193

 

The Republic of South Sudan is officially the newest nation on earth. Steven stayed up until 4 am just to watch live streaming of the celebrations taking place in Juba, Sudan.

People were singing, dancing, decked out in their cultural attire and even weeping openly. For most of us, we are happy for them. We think its nice that they get to have their own flag now, and even add a few more words to the official title of the country. We think its just wonderful that they feel so happy.

But knowing the darker side of that countries history, I am more than just happy. My heart actually aches for them. Aches because for the last several decades, ALL these people have known is war, land mines, bombs, janjaweed, hiding in the bush for days without food and water, and watching their loved ones die.

We all say things like “you never know what day will be your last”, however that was never more true than for the people of south sudan. They absolutely never knew.

Steven doesn’t like to talk about it much. I have gotten glimpses of his life during the war which he was born into, but I know that look in his eyes when he gives small details. Yes, its sadness and pain in that look, but more than anything, is the acknowledgement that so much life was just wasted. Gone. Precious life was utterly destroyed without so much as a proper burial. They watched as friends and family were gunned down in front of their eyes, and yet instead of mourning, they kept surviving. Hoping someday there would be answers, someday there would be grieving. There would be a justified reason why people who were created in the image of God, were so easy to view as lower, as worthy of the end that was given them.

Some wanted revenge. Some joined the SPLA (sudanese peoples liberation army) to avenge their country and their people. Some fled. Some became refugees living in the northern part of the country (like my husband) in mass displaced person camps for years and years.

This is the internally displaced persons camp Steven lived in from 1989-1999.

 

These are a people who have struggled for everything. It is no secret that South Sudan is one of poorest and least developed nations on earth. It is no secret that their politics are also fairly corrupt, thanks in part for living in a constant state of war and survival.

But I tell you what, I know this country can heal. I see the steps being taken already, toward wholeness, toward stability, toward forgiveness. Yes, forgiveness.

If Steven and I have one passion, its for reconciliation. To see people forgive and heal. To see countries, tribes, religions move on. Not forget necessarily, but not let it control their futures, their every day lives, and their relationships. It is a known fact that a person who forgives those who have hurt them, are more stable and healthy individuals, often with a longer life expectancy.

Let me tell you about my husband and why he loves reconciliation.

Steven was 8 when his father decided to send him to live in the north, because living in the south had become too dangerous. Steven wasn’t going to school because every few days they had to hide in the bush and wait until it was clear to go back to their home.

His father being an army man and hunter, knew that the situation wasn’t going to get any better any time soon, and felt it best to send Steven to live with distant relatives in the IDP camp called Hadjussef.

Steven wasn’t very sad, as he knew opportunities like this didn’t come to everyone. He was also given the opportunity to study in a catholic school, something which was highly coveted.

But he did miss his family. A lot.

Jereasa, his mother, taught Steven how to be a family man. She instilled in him the desire to raise a family, and she planted in him the notion that women are valuable, helpful, hard working, and respectable. Steven and his mom have always been very close.

Mogga, his father, was a hunter and army man, and taught Steven how to kill for food, and taught him basic survival skills in the midst of african war. He instilled in Steven the importance of education, and knew it was Stevens ticket to survival. Steven said on long journeys, his father and him often had long political and theological discussions, and that his dad taught him how to view the world. He loved and looked up to his dad, much like any son, and especially loved their long hunting trips together.

Steven said his dad taught him how to act in front of a lion, that you should never run, but rather walk by casually because they can always sense fear and weakness.

One of the most important things his father taught him over the years, was to stay away from alcohol. Now, I love a good beer every now and again (obviously not when I am pregnant…) but this is something Steven and I will never share, and we respect each others decisions.

Steven says it all started when his father came home drunk like he normally did one evening, and knowing that it was destroying him and his family, he made Steven promise him, repeatedly, that he would never touch a drop of alcohol. And to this day, Steven never has.

After having been to south sudan numerous times, and seeing army men slinging their AK-47′s around their backs, fully plastered by 9 o’clock in the morning, I understand why “social drinking” doesn’t exist there. There is only survival drinking. Drinking to stop the memories.

Thank God for Stevens parents.

So, Steven was sent up north.

When he was 16, Steven was given the news that his father had been killed. He had been walking with a neighbor through the bush on a hunting trip, and while he was walking in front, the neighbor shot him in the back. After having done this, the neighbor ran back to Mogga’s home, and took all the sheep and goats for himself.

That is why Stevens father was killed. For sheep and goats.

When the news reached Steven, he vowed he would kill this same man. He tried to join the army right away so he could go back and destroy him, but they informed him he was still too young to fight… he needed to be 18. So he waited. Steven has always been a patient man, and he knew that nothing could stop him from finding this man once he was 18, and killing him.

Well, time passed as it normally did in the camp. Slowly. But one day, a revival was set to take place in the city, lead by none other than Reinhard Bonnke. Steven, wanting to see what all the hooplah was about, decided to go and see for himself.

Steven recalls 45,000 attended the event, and it was his first experience with a full blown crusade. He was struck by the words of Bonnke when he said that jesus needed to be a part of his life, that jesus wanted to know him. But also, that jesus commands us to forgive.

Steven agreed with the part about jesus needing to be in his life, and felt like he could do that. So, Steven got saved. But he didn’t like the part about forgiveness. He thought maybe Jesus could just forget about it, just this once, until he had killed his fathers murderer, and then maybe he would consider it.

Steven said he was excited about christ and what he was doing, and to this day, Steven loves Bonnke.

After the crusade finished, Steven started attending church. It was a local church, and the very first sunday there, the pastor starts talking about how christ forgave us, and therefore we need to forgive others. We need to forgive those who have hurt us.

