In Spite of Us All

One intentional native missionary is going to have more impact on his own people than 100 American missionaries with American agendas, coming from a world so foreign to their own.  For us, the fallback seems to lurk in the back of the mind that we can always just throw our hands up and head for home.  Why do we think in such terms?  There is no calendar to X out the days 'until we get to go home'.

Home isn't here, as in, it isn't here, on this planet.  Not for any Christian.  If you think, right now, you're home, one day you'll be rudely awakened to the reality of your illusions to grandeur. 

We can Google our philosophical God questions all day long, and soak knowledge from the world's best scholars. But in Haiti today, they have a Bible only translated 30 years ago, and not translated very well at that. That's if they have a Bible.  Throw on top of that the dogma of 50 years of missionaries telling them if they smoke, drink or chew or hang out with girls that do, they aren't Christian.  Paint your toenails, wear earrings, or don't wear the proper shoes and you won't be accepted.  Oh yes, and you're not really saved if you haven't been baptized... Because apparently someone with 'credentials' decided that Jesus dying on the cross wasn't enough.  It's Jesus AND the water that paid the price for you??  Let alone Vodoo and a distorted Catholicism, historically dedicating the country to satan, and what are these kids supposed to think?  Heap on the latest babble we are hearing from the local Jehovah Witness church about how Jesus isn't God and didn't die on a cross, and then our Christian brothers who could help yet don't, because they have their minds somewhere else and don't want to bless these people because it doesn't fit the current thought of the day, you know, structure of the church and all.

Now here is the kicker, they get a wretch like me to stand up and tell them about Jesus.  They don't even get a CT Studd, shooting crocodiles in one hand and baptizing souls with the other in the infested rivers...they just get a sinful fool, a man who sold everything and still can't get the silver spoon out of his butt.  Yep, I've sold just about all of it but I'd still rank in the top 5% of the richest people in the world.

HOW do they even have a chance?! Only by the grace of God!  And that chance is real!  God is working!  In spite of it all. 

One of the boys in our class now has a mother who is a witch doctor.  He's already told her he's not interested in keeping up the family tradition.  Do we have any idea what kind of guts that takes in Haiti today?

The girl we've sponsored for years came to the house tonight.  We swam in the ocean, my family and her.  She's tough as nails.  One look at her and I know she will live out her days as close to the edge as possible.  I can see that fire in her eyes.  Abused from slavery, 13-years old and not even a Kindergarten education, yet today she still trusted me to carry her into the deeper water.   

I held her in the water while she giggled.  'How?   How does she still find a place in her heart, to giggle?'

Only Christ can push through all that, only that kind of goodness can penetrate this kind of evil.

Tomorrow I'm supposed to stand up and speak to a church about discipleship.   Me?  

I don't need a book, or a scholar, or a professor, or an Einstein.  I'm already blind in one eye.  I have one, count it, one good eye.  

And with it, I'm thankful He's let me see the Splendor.  His grace. His love. Jesus is beautiful to me.  I'll point to Him in spite of me all the days of my life.  

Have You Run Away

I woke up very early this morning with terribly dark thoughts from an equally terrible dream. I got up and made my way through the darkness until I found the kerosene lamp. I lit it and sat in the warm glow of the yellow, flickering light. I closed my eyes. Then I began to strap on my armor...

"This is my belt of truth, that I am in Christ and He is in me. He died for my sins, and was raised again. He is My King. Through Him I stand on a righteousness that is not my own. I stand on the righteousness of the Son of God, and that is my breastplate. Because of this truth and His righteousness, I find peace, anguish is vanquished, and my feet are fitted for the battle. I take up and own as my own the shield of faith, which is nothing more than to say that because I believe in Jesus, because I have His righteousness and peace, I refuse and reject these thoughts, these insults. They are not my own, they are nothing more than the fiery darts of my enemy, and they are hereby extinguished. There is a day of salvation that waits for me. It is my true north and my compass. I will stand before My King, and this is my helmet. There is now only for me to take up the Word, the scripture that God calls to my mind in conversation with the Spirit, and with this sword I will parry the thrust of my enemy's attack. And now I counterstrike. I pray to The Lord, who is a Warrior, and ask these things in The Great name of Jesus Christ, and today, instead of a simple 'amen', I believe an 'Oo-Rah' will suffice."

After that I opened my eyes. Where are you, my enemy? Have you run away?

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Look UP!

It's rained now for 5 days. Sandy has moved on, but her aftermath is still upon us. Unbelievable wind and rain. Trees down. Crops laid flat. Mud everywhere. We've managed well by the light of the kerosene lamp for most of our journey. My boy keeps asking, "Do you think the Sun will come out today, Daddy?" He needs just a sliver of hope. My girl is fidgety and is making funny faces. Every night she wants 'family game night'. My wife has come to me and whispered on occasion, out of reach of little ears, "I need the rain to stop," or, "this is messing with me." I am tired of wet things. Sandy took care of my good camera. With the highest winds and rain, at the peak of the storm, there was this sort of mist that sprayed in the house. Some came from the surf of the ocean waves that reached our back steps, and some was from a horizontal gale that drove the rain through every tiny opening of the house. When I reached for my camera yesterday to photograph a great cargo boat that had been cast upon the shoreline, I found that my trusty tool had been compromised. No more pictures...grrrrrrrrr. Then as the rains still pound at the dawn, we read this passage, and I find it worth it to use the last of my battery power to pass on to you, Reader...

'If you have any encouragement from being united with Christ, if any comfort from his love, if any fellowship with the Spirit, if any tenderness and compassion, then make my joy complete by being like–minded, having the same love, being one in spirit and purpose.' (Phil 2)


What leaps out to me are the 'if's' and the 'any's'. I want to rewrite it the way I feel it.

'If there's a sliver of encouragement or any puff of wind in your sail, if there's a dash of comfort or any dry clothes to put on, if you've got a drop of tenderness or even a hint of compassion because you know that as bad as you've got it, you're neighbor has it much, much worse....then chin up! On your feet! Snap to! Wake up...and Look UP! Knock off your squabbling and give the Devil a good kick in the rear! Send him packing. Get along and sing! There's work to be done, and while you're doing it, give it a little whistle! Sing because you're happy!'

