She walks streets which do not belong to her. She knows them well. Every contour. Every detail. She knows the stones, the pavement, cracked bricks and muddy sidewalk. To the market she goes with her head bowed. She walks quickly, her steps revealing urgency. An urgency not dictated by time. She is not at a loss for time.
Healed, tan shoes, sides streaked with dried mud. Blue jeans. Tan overcoat. Red blouse covering to the knees what the coat fails to conceal. Matching red covering wrapped to conceal her hair, forehead, and neck. Blue eyes. Eyes that stop me cold. Beautiful blue eyes that I, as a man, may only glimpse as they return to the ground in shame.
Shame.
It is with shame she walks the streets, quickly managing her outside tasks to get home. Shamed when she looks into the eyes of a man. Shamed at the catcalls, whistles, sexual remarks with which she is barraged on the street. Shamed at being seen in a man's world. Shamed at not being home where she belongs.
And there is me. 23 years old. Single. Male. In the same way that marriage fails to cure the age old struggle, neither does living overseas as a worker. Lust. Sexual immorality. Every man deals with this struggle whether or not he is ready to admit it. Every impure thought on which I dwell makes me no better than the men I observe daily. It is here, in the midst of an idolatrous, pagan culture, that I find myself most profoundly confronted with the depths of my very own depravity.
God loves the Arab woman. His heart is broken for her as she lives these lies every day.
"You are nothing more than an object. An object only useful to stay the man's desires. And when it's over, you'll be replaced with 72 virgins. You probably won't even see paradise, because you are less than a man. Maybe tomorrow he'll divorce you. Maybe he'll send you away."
This is the message they hear. Every day. From the men. From the culture. From me.
God's heart breaks. He sees the beauty of what was created that sixth day. He sees the beauty that I corrupt with my mind. He loves the beauty that I and every other man has objectified at one time or another.
No more.
"Be holy, for I am holy" - God
"...we are taking every thought captive to the obedience of Christ..." - Paul
Satan uses shame to propagate bondage. But "it was for freedom that Christ set us free." I have as my ambition to be holy as God is holy. To love justice. To love truth. To love beauty.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
How to Start a Fire (No, This Is Not a Post About the Band Further Seems Forever)
Living in Africa can sometimes be compared to living in the stone age... or, at least, pre-industrialized America. In our kitchen, there is a flash-boil water heater. Said water heater is fueled by the gas tank that connects under the sink. We call this tank a "Budagas". For those of you who desire to join me in my stone-ageism, below are instructions for installing your very own gas tank for cooking and water heating!
Step One:
Inconveniently run out of the house without wallet. Halfway to the local market, realize it's at home. Though with said realization comes the thought that maybe he can put it on your tab.
Step Two:
With much struggle, more frustration, and slight delight, carry on a 20 minute conversation, in Arabic, with the shop owner.
Step Three:
Deflect all attempts of the shopkeeper to convert you to Islam. This is fairly important.
Step Four:
Carry the heavy tank, via left shoulder (switching to the right shoulder when necessary and back again if the walk is long enough) back to the house for set-up. Be careful to not drop the tank as it is most likely flammable.
Step Five:
Search the kitchen for a wrench. Unscrew regulator and hose. Forget that the tank had not yet been shut off. As a result of your blunder, open window and leave room for approximately 15 minutes.
Step Six:
Upon return, hook up new tank with wrench. Turn on gas tank and test for leakage.
Test #1: Apply soapy sponge to tank nozzle, regulator, and tube. If bubbles result, gas is leaking and said piece needs replaced before use. In this case, turn off gas tank and replace. If no bubbles, move on to test #2.
Test #2: The final test to ensure a working budagas, simply follow three easy steps:
Step One:
Flip a coin to see who gets to perform test #2. The winner of the coin toss will perform the test. The loser of the coin toss will leave the room for a safe place.
Step Two:
Pray.
Step Three:
Light a match. Apply flame to gas tank at connection point, regulator and hose. If the tank catches on fire, shoots flames, or explodes, this is a sure sign that the tank is defective. Replace, if physically capable, defective part. If nothing happens, the budagas is ready to go.
Step Seven:
Resume shower as the budagas most certainly went out following the application of shampoo to hair. Also, rinse shampoo out of eyes.
Step One:
Inconveniently run out of the house without wallet. Halfway to the local market, realize it's at home. Though with said realization comes the thought that maybe he can put it on your tab.
Step Two:
With much struggle, more frustration, and slight delight, carry on a 20 minute conversation, in Arabic, with the shop owner.
Step Three:
Deflect all attempts of the shopkeeper to convert you to Islam. This is fairly important.
Step Four:
Carry the heavy tank, via left shoulder (switching to the right shoulder when necessary and back again if the walk is long enough) back to the house for set-up. Be careful to not drop the tank as it is most likely flammable.