Steven was not amused and thought that the pastor was just saying this because he knew Steven and his story. So he left the church, and found another one the next week.

The following sunday, dressed in his best, Steven was happy to be in a church where nobody knew him or his story, and was glad to just soak up the word. Steven recalls how great the sermon was, how it was all about the love of christ. But then, in mid sentence, the pastor changed his topic, and he started pointing at various people in the church saying “christ forgave us, YOU need to forgive those who have hurt you! YOU need to forgive!”

Steven says when the pastors finger settled on him, he actually turned around to see if the pastor was pointing at someone else, but there was no one behind him. Steven was being called out. And he broke down.

Weeping in the middle of the church’s dirt floor, people left him alone to cry, knowing that something deep and hurtful and awesome was going on.

Steven forgave the man that murdered his dad that day. Steven also forgave the north for the years of war and suffering and death. Steven was and is the most free man I have ever met.

He still has not seen the neighbor who robbed him of a father, but we have a feeling someday we will. I very much plan on being there, in support of my dear husband, but we both know that even more healing is under way, not for Steven so much, but for this man. This man who gained a few goats, but lost his soul.

We pray for that day. We pray for the day when South Sudan as a whole can forgive their captors, release their anger, and move on. We pray for the day that dependence on God and his grace will sweep over that country, and lead the world in an example of reconciliation, beauty, stability and truth.

SO join with us as we celebrate the worlds 193rd nation, the Republic of South Sudan! Steven and I want to be there SO INCREDIBLY MUCH, but we are still awaiting the arrival of dear Jubalee, who is taking her sweet time.

We can’t wait to be there, and see what God is doing. We can’t wait.

 

imma let this cat outta the bag…

I believe one of two things: Either WIC (women, infants and childrens gov’t assistance program) or the tasty yet evil, Frosted Mini Wheat cereal regime, are out to humiliate me to death.

I applied for WIC only a short while ago, even though I was already 7 months preggo. I like the thought of monthly rationed gov’t cheese and milk, mostly because those things are expensive, and having married an african, money doesn’t seem to just magically gravitate toward us, as I naturally assumed it was going to, given that we are pretty hard workers and also fairly awesome.

But WIC likes to control EXACTLY everything you purchase. Which is not actually a bad thing, as it is trying to provide nutritional food to mothers and infants. Unlike SNAP (food stamps) you can’t just load up your cart with sheet cakes, twinkies, and frozen pizzas. You are only allowed to buy the things that they give you on the handy dandy food guide… mostly things like brown rice, milk, whole grain bread (although NOT Dave’s killer bread, which is my favorite) and corn tortillas.

I like that WIC is looking to make healthier babies and mothers, but sometimes it drives me CRAZY. This is the story of how, for the first time, I was almost rude to a cashier at safeway all thanks to WIC and frosted mini wheats.

Now, I always try to be extra nice to people working in places like grocery or department stores. I know what it is like to work with ample amounts of busy people on a daily basis, and it is hard. I always try to slap a smile on my face and genuinely be polite to the people scanning my items.

So, I take my WIC vouchers, and I race through the store like a kid on a scavenger hunt, looking up items I can purchase, and how many ounces of bread I can buy (yes, it goes by ounces). I believe Safeway likes to make their customers get their daily allotment of exercise simply by the layout of that whacky store. You would think all the food stuffs would be clustered together, easy to find, and all the non-food stuffs (e.g. dog food, contact solution) would be clustered on the other end of the store.

But no. It is like they asked a sleepy toddler to pick what isles should go where.

So, I am racing back and forth, all the while having to pee so bad that every step was torturous.

And finally, after covering ever square inch of that place, the last item on our WIC list was cereal. I get excited about cereal, because I find it ridiculously over-priced, but with WIC, I get two small boxes. And surprisingly, they have a rather large selection you can choose from on your WIC cereal guide.

I found two that I thought sounded good: Life cereal (regular) and my old standby, Frosted Mini Wheats.

Now, I understand that WIC doesn’t want me to buy all those frilly cereals… coco puffs, cookie crisp… and understandably so. But it also doesn’t allow for me to purchase any other kind of offshoot flavor from the original cereal it said I could buy. Like, I can’t purchase any other flavor of Mini Wheats. Just the original.

But I don’t want any other flavor, so WIC and I are good.

We approach the cereal isle, and I grab the most normal looking mini wheats I can find. I swear that there are AT LEAST 18 different options for this one cereal alone… I honestly can’t imagine who would want to eat blueberry streusel mini wheats in the first place, being that the original is so good. So I chose the orange box, without any other colorful, sugary additives.

yeah, I am not even sure this is all of them.

After running around the store, and having to pee quite bad, I was ready to go home. The other thing with WIC, is that you have separate vouchers for different food items, and you have to cluster your items accordingly, and the cashier will do completely separate transactions for your different purchases. ALSO, if you go over your limit, you have to make another transaction with either cash or credit. AND if you don’t spend all the money on your voucher (say you didn’t buy the entire $10 worth of fruits and veggies) you will never see that money again. You get one chance. Solo uno. Kaput.

So, I get my items and steady myself for potentially annoyed customers who will stand behind me in line. I group my items, and am pleased with myself that I am getting almost everything those vouchers told me I could get.

Well, things are going pretty ok (I forgot a frozen juice) when the cashier man picks up the cereal. Life cereal gets scanned and placed in the bag. He picks up the mini wheats. He is ABOUT to scan it, when he read the words written under the oversized name; “Little Bites” it reads. Now, I did notice this when I picked up the box, but I didn’t see any other box that look as normal as that one. And I thought that “little bites” was just a new term for “bite sized” which is what I always get.

