Clean

A crowd had formed. Over the years, he could recall only a handful of times people had gathered this close to his home. When people came outside the city en masse the result was often unpleasant. Still groggy, he jumped to his feet nearly losing balance at the wave of pain that swept over his body. Grabbing an extra tunic, his staff, and sandals, he moved to the small opening of his makeshift tent to spy the coming mob.

Led by a man whom he had never seen, the mob was moving to the large hill beyond the slums where he had made his home. At the sight of this man his anxiety was slightly mitigated, enough, at least, that he could put aside his provisions for escape. He knew well that not long into his escape even this small weight would have proven too much. Since that day, his strength was ever decreasing. The pain of waking every morning was, at times, unbearable. He thought of suicide. Most days this was a passing thought. Others, more. But he could never follow through. There was always this precarious hope that he could not quite place.

The leader ascended the hill. Young and strong, this man moved swiftly. Atop the hill, the man sat, legs crossed, to survey the crowd closing in around him. Eased by the calm of the leader, he left the entrance of the tent making his way for the hill.

Walking gingerly toward the crowd, his pain reminded him, yet again, of the constant inner struggle. What of this hope? As far as he was concerned, hope was nothing more than a burden to bear. Hope remained the only barrier preventing him from ending his pain. Yet, somehow deep within him, he knew there was purpose. Not only general purpose in life, but specific purpose for him. No one else would believe it, and he dare not tell a soul, but he sensed purpose in the midst of this bleak existence. Purpose which he railed against. It was this ambiguous purpose for which he yet stumbled through what was left of his miserable life.

By the time he reached the hill, the majority of the crowd had already been seated. Looking for a soft place to sit, his legs buckled sending him to the ground with a painful thud. Pain fired through every bone and joint of his body forcing tears to his eyes. The pain was too much. Attempting to move himself enough to sit, he labored to first lift his head, unaware of the spectacle he had made. He was met with looks of anger and disgust. Their disdainful eyes penetrated to the very depths of his heart, a pain more excruciating than the white sores that covered his body.

They reminded him of her. He could never put away the bittersweet memories of his youth. She had been his dayspring. There, in the marketplace where he first looked upon her, the first beams of sunlight had wakened his world. Beams pregnant with the full day's brilliance that, with time, would lift the shadows to reveal all the beauty and wonder that life could be. He had wasted no time in speaking with her parents and beginning the wonderful journey of engagement. Nothing in life had been more invigorating, more inspiring than the love they shared. A love that nothing, he thought, could ever separate. She was the first. And many more followed with the pronouncement of unclean. In the blink of an eye, the entire world had turned against him.

And now, he crawled under the weight of their stares. They knew he did not belong here. But so did he. Their attention was soon captured by the man now standing at the crest of the hill. Adjusting himself, he was caught with surprise at the eloquence and force of the man's words. Something about the man's speech seemed to tug at the concealed hope inside him. The man spoke with authority, unlike the scribes and pharisees who had beaten him in the streets. What this man said ran counter-intuitive to everything they taught.

"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."
"Blessed are you when people insult you and persecute you."
"Do not think that I came to abolish the Law and the Prophets; I did not come to abolish but to fulfill."

He was no fool. For years he had been afforded many hours to himself for his own personal study. He learned long ago the cruelty of the righteous, and instead sought to find productivity in his solace. He knew the holy writings well, especially Leviticus. After all, Leviticus spoke directly to him. For years he had slowly become convinced that the scribes and pharisees were wrong. The segregation was wrong. The excommunication that he undeservedly suffered must have been an abomination to a just God. Perhaps he was a heretic, but the holy writings seemed to major on the doctrine of justice. Leviticus was not written for the purpose of which it was now used.

"For I say to you that unless your righteousness surpasses that of the scribes and pharisees, you will not enter the kingdom of heaven."
"You have heard the ancients were told, 'You shall not commit murder.' But I say to you that everyone who is angry with his brother shall be guilty before the courts."
"You have heard that it was said, 'You shall not commit adultery'; but I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lust for her has already committed adultery with her in his heart."
"You have heard that it was said, 'You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you."

"Ask, and it will be given to you."

The man spoke to the crowd for hours. The sensation was small at first, but by the end of the sermon, his heart burned within him. His whole life seemed to find its culmination in this one moment. Everything had brought him here. The pain of being a spectacle for everyone who saw him. The physical anguish he had endured for years. The fear. The sorrow. The precarious hope that whispered to him of purpose. This hope that prevented him from killing himself.

