for those of us who need our hearts changed

**Note: this is not about whether homosexuals should be preachers or should be allowed to marry or should be allowed to adopt or should have their names posted in the newspaper so that they can be publicly shamed by their country or should be served by any and every florist.

This is about how Christians are failing to love this group of people well, and it needs to change. 

***********************************************************


I think I'd be more indignant towards the people who call homosexuals "disgusting" while signing bills to incarcerate them for life in the country next door if I couldn't remember a time when I used the exact same descriptor to encapsulate this entire group of people. 

It hurts so much to remember, but homosexuality used to make me cringe too. You can blame the media or the "liberals" or higher education or whatever you want for why it's now only these memories that make me cringe; or I can save you the speculation and tell you why. It's because now I have the privilege of actually knowing and loving people who are gay. And, I also think I know Jesus a little bit better than I did before. But ultimately, it's because He supernaturally changed my heart because I was wrong--so wrong. 

When I was a teenager growing up in a conservative Georgia neighborhood, the only surefire way to prevent anyone from thinking you yourself are gay (which was the most horrible thing imaginable at that time, in our little world) was to be dramatically disgusted by it. It wasn't that difficult. I was disgusted by it in many ways and I was horrified at the thought of anyone thinking it of me. 

I remember well the girls we whispered about in the bathrooms and the boys whose high pitched voices we didn't believe when they shouted "I am NOT gay!" to the 7th grade taunters who sat behind them in class. As long as I stayed on the side of the predators and not the victims, I felt safe. Sometimes all it took was a quick smile at a joke or silence when people were being treated like trash right in front of my eyes. Other times it meant huddling in tight and listening while the obviously-heterosexual-girl-who-had-a-boyfriend dished about her softball teammates. 

I often stood up for people being made fun of and tried my best to keep company with those who didn't thrive off of gossip and tearing others down. But there was something that silenced me when it came to people being mistreated because some 13 year old somewhere thought they might be attracted to their own gender -- I was a Christian and people knew it. In my mind and most of the minds I was surrounded by, Christians were known to be against homosexuality. If anyone were to stand up for them, let it be others who were gay or at least people who didn't consider the Bible their "rule book for life." Being disgusted by homosexuality, and thus homosexuals, seemed to be a requirement of Christianity. 

That was then, but this is now. I have seen a few changes for the better since then, but I'd still say we have a freaking ugly reputation among homosexuals and I believe the blame lands on us for that. I blame myself and I blame the rest of us who have either silently looked on as the stones are thrown or have been the ones hurling them at that scary, sinful person whom we don't understand--the person whose sin is easier to point out than the ones that are secretly rotting our own hearts. 

Even for those of us who try earnestly to ascribe to the "Love the sinner, hate the sin" adage -- I would say it is not really working for us. Sin is disgusting and ugly and messy and it deserves our hatred, but I have plenty of sin in myself to hate before I start making it my duty to hate your specific sins. And I like the way Micah J. Murray reminds us that Jesus' business card didn't read : "Jesus Christ. Hater of sin, lover of sinners." 

"They say Jesus was a friend of sinners, but he didn't describe himself that way. His motto wasn't "eating and drinking with prostitutes and tax collectors." Those were the labels used by the religious community, by the disapproving onlookers. What's amazing about Jesus is that when he hung out with sinners, he didn't act like they were sinners. They weren't a "project," a "mission field." They were his friends. People with names. Defined as beloved children of the Creator, not defined by their sins. Icons of God's image. His brothers and sisters."
--Micah J. Murray 

As I said before, being on a similar page with Musseveni is unfortunately not a distant memory for me--it is a much more recent recollection than I like to admit. But thankfully there is grace for that, too. There is grace for my Kenyan friends who think Musseveni is a hero and there is grace for Musseveni himself.  For those of you who think homosexuality is "disgusting" (though you most likely have learned better than to say it with those words if you live in the US), there is grace for you. I know because I was there a few years ago and there was and is grace for me. 


The more I get to know Jesus and see the way He lived, the more I want to busy myself with loving people--all people. The ones, like me, who have debilitatingly prideful hearts that are fairly easy to hide and the ones whose sin is on display and on whom we can easily place the one-size-fits-all bumper sticker of "I love you, but I hate your sin." Does that really work for anyone? It never worked for me. 


