at least the answers they revealed. I can still struggle with them. But as I'm understanding more clearly that I have been created, the way God wanted me to be, with all the beauty and struggle that comes with it, and he loves me just as I have been created, it gives me the confidence and humility to dig further inside.  

Yippee!

There's nothing quite like coming home from a long day at work and being greeted by a three year old. Arms go up, cheers erupt, hugs are catapulted and weariness melts away.

A welcome home from a dog is almost as good, but isn't quite the same. Even a good cat can make you feel welcome, but it always feels like they have an agenda.

Nancy and I have started cheering for people when we see them. I'm not sure how it started and we've never really talked about it. It just sort of happened. We don't do it all the time, but just at random moments throughout the day.

Marcus and Kelsie come home from work, we cheer. Andrew stops by for a visit, "Yippee!" Someone shows up for work, church, the car rental company, we celebrate.

I have to tell you, it freaks people out.

"What was that about? Am I late? Did I miss something?"
"No. We're just happy to see you."
"Um... oh. Thanks?"

As we get older, we begin to expect Dad to come home every night. We believe Mom will always be there. The surprise and wonder of their return wears off and drifts into the mundane.

I wounder what the world would be like if we always greeted the people we love like a three year old. Not superficially, but with genuine excitement for the gift of reconnection. Because we never really know.

If you knew it was going to be the last time you saw someone, how would you greet them? How would you treat them?

Motorcycles and Missions

I've been riding my little Yamaha 250 about three years now. So when a big bike down the street popped up for sale, I decided to check it out. It was a beautiful, custom built Vulcan 1500. I had no idea what I was getting into.

I knew the bike was bigger. I understood that intellectually. And I thought all the riding on mine had prepared me. It hadn't. The weight was so different. The smoothness of the ride was so different. And the power... my oh my, the power. You can do the math, six times bigger, but feeling the math is a whole different story.

Sometimes I think we can treat missionaries the same way I treated that Vulcan. They live in a city, so do I. They work in an office, so do I. Their kids go to school, play sports, get into band, mine too!

So when a missionary returns to the U.S. for a visit or to stay, we can look at their lives and our lives and think, "We're both motorcycles."

And it's true. There are many similarities in our lives and how we live them. But what we miss is the level of "static" can be exponentially higher. Cross-cultural, emotional and spiritual noise is at a level we can know intellectually but is hard to truly understand if we haven't felt it.

A missionary friend in Kenya had a pastor say to him, "We do the same things. We're both in ministry. It's just you do it over there and I do it here in the U.S." After a moment my friend said, "That's true. But don't ever imagine the cost is the same."

When we connect with missionaries, when we connect with anyone, we need to remember that our stories may sound similar, but we really don't understand their context. Life, love and loss are all deeply personal experiences. We can only hope to understand when we take the time to set aside our own story and listen. 

Changing Church

Last year sometime, Nancy and I decided we would really embrace a church home. We picked a place and began to plug in. And I have to say it's been... awful.

I don't have nearly as much free time. Instead of sitting on my couch eating ice cream and watching TV I'm at church. OK, I still sit on my couch, eat ice cream and watch TV, but I feel way more rushed.

I've started to like the people there. I miss them when I travel. I worry about their kids, ailing parents workload and financial situations. I've even said prayers for them. Do you realize how much anxiety there is in carrying someone else's burdens?

What's worse is the people there seem to care about me! They ask about my life, how I'm doing and seem to want a REAL answer. It's bizarre.

Our decision to find a church and love it has come with a price. We have had to make different decisions about time, vacations and lifestyle. Entering into the lives of others and sharing our story with them has been a lesson in vulnerability and acceptance.

The decision to love a church, to love people, is always going to come at a cost. What I'm learning though is it has been good for me, challenged me, encouraged me and grown me. I care deeply for those people and something about that has changed me. And it's good. 

Hard Conversations

Nancy and I have had a couple of hard conversations this year. She didn't say it this way, but the bottom line is I haven't been caring for her.

I have a tendency to bounce through life oblivious to how my actions impact her and I can make impulsive decisions without her input. My insensitivity can leave her feeling ignored and unconsidered.

I would never intentionally do or say something to hurt her. Few of us in healthy relationships would. But the problem comes when I quit paying attention, when I don't consider how my actions, attitudes and offhanded comments might impact her.

The greatest threat to a healthy marriage isn't incivility, it's indifference. It's when we become so comfortable we get complacent.

We are constantly changing beings and as a result, there is always a need for study. I need to understand both who she is and who I am so we can better walk together.

The beauty of 27 years together is we could have these conversations in an environment of safety. There wasn't ever a worry anyone would run away. Even in the tension, we're going to wake up in the same bed in the morning.

As difficult as the conversations were, they were the easy part. The real challenge is still in front of me... change. 

You Can Take the Reservation...

Recently, when Nancy and I showed up to pick up a rental car, we were told we'd have to wait at least an hour and a half. Bewildered, I looked around and realized we were surrounded by people, weary from a day's travel, also waiting for their cars.

There were about 30 frustrated travelers wondering why the reservation we had made wasn't being honored. And more were streaming in.

Nancy and I started to laugh. We'd been traveling all day and we were ready to find a hot meal and a warm bed, but we were stuck and there was nothing we could do about it. We started laughing with the people around us too.

We laughed with the lady who's flight had been canceled earlier in the day, the guy who was meeting his boss for the first time and the guy who just kept saying, "But I had a reservation..."

We started cheering for people when their names were called. I remembered this Seinfeld skit, found it on Youtube and played it for everyone in the room.

Finally, an hour and 45 minutes later, when my name was called I threw my hands up and yelled, "I got a car!" Everyone cheered. After I got my keys I ran around the room, giving high fives and yelling, "Everyone gets a car today! Don't give up! You! Will! Get! Your! CAR!"

