Every Tribe, Tongue and Nation

I've been meaning to get to the Spanish service that Church in the City has on Sunday afternoons, but until today hadn't made the effort. After being sick all week, I had a slow morning and so decided to skip English service and go Español this afternoon. It felt like coming home.
The first person I met was Brian. Brian is an older gentlemen who has lived in Denver since '57. He was a little disheveled and, well, he is white, like me. He refused to speak to me in English and so we had some Spanish chit chat before the service. He has been teaching himself Spanish over the years and is pretty good-- about where I was after 6 months in the DR. When we walked into the sanctuary, he introduced me to the Pastors and then to a lovely older Mexican woman named Marguerita. He took off and so I sat with her and listened to her talk and talk and talk about the Lord. I could not stop smiling. I don't know what it is about Latin Christian culture, but they LOVE to talk about the Lord and about faith and about trials and how God uses the trials to strengthen them. I am always humbled and built up after listening. And, also following Latin culture, everyone else who walked in the building (either before or after the service) came up to say hello, shake hands, exchange names and a 'Dios le bendiga, hermana' (God bless you, sister). The pastor never has to encourage Latinos to greet others-- it's ingrained in them. Also, If you don't know this, all Spanish worship songs are passionate and all about the Gospel. They are always completely focused on Jesus and His worthiness, not on ourselves. Because of this, they lead one into a place of worship of the Holy and I always feel the presence of God when I am singing Spanish worship. The prayers, too, are different than the prayers we pray in English. They always focus on His power, His majesty, His mercy, His blood. By the time the preaching is about to start, I am already filled with the Spirit. Today was no different.
The Chilean pastor had a burden to share his and his wife's testimony of their conversions, faith walk and life as missionaries (Brazil, Honduras, Equatorial Guinea and now Denver). He had his wife sit up next to him and they tandem-shared their mutual journey. With tears consistently leaking out the corners of my eyes, I listened for over an hour to story after story of times when they felt that God had abandoned them and then, after prayer, how God miraculously came through. With tears consistently leaking out of the corners of their eyes, they implored us to not forget the mercies of God, to not forsake praying for His promises to come to pass, to not become weary in well-doing and to pray always, in all circumstances, believing.
I needed to hear that today. Big time. I thought a lot about my call to nations and about how God has not removed that call from my life, even though I am here in Denver. In fact, downstairs, just below us, as we were having church in Spanish, there was another service going on in Indonesian. I could not help but reflect on my time in Indonesia 6 years ago and how just being there for two months made me feel connected to the people worshipping downstairs. I thought about how excited I am to start Hebrew classes at this same church in January and I wondered at God's excellent craftsmanship in bringing me to a place that has an Indonesian congregation, a Messianic congregation and a Hispanic congregation. In just one building I see God's thread in my life and marvel.
After service, I walked outside and met a young man coming out of the Indonesian service. He is Chinese, speaks little English and sometimes attends the Indonesian service with his wife who is Chinese Indonesian. He gets bored, he says, because he doesn't understand Indonesian. He and his wife, Macy, are fairly new to Denver as well and are looking for friends. I didn't get to meet her since the Indonesian service was still going on, but I plan on spending some time getting to know them in the future. What an awesome day. That's all I can say.

Never Alone

In just two days we celebrate Christmas. Before I chose to believe that Jesus was the only way to the Father, the only way to freedom and salvation and redemption and restored relationship, Christmas was a lovely time of homemade cookies, handmade stockings hanging over the fireplace, our traditional Christmas tape (now burned onto a CD) that my dad mixed many years ago, German Apple Pancakes in the morning, ripping open of presents. Come on, it's the best time of year. It's the best day. After I decided to believe in Jesus and call myself a Christian, Christmas actually continued just about the same, though I now recognize the gospel truth being sung out through many carols (how could I have missed that message all those years?) I can't say that I spend lots of time preparing my heart during advent or that I meditate for hours on his birth and what His coming to earth really means. I am one of those who LOVES the American tradition of Christmas and all that it entails. Neighbors exchanging baked goodies, Charlie Brown's Christmas, all the colorful wrapping paper and bows... I LOVE it!
This year, however, is a little different for me.
I'm not at home. It's my first Christmas without my family. I've never missed a Christmas. I thought that I would be okay with it. I mean, we celebrated it early since my brother and his fiancé, Stacy, were going to spend Christmas in Connecticut with her family and my little nephew, Gabriel, was going to spend it with his mom. And, I was leaving for Colorado. It all seemed okay. Then I got here and found out that Gabriel had to leave his mom's and come back to his daddy's. They couldn't afford to buy him a ticket to Connecticut, too, so they had to postpone their trip. They're all there, right now, at my mom's having Christmas parties, baking cookies, singing carols, hanging out the stockings, wrapping presents. And here I am, in a new city, watching the snow fall down, sick with a cold and spending endless hours with my roommate's Siamese cat Puss Puss Elvis while my roommate is at work. I'm trying not to feel sorry for myself, but it's not working.
This is when it hits me that maybe this Christmas can really be about Jesus. Even though I'm sort of at odds with Him at the moment as I question His motives for moving me out here, I can't help but feel inexplicably drawn to be nearer to Him than ever before. Loneliness has a way of doing that. As I watch out the window at the snow falling, I also catch glimpses of homeless men making their lonely tracks along broken sidewalks. I don't have any words of wisdom to write. I just feel sad as I watch them. I shoot up a prayer of thanks to God that I can be inside with a heater on on such a cold day. I think about God and kind of end there. I don't have all the answers. But, because Jesus came to earth, I can have Him. Not in the flesh. Not to be able to hug and smile at and crack a joke with, but I can have His presence because He promised it to anyone who would believe in Him. And, that warm relationship is just about all I want right now. I want that sense of family. The homeless men probably want that, too. Jesus was born all those years ago just so we wouldn't have to be completely alone, whether we have people around or not.
So, this Christmas, it's just me and Jesus. And Puss Puss Elvis.

Rise Up and Come Away

I was sitting curled up in a tiny log cabin, fire going, cup of tea in hand, listening to the raging blizzard that taunted me from outside. Thankful for this cozy shelter in the middle of a blinding storm, I closed my eyes blissfully and smiled.
And then I heard my name called.
"Amy!"
Faint at first, I laughed it off, believing the howling wind was playing with my ears. Then I heard a loud knock on the door, an urgent, forceful rap that could not be written off as a wayward branch being flung from a tree.
Reluctantly and with rightful alarm, I slowly rose and walked near the door.
"Amy! Get your things, it's time to go."
The voice was unmistakable. It was the Lord.

