It was that time of day. You know the time between light and dark. It was cool. My heart was overwhelmed. "I don't know if I can do this." "I don't think I can do this another day." I could feel the weariness deep down in my bones. The thoughts flashed through my mind. "I can't Papa." "I just can't." And the door cracked open. That's all it took. Just a little crack. The sticky sweet voice of the Evil One came seeping through. "If only people could just see you now," it crooned. "If only they would just talk about you!" "Look what you are doing. Living in Africa. Eating African food. Day in and day out. If only they would give you some credit. Some glory. Some praise. Then maybe you wouldn't be so tired. No, I am almost sure it would help. Seek your praise. Forget His. This is for you! The time is now!" On and on. The whispers came. Suddenly I stopped. "What am I doing!" "Oh Papa! Forgive me! Save me from myself. Not to us oh Lord not to us! For Your glory alone."
And with that the door slammed shut. Then softly. Quietly. The tender sweet voice of the Father came. It came in a song. A song about His love for us. A song about His terrific jealousy for us. A song of hope. A song of His glory. A song of grace. A song of how He loves. How He loves us so. As the words come bubbling forth from my spirit and rushing over into my soul and then finally overflowing from my mouth He showed me. He showed me how He loves.
She was walking up. I was walking down. We met in the middle. Her sweet smile. Her arms open. Ready for an embrace. It was like no other I have ever had. But there was more love to see. More love to be had. There came another. Running. Ready. Crashing together. Sweetest of hugs. Sweetest of smiles. Sweetness of life! "Oh, Papa this is how you love! You give! Oh, how you give." Children to love! How sweet! How wonderful! How glorious! What grace. What perfectness. What ecstasy. He gives. He gives children. Sweet. Sweet. Children to love. For His glory. For His glory alone.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Friday, February 4, 2011
Shellin' Peas...I Think.
TIA (slang): Acronym standing for the commonly used phrase 'This is Africa'. Usually uttered by missionaries to keep from being non-Christlike while at the same time totally exasperated with third world life. Can also be used when no words can describe the scene at hand. Example:" Is that woman breast feeding, with nothing covering her, in church? TIA. TIA."
So a few months ago we had two really awesome college kids here who love Jesus and almost love Africa just as much (shout out to Holly and Sam!) They were much need companionship at a time when my arrogant thoughts that I could be a pretty happy hermit were quickly being proved wrong by my ever increasing loneliness. Besides their friendship they also gave me a wonderful new phrase to help express my feelings during 'it can only happen in Africa' events (which will later turn into very witty anecdotes) with more ease. TIA (definition above) has totally and completely changed my descriptive-language vocabulary. I would now like to share with you the story that lead to it's maiden utterance from my lips.
Holly and I walked through the craft market. Each stall sold the same exact wares as it's neighbor the only difference being how well one could haggle. Holly was a pro. As she went quickly back to a woman selling African shirts to let her know she had found someone who could sell her the shirt at 20,000 shillings instead of 25,000, I lagged behind my attention caught by something that made my heart smile. There sitting in the doorway of her stall was a pretty woman shelling peas. It reminded me of home. Not that I often shell peas at home but I am from the country and I hear people think that country people do that a lot. Regardless of the pea shelling frequency that takes place at my house it made me happy to be reminded of home. Especially since it was getting near Christmas. Little did I know that my sweet reminder of home was about to turn into something very, very different.
As I stood watching the woman and her friend shell the peas while laughing about something in their native tongue, I realized that these peas looked a little different from Texas peas. In fact they looked a lot different. Actually, as I stepped a little closer to get a better look, I couldn't recall a Texas pea ever squirming like these peas seemed to be doing. I watched as the woman brought another pea from her bag and tore the shell off the wriggling pea. That's when I knew. These were not peas at all but in fact were grasshoppers. Big, green, fat, grasshoppers. These women were tearing off the wings, legs and antennas getting the 'protein' ready to fry and eat for dinner. As I walked away, my sweet thoughts of home crumbling around me, all I could do was shake my head, laugh and say TIA. TIA.
So a few months ago we had two really awesome college kids here who love Jesus and almost love Africa just as much (shout out to Holly and Sam!) They were much need companionship at a time when my arrogant thoughts that I could be a pretty happy hermit were quickly being proved wrong by my ever increasing loneliness. Besides their friendship they also gave me a wonderful new phrase to help express my feelings during 'it can only happen in Africa' events (which will later turn into very witty anecdotes) with more ease. TIA (definition above) has totally and completely changed my descriptive-language vocabulary. I would now like to share with you the story that lead to it's maiden utterance from my lips.
Holly and I walked through the craft market. Each stall sold the same exact wares as it's neighbor the only difference being how well one could haggle. Holly was a pro. As she went quickly back to a woman selling African shirts to let her know she had found someone who could sell her the shirt at 20,000 shillings instead of 25,000, I lagged behind my attention caught by something that made my heart smile. There sitting in the doorway of her stall was a pretty woman shelling peas. It reminded me of home. Not that I often shell peas at home but I am from the country and I hear people think that country people do that a lot. Regardless of the pea shelling frequency that takes place at my house it made me happy to be reminded of home. Especially since it was getting near Christmas. Little did I know that my sweet reminder of home was about to turn into something very, very different.
As I stood watching the woman and her friend shell the peas while laughing about something in their native tongue, I realized that these peas looked a little different from Texas peas. In fact they looked a lot different. Actually, as I stepped a little closer to get a better look, I couldn't recall a Texas pea ever squirming like these peas seemed to be doing. I watched as the woman brought another pea from her bag and tore the shell off the wriggling pea. That's when I knew. These were not peas at all but in fact were grasshoppers. Big, green, fat, grasshoppers. These women were tearing off the wings, legs and antennas getting the 'protein' ready to fry and eat for dinner. As I walked away, my sweet thoughts of home crumbling around me, all I could do was shake my head, laugh and say TIA. TIA.
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