The cashier (an overly apologetic mid 30′s over-weight man, who is slightly balding, and very VERY particular about his job) informs me that this box could not be sold to me, due to it being a special “little bites” box, rather than the original “bite sized” option. My eyes widen when I realize he is serious, which makes him call his manager, who confirms that I can not, in fact, have that box.

You would really have to be a moron to think they could possibly be the SAME DARN THING.

the difference is glaringly obvious.

So, I have a choice to make: Either I run to the cereal isle and try to find the absolute correct box (although I have to pee like a banshee at this point, and every step hurts) or I can send my Sudanese husband, who has absolutely no idea the difference whatsoever. The cashier didn’t offer to send another employee, being that he knew I was with my husband, however, he didn’t understand that Steven was even more confused about the situation than that sleepy toddler.

As Steven volunteers to go, I asked him quietly, trying not to sound like a crazy controlling, ill-spirited pregnant wife, if he understood what kind we COULD buy… because I was not sure if he picked up the exact reason why we weren’t walking out of there with our “little bites” mini wheats in the first place… Unless you speak perfect english, I am pretty sure that whole exchange was massively confusing.

Steven wanders off, and as the line behind me starts to sigh audibly, I start shuffling through my purse, looking for any reason not to look into the cashiers eyes.

Steven returns. But he returns with a bright pink box of Strawberry Frosted Mini Wheats. I can almost see the angst in the cashiers eyes as he glimpses the pink box. Before he has the satisfaction of saying it, I announce “yeah, I know we can’t have that one. The Life cereal will be fine, thank you.”

He didn’t say anything as he scanned the rest of my items, except an intermitted “sorry about that” or a “just doing what I am told” that simply made me more upset. I was tired and cranky and sweaty and hot, and on top of it all, I didn’t get the cereal I loved most, based on one stupid word printed on an orange box.

As I apologized to the long line of annoyed people standing behind me (without so much as a “its ok” in return) I finished the mini wheat-less purchase, picked up my pride, shoved my sunglasses on my face while walking briskly out the door, and began to cry.

I know it sounds silly to cry over something so lame, but it was kind of traumatic. It was like, not matter how hard I tried to do things perfectly, how many times I wandered those isles and scoured items for their net weight, I still lost.

I am grateful for the items WIC gives me, and I know it is a blessing, but man, talk about feeling a bit defeated.

And after all of that, the bread I had picked was, in the words of the cashier man, “way over the designated ounces for bread. Sorry.”

Thanks WIC And Frosted Mini Wheats for this post.

Year of Jubalee.

Yeah, it’s been forever since I last posted.

Between moving and re-learning how to live in community, it has been a pretty busy two months. Steven and I feel right at home here in good ol Salem, where we get to live around passionate people who share our same love of Christ and adventure.

If you don’t don’t anything about where we live and what we do, you can click here. I must admit, it is pretty great.

So, being back in living, breathing community feels a lot like living in africa. No privacy, walking everywhere, eating meals communally… Just like home. It feels terrific. You can almost see the glow in Stevens face as he walks around greeting people, even getting comfortable enough to crack a few jokes.

I love him really a lot.

our awesome/tiny room.

It seems almost strange to be here, while I am in this stage of life. I mean, when I first walked onto this base, I was an unruly 19 year old, with no real love of missions. I wanted adventure, and I wanted to travel, and wah-la! I found myself here, with 18 other youths all desiring the same things. Thank God we got more than we bargained for, as we were stretched to out uttermost limits spiritually, physically and emotionally.

I remember not feeling much, as a 19 year old who grew up being continually disappointed by the church (as a pastors child you get to see some pretty ugly church politics). I was shut down spiritually, and unable to trust any kind of religious  organization (still half true some days.) I was skeptical about this thing of “hearing God’s voice” as they called it, but decided to give it a go, being as I was spending 6 grand to be here. I was going to get my money’s worth, dang it.

And I tell you what, no amount of money is worth what I learned in those 6 months. I learned how to live in community (making my bed… yes yes, I was 19 and never fully appreciated bed-making until one of my leaders told me I couldn’t possibly change the world until I learned to make my bed… meaning I needed to do the small things to get to the big things.) I learned how to really pray, and act on what I heard in those prayers. I learned that taking steps of faith is terrifying and makes you look really stupid sometimes, but incredibly powerful and effective in seeing the glory of God.

I made life long friends, and can’t ever forget how I first fell in the love with the Gypsys of Georgia (the country, people. NOT the state.) It was the first real time I cared about anything other than myself for an extended period of time. It made my uncomfortable, and it ruined me for anything normal ever again. And I am so grateful.

5 years and 10 countries later, here I am, back at this same base. Except, I am married and about to become a PARENT. I feel like I have come full circle. From reckless youth with no commitments, parading around the world without a concern, to a quieter version of this same girl, married to her best friend and dealing with the notion of parenthood while contemplating how this effects her vision to live in north africa the rest of her life.

I feel grown up. I feel seasoned. I feel…old.

Yes, old. Did I ever tell you how much grey hair I have on my head? AT LEAST 6 or 7 strands, and laugh if you want if you think this amount insignificant, but I am 25, and I didn’t have these 2 years ago. I like to blame african malaria, and indian ameobas for these recent hiccups in my appearance. But I don’t pluck them out and I never will. They actually comfort me in thinking that the past few years have truly been as hard as I thought they were. I thought maybe I was crazy for thinking that having to wait 3 years to marry Steven due to visas, money, and african war was insanely hard. I remember thinking I was actually going to feel my heart collapse inside my chest. It physically hurt to say goodbye every time we left each others nations.