You know that sound they play in songs and movies of an old record being scratched to a quick stop, signifying a 'whoa, whoa, whoa, wait a minute' moment? This was one of those moments. As the record came to a scratching halt, I lucidly came out of this dream-like vision only to hear the Lord say,
"A time is coming when I am going to call you out, call you to leave a place where you have felt safe, and ask you to leave in what seems like the absolute worst time to go. You will need to just trust me and quickly obey."
I had this vision about 5 years ago.
Now is that time.
He is asking me to leave this place I've known to be my safe haven and go out to a new destination in the middle of a horrible storm. Emotionally, I have experienced so much loss and grief in the last few years that I often feel as if there is nothing left of me. I have been hard hit from every side and so much want a cozy log cabin I can curl up in and just ride out the rest of this winter season. But I can't. At what feels like the absolute worst time to me, spiritually and emotionally, God is calling me to rise up and leave-- to brave the storm and move forward to the next place he has for me. Ironically, it's also in the dead of winter and I'm headed toward the mountains of Colorado.
Many people have asked me, "Why Colorado? What's out there?" After being sent out on such cool, exotic missions to Australia, Indonesia, Nigeria, Guatemala, Dominican Republic, it's hard to not have a specific answer. People expect me to have some obvious purpose. All I can say is this: I don't know. I've always loved Colorado-- have always felt like myself when I come here (if that makes any sense). I am starting art school in February, but I am doing that online, so it is not determining my location. I found a church here in Denver that my friend Christine believes was designed just for me (it has Messianic Shabbat services on Saturdays, is held in the oldest synagogue in Denver, has an international staff, is missions oriented both internationally and city-wide, and has Gentile- style services on Sundays both in English in the morning and Spanish in the afternoons), but I did not come out here for that church. By the way, you can check it out at www.churchinthecity.org

Only God knows why I am here. But, I'm not complaining. I'm excited. I'm looking forward to getting a 'normal' job again and just meeting people and seeing what opens up. I am learning that for me, missions isn't necessarily about where you go, it's about who you are. I love going to nations and plan on going out again in the future. But, I also love seeing the hearts of the people around me and getting to share the incredible, all-powerful love of God with love-deprived Americans.

Thanks for sharing in my journey.
Also, a friend recently asked me why I changed the name of my blog from 'In God's Whirlwind' to 'It's Still Life'. It's simply because more often than not, life is found in the stillness, in the mundane, in the normalcy of being human. Sometimes there is a wonderful whirlwind we get to dance in and that was the DR for me, but for now, though I am still in the grace and will of God, I am reveling in the stillness. It may not be as wild, but it's still LIFE.

November Evening

Just to have a new post, I am going to write something not profound.

p.s. I am moving to Denver in 2 weeks.

Matisya-who?

"Ever heard of Matisyahu?" Josh asked me about a year ago.

"Who?"

I hadn't.

After a conversation with him about the name Jerusalem, he emailed me a youtube link which I innocently clicked on. It was Matisyahu's video of his song 'Jerusalem'. I was undone.

Born Matthew Miller to two Jewish parents, this now famous music artist went through the usual religious rebellion growing up, considered himeself a Deadhead, followed Phish and was a 'trouble teen'. At one point during his teenage years, however, he reconciled himself with Judaism, became Hasidic, went to Israel, changed his name to Matisyahu (which is Matthew in Hebrew). This 30 year old guy is married with a handful of kids and lives in Crown Heights, NY. He also beat boxes and sings about justice and how it relates to traditional Judaism, all with a reggae beat. I cannot paint a vibrant enough picture of who Matisyahu is or what he can do, so you're just going to have to listen. In fact, here's that same link Josh sent me last year: Jerusalem

I had no idea when I was planning my trip to Colorado (been here 9 days and LOVING it) that Matisyahu would be coming through Denver on his Light tour. Many people may scoff at Facebook, but as I was browsing photos last week, an add popped up on the side saying that Matis was performing here, at the Fillmore down on Colfax and Clarkson, Tuesday, Oct. 27th. I went down to the box office that same day and bought a couple of tickets. My good friend Christine and I went last night.

Oh my word.

The Fillmore is a beautiful old indoor venue that looks like a gently refurbished roller skating rink with balcony seating. The open hardwood floors make it easy to find just the right spot to listen to music and groove. Which I did for the full 3 hours. And so did Matis. He is beautiful to watch as he intuitively moves with the music surrounding him. At one point, during an extended play on the song So Hi So Lo, he walked to the back of the stage to adjust the sound equipment to enhance the various intruments. He stayed back there for about 10 minutes playing with the knobs so that each musician was pushed forward in intervals. The weave of it all was mind-blowing. Then he crowd surfed during his last song One Day.

I am still on a Matis high.

My Dad was John Doe

We got a call from a detective this morning, a detective telling us, well, telling my mom, really, (since its she whose number they had on file and whose number they dialed), that yes, the California Drivers License number that she'd somehow rattled off from memory to them brought up files, brought up records of fingerprints, fingerprints that matched those of a body they had found in a place I don't want to name over three years ago; a body they'd already burned and sent out to sea.

Over three years ago we were still waiting for him to come back. Over three years ago no one had made a report because we thought he'd gone on one of his longer walks and would eventually call and have someone come pick him up-- surely he'd call like he always did. He didn't call, but we still waited. Over three years ago we were still talking like he'd just show up one day, walk into my work to surprise me. "He's probably on his way down here, " my mom would say, hopeful. I had my doubts, but wanted to hope all the same. Even when he was a less deluded man he rarely came to visit us; even when he still had a car and would drive; before he set out on his walks. He was kind of over family. Except when I'd go see him from time to time, just after a holiday so it would seem like I wasn't visiting because of a holiday, yet I'd still bring him a present. One year I even knit him a scarf and cap. When I visited the next year, he was still wearing them, only they'd never been washed and smelled like something you don't want your face next to, but I put my face next to them anyway because they adorned him and him is where I wanted to press my face. He held me close and even though he talked of the world ending in ten years, of how aliens created us, of how he didn't feel safe sharing what he believed with anyone anymore because we were all against him, I knew he loved me and wanted to make things right. He just didn't know how. He could never forgive himself for not being a good enough dad (from a man who never hit us, never hurt us, made us laugh all the time and saw us as people) and no matter how many times he apologized, he'd never let me respond-- he'd just keep on talking so he couldn't receive the atonement. Nothing was more frustrating to me than to hear him wander off at the mouth when all I wanted was for him to really really hear from me, "Dad, I forgive you for not being there all the time. I forgive you and I love you." And then he wandered away.

I didn't know what to do for the longest time. What do you do in a situation like this-- where your father, who has been hospitalized because of a psychotic break, is given meds to stabilize him, is sent home with prescribed drugs, never takes them because he believes he's on a spiritual journey and won't accept that you can be both on a spiritual journey and have a mental illness, starts preparing to 'walk the earth' and then disappears without a trace? How do you search for someone who says he does not want to be found? In the month between his leaving and his death, we were still here waiting. No one made a report because we were convinced (in denial?) that he would come back. Finally, a missing persons report was filed. But it was too late. He was already John Doe. Only we didn't know it. We didn't know it until today.

I have been in a state of delayed grief for over three years. Most of these years I assumed my dad was dead. It's easier to assume than to know. It's easier to go on living just thinking your favorite dad is in Never Never Land and that maybe one day you'll see him again in Heaven, without ever really having to deal with the reality of his death. Sort of like the Rapture, but not.

