Near Drowning and New Desires

Part of being a parent, I suppose, is going through really scary experiences, even near-death experiences with your kids. I suppose many parents have those moments where they feel helpless to protect their children. They realize how fragile life is and they wake up resolved to treasure every moment they have. That’s how I’m waking up this morning.

We have been so blessed as parents with healthy kids, safe environments, and no major injuries in our family... until this year. In March, when I was in Ethiopia, Levi ended up in the hospital for 3 days unable to breathe on his own. After that, I set aside my international travels for the remainder of the year. And it was a good thing, because shortly after that, Debra was in the same hospital with pneumonia. Then I had a meningitis scare (turned out to be a horrible virus)... not to mention the ramping-up of daily crazy as Levi hit the worst stage of potty training, food anxiety, accident-proneness, and hitting/kicking/biting.... and Juniper became a toddler full of curiosity and a loud, opinionated personality of her own.

Friday night, we were swimming with some friends in their pool. There were 7 kids between 4 adults. Juniper had been going back and forth between the moms in the kiddie pool and the dads in the big pool. Her new favorite game is jumping into a parents arms while squishing her eyes shut against the splashing water. The other kids were either independent swimmers or wearing floaties. Every two minutes, my friend Brent would stop our conversation and do a head count. I remember thinking he was being a bit paranoid. After all, we were in the pool, right next to the kids, and keeping our eyes on them at all times.

But things happen fast and nobody heard the splash. It was only when Brent started counting heads that we both saw it: a small pink object flailing in slow motion beneath the surface of the water 10 feet away. At first I thought it was one of the older kids swimming underwater until Brent started lunging towards it. Juniper had apparently crawled on to the top step of the shallow end at the very moment that all 10 pairs of eyes were off her.  Then she must have stepped out just over her head. My heart dropped when Brent pulled Juniper out of the water limp and blue around the lips. I rushed to grab her and for one endless I didn’t know if she was conscious or not. Then she threw up, coughed, and started to cry a weak, terrified cry. Relief, guilt, and fear all rushed in as I held her bent over to clear the water from her lungs and everybody came rushing over wanting to know what happened.

Juniper was breathing rapidly and her heart was pounding. For a moment, nobody knew quite what to do next.. Then in a flurry, an ambulance was called, but being close to the hospital we decided to take her ourselves. Brent and Heidi took our other kids home for a sleepover... and this is the 5^th time in a year they have kept our kids during a medical emergency!

As we pulled out of the subdivision, we passed two blaring ambulances and a firetruck, but we just kept driving, at every stoplight leaning back to make sure our daughter was still alive. She was staring quietly out the window taking quick shallow breaths, but her color had returned.

At the hospital we were seen immediately. An x-ray of her lungs showed that we had been very lucky. But the doctor said he did see a little streaking and wanted us transferred to Scottish Rite just to be safe. Another crisis quickly arose when they told us they would be putting an IV in our 18-month-old’s hand and the driving 45 minutes while Debra rode up front. All I could imagine was as a pair of bullish EMT’s driving on stone-faced while my daughter screamed her way through her second major life trauma that day and her mother sat captive in the front unable to help or comfort her. More panic, a hold out, a thick AMA (“against medical advice”) waiver thrust toward me by a tearful nurse with the threat of an uninsurable hospital bill to follow, another meeting with the drivers, a negotiation, and finally we caved. Then came an IV without anesthetic. This took some time as nurses searched for a vein on Juniper chubby hand, traumatizing both Juniper and her compassionate but helpless mother. But thankfully, the ride itself was calm and Juniper quietly watched cartoons the whole way.

Scottish Rite is a great hospital, but nurses, doctors, admission, billing, and any other number of employees poked, prodded, and asked the same questions 5 times until 4AM when we all collapsed from sheer exhaustion and slept for 5 hours. The next day, things looked better. A social worker making his rounds was less antagonistic than we feared and the doctor gave us a clean bill of health. After lunch, we were released, bedraggled and still in shock, but grateful. So grateful.

When we came home another shock awaited us. In the flurry of the last couple days, we had forgotten about Annabel’s two bunnies, who now lay in their cage cold, dead, and dehydrated. I was sick and actually cried a little as I walked their little corpses back into the woods behind our house. It was just one more reminder that life is fragile and one inattentive move can take it away forever. It was only my friend’s hyper-vigilant head count that saved my daughters life and it was our neglect (understandable though it may be) that killed the rabbits. “This can never happen again,” I thought to myself.

