Shade of a Glisten

I plod through thick, dark mud and sit on the cold, concrete porch of a one-room schoolhouse.

What can be done in only a day here? I wonder.

In the distance, grey clouds droop until they seem to brush the tops of a hundred rusty tin shacks. Toddlers in oversized clothes play quietly and unsupervised between the scattered buildings. The older children roll old tires and collect sticks from the splotches of dirt and grass.

I am afraid of scaring them with my white skin and American accent, so I stay seated, observing. I prop my chin on the palm of my hand. My silver camera is tied to my wrist and dangles between my knees, its shiny surface greatly contrasting the dullness of my surroundings. So far in the trip, the memory card only holds landscapes of a war-torn country, not alluring native faces.

As I stare at the horizon, where the dirt meets the clouds, I feel a small hand tap my right leg. The sudden presence startles me. My shock frightens the Kenyan toddler, and she shyly takes a step back.

“Oh! Hi, there…” I say with a smile so big that it nearly turns the greeting into a laugh. Not knowing if she understands me, I try again, “Jambo.”

Silence. A crooked smile. A step forward.

She reaches out her little hand and grasps my intriguingly lustrous camera. When I turn it on, her eyes widen. She jerks her hand back as if I made the inanimate object come to life. She looks timidly at me. Without words, she asks what it is. Without words, I answer by taking her picture then turning the camera around to show her the screen. Her black eyes shimmer with excitement. I wonder if she has ever seen herself.

In an instant, her playmates are surrounding me so closely that I can barely move. Shaved heads. Mismatched clothes. Runny noses. Dirty feet. Their beauty astounds me.

At least 15 hands reach for the strange gadget and tug at the string that ties it to my wrist. Finally, I release the camera, and half the crowd backs away to take their first photos.

The other half begins to examine me. The girls tug at my bright jewelry. I try to explain the colored beads of the Salvation bracelet I am wearing. “Blue is for Baptism,” I urge.

“Baloo… baaalooo…blue. Blue!” the younger ones repeat in their crisp accents, then laugh at themselves.

Colors now. Concepts later. I try to comfort myself. Oh, Lord, please, give me a later.

Small, dark brown fingers pull through my tangled, dark brown curls. Innocent yet experienced eyes stare at my white skin and American clothes. Swahili words hover between giggles.

A little boy comes with the other half of the group to bring back my camera. The memory card is full. The battery is dying.

“Time’s up,” I utter with a shaky voice. I make a frown in an attempt to relay the message.

They don’t understand.

Blogging

Hello, Anyone who may still keep up with this blog:

I have thoroughly enjoyed blogging here and will continue to post blogs sporadically. However, I've been blogging on another site as well, and keeping two blogs updated is just too much for my busy schedule. I will be blogging most often at xanga.com/cmyost. Please visit the site and subscribe to it. I suggest that you also subscribe to this one since I'll be posting here, too, just not as often as the other. Thanks for being my faithful readers and for building my platform for future publication. Be sure to give me feedback on any previous blogs and/or on xanga.

Faith and Hope,

Charity Yost

To You and Me

I despise the fact that I have not blogged in so long. Writing is my calling. Why is it so hard to find time for it? I'm always writing for school, but nothing that I feel called to write. . . except this week. My assignment is to write social commentary. I think I do that quite often on this site, so I dug through my old entries and made notes of major topics I've discussed.

Most of the social topics I mention here revolve around Christians not doing what they're supposed to be doing. That fact makes my skin crawl. Some of us do what Americans are expected to do all the time. We eat, drink, work out, wash our cars, pay taxes, work, have weekends, and so on. But when was the last time we did something that was specifically what is expected of a follower of Jesus Christ. Have we read Scripture today as if it were complete Truth for life? Have we thanked God for how good He has been to us? Have we tithed wholly? Have we treated our bodies like temples for the Holy Spirit? Have we truly loved each person we've seen today and not just pretended?

Why do Christians still screw up? Hasn't the love of God changed us? Haven't we let Him work in our lives? Why do we keep taking charge of our actions and thoughts? Why do we say things we don't mean?

I am begging the Body of Christ, including myself, to surrender everything with full confidence that God is omnisciently and omnipotently faithful. He can, and He will do whatever He knows is perfect in a perfect way. He doesn't need our permission. We don't have to let Him. But surrender is a much better light in which to see His work than either apathy or resistance. Be who you say you are. Be God's people. Be His appendages. Be his ambassadors. Be His love letters to the world. But please, don't lie about it with your life.

Really?

If you keep up with my xanga, you know I'm a few days behind on this blog. Since I am behind, the concepts may not be as clear as they were originally, but here's what I was trying to comprehend last week.

