Returning Home

With evening rapidly approaching, my young son ran up to me holding a book my mother use to read me. It’s a book full of short little poems and although it is not a new book by any means, the lessons it taught hold truer than I could ever have imagined. Joshua opened it up for me, saying, “Here. Start on this page.” The first little poem titled Near and Far* began softly with the words,

Little children far away,

“Cross the ocean wide,

“Though they do not look like us

Are the same inside.”

Initially I wondered if my five year old is understanding current events. Simultaneously my mind thought back to lessons learned at home. Lessons about right and wrong and humanity. With the Golden Rule** as a constant guide, it’s no wonder poems like Near and Far and TV shows like Mr. Rogers Neighborhood helped me grasp the greater command of Love your neighbor as yourself.*** A command of action.

Living out these lessons and sharing them with others does not require grand gestures and dramatic statements, but it does require action in love to step up and step out. After all, treating our neighbor as we want to be treated, in love and dignity, is necessary to restore our road home toward the reconciliation that God had in mind before the world began.

 

Won’t You Be My Neighbor? Reconciliation and Foot-Washing in Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood

* Near and Far by Kate Cox Goddard

**Matthew 7:12

*** Mark 12:30-31—-Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.’ The second is this: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself. There is no commandment greater than these.”

Place of Peace

“I’ve been through the wasteland and it’s only a mile ago from here.“*

Recently I had the opportunity to leave home behind and venture southwest of Nairobi into land traditionally inhabited by Maasai. It is a short distance yet one that can feel of complete isolation. Given the increase of temperatures, dryness, and a myriad of cattle and other obstacles encountered along the rugged road, the journey can be intense. It’s a road of personalized specific location, yet one we all travel.

“And now it’s a memory, but it’s only a smile ago from here.”*

After traveling the path of pitfalls and potholes a slight incline in the road suddenly clears opening up into what at first appears to be a dusty little civilization. At first glance the tiny red particles clinging to all living things give the illusion of decay, however, upon clearing the vision, a broken down sign reading Kiserian can be seen.

Kiserian in Maasai language means “place of peace.”

Living in the desert is not so much about living independently as it is about learning dependency. A journey to learn dependency upon a life sustaining source.

Treks into dryness can be full of extreme hardships. The desert, with its abrasive and biting methods, has a way of humbling and stripping away at our core. Showing our perceived strengths as the mirages they truly are. A sojourner in barren lands seeks rest, life giving water, and ultimately a place of peace.

The journey is often one of extreme hardships, but in learning dependency upon a life sustaining source, it is not a journey of waste leading to death. Perhaps this was in part why the Israelites needed to spend so long in the desert. They stood on their metaphorical mountain top having seen the the awesomeness of God yet still seemed to miss the deeper more personal connection He offered. Mountain top experiences are truly uplifting and inspiring but many times it’s in the shadowed valleys of dryness and isolation where deeper dependency and growth are learned.

Whether or not we’re on top of a mountain or huddled in the valley of shadows, the place of peace is near. It’s only a mile or so away. Our lasting Kiserian journeys to a tree and exits an empty cave.

“Lead me to the cross
Where Your love poured out
Bring me to my knees
Lord I lay me down
Rid me of myself
I belong to You
Lead me, lead me to the cross”**

*Wasteland by Dakota Motor Company

** Lead Me to the Cross by Hillsong United

 

 

Bread Breaking

Himbasha, or ambasha depending on your region of Ethiopia and Eritrea, is a slightly sweet bread of celebration.

 

I recently learned the process of making Ethiopian himbasha. On the surface it’s fairly straightforward. A sprinkling of salt here, a good amount of cardamom there, a round pan to help it take shape. As is the case with so many things of celebratory nature, spending time in preparation is not the primary aim. Celebrations can be complex and intricately woven with tradition and nuances, but at their heart they all share one common goal.