And don’t get me started on leading teams throughout various parts of the world. I mean, there you are, barely a 20something, and you have the lives of OTHER 20somethings in your hands. You create the itinerary, budget, do the visas, plane tickets, contacts, set up ministry, make housing arrangements, get everyone the appropriate vaccinations, calm the parents, process with the students, pray, ask God for wisdom and sleep, pray, live in loud dorms, pray and most importantly, pray. Oftentimes I was also the worship leader for these schools, not out of skill but solely because I was the only one who could pluck out a few tunes from a guitar. Talk about humility, especially when you find you have musical geniuses for students.

Then, there was the whole “getting married and living in africa” thing. Man, that was hard and awesome. I tell you what, if I wasn’t a different person from that 19 year old, I would be alarmed.

And you know what is funny? Through everything that has happened… crazy outreaches, busy schools, moving from nation to nation, hopping across dangerous boarders, being continually harassed by large african army men with large guns, having all kind of illness’, planning a wedding overseas, sometimes not having enough money to buy food for Steven and I, cockroaches living under my bed… NOTHING scares me as much as parenthood.

there, I said it. I am terrified.

My sisters and I were never the kind of girls to gush over babies. We weren’t the ones who volunteered to babysit, and we didn’t know exactly the right way to hold a baby… I always thought I was going to break them.

Lindsay was probably the best, but still, compared to the average girl, she was definitely not ga-ga over them.

I mean, kids are people. And people get messed up. How am I supposed to raise a people? How am I supposed to not to hurt them emotionally? I mean, I am just learning how to be married, much less how to be a mom, for goodness sake! I just never thought of myself as a kid person.

But now I suppose I have to be. I pray everyday that God can give me and Steven the wisdom to raise our daughter how Christ would have us raise her. I want to show her the world, but still protect her from all that ugliness out there. I want her to love her skin, even though the majority of the world would prefer she be white. I want her to see the miracles I have seen, and know that I will always try my best to take care of her. I want to make sure she feels secure, no matter where in the world God takes our family.

Family. Such a strange thought that I am starting my own. Me. Steven. And our daughter, Jubalee.

The word Jubalee comes from the Bible, and it means “year of the lords favor.” It was when all the captives were set free and debts canceled. I believe this is the most appropriate name in the whole world for our daughter, as she comes from a nation that is beginning a new era. She comes from the blood of a man who lives to forgive, release, set free, and restore. She also comes from me, who is nothing but stubborn and a little rash at times.

I don’t exactly know the plans God has for her, but I know they are good. I mean, she is going to have the most awesome dad in the whole world. Steven is TOTALLY ga-ga over babies. My niece Ramona is basically obsessed with him and his chocolate face.

I will admit, I am excited. Excited to see what she looks like. After all this time feeling her kick and wiggle, I finally get to meet this little person who has such a mighty destiny. I can only imagine the kind of things she will encounter as a little mocha girl… both good and awful. I can only imagine the kind of joy she is going to bring to everyone who meets her.

I don’t blame God anymore for giving me this huge responsibility. I am coming to peace with the notion that I am a mom. I always thought myself entirely inadequate, because I came to grips with my selfishness long ago. I acknowledged that fact for years, and now the time has come to change it. To makes things right. To not only acknowledge that I am broken and selfish, but now to let myself love something unconditionally that doesn’t make me coffee in the mornings, or tell me I am beautiful everyday. To love her simply because she is Jubalee, a gift from God, in this, the year of the lords favor. To love her because she stems from one of the deepest loves I know, between me and my best friend Steven.

I thank God for trusting Steven and I with this gift. I can’t believe he would find me ready!

So, I am embarking on my last month of childlessness. Sometime mid July, Jubalee will make her grand appearance and our lives will forever be changed. But I would have it no other way. I have a feeling she is going to teach me more things about life, God, marriage and joy than I could ever ever imagine.  Steven and I eagerly await this beautiful change.

Also, can’t you just imagine Steven, me and mocha baby traversing africa with THIS amazing thing? I desperately want one. I have heard from all the travel moms that this one is golden. Too bad its a million dollars. Oh man, I seriously can’t wait.

OH ALSO! Before I forget, Steven and I were asked to lead the next Spring DTS, which is a school focussed on injustice and reconciliation. LEAD a school. Up until now, I have only ever staffed schools and lead outreaches (Steven has lead a few up in north africa though… he is a pro at basically everything.)  NOW Steven and I get to pick our staff, outreach locations, speaker list, yadda yadda… we are STOKED if not slightly terrified. If we decided to lead an outreach, mocha baby would turn 1 while overseas. Hopefully we will have a healthy, bouncy, beautiful baby girl who likes things like long plane rides and hot dusty weather, or this could get sticky. We feel God gave us a “go” so now we wait, prepare, practice being parents and generally just be really happy for how awesome our lives are.

A year ago today.

A year ago today, I was a sweaty, nervous wreck. There were riots going on all over Kampala Uganda (where we lived) because some royal tombs had been burnt down, and everyone thought that it was the president trying to show his authority over the king (yes, a king AND a president in Uganda… I tell you what, it doesn’t make for pretty politics)

But more importantly, I was nervous because a year ago today, would be my very last day as a single lady. We had been planning the wedding for nearly two months (and that’s a good long time for me, people) and my parents had flown in for the occasion. I was set on making it a “nobigdeal” kind of thing (I honestly wanted to elope) but the people who loved me insisted that we make it memorable, seeing as I was, in fact, marrying the man who I had been crazy in love with for almost three incredibly hard years. Hard because we never seemed to be able to be in the same country with each other for more than a few months, and hard because every time I had to leave him, it honestly felt like my heart was ripping itself in half.

