Beef Stew and Chocolate-dipped Faith

I walked into a Christian bookstore a few days ago in search of a devotional - a workbook to help me daily study God's word. I've been slacking recently and my relationship with God has suffered from the neglect. I was hoping to find something to really help me dig in and wrestle with hard questions and issues - I was craving spiritual meat.

What I found was a Christianity that seemed to have been hijacked by mass commercialism, witty one-liners and feel-good, self-help nonsense. Rather than a store full of resources for strengthening a Christian's faith, encouraging their souls and challenging them to walk more closely with God, the store resembled Oprah's book club, selling wimpy truths and pats on the back.

The women's section was by far the worst! Apparently Christian books aimed at women have discarded the belief that we are powerful, thinking, believing, praying, conquering creations of a mighty God. Instead, the faith represented on the women's bookshelf gave the impression that all we really needed were nice, happy thoughts each day accompanied by a tasty recipe. "Jesus loves you ... here's a nice recipe for beef stew." Am I the only one that feels the issues of my life and this world require more substance than that provided by a recipe book pretending to be a devotional???

Do you know there is actually a book called, Faith-dipped Chocolate for women? It "offers readers who crave chocolate delicious encouragement for their faith. Sprinkled throughout are yummy recipes, fun chocolate facts, ideas for creating chocolate gifts, and quotes celebrating God's gifts of chocolate." One reviewer actually said, "Served up with rich morsels of Scripture, Faith-Dipped Chocolate gives a little taste of heaven on earth." Now ladies, love for chocolate aside, COME ON!!! Can you really imagine Paul finishing every chapter of Romans with creative recipe ideas for manna and quail?

I grieve the fact that somehow we have corporately bought into this mundane version of faith. How is beef stew or "chocolate-dipped faith" going to help me walk with God? Is beef stew going to help me battle the sins that constantly entangle me - my pride, my fear, etc.? Is it going to help me love this world radically? Please someone, tell me where is the substance of our faith? Where is the power?

Is no one else dissatisfied by this cheap knock-off? Like the Louis Vuitton and Prada fakes sold on city street corners, have we really settled for something that may vaguely represent the real thing but will quickly fall apart the second anything heavy is put inside it?

Perhaps that is the problem. Perhaps we all have sold out and given up the desire to search for and find truth. Perhaps we have stopped believing that there is a truth to be found. Lets face it, while our generation affirms people's right to believe, we do not believe in the substance, the ultimate truth and reality of what they believe in. As a result, all we're left with are nice, happy thoughts, but little substance and no power.

I truly hope that we are not so easily satisfied. I know for myself that I crave more depth. I desire to love God with all my heart, to see Him work in and through me, to see the world changed for the better. I want to see the Church stand up against injustice and be known for being outstanding in our love and brave in the way that we face the difficulties of this world. I alone am powerless to do any of these things and will never be satisfied by a faith that thinks beef stew and chocolate are all the nourishment that I need.

Sunrise in México, Sunset in DC

The drive through the mountains from Cuernavaca to Mexico City is magnificent. Sharp green covered cliffs stand erect on one side of the highway. Small pueblos of grey cement block buildings are nuzzled into the mountain’s crevasses. Laundry flaps lazily in the wind as a man works the corn in his garden. With the setting sun, the silhouettes of distant mountains turn varying shades of blue and purple against pink and orange clouds. Fields of hay stacks glisten a warm gold. The valley slowly fills with a great sea of lights, splashing like waves against the sides of hills, turned islands.

Early this morning, this valley I have come to love bid me farewell. Through blurry, tired eyes, I watched the sun rise and the sky come awake in pinks and blues. After several hours of flying, lost luggage and missed flights, I looked out the shuttle window at Washington Dullus Airport to see the same sun setting behind lines of planes.

It is thoroughly strange to think that five wonderful weeks in México have come to an end. There is so much that changes with only a few hours in a plane. The air here in Boston is different – colder and crisper. It feels fresher, though not as comfortable as the warmth of Cuernavaca.

I feel grateful that I know these places so well – that I can navigate the streets and speak the languages, that I have come to know and understand some of the rhythm of each place. I am grateful that as I drive through Boston I feel a love for this city as well as a readiness to leave it and move to the next place. I am grateful that far away there are other cities and other countries that I will come to know and love like these. I am grateful that this is my life – a life lived here amidst the wonder of so much of God’s creation.