I think the word Nancy used was "obnoxious" when she talked about it later.

It was awesome!

I realized later, this could have been a totally different experience. If I had been alone and not with my best friend, I would probably have been miserable. But we decided to laugh and that changed everything.

Our attitudes changed. The attitude in the room changed. Frustrated and angry people began to laugh and were encouraged. Not because the situation changed, but because we chose to point out the absurdity of our circumstance.

It was a good reminder that my attitude doesn't only impact me, it impacts the people around me. My mood has "ripples" that bump into others. The impact of those ripples, for good or bad, is up to me. 

Real People

Nancy and I have been spending this week at a conference with people who work to care for missionaries. I've been here before and it has become a craved experience. But I've had trouble putting my finger on exactly what it is about it that feeds me.

I think it’s pain.

OK, I’m no masochist. I’m not looking for pain and I don’t think anyone here is either. But in this group there are some people with a profound richness of faith that humbles me. They are deep and loving and joyful. They are knowing, yet affirming and at peace.

And it’s displayed by people who have experienced and witnessed profound depths of loss and suffering. They are people who have spent years of their lives living with and walking beside people in their brokenness. Still they overflow with hope.

Sometimes I think we don’t believe our own hype. We pray no one scratches too deeply below the surface for fear they may find what’s really in there; a lost desperate person, just trying to connect faith with the realities of a fallen world.

But these people, people who have descended into darkness to rekindle sparks in a shattered heart, a journey no one escapes unscathed, these are real people. Light and love oozes out of them without a hint of pretext or platitude.

Somehow God can use the pain we experience to bring us to a deeper knowledge of him. We all know people like this. Many of us long to be like them. Few of us have the courage to follow them to the cross. 

Mundane Faith

I read some stories recently of people who lived amazing lives for God. They started orphanages, sacrificed wealth, gave up personal comfort and celebrity for the advancement of the Gospel.

We read those stories and think, God was honored.

I sat in a meeting last week with three ladies planning an event. They are bright, gifted, funny and extremely capable women. There they were wading into the minutia of what food will keep 30 kids and adults happy on a weekend retreat. For a guy with no attention to detail and who's happy with cereal three meals a day, it was mind numbing.

And God was honored.

We read stories of people with profound faith, courage and love. We marvel at them then quickly pull out our measuring stick to see how far we come up short. What we  miss is God is also honored in mundane faithfulness.

He's honored by the woman preparing another Sunday school lesson, the dad coaching t-ball, the student wrestling with test prep, the single mom trying to find her son's shoes, a board of elders debating new carpet or new toilets, an exhausted pastor at a loss for his next sermon.

And he is honored by three women planing a retreat for weary missionary families, longing for rest... and good food.

We are asked to be faithful with today, nothing more. Will anyone ever write a book about it? Probably not. But God is no less honored. 

Radiated Pain

Nancy and I were munching on some popcorn the other night when she said, "OW!" She felt around in her mouth and looked in the mirror to see if she chipped a tooth but couldn't really tell. It wasn't until the next morning when she tried to eat that she realized something was really wrong.

At the dentist she showed him which tooth hurt. He tapped it, scraped it and blew cold air on it. Nothing. She said, "I know it hurt earlier. It had to be that one... or maybe this one." When she tapped the second tooth, it moved and she winced.

The problem with nerve pain is it can radiate. The pain spreads out into areas not really damaged. You can't tell where the real wounding is.

This can be true with emotional wounding as well. It's why we come home, after a bad day at work, yell at our wife and kick the dog. They aren't the ones who made us mad, it's just our anger didn't have an outlet at the office.

It can be why we make decisions that are self destructive. Why the cycle of abuse continues. It's why a spouse would return to the abuser.

From the outside it's bewildering. Why would an normally intelligent person, be so out of control of certain areas of his or her life? It's because the source of the pain has been buried so deeply, walled off so completely no one is ever going to get close enough to exposed it.

People wonder how Christ can love everyone. How can grace be available even to the wicked? I think part of it may be in his ability to see past the radiation and into the source of their pain. He sees the hurt and longs to heal us.

Healing is there if we allow Christ, sometimes through the help of others, to poke around and find the exposed nerve. Like a visit to the dentist, it can be painful. But, in the end, it stops the radiation hurting us and the people we love. 

Good Church?

"Why do you like your church?" It's a a pretty common question in Christian circles.

You get all kinds of answers like, "The preaching is awesome. I love the worship. The children's program is amazing."

Those are all good answers. Messages that provoke change, worship that leads us to the cross, our kids being challenged and encouraged are all healthy things.

I freely admit I've had problems with Church, so I'm not sure I'm the most objective observer. But something in those answers feels wrong. It's like we're saying, "The people who serve me, do their jobs well." Those answers free me of responsibility.

I wonder what it would be like to hear, "The people there show me who Jesus is."

I think what we miss is:, people will put up with poor preaching and sorry music if they know everyone in the building loves them.

I can leave Sunday morning inspired, uplifted... and unchanged. But if you love me enough to challenge, counsel, care for and confront me, it's hard to stay the same. If you take the time to hear my story and love me enough to enter into it, that has the potential to change everything.

This doesn't free church leadership of working hard to shepherd well. All it means is, if we do our job, theirs is a lot easier.

Into the Fire

My friend Tara sent me this video. I think it bothered her and she wanted to be sure I was bothered too. It worked.

I don't know this guy. I don't know his program or what happened before the exchange in the video. He seems to be sincere. He seems to be trying to honestly present the Gospel to folks who need to hear it.

And it makes me sad.