A few years back, I finally grew tired of making it my job to hate someone else's sin, especially my friends. So I simply asked Jesus to give me his heart for other people, all types of people who struggle with all different types of things. He did it. He still does it, and I am forever grateful. 


So yes, I am absolutely heartbroken about how people are being treated. I have cried tears over the new legislation in Uganda and have felt genuine anger about the ways I believe we are getting it so, so wrong. But I believe it is God's grace that I can still remember when I was on the other side of that line drawn in the sand. I am still somewhat new to feeling overcome with grief that these precious brothers and sisters are being persecuted by us--the ones who are absolutely, undeniably called to love them. 

My repentant tears have begun to run dry as He allows me to have real relationships with real people who struggle with real sin, just like me. Now instead of throwing hate at homosexuals, you are throwing hate at my friends. In the name of the same Jesus I call my own. It is confusing to them and it is confusing to me and I truly think Jesus is shaking His head at how we are getting it wrong, like we are prone to do. If you think you are "with" God as you hurl hate on anyone in His name (...even murderers, child abusers, traffickers, and rapists), I believe you are gravely mistaken.

The good news? There is grace. It's never too late to stop hating and start loving…Jesus is fully capable of changing hearts and he proved that to me personally. Also in my experience, the gay community is pretty darn good at forgiving us who have at one time treated them like they are somehow less worthy of love than anyone else. 

"Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?” Jesus replied: “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’ This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments." -- Matthew 22:36-40

Downward Mobility

This week I had the awesome privilege of writing a guest post on DL Mayfield's ever-challenging and wonderfully rich blog. Basically I am just honored to be invited into the conversation that takes place there. I strongly encourage you to check out the whole blog if you have not--you will absolutely, positively walk away with things to chew on.

This post was never really an essay, just an on-going list in my iPad notes that became a post when I decided to throw it out there and see if anyone could relate.

Below are a few excerpts, but you can read the whole thing here :
http://dlmayfield.wordpress.com/2014/01/21/moving-downward-in-spite-of-the-safety-net-guest-post-by-annie/

On most days, my privilege ostentatiously dances in my face and frustrates my desire to really, truly live in solidarity with the people I am surrounded by. The voices that call this pursuit of downward mobility “ignorant idealism” ring louder and surer than my unsteady, but wishful, belief that this type of living is not only beautiful, but possible.

...I sometimes I feel like I am just playing dress-up. I put on a costume and play the part of friend to the poor, friend to the sick, and friend to the orphan, but remain so far above them (much to my dismay) that it seems a laughable feat to really live in solidarity with them. If I lived in America, I would most likely be dependent on government assistance. But here!? Here I am rich. I am healthy. I have family who call me their own and always have my back. I have people who would fight for me, if I needed it.

One of the things I love most about Jesus and the way He used His time on earth to teach us how to live is how mind-blowingly clear He is. I am simple minded and need straightforward directions; He graciously made it so that we do not have to make any assumptions or decode any messages to understand His heart for the poor. He is crazy about them. He honors them and cherishes them and calls them His friends; not for charity’s sake, but for love’s sake. I love the way Father Greg Boyle defines this solidarity: “kinship– not serving the other, but being one with the other. Jesus was not “a man for others”; he was one with them. There is a world of difference in that.”

 This is what I want. And this is what God is doing, slowly but surely, and not without pain and difficulty and awkwardness and lots of fumbles.

My job

Every single night. That's how often we remind God that we really freaking need Him to work out each of their futures. They fold their tiny, chubby hands and pretend to close their eyes, carefully watching to make sure mine stay shut. And we pray. 

We pray to the God who knit them into wombs already knowing that we would be here. That we would be in this place; this unnatural, response-to-tragedy place where none of us truly want to have to be. 

I can do my part. I can hold them close for this time and love them hard and petition God on their behalf until I am hoarse; but working out their futures is not and never will be a task He gives me. He has never, ever asked me to determine their future steps. 

He hasn't asked me to stay awake late into the night, filling pages with "best case scenarios" and "plans A, B, C, and D" to keep little, tiny humans in families until they grow up and create families of their own. He hasn't asked me to pour over scientific journals and anything else the internet has to offer about mentally ill mothers successfully raising their children. He hasn't asked me to analyze every interaction with birth moms and grandmas and women I walk past on the street who maybe, just maybe, could have a role in this child's life, long-term. 

It's simply not my job. 

