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.