A Week in the Jungle, the Mighty Jungle
I was sick almost the entire week. A sore throat drove me to bed early every night and then a cough woke me up early, early in the mornings. I didn't mind so much. I just sat on the little porch at the Evangelical School for the Deaf where we were staying and watched as the wind rolled in off the coast and pushed the dark clouds away towards the lush mountains. And so a new day was born to the sound of Gungor (their new album "Ghosts Upon the Earth" pouring through my headphones) and a gusty breeze.
Puerto Rico: The 51st State
As I prepared with my fellow freshman and sophomore Bonners to travel to Puerto Rico for an alternative break trip, I kept asking what it meant for PR to be a US territory. No one, not even the Google Machine, could give me a satisfactory answer. The realization that, in an almost paradoxical way, PR is its own country while still being part of the United States gradually rolled over me. Alright, mystery solved for me...I doubt I could adequately explain it for anyone else. Perhaps this is mostly because you should go and uncover the answer for yourself! I fell in love with the place. It tasted strongly of plantains, Spanish, and the unique flavors that I love of Hispanic culture, but it was also oddly like home.
"Put your faith in what you most believe in."
The interesting thing about Bonner is that the only thing we all have in common is our love of service. We all believe in service, in the power of community. Other than that, we're all fairly diverse. And as far as service goes, we all have our various reasons for even doing it.
But it's what we do. We all get together and serve. On this trip, we worked at multiple service sites, which is always lots of fun. Different people shine in different places, and it's always exciting to see people shine in places that aren't necessarily in their comfort zone. We spent the first two days working at El Hogar de la Serenidad, a home for boys with substance abuse problems that is trying to get off the ground. People scraped paint off the banisters of the many balconies attached to the house, preparing them to be painted (which we did on our second day there). Others cleaned up the outside, using everything from a power washer that sounded perpetually angry to a very sharp machete, the choice of the Puerto Rican natives. I worked with a couple others on cleaning the six bathrooms. Memorable moment from that service site: I learned what a bidet was in a very close encounter while cleaning one. I'll let Wikipedia explain it for you if you're confused.
It's often hard to do what seem like menial tasks that aren't really helping people. So while we were scraping, sanding, scrubbing, and shearing, we smiled but whispered questions as to why this was so important for us to spend so much time doing. Once I read a mini devotional on a mission trip called "Mopping for Jesus." I don't remember exactly what it was about or what the scripture was that accompanied it, but I do know that it asserted that no act of service is too small. Yes, mopping may feel menial, but you can still do it for God and it won't be a waste: With all this going for us, my dear, dear friends, stand your ground. And don't hold back. Throw yourselves into the work of the Master, confident that nothing you do for him is a waste of time or effort. (1 Corinthians 15:58 MSG) I was reminded of this while I impatiently painted and had to pause to consider why I was painting. It wasn't for me. It was for God and it was for the people who would be helping the boys. How can a painted balcony or a clean bidet help boys overcome a substance abuse problem? Shoot. I didn't know, but it didn't matter because it wasn't a waste of time or effort. Later, after posing with an inflatable Santa for a group picture at the end of our time there, we discovered that to get the license they needed to really get started, they had to pass an inspection that focused heavily on an absence of chipping paint (lead hazard?) and on a generally clean atmosphere. I'd say that's proof that our service wasn't a waste for them. And our group got fun bonding moments out of it. It was an experience that made me think about the ability of a mini community within a community to overcome problems and birth fresh starts. Why aren't there more homes like that in South Carolina?
Our third day was spent painting the gate to the school where we were staying. Sorry, I don't have a moving motivation behind that task, but it was a way for us to give back to the people that so graciously let us eat, sleep, and play (yes, we played...I realize we're all 18+. So what?) at the school while the kids were on Christmas break. We battled scattered showers and emerged victorious, although perhaps with a little more paint dripped on us than we intended. The afternoon gave way to "cultural activities"...aka shopping at a strip of kioskos and exploring the Puerto Rican beach.
The next day we drove for hours into El Yunque, the tropical rainforest in PR, to work with a native named Ben on rebuilding a trail up the muddy slopes of the mountainous jungle (Is there any difference between a jungle and a rainforest? The jury is still out on that one...). It was messy work, which I loved, but some of my fellow Bonners did not. Whether or not working outside in the mud was our forte, I think we all had fun with it. I learned so much from Ben. He went to school in California to become a teacher, and even though he is working in a rainforest instead of a classroom, he still finds ways to share his wealth of information with those who are eager to learn. There was somethng very satisfying about swinging pickaxes, hailing logs, and squishing around in the mud once we could step back and see the trail we created. It was even more satisfying when we hiked the two miles up to the end of the trail to see the nests of the Puerto Rican parrots that scientists and other specialists were diligently studying. Technically we built the path for the humans, but essentially, it will help the parrots, too. And that's pretty awesome if you ask me.
When we had finished, I was sad to leave Ben and El Yunque behind. As we drove away, I couldn't help listening to this song:
"Christmas time is here..."
I didn't get to spend the first week of my Christmas vacation doing Christmasy things at home with my family. But what better way to spend that week than serving alongside my Bonner family, thinking about how much mankind needs love?