My job, then? My job is to believe Him for them. To teach them, in this short time we have together, that our God is One to be trusted. What we do here, in this unconventional family--what we do here is trust God to love us like He says He loves us. It's how we keep walking, how we keep following when the path is too foggy for our purposefully untrained eyes to navigate. 

The same prayer every night, aloud, and then a few million groaned ones throughout the day. 

Jesus, remember us. Work it out. Continue to work it out for us. We trust You. You are the only One for this job. 

And then all together, we say amen. We give our affirmation. Let it be, Lord. And we thank Him. Asante Yesu. Thank you, Jesus. Not because we can see it but because we believe You. We believe You hear us and we believe You're mindful of us. And so we keep on trusting. 

Asante Yesu. Because we trust You are working and need not save our thank you's until we can see it crystal clear. 

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The post in which I try to convince everyone to become Foster parents (sorry)

((proof that i'm not a 'blogger' by trade... tried to add pictures because apparently words alone are boring and in the process made the font tiny and certain paragraphs huge... let's just take that as a sign from Jesus about what He thinks is important enough to actually read :)))

I'm not so bad at reflecting... looking back on things that are no more and seeing things I learned, things I missed, things I want to do differently next time, or things that have shaped me in ways I will cherish forever. But freezing time for even a moment and looking at what's around me now and thinking about what God is teaching me now is much harder for me. I don't journal and even though I love the question that almost always comes up on coffee dates with friends, I am not often thinking about what God is doing and teaching and disciplining and stretching and giving right now.

So, let me just talk about my journey while my tracks in the dirt are fresh and the path ahead is still long and winding, with much more ground to be covered. So much left to learn! Though my experiences with foster care have been unconventional (to say the least), they have always involved being a temporary mama to a child who is in need of just that. Most often, I would have preferred the word ‘temporary’ to not exist as a descriptive adjective in our relationship; but it always has. And I am thankful all the same for the weeks, months, or years that these children have been in my hands, even if they are now just mine in heart.

I believe so strongly that it is our great opportunity and privilege to enter into the suffering of others. That's how God led me here, before I knew anything about foster care. A child finding themselves in need of a different roof over their head is a big deal. And the thing is, it’s a big deal for everybody. We can look on, or we can enter in with humility, utter dependence on God, and a willingness to do whatever we can, at whatever cost, to love all who are involved.

You guys, I know this as a daily reality so believe me when I say Satan is after these kids. He so deeply loves a child feeling forgotten, abandoned, neglected, unworthy, and thrown away. I believe God is so clear in scripture about His profound love for the fatherless, outcast, and abandoned on purpose. He makes it simply impossible to read Scripture and not see this unfathomable love for the forgotten. He is crazy about them. As I spend my days (and nights) with them, I see Him working tirelessly to reveal this love to them—He is so faithful in that, but the awesome thing is He invites us in.

If we know this deep love to be true and we know that Satan wants ownership of these kids’ hearts, can we enter into the battle and wrap these little (or big) ones up in that love? Can we get some flesh in the game and welcome these kids into our homes, into our families, for even a brief 24 hours of love? Can we not think about ourselves for a few minutes and just trust God to use silly, small us in the lives of these kids He cherishes? Can we trust Him to give us what we need and help us to love “as much as we love our biological kids”? Can we trust Him with the hearts of our other children who we are afraid of hurting in the process? Can we believe Him when He says He is always and will continue to work for our good, even as we take a break from working to create our own good for ourselves and our families? Can we stop planning and rationalizing and thinking as if we are working in our own power and walk into this with expectancy for how He promises to carry us?

In foster care, it is so much about trusting Him to do what He wants to do in the lives of these kids (again, even for 24 fleeting hours) and letting you play a part even just by reading bedtime stories and wiping sticky hands. It's remembering constantly how deeply He cares for these kids and trusting Him to reveal that to them and to not relent in working for their good. It means trusting Him even when things don't go the way you would have hoped or thought best and continuing to pray for the children all the more when they are out of your hands/view and in someone else's. It’s saying yes to things that are likely to hurt and reminding Jesus that He needs to be so thick in this or you simply can’t walk it. 

I know that many, many godly people are of the mindset that some people are called to this and some are called to that and there are clear distinctions and it’s awesome that I am called to this and not that and it’s awesome that they are called to that and not this. Sure. I get that, sort of. But I think we are missing an important part of our relationship with God when we make our minds up prematurely about what He has or hasn’t called us to. Though it might look different for everyone, He has clearly called every single one of us to love and everyday I believe we can be asking Him who. He will not tire of our eagerness to see who He wants us to see.

