Amazing America

“Good morning America how are you? Said don’t you know me, I’m your native son.”*

Over the past decade my wife and I have often played a simple little game when we visit friends and family in the States. On our drives as we come to our area we ask each other, “Could we live here?” It’s not a particularly complicated question, yet it is one that is deeply layered.

Currently we have just finished driving almost 4,500 miles in The United States of America. While certainly not enough to see a vast country, it does give a person a slight sense of understanding. From high and low deserts to fertile farmlands, majestic mountains to seemingly endless plains, towering buttes and deep cut canyons, surging cities and small sedate towns we took them all in. Driving in, along, and through tasting the flavors of the land. Much like a cinematic conclusion our journey ended just prior to a massive display of fireworks held on an auspicious day for the nation. In the nine state microcosm we journeyed there were massive amounts of perspective and ample time to play our game.

Upon our return I found myself feeling like a new colossus standing over the masses.** With sun in my eyes waiting for it to set so that flares could rise, I took a moment to reflect. People continued to arrive around me filling the field in front searching for a place to settle. Some arrived with nothing others brought family and meager belongings. All came with hopes and dreams of seeing the rockets’ red glare. With the tilting of the earth, the moving silhouettes became sharper, showcasing the people who make the land.

Multiple languages wafted through the air. Baseball caps, hijabs, cowboy, and sun hats adorned the masses. Hot dogs, snow cones, churros, sriracha, shawarma, and champagne were all consumed to meet a common need of humanity. Sounds, smells, and tastes so diverse yet one collective thread holding us all as one people. Unity in diversity. A unity so complex and full of depth making sense to no homogeneous way of life on the planet. For to have a diverse land full of diverse people while allowing for diverse thoughts to coexist with one another brings a richness enhancing the shared culture as it highlights its own diversity. A paradox to the storied pomp perhaps, however, in reality the mild eyes are still full of welcome.** Having lived on multiple continents, experiencing the richness of creation all over God’s planet, I know that the complex mixture of America, while not one of the seven wonders, is still truly amazing in this regard.

So yeah…… we could live here.

 

*  The City of New Orleans originally sung by Arlo Guthrie

** The New Colossus poem by Emma Lazarus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
MOTHER OF EXILES. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

 

To Follow

 

Benjamin read the sign and questioned whether or not this was wise but after being assured by the guide, he followed. What once was beautiful green grass had turned to a dirty brown path from all the followers.

Some of us have been taught to disregard established signs and encouraged to make our own paths. Others of us are taught to always obey them in spite of personal thoughts that may differ. Still others are taught to differentiate, going back and forth, based on an intricate internal system of ethics. And each of us grows up thinking the way of life around us is normal.

I’m sure the migratory creatures of the world never question why they are compelled to propel themselves in front of the waiting crocodile. Going with the herd often feels wisest regardless of where they are going. Sometimes following for the sake of following is not right. Although the boys are growing up in a transitional tribe where normal is a mix of locations, cultures, and the typical state or condition of things is as solid as liquid, they are not blind followers. Like crossing zebra and wildebeest they do not question the moments of chaos and obstacles that may arise in their path. Chaos and obstacles are normal. However, unlike the seemingly blind migratory creatures, we can question to make sure we are not flinging ourselves in front of metaphorical crocodiles. Even so, being a follower can be costly.

Following through life’s rapids, magically appearing obstacles, and plummeting waterfalls are never fun. However, all are navigable with the right guide. When you know you’re following a purpose and headed in the right direction the departures and river crossings of life are merely normal. And as hard as it is to step away from the herd mentality, it can be done.

It’s been said that a smooth stone has endured many tumbles in order to be considered smooth. There are times when this is exactly how we feel our lives are developing. Our paths are naturally full of trials and obstacles, but it is in the chaos of the moment that our character stands to make the decision of which path to follow. Which guide we choose. The path may be narrow. The path may be wide. However, unlike the animal kingdom, we have a say in which path to follow. But without a purposeful end in sight it is nothing but a foray into the heart of darkness.

