The End of the World

Haiti is a country of superstition, but I think the whole world is swept up with this one.
12.21.12
The End?

I've been asked this question by several Haitians in recent days...
Some are light-hearted, some are gravely serious.
All are actually interested to know if I might have any insight to the rumors.

Well...  Yes.
There were these people called the Maya that lived a very long time ago.
They were very, very good at tracking the Sun, the Moon, and the Stars.  And they were very big on accuracy.
And Yes.
Their calendar ends on 12.21.12.

Here's what I know:

The 21st will come, and if God wants, we'll wrap this old Earth up and put a bow on it.
And if God doesn't want, why, the 21st will just come...and go.

Maybe you'll be here.  Maybe you won't.  

I always ask them what they plan to do the day before.  Some laugh, some haven't actually thought about it.  Some tell me right away they'll be partying all night long.
Then they ask me what I'm going to be doing.

I smile, because I've been waiting for it.  :)
"I'm going to take these happy little seedlings and I'm going to plant my garden.
Either way.  God knows everything." 

The real question isn't whether it all ends or keeps spinning like a top.  The real question is what happens when YOU end.   Do you know where you're going, who you'll be meeting?
I have a date, and I don't care about any other.

When Little Hands Bless

My daughter and I have always had a very special bond.  She is extra-sensitive to me, and we've always been able to read one another really well.   For years now, when she wants to find a way to show her love, she washes feet.  

Nobody ever told her to do it.  

She just read it in her Bible one day and decided that the job description agreed with her.  Jesus did it, and so she reckons it must be a good way to love. 

She decided the other morning that I needed some 'extra blessing' to start my day, and so she rose early and prepared a warm bucket of water, which she heated over the fire herself.  She then added special hand-picked flowers from the yard and a cocoa-butter/lotion concoction that she whipped up custom, just for this occasion.   

She always prepares a very nicely folded towel, a good, soft place to rest your feet, and then she goes to work washing.  

It's always been a sacred thing between us, and she's never once done it for the glory or the piety of sainthood.  She does it because she has a genuine love.    

I've never taken pictures of these moments, because they are very special to me.  But Kari grabbed the camera anyway and began snapping shots, and when I saw them,  I realized that this is something I want to always remember, and always share.  

It was all she could do to let me bless her right back, but she did eventually give in.  At first she said No, but I got her on the 'No sense letting all that good-smelling fragrance go to waste' line. :)

She helps me to remember there is good in this world.  There is love.  And even on the really hard days, some warm flower-pedal-lotion water can soften any old leathery soul, guaranteed.  

Faces

Recently I was asked to shoot for another missionary organization in Southern Haiti.  I found myself at the end of the day riding on a schoolbus, in the open doorway as we weaved and dodged the traffic on the National Route.  It struck me hard, because this was exactly what my first experience in Haiti was like, coming into the country just after the earthquake in 2010.   A hundred moments that would break your heart pass by in a blur.   All you can do is catch your breath, and decide if you're going to let it all go.  

The first time in-country, all I could visualize was stepping off the bus when the driver stopped, and the cloud of dust that would arise, the chaos from that first step, that first break from all things safe and delusional, into the reality that is Haiti.  

This trip, I still visualized stepping off the bus, and whether it was stopped or going, I didn't care.  
Haiti has such a piece of my heart, and the rest is shattered.  I began to look back through the images of the last 2 years, thousands and thousands of images...There is a vast body of work.   
I was taken aback at the deep sorrow I felt as I flipped through face after face...
He was shot and killed...
She disappeared...
She died...
He's dead now... 
He left his family....
His daughter was attacked with a machete...
This little boy still has the hardest life...
This little girl still doesn't have a home...
Her parents are dead...
She was raped...
He was taken away and never heard from again...
She was beaten.
And then, so many, 'we were once such good friends'... 

I heard a woman cry out just yesterday,  "I just want to see His Power!"  

Remembering it all, I'm wondering if they will ever be able to put me together again.
Such things these eyes have seen, these ears have heard, and only the Lord my God will have the shoulder for me to bury my tears.  Only His hand on my head will suffice, because there are too many questions unanswered and too many mistakes for me to ever understand except through the lense of eternity. 

All I can think of are those very last lines in that very sacred Book,
'Surely I come quickly. Amen. Even so, come, Lord Jesus.  The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all. Amen.'

A Little Help

Some days Tikilene feels we need a little extra assistance in our Haitian pronunciation.  No matter how slow she goes, we just can't pick up what she's laying down, so to the board we go.  

The problem is, as much as this sweetheart wants us to learn, she starts writing in French. 

We say, "Wait a minute, isn't that French?"