Step Five:
Search the kitchen for a wrench. Unscrew regulator and hose. Forget that the tank had not yet been shut off. As a result of your blunder, open window and leave room for approximately 15 minutes.
Step Six:
Upon return, hook up new tank with wrench. Turn on gas tank and test for leakage.
Test #1: Apply soapy sponge to tank nozzle, regulator, and tube. If bubbles result, gas is leaking and said piece needs replaced before use. In this case, turn off gas tank and replace. If no bubbles, move on to test #2.
Test #2: The final test to ensure a working budagas, simply follow three easy steps:
Step One:
Flip a coin to see who gets to perform test #2. The winner of the coin toss will perform the test. The loser of the coin toss will leave the room for a safe place.
Step Two:
Pray.
Step Three:
Light a match. Apply flame to gas tank at connection point, regulator and hose. If the tank catches on fire, shoots flames, or explodes, this is a sure sign that the tank is defective. Replace, if physically capable, defective part. If nothing happens, the budagas is ready to go.
Step Seven:
Resume shower as the budagas most certainly went out following the application of shampoo to hair. Also, rinse shampoo out of eyes.
Monday, February 15, 2010
The Return of the King
The streets were crowded with men in uniform.
Some wore bright green vests which reflected the sunlight toward on-coming traffic. With wooden push brooms, men could be found sweeping the city streets and sidewalks. Buckets hanging from their belts, many worked up and down the streets adding a fresh coat of alternating red and white paint to the curbs. Still others stood on ladders at each billboard covering over the many aging ads.
Some had blue uniforms. But not the blue uniforms I have grown accustomed to seeing. These uniforms appeared new. The blue was deeper; the white, cleaner. The style was more elegant. For many of these policemen, I could not decide if today they would protect and serve or, perhaps, abandon their post for a great banquet.
Some had green and brown camouflage uniforms. These carried heavy machine guns slung over their shoulders and wore dark brown boots. Soldiers were out in force on this particular day. To an ignorant foreigner this would be an alarming sight; a possible allusion to an upcoming battle or invasion.
Some had red uniforms. These were the most professional, and best dressed. They were well armed wearing slanted hats similar to those donned by American green berets. Scattered here and there, they took charge giving orders and supervising the final preparations. All of my country knows them as the king's personal guard.
Wet paint, clean streets, and freshly pressed uniforms. This is what happens when the king comes to town. No one knows the day or the hour, but the signs are telling. Not a street corner can be found without a huddle of police officers. Not a billboard stands without a portrait of the king himself. National flags are flown in abundance as far as the eye can see.
The city comes to life in anticipation. From all walks of life, the people work together to prepare, wondering if, perhaps, they may see or even be seen by the king. At the time of his arrival, everything is in order. The traffic parts to make way for his caravan, each paying their respect as he comes in earthly glory.
There is, indeed, a King coming. His coming has been prophesied and promised. It has been said that He will establish His sovereignty over all mankind. This King will come with complete power and authority, even bearing a sword, yet He is rich in mercy, love, and compassion. He perfectly wields both justice and grace. Our King will wipe away every tear. Our King will make right every wrong. Our King will rule in glory for all eternity.
His divine edict: be ready. Prepare the way for Him. The day and hour are not known, but He has commanded that our hearts continually anticipate His return. Let us seek to have clean hearts in preparation of His coming. Let us seek to put off our old and dying self in order to bear His image. Let us live as though He were already here, making disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that He has commanded.
Some wore bright green vests which reflected the sunlight toward on-coming traffic. With wooden push brooms, men could be found sweeping the city streets and sidewalks. Buckets hanging from their belts, many worked up and down the streets adding a fresh coat of alternating red and white paint to the curbs. Still others stood on ladders at each billboard covering over the many aging ads.
Some had blue uniforms. But not the blue uniforms I have grown accustomed to seeing. These uniforms appeared new. The blue was deeper; the white, cleaner. The style was more elegant. For many of these policemen, I could not decide if today they would protect and serve or, perhaps, abandon their post for a great banquet.
Some had green and brown camouflage uniforms. These carried heavy machine guns slung over their shoulders and wore dark brown boots. Soldiers were out in force on this particular day. To an ignorant foreigner this would be an alarming sight; a possible allusion to an upcoming battle or invasion.
Some had red uniforms. These were the most professional, and best dressed. They were well armed wearing slanted hats similar to those donned by American green berets. Scattered here and there, they took charge giving orders and supervising the final preparations. All of my country knows them as the king's personal guard.
Wet paint, clean streets, and freshly pressed uniforms. This is what happens when the king comes to town. No one knows the day or the hour, but the signs are telling. Not a street corner can be found without a huddle of police officers. Not a billboard stands without a portrait of the king himself. National flags are flown in abundance as far as the eye can see.