Does anyone know what Christmas is all about?
Linus asked. And we've been asking ourselves that for so long it seems... Many have decided it's not actually about presents and Santa, but instead about more permanent things like family and traditions. And even though family and traditions are very good things to have around Christmas, it's not actually about those things either. It's much bigger than that. It's about celebrating the Savior that came because mankind isn't good enough. I can't serve my way to heaven, but I can trust in the greatest Servant. And as I painted banisters, cleaned bidets, and laid a trail through the rainforest in PR, I was reminded of why I serve: We love each other because he loved us first. (1 John 4:19 NLT) Whatever I do out of love (i.e. serve), I only do it because He first showed me love and taught me how to love.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Friday, November 18, 2011
The Joyful Blogpost
I revel in Isaiah 40:
"Comfort, oh comfort my people," says our God. "Speak softly and tenderly to Jerusalem, but also make it very clear that she has served her sentence, that her sin is taken care of--she is REDEEMED! She's been punished enough and more than enough, and now it's over and done with."
Thunder in the desert! "Prepare for God's arrival! Make the road straight and smooth, a highway fit for our God. Fill in the valleys, level off the hills, smooth out the ruts, clear out the rocks. Then God's bright glory will shine, shine, shine and everyone will see it. The LORD has spoken."
A voice says, "Shout!"
I said, "What shall I shout?"
"PEOPLE ARE NOTHING BUT GRASS, THEIR LOVE AS FRAGILE AS WILDFLOWERS! The grass withers, the wildflowers fade, under the Lord's breath. True, the grass withers and the wildflowers fade, but our God's Word stands firm and forever. I'm sorry, did you not hear me? OUR GOD'S WORD STANDS FOREVER."
Climb a high mountain, Zion. You're the preacher of good news. Raise your voice. Say it good and loud, Jerusalem. Don't be timid! Tell the cities of Judah, "Look! Your God!" Look. At. Him. Look at him! God, the Master, comes in power, ready to go into action. He is going to pay back his enemies and reward those who have loved him. Like a shepherd, he will care for his flock, gathering the lambs in his arms, hugging them as he carries them, leading the nursing ewes to good pasture.
Who else held the oceans in his hands? Who has measured off the heavens with his fingers? Who else knows the weight of the earth or has weighed out the mountains and hills? That's right. NO ONE.
Who is able to advise the Spirit of the LORD? Who knows enough to be his teacher or counselor? If we think we can advise the Holy Spirit, we have inverted our relationship with God.
No, for all the nations of the world are nothing in comparison with him. They are but a drop in the bucket, dust on the scales. We are mere emptiness and froth. That stuff that washes up on beaches, disappearing into nothing.
So who even comes close to being like God? To whom or what can you compare him? Some no-god idol? Ridiculous! Do you want a "god" that can't even stand up on it's own?
Have you not been paying attention? Have you not been listening? Have you listened but not truly heard? Haven't you heard these stories all your life? Don't you understand the foundation of all things? God sits high above the round ball of earth. The people look like mere ants. He stretches out the skies like a canvas-yes, like a tent canvas to live under. He ignores what all the princes say and do. The rulers of the earth count for nothing. Princes and rulers don't amount to much.
"To whom will you compare me? Who is my equal?" asks the Holy One.
Look up to heavens. Who created all the stars? Who brings them out one by one, calling each by name and counting them carefully to be sure none have strayed?
O Israel! O Charleston! O Church, brotherhood of believers! How can you say that the Lord doesn't see your troubles? How can you say God refuses to hear your case? God is rolling his eyes at your ignorance. Haven't you heard? Don't you understand? Don't you know that the LORD is the everlasting God, the Creator of all the earth? He doesn't grow faint. He never becomes weary. No one can measure the depth of his understanding.
He gives power to the tired and worn out, the burnt out. He offers his matchless strength to the weakest of men. Even youth and college students become exhausted beyond the assistance of espresso. Even young men give up. But those who wait upon the Lord and delight in him will find new strength. They will fly high on wings like eagles, running and never growing weary. They will walk the narrow path with enduring energy.
So get excited!
"Comfort, oh comfort my people," says our God. "Speak softly and tenderly to Jerusalem, but also make it very clear that she has served her sentence, that her sin is taken care of--she is REDEEMED! She's been punished enough and more than enough, and now it's over and done with."
Thunder in the desert! "Prepare for God's arrival! Make the road straight and smooth, a highway fit for our God. Fill in the valleys, level off the hills, smooth out the ruts, clear out the rocks. Then God's bright glory will shine, shine, shine and everyone will see it. The LORD has spoken."
A voice says, "Shout!"
I said, "What shall I shout?"
"PEOPLE ARE NOTHING BUT GRASS, THEIR LOVE AS FRAGILE AS WILDFLOWERS! The grass withers, the wildflowers fade, under the Lord's breath. True, the grass withers and the wildflowers fade, but our God's Word stands firm and forever. I'm sorry, did you not hear me? OUR GOD'S WORD STANDS FOREVER."