In foster care, you will have hurting children (even if they are unable to verbalize the hurt, it is surely there) under your roof and you will be given the unique privilege to put your hands on them as you pray and petition on their behalf. You will be entering into the battle, undoubtedly. You will be fighting right alongside your God and with the indestructible armor that He has already won. You will forget yourself and you will have to remember Him. Your stomach will be filled with the anxious butterflies that they might not even know to have before court dates, family visits, and other life events. You will feel their heart pain and it will hurt, but doesn’t every one need that—someone to weep with them? You will pray earnestly for them and their families, often with tears, and God will so delight in hearing and answering those prayers that might have never been prayed. You will find yourselves loving their moms or dads or grandmas or siblings and that will probably be the Holy Spirit sweetly teaching you that we all need Jesus just the same.

I won’t play with statistics because I just don’t even know them off-hand, but I do know that there is a need. A real need. There is a always, always, always an opportunity for people who love Jesus to enter into the suffering of others and to allow themselves to be used however the heck God wants. As long as we live on earth, we will never lack these opportunities to enter in. When I lived in Atlanta and had thoughts of staying for more than a few months, I started the process of being registered as a foster parent. If Fulton County DFCS was willing and eager to let me join them in caring for these kids, as a 25 year old single student who had 3 roommates and would be keeping the child in a closet-turned-bedroom, I’d say there is a great need. 

I encourage everyone to pray about it… but maybe not in the “am I supposed to do foster care?” kind of way, though there's nothing wrong with that. Maybe in a “Here I am. Here is my home. Here is my time. Here is my heart. Here is the family you’ve given me. Use us as You see fit. We are here for You. Take what little we have and use it for Your glory.” And then listen. It’s not foster care for everyone; of course I realize that. But it’s something. 

Prayer: there is so much power in this! it blesses me (and our babies) so much when visitors who come to Neema House pray over the children, their families, their futures. Contact me and I will so so gladly match you with a child who would so greatly appreciate your prayers. Think about how you who have children pray for them and commit to pray the same way for a child who has no one to pray those bold prayers for them.

Supporting someone who is doing it: here is an awesome way to get some beautiful art AND support a girl who is fostering. I'm also willing to bet your pastor knows who in the church is involved with foster care and maybe they'd love a fresh meal when they bring home a new child, just like new moms home from the hospital love!

Learn more:       
 http://www.safe-families.org/

http://www.faithbridgefostercare.org/

https://camellianetwork.org/

http://www.theforgotteninitiative.org/index.html

http://dfcs.dhs.georgia.gov/documents/become-foster-parent

Even there

It's quickly becoming a favorite place of mine though I've only spent 6-8 hours there in total. Honestly, my first minutes inside were full of timidity and nervous observation. As the gate was slowly unlocked, pushing willful escape artists out of the way, it was as if we were being welcomed into a cage full of lions. My eyes were busy scanning the scene, never lingering too long to avoid being surprised by an unexpected encounter.

 The noises greet you before you even cross the muddy path that brings them into sight. Screams, groans, bickering, singing, laughing, conversation, crying. This is Kenya's one and only mental institution--the "civil" women's ward.

 Wangare* meets you at the gate and squeezes you so tightly you feel like your organs will come out of your mouth. Not just upon greeting, but every few minutes. Sneak attacks from behind are her favorite, and maybe mine too. Her laughter echoes through the stale walls and urine soaked floors. She proudly buries my entire arm in the pit of her own and drags me throughout the whole ward, introducing me as "rafiki yangu" (my friend). I am blown away by the honor of her introduction. I strangely miss her in the hours I am at home, surrounded by people who respect my personal space.

 Alice* repeats the same few sentences repeatedly, sharing her desire to become a US citizen. She follows too closely for my comfort and sees a way-too-small opening on the bench as a an eager invitation to sit. After a few minutes, I lose feeling in my left leg and run out of graceful responses to her repetitious mutterings. Her husband visits her daily and I would say she is the best dressed women in the ward thanks to his faithful efforts. She treats him poorly when he comes but he keeps on coming back. This kind of love baffles me.