The city comes to life in anticipation. From all walks of life, the people work together to prepare, wondering if, perhaps, they may see or even be seen by the king. At the time of his arrival, everything is in order. The traffic parts to make way for his caravan, each paying their respect as he comes in earthly glory.
There is, indeed, a King coming. His coming has been prophesied and promised. It has been said that He will establish His sovereignty over all mankind. This King will come with complete power and authority, even bearing a sword, yet He is rich in mercy, love, and compassion. He perfectly wields both justice and grace. Our King will wipe away every tear. Our King will make right every wrong. Our King will rule in glory for all eternity.
His divine edict: be ready. Prepare the way for Him. The day and hour are not known, but He has commanded that our hearts continually anticipate His return. Let us seek to have clean hearts in preparation of His coming. Let us seek to put off our old and dying self in order to bear His image. Let us live as though He were already here, making disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that He has commanded.
Rainy Days and Mondays
An avalanche rushing down the mountainside gives its victim no choice but to watch in anticipation. At the point of impact, there is no lack of expectation. Yet the knowledge of impending doom does little to mitigate its shock. Full force it hits and all control is lost.
I made it no farther than the street corner before the wind and rain began to penetrate all my defenses. There was no escape for me; no other option but to press forward. My hair now soaked, I crossed the street, evading taxis, as the water began to trickle down the back of my neck under a long sleeve shirt and raincoat. By the end of the street, my heavy trekking pants had become damp. The next street over, they were soaked down to my boxers; my hiking shoes, soaked through my socks. I ducked under an awning on the street to drip for a few minutes.
I had known. All day I had known. From my seat in Arabic class I had watched the rain drench my world. All day long.
Emerging from the water, he began to climb the mountain of sand. His knees ached under the strain of eighty years of journeying. Staff in hand, he made his way to the peak of the sand dune. The exhausting flight was complete, he was the first of two million to ascend this final hill. Turning to look upon a great multitude of fathers, brothers, children, and mothers, he took great delight as they summited the beach and moved to set up camp on the open plain beyond.
His whole life had led him to this moment. From an unorthodox childhood to years of shepherding, every experience had proven providentially necessary to prepare him to lead the greatest escape in history. The time had finally come. Had he been a few years younger even this moment would have been but a vapor stolen away by the wind of his own foolish pride. He knew enough about life to understand that Yahweh works to the glory of no man. Everything before him resulted from nothing less than the great and wonderful grace of the One whom he called El Shaddai. Yes, El Shaddai deserved all the praise for the dry passage now covered in endless footprints as far as the eye could see.
Unstoppable. Even under the awning, the wind and rain had singled me out. A swimming pool could have produced a drier result. Everything rushed back amidst the torrent of wet and cold that engulfed me. It was 7:30 when the alarm buzzed bringing to consciousness the cold my body had known throughout the night. Shivering, I had fought to wrap myself tighter, wringing out the last drops of warmth from the blankets. This cold had been far better than what awaited me outside my cocoon. For a half hour I watched my cell phone considering all the necessary factors involved in preparing to go to class. Finally the time came. I rushed to dress hoping to take some edge off the inescapable cold.
For weeks I had been cold. Cold on the street. Cold in class. Cold in my bed.
Far off, a peculiar haze had risen. A cloud of dust in the distance rising to the clear, blue sky. As the people filed over the beach, the afternoon heat was beginning to take its toll. Their pace had slowed significantly. But the dust cloud crept nearer. Could this be some other wonder? From his judgment, this cloud seemed altogether unrelated to the people's wanderings, for it rose from a portion of road they had passed by very early in the day.
A sharp cry caught his attention. Removing his gaze from the horizon, he discovered a sheep caught in the spokes of a wagon wheel. Instinctively, he moved at once to the helpless animal as the rest of the herd stood by in an ignorant daze. Three small boys had gathered to throw pebbles at the defenseless animal. At the sight of him they turned their eyes to the ground before running off to find other trouble. He parted the herd to examine the frantically bleating sheep. His very touch calmed the animal. With a firm hold, he turned the head to the proper angle and safely removed the shivering beast from the snares of the wagon. The sheep stumbled off to join the others soon to forget the whole ordeal.
From the very beginning, this day had looked to be another miserable, rainy day. Cold. Wet. Sniffles. For two weeks I had praised God for good health and asked for that to be the norm. When the stomach pressure hit, everything went downhill. For the past four weeks I have endured a constant onslaught. Stomach cramps. Respiratory infection. Allergy problems. Sick and tired had become the norm.
With his attention free, he returned his attention to the growing cloud. It was not far off now. A commotion began to stir amongst the people as a quiet rumbling came into earshot. Like approaching lightning as it ricochets off the walls of a canyon, the sound seemed to build, surrounding the people. This looming mass began to move faster, now accompanied by faint shouts and curses. The sound of battle cries and horse hooves struck fear into the people as they quickly scrambled toward the camp.