In his quest follow Christ's "command to preach" he misses the point of Christ's message. He traps the young woman with a flawed analogy Christians use all the time: "If someone was in a burning building, wouldn't you tell them to get out?"

Here's the problem... you're assuming the person in the building can walk.

Burning buildings are loud, confusing, smoke filled places. People inside get hurt as they stumble around in the chaos. It's why firemen don't stand outside and shout. They go in.

It's easy to shout outside.You risk nothing. You sacrifice nothing. It costs you nothing.

When you go into the fire, when you enter someone's story, it's scary. You don't know what you'll find when you get in there. You don't know how the flames have scorched them or what has trapped them or if they'll need to be carried for a while. All you know is you love them enough to risk getting burned.

There is no doubt Christ told people the truth. But first he walked with them. Touched them. Healed them. Fed them. He sat with them in the fire. Then he led them out of the house and to the cross. 

Poppin Tags

Nancy loves Goodwill. Well, it doesn't have to be Goodwill. It could be Salvation Army, Arc a yard sale, whatever.

She loves them so much I wrote a song about it long before Macklemore and Ryan Lewis sang Thrift Shop (um... the PG version being sung by Pentatonix here). Heck, she invented “poppin’ tags.”

When we were traveling, she found out Goodwill in Ohio was having a 50% off sale. She went online, found every Goodwill on our rout and we stopped at them … all of them.

Thrifting is Nancy's spiritual gift.

She has taken countless folks all over Colorado Springs finding them great stuff for next to nothing. She doesn't need to buy, she’s just happy someone is getting a deal. 

So many of us don’t believe we have anything to offer. We minimize our gifting or don’t believe we have any gifts at all. We don’t understand that if we think creatively, there are things we love to do that would bless other people.

We've been wired different ways and our unique abilities and interests can have an impact on the people around us. Nancy does it through thrifting and I think it makes God happy. 

Rhythms

You can always spot frequent flyers. We’re the ones who look bored in airports. We chat casually about Hong Kong, Beijing and Delhi like a farmer chats about yield, without a bit of pretentiousness, usually.

We have a rhythm as we travel. We need the right bag and seat assignment, like a toddler needs his bunny and Sheldon needs his spot. We pack a certain way, check in at a certain time and have rituals for time zone adjustment.

What’s really interesting is when two frequent flyers travel together for the first time. With one playing the Samba and the other Rockabilly, it can take some time for their rhythms to get in sync. Or worse, a frequent flyer with a novice, who can’t even find the downbeat.

The church is a place filled with people who have their own rhythm. Culture, family, history, gifting and personality all play a part in how we beat our drum. Our needs, perceptions, what's important to us, how we react to change and conflict are all different and lead to all kinds of problems.

Only when we sync our rhythm with God's can we achieve the unity Christ talks about in John. 

The problem is, God's rhythm feels unnatural too.  Our history tells us not to trust. Love always comes with strings.  Culturally, forgiveness, grace and self-sacrifice are counter intuitive. They don't lead to happiness and fulfillment. I have to look out for myself.

Somehow, in the great diversity of humanity, we can find unity. It's there for us. Somehow, in the cacophony of billions of people playing their own tune, a melody can be heard. It's sweet and it's haunting, it's lovely and it's calling to us. We can sense it. Because somewhere deep in side, we know in his rhythms there is rest. 

Ebola

The mission community is small. There are thousands of Christian missionaries around the world, but if you stay with it long enough, you start running into friends of friends all over the place.

So I wasn't surprised when some close friends started posting prayer requests for Nancy Writebol, an SIM missionary and one of two in Liberia just diagnosed with Ebola. My friends know her, love her and, obviously, are deeply concerned.

As I think about Nancy, I worry for my friends living in West Africa, one of them also working with Ebola patients.

Christians get a lot of bad press. And we should. So often we try to impose our agenda, values and politics on our communities. Often we do it without integrity or wisdom and completely devoid of love and grace.

At the same time, there are thousands of Nancy Writebols in the world. They are people who run to tragedy to comfort and care for victims. They staff hospitals, dig wells, negotiate peace, bring justice, provide jobs, educate and liberate.

Family, safety, comfort and affluence are sacrificed for a humble commitment to service. As I look at the world map on my wall, I can see their faces all over the place, some of them in the most violent and oppressive places on earth.

So often we miss the point. Nancy Writebol hasn't. But as we tell her story, we should make sure it challenges ours. 

Humanity

In the airport today, my passport slipped out of its cover and fell to the floor. Thankfully, a thoughtful young woman called to me to let me know I dropped it.

As I picked it up and turned to thank her and her husband, the looks on their faces really struck me. They were concerned for me and relieved I had heard them. They knew the implications of a lost passport and you could tell they were grateful I recovered it.

I wasn't surprised to see, they were Muslim.

They were dressed in traditional local attire, complete with head covering. I was dressed in traditional American tourist, complete with shorts and flip-flops.

That wasn't important to them. There was a guy who needed help and they helped him. That was it.

There's a lot of chaos in the world , much of it revolving around religion. The news is a cacophony of violence. Still, most of us just want peace.

Yes, there are evil men and those who allow themselves to be used by them. And, sadly, sometimes evil has to be met with violence. I think if we dug deeply enough, we'd realize the majority of the conflicts have more to do with power than faith.

Most of us just want to live our lives, work, feed our children, live in a good home and die old, holding someone's hand.

A sweet couple, who happened to be Muslim, demonstrated that today. And we could all learn from their example. 

Team Dynamics

I've been spending some time with our team in the Asia Pacific region lately. One of our families has four boys, five and under. No twins. Yep.

They've just completed their first term and it hasn't all been a cakewalk: illness, childbirth, travel, childbirth, visa issues, hospitalizations. And they seem to have weathered it pretty well.