Our incredible friends over in Uganda (Cam and Jen) REALLY helped us out (mostly Jen, because she is a fantastic bargainer and found us our reception venue for about 1/4 of the cost of other places around town.) They were supportive and tough when I couldn’t be tough about things like the price of our wedding cars, cake, food etc… Actually, without them, I think our wedding wouldn’t have been the amazing day it was.

Then there was Jacey. My maid of honor. We had met a by a fluke, and found ourselves in such similar situations in life, it was almost laughable, and we agreed that our friendship was literally planned out by the Lord himself, because it was all so unlikely in how we met.

It started one day, while I was leading my students on an outreach in the giant city of Kampala. I was bummed because we had to leave Sudan earlier than I wanted, simply put, because we ran out of money. I had planned on staying in Sudan until the end of outreach, and then when my students surprised me by flying Steven down for a visit while we were there (on my birthday!), made it even harder to leave (he couldn’t come with us to Uganda, because Sudan at the time wasn’t allowing anyone to renew their passports. Steven was literally trapped in Sudan, and because of the looming possibility of war, that did not settle well with me.)

So, back in Kampala, I was desperately searching for ministry opportunities for my team. There was no way we would sit around, not doing anything. It was an outreach, after all, and I like to get to work. And being africa, we were surrounded by poverty, hopelessness and orphans. We were GOING to minister, darn it.

So, While my co-leader (Jamie) and I went off in search of a child soldier orphanage we had heard about through the grapevine, we sent our students off to pray for the city, and ask God what they could do to bless people they met. We also asked them to keep their eyes peeled for ministries or opportunities where we could (as a team) help out.

Jamie and I did find the child soldier orphanage (UJV!) and obviously, it would permanently become a part of Steven and I’s life later on (our apartment after we got married was literally 20 feet from them). And our students came across something, or someone interesting too.

While they were walking down the street, they noticed a nice Mzungu (white) girl walking on the opposite side of the street. It isn’t uncommon AT ALL to see other mzungus in kampala, as it is a popular place to backpack and gorilla trek. For some reason, the team decided to speak to her. I think they yelled something like “hey mzungu! how are you!?” (and if you know anything about mzungus who live there, you know we get annoyed when people address as such, and even more annoyed by fresh mzungus who think it is funny to yell things like that at us…)

Well, she WAS annoyed, but decided to be nice and answer back. As it turns out, she was also an M, and was teaching hip-hop and aerobics at a youth prision. And she said that she could use a team to come and share stories and songs with her at the prison.

The team came home all excited, and insisted that I needed to meet her. As I had just discovered a whole world of ministry at the UJV, I wasn’t too thrilled about this idea of meeting up with a stranger my students met on the street, but I agreed to meet her.

And my life was never the same. I found out that Jacey and I had similar passions, struggles and goals. While she uses sports and dance as ministry, I use art and music. We both were engaged to African men, and had both endured almost unbearable scrutiny for it. We both had led teams, and both loved africa and yet we both broke for africa. Our friendship was sealed over some sodas and a long conversation.

And little did I know that three months later, she would be my maid of honor, and I would have had it no other way.

Steven didn’t have it so lucky though. He has asked months in advance for his friend Emmanuel to come down from south sudan to be his best man. He had agreed, but in the few days leading up to the wedding, we stopped hearing from him. We couldn’t reach him, and we had no idea if he was coming or not. As it turns out, he was not coming, but was ashamed to say so, and Cameron was brilliant enough to fill in that role for him. Also, I wanted my dearest friend Will to be on my side as a bridesman (very northwestern of me) however the ugandans thought I was crazy, and demanded he be on Stevens side, as they were of the same gender. Pick your battles, I always say.

The wedding was what I would call “beautiful chaos.” It consisted of long sermons (not done by my father who was in fact leading the wedding) Songs I had never head of, and people singing the songs that I had never met (one lady, and Will agrees, looked EXACTLY like Michelle Obama. No joke. To this day I still like to say Mrs. Obama sang at my wedding.)

There was a lot of tears, and foot washing, and child soldiers and dear friends. It was filled with the notion that this was a crazy start to a crazy life. Steven and I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect wedding. Looking back, we see God all around.

And the reception was fabulous. Full of goat-meat-on-a-stick, fanta, and strange ugandan traditions (i.e. hiding the groom and making me go look for him…) it was a blast. I even got Steven to dance to with me (which is a huge deal) and by the time evening was setting, we had only been rained on for a few seconds which is a minor miracle of itself (my hair still looked awesome, thank you african hair oil).

I think the only thing that would have made it more perfect, is if my sisters had been there. I knew the sacrifice I was making when I decided to marry Steven in africa, but it didn’t make it any easier. I missed them so bad that it hurt, and I could only imagine how much fun it would have been to have the other puzzle pieces there.

A year ago today, I was about to embark on the best adventure yet, with my bestest friend in the whole world. Steven and I have had to work insanely hard to be together, what with visas and countries that don’t like each other, and people who are loving but skeptical. We knew what God had said… that we were made for each other, but that didn’t make the process easy. We see now, how all that work and fighting for each other has prepared us perfectly for the things to come. We fight for what we know is worth it. We will never stop fighting, not for each other, and not for the kingdom of God.

technology vs. community

 

I have a real problem lately with technology (and I am aware of the fact that I wrote that last sentence on my mac, while my hubs blissfully watches season 1 of “24″ on my parents netflix account. I am aware, people.)

But that won’t stop this blog.

In fact, this blog has been a long time coming. I have been stewing on this topic for awhile now, and I have come to a conclusion: We have traded God-given community for man-made technology.

okokok, and before anyone thinks I am going all judgy judgy on them, consider this: Technology was created to enhance and help civilizations, yes? From life saving surgical tools, to 10 hour flights across the world, to movies ON DEMAND. All these things were created to help.