Uncertainty and fear grew inside him, but an unspoken strength left his posture unchanged. Closer by the minute, this new force came, fully prepared to engage every defenseless man, woman, and child in its path. A small army was beginning to gather in the camp; too little, too late. The last of his people now climbed the mountain.
Doubling the pace, I was eager to make the 25 minute walk a few steps shorter. How much easier this would be if we could just find a permanent apartment. The week's prospects had been less than pleasing. To date, our best permanent housing option crawled with the black mold that had given me such problems already. Could it be too much to ask for our own apartment? Could it be too much to ask for a place where I might breathe right again? Where would we go upon our friends return from Spain after having their baby?
Sword drawn, the enemy commander charged forward. Legions followed. Enough to wipe out ten cities. Atop this mountain of sand he remained, boldly bearing the awesome power of El Shaddai. With the last of his people safely over the beach, he firmly held out his staff. A gift from his father-in-law, Jethro, the staff had seen better days. Carved from acacia wood, its sweet aroma often recalled pleasing memories of his family and flock back home. The staff wound a tight spiral from his feet to the natural knot that rounded the top. Gripping with all his might, Moses dropped this knot, and with it towering walls of suspended water, to the dry earth at his feet.
Only in stories of the great flood had anything been comparable. Before his very eyes, two 100 foot walls of water fell top-down. An avalanche drowning the war cries of tens of thousands of approaching Egyptians. Looking out over the waves, the ensuing silence gripped him. He stood, unmoved, as motionless bodies slowly appeared, floating on the surface. Bodies that drifted aimlessly no longer to heed the orders of commanding officers. Victory had been assured.
Paul writes in I Corinthians 9:27, "but I discipline my body and make it my slave, so that, after I have preached to others, I myself will not be disqualified."
How much discipline must one have to not be disqualified? How much grumbling does it take to arouse the judgment of a holy God. Paul ran to win the prize. He was cold, often. He was sick, often. He was frustrated, often. Did he not, a time or two, like Jesus, possibly say "Lord, take this cup from me!" Yet, the following response was always like to "not my will, but your will be done."
Paul then warns the Corinthians, "Therefore let him who thinks he stands take heed that he does not fall." (I Cor 10:12) He points his audience to the example of Israel. Any Jew living at this time had known that 1900 years ago God miraculously saved His people from Egypt. Jewish history is replete with praises for and rememberings of this great saga. But what Paul aims to show is not the greatness of Israel in the midst of God's deliverance. These very Israelites who witnessed the great might of El Shaddai turned to idols, immorality, and grumbling against the Lord.
Paul's warning is as much to himself as to his friends in Corinth. "Therefore let him who thinks he stands take heed that he does not fall." My grumbling gets me nowhere. My idol of comfort crashes before a holy God. My demands for warmth, good health, and stability are disgusting in the sight of God.
By what evidence can I deduce that I deserve to be warm and dry?
Where is it written that I am entitled to good health?
Who am I to grumble when there is no stability?
Paul struggled often, but took his cares to God. He found his solace in the beauty and wonder of a Savior who has provided every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places.
Today was a major grumble day for me. Today I steered clear of my Bible. Today I just wanted to hate the world. Another hard day living in Africa. But that is no reason to give up. There is nothing that should ever come between my Savior and me. It is to Him that I run. It is in His comfort that I find rest.
Today was a failure. And Jesus redeemed all my failures on the cross. There is no standing without Him.
"Therefore let him who thinks he stands take heed that he does not fall. No temptation has overtaken you but such as is common to man; and God is faithful, who will not allow you to be tempted beyond what you are able, but with the temptation will provide the way of escape also, so that you will be able to endure it." - I Corinthians 10:12-13
I made it no farther than the street corner before the wind and rain began to penetrate all my defenses. There was no escape for me; no other option but to press forward. My hair now soaked, I crossed the street, evading taxis, as the water began to trickle down the back of my neck under a long sleeve shirt and raincoat. By the end of the street, my heavy trekking pants had become damp. The next street over, they were soaked down to my boxers; my hiking shoes, soaked through my socks. I ducked under an awning on the street to drip for a few minutes.
I had known. All day I had known. From my seat in Arabic class I had watched the rain drench my world. All day long.Emerging from the water, he began to climb the mountain of sand. His knees ached under the strain of eighty years of journeying. Staff in hand, he made his way to the peak of the sand dune. The exhausting flight was complete, he was the first of two million to ascend this final hill. Turning to look upon a great multitude of fathers, brothers, children, and mothers, he took great delight as they summited the beach and moved to set up camp on the open plain beyond.