Unaware until this point, he lay, face down in the grass, sobbing. He could not be sure how long he had been in this position, yet he remained. He believed every word. This man, this rabbi, understood the Law. This man understood the Prophets. This man understood him. A hush fell among the crowd around him. He looked to find the man standing before him. Gazing up into the teacher's eyes, he found everything he could ever need. Then, weakly, "Lord, if You are willing, You can make me clean."

The man smiled. Love permeated the man's entire being. This love, more real than any he had ever experienced. In this man's eyes was the hope for which he had long waited. Precarious. He now understood why this hope had always transcended his understanding. This hope did not find its source in him. It was not his. This hope could only be found in the Creator of everything. The One that now stood before him.

This Man, his Lord, now did the unthinkable. Before he could understand, the Man reached out to hold his face in His hand. A touch. Only one touch. He had longed for the warm touch of another human. A touch of love. A touch of friendship. A touch of camaraderie. The touch was all this and more. Jesus looked into his eyes and spoke words of power, "I am willing, be cleansed."

And it was so.

In this African culture, ritual washing is essential. The people are required to go five times each day to pray. If the man is unclean, he must wash his head, hands, arms, and private areas three times before prayer. If a man relieves himself, he is unclean. If a man consumes anything forbidden, he is unclean. If a man touches someone unclean, he is unclean. For this reason, it is important to avoid becoming unclean.

This can often be used as an excuse to treat people cruelly or to avoid them altogether. The other day, a beggar walked into a small shop where I sat eating a sandwich. Immediately a customer jumped from his seat, grabbed the beggar, and threw him out of the shop. People will give the required alms to the sick and poor on the street, but will not stop to touch or talk to these. The law serves them as functional savior. And the easiest and least costly path toward fulfillment of the law serves as the new righteousness. This is the new pharisaism.

In Matthew 8, Jesus stopped. He loved the leper. He touched the leper.

Do you love those in need enough to get your hands unclean?
Jesus did.

The End of Innocence (Or, Face-to-Face with Persecution)

The room was silent. Veteran friends. New friends. Families. Singles. All left speechless. The air heavy, tears came to my eyes. Pain for him. Pain for my friends who knew him. Pain at knowing I would not.

I had been safe. For two months I had learned the city, the culture, the people. My love was growing despite a rocky start. This city had become my home. These people were my people. My friends in the marketplace had come to expect me. The street guard always there waiting to talk when I come home. The hungry boys on the street knew my name and where I would be on a Saturday night. I had begun to belong. There was safety here. Nothing could harm me.

Until that moment. Now it is different. As a young child who witnesses violent crime, my world had been changed in an instant. Innocence stolen. In the world in which I now live, I am one ambush away from an all-expense-paid trip to Europe. Permanently. This is the new reality.

In the past week, there have been many friends exiled from this country. The most notable, for me, came Sunday morning with the news that our friend, Blair, had been sent home. The end of 20 years of living, serving, and loving our beautiful country. There were few friends in the north who had not been affected or known someone affected by the work of our dear friend, Blair. I saw him once, when he preached, in flawless Arabic, at the wedding of two national believers. And though I did not meet him then, I felt like I knew him from the many stories my friends have told.

We are not promised comfort.
We are not promised ease.
We are not promised tomorrow.

Augustine says it well in his book City of God. In book 18, he writes:

"The devil, the prince of the impious city, when he stirs up his own vessels against the city of God that sojourns in this world, is permitted to do her no harm. For without doubt the divine Providence procures for her both consolation through prosperity (that she may not be broken by adversity) and trial through adversity (that she may not be corrupted by [said] prosperity); and thus each (consolation through prosperity and trial through adversity) is tempered by the other, as we recognize in the Psalms that voice which arises from no other cause, 'According to the multitude of my griefs in my heart, Thy consolations have delighted my soul.' Hence also is that saying of the apostle, 'rejoicing in hope, patient in tribulation.'"

Silence reigned in that meeting for some time. Finally, one by one, we all came to agreement. "We will praise God in all things."

Pray with us for Africa.

Shame and Beauty (Or, How Sexual Impurity Is No Better)

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.

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.

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.

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

“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.