Sometimes, I get bogged down with the little things that aren't going the way I think they should. Right now, I'm behind on papers and projects and reading for classes. My dorm is a mess because I haven't unloaded from the weekend. It's a beautiful day outside, but I'm inside trying to catch up. I let little things get to me at times. But so many big things have more than canceled out those little factors.

Of course, the biggest of the big things is Christ's love for and faithfulness to me. Last week, I was focusing on Psalm 33. It's a beautiful passage, and I encourage you to read it. The passage is a great example of how God cares for me and for us as the human race; however, it felt so incredibly unbelievable. Yes, I, Charity Yost, the Christian, believer, follower, is saying it felt unbelievable. But doesn't the entire premise of the Gospel? Pardon me for being too real here, but that's the word that comes to mind. Yet, I believe. I believe the unbelievable.

In our Bible Study last week, I used the analogy of my boyfriend Ben. When he does sweet things for me, I sometimes give him a "get out of here" look. "Are you really my boyfriend?" I wonder. Can it be possible that I have someone in my life that I care about this much? Is it possible that he cares back? And why is he so nice? That feeling is just a portion of what I feel towards the One who created me with His own breath. "Are You serious? You loved me enough to die for me? AND You bless me every day?"

Sara Bareilles has a song called "My Love." It's about male-female love, but some of the words make me think about my Lord. He's real. He unbelievably believable. If you haven't experienced that, I'm happy to share.

"He bends His breath around my name, and I am humbled. I feel small and plain, but His arms are angels at His side. You need not ask if they're open, just how wide. . . . My love is on His way. I can't wait to see the day."

Update

Hello, all.

If you read my recent blog "Don't Stop Your Heart," much has happened with my friend Matt's family since then. I'd love for you to go to this link, then "launch" the video on the right of the page.

Matt's Dad

My Plans

Yesterday, I was in desperate need for God to speak to me. I didn't have a huge choice to make or task to complete. I just needed Him. I needed Him to whisper love to me. I found Proverbs 16, or He gave it to me.

"We can make our own plans, but the Lord gives the right answer" (v. 1).
"Commit your actions to the Lord, and your plans will succeed" (v. 3).
"We can make our plans, but the Lord determines our steps" (v. 9).
"We may throw the dice, but the Lord determines how they fall" (v. 33).

I make plans every day, short-term and long-term. I want everything to go according to those plans. I constantly have to take my hands off the controller and tell God to take over. I don't think I struggle with that so much as I constantly forget that He's better at this game than I am. He has the right answers. He owns success itself. He determines reality.


"Better to have little, with godliness, than to be rich and dishonest" (v. 8).
"Better to live humbly with the poor than to share plunder with the proud" (v. 19).

I am a broke, college student. It concerns me sometimes. The economy probably concerns most people right now. Comfort is knowing that Truth doesn't depend on money.

"When people's lives please the Lord, even their enemies are at peace with them" (v. 7).
"The king is pleased with words from righteous lips; he loves those who speak honestly" (v. 13).
"Kind words are like honey -- sweet to the soul and healthy for the body" (v. 24).
"Discretion is a life-giving fountain" (v. 22).
"Better to be patient than powerful; better to have self-control than to conquer a city" (v.32).

Sometimes, it's so hard to be good. I truly believe that God blesses the righteous and those blessings are rewarded now or later. I truly believe that God gives us His own righteousness if we are His. But I also believe that I have the choice whether or not to utilize that power to do right. Sometimes, that choice is difficult to make. People have told me that it shouldn't be because I am a new creation in Christ, but that doesn't change the fact that I occasionally want to do evil things like retaliate or be disrespectful to people who are disrespectful to me.

But Scripture promises that if I choose to do what pleases the Lord, even my enemies will be at peace with me. If I speak righteous Truth, He is pleased. If I am discreet and inoffensive, I will have life. And if I show patience and self-control, I've accomplished more than overtaking an entire city. Being good is worthwhile.

"When the king smiles, there is life" (v. 15).

I want to make my King smile. I plan on it.

Don't Stop Your Heart

Except for the past four and a half months, I was single my entire life. There were times that I was skeptical about male/female relationships, when I hated the entire male race, when I swore I'd never let little red hearts float around my head. I had good reasons, which were bad experiences.


A few of my friends are in those skeptical stages. They think that I've abandoned them by abandoning my skepticism. They don't understand why anyone would want to love for risk of pain. They deny any need for someone of the opposite sex in their lives. Maybe you do. I heard a story today that might not alter your view of the future and relationships, but it may alter your view of love in general, maybe even faith. A day later, I heard this story. I'm repeating this story closely to how it was relayed to me. May it reach out from this computer screen and pat you on the shoulder.