The Ghost And The Darkness

Walking down the lane one late afternoon with the encroaching green foliage on either side my attention was commanded by piercing screams. Children in our compound yell for many reasons, but there was a distinction of fear in this instance. Around the lone turn on our lane came three boys yelling for me to run with them because there were strange noises coming from the bushes. “It’s a ghost.” they cried. With my skepticism on high alert I wanted to know more before I joined the little motley crew and ran.

Instantaneously my pragmatic checklist was activated, completing an analysis of the situation in mere seconds. This ghost was obviously terrifying a few children under nine, but was it real? I mean seriously, a ghost? That same day the boys had been playing in the trees making a game out of stepping on overripe guava the birds and monkeys had rejected. Could it be an animal the boys had heard that startled them causing panic to take control? As the boys’ yells grew louder and their steps drew closer I wondered where my oldest son was.

Recently there has been a number of lions wandering around outside of Nairobi National Park. No one is exactly sure how they made it out but reports indicated two visual confirmations with the possibility of four more roaming the surrounding areas in search of new hunting grounds. A friend sent a video of a lion walking down the street, amid blaring car horns and screams while multiple drivers called in the alert on their way to work. Then two weeks ago another lion sighting, a mere two miles away. They may not be the man-eaters of Tsavo but when it comes right down to it, even for the fiercest Maasai warrior, a lion is nothing to ignore. Earlier in the school year a leopard had entered the compound next to ours and killed a dog leaving behind footprints and carnage. Were these the signs of the ghost that the boys were screaming about?

I had passed two girls playing close to the outer gate as I entered the compound and I knew that two other boys were away with family. Joshua was with my wife and the adults were mysteriously absent. Now three boys were wildly approaching me yelling about strange sounds coming for them. Mental math completed, there was only one child unaccounted for. My oldest son. While my eyes scanned the brush, my head thought of logical solutions to the mayhem. Standing frozen in thought trying to make sense of it all I too heard the sound of the ghost coming closer. I quickly ruled out the wind rustling the bamboo leaves and the ibis calling out danger. It had a deeper sound to it that I instantly recognized as that of a mammal. The three boys ran past taking their screams and leaving me standing alone in the growing darkness.

Then from the shadows rode Benjamin on his bright blue bike calling out “Woooo! Woooo!”

 

Welcome To The New

“But it’s no use to go back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.” – Lewis Carroll

“Now here you are eyes open wide. It’s like you’re seeing things in a brand new light, for the first time. Let us be the first to welcome you… Life you thought was too good to be true…Welcome to the new.”*

“Now here you are, a new point of view. Now it all makes sense, why it’s the called the Good News. Let us be the first to welcome you…We’ve been waiting for you… Welcome to the new.”*

There are no words to adequately convey emotions and thoughts that dance through your consciousness when you are able to hold a cherished little one after a long wait. Knowledge of pain, time away, and sorrowful heartache melt into nothingness with one look from his eyes. An overwhelming sense of joy floods through the crevices of life softening even the mightiest and most callused. In short it is love.

A brother’s love, while containing all the thrills of being an iconic superhero, is deeper and more fulfilling when the relationship develops. Devotion to one another in brotherly love is not merely an aspiration but rather an action for us all. Yet this love is often pale when standing next to the love of a mother. Much has been written about motherly love being one of power, beauty, intimacy, heroism, and even majesty. The depth of a mother’s love is a testimony to be sure, but the love of a father stands alone. Part superhero, part nurturer, a strong tower. The love of the father is patient and never-ending. Like a true superhero, he has come to save in spite of our heartaches and wrongful choices that led to our near demise. Then there is unspeakable joy when we arrive into his presence and are held by our one true Papa. Welcome to the new.

Opening Quote taken from Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll

*Lyrics and title shamelessly stolen from Welcome To The New by MercyMe

 

On Holiday

 

***

Children’s voices rise as the rain falls on this low season,

Where the pitter-patter meets the crash from high tide.

4 degrees south of the Equator watching the sun fight her way through wet clouds,

A black cup of below average coffee by my side. . . on holiday.

***

Coconuts, a camel, peddlers spread out along the beach,

Pounding waves flex with restraint while onlookers whisper in awe.