Climb a high mountain, Zion. You're the preacher of good news. Raise your voice. Say it good and loud, Jerusalem. Don't be timid! Tell the cities of Judah, "Look! Your God!" Look. At. Him. Look at him! God, the Master, comes in power, ready to go into action. He is going to pay back his enemies and reward those who have loved him. Like a shepherd, he will care for his flock, gathering the lambs in his arms, hugging them as he carries them, leading the nursing ewes to good pasture.
Who else held the oceans in his hands? Who has measured off the heavens with his fingers? Who else knows the weight of the earth or has weighed out the mountains and hills? That's right. NO ONE.
Who is able to advise the Spirit of the LORD? Who knows enough to be his teacher or counselor? If we think we can advise the Holy Spirit, we have inverted our relationship with God.
No, for all the nations of the world are nothing in comparison with him. They are but a drop in the bucket, dust on the scales. We are mere emptiness and froth. That stuff that washes up on beaches, disappearing into nothing.
So who even comes close to being like God? To whom or what can you compare him? Some no-god idol? Ridiculous! Do you want a "god" that can't even stand up on it's own?
Have you not been paying attention? Have you not been listening? Have you listened but not truly heard? Haven't you heard these stories all your life? Don't you understand the foundation of all things? God sits high above the round ball of earth. The people look like mere ants. He stretches out the skies like a canvas-yes, like a tent canvas to live under. He ignores what all the princes say and do. The rulers of the earth count for nothing. Princes and rulers don't amount to much.
"To whom will you compare me? Who is my equal?" asks the Holy One.
Look up to heavens. Who created all the stars? Who brings them out one by one, calling each by name and counting them carefully to be sure none have strayed?
O Israel! O Charleston! O Church, brotherhood of believers! How can you say that the Lord doesn't see your troubles? How can you say God refuses to hear your case? God is rolling his eyes at your ignorance. Haven't you heard? Don't you understand? Don't you know that the LORD is the everlasting God, the Creator of all the earth? He doesn't grow faint. He never becomes weary. No one can measure the depth of his understanding.
He gives power to the tired and worn out, the burnt out. He offers his matchless strength to the weakest of men. Even youth and college students become exhausted beyond the assistance of espresso. Even young men give up. But those who wait upon the Lord and delight in him will find new strength. They will fly high on wings like eagles, running and never growing weary. They will walk the narrow path with enduring energy.
So get excited!
Thursday, October 6, 2011
White Garments and a Post-It Note Jesus
Blogging feels overrated at times. But then again, so does everything in my life.
I have been a bug. Not a cute ladybug with carefully colored polka dots or a butterfly who has spread her feathered wings to take flight. I have been that bug on the windshield of your car, hanging on for dear, dear life while you repeatedly try to squash me with your windshield wipers. There was literally a hurricane threatening to demolish my life (and her name was Irene), but more importantly, there was also a metaphorical hurricane that was bringing so much rain and high speed winds to my life.
The good news: I am not a bug anymore.
A couple weeks ago, I went on a fall retreat with BCM. I had no expectations of insane experiences, but I should have. I was expecting late night Waffle House excursions and light-hearted conversations on the beach. And I got exactly that. But I also experienced God in insane ways. I was singing loudly Saturday night during our time of worship when I just felt the need to leave. Like get up out of my seat and walk out of the room. You just don’t do that in a Baptist group. People look at you and either think you’re crazy or you have problems controlling your bladder. But I couldn't sit there and let people's perceptions of me become more important than experiencing God. So the first chance I got, I jumped up and darted out the door, walking until found myself sitting in the sand, looking up at the cloudy sky and hoping to see God. And in that moment, it all spilled out. All the angry words I had for God burst from my mouth and exploded in the chill of the salty air. And God was there to take them all and reveal Himself to me in spite of my anger. He showed me the shadows in my life (yeah, it scared the mess out of me), and then allowed me to see the beautiful worship music my fellow BCMers were singing. Suddenly Jesus was sitting on the ground next to me giving me white garments to wear (Revelation 3:18) and I felt whole again. You can't wake up the next morning and be a bug when Jesus himself has clothed you in white the night before.
The best part about seeing Jesus was His eyes. They were so colorful...but they reflected the faces of all the people He loved. That, my friends, is true beauty.
Pretty bizarre/awesome, right?
It gets better.
Jesus left my roommate and me post-it notes. We found hers as we strolled down King Street while avoiding a Western Civ study session. We had been talking about things she just felt like she couldn't do, settling back into that bug groove, when we spotted a random yellow post-it note on the wall of one of the buildings. It read: "You can do anything. I have faith in you. <3 J" Yeah. Crazy. It caught us both off guard. We both wandered, shell-shocked, down King Street. Jesus just wrote Courtney a post-it note. He's so real!!! It was really exciting. How do you go from that to studying?
Well, you don't.
I needed to calm my brain down, so I pulled out the book I was reading (Going All the Way by Craig Groeschel) and flipped through the pages. I came across a random blank post-it note stuck to one of the pages. Wait a second. Last time Craig Groeschel and I had a reading session, I wrote down a lie that I had been telling myself on a post-it note and stuck it in the book. And now, in addition to my lie, there was a blank post-it note? Yeah. Say whatever you will about it....what matters here is that in that moment, looking from my lie to the blank note, I realized that God erases lies. That’s what He does! That’s why He sent Jesus (John 3:16, 1 John 1:9): to erase the lies we tell ourselves. He FORGIVES.