My friend Matt's nephew found Matt's dad Ken in the bathroom floor yesterday morning. Ken was in the fetal position, struggling to breathe, and asking for his wife. His wife rushed in, called 911 and our pastor Blake, then went with him to the hospital. Blake rushed there, too. They all prayed desperately for Ken, but shortly later, the doctors told the family that Ken had died of a heart attack. The nurses kept him on a respirator while the family came in to say their last goodbyes. Patients are typically pronounced dead after 30 minutes of being in Ken's state. As Ken's wife Tina began talking to him, the heart monitor registered its first faint beat in 49 minutes.

After more prayer from family and friends and more work from the doctors, Ken was taken into surgery. He made it through and, by this morning, could sit up in bed and respond verbally to questions.


Faith. Hope. Love. I need these. Of the three, my greatest need is love. It grants me the other two. I have the right to be a skeptic. I also have the right to choose not to exercise that right. I believe in the strength and power of genuine love. I believe it can rejuvenate faith then move mountains. I also believe that it can start hearts that have stopped.

One More Layer

I sat on clear plastic, cross-legged, in sweatpants and an old tee shirt. Burgundy paint dripped from the sponge roller and down the handle, barely missing my new Class of 2006 high school ring. All of my furniture was pushed to the center of my small room as my parents and I worked rigorously near the outside edges.

Daddy always did the trim of any paint job in our house. He was the most meticulous and had the steadiest hand. He pulled the triangular sponge along the molding and corners. My mom, on the other hand, tended to get distracted in the midst of painting, so she took the role of tidying.
She wiped the walls before we started, dusted everything within a ten-foot radius of the paint, and moved items just before they got in our way. This task assignment left me with the roller.

Daddy and I worked silently except for the dipping then dripping of brushes and rollers followed by moist swishing sounds against the walls. If anyone said anything, it was my mom, sharing memories about my childhood while she straightened articles in my room.

My room grew up with me. The walls began as white as a clean dry erase board. They were the background for a red and yellow circus theme when my parents brought me home from Oconee Memorial Hospital in early fall of 1987. Though I had no preference for color as an infant, almost twenty years later, red and yellow were undeniably my favorites.

As I dodged the white molding, I remembered that the walls changed from the white of the nursery to light pink during elementary school. My beloved pastel dolls and tea sets abounded, but my tomboy personality didn't allow that stage to last very long.

I followed the wall with my paint roller until I reached the phone jack. With my new cellular phone, I had no use for the jack anymore, but I certainly did in the late 90s. As I became enamored with various actors and boy-bands, the soft pink walls became the background for posters torn out of Teen Magazine. I remembered the phone that used to be there. It lit up hot pink when it rang, matching the shade of my cheeks if the caller were a boy.

From late middle school to early high school, when my mom insisted that the walls throughout the entire house have the same neutral color, my room turned “dusted olive.” Then, I believed that all boys were stupid and horses were marvelous. We traded my popular posters and girly pinks for horse figurines and rustic browns.

Now, I was a senior in high school. I wanted something more mature. I needed something different because I was different. I was going to be in college soon. I needed this.

I had just returned from my senior trip to Spain, Italy, and France with deep-colored, European souvenirs and artsy pictures. I had also recently inherited my great-grandmother’s antique bedroom suite. The combination of modern Europe and an old heirloom was perfect. Wall to wall mahogany bookshelves were essential for my collection of American classics. I couldn’t afford them now, but they would come. So would the sheer, cream curtains and the silk, orange pillow that I daydreamed of as I sat scraping the dried paint off my tired hands at the end of the day. The presence of my equally exhausted parents reminded me that I was not completely independent. Still, I knew that I stood in the midst of my masterpiece, and underneath were all those layers of paint.

My Own Charge

These verses came to me this morning as I was reading Let Me Be a Woman by Elisabeth Eliot. Reading this book has made me reevaluate my female role in the universal realm of all society and in the personal realm of my own current and future family. I highly recommend it along with the many other works she has written. Please read Isaiah 58 today. I know the Lord will be faithful to bless you by the mighty words within it. Here, I have relayed my separated interpretation. It has very many quotes from the New Living Translation.

God starts in verse six to say,

"This is the kind of fasting I want:"

-Free those who are wrongly imprisoned. (v. 6)
-Lighten the burden of those who work for you. (v. 6)
-Let the oppressed go free. (v. 6)
-Remove the chains that bind people. (v. 6)
-Share your food with the hungry. (v. 7)
-Give shelter to the homeless. (v. 7)
-Give clothes to those who need them. (v. 7)
-Do not hide from relatives who need your help. (v. 7)
-Stop pointing your finger and spreading vicious rumors. (v. 9)
-Feed the hungry. (v. 10)
-Help those in trouble. (v. 10)
-Keep the Sabbath day holy. (v. 13)
-Speak of the Sabbath with delight. (v. 13)

What a charge for us. What a responsibility.

But the Lord is so balanced in every way. When He asks us to do huge things, He promises giant blessings in return.