Mosquito nets cover bunk-beds, a transparent fort for two boys,

Tiredness weighing bodies down, heavy eyelids, asleep during dinner. . . exhaustion.

***

Family walks to the sea with intention of adventure and discovery,

People pop out of resorts like moray eels in search of food in an Indian Oceanic smorgasbord.

Crabs, oysters, symbiotic relationships, delighted by eels feeding off the dead.

White sands, tide pools, palm fronds, and red coral. . . God’s Creation magnified.

***

Indulgence caked in luxury, lounging by the pool while the tide rolls in,

Serenity is hounded by disturbing winds revealing a truth in nature.

Huts of mud surround excessive consumption for the checked in privileged,

Two sides of symbiosis seem strained yet strangely coexist. . . unbalanced.

***

A dollar a day is sought after to sustain locals around.

A dollar wouldn’t even buy one drink for those in the compound. . . ah, holiday.

 

Normalis

 

Darkness still hangs upon each and every object, but the appointed hour has finally arrived. Electricity courses through the veins making this early hour possible for the weary. Wake the boys, kiss the dog goodbye, it’s off to the airport we go!

I find it disturbingly enjoyable leaving a place as a light drizzle covers your world. When departures are never simple, it makes the goodbye easier to swallow. Perhaps it hurts less, or possibly it’s just one more perceived protection of the heart.

Traffic was as good as is realistically possible for Nairobi, Kenya on a Saturday morning and in spite of the gloom our spirits began to rise. As our van snaked through traffic to the hum-bump of the windshield wipers, safe arrival looked more than a possibility. Then as so often happens, traffic slowed and the inevitable congested bottle up began. In situations such as this the brain goes into overdrive in speculative attempts of comprehension. Questions of what and why begin dancing through the mind until… oh yes. Palpable understanding.

Approximately two kilometers outside of the airport, in the middle of the  new highway, passenger buses, vans, trucks, and cars jockey for position to be closest to the latest innovative security check. Amidst the vehicular movement all passengers are required, thus the scurry across lanes of traffic, to get to the side of the highway in order to undergo their own pat-down. Mothers carrying children, bewildered tourists standing in a sea of movement, and men scattering and edging for place while lone drivers continued their drive forward. A resemblance of control could be seen if one looked intently. In moments like these I’m so thankful that the boys see being patted down by men with assault rifles as normal.

Surviving the police check the scene turned from controlled chaos to something out of Darwin’s Origin of Species. Like wildebeest massing on the riverside eyeing the crocodile a short distance away, yet still jumping out into the dangerous waters, people rushed out in front of moving traffic to locate their drivers and speed off to the airport. Hour one of our journey nearly complete.

* Penned inside of JKIA Nairobi, Kenya after a second delay of flight caused small children to turn to moths and other insects discovered in the terminal as play things.

 

Life in the Time of Cholera

“People aren’t against you, they are for themselves.”

Passion is such a loaded emotion. On one hand it can conquer the most aggressive case of apathy while on the other hand it can send you blindly to your death. With the right purpose it will propel change for a better world.  Misguided and misled it will tear the world apart. Recently I had the opportunity to discuss with three young men the general topic of purpose in life. Perhaps not the most riveting topic for young teenagers, but there we were.

Reaching into my pocket I pulled out my key chain to reveal a coin from a previous country I had lived in. Although the coin is of no monetary value to me where I currently live, it is kept as a physical reminder of a valuable lesson once learned. In showing the coin, one of the students politely asked its origin. When told, his polite demeanor abruptly switched to passive aggressive mode as he sneered a single comment dripping with attitude. He seemed to loathe the fact that the coin came from a country that was traditionally his own country’s rival. Now I have lived in both countries for almost as long as he has been alive and seen anger and outrage towards each other. I know the past is not something easily reconciled. Pain lingers. However, this young man has not lived in the place of his ethnicity long enough to have seen any of this first hand. On the flip side, he has also not lived there long enough to see the rise of reconciliation between the two cultures. In spite of the multicultural locations he has lived prior to our meeting, he appears to have been spoon fed negative stereotypes, unhealthy grievances, and lists of wrongdoings in addition to partial knowledge of past wars and attempts of conquest. Holding fast to the biased sword of prejudice, reconciliation and restoration have no place in his lexicon.