And they do. They really do.

And maybe you can blame it on my country hopping abilities, but I can’t help but notice a severe difference in countries in the west (america, uk…) and 3rd world nations. The moment I land in america from somewhere third worldy, I instantly feel like I am missing out on something. Men in suits with headsets in, computers on, iphones out. People contentedly watching their favorite tv shows right on there PC’s, or texting their BFF, or listening to that newest album on their ipod. I couldn’t make eye contact with anyone if I tried.

And it bothers me. We are distracted people, and we are paying for in not only in loads of dollars, but in relationship as well.

I can’t tell you how much it bothers me when I am in a conversation with someone, and they continually cut our conversation off the moment they get a text. I honestly want to ask them if someone is going to die if they don’t answer their phone. Why can’t I have a 10 minute conversation anymore without the notion that I am not as important as the person on the other end of the phone, or even the phone itself.

And I know I am guilty of this, I never said I wasn’t. But lately (the last 6 months) since being back in the US, and actually having a phone and the ability to text, I have made a pact with myself. Or at least a challenge.

It all started when I would take my break from work at the mall. I would go grab a snack, and sit down to rest and eat. But the thing is, I always felt like I was the smelly kid in high school who didn’t have friends, simply because I wasn’t being texted by my millions of friends. In order to remedy this, I would take out my phone, and yes, pretend to be reading a text from a friend. LAME. I know. But it doesn’t seem so lame when you are SURROUNDED by people all doing the same thing. I realized that not one person didn’t have their phone out, either texting, checking email, or talking loudly to their bff. So I decided I wouldn’t do it. I would sit there and eat my lunch with absolutely no phone in sight. I would sit and listen.

And I began to realize something. We don’t know how to be silent, and we don’t know how to be alone in public. We are busying ourselves, avoiding the unavoidable. We are distracting ourselves from the truth that we all seem to know, deep down inside. None of this matters. Which phone you own doesn’t matter. It WILL break. Your computer, your tv, your car… it’s all breaking down. From the moment you purchase it, to moment it dies, can you honestly say that with that device, you made better relationships with the people that matter? Did a nice text replace a meaningful hug? Did it help you achieve your goal of world travel, or helping the poor? Did it improve your character, or create lasting memories and adventures that will never be forgotten?

The times in my life that I remember, the times that matter, have ALWAYS been without internet, phones, tv’s and cars. Moments when I am living in a congolese refugee camp, singing “amazing grace” with several hundred congolese LRA escapees, without a technological gadget in sight, save an old radio.

The moments when tragedy happens, and all I can do is cry and be held by the people who love me.

And the thing is, phones are important. I am so grateful that I can call steven when I need to, and communicate with the people in my life. But I honestly don’t need internet on my phone, despite what the commercials say. And what would I do with internet on my phone anyway? Probably check my FB or watch youtube, when I could be looking for opportunities to meet people, bless people, or have an adventure for pete’s sake!

Honest to goodness, I believe we have so distracted ourselves with the glamour of our technological life, that our community is fading. I keep having dreams that I am back in africa. I dream we are sitting around the fire in the african bush, learning about cultural traditions, swapping stories, telling jokes. I dream we are waken up by our neighbors children playing outside, and that we all gather together for a breakfast of tea and porridge. And when I wake up, I cry.

I cry for lost community. I cry because I want to stop wanting new things, new things that don’t matter in the scheme of things.

Before I purchase anything lately, I stop and ask myself how this item is going to help me achieve my goal of loving people, or alleviate poverty. Or is it just going to fill some hole that can’t even be filled with things? The more I buy, the more destitute I feel. Things break, they don’t work like they advertise, they get stolen, lost, dropped in the toilet. Things don’t seem to matter.

But this is what I am told I need. This is a culture of things. The more I read about Jesus though, the more I realize how beautiful and crazy he really was. Crazy in the american sense of having “no place to lay his head.” The dude was homeless. He was a nomad, who cared desperately for people. He had a close community of people around him, and while I don’t know if he would ever own an iphone, I am pretty sure he would ignore that text he just got, to finish his conversation with me. Christ didn’t seem like a very culturally relevant guy (people DID want to kill him, after all) and so when I see adverts or read books where jesus is depicted as a typical middle-class average american male, I have to laugh. I think Jesus would have ruffled all our feathers. I WANT him to ruffle our feathers.

I want to stop being numbed by the never ending onslaught of advertisements, television shows, and new action films. I don’t want any new apps on my phone, and I don’t want to know what all the celeb gossip is this week.

But I do want community. A community of real people, interested in real things. Things like global poverty alleviation efforts, and wether or not AIDS will ever have a cure. I know the world is overwhelming and scary and full of war, but I would so much rather be present, be praying, then be distracted by things that are just going to burn.

In 10 years, your phone will be obsolete, no one will even know what the “jersey shore” was, and your laptop will be sitting in a dump. We will think “4G” was joke, and our cars will not only park themselves, but drive themselves as well! We will probably never have to lift another finger again, and face to face communication will be nothing but a bad dream.

Meanwhile, I will be living in africa, sitting around a bonfire, waiting for the stew to finish while singing african praise songs with my local community. And it will feel like the kingdom of God is right in our midst.

Don’t get me wrong (and please don’t get offended by this post) because I do understand technology has helped us heaps and bunches (for instance my beautiful niece Ramona is alive and well because our hospitals are so well equipped and I thank God everyday for that). But I am also saying that it has the ability to completely and totally isolate us from the things that truly and deeply matter in life. Don’t let it. Don’t let it steal your precious time away from PEOPLE. Real life people who matter very much to God, and to his kingdom.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

miraculous all around.

okokok.