 Mary's* sweet demeanor meets me at the gate every time. She has more love in her frail 80 pound body than anyone I've met. Her story will cut your heart into pieces and yet she is the first to tell you that she does not doubt God and His power. She speaks so sweetly of her God and I love Him all the more. Though she was granted permission to be discharged months ago, Kenyan hospitals require you to stay until you can pay your bill in full. It is a practice synonymous with prison. She tells me she is fasting and as much as I respect her faith, I beg her to eat. Her bones protrude and her gait is weak. I tell her she needs to remain physically strong so she can care for the children who wait expectantly for her. She nods with brimming tears. I ache to erase her pain. I stand in awe of her resilient faith in the same God I call my own.

 Sarah* talks to me about the mzungu ("white person") she knows, assuming if we are both white, we obviously must know each other. I listen for a few moments as she skips sentence breaks and talks without end and then intervene to tell her to eat the food she has collected before it gets cold. I just need a small break from her incessant talk and maybe if her mouth is full my ears can have a rest. Just as her mouth is filled, she breaks into singing the Kenyan national anthem. Some women stand in respect and other just look on.

 The one I feared the most is now a friend, as I have learned the key to her heart: food. She is nonverbal, very stout, and wears only a medical gown which barely covers her front and hangs open in the back. She seems unable to recognize when her stomach is full, so roams around to each person who is eating, demanding they give her some of their portion. The wise ones have learned to quickly fulfill her request so as to avoid an altercation. She has been abandoned again and again and again until she reached adulthood and no one knew where else take her. If for no other reason, I want Jesus to hurry up and come back just for her sake.

This beautiful woman doesn't respond when I ask her name, but she yells loudly that God will come. I nod my head and grab her hand, telling her that He is already here. We both look around and say it aloud. "He is here. (Mungu ni hapa.)"

I have to believe it, though I feel my own doubt creep in as my eyes scan the scene once again. But yes, even (or most especially!) in a cage full of urine soaked and wandering women -- He is here. Women. Women who have moms and dads and childhood memories and brothers and sisters and husbands and CHILDREN and gardens and market vendors who know their name and how many kgs of flour they will buy this week and homes they wake up to sweep. This cage is filled with moms and daughters and wives, not wild animals as I had once believed.

 You can see the kindness in Jane's* eyes the second you meet her. She remains quiet, except to warn me when I am about to sit down on a bench that is covered in human, adult excrement. Though she does not join any of our conversations, I watch her and her love for others amazes me. She gently scoots down the bench to sit next to a severely ill woman who is unable to feed herself. Jane has learned that the woman just needs help getting the food into her mouth, where she is then able to push the food down her throat with her index finger. Before Jane even takes a bite of her own food, her heart beats for the others around her.

 The one most precious in my heart is the one who brought me here. She puts her limp, sedated arm around me and says "I am bad". Together we lift her chin and force her eyes to meet ours. "You are not bad." "Do you hear?" "You are not bad." "Jesus is here and He says you are not bad. You are His child." "Do you hear?" As if speaking to a child, I will her to believe me. I will not tell a lie. I also will not allow a lie to be spoken without calling out against it. Satan will not be the loudest voice echoing through this place. Not in the ears of my friend. He will not reign here. She asks to come home with me every single time we visit. I ache to say yes, but know that she needs just a little more time to adjust to the medication and be reviewed.

I cannot blame her for even one millisecond for wanting to leave. At the same time, I am encouraged to no end by the work God is doing when I see the precious friends she has made in just one week here. They are sisters. The most beautiful sisters who seem to not even imagine withholding love from someone who is different. I hide tears behind my sunglasses at the sight of their love for one another.

 I love so deeply the God who chooses to be present in places as seemingly hopeless as this overflowing prison. He pulls us out of the miry pit and even when we still feel neck-deep in the muck, He is there with us. I just love that God. I love the Jesus who tells us as He walks this pain-ridden earth that these women that fill this cage are absolutely precious to Him, a king. Giving our whole lives to them is not a waste, it is worship.

 A personal pet peeve of mine is the constant asking God to come and join us as we worship Him. Though I don't know that the invitation does any harm, can we just believe assuredly enough to skip right to THANKING HIM for being here? And if we have to invite Him even into our churches, what about the places where darkness is tangibly thick? Can we trust Him to be there or is it our duty to unlock the gate, push back the ones trying to break loose, and give Him a place on the bench?

 Is the God who lifts my head and goes before me the same God who has the same fond affections for these seemingly forgotten women, sisters, and mothers? I ask Him the whole way home. I so need Him to be and the next time I go, I ask Him to show me Himself so clearly because my eyes are new at this stuff. The recognizing Him in hurt and pain and injustice is something I am just beginning to learn. I need him to pick up my eyeballs and place them in front of His sweetness every single day here.