One positive side of the whole experience (besides a resolve to be more vigilant) was a much stronger bond with my daughter and with my whole family in general. People talk about meeting their child for the first time as a life-changing experience. They talk about a love they never knew they had flooding in to their hearts and sustaining them as parents throughout their children’s lives. That’s not my experience. When I first met my kids, my feelings were awe, adoration, tenderness, and pride. But love has crept in slowly over the course of dozens of sleepless nights, toxic diapers, temper tantrums, tender snuggles, and moments I almost lost them. As I’m stretched beyond myself as a parent into those powerless spaces, my adoration of my kids turns into real compassion (literally translated, “suffering with”), real love.

In my last post, I talked about reading the lectionary as a helpful spiritual practice. It does a good job shepherding me through scripture in a slow, methodical way and enriches my spiritual life in ways that don’t require me to have a monastic life, lots of emotional energy, or theological profundity. Well yesterday after the whole hospital experience, I plopped down to read that day’s lectionary reading. It took me to an interesting passage: David grieves the death of his son, Absalom.

In the story, Absalom attempts a coup against his father and raises an army to fight and dethrone him. Though it was the ultimate betrayal, David’s fatherly heart moved him to order the commander of his army, “be gentle for my sake with the young man Absalom.” Probably seen by his troops as a sign of the king’s weakness, 10 young men disregard the order, surround Absalom (whom they find defenseless and alone in the forest) and kill him in cold blood. So the battle was won but David weeps bitterly over the loss of his son. Though 10 young men saw only a betrayal and the need to right a wrong, the king saw the loss of a son and cried out “Oh Absalom. Absalom, my son. If only I had died instead of you!” 

I’ve got great kids and none of them are trying to overthrow me (though some days I may dispute that) but David’s love is striking. 10 years ago, the story was compelling, but maybe a bit confusing to me. Today I’m a step closer to getting it. Life is precious, a tremendous gift that is so easily taken away. And so much stronger than a life of vision and impact and legacy is a life full of love for family and friends, even strangers and enemies. Love makes you vulnerable. Love opens you to pain. Love makes you look fragile and foolish. And given the choice between the fragile old king (the prodigal’s father) and the strong young men... Let’s just say my existential taste buds are changing.

            

Toddler Terrorists in Light of the Atonement

It’s an uncharacteristically quiet moment in our home. The kids are sleeping or watching movies. I can hear the clock ticking across the room. I just finished a cup of my home-roasted organic Sumatran coffee (pour over per the usual these days) and the caffeine is now kicking in. Bliss.

Yesterday was insane. Levi peed on the couch, got a time out, came back, and peed on the couch again. He smashed a mason jar on the stone outside and then smashed a lightbulb on the screen porch. He bit, scratched, and pushed. He dragged the garden hose inside and decided to give our bedroom a bath. He dumped a full canister of cake sprinkles on the floor. He ripped off all his clothes and ran naked down the driveway. It was a rough day, even for him. And he only represents half of our toddler population: Juniper is developing her own special brand of “domestic terrorism”, though she usually manages to be destructive in a slightly more adorable way.

In the midst of it all, quiet moments like this are rare and treasured, though usually it’s all I can do to just close my eyes and let a thousand scattered thoughts lope haphazardly across my brain... oh the things I ought to do... the things which may never get done.

Before this crazy descended, I used to take some time each morning to read a bit of scripture, journal, and pray. It was incredibly grounding and I often felt God’s presence and direction in those moments. But lately when I get the opportunity, my self-directed bible-readings feel dry. And worse, when I put pen to paper to express my thoughts, what comes out is wearisome and sometimes toxic. In some ways, I’m sick of my own voice, my own thoughts, my own faltering attempts at profundity. Spiritual, emotional, and intellectual originality is highly overrated for me right now.

So I’ve been looking for new ways to relate to God that don’t rely so heavily on my mood, my insight, or the wells of my personal depth. My mentor suggested a life rhythm that has helped him in similar seasons: the Lectionary.