So what do I do with that?
Philippians 2:5-13
In your relationships with one another, have the same mindset as Christ Jesus:
Who, being in very nature God,
did not consider equality with God something to be used to his own advantage;
rather, he made himself nothing
by taking the very nature of a servant,
being made in human likeness.
And being found in appearance as a man,
he humbled himself
by becoming obedient to death—
even death on a cross!
Therefore God exalted him to the highest place
and gave him the name that is above every name,
that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow,
in heaven and on earth and under the earth,
and every tongue acknowledge that Jesus Christ is Lord,
to the glory of God the Father.
Therefore, my dear friends, as you have always obeyed—not only in my presence, but now much more in my absence—continue to work out your salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you to will and to act in order to fulfill his good purpose.
(Thanks to my lovely roommate for reading me these verses as I asked, in my bewilderment, “What do I do now??”)
Experiencing God is incredible. It transcends words. (Ironic then that I should be writing about it, right?) Whether He reveals Himself to you in a vision or in a post-it note, the important thing is that something changes as a result. I witnessed God’s unconditional forgiveness in two somewhat crazy and bizarre situations. And as a result, I am called to leave the heaviness behind, to walk around with the joy that can only emanate from Him, and to work out my salvation with fear and trembling.
I am also called to share it with others. Our greatest witness, as Christians, is our stories. We serve a personal God. So here is my story; here is my personal encounter with the Creator of the universe and the Author of my faith.
Acts 4:20
“We cannot stop telling about everything we have seen and heard.”
Guess what. I have seen and heard the living God. I have experienced His forgiveness in an unbelievably real way. And it’s AWESOME.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Get Busy Living AND Get Busy Dying??
Their faces follow me everywhere.
Sometimes I feel HAUNTED, but mostly it just fills with JOY.
I wake up in the middle of the night, and all I can remember from my dreams are their faces. I know that in my dreams, I was back in Honduras, listening to the children--Carlos, Dunia, Dulce, Joel, Norma--chatter away in Spanish or spinning in the dizzying heat as the children--Pahola, Angel, Noe, Dilcia, Yareli--tug at my hands.
"A dream is a wish your heart makes."
Cinderella sang it to the accompaniment of cartoon mice and birds so it must be true, right? Usually, my heart is not really wishing for the bizarre dreams that I have (you know the ones where you're flying on a penguin because you're running late and you can't exactly put your finger on where you're going or how this penguin an fly? Yeah, not exactly my heart's wish.). But I know that in this case, I do wish to be back in Honduras where I was forced to rely on God, where I was loving those kids, and where (this is such a selfish but real reason) I felt needed. I get frustrated when I wake up with their faces burned in my mind and yet find myself in my own comfortable bed (technically it's a futon, but I suppose that's irrelevant here...) with air conditioning, running water, cell phone service, and a family who loves me immensely.
"Get busy living, or get busy dying."
I recently watched The Shawshank Redemption. And those are Andy's words of wisdom to Red as they converse in the prison yard. How can you make statement like that while you are in prison for a crime you didn't commit? Actually, a better question: How can you make a statement like that while you are living in your comfortable suburban life? I went to Honduras and got busy living. I spent time with sixty-three children who, like Andy, didn't deserve their circumstances, but who where busy living. In my mind, they had every right to give up, to sigh and ask themselves, What's the point? I watched them LIVE, though. I heard them laugh. I held them while they cried. I squinted in the bright, unashamed joy of their smiles. And I joined in. We were busy living!
Now, however, I am home. I am uneasy because, in all the comforts of suburban American life, I don't want to catch myself getting busy dying. I love dreaming about their faces, Pahola's in particular. [I cannot escape her melodious and carefee laughter.] I see their faces in the children at Target and my church...and I do a double take as my heart first misses a beat, then just starts terribly missing my brothers and sisters in Honduras. Where do I draw the line between lovingly missing them while still living in the present and excessively missing them while slowly dying as I forget about the tireless phrase "Carpe diem"?
Tonight, when I wake up with Pahola's laughter echoing in my mind, I will lift my love of Honduras and of those children up in prayer, trusting that God Almighty, Rock and Redeemer, is busy living and watching over them. Tomorrow, when I wake to the sunlight streaming through my blinds (I'll be realistic, the obnoxious alarm on my phone will wake me up), I will get out of bed (futon) and get busy living.
I've been flirting with the phrase "living martyr." That's what I want to be. I want to sacrifice every day of my life, every breath of my life, and every adventure of my life (emphasis on "life") to God. It's martyrdom--giving up my life--while still living. Paradoxical, I know. But it's what following the Lamb is all about...being a living martyr.
Can I get busy living for Christ while simultaneously getting busy dying to Elizabeth? Heck yes. Did Elizabeth really just talk in the third person? Of course she did.