 Today the muddy, soiled ground where overmedicated women lay was recognized as undoubtedly holy ground. I saw Him everywhere. He was in the patient doctor (one of TWENTY FIVE mental health specialists in a nation of over 43 million people) who spoke lovingly to the hundreds of women in her care. He was with and shining so brightly from precious Mary who keeps on believing He is working for her good, even now. He was in my sweet friend who shared the precious fruits and soda we brought her with the sisters she has found here. He spoke through Margaret* as she took a weeping woman in her arms and assured her over and over again that this pain will not last forever. He is in Wangare's* laugh and tight squeezes.He is all up in the laughter that just doesn't quite make sense in the conditions these women live in. He is there -- where women and moms and daughters and sisters endure. Though most of the country, their own families included, have given up on or forgotten them, God is there and He is crazy about them and He is not going anywhere. That kind of love leaves me breathless.

"Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast. If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me,” even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to you." Psalm 139:7-12

"Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end." Matthew 28:20

He will never leave or forsake His people. Even there, He is. 

I still don't really "get" it. I can't explain it to others who ask and I will be the first to admit to anyone that it doesn't make much sense to me. I have found a place on both sides of the fence at one time or another--the one which asks hard questions and believes the worst about the One who set it into motion and the one which asks hard questions and clings to the Truth, as is and as will be.

 I am always wondering when and how we are supposed to fight and simultaneously trust God's sovereignty. Sometimes the two seem mutually exclusive in my mind. Some days I wonder why the heck we put ourselves through chemotherapy if we trust Jesus and His good, pleasing, and perfect will. Other days I am knocking down doors and busting through road blocks because surely, this cannot be what God wanted.

I think I've been waiting to talk about this because I keep thinking that maybe next week I will grasp it a little bit better, or at least not swing so rapidly on the pendulum. It's true that nearly every time I open my Bible, The One Who Remains The Same changes, reworks, or expands my view on things that the day before I thought I might just have figured out. This conversation below is the one we have the most frequently. And most certainly, I will read another scripture tomorrow that tweaks what I understood to be true today, just a bit. The awesome thing is He never stops teaching and that HE Himself never changes -- so for that reason, I am writing.

In EMT school, after weeks of CPR training and testing, we were presented with the odds of CPR actually bringing people back to life. While difficult to measure, the statistics are surprisingly low--below 7% is a good guess. Some say as low as 1%. 

It was 12:15am and I was just getting ready to have my intern papers signed so I could leave--midnight had finally come. Now I was headed home to sleep for several hours before going back to school. The machines started beeping and the small, but sure, nurse began to shout out orders until the closest doctor arrived. A finger landed on me to begin chest compressions. It should have come as no surprise that standing over a real, warm, bare-chested human and putting my weight into the pursuit of pumping her body with blood, a job that intricately designed organs were meant for, would be quite different from my experiences with a plastic dummy. 

This woman beneath me, the one absorbing the forceful heart thrust I was delivering every second, was real and so was her daughter who was waiting outside the door. Forty two minutes later, her heart had shown no interest in re-programming and beginning again. The doctor called the time of death and I stepped down from the stool, my arms seemingly frozen in the position they'd held for those long, but fast-as-lightning, minutes. 

As I finally drove home from the ER, I was able to talk to a friend in a different time zone who was still awake. She asked me if I felt bad that the lady had still died. For some reason, I didn't really. Giving up a fight is always hard, but such solace comes when you can say with certainty that you did all you could. My role that night was small. As I physically begged this nameless woman's heart to kick back into gear, others worked furiously to provide adequate oxygen and intravenous epinephrine and atropine to give this woman her best chance of coming back to life.

Instead of going to class the next day, I went to get a massage in hopes of being able to use my upper body again someday. I have never been so sore in my entire life. I really did wonder if my shoulders would be stuck like this forever -- if I would always look like I was gripping reins while riding a horse. The pain felt good though, in a weird way. Even my body was crying out that "we tried, dadgumit, we tried."  Better than me, the doctor and nurses who didn't give up on a pulseless human for 42 minutes, knew the odds of bringing someone back to life. This was not their first cold body to cover--not their first tearful daughter to encounter with news she was praying against. But they fought. We fought hard. And then we trusted. Maybe the trusting should have preceded the fighting, but in the end, I know it was there.