In reality, regular interaction with this bread breaking celebration is a must in order to grasp the significance of the event. One of the details that often surrounds the Ethiopian sweet bread is a three round coffee ceremony with burning frankincense to enhance the senses. Celebrations such as this continue repeatedly, strengthening appreciation and the depth of the relationship.

My neighbor has just begun the physical parenting part of motherhood. While she and her daughter are currently in Ethiopia, most likely partaking in breaking himbasha together, the whole notion of breaking bread has risen to the surface of my consciousness. I am relearning the value of relationships and the bond that deepens when one spends hours in close quarters over bread.

Prior to years of living overseas if you were to tell me that I would one day spend hours partaking in a little bread and a cup of coffee or tea, thoughts of torture and wasting time would come to mind. In fact my first year living in a different country brought me nothing but frustration when an incredibly small cup of green cha and little sweet breads were brought out when I would gather with coworkers. My mind screamed of the list of things needing to be done. The constant glance to the clock, the rearranging of pre-made plans in my head, and the much too often desire to flee and do my own thing clouded my understanding. In fact I mentally rebelled so much at what seemed to be a lack of inaction that I was blinded to what I was suppose to be learning. Breaking bread with one another is not about the bread.

 

Breaking bread is about fellowship. Community. It is developing, cultivating, and strengthening a relationship.

There is a Time

Swirling dust, dry cough

Dryness choking life away.

Brown attacking all things green until nothing wants to stay.

***

Darkness arrives, fear invades

An ambush on life by the wolf.

Violent aggression of demonic proportions released in our compound and self.

***

Crisping leaves, vibrance dies

Dismal life to live.

Receding waters death abounds there’s nothing left to give.

***

Dusty lines, destructive words

Two kings shout toe to toe.

Anxiety, hoarding, fear destroying, running battles keeping heads down low.

***

God is great and God is good

Yet precious life is lost.

When will we realize he’s our only hope, he’s already paid the cost?

***

Expanding air, flowing electrons

Lightning strikes the ground.

Rolling thunder filling all senses, the earth is screaming out loud.

***

Pressure builds, tensions rise

The ballot is once more cast.

Hope is blurred by drops of blood dripping much too fast.

***

Dampness materializes, drops accumulate

The rains have come with force.

Falling wetness coming daily creating a new course.

***

Swelling reservoirs, seceding lands

Opposing forces throughout the republic.

Green floods forth, giving hope for today, and an ulcer to the stomach.

***

God is great and God is good

Yet precious life is lost.

When will we realize he’s our only hope, he’s already paid the cost?

***

From bilateral to mono, calm to chaotic, a new season we’re hoping for.

From life to death, and death to life, the Sustainer of Hope we cry for.

 

 

Not The Christmas Christmas

“It’s the real Christmas. Not the Christmas Christmas.” Said Michael excitedly upon finding a book for Benjamin to read to him about the first Christmas.

Calculations are taken. Calendars are rearranged. Checklists are made. And the cramming of grades, cookies, and ideas begin. Yes, it’s the time of the year when words like good and tidings go together without people looking at you strange. Family traditions are upheld, new traditions are forged, twice as much food is consumed, and pop culture takes a break from the norm. It can be a wonderful time to press pause and reflect upon what really matters most. Yet, sometimes it feels like we’re merely moving pieces of our lives around trying to stay one step ahead, in preparation for the next event. When it feels like we are merely ticking off boxes in a checklist of activities, events, and productions it can be easy to loose focus on the plot.

When told that we would be putting Christmas decorations up Benjamin excitedly exclaimed that he would make a Christmas decoration out of Lego blocks.

Either he is confused over the time of year it is or else he really gets what it’s all about.

Exploding Lights and Wet Dogs: Tales of Iron-Mama

While it may be true that a mother does so much for her family, it is equally impressive to note the things she survives. After putting in a full day of work, often much of it needing to be finished each evening, she comes home to a life that disregards personal time and relaxation.

So many things encompass your bi-vocational life and to note them all would be too massive and daunting of a task. So only a few character building memories are listed as our Tribute To Mama.

***

Exploding light-bulbs and haircuts to squirming boys.