My dad was Fred Babb. He played air saxophone at the dinner table in Cambria's nicest restaurant. He made Easter baskets out of chocolate and shredded wheat emulating rabbit turds. He made everyone who walked through our family door take the Myers-Briggs personality test because he was fascinated by the hearts and minds of people. He made the best Tuna Runners in the world and painted a fake fireplace for us for Christmas just so we could pretend we were warm in our one-bedroom shack. He always told me I had a beautiful neck and wanted me to keep my hair short just so I could show it off. We would sit together, mute 90210 and make up the dialogue until we laughed so hard we peed. He was an amazing artist whose one desire was to use his art to validate people in their true selves-- to free people from the man-made traditions that bound them. He lived to speak truth and to love others despite his struggles with depression, grief, loneliness and eventual spiral into schizophrenia.

I am angry about the way my dad died. I am angry I couldn't save him from his pain. I am angry that my kids will never know him, that he'll never walk me down the aisle (though he probably would've done interpretive dance down the aisle, but anyway...), that I'll never get to share my joys and woes with him.

For a while I will probably continue to look hard at scraggly, homeless men, searching behind all the grime and overgrown hair for my beloved father's face. I will continue to pray for them, for their families who are out there waiting, wondering. I will continue to see the nameless, faceless Jane and John Does out there as mothers, fathers, brothers, uncles, sisters and ask God to not let them go on unnamed, to not let them go unfound.

C'mon, Guess!

Much has happened since my last blog entry. Much I wasn't necessarily anticipating to happen so quickly. I am pregnant. I jumped out of a hot air balloon. I rode shotgun all the way down to the southern tip of Mexico with a random stranger and caught Swine Flu. I got accepted to the Academy of Art University Fine Art program. I am moving to Denver. All my hair turned white. I had a vision of the four living creatures.

Two of the above things are true.

I'll let you figure out which ones.

Refresh Me

The last two days have been really hard for me-- hitting a wall of depression that is a mix of crazy grief missing the DR and all it held for me, feeling out of place where I am, and a general malaise of the emptiness that comes from not knowing where you're headed.  Everyone keeps telling me to 'rest', but to rest the soul is much more challenging than resting the body.

After having breakfast with a loving friend this morning, I was invited by some other friends to go on a ride out to See Canyon to go buy apples.  Hmm, go on a long drive through beautiful country, letting the ocean breeze whip through my hair as I breathe deeply the spicy scents of scrub oak, eucalyptus and fresh orchard apples, or sit at home and mope.  I went for the windy road adventure.  As I sat in the back seat and let the conversations of others mill around my head, I silently put my mind and soul on cruise control.  Meanwhile, my spirit prayed.  God, I love you and I just want to feel you close.  God, I'm scared and I need you.  God, I miss my friends.  God, thank you for making me the apple of your eye and for caring about me even like this.  God, thank you for all this beauty.  God...

After a few hours I felt a bit of the heaviness lift.  My migraine went away.  Instead of taking a nap, I am blogging.

Today my soul, echoing the Shulamite, cried out to God, "Refresh me with apples, for I am lovesick!"

He answered me.

I am my Beloved's and He is Mine

The hand-woven hammock chair beckons me to come sit in it this morning.  "Amy, the sun is shining!  Come, let me rock you and hold you while you dream and feel the warmth on your face and listen to the wings of birds!"

How can I resist?

It has been days since I arrived back in Cambria, the little town that helped raise me, and these few moments in the swinging sunshine are the first in which I feel rest.

I have been going going going for a really long time.  Going for God, going for others; going because of good things and should things, could things and would things and I'm so thinged out that my mind has become like the web of the chair beneath me.  Today, I start unhooking the corners of that web so that I can see the landscape behind it more clearly.

This corner represents serving God out of fear. Unhook.

This corner formed when I adhered to the idea that to die for others meant forsaking my soul. Detach.

This one over here is just physical stress. Rip.

Down here are the hidden agendas that drive my will. Major undo.

Upper left is uncried tears, unanswered prayers, earth-shattering disappointments, disillusionments, anger.  Gently lift off and offer to the Wind.

The process of undoing and relearning who I am-- why I do things, what it is that motivates me--will be lifelong.  I know this.  I understand it.  But today...today I am committed to it because the process is not separate from me.  The process IS me; and it is God, and it is He and I together in the deepest, most honest, most vulnerable places that exist.  He is still hovering over the face of the deep.  He is still crying out, "Let there be light!!"  He is still forming boundaries around me, proclaiming what is good about me and resting in what He has made.  I want to rest in that goodness, too.

I climb up in His hammock, let the Son shine down on me.  I enjoy His creation and I breathe in and out.  I allow the Master Craftsman to put His hands all over me and laugh along with His joy in forming me.  I give thanks for what was and I let it all go, knowing that when I am still, I will know He is God.  I will know that He will be exalted among the nations, He will be known in all the earth.  And I can just be   His    Beloved.

I carry you

5 of my friends and I just spent an entire week at the beach.  We rented two condos right on the sands of Cabarete.  We cooked together, got sunburned together, took naps, read books.  It was wonderful (despite the fact I was still fighting the bacteria blues).  We ended our week at an annual staff retreat at Hacienda Lifestyles Resort just an hour down the road in Puerta Plata.  My yellow plastic 'bracelet' allowed me to eat or drink all I could (sadly, my battle-weary stomach didn't allow for much), plus access to their 5 pools, and the beach.  The best moments were watching one of my Dominican nieces (Priscila) swim for the first time, the other niece, Ysmayar, swim toward me, learning how to bring her head up and breathe, and watching Natan, my nephew, dunk his head under water for 2 seconds over and over again.  Amazing.

I don't have kids of my own.  I want some-- very badly, but God hasn't allowed that to happen, yet.  But, He gives me other kids.  Lots of other kids and today was a day of saying my last goodbyes to some of them.  I didn't cry in their presence, but I bawled as I drove my roommate's Jeep out of El Callejon for the last time.  I hate this.  No amount of money in the world is worth the same as when a little girl of 10 whose mom has cancer and who is helping her older sister to take care of her little brother look up at me in the eyes and say, "I'm never, never, never going to forget you."  I was struck today by just how much loneliness is the greatest poverty.  Relationships are food for our souls.  Families are what keep us alive, even if we don't have a roof over our heads.  There is something innate in humans that needs other humans.  Even God said, "It is not good for man to be alone."  

He wasn't talking about just men (as much as women like to joke that this is true).  Humans need each other-- not just to survive (look at Nebudchadnezzar) but to maintain our 'humanness'.  I saw in this little girl's eyes a sadness of knowing that the place that I filled in her heart would not be filled by another.  She, as well as I, will both experience a loss that is greater than the loss of any material thing.  I will never again be able to rejoice with her over her good grades.  I will never again feel her sneaking up behind me and wrapping her arms around my waist for an extended embrace.  I will never again see her pushing other kids off me so she can have me all to herself.  I am not saying I am her world.  What I'm saying is that we each make a difference when we extend ourselves and give of ourselves.  We can give things and it helps a little, but when we give of our time, our hearts, our listening ears, our shoulder to cry on-- when we give a relationship, it changes lives forever.  S

he and I have become one in a sense.  I have become part of her story and she has become part of mine.  I cannot change her circumstances, but I can leave behind an imprint of love and acceptance that she will 'never, never, never forget."