Time to go get out the guitar....

 

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Hello Sandy

She's only just began, and already we've dumped 20 gallons of water from the pots and pans in our house from Sandy.  Amazing to me, the eye of the storm is over in Jamaica, and hundreds of miles East there is this giant storm just sitting out there, like a wall.  Together with the rotation of this soon to be hurricane, the two cells act like gears in an old clock.  In the middle, where we are, there is this funnel, a kind of vortex, of which the  fury of Sandy is squeezing all of her energy.  The storms just keep cranking up, shooting through these gears, over and over again. 

"I Am What I Am"

'Paul's background was anti-Christian, and he could never get completely away from that. He had been the most hostile, brutal persecutor the church had ever known. After his conversion to Christ, he doubtless encountered families whose loved ones he had put to death. He was often reminded by people that he was not one of the original twelve apostles, and they continually called his apostleship into question. Writing to the Corinthians about these very matters, he says of himself, "For I am the least of the apostles and do not even deserve to be called an apostle, because I persecuted the church of God."

What grounds for discouragement! How easy it would have been for him to say to himself, "What's the use? Here I am working my fingers to the bone, making tents and trying to preach the Gospel to these people, and look at the blessing God has brought them--but they don't care! They hurl recriminations back in my face! What's the use? Why even try anymore?"

But that is not what he does. The very next verse says, "But by the grace of God I am what I am, and His grace to me was not without effect." Here we see Paul using the breastplate of righteousness. He says, in effect, "I don't care what I have been. I don't defend what I am. I simply say that, by the grace of God, I am what I am. What I am is what Christ has made me. I'm not standing on my own righteousness---I'm standing on His. I am accepted by grace, and my personal situation does not make any difference at all."

So Paul's heart was kept from discouragement. He reminded himself that when he became a Christian, he had put on the breastplate of righteousness. He never allowed himself to be discouraged by looking back. He always looked forward, to Christ.' ~ Stedman (Spiritual Warfare)

This man, once the accuser, the murderer, the self-righteous patriot, and where do I find him at the end of his life, after the storm of Jesus Christ. He is broken. He'd been beaten, flogged, whipped, stoned, shipwrecked. I imagine the men ripping open his shirt as they are about to whip him, only to see scars upon scars, some wounds still fresh, still pink. 

I see him at the end of his life, so broken in humility as to the wretchedness of his offense. So weak in himself, and so strong in Christ. This chief of the sinners. This rescued son, and I understand. I can look at any wretch and hear my own heart, "he's no more a wretch than me."

I see his friends urging him not to go to Jerusalem, even the prophets warning him that he will be bound and delivered over to the authorities, and still we have the record of his answer to their pleading, "Why are you weeping and breaking my heart? I am ready not only to be bound, but also to die in the Jerusalem for the name of The Lord Jesus." His leaving them hurts so much that the words used to describe his departure are here for us...."After we had torn ourselves away..."

I hear his heart in his words to the Church, "If we live, we live for The Lord, if we die, we die for The Lord, so whether we live or die, we belong to The Lord."

I feel his brokenness..."For by the grace given me I say to every one of you: Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought." This man once respected, now despised, and yet not by his King. Only now is he remodeled into the weapon of God, now that there is nothing left of him. 'The Lord is a warrior...the Lord is His name.' I stood before a church on Sunday. I looked into their eyes. I felt the Spirit. I wept. Only by the grace given me...

I agree in my spirit with his resolve...."I consider my life worth nothing to me, if only I may finish the race and complete the task The Lord Jesus has given me--the task of testifying to the Gospel of God's grace." Even now as I write, a tropical storm is bearing down upon us. It is only fitting that the greatest storm of my life should come during the greatest storm of my life. When all else is stripped away, you see the marrow. You see what you're made of. Is it God that drips from you when you pull away the bark from the tree. Is the soft, tender fruit of the Spirit living there? Is the offering fragrant? 

It's when I fully know that I am what I am, I can hear with new ears a new sound. Moses knew who he was. He knew what he was. He didn't feel like he deserved to be God's instrument, even though God was calling him. God answered him by saying it simply. "I AM WHO I AM."

I watch the children working away at their school by the light of the kerosene lamp. I see that I am nothing more than this lamp. It's not I that burns so bright and gives such warmth and glow. I am only the wick. The dry and thirsty cloth soaking up the source of the real fuel. I draw Him up into me and He sets me ablaze, and when He goes out from me, there will be no more light to shine. It's not about us. Not at all. Not even for a moment. All that matters, all that this world comes down to, is Jesus.

This great and magnificent power already outside my window today. The rains pour and the heavens are opened. The palms are bending and swaying. The waves are crashing. Already every bucket and pot stands at the ready, stationed by my kids to receive the endless drip drip dripping. The tempest comes, and she is still a hundred miles to go. Such wrath, and yet my King will tell her how far she can go. Only by His grace can we rest in the midst of the storm. 

The Tan Pou Tann

Our voyage across the sea was days and days ago, but it has certainly left its wake, carved into my soul by the sound of endlessly rowing oars, the lapping of the waves against the belly of our little ship, the flap of a sail and the Boatman's creaking rudder. So many lessons learned that day, and so many more learned as the light of day gave way to a moonless night, and a distant coast with no electricity. Just darkness and the sounds of a vessel trying to reach the sanctuary of safe harbor.

The 'Tan Pou Tann' was the name of our little boat. The Wait For Wait. The idea is Haitian. When you need something and you don't have it, you just have to wait. Patience, it will come. Don't be in a hurry. It was a fitting name for me. The message was clear. It's not going to come from you. Relax....the wind will come. It won't be easy, but I will bring you home.

 

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Unutterably Happy?