As most of you have already heard, the brain cloud uproar is officially KAPUT. I mean, done-zo, finished, and nothing but an anxious memory. PTL. Honestly, I don’t think I have EVER experienced a more stressful time than those weeks of being completely unsure of my own health, and the health of my little mocha baby girl.

But alas, God doesn’t seem to think my time is up quite yet (I have yet to see someone raised from the dead, or ridden a hippo, so when that happens, I am good to go.) And THANK YOU, for everyone who cared and prayed and encouraged Steven and me through this time. For the first week, when I hadn’t told anyone about the possibility of having said brain cloud, I felt alone and little, but as soon as people started to find out about it, I was surrounded by a cloud of love, hope, and the most wonderful of all, community.

We still aren’t sure why I have lost my peripheral vision (or if I really have lost it….although Wal-Mart optical seems to think I really have) but at this point, I am ok just knowing the MRI came out clear, and that there is no brain mass obstructing important visual nerves. It was the first (and hopefull last) MRI I have ever had. It wasn’t nearly as scary as I assumed, and I even nodded off for awhile, even with the sounds of a jackhammer all around my head.

Steven has been the best thing to happen to me EVER. He is so calm and supportive through everything, with this strange and quiet knowledge that we are going to be ok. He never complains, and never panics, and ALWAYS sits with me through EVERY doctors appointment (even when I got a bad cold and went to urgent care… even when I told him he didn’t have to.) He even went into the MRI room with me, and had to listen to jackhammers alongside me.

So anyhow, things are looking up. At this point, you would still have to pry my fingers off the robes of Jesus himself, as dependency on him has become the total norm for my life, but I am somehow ok with that notion. The more I cling, the less I worry about things like monies, brain clouds, dying cars, and wether or not we will ever get a kitten.

Lately, I have been trying to narrow down the sum of my anxieties. You would think after having miraculously dodged the brain cloud bullet, I would be full of faith and bursting with the knowledge that things are going to be a smooth-sailing journey from here on out. But honestly, that is a bunch of malarky, as we all know that life is full of hardship after hardship, and it would be unrealistic of me to think my life would be anything but.

I have come to the conclusion that one trial is simply preparing me for the things to come, wether those things are good, hard, scary or wonderful. So, why do I still have anxiety? If it doesn’t kill me, it only makes me stronger, right? Right.

Buuuuuuuuut, the unknown still makes me uneasy. And if I narrow down all my fears, I find my soul at war with the notion of faith, and if I truly truly believe that God is taking care of us, and that his plans are for good, wouldn’t I be living life with the same reckless abandon as all those crazy missionaries of old that I grew up reading about? The Moravians, Gladys Aylward, Jackie Pullinger, Hudson Taylor… Man, how I long to have those stories, those experiences, those…dare I say it… Adventures.

That is the thing about adventure though, isn’t it. Oftentimes, adventures come in terrifying packages, and once we embark on them, and ultimately live through them, then we have those stories. And we often look back on them and realize how the miraculous was taking place the entire time. I think the more impossible the circumstance, the less we are able to deny Gods direct and affectionate involvement in our lives.

That is how I feel, anyway. I mean, I have some cray-zay stories of my own. Stories from congolese refugee camps, to indian witches, to having to pee right on the busy dirt roads of south sudan for fear of setting off landmines and exploding myself into smithereens.. And I can see God all over the place.

I just pray, that with every new trial, I can look back at all those things, and remember that God is not one to forgot. He remembers us. He remembers me. I guess with all my stories, I have always had my health. I have always been hearty, and strong, and been able to withstand deadly bouts of malaria, ameobas and african flu. These last few months, I haven’t had that guarantee. In fact, it seemed like the most important part of me (my brain) was being taken from me. And you know what, when I came to grips with that idea, and realized that even if I do have some severe issue going on inside my head that turns me into a turnip, God can still use me. His ways are definitely strange and I don’t often agree with his methods, but in the end, I know He is wonderful and good, and if he can use me in a vegetative state, so be it. He is God, and I am not.

So, those are some thoughts on the last few months of my life. I am living out of utter gratefulness, and able to enjoy this pregnancy without the anxiety of brain clouds. This mocha baby is going to be special, and I honestly honestly can’t wait to meet her. In the meantime, Steven and I are waiting, preparing, praying, and above all, simply living in the knowledge of the miraculous all around.

 

 

 

the brain cloud uproar.

You maybe thinking that I am a total brat who likes to cause panic with seemingly out-of-nowhere facebook status updates about brain tumors.

It is true. I am a brat. But honest to goodness I had no idea how to tell people that I may or may not have something called a pituitary brain tumor, onset by pregnancy.

It all started last wednesday when I went to pick up my new glasses from Wal-Mart optometry (I’m poor, ok?). I arrived excited for my new (and awesome) glasses, and left with the certainty I would be dead by next thursday, or at least unable to remember the names of people I loved.

I had no idea what the eye doc was talking about when she mentioned words like “optic nerves” and “tumors”, but I was certain that it wasn’t good or pleasant, and it certainly wasn’t something I wanted to hear. This whole thing started when I failed TWO peripheral eye examinations. Apparently, I have lost all my peripheral vision, and simply stated, this is not an issue of vision, but rather of a neurological nature.

I had a minor meltdown in the Wal-Mart parking lot, whilst planning out the last six months I had to live. I just KNEW I was dying, and that I was going to lose my ability to speak at any moment. It was simply not what I was expecting to hear that day.