Used in more liturgical churches, the Revised Common Lectionary provides really small chunks of the Old and New Testament for churches to focus on each week. It’s basically a long-term bible-reading plan with bite-sized passages meant to be savored, not just consumed. The passages go together thematically and the beauty of it is, I don’t get to pick them. So I gave it a shot this morning... and I think I love it.

Here’s a snippet from that encouraged me today from Jeremiah 23...

I will raise up a righteous descendant
    from King David’s line.
He will be a King who rules with wisdom.
    He will do what is just and right throughout the land.
And this will be his name:
    ‘The Lord Is Our Righteousness.’
In that day Judah will be saved,
    and Israel will live in safety.

Just skimming the surface here... I see this passage as a big fat neon finger pointing right to Jesus. The main reason I say that is the identifier, “The Lord is our Righteousness”. I’m not saying that Old Testament theologians wouldn’t identify God himself as the ultimate source of human righteousness, but if anything distinguished the life and mission of Jesus, it was stripping down the rabbinic formulations of human righteousness through rule-keeping (how do YOU respond when someone says to you, “be perfect as your heavenly Father is perfect”?) and a promotion of righteousness (“right-ness” with God and others) through identification with the perfect righteousness of Christ... a way made possible through his death and resurrection. Hundreds of years before Christ was born, Jeremiah caught a glimpse of him and said, “the trademark quality of this king is that through him we will see that God himself is our righteousness, and NOT our busy rule-keeping.”

For me the whole idea of righteousness in Jesus is both refreshing and desperately needed right now. Because in a really stressed and needy season (living closely with other stressed and needy people), my track record for making “good Christian” decisions, having a “good Christian” attitude, and doing all the things “good Christians” are supposed to do... well let’s just say I won’t graduate top of my class. In fact most days I feel like I’m flunking “Righteousness 101”. I’m not flagellating myself here. Just ask my wife! I am often bitter, judgmental, lazy, passive-aggressive, and downright mean.

But while I keenly feel the need to take appropriate responsibility for my own behavior and make healthier choices, a very anchoring thought is that nothing I do good or bad has any bearing on the righteousness I have before God. His total love and acceptance toward me is secure... because when he looks at me, what he sees is Christ... his perfectly righteous son. That’s what Jesus is about: relieving the impossible standard of “being good enough” and giving himself to become goodness on our behalf, so that we can access the limitless grace and acceptance of God.

“It is because of him that you are in Christ Jesus, who has become for us wisdom from God--that is, our righteousness, holiness and redemption” (1 Cor 1:30)

I'll take some of that please.

Beatitudes as Revolution

Two things really strike me about the “Beatitudes” in Matthew 5... that’s the “blessed/happy are those that” passages.

1. They are among the first things Jesus teaches his disciples. And they are FOR the disciples (the crowds don’t seem to be around for that episode).

2. They fly in the face of every belief and expectation the disciples likely had about living a good and blessed life.

Blessed are the poor? The disciples likely believed that prosperity was a bi-product of righteous living. Poverty was anathema, not blessing.

Blessed are those who mourn? Sure, the Hebrew were good mourners, but sorrow and mourning were for those cursed with a tragedy or afflicted by guilt. A pleasant life was the goal.

Blessed are the merciful? Blessed are the peacemakers? Peace and mercy were the furthest things from the heart of a colonized nation. Rather, let’s talk about an eye for an eye, just war, winning back the nation for God’s people, forcefully laying hold of God’s kingdom and instituting it on the earth.

Yet in spite of all this, Jesus inaugurates his ministry with some of the hardest teachings he can muster. He wants to demonstrate right off the bat that his ministry will run crosscurrent to all other Rabinic ministries around. He is distinguishing his message over and against all other available religious dogmas. We don’t see the disciples reaction, but I imagine there was a lot of squirming and confusion. Yet the must have been strangely attracted to this upside-down kingdom ethic.

They continued to have an uncomfortable love/hate relationship with Jesus’ hard teachings throughout their time with him. It’s like when you marry someone who has exactly the qualities you need in your life to balance and complement your personality, and yet it’s those same qualities that drive you crazy and cause the most fights in your marriage.