'EVEN in a state of innocence, when all was perfection and
excellence, when God was clearly discovered in all his works,
every place being his temple, every moment a time of worship,
and every object an incitement to religious reverence and
adoration-even then, God chose to consecrate a seventh part of
time to his more especial worship, and to hallow it unto his own
service by a perpetual decree. Who then shall dare to reverse
this order of God? Had the religious observance of the Sabbath
been never proclaimed till the proclamation of the law on Mount
Sinai, then it might have been conjectured that this, like several
other ordinances, was a shadow which must pass away with that
dispensation; neither extending to future ages, nor binding on any
other people. But this was not so. God gave the Sabbath, his
first ordinance, to man, (see the first precept, Ge 2:17,) while
all the nations of the world were seminally included in him, and
while he stood the father and representative of the whole human
race; therefore the Sabbath is not for one nation, for one time,
or for one place. It is the fair type of heaven's eternal day-of
the state of endless blessedness and glory, where human souls,
having fully regained the Divine image, and become united to the
Centre and Source of all perfection and excellence, shall rest
in God, unutterably happy through the immeasurable progress of
duration! Of this consummation every returning Sabbath should at
once be a type, a remembrancer, and a foretaste, to every pious
mind; and these it must be to all who are taught of God.' ~Clarke

God rested on the seventh day. Not because He needed to, and not just because He was finished. He rested, and in doing so He led by example. He was teaching us 'preventative maintenance.' 

In my coal mining days, every now and then they'd call me on the radio at the end of a shift. 
"Park 325 at the PM bay. She's due." 
It meant that I was to drive my 2-story coal truck to the shop when the shift was done, because the next crew was going to pull it into the shop for 'preventative maintenance.'

It was faithfully practiced at the mine. It didn't mean Truck 325 would never break down or fall under some mishap. It just meant that the old truck would have LESS problems if properly checked and maintained, lubricated and cleaned. Dirty filters would be swapped out. Cracked windshields replaced. Brakes, the ability to stop, were always given careful attention. It all just meant that someday WHEN some calamity would raise its ugly head, the damage wouldn't be so tragic. A little PM, and you just replace some worn out brake pads. A little PM and you don't wind up losing some truck and driver over the edge of a cliff. 

The old adage, 'if it ain't broke, don't fix it' is foolishness. Why wait until we are fully stranded on the side of the road, incapable of advancing under our own steam? 

Are you following, Reader? A little PM, a little Sabbath, a little rest being unutterably happy and in awe of the Living God and in His grace alone, and we won't find ourselves plummeting over the edge of our own misery. 
How can we, when we are reminded of what it feels like to bask in His light? Even the most miserable of us can come into that sanctuary, that refuge of Christ, and feel mercy and love. Our clogged and dirty filters changed for a breath of fresh air, our brake pads replaced so we can stop when we find that the bridge is out ahead....The maintenance of our heart awaits, if we will but just yield. I promise it to be true. It's something I've yet to learn.





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God's Surprise!

My Haitian momma loves to sing.
We love to sneak up close enough to hear her when she's working outside or when she's cooking.
If she doesn't know you're there, you can really be blessed by some of the most beautiful, genuine praise ever to grace your ears.
Yesterday she came right up to me, resolute in her posture, calling my name.
"Din! Din!" (that's how she says my name.)
"Wi, Momma."
"I have a song for you.  It's for you!  Where is the Haitian Songbook?" she said, all smiles.
I handed it to her and she flipped right to a specific song.
It was written in a mixture of French, and actually a quite poor translation of Creole.
She didn't care.
She sang the song to me, verse by verse, word by word.
Then she promptly handed me the book, told me not to forget, and to make sure I had it translated, because THAT song, she said, was FOR me.
Then she wheeled around on her heels and shot out the door, back outside, grabbing her broom with a bounce in her step and a little giggle under her breath.

Here is the song, translated:

If Christ were not with me, how would I be
When problems threaten my life?
With His love all around me
I'll put in my heart a true song for Him.

(Chorus)
Christ has a surprise for you, my brother.
Christ has a surprise for you, my friend.
If you leave it to Him to lead your life.
His grace will be a surprise for you!

If my tears would shed often,
If their whip would blind my eyes,
If my enemies would defy me,
My deliverance is in Your grace.

Our Lord, Help me to arrive
On the other side of the mountain, that's where I want to go.
Where peace is, and joy
That's where I will rest my soul.


The surprise of God that my Haitian momma wants me to receive, is Grace.
It's a free gift,  I can do nothing to earn it, nor do I deserve it.  I have only to receive it.
She's a smart lady.

Why?

Can there be begged in the heart a more honest problem to which is yielded a most elusive answer?

To ask is 

Sincere.  

Genuine. 

Searching. 

Intimidating. 

Exposing. 

Vulnerable. 

Naive.

Painful.

And yet to deny ourselves the pursuit is inhumane.   

We may never know.  

He may never have need to show us. 

We may never understand.

He may only require our perfect obedience.

His reasons are 

Boundless.

Beyond.

Unapproachable.

Righteous.

Just.

Loving.

'Unless the Lord builds the house, the workers labor on in vain.'  

Yet I am still unable to refrain from asking of the most High God:

Why?  

I wait in silence.  Such a place to be.  Anguished quiet. Purposed stillness.  Underwater.  Holding my breath. 

'Those who live without You surely die.'

Does He smite me from the Earth? Does He blot out my frame from the space of time?  Do His cheeks flush red, hot with anger?  Does the back of His hand raise above me with the shadow of His wrath upon my face?

'Ah, Sovereign Lord...nothing is too hard for you.'

Instead He shows me, in a way that a child can understand.  

The painting is not finished.  

He decides to tell me a little story.  

A picture story.  

About a little boat upon the sea, rocking to and fro, cradled in the glassy arms of waters undisturbed.  

The wind is but a sigh upon our already cumbersome brows, and the sun is setting calm.

The Boatman plots our course to North, then West, South, then West, and back again North, hoping to find reprieve. 

But we are upon the waves of the unforgiving, and rest will not come for the weary...not yet.

Prayers are lifted, but there is no breeze to carry them aloft to God.  They seem to rise not even high enough to peek over the mast.  

There is only darkness coming.

We beg for a breath from God, to fill the sails and carry us to dry ground, but it will not come.  The cover of night fills our eyes, and only the stars give light.  

But then, as if to offer hope, the water sparkles to life with plankton glowing green, as if some kind of fairy dust has been poured into the sea.   Our journey takes on a magical note, and we all know there is an undertaking here beyond the physical, stretching now into the spiritual.   The voyage carries an illustration, a teaching.  Some stealthy message in a bottle, stolen away from our understanding.  We are out upon the water and there is nothing to do but carry on.  One of the oars is broken.  