-Your salvation will come like the dawn. (v. 8)
-Your wounds will quickly heal. (v. 8)
-Your godliness will lead you forward. (v. 8)
-The glory of the Lord will protect you from behind. (v. 8)
-When you call, the Lord will answer.... He will quickly reply. (v. 9)
-Your light will shine out from the darkness, and the darkness around you will be as bright as noon. (v. 10)
-The Lord will guide you continually. (v. 11)
-The Lord will give you water when you are dry. (v. 11)
-The Lord will restore your strength. (v. 11)
-You will be like a well-watered garden, like an ever-flowing spring. (v. 11)
-The Lord will be your delight. (v. 14)
-The Lord will give you great honor. (v. 14)

Virtuosity, Heritage, and Completion

“What if we have a girl?” I can imagine my mom asking my dad in their one-room apartment with cardboard boxes stacked high along the walls. She was seven months pregnant with me and in the middle of the moving process before they seriously discussed the genetic possibilities of a female child. They had already chosen the name Benjamin Wayne Yost and had consistently called me “Benjamin” for several months of the pregnancy.
My parents at least agreed that they favored virtuous names.

“Honey, what do you think about the name Charity? That’s the main character in this book.”

A romance novel with a questionable cover dangled from my mother’s hand. Thoughts raced through Daddy’s mind that this name might not be as virtuous as he hoped if it was inspired by the paperback book she was holding. Beneath dark brows, his hazel eyes showed disapproval.

“The girl in the book is a strong character! She’s what we’d want our daughter to be – mature, caring, level-headed, smart…. She even has brown hair and eyes. It’s a sign!” my mom concluded, nodding and grinning.

She lifted herself and the cumbersome weight of pregnancy up from the mid-eighties, golden-upholstered couch and reached for the King James Version Bible on the coffee table. The leather cover was badly wrinkled from a careless mishap with scalding hot coffee. The pages were folded and wrinkled. Still, the Scripture held more cherished highlights and scribbles than the romance novel in her other hand.

“I’m telling you, it means good things,” my mom continued while Daddy contemplated in silence, glancing over the top of his issue of Georgia Outdoor World magazine.

Mama flipped through her Bible’s thin pages to First Corinthians 13 and began to read about the true virtue of charity. Daddy’s forehead lost its doubt wrinkles when she read phrases like “doth not behave itself unseemingly” and “thinketh no evil.”

The wrinkles on his forehead smoothed as fears about the woman on the other cover began to disappear, and the image of a well-behaved little girl emerged.

“And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity,” Mama ended the chapter.

“Charity,” he said, trying the word out for sound. “Charity…. Hmph… I like that.” Conversation halted in a happy pause of silent agreement.

Marie seemed to be the obvious choice for a middle name. It was made popular in my mom’s family by Gladys Marie Sherrill, my spry great-grandmother, who danced around the house, singing and twirling her skirts while dinner was cooking. My mom’s eccentric sister Cindi also shared a variation of the name. “Cynthia Maria Weaver” was typed on her birth certificate by accident though my grandmother had originally chosen Cynthia Marie. My mother might have been trying to redeem that mistake, or she might have simply enjoyed the dramatic stories her older sister told when they were children.

“Charity Marie Yost,” they said in unison. Adding the German surname made it complete. After seven months, they were finally satisfied.

11 Numbers and Rightful Wrath

For several years, I have been trying to read the whole Bible. After reading each chapter, I check it off a list at the back of my Bible. The New Testament is completely checked, but the Old Testament is a struggle for me. I usually read a chapter at a time, but today, I read five. The words were so interesting to me, mostly because I prayed before I began reading and asked the Lord to make them that way.

I'm reading in Numbers right now, where the Israelites (about 600, 000 people) are living in the desert under the leadership of Moses. Most of Moses' time is spent listening to the Lord and conveying those messages to the people.

All along, God sets this cloud of fire over the people. When it moves, they move. They camp wherever it stops. God is feeding them, showing them His glory through a protective cloud, and speaking to them through Moses. How cool is that?

But, in Numbers 11, the people are complaining about some difficulties they are having. God hears their whining and gets so angry that He lets his fire "consume some of the outskirts of the camp" (Num. 11:1). Moses asks for mercy for the people, and the Lord stops the burnings.

The Lord faithfully supplies their needs, sending down "manna" from the sky. Can you imagine bread falling from the sky? Numbers 11:9 says "When the dew settled on the camp at night, the manna also came down." It's like a free food pantry. It also "tasted like something made with olive oil" (Num. 11:8). This brings back the delicious memories of when I was in Italy, and they brought out bread with a dish of olive oil. You might think of the Olive Garden. I may be way off on my picture what manna actually is, but the Bible is surprisingly descriptive about this food and how the people creatively cook it.