Walking down the road with Becky and her four boys the other day I was wondering, “how have they done so well, when their time hasn't been ideal?” Then I looked over and saw Lisa (one of our teammates) carrying 80 pounds of children’s gear while Lisa’s daughter, Thisbe, carried one of the little guys, with another one in tow.

It was at this point I realized I should probably be helping.

What I also realized is this family joined a healthy team. There were people on the ground who welcomed them, loved them and loved their boys. They plugged into a church which has also cared for them when life has been a struggle.

There are a lot of factors in missionary longevity. Pre-field preparation is import. Support from your home country is crucial. And there is no substitute for a team of people, who are as committed to you as they are to the work.

I love this couple and their four precocious little guys and can’t wait to see how God leads them. I’m thankful they've been able to benefit from working in a healthy team. I pray that’s always the case for them. In fact, that’s a good prayer for all of us. 

Clash of Clans

My boss Pete is trying to get me to play Clash of Clans. It’s a fun game for your phone, where you build your little town and other players come and steal all your stuff. You spend your time upgrading your weapons, your village and raiding other players.

It sounds like lots of fun, but I refuse to download it. I get addicted to games like that. The world could blow up and I wouldn't notice for three days.

For me, one of the saddest sights is when we turn the church into a bad game of Clash of Clans. We get hurt. Then we wall ourselves off and begin recruiting our clan. We fire cutting remarks like arrows, hidden in dark comedic wit and lob gossip like a boulder filled trebuchet.

Never do we consider the person, their pain or the damage we're causing. Rarely do we take the time to fully understand their story. We just know we've been hurt and that's enough to begin the war.

It's natural to lash out at folks who have hurt us and to rally people who will affirm we've been wronged. It's just not Christlike.

Christ had the ability to see through the action and into the heart of the offender. He could identify the brokenness, twisted motivations and fear. It's the only way he could have said, "Forgive them, Dad. They don't know what they're doing."

It's nice to have a clan, people who love and support you and want to protect you. But we need to remember, they aren't weapons to be used. It may make us feel better, but it's addictive and destroys the hearts of others, the body of Christ and ourselves.

Stopover Relationships

I landed in Tokyo the other day. I've been there a LOT. Enough to draw some conclusions about their highways, their farms and the general infrastructure of their communities. I could tell you about their customs, their customer service and the efficiency of their society.

There’s only one problem, I've never left the airport.

As I've flown in and out of Asia over the past eight years, Tokyo’s Narita Airport has been a stopover for me. It’s always been on the way to somewhere, but has never been my final destination. I've looked down on their farms and power lines, interacted with the ticket agents and food service providers and looked at the setting of a cloud-defused sun over and over. But I've never stayed.

I wonder how many relationships in our lives are “stopovers." A friend we don’t really invest in, we’re just there to have lunch, spill our guts and bail. Coworkers at a job where we just mark time, never fully engaging because we’re looking for the next thing to come along. Neighbors who we wave at while we work in the yard but have no real connection to. We think we know them, but we never really do.

Church was like that for me. I could tell you the order of service, when we’d have communion, teaching style of the pastor, what time things started. I had a bunch of the facts, but I had never really “stayed” there.

Church was just a place I stopped over each Sunday then got on with my week.

I get it, there are too many countries in the world to truly know them all. There are too many people to have true relationship with. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't have any. Countries should be explored and people should be known. You can't truly learn anything on a stopover.

Loved Anyway

I had no idea what I was doing. I was 18. My girlfriend was pregnant. And we were getting married. Of course we were, I was a good Christian boy who had done the wrong thing and I was going to make it right.

And we loved each other. What could possibly go wrong?

As it turns out, lots. But lots went right as well.

My family loved me anyway. I’m sure my parents, were hurt, embarrassed and heartbroken by my decisions. But I never heard, “What were you thinking?” How could you do something so stupid? Do you know what people are going to say?”

In their disappointment, they chose grace. They chose to invest, to mentor… to babysit. At a time when they could have said, “You made your bed…” instead they pushed through the pain and loved.

My church loved me anyway. Much like my parents I know there was heartbreak. People had poured their lives into me. Throughout my childhood they loved, taught, encouraged, corrected, challenged and supported me. I’m sure their sense of “failure” was second only to Mom and Dad’s.

Still, we were never shunned, shamed, made to feel dirty, outcast or lesser. They loved my boy. They loved us. And they were committed to restoration, not condemnation.

Nancy loves me anyway. She learned pretty quickly, I can be selfish, inconsiderate, needy, demanding, self absorbed, manipulative, arrogant, condescending, intolerant, jealous, impatient, impulsive and whiney. Still she loves me.

She sees me, knows me and chooses me still. For some reason, each morning, she wakes up and says, “I’m going to love him today.”

Today marks 27 years since that 18 year old boy stood mesmerized by the beauty walking down the aisle toward him. I’m mesmerized still, by the grace of God and the kindness of his people, throughout my story. And that this beauty would still choose to walk toward me, is a daily source of wide-eyed wonder.

Falling Down

When I learned to ride my little motorcycle I was in a class with a bunch of guys… and one lady. I felt a bit intimidated, so I can’t imagine how the young woman felt.

We got up early on a Saturday morning, went to the “riding range” (think parking lot) and all selected a helmet and a bike. The leaders gave us some instruction and we slowly but surely began to ride.

Then it happened. At a moment when everyone was stopped in a line, her hand slipped of the clutch, her bike lurched forward and she hit the guy in front of her.

Because you can sue anyone for anything in this country, the class was stopped, the bikes turned off and forms filled out and signed, right in the middle of the parking lot while God and everyone watched.

She never came back to class.