So, the eye doc referred me to a retina specialist at OHSU (casey eye institute) and my appointment was today. I will admit, the last week has been pretty awful, while I work through some major fears and doubts, but my family, friends and husband have been such a huge help and encouragement to me, and even helped me to recognize the good in this situation. My dad likes to refer to my condition as a  ”brain cloud,” a reference from the movie “Joe versus the volcano” (best.movie.EVER.) Basically, this dude (Tom Hanks) gets diagnosed with a “brain cloud” and is told he only has 3 months to live. So he decides to jump into a volcano for a tribe somewhere tropical, to appease the volcano gods (but it turns out to be a scam, and he doesn’t have a brain cloud at all, and because he is pure of heart the volcano spits him right out!)

But, he realizes through this whole ordeal, that living with the idea that he has nothing to lose, really freed him up, and he was enjoying life (whereas before he was working at American Panascope “home of the rectal probe” and basically hating life.)

So, Joe teaches us to get a little reckless. Enjoy life. Jump in a few volcanos.

However, when you are 4 months pregnant, and married to the love of your life, it is hard to think that this isn’t such a blessing, but rather something dreadful, and life-altering. The truth is, I have been having a hard time ever since arriving back from africa. Adjustment has been hard, learning how to have a real job again is hard, budgeting is hard, making friends is hard… Everything seems hard, and almost more than I can bare.

I felt guilty for letting Steven know how difficult it has been, because his situation isn’t any easier. I mean, he is in a completely new environment, culture, and climate for one. He can’t work, nor can he drive, and for the first time, we are not part of a ywam community as of now. Its rough, but he never complains.

So I didn’t want to unload on my hubs. But It was starting to boil over. I couldn’t contain my sadness, my fear, my stress, rage, disappointment or confusion for much longer. And in that Wal-Mart parking lot, I sat for a good 45 minutes, crying into my hands, while poor Steven sat next to me, trying to reassure his hysterical wife that God is still in control.

There is something about self pity where you don’t want to hear about God being in control. You don’t want to hear about faith, or joy or even peace. You want to wallow in your miserable circumstance, and you want others to wallow with you. The last thing I wanted was to trust in a God who allowed all these things in the first place. I mean, I had started questioning God the moment I started to feel like American life was more than I could handle.

How hypocritical am I? Here is someone who goes and tells war torn african villages about the goodness and faithfulness of God, and I can’t even handle a few bumps (large bumps) in my own life. I tell them he has a plan, even when the mess looks uglier than a blobfish.

seriously, nothing can be uglier than this.

Maybe this is why Steven handles things like this so much better than I. He DID grow up in war, watching friends and family die right in from of him, wether from janjaweed, jealous neighbors or disease. Steven is no stranger to tragedy. I didn’t understand his initial reaction to the brain cloud news, simply because he seemed so comfortable with the idea of this new challenge, and so set in the notion of God’s all consuming goodness. He wasn’t afraid. Which kind of freaked me out.

It’s like Steven and tragedy are old friends, who occasionally meet up and have coffee. He fears it about as much as he fears a potato, and he even likes the opportunity to depend fully on God, and get to know more of his miracles.

Man, I tell you what, this is NOT how I respond to tragedy. I become a blubbering mess, and all my faith crumbles like coffee cake in the hands of a toddler. I question God and his motives, and I just KNOW this a punishment for something or other. It just goes to show how skewed my view of Christ still is. No matter how many seminars I attend, or lectures I sit through, I still have this “big fist in the sky” kind of mentality toward God.

However, God keeps bringing me back to Romans 8:28: “And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, according to his purpose.” ALL THINGS. Even brain tumors. It’s hard to see it this way, when you are the one who may have the said brain tumor. But, when all the freaking out is over, and I feel as undone as I ever have, I realize that from the most wretched things in life, come the most beautiful. Take Steven. Born in War. Witness of murder, corruption, violence and hate. Learns true forgiveness. Becomes the man I will marry, the man who gives his life to see his oppressors set free.

Beauty from ashes.

I feel God all around. I am tired of blaming him,  and I am tired of being afraid. This is it. Whatever is going on inside my head, it can’t be bigger than God. And yes, He IS in control. It took me awhile to say this, and so I say it now with boldness. He is in control. I never was. I never will be. Everything is a gift.

You see, for a long time, I thought I had the right to be upset. I am american, after all. I am ALLOWED to wallow, and allowed to question authority and allowed to feel entitled to a little pity.

But then I remember Job. And Abraham. These dudes had every right to be upset by their circumstances. Job, he has EVERYTHING taken from him. From land, to camels, to children, nothing was spared. And yet he never cursed God. It doesn’t mean he didn’t mourn, because I am sure he did. But he never gave up believing in the ultimate goodness of God. It’s like he just knew something good was coming. That God was going to work out everything for good.

And Abraham. Let’s not forget when God asked him to sacrifice his ONLY son. And Sons were a big deal back then. He didn’t even bat an eye. I mean, I would’ve been so upset/angry/confused/whiny, and I probably would’ve purposely left the knife back at home. He didn’t. He just knew. Somehow, he understood the character of God in a way that I am so thirsty for.

Both of these dudes went down in history, and continue to change peoples lives, and the way they think about faith, obedience and God. I want to go down in history like them. I want to rejoice, instead of whine. I want to see good, when others can only see blobfishes.

And just so you don’t freak out, pituitary brain tumors aren’t that big of a deal, as far as brain tumors go. They are usually always non-cancerous, and although it may involve surgery, it might just be the best kind of brain tumor you can get.

So, who knows what’s going on inside my brain. I do have an MRI scheduled, and we will see after that. I don’t fear though, not now. Whatever is coming my way, I ask for grace, strength, joy and peace. I am surrounded by people I love, and who love me. Hopefully, it’s nothing, and I will rejoice in God’s mercy. If not, I will cry into the arms of my husband, and thank God for the miracles he is going to do in and through us.