But, the embers of the Lord's wrathful fire are probably still smoking when the people begin complaining again! They are craving meat with manna. The Israelites remind me of that one person who stands in the singeing sun with other people and states the obvious, "It's hot." They remind me of that person at the restaurant who is never satisfied with anything the waitress or waiter brings from the kitchen. What is even more frustrating is that they remind me of myself when I complain about things I just need to toughen up and get done (prime example : school work). I forget even New Testament commands to "Do everything without complaining or arguing" (Philippians 2:14).

With this, "the Lord became exceedingly angry" (Num. 11:10), and Moses felt extremely burdened as the middle man. This is where God's grace comes into play. He sends not one, not a few, but 70 men to help Moses carry the burden of the people.

As for the complaining people, however, the Lord gives them what they want. But this is His tone, "The Lord will give you meat, and you will eat it. . . for a whole month -- until it comes out of your nostrils and you loathe it -- because you have rejected the Lord, who is among you, and have wailed before him, saying 'Why did we ever leave Egypt?'" (Num. 18-20).

Moses argues that the people are completely unsatisfiable and even this will not be enough for them. God's reply is my favorite part of this passage.

"Is the Lord's arm too short? You will now see whether or not what I say will come true for you" (Num. 11:23).

So many times, I treat my Creator as if He were incapable of meeting my needs.

God sent meat in the form of quail by a wind that blew them from the sea. They were "all around the camp to about three feet above the ground, as far as a day's walk in any direction" (Num. 11:31). My Creator is capable.

But the Lord was also angry with the unrepentant and unthankful people. He spread a plague and let down his fire again because they craved other food instead of being appreciative and content. That place was called Kibroth Hattaavah which actually means "graves of craving."

I am finding out through the Old Testament that God can get very angry. I have not seen this side of my God very often in my life, so it sometimes surprises me. I find this to be God's scary side. People don't want to think of the Lord as scary. They want to think of Him as kind, gentle, soothing, compassionate, understanding, etc. He is all those things. But He can also be scary. That's how awesome He is. I'm glad that my God can be both comforter and protector. Not only does he provide for me physically and emotionally, but He's also like that guy you want on your side in a fight. He's strong and powerful, but He fights fairly.

Anger and wrath. Grace and provision. So much to learn and comprehend. So much to admire.

This Is All

This week is possibly going to be the most demanding of the semester, if not the most strenuous of my entire college career so far. The amount of reading I have to do, papers I have to write, and midterms I have to take is unbelievable. I began stressing out last week simply anticipating the fullness of this week. I was absolutely sure that I could not accomplish everything that was required of me.

"God, I can't do this. I am completely incapable. The only solution I know is that You're going to have to do it for me," I admitted.

My boyfriend Ben sent a message to me via facebook the very next day, reassuring me that God was "taking care of things." He also included the lyrics to a David Crowder song, which inspired me to have a David Crowder marathon during my hour-long drive to church that morning. I cried when I heard his skillfully crafted words.

"I'm so tired. I'm doing all that I can," I prayed. The song echoed.

Lord I'm tired
So tired from walking
And Lord I'm so alone
And Lord the dark
Is creeping in
Creeping up
To swallow me
I think I'll stop
Rest here a while

And didn't You see me cry'n?
And didn't You hear me call Your name?
Wasn't it You I gave my heart to?
I wish You'd remember
Where You sat it down

And this is all that I can say right now
And this is all that I can give

Crowder's next image was one that I still have not fully grasped.

Just before the Last Supper, Jesus pulled out a basin and water, knelt down, and washed his disciples feet. The Bible calls this "the full extent of His love" (John 13:1 NIV). That is the only comparison I can suggest to what I have felt all week. My pure and holy Savior, Jesus Christ, has knelt in front of me and washed away the dust of my anxiety and shortcomings. At first, I protested, "No, you shall never wash my feet! (John 13:8 NIV) I should be washing yours. Please, don't Lord. I am so unworthy. Let me do it."

But He insists, "If I don't . . . you can't be part of what I'm doing" (John 13:8 MSG)

He and I both know that I can't do all this alone. So with a sigh, half of relief and half of surrender, I let my Master serve me. I am so unworthy.

I didn't notice You were standing here
I didn't know that
That was You holding me
I didn't notice You were cry'n too
I didn't know that
That was You washing my feet.

His only request is that I return the favor to others by washing their feet.


And this is all that I can say right now
And this is all that I can give
That's my everything.

Palms Against the Wound

I found a children's book on Kenya in the library and decided to read it since I spent two weeks there this summer. I wanted to know the difference between written facts and what I had seen. I do not claim to be an expert on the subject of a foreign developing country like Kenya, but I knew that at least I had some sort of comparison.

The book was in line with many of the customs and historical facts that I had personally witnessed. Many of the pictures looked familiar. However, the largest difference from the reality I had seen and the book I was reading bothered me. They only mentioned the poverty on one page in one sentence.