But Jesus never backed down from the hard stuff. He stood strong. But his obstinacy was totally different of the obstinacy of most Christians today. Many Christians today are passionate about “standing for righteousness”, which in most cases means being vocal in defending and promoting a limited set of moral values based loosely on biblical teachings. But Jesus never told his disciples to lobby for a “10 commandments” monument in the Roman forum or to write editorials bemoaning the loss of prayer in school. Rather he commanded them to be courageous in generosity, to forgive outrageously, to be innocent like small children, to lead by becoming servants, and to fight tooth and nail against self-reliance and works-righteousness.

Jesus was no wimp. But the kingdom he stood for had to invade hearts before it could pervade societies. The “hills” that Christ was willing to die on weren’t gay marriage and abortion: they were forgiveness, peace, the inversion of human power structures in the kingdom, heart-righteousness, and grace. Not a warm fuzzy grace, but a kind of grace that reaches out when everyone else has given up. It’s a grace that stands militantly against its opponents (self-righteousness and legalism), battling them in the strongest possible terms.

I’m trying to imagine how Jesus might teach the beatitudes if he were a pastor in small town America. How would Jesus purposefully challenge OUR assumptions and beliefs about a good and blessed life? I imagine him inviting his friends over for a meeting: a couple folks from Third Baptist Church, the town drunk, a couple lawyers, a housewife, a farmer, and the guy from the local garage.

“Thanks for coming,” he says. “Let’s get started. There are a few things I want to talk with you about tonight. This is a little message I’ve titled ’8 tips for a happy life.’ Ready?

“#1: Don’t look down on the poor. They’ve got it made in God’s kingdom! In fact, you’ll be happy if you have less money, a smaller house, and a crappier car. Why not sell your stuff and give it to charity? Then it won’t weigh you down and you’ll inherit God’s kingdom.

“#2: Give up entirely on the American dream, on the “pursuit of happiness.” Let it die. Frankly, you’ll be happier if you cry more. Seriously. Grieving is wonderful. How else will you be comforted if you don’t get comfortable with pain? Don’t run from it! Stick with sorrow. It’s not weakness. It’s a blessing.

“#3: You’ll be happy if you have such a meek and lowly demeanor that everybody thinks you’re small and insignificant. Look for chances to demote yourself, to be a “nobody” in the eyes of the world. Be confident instead that you are God’s ‘somebody’! Don’t give a second thought to what kind of legacy you are leaving or what kind of monuments they’ll build for you when your gone. If you can you that, you will inherit the whole earth.

“#4: Be hungry and thirsty to please God, to do what he says, and to practice justice. Pray for more that hunger. God loves to answer those prayers and he’ll fill your hunger for righteousness.

“#5: Be known for showing mercy, even to those who don’t deserve it. Stop to talk with hurting people, even if you don’t have time. Give 20 bucks to the homeless guy even if he might use it on alcohol. Bring a sack of groceries to the undocumented immigrants living next door. It’s not just for them. It’s for you. Because you are just like them and you really need God’s mercy.

“#6: Want to see God? Have a pure heart. Not a pure theology, or a pure lifestyle, or a pure esoteric religious life, but a pure heart. Don’t worry about the outward stuff so much. It’s what’s inside that matters more.

“#7: Advocate for peace. Peace in your home. Peace in your church. Peace between nations. Be someone that builds bridges rather than fighting back. You’ll gain a reputation as child of God.

“#8: You’ll be happy and blessed if you are accused, attacked, and insulted... not for being a jerk or for doing wrong, but for following me, for demonstrating mercy and justice in your daily decisions. I’m going to challenge the status quo and turn everything on its head. People will hate you, say untrue things against you, and ridicule you for associating with me. That’s good! Don’t fight it. Take it. If you can do that, you’ll inherit a big bonus in heaven. THAT’S something you can be happy about.”

Can you imagine that message being taught in some of our churches, small groups, and communities... Not just taught, but actually lived out? It was revolutionary then and it still is today. It messes with everything we think and believe, even in the church. We often worry that the word of God isn’t more deeply shaping our culture. But has it invaded your life? Has it invaded your church culture? So how can it invade our broader culture? Protesting moral decay won’t change the culture. But being courageous in leading weak and humble lives defined by grace.... that just MIGHT change things.

Moral and spiritual influence in our homes, churches, and governments will ALWAYS look different than we imagine. It will never happen the way we think. It comes through meekness, mercy, and powerlessness... through the “foolish things” of the world, and NOT through misguided power-grabs, false confidence, or external “righteousness”. It begins in our hearts. It always has.