His whole life had led him to this moment. From an unorthodox childhood to years of shepherding, every experience had proven providentially necessary to prepare him to lead the greatest escape in history. The time had finally come. Had he been a few years younger even this moment would have been but a vapor stolen away by the wind of his own foolish pride. He knew enough about life to understand that Yahweh works to the glory of no man. Everything before him resulted from nothing less than the great and wonderful grace of the One whom he called El Shaddai. Yes, El Shaddai deserved all the praise for the dry passage now covered in endless footprints as far as the eye could see.
Unstoppable. Even under the awning, the wind and rain had singled me out. A swimming pool could have produced a drier result. Everything rushed back amidst the torrent of wet and cold that engulfed me. It was 7:30 when the alarm buzzed bringing to consciousness the cold my body had known throughout the night. Shivering, I had fought to wrap myself tighter, wringing out the last drops of warmth from the blankets. This cold had been far better than what awaited me outside my cocoon. For a half hour I watched my cell phone considering all the necessary factors involved in preparing to go to class. Finally the time came. I rushed to dress hoping to take some edge off the inescapable cold.
For weeks I had been cold. Cold on the street. Cold in class. Cold in my bed.
Far off, a peculiar haze had risen. A cloud of dust in the distance rising to the clear, blue sky. As the people filed over the beach, the afternoon heat was beginning to take its toll. Their pace had slowed significantly. But the dust cloud crept nearer. Could this be some other wonder? From his judgment, this cloud seemed altogether unrelated to the people's wanderings, for it rose from a portion of road they had passed by very early in the day.
A sharp cry caught his attention. Removing his gaze from the horizon, he discovered a sheep caught in the spokes of a wagon wheel. Instinctively, he moved at once to the helpless animal as the rest of the herd stood by in an ignorant daze. Three small boys had gathered to throw pebbles at the defenseless animal. At the sight of him they turned their eyes to the ground before running off to find other trouble. He parted the herd to examine the frantically bleating sheep. His very touch calmed the animal. With a firm hold, he turned the head to the proper angle and safely removed the shivering beast from the snares of the wagon. The sheep stumbled off to join the others soon to forget the whole ordeal.
From the very beginning, this day had looked to be another miserable, rainy day. Cold. Wet. Sniffles. For two weeks I had praised God for good health and asked for that to be the norm. When the stomach pressure hit, everything went downhill. For the past four weeks I have endured a constant onslaught. Stomach cramps. Respiratory infection. Allergy problems. Sick and tired had become the norm.
With his attention free, he returned his attention to the growing cloud. It was not far off now. A commotion began to stir amongst the people as a quiet rumbling came into earshot. Like approaching lightning as it ricochets off the walls of a canyon, the sound seemed to build, surrounding the people. This looming mass began to move faster, now accompanied by faint shouts and curses. The sound of battle cries and horse hooves struck fear into the people as they quickly scrambled toward the camp.
Uncertainty and fear grew inside him, but an unspoken strength left his posture unchanged. Closer by the minute, this new force came, fully prepared to engage every defenseless man, woman, and child in its path. A small army was beginning to gather in the camp; too little, too late. The last of his people now climbed the mountain.
Doubling the pace, I was eager to make the 25 minute walk a few steps shorter. How much easier this would be if we could just find a permanent apartment. The week's prospects had been less than pleasing. To date, our best permanent housing option crawled with the black mold that had given me such problems already. Could it be too much to ask for our own apartment? Could it be too much to ask for a place where I might breathe right again? Where would we go upon our friends return from Spain after having their baby?
Sword drawn, the enemy commander charged forward. Legions followed. Enough to wipe out ten cities. Atop this mountain of sand he remained, boldly bearing the awesome power of El Shaddai. With the last of his people safely over the beach, he firmly held out his staff. A gift from his father-in-law, Jethro, the staff had seen better days. Carved from acacia wood, its sweet aroma often recalled pleasing memories of his family and flock back home. The staff wound a tight spiral from his feet to the natural knot that rounded the top. Gripping with all his might, Moses dropped this knot, and with it towering walls of suspended water, to the dry earth at his feet.
Only in stories of the great flood had anything been comparable. Before his very eyes, two 100 foot walls of water fell top-down. An avalanche drowning the war cries of tens of thousands of approaching Egyptians. Looking out over the waves, the ensuing silence gripped him. He stood, unmoved, as motionless bodies slowly appeared, floating on the surface. Bodies that drifted aimlessly no longer to heed the orders of commanding officers. Victory had been assured.
Paul writes in I Corinthians 9:27, "but I discipline my body and make it my slave, so that, after I have preached to others, I myself will not be disqualified."How much discipline must one have to not be disqualified? How much grumbling does it take to arouse the judgment of a holy God. Paul ran to win the prize. He was cold, often. He was sick, often. He was frustrated, often. Did he not, a time or two, like Jesus, possibly say "Lord, take this cup from me!" Yet, the following response was always like to "not my will, but your will be done."