Sometimes I feel HAUNTED, but mostly it just fills with JOY.
I wake up in the middle of the night, and all I can remember from my dreams are their faces. I know that in my dreams, I was back in Honduras, listening to the children--Carlos, Dunia, Dulce, Joel, Norma--chatter away in Spanish or spinning in the dizzying heat as the children--Pahola, Angel, Noe, Dilcia, Yareli--tug at my hands.
"A dream is a wish your heart makes."
Cinderella sang it to the accompaniment of cartoon mice and birds so it must be true, right? Usually, my heart is not really wishing for the bizarre dreams that I have (you know the ones where you're flying on a penguin because you're running late and you can't exactly put your finger on where you're going or how this penguin an fly? Yeah, not exactly my heart's wish.). But I know that in this case, I do wish to be back in Honduras where I was forced to rely on God, where I was loving those kids, and where (this is such a selfish but real reason) I felt needed. I get frustrated when I wake up with their faces burned in my mind and yet find myself in my own comfortable bed (technically it's a futon, but I suppose that's irrelevant here...) with air conditioning, running water, cell phone service, and a family who loves me immensely.
"Get busy living, or get busy dying."
I recently watched The Shawshank Redemption. And those are Andy's words of wisdom to Red as they converse in the prison yard. How can you make statement like that while you are in prison for a crime you didn't commit? Actually, a better question: How can you make a statement like that while you are living in your comfortable suburban life? I went to Honduras and got busy living. I spent time with sixty-three children who, like Andy, didn't deserve their circumstances, but who where busy living. In my mind, they had every right to give up, to sigh and ask themselves, What's the point? I watched them LIVE, though. I heard them laugh. I held them while they cried. I squinted in the bright, unashamed joy of their smiles. And I joined in. We were busy living!
Now, however, I am home. I am uneasy because, in all the comforts of suburban American life, I don't want to catch myself getting busy dying. I love dreaming about their faces, Pahola's in particular. [I cannot escape her melodious and carefee laughter.] I see their faces in the children at Target and my church...and I do a double take as my heart first misses a beat, then just starts terribly missing my brothers and sisters in Honduras. Where do I draw the line between lovingly missing them while still living in the present and excessively missing them while slowly dying as I forget about the tireless phrase "Carpe diem"?
Tonight, when I wake up with Pahola's laughter echoing in my mind, I will lift my love of Honduras and of those children up in prayer, trusting that God Almighty, Rock and Redeemer, is busy living and watching over them. Tomorrow, when I wake to the sunlight streaming through my blinds (I'll be realistic, the obnoxious alarm on my phone will wake me up), I will get out of bed (futon) and get busy living.
I've been flirting with the phrase "living martyr." That's what I want to be. I want to sacrifice every day of my life, every breath of my life, and every adventure of my life (emphasis on "life") to God. It's martyrdom--giving up my life--while still living. Paradoxical, I know. But it's what following the Lamb is all about...being a living martyr.
Can I get busy living for Christ while simultaneously getting busy dying to Elizabeth? Heck yes. Did Elizabeth really just talk in the third person? Of course she did.
 |
| Me and Pahola |
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Missional Living in Greenwood, SC
A couple weeks ago, I visited the lovely town of Greenwood, SC. Believe it or not, the Southern city that is home to Lander University, a Wal-Mart, an O'Charley's, and not much else is one of my favorite places to spend time. I was born there and my grandparents still live there, so it's like a second home. I went with the intent of spending some quality time with my grandparents, but other opportunities arose, too.
Just after I returned from Honduras, my grandpa sent me an email asking if I would be willing to speak to his Sunday School class about my experience. I'm not one to keep up with email and I planned my trip to Greenwood without even imagining I would have the opportunity to share about Honduras...so a few days before embarking on my journey to Greenwood, he asked me on the phone if I was interested in speaking. Of course! The only thing I love more than actually experiencing missions is sharing my experiences with people, in hopes that they will embrace missional living in their own lives. What do you say to a group of senior citizens who are probably smarter and wiser than you? Only the words God gives you. As I was preparing, my grandmomma sent me a text (yep, my grandparents are pretty tech savvy) asking if I would also be willing to speak to a group of college kids. Now that one was right up my alley. There were a lot of things I wish people had told me about how you can live missions in your everyday life, how you can travel with a group of nonbelievers to do service and make it a mission trip, how God works in funny ways to get you where He wants you, how a little faith can go a long way (ever heard the one about the mustard seed?). So I put together a pretty presentation with the help of Prezi (check it out: http://prezi.com/hha0mjroq0es/honduran-adventures/), packed my suitcase, made a mixed CD for the roadtrip to Greenwood, and headed out.