And I'm going to ...

Afghanistan.

That's right friends - I will be traveling to Kabul in January. For the first few months I will live with my father and will be taking Dari language lessons. (That's right ... from one language school to another. It's rather a shame they don't speak Spanish in Afghanistan.) I will spend the first few months volunteering with Future Generations, the same organization out of which I will be doing my Masters program. In March, I will travel to India for a month to meet with my fellow students and learn on site there. When I return to Kabul in April, the hope is that I will take over from a young man who has been working with Future Generations for the past couple of years. At about that time, my father will be finishing his time in Afghanistan so I will move to another house.

I am both terribly excited and rather overwhelmed. The thought, "Oh dear, what have I just gotten myself into" has definitely crossed my mind. Having said all this, I am also struck that the Lord, again, has provided overwhelmingly. Praise God!

Romance

From a darkened room I write – the blue haze of my computer screen stroking my face. With the power out, it provides the only light, save a candle that sits by my bedside. Outside, the rain in pouring down, a rare thing for Cuernavaca, la Eterna Primavera (Eternal Spring). My body feels full with contentment, having just returned from the most magnificent dinner.

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Flickering honey-colored lights quiver and skip across white linen table cloths, moving and swaying to the rhythm of a fountain’s falling water. A pink orchid hangs overhead from its earthen basket. A stairwell, painted warm yellow and orange, rises upwards and around the plaza in which I am seated – wine in hand, letting the tastes of fresh goat cheese and apple slices encircle my mouth. And then, softly at first, the music begins. The sound creeps upwards, rising into a crescendo, the notes beginning to swell within my chest. Just as my body feels full with the light, the music, the romance and the beauty, he steps forward and stands at my side. Like releasing the power and beauty of a great ocean wave, he opens his mouth and out swells the most glorious voice – to serenade me.

Never before have I experienced the shear force and power of a voice so close that it caused me to tremble and my heart to falter. Never before has opera music sounded so serenely beautiful. Never before have I struggled so hard to find one word, even one, in Spanish or English, to express my emotion. Never before!

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México is a country saturated with this magic and romance. It is a country full of the richness of love and affection.

Sitting at dinner with friends, there is the constant dance of couples’ hands twisting and turning, entwining themselves around one another. As if simultaneously carrying on two conversations, their hands whisper to one another with assurances of affection while their mouths go on speaking with others at the table.

Their words, too, betray something of México’s romantic sentimentality. The language is full with the richness of couples’ affection – “mi amor” (my love), “mi vida” (my life), “mi reina” (my queen), couples call one another.

A walk through a park is a walk through couples, their bodies curled round one another, lent against tree trunks, reclining on benches, sprawled across the grass. This is not the place for the PDA-wary. Even the car alarms here whistle as if at a beautiful woman passing by.

I enjoy the freedom of love here. I enjoy its taste. I enjoy the shamelessness of affection. And I wonder why we aren’t all so generous in our demonstrations of love, so affirming of our feelings.

Pyramid Stones & Life's Construction

Have you ever wondered whether you should give up on the thing that you have felt yourself made for all of your life? This is where I am tonight.

Since I can remember, working and living in developing countries alongside poor communities has been a defining part of who I am and who I hope to be. It is so much of what makes up my heart, like an undercurrent to my life.

There was a period of my life when I experimented with the idea of white picket-fences and 2.5 children. I tried to adjust my childhood normalcy to that of my American and British friends. I tried to convince myself that perhaps I could be happy and fulfilled in suburbia.

Here in Mexico, the Spanish conquistadors used the stones from pyramids they had demolished to construct churches and palaces. I have tried to do this - to take the materials of my childhood and adult experiences and construct something different, something of the "developed" world, something normal . . . But I can't. The stones in Mexico were made to come together into magnificent pyramids. The stones of my childhood were made to construct a life lived overseas. And yet, in the midst of tiredness and discouragement, I can't help but wonder at how easy it would be if only I could build something different.

I have been trying to find a field placement for the past several months and trying to hold the faith that the Lord that I love, the Lord that has provided for me so abundantly in the past will do so again. And while I believe this, I find I am sapped of energy. After months of trying to convince various NGOs of my infinite value and potential, I am becoming less convinced.