We tell her we don't know French.  

She says, "Yeah well, you'll get the idea.  Listen. Cheri (honey). Follow me. See? See?"

It's just a really nice way of saying, "Please quit hacking my language, Blanc."

Pah-Rump-Pah-Pum-Pum!

When I first met Jean Wilber, I found him to be striking. He was a well-built and solid man with a young family, and he had a quiet confidence. He was to be my next door neighbor in the new village, the former caretaker of the house we were now renting, and I knew we'd be knee-deep in the soup of eachother's lives sooner or later.

Sure enough, his little boy came down with the fever. Wilber soon was selling his goat so he could get him to the doctor, and we were giving him medicine to keep his temp down. We began to develop a friendship, and every so often he'd pick up a rock to tap on my gate, just to check-in.  There's always an odd-job here or there that he's willing to jump into with me.  One day I was watching him pick-axe his garden. I was working on the idea for the cistern, and a pastor-friend stopped by to say hello. His name is Lucner, and he translates very well. Wilber was heavy on my heart, and the pastor mentioned that he wasn't a Christian, so I asked him if he'd mind talking to him with me.

We walked up to Wilber, sweat dripping off of his brow from the hard work of breaking up the earth, and asked him if we could talk. Wilber stood up straight and became still, with a soft smile.
I pointed to the pipe coming out the back of my yard,
"I'm going to fix this pressure in my house, and the pipe there will bring the water. I see it's going to dump the water right on the path to your garden. Is this going to give you a problem?"
"No, no problem at all. My garden needs the water!" He said. He actually welcomed the news.
"What do you think of Jesus?" I said.

He smiled.
"I went to church a long time ago. I've been to many churches when I was younger, but I always had one foot in and one foot out. I never really jumped in. Still. I know God wants me. Sometimes He talks to me in my dreams. But I don't know. I don't know if I'm ready for that. Someday I think I will be. But not yet." He turned back to his pick-axe and began to break the ground.

"He calls you because He loves you. What good does it do to plan to come to Jesus at 12 o'clock, if you die at 11:59? None of us really know when we're going to meet Him face to face." I said.

Wilber stopped and put his hand up in the air.
"Hey, I'm a good man. Everyone here knows I'm a good man. In fact, when someone here couldn't pay me for my workmanship, they gave me a piece of their land. I'm a good man." He said.

"I know you're a good man, Jean Wilber. I can tell. I'm sure you're a better man than me. I'm sure anyone in this village would tell me how good you are. The problem is, none of them get to stand up for you when you stand before God. He is righteous. He is holy, and He doesn't measure the way we do. All that will matter is if we knew His Son and followed Him.
We all have sin, and that sin separates us from God. It's only through Jesus dying on the cross that we have a way back to Him. If we repent and follow Him, that's all that matters.
Measure me to you, and I'm a horrible man, because I've done terrible things in my life, and I'm no good. But I won't stand on my on my own goodness when I meet God. I will stand on the righteousness of Jesus."

There was a soft silence before he spoke again. This time his voice was more tender.

"I play the drums for the nightclub across the street. It's how I provide for my family. I don't make money outside of that. There's no jobs, and I can't go to church and still play the drums."

"You absolutely can!" I said. "Are you kidding? You can play your drum for Jesus. There's a church I go to in a little fishing village out in the country. A man there plays the drums, and he's amazing. He leads all of the people in worship. They give praise to God, and his drum keeps the beat.
There's another meaning behind the pipe that I was telling you about, Wilber.
I'm like that pipe that's about to bring the water, but instead of water I'm about to bring Jesus into this village. (In reality, Jesus was already there.) And you're my next door neighbor, my friend. What I'm bringing is going to pour out all over your path, and into your garden. I know you need what I'm bringing, and I hope it doesn't give you a problem."

He began to laugh.
"No problem. It's all good." He said, shaking my hand. "I can see you being here will be good for me."

"If you'd ever like to come to church with me, you are always welcome. There will always be a place for you." I said, and Wilber nodded.

But guess what, Reader?
The story doesn't end there.I downloaded Go Fish's rendition of Drummer Boy (which is awesome, by the way), and then translated the words in Kreyol. I gave the CD and the words to Wilber.