I hurt for her and what she’s missed out on because she was too embarrassed to return. And I wonder how often I've done the same thing.

Failure is a part of life. Everyone who has ever walked has fallen. Everyone. For some reason, as we age, we quit looking at the accomplishments of the steps we've taken and instead dwell on the pain of the fall.

I get it. Falling hurts. And everyone wants protection from pain. But if we never try again, we end up crawling through life. Never developing. Never maturing. Never growing.

I hope she found the courage to go back to class. I hope she's out there riding right now. And I hope I always have the courage to try new things. To fail. And to try again. 

The World Cup

Every four years I hear the moaning from my fellow ‘Mericans about the World Cup. They don’t understand it. How can a game, that can end in a 0-0 tie, be fun to watch? That’s the excuse they use, but I think there are other reasons they don’t like it. I get it. I used to be that guy.

There are a few reasons why I think it’s so popular. Soccer is cheap. You don’t even really need a ball, just something to kick and some sticks to kick it through. And it can be played pretty much anywhere, the beach, a farm or a city street.

But the real reason people love the World Cup… think Hoosiers.

Where else can a country of 5 million compete with a country of 300 million and still win? Small countries like Costa Rica, Honduras and Ecuador take on behemoths like Brazil, the U.S. and Russia and it’s competitive.

You never know how things are going to turn out. A team can be outplayed for an entire 90 minute game and still win… in the 91^st minute. Is that bizarre? Yes. Is it maddening? YES!

There are more upsets than March Madness. And you don’t get to come back next year. You have to start the qualification process all over again and pray to get back four years from now.

Proof? Spain, the number one team in the world, the winner of the last World Cup and the last two European trophies, the team who beat Tahiti 10-0 last year, is out already. They were crushed by the Netherlands and Chile and have one game remaining, but they are done. Done in by countries a third the size.

If you change the ball and set the scene in Indiana, ‘Mericans would love that story. 

Dad

My dad is a planner. A “number of children + income = standard of living” kind of planner. A “job a + job b = retirement at 55” kind of planner. A “retirement + 2 more years of work = much more cash” kind of planner.

His careful planning fed us, housed us, clothed us, paid for my education and even supports my family today through his giving to ministry. It also allowed him to retire pretty young so he and mom would have time to do the things they wanted together.

Now that all sounds pretty simple and formulaic but the story it doesn't tell is Dad worked in some pretty toxic environments, had mean spirited bosses and coworkers who cheated him out of promotions. He stuck to the plan.

He had kids who made poor decisions, needed help, moved in and out of his house with their families. He stuck to the plan.

Mom got Alzheimer’s and he stuck to the plan. Because he had worked so hard and planned so well he could be with her. For as long as she could, they traveled, saw old friends and explored new places together.

And when she couldn't anymore, he cared for her and continues to.

I have a hard time seeing past this morning’s cup of coffee. It’s part of the reason why I love and respect my dad so much. His long-term approach to life has allowed him to care for and provide well for his family. Even when things didn't go as planned. 

Ray

I love Dr. Pepper. Growing up, I only remember having any kind of Coke (it's all Coke) when we had pizza. Mom wasn't big on sugary things, diet drinks hadn't really surfaced and milk was supposed to be good for me, so no cokes. 

But Grandpa drank Dr. Pepper. 

Ray Elders was a church planter and pastored churches in Alabama, Arkansas, Kentucky, Tennessee and South Carolina. As you might imagine, the pay was never great. I only remember him living in a parsonage or a trailer.

He worked as a carpenter and painter, fixed wrecked cars and trailers, even raised bees for awhile. Anything to bring in a little extra income.

I told him when I was 5 I wanted to be a carpenter and a pastor just like him... "So I don't have to go to college."

It would be so hot in Tennessee the tar would bubble off the asphalt. I'd climb in Grandpa's rebuilt car and we'd fly down the road to visit someone in the hospital or buy pop rivets to fix a trailer. He'd stop for gas and would get a Dr. Pepper. So I would too.

Now I'm in my 40's and know Dr. Pepper has nothing for me but weight gain. But somehow, when I drink it, I feel the warmth of the Tennessee sun. I feel the wind on my face and smell the dust from doing 60 down a dirt road in a car with no AC. 

And I hear his laugh. It's the laugh of a man with his only grandson. It's full of love for the boy and thankfulness to God for the time together. 

So I roll down my window, squint my eyes from the sun, wind and dust and I sip a Dr. Pepper. And I remember. I have been and I am unconditionally loved. And it's well worth the calories. 

Weddings and Wonder

One of the great things about having small children is experiencing the world through their eyes. You get to rediscover the beauty of things that have grown dull with familiarity.

Our wonder is renewed as we watch them experience the first smell of a flower, touch of a puppy, barefoot walk in grass.

Something happens as kids get older. Those discovery moments become less frequent and more obscured by debates over bedtime, homework, chores and curfew. A routine settles in and life returns to ordinary.

All that came rushing back last month, as Marcus graduated from college one week and married the next. The excitement of accomplishment and new adventure was bubbling out of him. It was like his first taste of ice cream.

Events like weddings bring wonder to our doorstep, like the flash of fireworks in the night sky.

But every day wonder surrounds us silently. It's the sunset we never see because we’re working with our head down. The universe is brimming with things to amaze us, but we have to look up.

Most days wonder doesn't show up on our doorstep. We have to leave the house. But it's out there. Maybe in that new flavor of ice cream.  

I Miss My Mom

I miss my mom today. I'm not sure where it came from. It was one of those, blindsided with grief when you least expect it moments.

There's a lot going on. I'm worried about covering bills and our income deficit to the mission. At the same time the excitement of a boy's graduation and fun of his wedding.