El Callejon:   "i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it"  e.e. cummings

Just Another Saturday

Saturdays can get kind of boring around here.  So, I decided to do something a little different today.  Since I've been (almost) violently ill with some kind of aggressive parasite for two straight weeks, I thought it might be fun to be hooked up to IVs all day.  Just for kicks.

But seriously...where else can you have a doctor come ove

r to your house and hook you up to IVs just so you don't have to sit in the hospital all day staring at chipping paint on the walls?  Now that I think of it, probably lots of other countries have this more easy-going policy, but not America.  I cannot imagine calling my doctor in the States, telling him my symptoms on a daily basis without having to pay for consult, gi

ving a poo sample for only 3 bucks, then having him tell me which antibiotic I could go buy over the counter at the pharmacy (which, by the way, didn't work--

 either one!) and then having him say, "You know, Amy, I really feel terrible that you are still sick!  How 'bout I come over to your house on my day off, make sure we get you fully hydrated and put a direct drug line into your veins-- and I won't even charge you for my time!"

God bless the Dominican Republic. God bless, once ag

ain, Dr. Fernando for being a servant of God on behalf of t

he sick.  Here are some pics of how I'm spending this Saturday afternoon...

Seis Mas

It's a rainy Saturday morning and I am sitting on my bed in my robe looking out the open door to a moss and lichen-covered tree filled with limes.  I ache sometimes when I catch these glimpses of exquisite beauty, knowing that soon and very soon I will not have the privilege of seeing this same view again.

I am leaving 6 weeks from today.  Writing it gives me a suffocated feeling.

I am going back to America, LAND that I LOOOOVE (from the mountains, to the valleys...) and I often ask my God

WHY?

because I basically have the most awesome life ever.  I get to look out my bedroom door at lime trees; listen to children laughing while the rooster crows atop his perch on Ysidro's lawn mower.  I get to roll my rumbly old jeep down the ragged road of El Callejon, crammed with 6 or 7 people, a lunch box and some water jugs while kids run toward us calling out my name, "EMI!!!"  I get to spend hours mixing paint colors, encouraging muralists to keep on painting amid the heat and bugs and rain and dirt.  I get to take profound truths leaving in Spanish from Francisco's lips, translate them and send them on to English hearing ears, watching eyes widen or close depending on how the words are received in the hearts.

Martina squeezes me tight in the mornings on my way to the breakfast line.  Natan rolls his eyes and shakes his head, not quite ready to greet the day with cheer (or my smile).

I have an incredible life.

Only 6 more weeks of Chinola juice.  6 more weeks of Sancocho.  6 more weeks of dodging motorcycles, of passionate worship, of kisses on the cheeks, of brightly color-coordinated women and waxed and preened men, of copy shops being out of paper and grocery stores being out of bread, of ice cream shops being out of ice cream and restaurants being out of cheese.

6 more weeks of junky old pick-ups loudly selling mattresses, platanos (a do' peso') and mother-in-laws.

And 6 more weeks of my beautiful friends.

O Jarabacoa, what am I going to do without you?  I have loved you and I have hated you and I have laughed at you and also with you.  I have cried with you, turned my back on you, invited you back in and spilled my heart onto you.  I will never be the same.

i like to paint

and i like to draw.

I Feel Like...

While taking siesta out on the balcony at the Escuela d'Arte Vocacional de Jarabacoa one humid afternoon, Vanessa, a visiting volunteer from California brought up an interesting topic/discovery: how often we tend to over use the phrases "I feel like...", "do you know what I mean?"  and everyone's favorite, "like".   She used an example to illustrate what she meant.  After biting into a chip, she said, "I feel like these chips are too salty".  I had to laugh.  Are salty chips a feeling?  Somehow, 'I feel like' has replaced 'In my opinion' or 'From my perspective'.  I asked her and our other volunteer, Denisse, if they thought it was because 'tolerance' has become the pervading value of modern American culture.  Vanessa suggested it came from the whole psychology office phenomenon of being asked 'how do you feel about that?'  I started thinking about Jerry Springer, Ricki Lake, Geraldo and all those other 'talk shows' where people sit up on a stage and share how they 'feel'.    I thought about all the training I've had in communication skills in where I've been taught to express my emotions in a conflict situation without falsely judging the other person: "When you said... I felt..." instead of "You make me feel..."  Anyway, the overall conclusion of our conversation was that we, as a society, are losing authority in the things that we say.  We have become afraid to speak our mind in the event we might offend.  We question our opinions or avoid conflict by preempting our opinions with a non-confrontational 'I feel like...'   I told them, "You know, if I were to eliminate the phrases that take pressure off of my being 'wrong', I would probably think more before I speak and say a whole lot less.  And, what I would say, would have authority or impact.  I would sound like I knew what I was talking about."

Ever since this conversation, I have been extra aware of my tendency to not speak with authority or confidence.  Often times, I actually DO have a strong opinion, but to avoid conflict, I will mask it behind the phrases, "I feel like" or "do you know what I mean?" (this is used to draw the other person into a place of harmony in agreement).

This also got me thinking again about a conversation I had a while back with a friend about blogging-- how everyone is blogging/twittering/facebooking these days, wanting to have a voice in this world.  However, so often we use these platforms for being heard to say nothing of importance or real significance at all: Amy Babb is soooo tireddd!  Amy Babb is going shopping. Amy Babb...fill in the blank.  

What is the deal with wanting to communicate so much without actually saying anything?

"Do not be rash with your mouth, and let not your heart utter anything hastily before God.  For God is in heaven and you on earth; therefore let your words be few.  For a dream comes through much activity and a fool's voice is known by his many words."  Ecclesiastes 5:2,3

"He who has knowledge spares his words, and a man of understanding is of a calm spirit.  Even a fool is counted wise when he holds his peace; when he shuts his lips, he is considered perceptive." Proverbs 17:27,28

Thanks to Vanessa, Denisse and Josh for bringing my attention back to the power of speech.