"Come," they told me Pah-rump-pah-pum-pum 
A newborn king to see 
Pah-rump-pah-pum-pum 
"Our finest gifts we bring" 
Pah-rump-pah-pum-pum 
"To lay before the king" 
Pah-rump-pah-pum-pum 
Pah-rump-pah-pum-pum 
Pah-rump-pah-pum-pum 

So to honor Him Pah-rump-pah-pum-pum 
When we come

Little baby Pah-rump-pah-pum-pum 
I am a poor boy, too
Pah-rump-pah-pum-pum
I have no gift to bring
Pah-rump-pah-pum-pum
That's fit to give a king
Pah-rump-pah-pum-pum
Pah-rump-pah-pum-pum
Pah-rump-pah-pum-pum

Shall I play for you? Pah-rump-pah-pum-pum 
On my drum 

On my drum

I play my drum
I play my drum
For the one who saved me

Mary nodded
Pah-rump-pah-pum-pum
The ox and lamb kept time
Pah-rump-pah-pum-pum
I played my drum for Him
Pah-rump-pah-pum-pum
I played my best for Him
Pah-rump-pah-pum-pum
Pah-rump-pah-pum-pum
Pah-rump-pah-pum-pum

Then He smiled at me
Pah-rump-pah-pum-pum
Me and my drum
Me and my drum
Me and my drum
Me and my drum

I play my drum
I play my drum

For the one who saved me.

Wilber loved it.  He came to church with me the next week, and the message spoke to him. The worship was great, the music was good, and the man was visibly moved. A girl from the church asked his name, and he waved her off, but then another man came and asked, and Jean Wilber relented and gave his information.  I introduced him to the pastors of the church, and on the ride home, he told me he'd like to come again. 

So, this week we did invite him again.

Wilber came with us, this time with his boy, all the way past Valer, then Ti Rivier, then St. Jean, all the way to Krabye, to the little fishing village, to the church where the man plays the drums for Jesus.
Worship began and the man began to play. Wilber watched him closely. Soon he was moving to the music.
I gave the message, and Wilber listened intensely.
Then when I sat down, the pastor asked him to please come forward. 

"I know you are not converted, but Dan loves you." He said. "You are not converted....But Dan loves you.  He is your friend.  He is my friend. So, someone here would like to encourage you and give you some advice..."

The man who played the drums came forward.

"I used to play the drums for evil."  He said. "But one day I put that all down, and began to follow Jesus.  Now I play my drum for Him.  And God has made a way for me ever since that day."  

Wilber was very still.

I opened my journal and for the first time wrote these words for another soul, through tears:

"December 2, 2012, at 11:28 a.m.
-God just reached out to Jean Wilber. If God can reach out to the back country of Haiti to reach this man with another man, who used to play the drums for evil...why there isn't anyone He can't reach."    

Nothing is impossible for Him!  Nothing!  Think of it, Reader.  He cares so much and so deeply and intimately for this drummer boy, that He reaches him through the testimony of another drummer boy, to tell him that He loves him....that He will take care of him.

We drove all the way home with hardly a word.   Wilber thanked me and left quickly, and I wondered how it had all impacted him.  

Then tonight, just as the light was going, there came that familiar tapping on the gate.

Wilber came in, smiling from ear to ear.  

"I'm very happy, Dan."  He said.

"I'm happy too."  I said.

"I'm VERY HAPPY."  He said seriously. "Today was a good day.  The church was good.  The message was good. When the pastor spoke and the other man spoke, it was very good for me to hear.   I know you pray for me.   Thank You!  I'll see you tomorrow, we can work on  building the steps to the well....if God wants."

They Just Don't Give Up

You and I would come to this swollen river and naturally assume we just can't cross.  Not a Haitian.
First he untied his bags of charcoal that are bound for the market.  He carries them across one by one, barely keeping his feet underneath him.
Then a couple of men watching jump into action to help give a push with the motorcycle.
Once he's reached the other side, he ties his bags back onto the bike, and starts pushing it on down the road.  I never saw him start it.  Maybe he knew it would need to dry out a bit.  There's only 3 more rivers to go before he'll reach the blacktop national road.  

Little By Little The Bird Makes His Nest

Several of my Haitian friends have come over to see our little fish project.  They are always excited to come and get a look, but then when they see how tiny the fish are, they laugh at me.  Mind you, they are not laughing WITH me, they laugh AT me.  There is a big difference.  Even Tikilene, when she first saw our 400 little minnows, completely dismissed it as a ridiculous idea.

I tell them all the same thing,

"We've prayed over these fish. God's gonna make them grow, and in 8 months or so you'll be inviting me over to your house to have a fish fry, because there will be more than you can eat."

Finally, a pastor friend of mine came.  He looked down into the well at all the baby fish. 

"They call them tilapia."  He said.

I was surprised he knew that from such a quick glance.

"This is a good thing you're doing....and there is a Haitian proverb I have for you, my friend."  He smiled,  "Little by little, the bird makes his nest."  