It was so good to see my grandparents. It always is. I love talking over a cup of coffee, waking up early, going on shopping adventures, being crafty, and just hanging out. I swapped summer stories as they fed me entirely too much food and spoiled me in ways that only grandparents truly can. I loved every second of it! But it was so awesome to also have the opportunity to speak to two very different groups about my experiences in Honduras. I'm not sure if the group of college kids from Woodfields Baptist took anything away from my talk other than the baffling fact that I ate a LOT of beans and tortillas, but my prayer is that their eyes were opened to a world of missions to which all Christians are called, though each in a different, unique way. And even though I spoke very loudly, I don't know that the Sunday School class I spoke to at Rice Memorial Baptist really heard and understood what I had to say about life in a foreign country where corruption and chaos lurk around every bend in the mountainous roads, but I hope they now have a new perspective on the importance of supporting missionaries through prayer and donations...and how supporting missionaries makes them missionaries, too! It was good closure for me. It forced me to think about my trip as a whole and to face the fact that I am no longer in Honduras. I am in South Carolina, and there are so many ways I can serve here.
While in Siguatepeque, I learned that mobilizing the church to embrace missional living begins with changing your own personal lifestyle. When you start living with a passion and drive for God's work, the believers around you will do the same in response. It starts with me. It starts with you. Individuals make the difference. Individuals start every revolution.
Life in America is painfully different from the Honduran lifestyle I grew to adore. Being spoiled by my grandparents in the little town of Greenwood, SC is a far cry from eating beans and tortillas in San Buenaventura, HN. But wherever I am, I am called to be a missionary. I am called to live my life for God's purpose. Missional living, here I am.
Just after I returned from Honduras, my grandpa sent me an email asking if I would be willing to speak to his Sunday School class about my experience. I'm not one to keep up with email and I planned my trip to Greenwood without even imagining I would have the opportunity to share about Honduras...so a few days before embarking on my journey to Greenwood, he asked me on the phone if I was interested in speaking. Of course! The only thing I love more than actually experiencing missions is sharing my experiences with people, in hopes that they will embrace missional living in their own lives. What do you say to a group of senior citizens who are probably smarter and wiser than you? Only the words God gives you. As I was preparing, my grandmomma sent me a text (yep, my grandparents are pretty tech savvy) asking if I would also be willing to speak to a group of college kids. Now that one was right up my alley. There were a lot of things I wish people had told me about how you can live missions in your everyday life, how you can travel with a group of nonbelievers to do service and make it a mission trip, how God works in funny ways to get you where He wants you, how a little faith can go a long way (ever heard the one about the mustard seed?). So I put together a pretty presentation with the help of Prezi (check it out: http://prezi.com/hha0mjroq0es/honduran-adventures/), packed my suitcase, made a mixed CD for the roadtrip to Greenwood, and headed out.
It was so good to see my grandparents. It always is. I love talking over a cup of coffee, waking up early, going on shopping adventures, being crafty, and just hanging out. I swapped summer stories as they fed me entirely too much food and spoiled me in ways that only grandparents truly can. I loved every second of it! But it was so awesome to also have the opportunity to speak to two very different groups about my experiences in Honduras. I'm not sure if the group of college kids from Woodfields Baptist took anything away from my talk other than the baffling fact that I ate a LOT of beans and tortillas, but my prayer is that their eyes were opened to a world of missions to which all Christians are called, though each in a different, unique way. And even though I spoke very loudly, I don't know that the Sunday School class I spoke to at Rice Memorial Baptist really heard and understood what I had to say about life in a foreign country where corruption and chaos lurk around every bend in the mountainous roads, but I hope they now have a new perspective on the importance of supporting missionaries through prayer and donations...and how supporting missionaries makes them missionaries, too! It was good closure for me. It forced me to think about my trip as a whole and to face the fact that I am no longer in Honduras. I am in South Carolina, and there are so many ways I can serve here.
While in Siguatepeque, I learned that mobilizing the church to embrace missional living begins with changing your own personal lifestyle. When you start living with a passion and drive for God's work, the believers around you will do the same in response. It starts with me. It starts with you. Individuals make the difference. Individuals start every revolution.
Life in America is painfully different from the Honduran lifestyle I grew to adore. Being spoiled by my grandparents in the little town of Greenwood, SC is a far cry from eating beans and tortillas in San Buenaventura, HN. But wherever I am, I am called to be a missionary. I am called to live my life for God's purpose. Missional living, here I am.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
A Poem from San Buenaventura
"Rest"
Thundering rain
On a red metal roof
Calls us outside
Away from a bowl
Of our freshly chopped salsa
Towards the smell of fire and renewal
We yell over the reverberations
But it is in vain
The heavy black clouds
Release their raindrops
And become a muted gray
Anger released
Turns into a moment of pure happiness
In the feeling of
Wet hair, goosebumps, salty avocados
And peace
The world is hidden away
In metal-roofed houses
From oppression and sadness
Song breaks through with the sun
It seems like dawn
Yet it's three in the afternoon
Thundering rain
On a red metal roof
Calls me to remember
God's power and grace and compassion
Rain is rest
On a red metal roof
Calls us outside
Away from a bowl
Of our freshly chopped salsa
Towards the smell of fire and renewal
We yell over the reverberations
But it is in vain
The heavy black clouds
Release their raindrops
And become a muted gray
Anger released
Turns into a moment of pure happiness
In the feeling of
Wet hair, goosebumps, salty avocados
And peace
The world is hidden away
In metal-roofed houses
From oppression and sadness
Song breaks through with the sun
It seems like dawn
Yet it's three in the afternoon
Thundering rain
On a red metal roof
Calls me to remember
God's power and grace and compassion
Rain is rest
Once-in-a-Lifetime Experiences in Honduras
"Life isn't measured by the number of breaths we take but by the moments that take our breath away." -Anonymous
Day 1: Playing hide and seek in Spanish...I have been in Honduras for maybe three hours and already my breath escapes me. This feels like a dream. A group of little girls grabbed out hands and led us to this meadow of strange purple flowers. Collecting bouquets as they run and hide, each little girl is a blur of laughter and dark pigtails. The sun beats down on me with the rhythms of foreign, unknown drums and I grin as I tug my hair back into a braid. Suddenly there are little girls at my side pulling me down to the ground and tucking the strange purple flowers into my hair. It doesn't matter the language barrier, love speaks loudly in this moment.