All for Love

I've been laid up for a month now after having had surgery to have a Plantar wart extracted from the bottom of my right foot. I wasn't even going to mention this in a blog cuz I honestly thought that it was a small enough thing of no consequence. It has turned into...bah. Long story. Without going into details, the healing process has taken a really long time. I have been stuck in the house for a month and only got off crutches a few days ago. I even had to miss working our first outreach of the summer :(
All this to share that I have been doing a lot of reading. As you may have read below, I finally finished all of my required discipleship reading. Then I started reading a book I picked up when I lived in Kansas City 5 years ago and had never read. It's on Mike Bickle's top 10 books to read list. "When Jesus Returns" by David Pawson. AWESOME. About a third of the way into it, I stared having dreams again. I get dreams from the Lord in cycles and it had been a while. However, these dreams were full of symbology and needed some more paying attention to. So, then I got out my book called "The Seer" by Jim Goll to see if I could glean any dream interpretation wisdom from it. Not too much. It had been a while since I'd read it, so I kind of skimmed through it. I love Jim Goll's writing. He wrote a great book called 'Kneeling on the Promises' which I wish I had brought down here with me, but... sidetrack.
Okay. After two weeks of reading informational books, I confess I just wanted some fiction. So, I had my roommate Amy go borrow some from our boss's house. I ended up with Brock and Bodie Thoene's book series the A.D. Chronicles (missing book 2, however). I'd heard of the Thoene's before, but had never really been interested in reading any of their stuff. If for no other reason, I am glad that the surgery aftermath caused such intense boredom that I decided to read these books. They take place during Jesus' time and are so full of history and are just, plainly, anointed. I have been so deeply moved as I encounter the love and mercy of Christ on every page.
As I've mentioned before in earlier posts, I have a tendency to get 'religious' on myself-- and subsequently on others. I have that inner drive to be perfect before the Lord; so desperately want to be pure and shining, and then become incredibly disheartened when I fall short. I don't think this is necessarily a bad quality, however what has struck me is just how easily I can fall back into a 'works' oriented way of operating in my spiritual walk. Ten months of reading books on holiness and fear of the Lord left me feeling so unholy, so self-absorbed. With each book I read, I would be convicted of sin, feel utterly repentant and grieved at my inability to change myself. I would read, feel horrible, ask God for forgiveness, forget about it a few days later, read the next book, feel convicted, etc. In just a few days of reading these fiction novels, I have been transformed. What I mean is: encountering the presence of Jesus can, in an instant, bring healing, bring revelation, bring comfort, bring repentance, bring WHATEVER it is that we truly need. I have just been blown away, as I always am, when I encounter the love of Christ in such a way that it sidesteps what I think the real 'issues' are and goes straight to the heart of the matter. The ways that I act out are always rooted in something I am usually unaware of. But, Jesus is aware. Intimately so. And, He loves me so much that He goes right past all the shame I have about sin and touches on the places that need His healing touch so that I have no desire to even act out in the ways that I was. Am I making sense?
There is a time and a place for being convicted of sin. I believe the 10 months of discipleship reading laid the groundwork for Jesus to then just come in and love me into more wholeness. Hosea scribed, "He has torn us, but He will heal us."

In the book of Revelation, an angel says to John, "The bride has made herself ready!" I have often wondered what that meant. How can we, as the bride, make ourselves ready for communion with our Bridegroom? I finally feel like I am getting a picture of what this means. In the last year, I have been actively pursuing more training, more discipline, more teaching. I have been asking God to take inventory of my heart, to shine the light on areas that don't please Him. It has been incredibly painful and uncomfortable-- definitely confusing at times. What I didn't know was that I was preparing myself to meet Him at a deeper place of communion. I was making myself ready to meet Him.  He tore me apart, ripped me open, exposed things I didn't want to deal with, just so that He could then come and love me tenderly in the deepest, most wounded and ugly areas of my heart.  His love for us is so fervently jealous that He comes to burn up everything that hinders love in our lives.  He so desperately wants to 'catch the little foxes that spoil the vines, for our vines have tender grapes'.  Those little foxes, all those little things that we allow to linger-- sins, attitudes, judgments-- spoil the abundance of fruit He wants to grow in our relationship with Him.

I now have about a hundred other Scriptures popping into my mind that relate to all this... I better stop while I'm ahead.

Make yourself ready. Seek Him while He may be found.  Catch the little foxes. Let Him tear you, and then heal you.

Ya, Terminé! I'm Finished!

It's only the minimum, but I finally finished reading the very last book for my discipleship class at Fraternidad Cristiana Amor a Quisqueya!!  We still have about a month left of classes to attend, but yesterday evening I polished off the very last book.  Discipleship class at my church here is a 10 month commitment-- we meet every Saturday evening from 5-7 and receive great teaching from our pastor, Popín.  Within the first 10 weeks of class we are required to read the entire Bible, starting in Matthew and ending with Malachi.  The rest of our 'spare' time is spent reading a minimum of 12 assigned books the pastor has read and picked out for us.  Then we write reports on each one.  For the most part, I really liked his selection, though I was realizing the other day that every single book was written by a man.  I don't believe this was intentional, just interesting. The principles of discipleship aren't sex-related, though I do enjoy hearing a woman's perspective, too.

Anyway, here is a list of the books I had to read and I put an asterisk next to my faves:

1. Causa de una Tirania (this is a book in Spanish about the Dominican dictator Trujillo)
2. Stop Flirting with the Church and Fall in Love with the Family of God-- Joshua Harris
3. A Tale of Three Kings-- Gene Edwards
4. El Martir de Las Catacumbas (only available in Spanish and the author didn't have his name on the book)
5. The Heavenly Man-- Brother Yun *
6. Spiritual Warfare-- Dean Sherman *
7. El Clamor en el Barrio-- Freddie García
8. Not Even a Hint-- Joshua Harris
9. Fear of the Lord-- John Bevere *
10. Undercover-- John Bevere *
11. The Prayer of Jesus-- (can't remember the author's name, but it was my least favorite)
12. The Twelve Transgressions-- Sergio Scataglini *

After reading all these books and taking this class, the overall resounding theme is: I am not my own.  It has been both hard and good to have the Light shine on weak and sinful areas of my character these last 10 months. It has been both frustrating and a relief to know that these areas do not just 'go away' and that I will continually have to go to the Cross with them.  I both hated and loved acknowledging that I, truly, can't do life on my own-- I literally need the Spirit of God to transform me and enable me to do the things my flesh doesn't want to do.  I have discovered just how much I cling to 'religion' (doing godly things without God-- spirit of independence) and reject 'relationship' (humble surrendering to the One who can actually do godly things because He IS God).  Sanctification is a fiery process that I both desire and want to run from.  But as Paul exhorts in 1 Thessalonians 5:19: "Do not put out the Spirit's fire;"  and 4 verses later, "May God himself, the God of peace, sanctify you through and through.  May your whole spirit, soul and body be kept blameless at the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ.  The one who calls you is faithful and he will do it." !!!!

I am so thankful for God's faithfulness to us, the promise that he will do it as we continue to believe in and walk in Christ.  I can't make myself blameless, I can't be perfect, but Christ in me, the hope of glory, CAN and WANTS to as long as I keep myself yoked to Him with a broken and contrite spirit, desiring communion.

Being a disciple is being broken at the feet of Jesus.

Things that make you laugh AFTER the fact

"I have two letters for you: D...R..."

This comment made by my boss a while back was immediately followed by an eruption of laughter.  The laughter erupted from us Americans.  This comment has since become our signature statement whenever something transpires here in the DR-- things that make you go 'hmmm'.  

I had one of those somethings happen just yesterday.