And these are in fact some seriously happy fish.  I've watched them for a week and already they are almost triple in size.  

The idea is beautifully simple.  We fastened a taller pipe on the artesian well/bathing hole on the road, which now gives the people in my village a place where they can shower standing up as opposed to having to kneel down.  That built up the pressure to our well, where gravity then feeds the cistern in our back yard. Duckweed grows on top of the water and gives the fish food, and as they "dirty-up" the water with their poop and pee, we open up a valve and rotate in fresh while we jettison the nutrient rich dirty water into my neighbor Wilber's garden. This in turn makes his soil rich, causing his bananas and yams to grow like crazy, and I'm telling you, one day we're all going to sit down to a feast.  

Maybe next Thanksgiving will be fish, yams, and a little banana for dessert. :)

We don't need power and we don't need to pump.  Everybody is happy, and the fish do all the work.  Praise God!

Here are some shots from Kari as we brought the fish to their new home (our former cistern).  The kids and I decided to go for our first and only "swim" in the well since the water was as clean as it was ever going to get.   That water is cold down in the ground. 

Carmel

The kids named him Carmel.
I call him Carmel-opolis.  
That, or Pupper-Dupper-Do.
He's a Haiti dog, the son of Bee, the momma dog that followed me everywhere I went last year.

When we were getting ready to move to the new village, we found this tiny puppy, nothing but bones, and in very bad shape.
We began to nurse him along, trying to bring him back to good health, but each day he looked in worse shape.

A few of my Haitian friends were of the opinion to be rid of the pest, to throw him out with the trash, and they told me "That dog needs to go and die.  Get rid of it."

"If he survives, he'll be a very good dog."  I replied.  "He's got a very good nature about him."

I had an empty Bibles box laying in the house, so I lined it with a blanket and wrapped him up inside.  We gave him some flea medicine and a little milk, and began feeding him bits of food.

Weeks later, he's a brand new dog with a new lease on life.  He guards the house at night and plays with the kids during the day. There's nowhere I go that he isn't underfoot, and everything I do fascinates him.   He still sleeps in his Bible box.  He will not go to bed without it.

We've been noticing a bit of a pack-rat habit he's picked up. This morning when I opened the door to wake him up, these were the contents of his box:
*3 shoes, that he doesn't ruin and just likes to sleep with.
*1 piece of PVC that I'd been working with the day before
*2 seashells.
*1 bit of bread from the day before (saving it for a rainy day)
*A piece of chicken bone.
*1 towel
*1 rubber bushing from my car
*1 piece of belt
*1 sock
and a chew toy, which is a piece of rope that he's been fond of.  Today when I took the last picture, I think even he knows he's developing a bit of a problem.
Ya can't take it with ya, pup.

Cleaning Out the Cistern

I have to ask, what family in their right mind is THIS HAPPY, to get down into a cistern in Haiti and scrub for hours?

I'm telling you, it has to be supernaturally imparted from God.

Can You Hear Me Now?

I love Haiti. As with many things, the idea is there, but it's just not quite to fruition. 
Then again, I was on my roof balancing a 30ft stick of fresh bamboo with a little USB jump drive attached at the very tip-top with a hair-tie.   In this country, you either make a way or you do without.

Say Hello to Ti Pistach

http://tipistach.blogspot.com

My daughter began her own blog today.  It took awhile to setup since we're in Haiti and our internet has been out for a couple of days.   If we can keep it stable enough to maintain wifi, I'm thinking she'll be posting often.  She seems to have a lot to say for a 9 year old. 

The Crucible

 

I've come to the end of myself so many times, and there is a place where the path gives way and plummets.  I've scratched and clawed my way, and some days it feels like I'm just dangling by the root of some twisted sapling growing along the sheer edge of a cliff.  The creator of the atomic bomb, when he first saw that billowing mushroom of his work, gasped, "I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds."  There are days I hear the echo of that phrase.  There is a whisper that I bring more pain than good, it grows to a shout in my mind, a confirmation of the deepest treason of the heart, and once I arrive at that station, I step from the train into a cave of such bitter sorrow.  I see the caboose man, waving his lantern to the engineer. I hear the racking of the wheels upon the tracks as the engine lurches the boxcars forward, and I stand alone.  The flame begins to ebb away, and the light no longer makes the darkness flee. The oxygen is robbed and the matches are wet.  

That cavern is my hell.  Most days I can stand at the entrance where the daylight still casts down on my face, but always I can hear the lion within, a deep growl of condemnation, accusation from the bowels of that darkness that tells me my enemy is crouching within, just beyond where I can see, hidden in the refuge of the shadows, hungry and ready to pounce.  I become my own worst enemy, and there is no benefit as yet I can see in spreading such disease in communion with another.   How could it possibly help to share such a teaspoon of poison?