I ask if I can help, if I can do something, anything.

"You cannot. You will only turn us in circles. You aren't accustomed to this.  You can just sit."

In my helpless mind we draw our letters upon this wet canvas.  Cursive letters.

WMWM.  

Hours waft by, and none of us in the little boat understand why the Boatman captains the way he does.  'Maybe he's lost his mind?  Maybe the heat has overcome him?  Maybe we are lost in this moonless night forever?

Minutes rise and fall with the stern...

How can a fisherman be lost, a man whose lived on these waters all his life, a man I've seen a hundred times come home late in the night from a long day's work, hauling in the catch?....WHY?

And then, when we cannot carry on, when there is no more within us, when we are empty of ourselves and given over completely, we hear waves crashing upon the shore!

9 hours upon this lesson of the heart, and our feet haul over the edge of the bow, plunging into the shallow water of the beach.  Dry ground, oh the joy of it, is but a few inches further!  Bones are weary and ready to fold.  A minute later and a bed becomes our embrace as we give over to exhaustion and the close of such matters too trivial for me to comprehend upon the still rocking waves in my mind. 

The next day I begin to search out the answers as I study the ocean from the shore.  

I find that the fisherman's work, the pointing to and fro, was actually a classic maneuver, well recording in the books.  

He was 'tacking', 'close-hauling', and a half dozen more nautical terms I'd never heard before, doing all he could to work with an opposing wind, using what little wind there was to pull us home, inch by inch.   

The night before he was insane.  A crazy, mysteriously quiet, tale to tell.

Today I see he was brilliant.  He was purposed.  He had reason.  He had skill.  He was gifted.  Most importantly...He got us home.

I didn't understand 'Why' at that exact moment of my despair.  I couldn't understand.   

The story has been told.  My heart soaks in interpretation.

From brokenness I can still hear Him.  

I can still speak, though the bark is stripped away, and parts of me are laid bare in the wind and the sun.  I can still find words on my tongue that give praise, because there sprouts within something new. Something not from me. 

"If you are here, breathing, today...God is not finished with you yet." I say.

A heart is pricked.  A breath is caught away.  A soul is moved from a place of refuge, from a stronghold, into the open plain with the noonday Sun.  From the dark comes one into the light. 

And we yet may never understand.... 'why?'

The Drummer

The Drummer at church this morning, in a tiny fishing village called Krabye, reminded me of this passage as he brought such a heart-pounding beat to the worship, leading the church and encouraging them to give praise to God: 'Now in a great house there are not only vessels of gold and silver but also of wood and clay, some for honorable use, some for dishonorable.  Therefore, if anyone cleanses himself from what is dishonorable, he will be a vessel for honorable use, set apart as holy, useful to the master of the house, ready for every good work.  (2Tim2)

The Big Island (Actually...Cow Island)

I have a friend here who is a fisherman.

I have a great deal of respect for him.

I watch him almost every morning, heading out to sea to work his trade.

He usually doesn't come back until late in the night, sometimes soaked through. 

Some days he stops at my house and offers me a big fish from the ocean, and tells me stories of the great wind or the giant wave that almost became the end of him. 

I always bid him a good night, glad that this man loves the water, as I certainly do not.

I grew up in Wyoming.  Wyoming, land of dry, dusty, hard-baked earth.  I've always been happy to have solid ground between my toes, and I've never been afraid of a blizzard or three. 

Today he came by the house, and tomorrow, he's asked to take my family across the sea.  To an island we've always seen, in the distance, 8 miles away, the big island...in this boat.  We will have oars and a sail, and the breath of God to carry us along.

Even my Haitian brothers have both told me they will be pre-disposed, occupied, too busy, to come along, "Besides," they say, "That boat is too small for a trip like that." Still, I know we could use this.  I know it's what my family needs right now. It's something God can use, so I will not be afraid, even though Tikilene's response to the idea of going was,

"No! Huh-uh! Cyclone Dan! Cyclone!"  (Hurricane)

"That's not what I hoped to hear from you.  I hoped to hear something a little more uplifting, like, 'Courage!' or 'God knows everything!'" (popular sayings to evoke resolve here). 

"Ha!" they laugh,  "You dont hear me saying that because in this case, you have a choice.  You don't have to go, so...."

No matter that if we miss, it's only thousands of miles of Atlantic ocean until we come upon Africa....

No matter that I just read Acts 27:13-44, about some guys a couple of thousand years ago who set out to sail within sight of the shore on a day with a beautiful gentle breeze, and 2 stormy weeks later finally shipwrecked and came ashore on the planks and what remained of the ship.... No matter.

Passing Notes

Kari's teaching was going long, so my daughter and I passed notes during class today.
Haitians can go 2-3 hours no problem...but not kids.

"Daddy. Do you know how much longer. I would ask mom but I don't want to be rood."
"Half an hour."
"What? An Hour and a half? Wow! Are you sure?"
"No, honey, 1/2 an hour. 30 minutes."
"That's what I said, an hour and a half. Well, since that's settled I was wondering could me and Logan and Onelson (Haitian friend) go in the car cause I'm very tired."
"Almost finished."
"Yeah, you said a half an hour, that's a long time."
"Not really."
"To children it is."
(sigh) "Go."
"Mesi ANPIL!" (Thank you SO MUCH!)

The Certificate of a Life

I was handed a very thin plastic baggie, the same kind you can find at the market for buying food.  Inside was a certificate written in French.   In Haiti that meant I was holding something official, something important.
It was fragile.
It had been torn and ripped apart over the years...taped, and then torn, and then taped again, with first-aid adhesive tape.
It had certainly seen better days.

It was the Birth Certificate of a little girl that we love very much.  It had come down off of the mountain, was handed to a close friend, and that close friend brought it to me.

I asked if it meant what I thought it meant.  My friend took his hands, cradled them like a baby, and pretended to give it to me.

It was this family's way of saying, "Take her."  They have no care of the paperwork, the procedure, the proper course of action.  They don't realize that we must make everything legal, cross every t, dot every i.

But it breaks my heart.  The condition a family must be in, to arrive at such a decision.