After a 3-day staff retreat where God just blew us open, I dragged my very tired body to work in the morning.  Francisco I don't think even made it out of bed because his bright face never showed up.  Anyway, after sitting there at the school for a bit, I promptly fell asleep.  This never happens to me.  Never.  I can't even fall asleep on airplanes-- and often it takes hours for me to pass out in my own bed!  I was that wiped out.  I somehow jerked myself awake in time to greet a student who dropped by to show me some drawings she had been doing.  After she left, I felt the call of the sandman lulling me back to sleep and I thought-- NO! I must be productive!  I decided it would be a good time to go make photocopies I had put off for too long.  So, I gathered all the materials, locked up the school, hopped in my jeep and drove around town in circles for a good 15 minutes.  The town was packed and there was nowhere to park.  Nowhere.  At this point I had developed a good sized headache and decided it might be best if I just went home and finished sleeping.  On the way, I saw a little photocopy shop I'd never seen before and THERE WAS PARKING OUT FRONT!  I grabbed my books, other sheets of paper and my purse and sauntered into the little store.  The minute I walked in, the girl from behind the counter asked me what I needed.  I said I needed her to photocopy some stuff for me.  *This is one of the reasons I put off getting copies for so long-- you can't just do it yourself and the majority of the time your copies come out looking terrible (not good for an art school)*

She just looked at me and said, "You have to go to the other photocopy place.  We don't have any paper."

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAA!!

This wasn't so funny at the time.

I just smiled and thought, "Of course you don't have paper.  What was I thinking?"

Instead of driving circles around town again in search of a copy shop who actually HAS paper, I decided to stick with the original plan and just go home and sleep.

I have two letters for you...

2- Second Encounter

This afternoon on my walk to work, I passed two light- blue and tan uniformed high school girls giggling and gossiping with eachother.  A normal sight.  However when they reached the corner, one of them looked into our yard, ritually crossed herself, kissed her fingers and just kept walking.  I had an inner chuckle thinking about when I was in high school and my friend Kelly would interrupt a conversation to kiss her fingers and touch the roof of her car every time we went through a yellow light on the drive to school or passed a cemetery.  

As I continued my stroll in the spring heat, I pondered this young girl's action, wondering how religious or devoted she really was.  Obviously she was brought up Catholic and had been taught these little rituals of reverence (oh, by the way, we have a shrine to the Virgin Mary in our front yard-- well, the owners do).  Then one of the military guards who sits in front of a rich person's house with a rifle asked me why I was walking on such a hot day.  I smiled, telling him I liked the sun and then I forgot all about the girl.  She came back to mind, however, on my trek back home.  In my mind I started having an imaginary conversation with her.  I asked her why she crossed herself and kissed her fingers.  Her imaginary self told me that she was blessing the Virgin Mary and God and recognizing that a shrine was a place of holiness.  I nodded to her and then shared with her the Scripture about when we believe in Christ, our bodies become temples of the Holy Spirit, so just imagine crossing yourself and kissing your fingers all day long because YOU are that holy place where He dwells!  That's when I gasped.  All of a sudden I had an instant revelation of how much I do not reverence the Holy Spirit who lives inside of me.  I can go a whole day complaining, daydreaming, thinking about Him, asking Him to bless my food, etc, but how often do I take time to stop and recognize His holiness within me? Ew.  I felt like both Peter and Isaiah when, in the presence of holiness, exploded with "I'm not worthy! I'm unclean!" sentiments.  For a split second I was taken into heaven before the throne where all the angels cry 'HOLY!' and the elders throw their crowns.  Powerful.

I often make my living relationship with the Living God a common thing.  I take for granted that I am saved by grace through faith and that I have eternal life.  I often forget that I have the only holy presence that exists inhabiting this earthly frame.  That is His mercy.

I am not sharing this because I feel condemned.  I am sharing this because I was awesomely humbled and, today, fell in love with Him just one more time.

What may have been a mindless ritual, God used to awaken this sleeping bride.

MMMMM

Yep. First cup back was awesome.
But Jesus is more awesome.

Sobering Up

I'm fasting from coffee. I'm not gonna lie, it really sucks.  Don't get me wrong, when God asks me to fast from something I get filled with this tangible expectation of Him doing something wonderful because of it.  But coffee?? I'm not a pot-a-day drinker like some people I know.  I just like to have a tall, piping hot cup in the morning while I have my devotional time with God. Sometimes I like a little 'pick-me-up' in the afternoon, too.  So, when God nudged me to get off coffee for a while I didn't think it would be too big of a deal.

It's a big deal.

The first few days were the worst, physically, as I endured migraine-level headaches that no amount of medicine could take away.  After that passed, it was the struggle of wanting something warm and creamy instead of something hot and watery (tea).  After a couple weeks of tea drinkin', I just gave up having a morning beverage, except for the occasional hot chocolate (which isn't too exciting if you use Dominican Cocoa).  The physical cravings for it have ceased.  The emotional cravings persist.  I find myself being envious in the mornings when my roommates are happily sipping away on their joe.  And last night at Bible Study, I had to control the urge to knock a cup of coffee out of Ruth's hand.  I don't even drink coffee at night!  What is the issue?  As I've shared with several people that I'm fasting coffee, I've had intense reactions from other coffee drinkers that (1) help me not feel so alone and (2) scare the **** out of me.  One friend even said that Jesus asking one to fast coffee is like having Jesus ask you to drain all the blood out of your body.

Everyday, I tell God that I hope he's going to use this time for incredible breakthrough in my life.  It's a two month fast that, ironically (?) ends on Easter Sunday.  And, no, I'm not doing it for Lent-- I started it before I even remembered about Lent-- but I like the idea of Lent.

Have I noticed a change in my intimacy with God because of this fast?  Actually, yes, though I didn't make the connection until now.  I have become much more whiny, much more desperate, and much more dependent.  I have also become much more sensitive to the Spirit and stronger in my walk with Him.  Taking away something that I depended on to help me enter into my day has caused me to become more in touch with my fears, anxieties, hopes, dreams, insecurities and longings.  I still long for that coping element, that numbing element, that soothing element that I can control and take whenever I want, but I feel the trade-off is worth it.  I want coffee to be something I can enjoy with God, not something I need to get through my day.  I don't want coffee to become the substitute to God's very real presence in my life.   I am looking forward to April 13th, when I can have my first cup of coffee, but I have a feeling that the lust will have gone out of it for me and that is a blessing.