There is only this:

I read Paul's words, and I see that God is giving me 

the antidote of such a prison.

"Not that I have already obtained this or am already perfect, but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own.  Brothers, I do not consider that I have made it my own. But one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead,  I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.   Let those of us who are mature think this way, and if in anything you think otherwise, God will reveal that also to you.   

Only let us hold true to what we have attained."

My heart hears this song, and then the gates are flung open!  Maybe I'll walk free for a day, maybe I'll breathe the fresh air instead of the stale?  Maybe I will be light again, weightless upon this earth as my spirit bounds again to the Everest-heights as I drink in the cup of the Lord.  

Maybe through this crushing crucible there will be a seasoning.  

Maybe they will taste and see that the Lord is good?  Can sweetness come from such sorrow?

Maybe, but only if I choose to let the chains fall.  

They are around my feet and hands, but they are not padlocked to my soul.  They are not even restraining me. The truth is it is I who is holding on to them.  I have only to open my hands and receive.

I read a little more...

"There is therefore now no condemnation....for those who are in Christ Jesus."

"If God has made your cup sweet, drink it with grace; if He has made it bitter, drink it in communion with Him.  If the providential order of God for you is a hard time of difficulty, go through with it....You must go through the crucible before you have any right to pronounce a verdict, because in the crucible you learn to know God better.  God is working for His highest ends until His purpose and man's purpose become one."   ~Chambers

Ahhh Cayes...

Slash-n-Burn

My next door neighbor is today practicing the Haitian tradition of slash-n-burn farming. He pick-axed all of his ground yesterday, and today he's burning everything to the ground. My kids were certain the house was on fire. I had to let Kari know that there was no mischief amiss. No 13-year-old playing with matches. Just Wilber getting ready to plant some beans.

 

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Off-roading

Two days ago we were ran completely off the road by a great big bus. It was immediately obvious that he would have won, so my only option became to skid off the road. I managed to keep the car under control and brought us back onto the blacktop, but the damage was done. The next morning there was a big pool of oil under the car. After spending all day at the mechanic, I replaced two sets of brakes, and stood in the middle of the busy streets of Cayes while a man literally carved me two new shock bushings out of an old dump truck tire with his knife. The rack and pinion is shot, and there's just no way to fix that without shipping the part from America, but along with the learning experience of the day I got to spend most of the morning with my new neighbor, Wilber, who volunteered to go with me into the city. I also met another man who could translate very well, Maxim, who just happened to be in the area visiting his uncle. I met a new mechanic named Marcel who spent most of his day sweating profusely over the stubbornness of my shocks. There were blessings mixed in with the troubles, the greatest of which was my family, safe and sound, waiting at home for me to return. The car should have flipped when were forced off the road. Instead we bounced off, and then I corrected, and we bounced right back on, almost at a 45 degree angle.

Then today I had my kids in the car with me. My little girl in the passengers seat, my son sitting in the back seat, leaning up between us. We were on our way to the airport to pick up a package. Out of nowhere, thousands of people were coming our direction. All of the road filled with cars, ambulances, police, UN, all with sirens blazing and horns screaming, and all coming our direction at about 50mph. They never even slowed down as a policeman driving straight at me just pointed for me to get off of the road. It was a steep embankment and there was nowhere for me to go. I went off the road as far as I could go, and slammed on the brakes. I began to flash my lights and honk my horn, even shifted in reverse to try and leverage some kind of maneuvering. A motorcycle with 3 men shot in front of me and he skidded his bike just before hitting me. Cars, 4 wheelers, hundreds of motorcycles roared past within inches, all veering to miss hitting us. It was Martelly, the President of Haiti, making a surprise visit to our city. He passed in the back of a Ranger, a 6-wheeler type of contraption, surrounded by security. When it was all finally over I looked at my daughter. She was frozen. My son was staring in disbelief to what he'd just experienced. I was praising God that we were all still alive. Behind us they began to set up road blocks, hitting cars and gathering rocks onto the road, planning to protest.

"What in the world just happened?" I said, almost in shock. "I don't know," my boy said, "but I hope I never have to see that again."

I called my wife, "I don't know when we'll make it home. I think we're gonna be a little late...."

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A Fisherman's Blessing

This was our morning gift from my fisherman friend Altenor, captain of the Tan Pou Tann. He fished all night and brought me this just after the sunrise. What a fine gift! Shrimp for breakfast!

 

Pardon the quality of the images going forward. My good camera is RIP thanks to Sandy.

 

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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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