Day 6: Sitting in a hammock on La Playa Grande sipping on an orange Fanta in a glass bottle...All I can see are my sandy feet propped up in the hammock against a background of the Pacific Ocean, Hondurans splashing around in the water, two colorful boats--La Pinta y Santa Maria--anchored near the shore and buoyantly drifting with the waves. The sky is blue with sharp white clouds, and I hear the ocean, the laughter, the sounds of cooking as I close my eyes in this perfection. This is the very definition of paradise.
Day 8: Watching the Gold Cup with the older kids at Casa Hogar...they saved a seat just for me where I can snuggle with Dulce and look over groups of children wrapped up in big blankets at the carefully rigged up TV where Mexico and Honduras are playing fútbol. The kids are excited. Yina yells every chance she gets, her clear voice resounding over the sound of the crowds on TV. Some of the kids doze because it is well past their bedtime. Dulce squeezes my hands and falls asleep in my lap. It doesn't matter that Honduras loses. This is like Christmas for these kids.
Day 11: Waking up to the sound of rain drumming out beats on the red metal roof of our cabaña...The rain stops, though, and we sleepily wander outside only to find two rainbows (arcoirises) stretched out across the sky. The air smells like rain and feels alive. The sounds of a Honduran morning--chickens, children, water, buses--become a faint whisper as the promise of God drowns out all else. You know it's guaranteed to be a good day when...
Day 12: Riding to the YWAM base in Siguatepeque...We pile ourselves and our seven backpacks into the bed of a white Toyota pick up. Definitely not legal in the States but also definitely more fun than just riding inside the truck, we bounce our way to the beautiful base. The wind rips at our hair and spit is whipped from our mouths as we attempt conversation. We laugh for the entire ride, exhilarated by the adventurous nature of it all.
Day 18: Baking funfetti cupcakes with the little girls at Casa Hogar...two boxes of funfetti cake mix, six eggs, 2/3 cup of vegetable oil, three spoons, cherry frosting, two cupcake pans, and one big bowl. The little girls crowd around a table and take turns pouring the various ingredients into the big bowl. With our help, they spoon the batter into the cupcake pans, vehemently licking the sweet batter off their fingers. The cupcakes come out of the oven looking absolutely ridiculous but we hide their imperfections with pink frosting that tastes like cherry Laffy Taffy. The girls each get one and then there are some left over for the little boys. After they devour the pastelitos, they all wander out of their cabin and in their best English, thank us all. Pink crumbs all over their small faces and drips of the cherry frosting on their shirts and dresses, their smiles are ten times sweeter today. As the little boys eat theirs in the sleepy stupor induced by afternoon nap time, one of them, aptly named Angel, curls up in my lap and looks up at me with an innocent smile. My heart swells and I pray that this moment will burn itself in my mind.
Day 20: Suzy has us lined up at the front of the church as part of some terrifyingly unknown ritual: Amy, Carolyn, Mary, Adam, me, Jenny, Maddie, Karina. The 63 children of Casa Hogar sit in front of us, but as Suzy says something in Spanish, they all jump up and run to us, a fearsome wave of excitement. Suddenly, we are surrounded by hugs. I look into the precious faces of each darling brother and sister, trying desperately to remember each name in the chaos of the moment. One of the older boys who has autism, Elias, grabs me and pulls me down to ground along with two little girls who are hanging tightly onto me. A purple flower blossoms on my knee just under the skin and pain makes me bite my lip. Seconds later, though, I'm on my feet with a fresh wave of children hugging my waist. The moment is gone too fast and Pahola is tugging at my hand, longing to go outside. I follow, but look wistfully back for a moment wishing to return to the hugs so I could pause life there for just a little longer. But I don't look back for long. There are more moments that will take my breath away awaiting me.
Day 21: After a three hour delay in Houston, I am sitting in a mostly empty plane destined for home. Out of my window, dark clouds flash incessantly with bolts of lightning. Behind me is the most beautiful sunset I've ever seen, but looking down on this darkly daunting thunderstorm, I might cry. "All My Fountains" comes on my iPod and I remind God of my "yes", I remind Him that I will follow Him anywhere. For now, though, in this moment, this is exactly where I'm supposed to be. I don't know that before this moment I've ever truly fathomed what God's beauty must be like. But here I am. Another flash of lightning reveals a hole in the clouded sky. I remember the faces of my 63 brothers and sisters in Honduras. God is beautiful. God makes beautiful things.