I didn't miss her those days. Sure, I was very aware she wasn't there, but I didn't miss her.

But this morning I woke up early and laid in bed wresting with life. Somewhere in the darkness "Honey Off a Thorn" whispered in my mind and I tried to remember what I had written.

I pushed it away, got out of bed and began my day. I tried to catch up on emails, set up appointments and chugged coffee. Then I remembered what had been whispered earlier.

I went back through previous posts, found the link, read to the bottom... and was suddenly undone.

The things I struggle with, the worries of life, the joy of the past few weeks and the lack of Mom's presence tumbled me, like a wave tossing driftwood.

1600 miles away she sits, Alzheimer's keeping her unaware.

I think we're hardwired to share struggle and accomplishment. It's why we complain about work and celebrate birthdays. The big ones are made to be shared with those closest to us.

I think that's why today, I miss my mom.

The DeVries

Marcus married sweet Kelsie last week. She’s a lovely girl who loves Jesus and loves him. The wedding was an awesome celebration.

But, if marriages were arranged in the U.S. they probably wouldn't have gotten together. Our families are too different. They’re Dutch. We’re mutts. She’s never left the country. Marcus has lived on three continents.

She’s from a small town with one red light. Marcus grew up in big cities. Her Dad can do great “man” stuff like back up a trailer, run five miles, has great tools in his garage and can fix stuff. I can walk… to the kitchen… and fix biscuits. 

Still, they welcomed us into their home. It was like some epic biblical wedding feast that lasted for a week. We moved into their home. Marcus moved in. Andrew moved in. Marcus’ friends from high school. Kelsie. Her brother. Her sister. Her friends.

We all showed up to help with a week of wedding prep. Instead it was more like locust taking over their place, loud, eating their food and using their shower. I’m still stunned by their graciousness and generosity.

Her parents, Brian and Diane work as lay ministers and have poured their lives into students for years. They have an obvious love for and walk with God. They have raised four bright, funny and gifted kids of their own.

Parents used to arrange marriages to benefit the family, to raise their status and create more financial stability. This marriage had nothing to do with status or wealth. But in terms of spiritual legacy, Marcus scored big time.  

Multiple Moms

This was my childhood. The younger brother. The youngest cousin. And any family within five years of me was girl. I was bossed, bullied, tattled on, corralled, directed and disciplined.

I was also loved, deeply loved, by the females in my life. All older. All bossy. And all loving. This picture kind of explains it.

Kim, Jeffrey, Tina, Cindy and Jill

I’m sure that’s the reason I've written so much about women, why I care about their struggle with self image, why I’m concerned about sexual abuse of the most vulnerable, why the situation in Nigeria crushes me and why relationship is my highest value. 

We may get older, but our childhood travels with us. Sometimes it's like a warm coat on a cold day. Sometimes more like ill-fitting shoes. We can change our shoes, but it will always be a part of our story. 

I'm thankful for my childhood and the profound impact of my mom's life on me. I'm thankful for the impact of her sister, Pat, and the four girls in the picture, who felt it was their job to "mother" me. 

Moms come in all shapes, sizes and ages. Sometimes we're born to them, sometimes we find them and sometimes God brings them to us. What's certain is we all need at least one. Fortunately, I've had many. 

Emotional Junk Food

I like TV. I like movies too. I even like books. There’s something about a well written character that sucks me in. I can get so attached to them I miss them when the book goes back on the shelf.

I like geeky Leonard Hofstadter on The Big Bang Theory. I feel like I know him. I know his friends. His mom. His hang-ups and insecurities and even where they come from. I want him and Penny to stay together.

I realized yesterday, I know Leonard better than my neighbor.

Leonard makes me laugh, roll my eyes, worry and laugh some more. He feeds me emotionally. And all he requires is a half hour each week.

So I can have a “friendship” with Leonard, Patrick Jane, Tony Stark, Batman, Frodo and Harry Potter and it doesn’t cost me anything.

The problem is real relationships are expensive. They take time, energy, investment, commitment, forgiveness, grace, understanding and self-sacrifice. 

I can’t sit down with my neighbor, friend or coworker for a half hour each week just to be entertained. I have to give something back.

There’s nothing wrong with a good show, movie or book. Story has the ability to teach us in profound ways.

We just need to understand it’s relational junk food. There's nothing wrong with eating some chips, but if that's our substitute for real nourishment, we'll end up emotionally malnourished. 

Be Careful

I ride my motorcycle to work every chance I get. It’s little. My friend Nick says it looks like a “little kid’s bike.” Can't remember why he's my friend.

Even though it’s a “little kid’s bike” Nancy mandated some rules. I have to wear a helmet. I have to wear a riding jacket. She even bought me a backpack, so florescent yellow, you can see it from the moon. I’m supposed to wear that too.

And every time I leave the house she says, “Be careful.”

In fact, everyone says “Be careful.” Nick says it. Ron says it when I walk by his office to leave. My boss Pete. Pastor Greg says it. Heck, even the guy at the post office when I pick up mail.

There was a time in my life this would have really bothered me. Because of my bent, my youth, my insecurities and my tendency to read subtext into conversations, I would have hated it.

Be careful? What do you mean? Of course I’m careful. Do you think I can’t drive? Am I not capable enough? Responsible enough? Don’t you trust me?

One of the beauties of getting old is a lot of that stuff seems to fall away. There's so much less to prove, so I can hear the words for what they really mean. These people care about me.

Like "As You Wish" from the Princess Bride, what they are really saying is, "Love you!" Hearing it so often makes me think everyone should ride a motorcycle. Oh, and it reminds me why Nick is my friend.  