Thousands of ants seeking shelter from the rains in your kitchen. Giving the illusion of moving walls.

Magical dishes that never seem to stay washed. Magically discouraging.

Dinners of disappointment while food sits cold in a powerless oven.

“So you had a bad day” loops nonstop in your head while nostalgic dreams of McDonald’s seems an illusive cure.

Red mud and red dirt. In spite of your endless hours of scrubbing, the boys are still tinged red and grubby.

Cat hair. Dog hair. Dead rats. Burning rubbish. It all leads to allergies galore.

Rain so loud all hope of hearing the person next to you is lost.

Wanting to feel special but the only one expressing any gratitude is a smelly wet dog.

Spiders dropping babies, mosquitoes hatching in the shower.

Clothes that grow beyond all comfort, oh for the want of a dryer.

Pot holes that swallow cars. Our van was no exception.

Sleeping in never seems to materialize with all of our ruckus each and every morning.

Snakes in the toilet, snakes in the yard. Termites flying from light to light while lizards laugh from afar.

Ants in our water purifier giving us a little crunch with our cleanliness.

Moths eat at your clothes and attack your headlamp when power fades away.

Cherished items inexplicably missing from store shelves. Survival without diet Coke is not a laughing matter.

Madness of drivers hellbent on meeting their Maker drives you to drink. . . frappuccinos galore.

Pressures from work intensified by our lack of listening and lackadaisical attitudes.

We boys try to listen, we really do, but there are so many things to distra . . . . . . . . . . . . (see what I mean)

Yet through it all you refuse to leave us to our own devices. You shy from the limelight yet your super powers are always aware. Always a bright light on our darkest days. Your love is unconditional despite who we are and the challenges of living.

Thank you for being our Iron-Mama. We love you!

Happy Mother’s Day!!!

The Bridge: Reflections

“To give a person an opinion one must first judge well whether that person is of the disposition to receive it or not.”

–The Book of Samurai

 

I couldn’t really say that I maintain a strong grasp on the pulse of my homeland right now. Like every country the beat of a nation rises and falls. Nor could I say that the politics of the moment and feelings of the day are within my grasp of knowledge either. Common sense has taught us all that news from social media is nowhere close to inherent. That being said, it appears there are some strong emotions mixed with unhealthy doses of fear permeating the atmosphere. While I generally steer clear from jumping into the arena with the big dogs to weigh in about my own opinions and thoughts on current events, this time I feel the need to share a few things I’ve recently reread.

1 John 4:18 “There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear. For fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not been perfected in love.”

1 John 4:20 says, “If anyone says, ‘I love God,’ yet hates his brother, he is a liar. For anyone who does not love his brother, whom he has seen, cannot love God, whom he has not seen.”

1 John 2:9 says “Anyone who claims to be in the light but hates his brother is still in the darkness.”

“Our culture has accepted two huge lies: The first is that if you disagree with someone’s lifestyle, you must fear them or hate them. The second is that to love someone means you agree with everything they believe or do. Both are nonsense. You don’t have to compromise convictions to be compassionate.” –Rick Warrren

I realize that not everyone may agree with my opinion on different matters, however, the majority I think will find that we’re entering a season where mutual respect regardless of differences has traditionally been upheld. We can get into semantics later, but I think we can also agree that fear and respect are not the same. Christmas was the beginning of the bridge. It was built so that we might experience life without fear. A life that takes us out of darkness and revolves around a lasting love. A way of redemption shown to us not because we are deserving or without blame, but rather shown to us by the only God who has come to us and desires to restore a relationship that has been broken. Restoring honor where there was once shame. That to me is certainly a bridge worth pursuing and sharing.

“We love because He first loved us.” (1 John 4:19)

The Bridge

From straw to wood . . . cloth to nails . . . frail to power . . . infancy to eternity

The bridge to the cross.

From a silent night to the only one raised to save.

“Joy! Unspeakable joy! . . . Rises in my soul, never lets me go.”