I know many would urge me to have faith in myself. I have never quite understood this. The older I get, the more of a lie it appears to be. Have faith in myself? I am not all-powerful. I cannot control the way the world moves. I am just a woman - wonderfully and carefully made with gifts and talents, yes - but still just a woman and therefore weak and limited. My life and this world are far too complicated and far too dangerous for me to place my faith in this fragility.

I wonder at how the pillars of my faith did it - kept the faith in God's overwhelming love and power despite all that happened to them and around them. The troubles of my situation are so terribly small in comparison, and yet I doubt. The Word says that "... faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. (Heb 11:1). I am learning that it is not merely a exercise of the mind, but a work of one's will. It is labor . . . and I am tired.

So this is where I remember that while, in all my perfectionistic nature, I long to never doubt, I also belong to a God that has told me, "Cast all your burdens on me, for I care for you." After all, it is He that has been building my life such that I long to be in the field. It is He who created these stones, He who decided what they would make and He who will ultimately construct something magnificent with my life.

First Nights

It is a strange feeling to be in a country for the first night. The air seems to move under a different weight, as if adopting its own peculiar walk. In Mexico, that air walks in circles around me with a heavy fullness. The spaces between people are filled with it. It is as if the air becomes the meeting ground for noises and smells and all that combines to make a place. The air has a feeling to it.

I arrived in Mexico this evening, exhausted. After waking up at 4:30AM to catch my flight, I spent the second half of the trip from Chicago to Mexico sitting next to a woman and her three year old daughter - adorable, but lacking in any understanding of good ol' American personal space. I kept scolding myself after picturing the scene from Dirty Dancing - "This is my dance space. This is your dance space." Oh, I should know better than to be this possessive over air.

From Mexico City, I traveled about an hour and a half to Cuernavaca. The trip south begins in the mass traffic jam that is the center of D.F. (Destrito Federal). Street markets, business people, tourists, buses, taxis, bicycles all collide in a wonderful crash of color and sound. Slowely this wonderful commotion begins to subside into city neighborhoods with houses rather than buildings. Cement walls surround the more expensive homes but do not keep out the gentle roar of the city that is like an undertow that keeps these suburbs tied to the city. And then, finally, the roar of the city dies and is replaced the silent music of the mountains. Jagged rocks rise on either side, lined with fluorescent green moss and grass. Then suddenly a valley breaks and there, nestled in the richness of the green are the familiar corrugated tin roofs of little pueblos. A man's horse plods slowely forward while a child runs quickly buy.

Do we know how fortunate we are? Do we realize the richness of cities and pueblos?

I know that it is on these evenings, having arrived again in a new and familiar place that the fullness of the air and the life that it holds suddenly feel more precious. It is on these first nights, before I am used to all that surrounds me that I realize how overwhelmingly full of life and beauty this world is! And then I think, I want to be a part of this world. I want to live here. And then I realize that it is precisely because it is new that I am struck be it, and that this life does surround us, wherever in the world we find ourselves.

For those in the know - by common demand

I received so many questions as to what it is that I am doing that I am finally deciding to post to add to the confusion.

I left Washington, DC and returned to Boston in mid-September when my father returned from Afghanistan and my sister from Scotland. My family spend a wonderful couple of weeks together.

On October 13, I leave for Mexico for five weeks to continue my Spanish language study and visit with some friends of the family. As some of you may recall, these are the same people that I stayed with for a month in the summer of 2004.

On November 20, I return to Boston from Mexico only to turn right around on November 21 and head California where I will spend Thanksgiving with a couple of my best friends.

When I return from California on November 29, I will continue my search for scholarships, fellowships, etc. In January of 2005 I will begin a blended learning Masters in Applied Community Change and Conservation program with Future Generations. I will be based in the field (though this is a rather large detail yet to be worked out) and will apply all the lessons back into the context of the communities with whom I work. Once a semester, my fellow students will gather together from more than a dozen countries to study in a different field site. In March '05, I will be in India, August '05 in New York, March '06 in Peru and August '06 I will be graduating in Tibet.

I hope this has managed to eliminate some of the confusion, though somehow I have my doubts. Let me know if you think you get it - I could use some of that clarity.