Day 1: Playing hide and seek in Spanish...I have been in Honduras for maybe three hours and already my breath escapes me. This feels like a dream. A group of little girls grabbed out hands and led us to this meadow of strange purple flowers. Collecting bouquets as they run and hide, each little girl is a blur of laughter and dark pigtails. The sun beats down on me with the rhythms of foreign, unknown drums and I grin as I tug my hair back into a braid. Suddenly there are little girls at my side pulling me down to the ground and tucking the strange purple flowers into my hair. It doesn't matter the language barrier, love speaks loudly in this moment.
Day 6: Sitting in a hammock on La Playa Grande sipping on an orange Fanta in a glass bottle...All I can see are my sandy feet propped up in the hammock against a background of the Pacific Ocean, Hondurans splashing around in the water, two colorful boats--La Pinta y Santa Maria--anchored near the shore and buoyantly drifting with the waves. The sky is blue with sharp white clouds, and I hear the ocean, the laughter, the sounds of cooking as I close my eyes in this perfection. This is the very definition of paradise.
Day 8: Watching the Gold Cup with the older kids at Casa Hogar...they saved a seat just for me where I can snuggle with Dulce and look over groups of children wrapped up in big blankets at the carefully rigged up TV where Mexico and Honduras are playing fútbol. The kids are excited. Yina yells every chance she gets, her clear voice resounding over the sound of the crowds on TV. Some of the kids doze because it is well past their bedtime. Dulce squeezes my hands and falls asleep in my lap. It doesn't matter that Honduras loses. This is like Christmas for these kids.
Day 11: Waking up to the sound of rain drumming out beats on the red metal roof of our cabaña...The rain stops, though, and we sleepily wander outside only to find two rainbows (arcoirises) stretched out across the sky. The air smells like rain and feels alive. The sounds of a Honduran morning--chickens, children, water, buses--become a faint whisper as the promise of God drowns out all else. You know it's guaranteed to be a good day when...
Day 12: Riding to the YWAM base in Siguatepeque...We pile ourselves and our seven backpacks into the bed of a white Toyota pick up. Definitely not legal in the States but also definitely more fun than just riding inside the truck, we bounce our way to the beautiful base. The wind rips at our hair and spit is whipped from our mouths as we attempt conversation. We laugh for the entire ride, exhilarated by the adventurous nature of it all.
Day 18: Baking funfetti cupcakes with the little girls at Casa Hogar...two boxes of funfetti cake mix, six eggs, 2/3 cup of vegetable oil, three spoons, cherry frosting, two cupcake pans, and one big bowl. The little girls crowd around a table and take turns pouring the various ingredients into the big bowl. With our help, they spoon the batter into the cupcake pans, vehemently licking the sweet batter off their fingers. The cupcakes come out of the oven looking absolutely ridiculous but we hide their imperfections with pink frosting that tastes like cherry Laffy Taffy. The girls each get one and then there are some left over for the little boys. After they devour the pastelitos, they all wander out of their cabin and in their best English, thank us all. Pink crumbs all over their small faces and drips of the cherry frosting on their shirts and dresses, their smiles are ten times sweeter today. As the little boys eat theirs in the sleepy stupor induced by afternoon nap time, one of them, aptly named Angel, curls up in my lap and looks up at me with an innocent smile. My heart swells and I pray that this moment will burn itself in my mind.
Day 20: Suzy has us lined up at the front of the church as part of some terrifyingly unknown ritual: Amy, Carolyn, Mary, Adam, me, Jenny, Maddie, Karina. The 63 children of Casa Hogar sit in front of us, but as Suzy says something in Spanish, they all jump up and run to us, a fearsome wave of excitement. Suddenly, we are surrounded by hugs. I look into the precious faces of each darling brother and sister, trying desperately to remember each name in the chaos of the moment. One of the older boys who has autism, Elias, grabs me and pulls me down to ground along with two little girls who are hanging tightly onto me. A purple flower blossoms on my knee just under the skin and pain makes me bite my lip. Seconds later, though, I'm on my feet with a fresh wave of children hugging my waist. The moment is gone too fast and Pahola is tugging at my hand, longing to go outside. I follow, but look wistfully back for a moment wishing to return to the hugs so I could pause life there for just a little longer. But I don't look back for long. There are more moments that will take my breath away awaiting me.
Day 21: After a three hour delay in Houston, I am sitting in a mostly empty plane destined for home. Out of my window, dark clouds flash incessantly with bolts of lightning. Behind me is the most beautiful sunset I've ever seen, but looking down on this darkly daunting thunderstorm, I might cry. "All My Fountains" comes on my iPod and I remind God of my "yes", I remind Him that I will follow Him anywhere. For now, though, in this moment, this is exactly where I'm supposed to be. I don't know that before this moment I've ever truly fathomed what God's beauty must be like. But here I am. Another flash of lightning reveals a hole in the clouded sky. I remember the faces of my 63 brothers and sisters in Honduras. God is beautiful. God makes beautiful things.
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