Paul then warns the Corinthians, "Therefore let him who thinks he stands take heed that he does not fall." (I Cor 10:12) He points his audience to the example of Israel. Any Jew living at this time had known that 1900 years ago God miraculously saved His people from Egypt. Jewish history is replete with praises for and rememberings of this great saga. But what Paul aims to show is not the greatness of Israel in the midst of God's deliverance. These very Israelites who witnessed the great might of El Shaddai turned to idols, immorality, and grumbling against the Lord.
Paul's warning is as much to himself as to his friends in Corinth. "Therefore let him who thinks he stands take heed that he does not fall." My grumbling gets me nowhere. My idol of comfort crashes before a holy God. My demands for warmth, good health, and stability are disgusting in the sight of God.
By what evidence can I deduce that I deserve to be warm and dry?
Where is it written that I am entitled to good health?
Who am I to grumble when there is no stability?
Paul struggled often, but took his cares to God. He found his solace in the beauty and wonder of a Savior who has provided every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places.
Today was a major grumble day for me. Today I steered clear of my Bible. Today I just wanted to hate the world. Another hard day living in Africa. But that is no reason to give up. There is nothing that should ever come between my Savior and me. It is to Him that I run. It is in His comfort that I find rest.
Today was a failure. And Jesus redeemed all my failures on the cross. There is no standing without Him.
"Therefore let him who thinks he stands take heed that he does not fall. No temptation has overtaken you but such as is common to man; and God is faithful, who will not allow you to be tempted beyond what you are able, but with the temptation will provide the way of escape also, so that you will be able to endure it." - I Corinthians 10:12-13
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
“Cara, Cara!,” Or, A Match Made in Africa
From every direction the chattering was directed at me. I found myself standing in the middle of a circle of seven very interested people. As I attempted to talk about Jesus, my primary conversationalist used her broken English to change the subject. I discovered that her name was Pat and she wanted to learn English. This was all well and good, but not what I was seeking.
With plenty of other options, I turned my attention to a young couple next to Pat. After a few experimental phrases, the language barrier proved too firm to move. My new friends could communicate nothing but blank stares. Pat found this to be her opportunity to re-initiate a language learning session. Giving her a brief smile, I looked to my next attempt. I greeted a young girl about my own age hoping to begin a meaningful conversation. Another wall. Through this particular wall passed one lone piece of information; her name was Meredith.
Turning to meet Pat’s incessant pulling on my elbow, I pulled the four of them together to attempt to make hand motions. Gathering my patience, I began climbing air to show that I had just come up their mountain. With smiles they joined this new and exciting game. As I walked in place pumping my hands back and forth to show difficulty, I realized that my partner, Cara, was right behind. “Cara, Cara, can you help me out?”
“Cara! Cara!” said Meredith as she briskly walked in place pumping her fists. The young couple quickly caught on, “Cara! Cara!” Excitedly nodding their heads up and down they joined the dance, legs kicking. Now all four were doing it, “Cara! Cara!” I tried to dissuade them, explaining that Cara was my friend who wanted to share Jesus with them, but my error proved fatal. This was the last brick placed on the already overwhelming wall separating our worlds. There was nothing now that could quench their excitement at learning their first English words. “Cara! Cara!”
Even in the midst of a two month training session to live and work overseas, the barrier of language sometimes seemed insurmountable. Learning language is a difficult task and I now have firsthand experience as confirmation. Pat is also discovering firsthand that learning languages is difficult as she studies a tribal language in Mexico. Meredith is discovering the same truth as she learns Spanish in Madrid. And that young couple has a large task ahead in India learning Hindi.
Luke and I have now completed four weeks of Arabic study. We continually progress, but the process is draining. Monday through Friday we study in class with a native speaker from 9am to 1pm. Each day we make a number of recordings that we are expected to listen to for 1-2 hours outside of class. In addition, there is the expectation that we spend 2-3 hours each day in community learning language and culture. All this together gives us a 40-hour workweek. This is, for sure, a busy schedule. But this is the best way to prepare to be useful to both the business and God’s kingdom.
I am quickly finding that the most rewarding benefit of language learning is the relationships built along the way. As I spend time in the community, I meet more and more people that are willing to patiently help me through my language struggles. What makes these friends smile biggest is to hear new Arabic and progression in my studies. When they get excited about my advancement, so do I.
The other day I returned to a bakery discovered a few weeks earlier. During the first visit, there were no words, just pointing and motioning. Shortly after, I returned knowing the words for bread and money. The next time I brought numbers. This past week I came in and asked politely for a baguette. I asked how much and thanked them. I realized I needed a bag and asked, “Can you have a bag, please?” My friend behind the counter, who is quickly realizing the permanence of my presence here, smiled and corrected me. He beamed even brighter at my second try, “Can I have a bag, please?”
Here, Friday is couscous day. Christians have their Sabbath on Sundays, but the Islamic holy day is Friday. Every Friday the mosques are packed by 11am as the prayer begins followed by a message. During the early afternoon the city comes back to life with thousands of starving Muslims; this Friday hunger is best satiated by the couscous found in any restaurant, baqqal, or street hanuit.