I understand that children are vulnerable to harsh facts and that they should be protected. That does not lessen the impact that many children actually live in those harsh facts of starvation and illiteracy while our American children are being read to in an air-conditioned classroom. Did they even catch that sentence?

This blog is not meant to argue whether or not the book should have revealed more of the reality of poverty. It is meant to reprimand myself from ever letting the impact of my trip to Kenya begin to blur into only a sentence. The "matope" (mud) has been washed off my shoes. The pictures of dirty-faced toddlers have been put into an album and placed on a shelf. The emails from connections that I made there have slowed. Some of the memories are not quite as vivid as they were on the plane ride home. Still, the influence that those images made on my soul and my beliefs should never weaken.

Now, I'm back in school. My classes are so demanding. My life is on a schedule. My actions are absorbed by my agenda. Donald Miller wrote, "Six billion people live in this world, and I can only muster thoughts for one. Me." (p.22) This summer, I rarely had time to think about me, but now, I can't get myself out of my own mind. I'm always planning for the next class or the next appointment, or the next date, or the next outing with my friends. Even spiritual things are about me and my own relationship with Christ. I'm not insinuating that any of these thing are bad as they are, only that I'm capable of so much more if I only think outside myself.

This hurts my pride, especially when Miller asks a tough question : "Do I want social justice for the oppressed, or do I just want to be known as the socially active person?" (p.20) How could I see the faces of those children in the orphanage or see Kibera or watch a teenager take drugs to numb his hunger and not want social justice? I don't want to be the spoiled "mzungu" (white person) who just wants to be recognized for charity. I want to care, and I want my social activeness to flow from that care.

"Can you imagine if Christians actually believed that God was trying to rescue us from the pit of our own self-addiction? Can you imagine? Can you imagine what Americans would do if they understood over half the world was living in poverty? Do you think they would change the way they live, the products they purchase, and the politicians they elect? If we believed the right things, the true things, there wouldn't be very many problems on earth. ... But the trouble with deep belief is that it costs something. And there is something inside me, some selfish beast of a subtle thing that doesn't like the truth at all because it carries responsibility, and if I actually believe these things I have to do something about them. It is so, so cumbersome to believe anything." (p.107)

Cumbersome? Yes. Simple? Also, yes.

"All great Christian leaders are simple thinkers. . . . he actually believes that when Jesus says feed the poor, He means you should do this directly." (p.110)

I believe that giving money and praying is a very powerful way to enable others to help those in need. I also believe that actually helping those in need is what we as the church have been called to do. There is a cure, a remedy. Pastor Steven Furtick of Elevation Church in Charlotte, NC, said, "The Church is God's plan A. It's His plan B. It's his plan C, his plan D, his plan E, his plan F. The Church is God's plan for the earth. It is His chosen way. The people of God. . . . When the Church is being the Church, there's nothing like it. The reason most of us have a hard time figuring it out is because most of us have never seen it. . . the church extending mercy, the church becoming a community of healing." When will we stop being so stuck and start moving to further this plan? Many are moving. I refuse to be stationary.

One of the most powerful statements that I read all summer was this one. It's is so vivid, passionate, and urgent. "The human struggle bothered [him], as if something was broken in the world and we were supposed to hold our palms against the wound." (p.114) The world is bleeding. Why are we just watching it hemorrhage on the evening news or in missions slide shows on Sunday mornings? We have the first aid kit.


*Quotes here are from Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller.*

An Orange Sky Behind the Dark Clouds

I watched the sunset today as I have been doing most days so far this semester. The sky was striped in orange, but dark billowing clouds hid most of its beauty. The sky listens to me, that's why I love it so. I mean, of course, I talk to God, my Jehovah Jireh, not really the sky. No, I am not Pantheistic; I do not believe that the sky is God. However, sitting beneath an open sky makes me feel as if I know God better than I know anyone and that He knows me better than I know myself. My words there in his presence cannot be too loud or too quiet. Everything is heard, even whispers that echo His promises.

Today was quiet. My whispered promises came from Psalm 108 and 109. They told my Lord things He already knew, but things I needed to say about my life currently. Perhaps they will speak for you as well.

"My heart is confident in you, O God; no wonder I can sing your praises with all my heart! Wake up, lyre and harp! I will wake the dawn with my song. I will thank you, Lord, among the people. For your unfailing love is higher than the heavens. Your faithfulness reaches to the clouds. Be exalted, O God, above the highest heavens. May your glory shine over all the earth. Now rescue your beloved people. Answer and save us by your power. God has promised this by his holiness . . . Who will bring me into the fortified city? Who will bring me victory over Edom? Have you rejected us, O God? Will you no longer march with our armies? Oh, please, help us against our enemies, for all human help is useless. With God's help we will do mighty things, for he will trample down our foes. O God, whom I praise, don't stand silent and aloof . . . Help me, O Lord my God! Save me because of your unfailing love. Let them see that this is your doing, that you yourself have done it, Lord. . . But I will give repeated thanks to the Lord, praising him to everyone. For he stands beside the needy, ready to save them from those who condemn them."