–Chris Tomlin

The Bridge: A Prelude

 

Origins of traditions can be hard to pinpoint sometimes. Other times the initial event that began it all can only be disputed by the blind. For some there seems no rhyme or reason as to why things occur as they do, you just know you should continue along. Christmas traditions have a clear beginning with our family. Mainly because the boys were so young to remember or be active in anything prior to Africa, our traditions began when we arrived in Kenya. Prior to knowing how a calendar worked our boys knew Christmas was coming by visiting the annual Christmas Fair in Nairobi. An amazing event with great food, fun and support of local and regional organizations intent on making the world a better place.

After the fair we would look for Creepy Saxophone Santa in front of Nakumatt and see how close we could get before being completely creeped out. The “Santa”, and I use this term loosely, would be still and then all of a sudden jump to life playing a weird version of some Christmas song. Then without notice he would cease moving until the next random spastic movement began. Like I said, creepy. Once this was accomplished my wife and I would pressure the boys to sit on Indian Santa’s lap for a photo. I could never really wrap my mind around why it was such an odd site to see a Santa from India in Kenya (yes I understand history). I guess my brain is still clinging to ingrained North American traditions. Regardless this was our prelude to the Christmas season.

This year it seems Creepy Saxophone Santa has been replaced with Blue Nakumatt Santa. Other than obvious marketing reasons, I’m not really sure why the Blue Santa is here. I tried to ask him but he wasn’t at liberty to say. What I do know is that the Kenyan guy in the blue felt suit was drenched with perspiration and still creeping out little kids. The tradition continues.

Certainly some traditions are just for fun while others, like Indian Santa begin purely by opportunity. However, other traditions, like setting up the Veggie Tales nativity, are rooted in an uncompromising and unchanging gift that bridged all time. A prelude to a second birth.

 

“Unconditioning”

Normally I’m all for feeding children, especially when they’re hungry and crying, but my youngest son seems to think that every time he wakes up he should have a full bottle of milk. This includes power naps, waking in the middle of the night during heavy rains, and other such natural occurrences that happen repeatedly each day. Basically, I think the kid just wants to go to sleep to eat.

Just the other day upon finishing his bottle, Joshua closed his eyes in an apparent food coma and began to doze. In less than a minute our arch nemesis of tranquility, a pair of ibis birds roosting in the trees above our house, screamed out in inconsiderate delight. Joshua’s eyes popped open, his head swiveled, and he saw the empty bottle next to us. While his lungs filled with air, his body tensed, and his fists clenched in anger I knew my novice mistake would have tearful repercussions. As Michael says, “I really don’t love ibis birds.”

I read somewhere that it takes time for a baby to realize that their stomach is full. With an angry screaming child in your arms time is of the essence. How do you get a closed-minded child to see that what they think they saw is nothing close to reality? Then as suddenly as it began, the siren ceased and the tears dried. And he smiled at me. I try not to over analyze things too much, but I’m pretty sure his smile sheepishly said, “Oh yeah. I guess I already had my bottle.”

Sometimes I think we get conditioned to give immediate responses and reactions rather than to see what is truly happening. For example one summer visiting the States our older boys saw their grandfather feeding Cheeze-Its to the dog. He may have even jokingly said it was dog food. Regardless the boys are now adamant that Cheeze-Its are for dogs. At first sight of the box on the shelf they cry out “Dogfood!” We see a fraction of the story and pull out our battle gear, dig trenches, and refuse to budge. I try not to jump to conclusions but inevitably I find myself reacting to a situation much like Joshua with his empty bottle. There are times of conditioning that are certainly healthy, such as after shampooing and rinsing, but to take a quick look at something and go into a screaming fit, well… how is this beneficial? I wonder, is this how we look to God when we don’t get what we want? Or does He see us as crying out in clueless inconsideration? With Joshua we’re working on more healthy responses, reconditioning if you will. Or as Benjamin recently told us, “If you put an “un” in front of something it will take it away.” Perhaps we could all use a little more unconditioning in our own lives too.