A Step in the Right Direction

Today my good friend Arlene invited me to come over and make stepping stones with her.  Though I've stepped on my fair share of these garden adornments, I've never actually made one.  Arlene, being her awesome self, went around town and bought some gravel, some sand, some cement, and some diesel fuel (to line our containers so that the cement mix wouldn't stick).  We proportioned out the ingredients and hand mixed our own 'stuff', including a bit of blue dye to make the stones a little better looking.  Arlene sawed off the ends of a plastic bucket to use for our molds-- we hope they turn out okay.  These 'stones' will become a pathway leading up to our new social work site in Los Higos that Arlene leads.  The feet of women and youth on their way to knitting class or sewing class will pass over these little pieces of art.  Mine says: I am the Way.  Here are some photos:

When it 'Works'

Door to door evangelism.
Usually this makes one think of Jehovah's Witnesses or Mormons or an evangelical Christian technique that is antiquated and totally doesn't work. That's what I've always thought, too. When it was announced in church two Sundays ago that the whole of the Dominican Republic was going to be canvassed by evangelical (not Catholic) Christians going door to door and that our church was going to participate, my head was immediately filled with cynical thoughts. I also felt relief, knowing that it was optional and that my Spanish wasn't really good enough to make me be an effective witness anyway. And then the Pastor announced that everyone taking discipleship class would be required to participate. Uh, that means me. But, surely he won't send out the Americans! I thought, aghast. But then a little voice in the back of my head gently reminded me that (1) I'm a missionary and this is why I came here and (2) I've been speaking to people in Spanish for well over a year now and surely I would be able to get a simple message about Jesus out. Ugh. Don't these people KNOW that door to door evangelism puts people off and pushes them farther away from wanting to ever hear about the love of Jesus? Regardless of my arrogant 'expertise', I prayed, nonetheless, that God would prepare my heart to go do this thing. Oddly, as the date drew closer, I became more and more excited about going out to do it.
When all of us gathered together on Saturday afternoon at the church, it was announced that we were to split into groups of 3-- a guy with 2 girls. Thankfully a young Columbian girl I knew latched her arm into mine and picked which guy we could go with. As we set out, I made sure to let them both know that my Spanish wasn't good enough to communicate the Gospel, but they weren't having it. At the first house, we were immediately invited in to sit down and were served coffee Dominican style-- very strong with loads of sugar. We quickly discovered that they were already Christians and I was relieved. We offered to pray for the husband who had a bandage on his leg. We prayed blessing over the house and the family. We went on to the next house. Again, we were immediately welcomed in. The three of us sat down with a young mother. Laura, the Columbian girl, started to share with her about the Gospel, but having never done it before, was quite nervous and kept leaving out major details. When I looked to Angelo to hopefully take over and explain things, he just looked at me sheepishly. That's when something shifted in me. I just looked at this woman and without hesitation told her the whole story of Adam and Eve, about sin and what it means, about the debt we owe to God for our sin and how Jesus came to pay that debt for us by giving His own life on the Cross. I told her what it meant to believe in Jesus, what it would mean for her to be able to live eternally with God because of what Jesus did for her. All of this flowed out of me in perfect Spanish. And then she accepted Jesus to be her Savior and Lord.
God does not like to be put in a box. Before going out, I had limited Him in my own mind. It hadn't really occurred to me that door to door evangelism in a country that LOVES it when people drop by to visit, woud be a very effective way to share the Gospel here. As well, I had limited His power by believing He couldn't use me just because I don't speak fluent Spanish. I was so humbled, but so overflowing with joy that I could have gone door to door all night. We actually did go to several more homes and were able to pray for many people. I was again reminded why I love being a missionary, why I continue to go out to different countries: Jesus loves people and He shows up when we go to love them in His Name. If you want intimacy with Jesus, go love on a poor person, a broken-hearted person, a really down and out person, because that's where He loves to be. And healing occurs. Relationships are healed. Real transformation, the kind that only God can bring, takes place. It is exciting to see Heaven come to Earth.
God put me in my place, and I loved it.

We got a dog.
Well, Katie got a dog and Amy and I just play with her.
We named her Feliz, which means 'happy'. I would never name a dog Happy in English unless I had a very young child who insisted on it and cried a lot at my resistance to the name. But, Feliz has a nice ring to it, I think.
She's a great dog. I am normally not a fan of the lab variety of dog, and so I'm trying not to hold the fact that she's 1/3 lab against her. She is also 1/3 Dalmatian and 1/3 Great Dane. But she pretty much looks all lab except for her underbelly which is white and black spotted and the little tuft of white fur on her chest. She is incredibly obedient and has the softest head of any dog I've ever petted. Plus, the fur along her back is starting to get coarse and wavy, which bears a striking resemblance to my hair, so that made me love her even more. Isn't she adorable??

Nos Hemos Mudado!

Simply, Amy and I have moved.
Yes, after 17 months of living together in our little 'cottage' in the middle of a bumpy dirt road, we finally let our new friend (and SI staff member) Katie convince us that we 3 should live together and find a bigger house to let that happen. While I was in the states over Christmas, Katie looked at a house here that she thought would be perfect, but too expensive. When Amy and I got back here in January, we went to look at it, fell in love and begged the owners (Dominicanyorks-- Dominicans who live in New York) to lower the price. They refused. We were bummed. The next day they called and said they'd lower the price. We were ecstatic. The next hurdle to get through was finding people to take over the lease on Amy's and my house and keep our two brutish Dobermans. Thankfully, Josh and Vicki (who are about to join our staff) agreed to take over the lease and keep our doggies. God works all things together for the good.
So, a week ago today we moved into a palace. I'm not joking. This place is HUGE. It has 3 bedrooms, 2 baths, a dining room, kitchen, living room and a separate room just off of my room where we keep the treadmill, yoga mats and exercise balls. We have a wide balcony that goes almost all the way around. We rent the upstairs and the downstairs in inhabited by the groundskeeper, Ysidro.
At first, I felt odd moving into such a rich looking place. I mean, we're missionaries. My monthly budget didn't increase though because, even though I pay a little more for rent, we now share the cost of paying for the cleaning lady (which I was paying by myself at the old place, while Amy payed for the lawn guy, who we no longer need since new house comes with a lawn guy), and we share the utilities 3 ways instead of 2. However, just because our house looks extravagent, doesn't mean we don't still have the same issues. Our kitchen sink has been completely stopped up, our toilets don't flush well and half this week we were without water because... I don't even want to go into it. Not to mention it took the phone company a week to come out and hook up our service-- still waiting for the internet to get hooked up. Thankfully, we live near our staff pastor's family, so we went over there in the mornings to shower and use the bathroom and we used rain water to wash our dishes outside. We may live in a palatial estate, but we still live like Dominicans!!
Here are some photos of the new place, our new roomie and Amy washing dishes in our outdoor sink, using rain water! P.S. my ankle is mostly better, but my foot is still having issues. I'm hobbling around wearing an ace bandage, but at least it's without crutches!

Stripped of Independence?