Blind Communication

My watch has a little box on it that displays the day. It’s supposed to be “perpetual,” so I’ll never have to reset it for leap year. Somehow every four years it’s supposed to remember.

The problem is I can’t read it. The little box is so small and my eyes are so bad, without my reading glasses, I can only guess the date.

Communication can be the same way. All the information is there, but we aren't always equipped to process it.

As a team leader, I had a difficult conference call with some teammates. They were wounded and I couldn't understand why. I had been careful. After all, there were some things they needed to change. Why couldn't they see that?

A few days later, we all had a face to face with my boss. For the first time, they repeated back to me the words I had used. It was like someone said, “Here Jeff, put on these glasses.” Hearing my words, through their mouths, was horrifying.

I had the best intentions. I loved them, wanted what was best for them and wanted to see them thrive in ministry. But the phone, culture, history, personality and even language (though we all were speaking English) had created some “blind spots.”

The relationship was restored, but never really the same.

The problem with communication is we rarely know we need glasses. We think we’re reading things well, when we’re really walking along blindly, knocking bodies to the ground.

Have the courage to ask for feedback and the grace to ask for forgiveness. It doesn't matter how good my intentions are, without my glasses, I can’t tell you what day it is.

God Stinks at Math

About a year ago, I posted about a gap between our financial needs and our level of support. With a $2000 discrepancy it was probably more of a panicked wail than an actual post.

People have been so kind the past year. Some have given more, others have chosen to support us for the first time. As a result, half of the gap was made up. But what’s unique about God’s economy is we’re still in the black.

If you calculate our ongoing monthly support, we’re still pretty lacking. But somehow 1+1=3. I’m sure glad God stinks at math.

The widow who fed Elijah only had enough food for one meal. The disciples only found enough food for one kid. And the perfume poured on Christ’s head could have fed many but the “waste” was welcomed. It all seems so backwards.

When confronted with the realities of deficiency in life and excess in worship the response is almost dismissive. It’s like God is saying, “Don’t confuse the issue with facts. Just trust me.”

That’s been the story of our support this past year. It’s not enough to make us comfortable or so little our bills haven’t been paid. It’s been just enough to cover each month. I don’t understand the math, but I’m thankful.  

It's Just Africa...

This morning, I read this BBC story about the kidnap of over 100 girls, by Boko Haram in Nigeria. The story really unnerved me, partly because of the horrific nature of the attack. But also because of the lack of attention from the media.

This is only the latest in a series of horrific attacks on the children of Nigeria at the hands of a group opposed to “western education.” I was sick when I had to dig through CNN to even find the story.

In December 2012, our nation was horrified when 20 children were killed at Sandy Hook Elementary. There was wall to wall coverage for days and the incident sparked a national debate for months. A year and a half later there are remembrances and memorials and the images are still a part of our national consciousness.

As it should be.

In February 59 students were killed in one school in Nigeria. Fifty. Nine. That’s one incident in one community two months ago. It’s one story of many that have taken the lives of over 1,500 people.

I’m baffled by the lack of outcry in the international community. And I’m staggered by the lack of reporting in the international press when 100 girls simply disappear.

If this happened anywhere in the west we wouldn't hear the end of it. Anderson Cooper would be posting live reports for weeks from the area. A month old plane crash is still getting prominent attention.  

100 girls in Africa go missing and well… it’s Africa.

What horrifies us should never be dependent on the location of the atrocity, the power of the victim, their gender or the color of their skin. 

Jill

I love my sister. She’s beautiful, bright, bubbly, fun. One of my great joys in life is our friendship. She posted this picture on Facebook recently. I love it because in one snapshot you see the essence of our relationship.

Jill is the responsible one. She obeyed mom and dad (mostly), got good grades, worked through high school and college, made good decisions, did the right things.

I didn't. I was… well… the boy in the photo.

The problem with being responsible is you get stuck with all of the responsibilities. Let’s face it, if you want something done, you don’t ask the kid who can’t remember to wear his coat in the winter.

This has never been more evident than it is now as mom struggles with Alzheimer’s. Jill has been there. She has fed her, bathed her and changed her. Most importantly she’s fiercely advocated for her and her care.

She’s been present. I haven’t.

After Mom’s diagnosis 12 years ago, Jill gave me permission to stay away. Nancy and I could continue with our life in missions, guilt free. Jill has paid a price for that act of grace, one only folks who have been caregivers can understand.

If you're the out of town sibling like me, offer loads of encouragement and little advice. You have no idea the toll daily care takes on a family.

If you care for someone suffering with long-term illness, thank you. God sees you. Find a support group, because you are not suffering alone.

Skipping Homework

I was never a big fan of school. Well, it wasn't really school I didn't like it was the work that came with it. I always seemed to take twice as long to do something. As a result, I had more homework than anyone.

Once I got home I was flooded with choices. Watching Ultraman, playing with friends and staring at the wall, all seemed infinitely more fun than homework. As long as I could keep Mom in the dark, homework didn't happen. And I worked hard to keep her in the dark.

So my life was spent avoiding my work, lying to my mom and being consumed with dread on my walk to school each morning, without my work. They were long, self-deprecating walks.

I look back at that little boy and wonder if that’s where a lot of my insecurities come from. Day after day, knowing what I should do, but not being able to pull it together.

I feel sorry for that boy. It’s true he should have been responsible enough to sit and do the assignments. It’s also true he was in an educational system that didn't fit his wiring. A daydreaming storyteller who can’t write neatly, spell properly or memorize his multiplication tables isn't going to have a lot of wins.

My poor mom tried everything, testing, tutors, tears and threats. But the reality is, it’s always going to be hard for an oral learner to sit still to read and write hours of homework each evening.  And in a system where form was as important as content, I was doomed.