I Do Not Have the Blues

While I was staying home in May, being a camp counselor in June, and flying on a plane to Kenya in July, I read the book Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller. The following are a few of my favorite quotes from my summer reading :

"I always thought the Bible was more of a salad thing, you know, but it isn't. It is a chocolate thing." p.47

"If you don't love somebody, it gets annoying when they tell you what to do or what to feel. When you love them you get pleasure from their pleasure, and it makes it easy to serve. I didn't love God because I didn't know God." p.14

"I will love God because he first loved me. I will obey God because I love God. . . . Self-discipline will never make us feel righteous or clean; accepting God's love will." p.86

"Sometimes you have to watch somebody love something before you can love it yourself." p.ix

"Passion is tricky, though, because it can point to nothing as easily as it points to something. . . . Passion about nothing is like pouring gasoline in a car without wheels." p.109 and 110

"I don't have to watch the evening news to see that the world is bad, I only have to look at myself." p.20

"I believe that the greatest trick of the devil is not to get us into some sort of evil, but rather have us wasting time. This is why the devil tries so hard to get Christians to be religious. If he can sink a man's mind into habit, he will prevent his heart from engaging God." p.13

"All great Christian leaders are simple thinkers. . . . actually believes that when Jesus says feed the poor, He means you should do this directly." p.110

"What I believe is not what I say I believe; what I believe is what I do." p.110

"'If we are not willing to wake up in the morning and die to ourselves, perhaps we should ask ourselves whether or not we are really following Jesus.'" p.185

"I need wonder." p.205

"I need for there to be something bigger than me. I need someone to put awe inside me; I need to come second to someone who has everything figured out." p.237

"If we could, God would not inspire awe." p.202

"The things we want most in life, the things we think will set us free, are not the things we need.... that's the tricky thing about life, really, that the things we want most will kill us." p.63

"It is always the simple things that change our lives. And these things never happen when you are looking for them to happen. Life will reveal answers at the pace life wishes to do so. You feel like running, but life is on a stroll. This is how God does things." p.217

"God had never withheld love to teach me a lesson." p.220

"Nobody will listen to you unless they sense that you like them." p.220

"Communicate the idea that Jesus likes people and even loves them." p.112

Candy Island

My mom and I always took a trip to the grocery store on Friday nights. I loved the opportunity to have her attention all to myself as we walked around the store together. We were distracted from each other’s lovingly irritating qualities and focused on completing the overwhelming task of buying groceries for nine people.

Because of the immensity of the feat and the mother-daughter time that it provided, I had never been allowed to bring friends on these outings. Mama must have had a soft spot in her heart for Rebekah Henderson’s unpredictable personality. When I was about thirteen, I got permission to invite Bek for a sleepover on a Friday night. She tagged along for our weekly ritual. Bek and I shivered throughout the store. My mom must have gotten tired of hearing our teeth chattering, so she sent us both to the candy island for a half-pound bag each. Her offer warmed us quickly.

The candy stand seemed like Willy Wonka’s factory. Colorful gumdrops, mints, jellybeans, taffies, caramels, and chocolates sparkled in sugary splendor. We could not stop grinning. Bek unrolled two plastic bags, and we began filling and weighing them. As we neared the half-pound mark, we noticed baseball-sized jawbreakers in the last canister. They were perfect for meeting our quota.

Before I could stop her, Bek lifted the lid, stretched her bare hand into the clear container of unwrapped jawbreakers, and dropped one into her bag. “Rebekah!” I spouted. She looked at me, clueless. “You’re supposed to use the scooper!”

“Oh,” she replied, shrugging apathetically. She stretched her hand far into the long bag, brought out the jawbreaker, and plopped it back into its box. Then she scooped another large candy sphere from the canister and placed it in her bag.

I tied a knot in my plastic bag just above the candy and then tied the excess of the bag around my wrist. I led the way through the store to find my mom, swirling the bag in circles. Bek was only a step behind me, swirling her bag as well, only she had not tied the bag around her wrist. The jawbreaker at the end of the long bag made a kind of slingshot that David might have found handy in slaying Goliath. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as Bek’s half-pound bag of candy left her hand, spun through the air, and landed on top of a meat freezer.

We stared at each other with wide eyes, glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed. Relieved that no one had seen, we burst into embarrassed giggles. Not knowing what to do about the precious lost candy, Bek and I decided to consult my wise mother. We found her in the dairy section, oblivious to the ruckus we had created. When we confessed, she simply shook her head and told us to go fill another bag for Bek. “But, no more mishaps,” she warned.