Yesterday afternoon I took a fall.
It was kind of my own fault, but not really.
I was in a semi-jovial mood and therefore felt like hop-skipping up a stair instead of just calmly stepping up. It was one of those times when a flash image went through my head of me totally eating it one second before I actually ate it. So, I experienced it twice. Only, the second time it hurt real bad.
Falling and twisting your foot and ankle under you at the ripe old age of 32 is not only not fun, but also slightly embarrassing. I'm sure I looked less than graceful biting the dust in front of several of my missionary cohorts and onlooking neighbors. Everything in me just wanted to get right up, brush off dry plant debris, get in my car and drive home. However the wrenching pain going up and down my leg told me to stay put. Sweet Isabel who is Willian(our caretaker's) young wife, quickly ran to the kitchen to get me an ice pack. Motherly Daisy, who runs our El Callejon social work site, quickly got down on the ground with me, took off my shoe and sock and applied the ice pack, telling me it was okay to feel like I was 6 years old. Which I did, in case you were wondering. I was trying to be very brave and not cry about it. Instead I listened to Isabel share a story about how God physically healed her once of a pain in her shoulder.
After a while I was convinced I just needed to go home. So, I somehow got myself into a standing position. Immediately I felt like vomiting. The shock was hitting me. I almost passed out, but instead mumbled something in Spanglish and got back down on the ground. Daisy reapplied the ice pack. Nate went up to fetch my car and bring it down to me. I knew I'd be able to make it home since it was my left foot that was messed up and I could drive with my right. He asked if I wanted to go to his house and have Maggie wrap it up for me. Common sense would have said yes. I said, no, it's okay, I just wanna go home. But, I do need someone to follow me, open up the gate, chain the dogs and help get me in the house. He agreed to do it.
10 minutes later, I was at home alone, laying on the couch wincing at the pain and letting the tears flow.
Hopping around on one leg for the rest of the night, trying to make dinner, wash dishes and get ready for bed took more effort than I ever could have imagined. That was when I realized how much I hold onto independence. Actually, I think being independent and capable are not necessarily bad things. Being strong and able to make your own decisions and get about in the world are positive things. But when these things keep you from being able to accept a loving, helping hand from someone else, that's when there is something wrong.
Today as I've been processing some of this, knowing that Nate would have to come pick me up and take me to the doctor, knowing that I really needed to call my friend Katie and ask her to come spend the night so that I could have help doing stuff around the house, I've realized that the deeper issue is that I don't like to be a burden. I know where the root of this comes from, but it's always hard when I come up against it. Living here in the DR has caused me to have to confront many things like this that lie deep in my own heart.
And so now I have to ask myself, where is Jesus in all of this? He told us that the second greatest command after loving God with our entire beings was loving each other as we love ourselves. That's really profound-- much more than we realize at times. Because love is active, not just a good feeling. It's a choice to serve someone else, even if we have to sacrifice our time or our agendas. I think about the Good Samaritan who stopped whatever he was doing, lifted a stranger onto his donkey, took him to a nearby inn and made sure the guy was taken care of. He didn't have to, but he did. God wants us to take care of each other, to take time out of our lives to serve someone else. He wants us to put our love into action. Robbing my brothers and sisters of following this command of God is not loving on my part either. It seems crazy in my mind sometimes that someone might actually recieve a blessing in being able to take care of me.
These are my couch thoughts for today as I give thanks for the servant hearts God has put in my life who are more than willing to stop their agendas to make sure I am being taken care of. Thank you, Nate. Thank you, Katie. Thank you, Dr. Fernando.

Delirious Assumptions

In just one day I went from being in 29 degree weather to 84 degree weather. A few days ago I was wearing wool socks, heavy sweaters, a wool coat, gloves and a scarf. Today I am back to wearing a tank top and flip flops. I am also back to doing laundry in our semi-automatic washing machine (stick hose into left basin, fill with water, detergent and clothes-- wash for 15 minutes; transfer clothes to right basin for a 5 minute spin; transfer clothes back to left basin, fill with water again and let rinse for another 15 minutes; put clothes back on the right for a last spin and then take them all outside to hang dry). As I was hanging out my morning wash, warm breeze caressing my face and lifting up strands of my hair, I marveled at how just days ago I was standing in a little bit of snow; a biting wind stinging my face and threatening to blow off my knit cap. In less than 24 hours I went from icy Colorado back to the sultry Dominican Republic. I thank God for all the hours spent on airplanes and in airports, where the 'weather' is controlled and is kind of an 'anti-climate' that helped me transition back to my tropical world.
It is surreal being back here though, I have to admit. Last night as I was attempting to fall asleep (jet lag still in operation), I laid in bed semi-listening to a neighbor's party going on. Usually, typical Dominican Merengue and Bachata music are blasting during such events, but this time, for some reason, it was all Mexican Mariachi music, which was making the Dominicans hoot and holler much louder than normal. They were having their own cross-cultural experience. Anyway, like at most parties, certain people get really drunk and then get really loud and then start wandering the street being really loud and drunk in front of your house. Our two dobermans were very thankful to have something to incessantly bark at. This also was hindering my ability to drift off into no man's land. In my mind, I kept yelling at the dogs to be quiet, cuz, you know, it would have taken too much effort to get up and actually yell at them through the window. Plus, I didn't want said drunk guys to know a woman was home alone. Anyway, after a bit, the drunks got just as annoyed as I did and I heard two very loud bangs. Someone shot my dogs! I thought. My heart started pounding. I laid very still in bed. I prayed, too, not knowing what else to do at that point. After about 7 minutes or so of no dog barking and total silence outside, I crept out of bed to peek out the window to see if I had two dead dobermans laying on the driveway. Instead, I saw two quiet dobermans standing by the gate doing nothing. Weird. What were those loud bangs? Since I didn't want to walk outside in my pj's in the middle of the night to investigate, I made an assumption that the drunk guys decided to throw some fruit or heavy sticks at our dogs that hit the side of the house, making such a loud noise. This is what neighborhood kids do to our dogs during the day. I finally fell asleep.
This morning, after hanging out the first load of laundry, I walked around the house looking for evidence. You know what I found? Exploded balloons!! The guys probably tried throwing balloons at our dogs or something and our fierce dobermans ripped into them with their ferocious teeth causing majorly loud poppage. I guess balloons popping in the middle of the night can sound like gun shots. Or maybe I was just delirious.

Home?

"Blessed is the man (woman) whose strength is in You, whose heart is set on pilgrimage. As they pass through the Valley of Baca (tears), they make it a spring; the rain also covers it with pools. They go from strength to strength; each one appears before God in Zion." Psalm 84:5-7

The last line of this psalm proclaims that all who trust in the Lord are blessed. I want to be blessed, but I often find it hard to trust in God. I find it hard to trust in God especially because my life seems to be in constant change, constant transition. Though in my mind I know that I am just 'passing through here' on my way to my heavenly dwelling place, I have found my soul crying out for the last several months, "I just wanna go home!" I cried that from my bed in Jarabacoa; again the cry came while on my bed in Cambria. Just this morning, in yet another bed in another location, I heard my heart crying, "I wanna go home."
A couple of years ago, I was making a visionary collage as I prayed about my next steps in life. As I flipped through one magazine, these words just jumped off the page at me, "Be a world traveler. Be a homebody. Be both at once." These words were used as a catch phrase for some product or place that I can no longer remember, but as I quickly cut them out, I remember thinking, 'yep-- that is totally me.' I have lived my entire life trying to reconcile these two realities-- I want to settle, to plant deep roots, but once I am in a place too long, I get itchy to travel to distant lands, to taste new adventures. I think I live in a perpetual state of homesickness. I am thankful for the words of comfort and promise in Psalm 84. God knows that as we 'just pass through here' keeping our hearts set on His promise of eternal rest, that there will be tears of longing, tears of sacrifice. The beauty is not just that He understands, but that He turns these times of stress and sorrow and longing into pools that refresh in the wilderness. He promises strength for the journey. He promises in another psalm that 'those who sow in tears will reap in joy, bringing their sheaves with them'.
Joy and strength await all pilgrims, all travelers, all who trust in the Lord God.