And how this must make her feel....

When she comes to visit, I see her.
She is something.
Something important.
Fragile.
She's been torn and ripped apart over the years...taped, and then torn, and then taped again...
She's has certainly seen better days.

What He Sees

Sometimes when we walk through the valleys of the shadow of death, all we see is darkness.  Within the trial there seems to be nothing but an inky black void, and before the storms pass we still only find signs of life in the shades of gray.... that's how we see it.

This....is how God sees it.
That black cover is merely the slate wiped clean, ready for His next Masterpiece!  And HE is the Painter of Rainbows!  You ready for this?  AHHHHHHH.  I know it in my heart to be true.  It's going to be beautiful!

Scuttled Salvage

There is a work, a labor, and an endurance with suffering, but as with any destined trial, there yet remains this most gentle gift from the Holy Spirit...Joy. 

While it may not be something I've yet claimed, I read of it in the Scripture, and it breathes hope to me. I see the Christians, flogged, stoned, beaten, martyred, and yet filled to overflowing with absolute joy.

An unnatural season for such a gift, and yet we stumble upon it so casually distributed, a free will offering from our Lord in the midst of any calamity that might befall the hearts of men.

I'm reminded therefore that, regardless of my condition, each face before me holds the potential to be the next jewel in the crown that awaits in Heaven, a crown that I will be eager to cast before the King in humble gratitude for having the grace to salvage such a scuttled shipwreck as me. He knew my heart and still had the mercy to wear a crown of thorns, a debt prescribed for me, yet credited to His account, free of charge.

'Why should any living man complain when punished for his sins?'

Provision

We got the call to drop everything and drive across Haiti to meet the guy who had our Bibles. We set out this morning, praying for safe travels and for the Lord to keep us out of harm's way. The storm clouds broke up, and we didn't even see a drop of rain on the windshield. Kari wanted to stop and eat half way across, so we took about half an hour to rest and grab some lunch.
Back on the road, a Haitian police truck whizzed by us going the opposite direction with officers in the back holding guns, ready to jump out. (Amazing what you get used to seeing in this country.) I thought it odd, because they were from a town about 20 miles away. They were obviously after someone, looking like they were on a SWAT raid.
Haiti's had problems with extortion blockades, where they can quickly setup a roadblock and either take all of your money or slash tires, take car keys, you name it. We wondered if that's where they were going.
Then we popped up over a hill and saw a large bus turned sideways in the road.

Cars began to slow down, and I'd already prepped the family for what that might look like if we ran upon it. Instead, we saw a Haitian police officer emerge from behind the bus, waiving the traffic.
We drove slow around the bus and when we came around the other side, there were 15 or so UN troops, AK-47's at the ready, prepared to keep the peace. It appeared we'd just missed the blockade, and the police and UN troops had been called in to break it up.
We gave God praise.
I told the kids and Kari, "I'll take God's provision any day of the week and twice on Sundays."
We got our Bibles, 16 cases, and headed for our village.
There was a good breeze and good music on the radio, and then we even listened to a sermon about how salvation is a free gift of divine mercy, totally devoid of human merit. My heart was ministered to.

Into the Kiln

We seemed to have slipped into the rainy season in Haiti, but the day had come for the students to fire their clay creations in the kiln. While we waited for the skies to clear, we sat under a tent and read through Jeremiah 18 once more. In the account the master potter, seeing the impurity in the clay, pushed it all in and started over... but why? That's what we were all waiting to see.

Where I used to live, there was a big, beautiful tree that stretched forth from the ground. It had massive branches that seemed to me a thousand years old, arched out over the grasses, and it's leafy covering was so thick that it always gave the appearance of a shelter, this kind of organic umbrella, where a man could lie down in safe haven, read a book or even ponder his existence in quiet refuge. But then one day as I came upon the tree, one whole side had cracked and fallen down in disgrace. Its most powerful branch had given way and was piled hopelessly on the ground, so out of place, cut off from its purpose. On the outside it was a thing of beauty, an object of might, but on the inside, it was nearly hollow. This icon of strength was actually a weak shell of something that only once was grand.

The same can happen with clay. If the potter works too fast or doesn't wait for the clay to properly dry, even if he fires the clay too much too soon, then the tool of impatience will raise it's ugly head. In the heat of the kiln, any water or air or impurity that was trapped inside becomes explosive as dynamite. The result can be catastrophic to hours of tedious preparation. I picked up one piece, a beautiful, heart shaped jewelry box that one of the boys had made. It was truly a creative work, and very strong. The walls were thick and it had the most sturdy looking form of the entire bunch. I complimented the boy, and even remarked that the teacher had also admired his work, but I told the boy that even as strong and beautiful as it was on the outside, it wouldn't matter when tested against the heat of the flame, if there were anything impure inside. Sin is illustrated this way, and in my own fiery furnace, has regretfully been forged into my own experience.

The rains passed and we began to fire the kiln. 300. 400. 500 Celsius. It took hours of work, and watching my Haitian brother slowly break apart the wood with his machete, it was apparent that time really didn't play into his craft. He'd been here more times than he could count. I asked him how long it would take to reach 1100 Celsuis, and he just smiled. I asked if he had enough old chairs and pallets to cut up to reach the heat he needed, and he just smiled again with a confident yes.

When the time finally came to pull out the clay, we were all amazed. The boy's jewelry box that I'd used as an illustration....had exploded. Like the mighty tree, it was broken and shattered. The lesson came home to rest in his heart. But what taught me the most was what I saw beyond his own failed piece. Other pieces, even the master potter's piece, had been cracked and destroyed. When the boy's box exploded inside the kiln, pieces of flying, superheated clay had ricocheted off of the other pieces, and there was great collateral damage. There'd been a chain reaction, a domino effect of sorts, and works that were actually sound and well made had fallen victim.

'Such is sin.' I hear my heart cry. Big sin, little sin, it doesn't matter what rank and file we give it. God sees it as the same, a black rock thrown into the perfect serenity of a glassy, calm lake. See the ripples.....reaching, stretching, consuming? We think we will suffer our own consequences, and yet everyone around us carries the same burden. Even after that sin has passed, it hits others afresh as it reaches new heartstrings and tugs upon the courage of so many.