The thing that saved me was a family who loved me and told me of a God who loved me too. So when everything in the classroom told me I was stupid and didn't measure up, I knew I would never be rejected... even when I didn't do my homework. 

Norma

My friend Norma died last week. It’s surreal because when we left for a trip she had been declared cancer free. So I was gone when the cancer came back, when she had her second surgery, when she was moved to hospice and when she died.

It all happened so fast.

It’s such a cliché, when someone dies, to say, “Everyone loved her,” but with Norma, I think it was true. I've been trying to put my finger on what it was about her that was so attractive. I think it's because, Norma was real.

As the wife of the president of an international organization she could have been uppity. She could have put on a persona, someone she thought that person should be, or how she thought that person should act. She could have remained distant and uninvolved or had expectations of how she should be treated, how she should be served.

But Norma was just… Norma.

She would come in my office and sit down to chat, not because she wanted inside information on an employee or to lobby for her husband. She’d come in to ask about my boys. She’d call each by name and listen to the good and the bad. She cared about me and about them and her concern was real.

She invited us to lunch and served us leftover soup. How awesome is that? Not only that she did it, but that she admitted it. She wasn't worried about what we might think, there was just soup and it needed eaten up, so she served it.

She hosted a Christmas party every year for the office, even last year after just finishing chemo. She took her wig off so I could see her bald head. She was beautiful.

Norma was real. And I think she was loved because it can be hard to find real people, people without a mask, or an angle or agenda. I think she was loved because she reminded us of Jesus. 

Graham the Canadian

I spent about 6 years of my life in Ecuador with Graham the Canadian staring at me from the other side of a consul. Each morning, I'd flip a switch and begin a program we hoped would encourage folks in North and South America.

Ralph the Hard Nosed News Director, would pop in and out of the studio to read the news, chaperon and chastise us accordingly. But Graham the Canadian did sports and never left. He’d sit there, looking at me, waiting for me to turn his mic on.

Now Graham the Canadian and I were nothing alike. He was… well… Canadian. And, oddly, proud of it.

He was a seminary trained pastor. I had read parts of the Bible. He liked Calvin. I liked the other guys. He liked all the wrong college teams and pro teams. He celebrated Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July on the wrong days. He even had girls!

But something strange happens when you see someone, before coffee, every single day, for years. I started to like him. We worked together, raised kids together, laughed together, wept together, played Euchre with our wives together and even vacationed together each Christmas.

And many days, when the mics were switched off, we would begin to talk about things that mattered, leaning into the life on the other side of the consul. On one occasion, as we were talking about the futility of trying to live a life free of sin Graham looked at me and said, “Jeff, God is honored in the struggle.”

What? Honored in the struggle? That’s not right! God is honored when I get my act together. He’s honored when I overcome. He’s ready for me to be done with the struggle, over the struggle, REDEEMED from the struggle! Right?

God has to be SICK of the struggle. I know I am.

No. God is honored in the struggle. Few words have ever been more healing for me. Few have ever been so filled with grace.

Thailand

I've been spending some time in Thailand recently. I've been here before, but for a little boy from the suburbs, Thailand is so very… other.

Here are a few of the things that have stuck with me this trip: I met a woman named Jim and another named Moo, a man named Chai and one named Somchai. I watched a ferry load up with motor scooters and head across the river for their morning commute.

Politics are complicated and traffic even more so. A Thai friend explained there are 9 genders officially recognized. It can be very difficult to tell who is a woman, and who... wants to be.

A man tried to stop me on the street, holding pictures of women, like items on a buffet in his restaurant. The man across the street from him had young girls on his menu, all within view of a policeman. The encounter is more than unsettling as it provokes difficult questions about God, about society and about me.

These issues aren't unique to Thailand. It’s only that it is so pervasive I’m not allowed to claim my inaction is due to ignorance.

All the while, people are struggling to initiate change. I've talked to Thai businessmen, passionate about the impact of radio on their communities. A struggling pastor, longing to see more growth in his church. A missionary, building relationships with prostitutes, through English teaching, on the roof of a brothel.

After 180 years the evangelical church is only .5% of the population (yes that’s a decimal point before the 5). The cultural, societal, economic and spiritual issues are extremely complex. Still people get up every morning and lean into the pain.

Thailand is not for the faint of heart. You should visit. But only if you want to be changed forever.

Will You Miss Me?

When we lived in Ecuador, we had a number of college students come work summers with us. Over the years, we had many stay in our home. One particular year, as I was taking a young man out for his “last supper” with us, he turned to me and asked, “Will you miss me?”

I was so caught off guard by the question, I didn't have time to make up a good lie, so I said, “Well, probably not.”

I tried to rapidly explain that it really said more about me than it did about him.

A life in missions is full of goodbyes. Good friends are constantly leaving us. They change fields or leave ministry completely. I have a bad habit of pulling away, walling myself off from the pain of loss that I know I will experience when someone I care about moves on.

The constant stream of people weaving in and out of your life isn't something they tell you about in orientation. And if they told you, I’m not sure you could really understand. I've read missionary kids experience more loss before graduation, than most people experience in a lifetime. I don’t doubt that’s true. 

Email, Facebook and Skype all make staying connected easier, but it usually disintegrates into superficial communication with no real relationship.

As God has allowed us to reconnect with friends we have been separated from I've discovered something beautiful.  

Even though it’s been years since we've been together, when we see each other again, we can go pretty deep, pretty quickly.

There is just something about having the shared experience of cross-cultural life, raising kids and working together in ministry that binds us. It allows us to do away with idle chitchat and start talking about things that matter.

Successes and loss, excitement and pain come quickly into the conversation, like we had spoken about these things yesterday, not years ago.

There is not much better in life than that type of friend. And we have been blessed with many.