Perfectly and Abundantly Providing

We serve an abundantly and perfectly providing God! I am reminded of this particularly today as I prepare for my last day in Washington, DC, a city that has held both my great joy and great pain. It seems strange that it is the loss of goodbyes and all the incredible uncertainty that lies before me that now reminds me of God’s character and the confidence I can find within it.

I have said so many goodbyes in the past week and have felt rather overrun with weariness. The most painful came last Sunday, when I bid my church family farewell. This fellowship of believers have formed my community and my home for the past three years and have taught me what true koinonia, or fellowship of brothers and sisters, is meant to look like. They have taught me, too, just how messy ministry is, how costly justice is, how powerful truth is and how crucial love is. There simply are not words for what this family of believers means to me.

In addition to my church, I have said goodbye to friends from various parts of my life – GWU, World Vision, Little Lights Urban Ministries. Just last night, I was blindfolded and taken for a picnic at National Airport by three dear friends at work. A few nights ago I shared dinner with old housemates from Little Lights’ Ministry House. The goodbyes have been taxing, particularly as I do not yet know what I am saying hello to.

Even in this series of goodbyes and the presence of such uncertainty, however, the Lord has reminded me of His perfect love and provision. The goodbyes have become markers not so much of loss, but of what all God has provided for me in these last six years. The very sting of loss has signaled the great joy that these friendships have brought me, and so in the midst of all the uncertainty and sadness I have been reminded that God will continue to do as He has so consistently in my life – provide.

So today, as I leave this city, these friendships and this body of believers that I love, I have a choice – to be discouraged by the uncertainty of next steps or encouraged by the certainty of God’s character and the remembrance of His consistent provision. Today is when my choice of faith is made.

(To see photographs of those I have said goodbye to, visit www.wokabaut.shutterfly.com)

Welcome to the Journey

“Where are you from?” This is both the most telling and the most difficult question for me to answer. My practiced response comes in one long breath: “My father is from Scotland and my mother is from Finland. I was born in London, but I grew up in Sierra Leone and Papua New Guinea.” This, my simplest and quickest response, usually evokes a series of blank stares and confused mutterings from listeners who had anticipated a simple and brief exchange of polite small talk.

A more complete and far more complicated answer to this question reveals that I am at once from everywhere and from nowhere. Though I am able to make a home in most any country or community, I rarely find myself completely at home anywhere. Instead, my identity lies somewhere in the meeting of cultures and peoples. I am one of a strange and growing breed of TCKs or Third Culture Kids, raised between cultures.

Home, for me, cannot be defined with easy geographic boundaries. Instead, I discover it in the swirl of images and smells and feelings and sounds that make up my memory. It is in the white caked-on clay covering an Asaro mudman’s skin. It is in the smell of burnt wood that clings to an Ethiopian cross. It is in the sweet, wet coolness that encircles the green of a rice paddy after monsoon rain. It is in the beat and rhythm of foreign tongues singing foreign songs late into the night out of open storefronts.

Two summers ago, in the middle of a city I had never before visited, I came home in the most powerful way. I had come to work with Sudanese refugees in Egypt’s bustling capital, Cairo, and was invited to a wedding by my fellow teachers. Standing outside a Christian church in a Muslim country, my pale Scandinavian arms stood in stark contrast to the elaborate henna designs that decorated them. I wore the freshly tie-dyed African outfit for which I had been fitted days earlier. As I walked through the doors, Dinka, Nuer and Azande friends met me with handshakes and embraces. They smiled with their broad grins and remarked together, “Now you are a proper African!” Laughing with them, I moved slowly inside and found my place about halfway down one aisle. The beat of a drum began and I raised my voice with those around me to sing in a language I could not understand. Just as the chorus reached its peak, a woman two rows behind me released her high-pitched, joyful and triumphant Azande ululation. The tears began to fall down my cheeks, as suddenly I recognized this place. I looked at a friend and said, “I’m home”.

Today, I realize that I am saying goodbye to one home while moving forward toward another. In the postings that will follow, I invite you to join me in this exploration of home, culture, faith and life. I have named the blog, "Wokabaut Bilong Mi", Pidgin English meaning "My Journey" precisely because the title's language nods to my past in Papua New Guinea and its message looks forward expectantly to all that the future holds. Perhaps as you walk with me, you too will discover a world of new homes. Welcome to the journey!