Have any of you ever experienced this? I have. Maybe you'll learn from me? Maybe none of us really can learn until The Lord carries us through the intimate, personal trials, and then we can truly speak about that of which we've so masterfully failed?

How sorry that boy must be, yet still I know his experience better than he. His illustration is my reality. He will pick up the broken pieces and begin to glue them together, but I cannot. He will move on to a new work, a new idea, a new creation, but I won't. His heart is already healed. My heart still cries. I hurt. I feel as if I am that exploding piece of work, once part of a masterpiece, now just hot shrapnel. And I understand as did Jeremiah, I must be reformed by my God in Heaven or surely I will die in this bog. It will either be my Lord's remodeling of my heart into something new, or I will live the rest of my years in misery, in this failed state of the soul.

I hear the whisper of something once remembered...'Why are you so downcast, oh my soul? So disturbed? Hope in your God, for I will yet praise Him, my Savior and my God....'Deep calls to deep in the roar of your waterfalls; all your waves and breakers have swept over me.' 

Psalm 42

Stones of Dust

This sums up the desire of my enemy, to take everything I've ever done wrong, every failure, every sin, every fall, and  put it into concrete, stone by stone, until there is this impenetrable wall between me and my God.  It is cold, unforgiving, hard and dark, as the remembrance of each wrong passes with time and sets just a bit more in the drying concrete.  The more time that passes, the harder the wall, the greater the obstacle, the weaker my will, the sweeter his victory over me.   All that would seem to remain are suffocating chains and a soft surrender...

But then this is the desire of my Savior, written in this book in case I need to remember...
"He does not treat us as our sins deserve or repay us according to our iniquities.  For as high as the heavens are above the earth,  so great is His love for those who fear Him;  as far as the east is from the west, so far has He removed our transgressions  from us.  As a father has compassion  on his children,  so the Lord has compassion on those who fear Him" (Psalm 103)

Oh that I might remember...these stones, so dark, so cold, stacked so high upon my heart and smothering to my soul, they are but dust upon dust...
and my enemy is nothing more than a masterful magician, pulling age-old puppet strings that have long ago been severed, this illusion is his craft, this toying is his spite, and this soul conquered would he most desire to see.

The Women's Center in Cayes, Haiti

We were able to help a German missionary couple today in the city.  They help to run a local women's center there, teaching all sorts of vocational jobs, sewing and knitting.  It's a beautiful place that's been dozens of years in the making, and they are doing their best to adapt with a very quick-paced Haiti.  Everything is changing here, and it's important for the missionaries to keep on the edge of what's happening in the markets, not just here, but around the world, to better equip the women who pass through their doors to be successful in the workplace.
These are some of the shots from the day.

Clay

My friend taught a class about the story of clay in our village. 

As everyone arrived and took their seat, he placed an old chalkboard before them.  The slate was worn and pitted from a thousand words that had come and gone, a thousand ideas that had been carved and whittled from the chalk, then brushed and washed away into the wind.  

He thought clearly about what he wanted to say, and then he lifted the white chalk to the black board, and in French, words began to flow.   He etched out an idea.  That everything must begin...with form.  

Before his students could understand clay and the fine details of a master’s stroke, they must grasp this one thought first.  There must first be form.

The form distinguishes us, sets us apart, gives us our characteristic. Just as when you draw a face or make an elaborate piece of pottery, you don’t begin with the details.  You start with nothing, and you bring into form the idea in your mind.  The details will follow.

He then began to read to them from the first chapter of Genesis, of a time when there was nothing, when ‘the earth was without form and void, and darkness was over the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God was hovering over the face of the waters.  And God said.....’

I was there at his request to take photos, but God had me there for an entirely different reason...

When I looked at the lump of clay in the Haitian’s hands, I saw myself.  

As Jeremiah says in Lamentations 3, “I am the man...” 

I breathed in deep and heavy.  I see me.  

Jeremiah 18 came to the front of my mind, as never before have I been so defined, and yet so without shape as I am today.  Never before have I so fully embodied a scripture, as if the Master was thinking of me when He guided the strokes of a pen thousands of years ago, to make the marks which would bring the definition to me, here, today.  You can go down to the Potter’s house.  You can watch Him working His masterpiece on His wheel, His wet hands pressing and forming the beautiful curves to form a thing so precious in His eyes... and yet...

And yet there is this impurity.  This imperfection.  This....”well, it’s me Lord.  It’s me.  I am this flaw. My heart cries.  And I will never look at me again and not see it.  It is there.  Like an out of tune key on such a grand, grand piano, whatever I was made for, it will never go unnoticed, and the purpose of my very creation is in vain.  No matter the song you play from me, there will always be this cryptic fault, cracked into the core of everything I have ever been and everything I will ever be.  Maybe You should have never made me? Maybe I will never understand.”  

But then, that’s not the whole story.

‘How do you sum up a life in a few words?   How do you measure the weight of a soul in a matter of moments?  

You do not.  

You cannot.

But you can pray for rest, you can pray for light, and you can remember.

You can always remember.’

The Master sees the impurity, of course.  He feels it!  As the clay courses through His fingertips and runs with the water over his fingerprints, His very nature alone tells Him there is a flaw in the material.

But what does the He do?  He caves in the beautiful pot, this work of art, oh yes!  His hands press in and down until the form cannot bear to hold up under such a weight, and His massive, age-old hands bring the clay back to it’s original self...just a lump.

But then what?  Does He cast it out?  Does He wash his hands in disgust?  Does He give up, just let the clay go dry and turn to dust?  Does the music fade?

Never.  Do you know why?  Because those hands don’t ever quit.  Because me practicing what I preach is this, that I will never be free of this, and He will never stop loving me on account of my imperfection.   This clay is of the earth.  I’ve laid my head in the dust, sat in the silence, clawed the ground for forgiveness.. I’ve been dug up from the dark pit and put into His hands,  this dirty old earth in the hands of the Great I AM!  And it’s HIS to form and make a thing of beauty.   

It’s Him, telling me, “Yes. I see the flaw.  But the flaw is not you.  The flaw is only a part of you.  It is only a piece of this old earth, of what you’ve been made from, that lives in you.” 