Part 2: That Crazy Month and the Love of the Father

I had finally arrived back in Atlanta. I had gone straight to Scottish Rite on the northside, curled up on the floor and gone to sleep. In the morning, Levi, looking pitiful with his oxygen tubes and IV, woke up feeling better. He seemed generally nonplussed to see me and was soon chatting everybody’s ear off. Before long, he was squirming so much, we disconnected his tubes and he started running around the room, staring out the window, and discussing every object he could see. His oxygen was stable, so they discharged him with an inhaler later that morning.

We collected our other kids from the Boltons, our amazing surrogate family in Fayetteville (who put everything on hold to help us) and went home. We walked in and discovered our kitchen had been cleaned and our fridge was overflowing with meals from various people. Over the course of the next 2 weeks, the meals just kept pouring in from people in our church. That’s one thing our church is really good at: feeding people.

We were so happy to be home and felt so loved by people, but realized we were walking into a busy week. I spent a day roasting coffee and then went into 2 full days of meetings. That weekend, I helped as much as I could so Debra could finish her Etsy orders, which got backlogged when Levi got sick.

Early the next week, Debra came down with the flu to end all flus. She was weak, had a bad cough, splitting headache, and fever. I canceled all my appointments went into caretaking mode. I was already running on empty physically, emotionally, and relationally. I struggled hard to be a kind and patient person (without much success). I hunkered down as best I could. I’m sorry to say I wasn’t a pleasant person to be around last weekend. I was cold, irritable, and generally resentful. But by Wednesday a couple good friends helped me gain some perspective and take some deep breaths.

By Friday, Debra was struggling to breath and we took her back to Scottish rite, asking our dear friends the Boltons to take our kids (again) which they did graciously. We drove the hour-long drive to Northside hospital (the ONLY hospital in Atlanta that takes our crazy insurance policy) and Debra was poked, prodded, x-rayed, and eventually discharged with a diagnosis of pneumonia and a prescription for the strongest antibiotic available.

A stop at the billing office revealed that our insurance was inactive (SOMEONE forgot to pay the premium last month... oops...) and we would have to pay cash for our visit. Words were exchanged, opinions were voiced, and credit cards were tentatively handed over. We walked out to our car frustrated, tired, ready to go home. Debra was still weak and not breathing deeply.

We started the car and tried unsuccessfully to drive up the hill and out of the parking lot. The engine was revving, but the car wasn’t going. A look under the hood revealed the problem: transmission fluid was spraying out of a cracked hose. Old Bessy, our beloved ’95 Odyssey, wasn’t going anywhere. After wrestling with the hose for an hour and drenching myself in transmission fluid, I called our mechanic. Rodney generously offered to drive to north Atlanta to fix the hose on the spot. 3 long hours later, Bessy was running again.

The kids were asleep at the Boltons and they encouraged us to go home, enjoy a night in our own beds without the kids there, and sleep in. The next morning I woke up happy to a quiet house (which had been cleaned thoroughly by our amazing babysitter) and sipped my coffee. Life was sweet again in that moment.

That night, the date night we planned (the first since I got home from Africa) got cancelled, which was maybe just as well since Debra was feeling extremely week and still not breathing well. Annabel also came down with a fever and cough that lasted until Sunday.

Rodney came back Friday night to finish plugging holes in the transmission lines. In the process (I think because of all the stress the transmission had been under), I lost first gear. So Bessy runs and drives, but starts VERY slowly. She’s also making some new noises I’ve never heard before. And at nearly 200,000 miles, I think it’s time to put our 20-year-old van out to pasture. So we are praying for a new van.

Yesterday, I stood up in church and publicly thanked everyone for being Jesus to us in all the craziness. They really have been incredible. Besides all the food, cleaning help, and visitors, I now have total strangers asking how Levi is doing. It’s been a saga, and it’s not over. But this morning, the kids are healthy, Debra is on the mend, and things just MIGHT be returning to “normal”. And if they do, this time next week, Debra and I will be going up to the Smoky Mountains for 3 days while her parents fly down to watch the kids. Fingers crossed. Not holding breath.