We see it often in Scripture, the call to fight. "Defend the cause of the weak and fatherless." "Seek justice for the oppressed." "Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves." Act, speak, seek, defend, stand, love -- we have a role in this fight, those words (and so many more!) are our proof. We are all called to a fight, all the while knowing true justice is not something we will see on this earth right now.

I am so results-focused. Quantifying successful loving has been a struggle for me since I started following Him. I want to win. I want to make a difference. I don't want to waste a second. I want my chest beating to bring life back and we want our banging on the doors of brothels to put little girls back into families and to reacquaint them with their innocence. We want our tears and our petitions and our time and our sacrifices to be rewarded with success. I do, at least. 

But the thing is, I don't think He really promises us quantifiable results or measurable success. At least not the kind I seek. He tells us to fight, undoubtedly. To stand with, to defend, to speak, to act... But He doesn't tell us this will end slavery or get the number of orphans in this world down to zero.  I don't think we're supposed to be so concerned with that, honestly.

I'm also starting to think He also doesn't always promise us the good, peaceful kind of sore that lingers to remind us we did all that we could do. If it comes, let me see it as a sweet, kind gift. If it doesn't come and I begin to demand it, maybe this has become far too much about me. Maybe He wants us to linger for a bit in that anxious "put me in the game, coach!" place of constant seeking and surrendering, offering (way too obnoxiously, perhaps) to be used if He will let us.

There are the things He doesn't promise us...and lots of times the sting is big. But the things He DOES promise us are good. So good. He tells us He will be with us. He tells us He will be Himself for us. He tells us that if we fight,“then [our] light will rise in the darkness, and [our] night will become like the noonday. The Lord will guide [us] always; he will satisfy [our] needs in a sun-scorched land and will strengthen [our] frame. [We] will be like a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail."And if that's not enough, He tells us He is coming back for us and none of this crap that called us to a fight will even be worth comparing or remembering.

There are days I convince myself I am fighting alone. Many days, unfortunately. I ask Him why the little girl who always ran home from school to show me her A's is now the same girl who was pulled out of school and is being sold for sex instead. I ask Him why that boy has to confirm the scoffs of the "I told you so"ers and find himself back in jail, when it's impossible not to see he is the greatest victim. I ask Him why no one who has any kind of power seems to give a damn that orphans are being oppressed, right before our eyes. I ask Him why the lady who drops her handicapped sister off on the street every morning to beg for money is rolling in wealth while her sister is pushed lower to the ground every day. I ask Him why all of this medical knowledge, all of this gifting is reserved for the sick who are rich, while body bags are overflowing in the slums.

I have so many questions. I know He cares; I know I only care because He cares; so I cling to what I know of who He is and join the fight. The results are His, my only obligation is jumping in and trusting that He is good.

"The truth is we may never fully understand why God allows the suffering that devastates our lives. We may never find the right answers to how we'll dig ourselves out. There may not be any silver lining---especially not in the ways we'd like. But we don't need answers as much as we need God's presence in and through the suffering itself. Explanations, I've learned, are often a substitute for trust. For a believer, God's chief concern in your suffering is to be with you and be himself for you. And, in the end, we discover this really is enough." --Tullian Tchividjian

Living in Africa doesn't make you an awesome person

As a general rule, I've mostly found that people think you're an "awesome person" if you live in Africa. Especially if you live in the bush and poop in holes and sleep on thin mattresses and take baths in buckets... in the name of Jesus. Even more if you hang out with sick people or orphans or the poorest of poor. It makes me cringe from the inside out when this is put onto me (it's fine on the others, I even put it onto them along with everyone else) because I know what goes on in my heart and there is so so much that isn't awesome... but it probably doesn't show up very clearly in the pictures where I am snuggled up with brown orphans.

It was an act meant for good, without a doubt, but it watered the young seeds of some pretty ugly things in my heart. I think I was in 9th grade. I was a regular at church and Sunday School and Bible Studies for social reasons. It was fun and I loved the people and I was a generally nice person, so no one really looked twice in question of whether or not I 'belonged' there. It worked.