He takes that lump of clay and He throws it again onto the wheel,  He pushes out and forms again something new, pulling up something beautiful...from nothing.   It hurts.  Oh how it hurts.  It has to. 

His hands are already dirty.  He’s not afraid of a little more dirt.  He chooses to work the clay.   He is still forming me.  I am not finished.  

I will spin round and round on this wheel until He decides to pick me up, and then there will be for me the kiln, the fire, the final passage into what He will call...perfect.

The Farrier

Chris Richards Horseshoeing

605.214.1529

While on a senior shoot on a farm over the weekend, the young lady's horse needed some tending to. 
The call was made and the horse mechanic showed up.  A.K.A.  The Farrier.

I studied his work, took a few pictures, and then it dawned on me...  I'm just like that horse, and God is my Great Farrier.

Sometimes I get long in the hoof, sometimes I'm hobbling around in my walk with a splinter wedged just so, and while I might get around a little more tender, eventually my spiritual diet begins to sway and I begin to give in to just not moving.  Standing still seems a better, more comfortable option, even holding one foot in the air is a temporary reprieve.  

But it can't last.  If I stay the way I am I'll just become this stoved-up, shell of what I was designed to be.  Like that horse with mighty muscles bulging, built for speed and power with that long mane flying in the wind, but standing motionless in the round corral like some carved statue of what was once meant to be.  

Inevitably, there's the call.  God pays a visit.  

He stands back and studies my posture.  He eyes my foot and my careful step.  He notes where the pain is, and He searches my ailment without a word or touch.  I can feel Him looking at me.  I see those leather chaps and the work gloves.  I know what's coming, the labor ahead.  The sweat on the rim of His hat tells me He's done this before, a thousand times a thousand.  He knows just how I'll move, and just what I'll be thinking each step of the way.  His experience radiates from His hands, worn and leathery from the shaping of the hearts of men.

He opens up the back of the truck, and out come the array of tools.   There are many solutions to the many ailments, but He has everything He needs at His disposal, and I have only to stand still in obedience and let Him do His work.   

He begins the filing, the clipping, the trimming. 

Sometimes it hurts, because it's a tender spot to me, and I try to move away or even kick.  He steadies my stance, and calls to me soft at first.  "Whoa....Easy....Easy boy."  I get a little more rebellious, but He's connected to me. He knows my thoughts and feels the muscles tense.  He grabs hold of me and stands firm. 
"Whoa!"  He says, a different tone of authority in His voice.  It's communicated to me immediately who will have the upper hand.  He could pull just right and keep me unbalanced until the end of time if He wanted.  I understand completely that I'm only making it worse by my orneriness. 

Pieces of me fall to the ground.  Pieces I thought I needed.  But He sees them as foreign to the way I was designed and purposed.  They are unnecessary, and He carves them away, roots them out.   I want to resent Him, but inside I know He's performing this work on His Workmanship because He cares.  

He loves me. 

The work is finished and He gives me a slap on the rear.  I buck out into the pasture.  Free.  Free as the wind.   He's smiling at His handiwork.   I realize I'm trotting...and it feels good.  The pain is gone, and I give my new feet a trial run.   Fast as the wind, I blow by Him as He hangs on the gate.   I head out for open fields, where the thorns and thickets, rattlers and barbed-wire wait.   I know I'll get into them.  It's not a matter of if, but when.  I'm made that way, and it's how I know I'll be seeing Him again.

Obedience

Lamentations 3:22

'The steadfast love of the lord never ceases. His mercies never come to an end. They are new every morning. Great is Thy faithfulness oh Lord.'

Flying over America, I found myself wondering how I would relate to a people who think they have heaven on earth. A people who have replaced God with comfort and pleasure, and yet here it is, this land of plenty, withering away before our eyes.

From Wyoming, Colorado, South Dakota, Nebraska, Kansas, Missouri, Iowa, Illinois and Indiana, we criss-crossed the breadbasket and prairies of this great country, passing field after field of devastation. Burned and scorched ground spread out before us in unending miles of heated dust.

Kari asked me a few days ago what it is that makes me love God more today than when I first loved Him. The answer was instant on my heart, it is His unfailing mercy and grace. It is exaclty Lamentations 3:22, but there is more...

Verse 34: 'to crush underfoot all prisoners in the land, to deny a man his rights before the Most High, to deprive a man of justice, would not the Lord see such things?' Another version says, 'of these the Lord does not approve.'

What does this mean? It means I am a missionary, I sold everything and set out for Haiti to obey the Lord, and some of you might think that's something, but it's nothing. I am no different than any of you.

It's to remember that I screw up. That I am no better a saint than the day I first believed, and I will never achieve some level of holiness that will constitute a road to my salvation. To think so is heresy. It is a form of pride and self-centeredness that is in truth nothing more than a foothold for my enemy to diminish and dull the work, already accomplished by my Lord Jesus Christ on the cross. It is His mercy and grace, knowing when I fall off my imaginary ladder of sainthood that He is still there to catch me and hold me fast.

So what then is our mission, if that honor and glory is not ours to bestow?

To be road signs. To point to the only One who is worthy of such praise. And why do we need to point?

That corn didn't get that way overnight. It was one day without rain, then another, one day of heat and pressure, then another.

The is a Christian song that ring out these words, 'My heart and flesh cry out, to you the Living God, Your spirit's water to my soul.' But to someone who doesn't know this living god, they are this corn, parched and thirsty, withering for refreshment.

They reach out for that next new thing, that next new event to highlight their lives, but in the end there is no real satisfaction. It's drops of water on the tongue. We watched the rain come across the fields last night, and there was that hope, but it just wasn't enough. It evaporated. Weeks and months of dry have hollowed out that corn.

If the farmer goes out and begins to beat the corn, if he grabs it and shakes it, what will he gain? I asked my uncle this week, "Can your crop come back from this?" He just looked at me with soft eyes and replied, "The corn is already lost. We will lose the beans next, unless things change now. There will be nothing left to do but plow it under.". My heart broke for him, but what was most beautiful to me was that I saw something else in him...Peace in this brewing storm, the love of Jesus in his eyes.