Such were my thoughts as I attempted to regain momentum by putting the coin back in my pocket and continuing on with the two other boys who were still keenly interested in my story. I’m glad this young man is not living out a hundred years of solitude and stuck in a completely self-absorbed frame of living. Yet connecting with a passive aggressive boy who refuses to let go of second-hand hatred about finding a lasting, and freeing, purpose for living is not something I wanted to ignore.

Certainly we live in times of injustice with a plethora of opportunities for passion. There are outbreaks of cholera throughout Kenya right now. Malnourishment and malaria knock on so many doors. Children can be seen begging on the streets for money to go to school while others beg for money to sniff glue. People are calling out for merciless punishment while others cry out for forgiveness. And of course there are those passionately grabbing hold of past pains and anger in order to find a jaded purpose for future life. There are things that compel us to speak out. Too much is at stake to allow silence or apathy to guide our way. Ironically enough, the coin I spoke of, with its shiny gold exterior, is empty in the middle which is exactly what happens when you lack a purpose grounded in the absolute and sustaining Truth of Jesus Christ.

 

 

How Father Felt

“Come back here, you scallywag!”

“I’m not a scallywag and you’ll never catch me. Aa-ha ha!”

Riding bikes as fast as they dared, cackling with laughter, pushing parameters. . . oh, the boys are back in rare form. It’s good to see them grow in independence and brotherly bonding, but I couldn’t help but wonder where this new-found freedom will eventually take them. Not long ago they called on me to walk with them pushing their little bikes, ready to catch them when their wobble became too uncomfortable. Now as they zoom away from me, with the occasional fly-by seeing how close they can come to my toes without running over them, all I can do is wonder, in admiration and horror, as they discover their innately given free will.

They are learning to decipher right from wrong, however, with free will comes the ability to intentionally choose wrong. And they do. The younger more so than the older. With a gleam in his eye, I can see him weighing the options and deciding if he can live with the consequences. I go through a range of feelings as I watch this play out. Heart wrenching when they turn away, but pure joy when they return to relationship.

 

They know of the father’s love. They understand that they can return to be in the father’s presence at anytime they choose. They know they can not save themselves but can be saved by the father. They understand the father will come when called. They also know sin.

And so, here I sit contemplating how Father felt amidst echoes of “Papa look at me. Look how fast I’m going.” “Papa, I don’t need your help. I can do it by myself.”

 

Hearing Laughter

Such a simple question really. “How’s your day going?” I could have deflected but the truth always comes out, so I suppose I wasn’t too surprised when out of my mouth came the words, “Well, I threw away my wedding ring.”

As many family tales do, it all started with a sick child. With all symptoms pointing towards the nasty all-encompassing rotavirus, there was much to be washed and I was the number one person to do so. Finding little delight in the task and squatting down beside the plastic basin I focused on the task at hand. Yes, I know that in Africa the proper way to wash clothes is to bend from the waist, but the Asian heritage I’ve picked up won’t let me adapt in this way. Regardless, my hands were still slick from the detergent as I wrung out the various items and then found a nearby towel to rub off the rest of the slickness. Then the healthier of the two boys helped me dump the water down the sewage drain. Still healthy myself and feeling quite accomplished, worthy, and blessed, in spite of the contagious sickness, I picked up the ringing phone pleased with my efforts. Saying hello I noticed a white tanless band around my ring finger instead of the usual silvery metallic that was part of me. As my wife’s voice and her question sunk into my consciousness my mind raced with logical possibilities of what happened to the ring. With fading hope I reasoned that the ring was thrown down the sewage with the rest of the soapy water. It was the best time to tell her the truth.

What I was not prepared for was laughter. She laughed as I unfolded the events, but she laughed hardest when she knew it was not an unusually amusing anecdote. And that just hurt. Here I was pouring out my sorrow, feeling as if my earned blessing had been dashed from me, and all she could do was laugh. I just didn’t get it. This ring has lived with us on four continents and traveled twice as far. It was part of my confession of love and commitment to her that began when I picked it out in a crowded little store outside of Insa-dong in Seoul, Korea. The ring was necessary.