Back at the candy island, I helped Bek reload her stash of goodies. We managed gracefully to avoid any bare-handed retrievals or any near-ceiling launches. We were almost finished and proud of our treasure. We weighed the bag once more in the shiny metal plate. It read only a couple ounces short. She decided to add more Skittles. I agreed; they were my favorite, too. I offered to hold the bag open like a pot of gold so she could pour in that glorious sugar-coated rainbow.

She missed.

Skittles bounced like pebbles across the tile flooring and down several aisles of the store. We looked at each other again with wide eyes and gaping mouths. This time, when we glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed, there were three Bi-Lo employees with cleaning supplies staring at us as if we had just destroyed their masterpiece. We scurried around the mess we had made, found my mom in a check-out line, and huddled close to her for protection from the contemptuous grocery workers.

That was the first and the last time that my mom allowed anyone else to accompany us on our weekly trips to the store.

Which City?

While I was working at Marietta Baptist Camp during June and July, our worship leader, Jamie Koenig, introduced me to the song "God Of This City" by Chris Tomlin. The lyrics are truly inspirational and were especially so to me throughout the rest of the summer.

At MBC, I would pray for God to rule over the tiny southern town of Marietta, South Carolina, while I worked and lived there. God was moving in the lives of the children and the staffers. Each week, as one of my campers would sit with me at the altar and give her life to Christ for the first time, I knew that God was answering the prayers that we had sung for that little city.

After working at camp, I flew to Nairobi, Kenya, for a mission trip. I listened to "God Of This City" on my iPod while I was sitting under a mosquito net in a major African city. The irony that I had sung the very same thing to God in two very opposite settings made me smile. The children at the orphanage, the teens in the slums, the women in the open muddy market, the businessmen on the dirty streets, all of them were part of the city that I had prayed for God to use me to be His hope and light, just as I had at a summer camp.

Now, back in the southern United States, dorming and attending classes in the city of Tigerville, South Carolina, which is essentially the campus of North Greenville University, I pray that God will also reveal Himself as the God of this city during my time here.

"You're the Lord of Creation, the Creator of all things. You're the King above all Kings. You are. You're the strength in our weakness. You're the love to the broken. You're the joy in the sadness. You are. You're the God of this city. You're the King of these people. You're the Lord of this nation. You are. There is no one like our God. There is no one like our God. Greater things have yet to come. Great things are still to be done in this city. Greater things are still to come, and greater things are still to be done here."

Weakness, brokenness, and sadness exist in all cities, but God created them and reigns over them. He brings strength, love, joy, and hope, and He does that through His people. "Hakuna Mungu kama we we. Hakuna na hata kuweko." There is no one like our God. There is none and there never will be. Southern English or Swahili, Marietta or Nairobi - it makes no difference in the greatness of God. May He be the God of wherever I am.

Back and Blogging

I am back in the USA and full of stories. I will pick up my blogging starting next week, so get ready to read!

Much love and grace for my faithful readers . . . . I can't wait to share with you.

Summer Break

I'm on summer break from school right now and will be far from technology for most of it. Instead, I'll be working out, getting a tan, eating more than anyone should, working at a camp, and traveling to Kenya. But as soon as I get back to school in August, I'll have so many ideas collected that I want to spill to my readers that you will be overwhelmed with information. So, please, don't give up on my blog. Go back and read from days past, and stay tuned until the end of the summer. You'll be glad you did; I'm sure of it!

Today

Today, let me right the wrongs of the world. Every last one. Let me hold the new life wrapped tightly in a nursery of the orphanage in Nairobi. Let the tiny fingers grip around something softer than neglect. Let the sun burn my skin as I play hopscotch with a child whose friends were picked up from school on time. Let me forget my studies to hug the struggling student.

Today, let me right the wrongs of the world. Every last one. Let him talk to me until his hopes are truth, solid as the hammer in his hand. Let her complain until her fears in the custody trial, which keep her awake all night and at work all day, are yesterday’s memories, not today’s migraines. Let my ears be used to soothe.

Today, let me right the wrongs of the world. Every last one. Let me become friends with a girl who sells her body because no one else ever found her heart worth their time. Let me give freely to thieves. Let steel and iron entrap me if it means I have talked with a prisoner.

Today, let me right the wrongs of the world. Every last one. Let me sell my favorite dress to serve a warm breakfast to the hungry and homeless. Let me sit on a cracking concrete curb and listen to their thoughts and learn. Let me learn. Let the autumn chill fill my thin clothes. Let the rain fall onto my uncovered mind. Let me love them by knowing them, not just by watching the news.

Today, let me right the wrongs of the world. Every last one. Let me drive for hours to be with a friend. Let wet tears drain down my face in place of the ones she covers beneath her sturdy faith. Let me resurrect above the dark grave of the one she loved and show her the bright blue sky hovering over the rich green of earth.

Today, let me right the wrongs of the world. Every last one.