A rock and warm butter. I want you to receive this word picture. Please get those two items in your mind and chew on it for awhile, until you can feel them. Every time you pick up a stone and skip it across the water. Watch it bounce and skip as if it has a life of its own, and then watch the inevitable as it sinks hopelessly to the bottom.

These are the hearts of men. We have no more power in and of ourselves to change the hearts of men as we have the power to change that rock into butter....but God does.

Every time you go to Grandma's and take out that warm butter from the cupboard, every time you butter your toast or slather a hot baked potato, every time your knife slices through that creamy tenderness, remember that stone. This is the power of the Holy Spirit, and it is His alone.

It is only for us to obey. Not "I will follow Lord...but first.". Luke 9:57

'As they were walking along the road, a man said to him, “I will follow you wherever you go.” Jesus replied, “Foxes have holes and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.”

He said to another man, “Follow me.” But the man replied, “Lord, first let me go and bury my father.” Jesus said to him, “Let the dead bury their own dead, but you go and proclaim the kingdom of God.”

Still another said, “I will follow you, Lord; but first let me go back and say good–by to my family.” Jesus replied, “No one who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is fit for service in the kingdom of God.”

It is Christ first, or there is no point at all.

To follow Him,we must make our attitude like that of Christ. He 'made himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself and became obedient to death — even death on a cross ...' To serve, wherever we are and to whomever He has placed in our path.

Can we serve in pride? Can we serve if we think we must be justified? Can we serve if we harbor an offense or believe that we deserve some level of respect? We cannot.

Platil? That beautiful French word I heard in Haiti? It means 'For your pleasure. Ive heard you, and I'm awaiting your instructions, Here I am.'. How can this become our own heart cry?

This is only accomplished through love. From unconditional love comes that attitude of Christ, humility.

People don't care what you know until they know that you care.

Isn't that what Jesus showed us while He walked among us?

What God has always shown us?

That even though His creation would spurn Him and sin against Him, reject Him ultimately fillet Him, beat Him, mock Him, nail Him naked in the most horrific form of lethal torture ever devised by the wicked hearts of man...He still loves us? He still came to us? He still seeks us? Drills down to us? Bores into our hearts to have us know Him? Still created us? 'For God SO loved the world....'

We must also be available. He didn't give His son over to that unimaginable death just so we could come to church and keep quiet. To say when He calls us, "I'm too busy, I have my own plans and this isn't in them." To deny ourselves from being completely abandoned to our Rescuer is to say we don't fully appreciate what we were rescued from. To say we don't have the skills or the finances or the time is to say we are content with being our own gods.

It is not in your ability, He does not call those who are equipped, He equips those who are called. When you take that step, proclaiming His name, His promise to us is that He will be with us.

What is your answer to the question you feel in your heart?

Are you weak? Is your prayer life pathetic? Are you in a spiritual desert, are you inept for the work, unskilled, too busy? Is your marriage a wreck? Are you ruled over, tied down by your pets, living for and looking after the very animals that God put on this Earth for YOU to rule OVER? Did someone you love once tell you that you weren't good enough, smart enough? Can you not forget your sins and so you feel you aren't worthy? Can you not forgive, and so you are bitter?

These are nothing more than elaborate excuses designed by your enemy! Perfected instruments of destruction honed and sharpened on the hearts of men for thousands of years. They are every bit the twist of satan, taking what God created and intended for our good, distorting every truth for our ultimate demise. Satan's victory is only to drag you away in his trials. To feed you a spoonful of poison, and see if you swallow. 'Accept this little lie, he says, take your medicine, and take just one more step away from God. Soon enough you'll have left that yellow-brick road, you won't remember your way back, and God and His love for you will be a distant memory, as if it was all a dream that you've awoken from, but can't remember the storyline.'

James 1: 'Each one is tempted, when by his own evil desire, he is dragged away and enticed. Then, after desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin, and sin, when it is full grown, gives birth to death. DO NOT BE DECEIVED, brothers and sisters, every good and perfect gift is from above...'

'Who told you that you were naked?' It is nothing more than your enemies tool, causing you to sin, and then point the finger, AHA! To bring to surface such guilt and shame that you might take that first step into the shadows to hide.

Dont be deceived, Christian! The truth your enemy tries to hide is this:

In our weakness, He is made strong!

What breaks the chains and sets us free? What washes away our iniquity? What takes blind eyes and makes them see? What Gives us breath to finish the race? Unending Love, Amazing Grace.

Imagine a simple glass of water. Do you take it for granted? Here, sure! In fact we are picky. I don't just want the tap water! I want filtered. I want bottled please. I want the tastier water. But in Haiti the water from our well is treasure. It is appreciated and sought after. Every drop is precious. And no matter where you go, you must think about water, packing it along, because there may not be any where you're going. A river if you're lucky, but most certainly not a faucet anywhere.

It's the same with the Word of God. There's seven Bibles in every house, filtered in various versions, and a different denomination church on every corner, to accommodate our selection for tastiness. 'They are tulip Calvinists, we are Evangelical, and well you know, the problem with that poor girl is.....she's (gulp) Baptist.'

What if there were only 1 well? What if there were only 1 Church?

My grandma told me a story about her late husband, Merle, who'd suffered a stroke and was bedridden and couldn't speak. One day while sitting with him in the hospital room, she mentioned to the nurse in the room that she wished the nurse could have heard him sing. He had a beautiful voice and he loved to share it. When the nurse asked what song was his most favorite, my grandma told her it was Amazing Grace. "I know that song, how about I sing it for him?" the nurse said. As she began to sing, Merle opened his mouth and sang every word and verse to the song, flawlessly and in perfect tune. The rest of the nursing staff and doctors gathered and were listening, and when he finished, they asked him to please sing it again. He couldn't. He never sang again.

That's how it is with God's Word. It settles deep in our souls where it nourishes, and it never fades away. When we hear it, we are immediately reminded and refreshed.

Isaiah 40: The grass withers and the flowers fall, because the breath of the Lord blows on them. Surely the people are grass. The grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of our God stands forever.

”Do you not know? Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom. He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak.

Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.'

Seek Him. Never forget to run to Him. And when you share with the soul in front of you, love them as if they were you, for you once were lost but now are found.

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