So after I hung up I got the boys and we dredged the sewage lines. Not necessarily the best thing to do with two sick children. We searched through the dirt, mud, and leaves outside around where I had washed and I even had the boys look inside. I thought of the parable of the lost coin as we swept the house and moved dust from point A to point B. Finally, no doubt frustrated by forced labor, Michael’s suggestion was to buy a new one. So knowing a friend who was going to Korea in a few days I quickly did an online search only to discover that this was not going to work. I dug out the promise ring my wife had given me upon receiving her engagement ring but it was impossibly too small. My last hope rested in a matching ring I had picked up in Afghanistan when I got my wife’s engagement ring. The lapis in it had broken years ago, but I knew I could fix it and upon her return that day show her that I was just as committed as ever. All I’m prepared to tell you is that there was a super glue incident and two of my fingers became one. After fingers were separated, the boys took a turn for the worse, and suddenly the ring was not a priority.

Now as I sit in a Nairobi Hospital outpatient clinic next to a sick child, my wife’s laughter can be seen in the right perspective. Yes, that ring held a lot of sentimental value but it was no more than an object to symbolize a relationship. Any relationship based upon symbolic objects and material things is not a very deep relationship. Relationships are complicated enough without bringing in objects to clutter your view and perspective of what really matters. I’m sure my wife laughed because she knew this already. The blessing was the relationship not the object. And the object was not the blessing, or byproduct, because of the relationship. How much more so with God. God blesses us not with things based upon our efforts or symbols of our commitment, but rather His blessing is His presence. And I presume there is joyous laughter when we realize this. In sickness or in health, good times or bad times, I am blessed because I am in a relationship with God.

Some time later Peter, our gardener, knocked on the door and presented me with my lost wedding ring. We laughed. In the African way, bending over and looking straight down, he discovered the ring as he was sweeping the dirt behind our house. Considering myself already blessed, I felt content.

Cardboard Carpenters

It is a special breed to take up the calling of a carpenter. I don’t mean one who swings the hammer for a living, I mean a true calling in carpentry. It’s not about holding a hammer or even knowing where and when to use the right tool. It’s not about physical strength, attention to details, or even ones ability to work with others. Of course there are a myriad of critical and mathematical thinking skills that are applied, but I don’t think that these are at the core of a good carpenter either. What makes a carpenter of substance stand out from a worker, as good as they may be, is something much more fundamental. A quality carpenter never looses focus on the fact that all their efforts are going towards someone other than themselves. They must constantly be thinking of others in everything they are working towards, desiring the best of everything they are and can do only to give it away immediately upon completion. An intrinsic craftsmanship, stemming from the heart, and selflessly given for the joy of others.

My own skills in this area are best seen after the sawdust has fallen when I pick up a broom to help with the clean-up process. So my heart leapt a bit when my wife recently shared with me, and our facebook world, a brief discussion the boys had during our evening reading time.

While reading tonight, the boys learned that Joseph was a carpenter, “someone who makes things from wood.” They paused, looked at each other, and said “well, then we and Papa are cardboard carpenters!” Michael later added that he was going to only make things for little boys who didn’t have toys.

Makes my heart all warm and fuzzy. Especially when, in actuality, they do hand out their constructions to neighbors and others. If it’s possible to make out of cardboard they want to try.

Every scrap of cardboard is squirreled away to turn a dream into a creation for somebody else. Additionally they are making vast plans and waiting to shower an adopted brother with cardboard upon his arrival. Although their actual skills of carpentry may not be refined, the necessary components of the heart element are intact. Living on the outskirts of Nairobi the boys see people in need on a daily basis. Their compassion towards those in need continues to develop but they seem to already understand that compassion is not just a feeling of sympathy, but rather it is empathy that leads to active involvement.

A Jewish carpenter, who was honestly so much more, showed us all that compassion is also a lifestyle. It is my sincere hope that the boys are on the road to understanding that the best carpenters, be their craft in cardboard or wood, are also fishermen.