Last Friday I went with my Arabic-proficient friend, Nick, to find couscous at a nice restaurant by the beach. As we sat down, a young woman came to wait our table. Her usual waitress-smile was transformed into a genuine smile as I exchanged the usual greetings with her and politely ordered couscous with a coke. I told her that would be all and motioned to Nick. He completed his order and she made her move back to the counter turning to flash me a big grin en route.
My very friendly waitress was just one more encouragement to continue pressing forward. She came back and I was able to explain to her that I had recently begun learning Arabic. From here Nick took over and my speaking role in this drama ended. Nick had spared me from breaching the border of my Arabic knowledge and afforded me the opportunity to brighten that nice waitresses’ day. I suppose I will never know if she was more into my Arabic mastery or my studly aura.
While language learning will be a long, arduous process, the future is bright for me in North Africa. I am here to learn language and culture. I am here to bolster our mountain climbing and trekking business. But above all else, I am learning language so I can live out my life as the Bible teaches; boldly sharing my faith with people I meet in my daily activities. This is nothing new to my life, but doing it in Arabic presents a slight twist to my daily routine.
With plenty of other options, I turned my attention to a young couple next to Pat. After a few experimental phrases, the language barrier proved too firm to move. My new friends could communicate nothing but blank stares. Pat found this to be her opportunity to re-initiate a language learning session. Giving her a brief smile, I looked to my next attempt. I greeted a young girl about my own age hoping to begin a meaningful conversation. Another wall. Through this particular wall passed one lone piece of information; her name was Meredith.
Turning to meet Pat’s incessant pulling on my elbow, I pulled the four of them together to attempt to make hand motions. Gathering my patience, I began climbing air to show that I had just come up their mountain. With smiles they joined this new and exciting game. As I walked in place pumping my hands back and forth to show difficulty, I realized that my partner, Cara, was right behind. “Cara, Cara, can you help me out?”
“Cara! Cara!” said Meredith as she briskly walked in place pumping her fists. The young couple quickly caught on, “Cara! Cara!” Excitedly nodding their heads up and down they joined the dance, legs kicking. Now all four were doing it, “Cara! Cara!” I tried to dissuade them, explaining that Cara was my friend who wanted to share Jesus with them, but my error proved fatal. This was the last brick placed on the already overwhelming wall separating our worlds. There was nothing now that could quench their excitement at learning their first English words. “Cara! Cara!”
Even in the midst of a two month training session to live and work overseas, the barrier of language sometimes seemed insurmountable. Learning language is a difficult task and I now have firsthand experience as confirmation. Pat is also discovering firsthand that learning languages is difficult as she studies a tribal language in Mexico. Meredith is discovering the same truth as she learns Spanish in Madrid. And that young couple has a large task ahead in India learning Hindi.
Luke and I have now completed four weeks of Arabic study. We continually progress, but the process is draining. Monday through Friday we study in class with a native speaker from 9am to 1pm. Each day we make a number of recordings that we are expected to listen to for 1-2 hours outside of class. In addition, there is the expectation that we spend 2-3 hours each day in community learning language and culture. All this together gives us a 40-hour workweek. This is, for sure, a busy schedule. But this is the best way to prepare to be useful to both the business and God’s kingdom.
I am quickly finding that the most rewarding benefit of language learning is the relationships built along the way. As I spend time in the community, I meet more and more people that are willing to patiently help me through my language struggles. What makes these friends smile biggest is to hear new Arabic and progression in my studies. When they get excited about my advancement, so do I.
The other day I returned to a bakery discovered a few weeks earlier. During the first visit, there were no words, just pointing and motioning. Shortly after, I returned knowing the words for bread and money. The next time I brought numbers. This past week I came in and asked politely for a baguette. I asked how much and thanked them. I realized I needed a bag and asked, “Can you have a bag, please?” My friend behind the counter, who is quickly realizing the permanence of my presence here, smiled and corrected me. He beamed even brighter at my second try, “Can I have a bag, please?”
Here, Friday is couscous day. Christians have their Sabbath on Sundays, but the Islamic holy day is Friday. Every Friday the mosques are packed by 11am as the prayer begins followed by a message. During the early afternoon the city comes back to life with thousands of starving Muslims; this Friday hunger is best satiated by the couscous found in any restaurant, baqqal, or street hanuit.
Last Friday I went with my Arabic-proficient friend, Nick, to find couscous at a nice restaurant by the beach. As we sat down, a young woman came to wait our table. Her usual waitress-smile was transformed into a genuine smile as I exchanged the usual greetings with her and politely ordered couscous with a coke. I told her that would be all and motioned to Nick. He completed his order and she made her move back to the counter turning to flash me a big grin en route.