I will never forget it -- the Sunday School teacher came over and picked up my thick, colorful "Teen Study Bible" and held it up in front of the entire class. She said something along the lines of THIS type of Bible being the kind we should all have. THIS type of Bible was covered in stickers and doodlings (a result of extreme boredom and easy access to stickers during a Bible Study...). THIS type of Bible had wrinkled pages (a result of everything I touch being ruined within minutes... Homework, school books, etc just ask any teacher I ever had). THIS type of Bible had stains and rips and tears and unbound pages (again, I am mess. Lord only knows yogurt, rain, juice had soaked into the pages and by that point the mold was unhindered). THIS type of Bible was highlighted (because for the first couple of years of church, camp, Sunday school, etc I followed the rules and highlighted stuff they told me to highlight). THIS type of Bible was clearly and visibly well loved and we should all have Bibles that look like THIS.

My face flushed red--a common occurrence--but it was boiling hot in this instance because I was scared to death that she would ask my favorite verse, what I was learning in my non-existent "quiet time", or worse, a Bible trivia question to prove my alleged faithfulness to the Word of God. That would surely shut this party down. I knew the second she grabbed my Bible from my lap that this was now a lie I would have to work to defend. I was doing things right. I was someone who the others in my class should learn from. If she only knew...

My sins perhaps weren't the kind that necessitated being added to the email prayer list (Sally is drinking, I think. John smelled like pot once...so he is smoking pot. Amanda is probably anorexic. Sam is sleeping with his girlfriend, I'm pretty sure. Tommy loves the new Eminem CD, etc), but they were a plenty. The hidden kind are so often even more destructive than the exposed but what I was learning is that hiding sins and highlighting your Bible was all it really took.

I'm using this example because I have experienced how detrimental it is to keep your sin and struggles in the dark. To remain quiet, letting people keep on thinking that you are an "awesome person". I can recall precisely where I was when I first heard this truth come out of my CD player in downtown Athens :

“The best thing that could ever happen to you is that your sin would be literally exposed in the five-o’-clock news.  Your deepest, darkest, most embarrassing sin.  The one you work the hardest to hide, would be broadcast on the five-o’-clock news.  Best thing that would ever happen to you… Because I am so weary, I am so tired of having to hide my sin from people.  Of deceiving people about who I really am–I’m tired of it!” (Derek Webb)

I literally felt nauseous at the thought of my sinful heart bare naked before the world. It left me speechless. It even gave me nightmares. Holy crap, that would RUIN ME. Why? The answer scared me even more. I was letting people think I had things together and was living right because I could usually be counted on as a designated driver, kept my Bible on my nightstand, drug myself out of bed for church (most) Sundays, tried to be nice to strangers and smiled a lot.

I remember exactly where I sat as I heard my pastor in Athens say the words of Paul (in his own way that I don't recall) "a sinner, of whom I am the worst." What?! It stopped me in my tracks. I think it was my first Sunday at my new church in my new city. It was the most beautiful gospel message that I came to hear every Sunday. It was a message I desperately needed to hear every Sunday. It was a message I needed to preach to myself daily. If it was okay for my pastor to need Jesus this much, it was okay for me.

It changed absolutely everything for me. I am not sure it was truly the first time I heard it (from a pulpit or a church leader) or if it was just the first time God opened my ears to receive it. But it rocked me. So hard. For good. I don't know what I was or wasn't before, but now that I was beginning to see and hear and learn that being a Christian means quite the opposite of what I had previously thought -- I knew I was in this time around. He had me. I wanted to follow this guy who actually WANTS the people who don't (and will never quite) have their shit together, for lack of better words.

Anyway, if you think someone is awesome (for reasons other than NOT being awesome, but because of God's sweet grace) but you can't name the sins they struggle with then you probably need to get to know them better. Please, get to know me better than to think I am awesome. ((I know this is a laughable statement to my close family and friends who are well aware that I am anything but...yack it up, people.)) Get to know Katie Davis or even Mother (freakin? seemed right) Theresa better than to think they, as a single unit, are awesome. And if you want people to think you're awesome, you're certainly not alone. Talk to Jesus about that (it's a conversation we have often because being seen as an awesome person doesn't sound so bad sometimes).

I'm just saying maybe we need to start looking up to the people who straight up suck at most of the things Jesus asks us to do. The ones who bear fruit because they ABIDE not because they're good at what they do. The ones who actually, truly, deeply, wildly need His grace, they don't just know how to talk about it.

Some of these people are in Africa, no doubt. But a whole ton of them are getting a different kind of dirty in a different kind of war zone. Maybe there's is less glamorous to their facebook friends, but it's every bit as beautiful.