My very friendly waitress was just one more encouragement to continue pressing forward. She came back and I was able to explain to her that I had recently begun learning Arabic. From here Nick took over and my speaking role in this drama ended. Nick had spared me from breaching the border of my Arabic knowledge and afforded me the opportunity to brighten that nice waitresses’ day. I suppose I will never know if she was more into my Arabic mastery or my studly aura.
While language learning will be a long, arduous process, the future is bright for me in North Africa. I am here to learn language and culture. I am here to bolster our mountain climbing and trekking business. But above all else, I am learning language so I can live out my life as the Bible teaches; boldly sharing my faith with people I meet in my daily activities. This is nothing new to my life, but doing it in Arabic presents a slight twist to my daily routine.
Monday, February 8, 2010
West Coast Sights and Sounds: Week 5
Backstreet’s Back
Walking through the city the other day I almost felt like I was back in America. I found this pimped out black car waiting at a stoplight. This dude had rims, tinted windows, and blue neon lights illuminating the street below him. The goofy haircut he sported easily gave away his age to the late adolescence years. This generation, like any other, often chooses the fashion trends that most easily attract the attention of those they consider elders. With the streetlights shining down and the sun long gone, he gripped the wheel with one hand and closely watched the stoplight through his black sunglasses. The roar of his engine was what first drew my gaze. What turned my gaze to a stare was what I heard after the engine relaxed to a low growl. His blaring music completed this particular experience and complemented the whole of my new life in Africa.
Rollerblades and Sunsets
Luke and I have made some very good friends amongst foreigners here in the city. Two of our new friends are single guys named Jeremy and Nick. After living here for a number of years, these guys have become very good at Arabic and have now begun to share their experiences and knowledge. We even had the opportunity to live with them for about 10 days between apartments.
One day Nick took Luke and I out of the city via taxi. From the cafe at the top of the mountain we gained a whole new perspective on our home. As the sun set over the water, we were blessed to carry on a spiritual conversation with our waiter, Achmed. Nick was always very intentional to come when Achmed was working. The two had built a special bond founded on their personal relationships with Christ. As Achmed shared his story, we were drawn into a new friendship that will build over the next years.
At the end of the night, we caught a new taxi back to the city. As the taxi turned into the medina, I began to hear laughing from behind. As the taxi climbed the long, steep hill I turned in my seat to see not one, but two small children holding tight to the back bumper. As I watched, a third child jumped onto the back of the train to climb the hill. With this third child I could now see that they were wearing rollerblades. In the moment of this realization the third dropped out of sight as the first two yelled back jeering at his fall. The taxi leveled off and the children began their descent down the hill speeding past us. What a great adventure to be a child in North Africa!
Walking through the city the other day I almost felt like I was back in America. I found this pimped out black car waiting at a stoplight. This dude had rims, tinted windows, and blue neon lights illuminating the street below him. The goofy haircut he sported easily gave away his age to the late adolescence years. This generation, like any other, often chooses the fashion trends that most easily attract the attention of those they consider elders. With the streetlights shining down and the sun long gone, he gripped the wheel with one hand and closely watched the stoplight through his black sunglasses. The roar of his engine was what first drew my gaze. What turned my gaze to a stare was what I heard after the engine relaxed to a low growl. His blaring music completed this particular experience and complemented the whole of my new life in Africa.
“Tell me why
Ain't nothin' but a heartache
Tell me why
Ain't nothin' but a mistake
Tell me why
I never wanna hear you say
I want it that way”
Ain't nothin' but a heartache
Tell me why
Ain't nothin' but a mistake
Tell me why
I never wanna hear you say
I want it that way”
Rollerblades and Sunsets
Luke and I have made some very good friends amongst foreigners here in the city. Two of our new friends are single guys named Jeremy and Nick. After living here for a number of years, these guys have become very good at Arabic and have now begun to share their experiences and knowledge. We even had the opportunity to live with them for about 10 days between apartments.
One day Nick took Luke and I out of the city via taxi. From the cafe at the top of the mountain we gained a whole new perspective on our home. As the sun set over the water, we were blessed to carry on a spiritual conversation with our waiter, Achmed. Nick was always very intentional to come when Achmed was working. The two had built a special bond founded on their personal relationships with Christ. As Achmed shared his story, we were drawn into a new friendship that will build over the next years.
At the end of the night, we caught a new taxi back to the city. As the taxi turned into the medina, I began to hear laughing from behind. As the taxi climbed the long, steep hill I turned in my seat to see not one, but two small children holding tight to the back bumper. As I watched, a third child jumped onto the back of the train to climb the hill. With this third child I could now see that they were wearing rollerblades. In the moment of this realization the third dropped out of sight as the first two yelled back jeering at his fall. The taxi leveled off and the children began their descent down the hill speeding past us. What a great adventure to be a child in North Africa!
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