As for me, all the uncertainty and everything-falling-apart-all-at-once has had a softening effect. Many people have called this “an attack” and I don’t disagree. But I think God is doing some really good work in me through it. I’m not totally sure what it is yet, but I believe runs along the rails of expectation, empathy, responsibility, and trust. It has exposed a lot of self-centeredness and helped me face some hard realities. I’ve also gotten to watch God provide in ways I don’t deserve. Overall, I think I’m growing. I’m not seeing a lot of the fruit yet, but there’s some really good tilling going on.

That Crazy Month and the Love of the Father

The story of this last month has run along one eerily consistent plotline: NOTHING works... at least not the right away, and certainly not like I expected. It’s almost comical.

I left you last in Addis Ababa. I had arrived on a bumpy local bus (that I almost didn’t get a seat on) after 10 exhausting hours squished between two Ethiopians. 

I arrived to find I didn’t have a hotel lined up. But after a couple tense hours, I found myself at the mission guesthouse in a comfortable room paying a tenth of what I would have paid at the hotel.

The seminar I had come to teach was not what I expected: 7 guys instead of 30. 9 hours instead of 14. And I was unprepared to teach.... BUT it turned out I really needed the extra rest time, I managed to get my notes prepped, and the small group setting was a much more fulfilling experience for me. Less teaching, more dialogue.

Then because I had more time in my schedule than anticipated, I caught a ride (at the last minute, of course) to a Bobogaya, a breath-taking retreat center, a Edenic garden of spindly trees in full purple bloom tumbling down to a volcanic lake.

There I met Gary, my pastor from Fayetteville for a retreat with a dozen rough-and-tumble frontline missionary families scattered throughout Northern Ethiopia. Throughout the weekend, I learned what sacrifice looks like: these talented families had given up career, family, community, comfort, and safety to live in towns and villages on Ethiopia’s inhospitable frontier, to do what they felt God told them to do: Bring Christ’s love to dark places. These people were the real deal, and they would show Christ’s love to me.

Sunday morning, I got an email from Debra:

“I have no idea when you'll get this, but I need you to know that I'm taking Levi to the ER right now for breathing stuff.  I called the nurse line and they told me to take him in. The girls are at the boltons. I'll keep you posted.”

I felt sick. Suddenly my beautiful retreat center was the last place in the world I needed to be. As the day progressed, Levi was transferred by ambulance to another hospital where his oxygen level continued to plummet and he was given pure oxygen just to keep him alive and breathing. I felt helpless. I sat in the big room at Bobogaya and was surrounded by dozens of people who know that feeling all too well. Warm hands rested on my back and neck as earnest prayers, cries for help were voiced on our behalf. I wept, feeling lost and loved and the same time. Gary was especially instrumental that weekend in helping me process all the chaos both from the Ethiopia trip and things happening on the home front. He was encouraging, thoughtful, a good listener, helpful, and generous. In that situation, he was as good as a father to me.

After the prayer time, scheming little huddles of people formed and I got the sense that this community was ready to move heaven and earth to help me get home. A ride to the airport, cash for the journey, anything they could do. I was also getting news from our friends back home. They were also moving heaven and earth to help Debra. The girls stayed with our friends, the Boltons (bringing their total kid count to 6). Other friends came over to clean our disastrous house. Others brought meals (when we got home our fridge was overflowing and the meals just kept coming). Others braved the hour-long drive through Atlanta to visit Debra and give emotional support. We don’t have family where we live, but at this moment, our community there (and my ad-hoc community in Ethiopia) was better than family. They were God’s love to us activated through human hearts: Christ’s “body” doing what it was made to do.

At Bobogaya the power was out and my phone was barely getting signal. So changing my ticket became a big saga. We traveled to town to buy credit for my phone. Then I called the ticket office in Addis, who told me I would need to call the US office. I made the international call and ALMOST managed to change the ticket before I ran out of credit and got cut off. With my last scratch card, I called Debra, who had barely slept all night and asked her to call on my behalf. After a long time, she called me to confirm that I was on the plane leaving that night.

The team decide I wasn’t about to travel the 90 minutes to the airport alone in a taxi, so they sent a small delegation with me in their best vehicle to make sure I got through security (which I did, though my green coffee beans did not... sad face).

The flight over the Atlantic was incredibly long and I numbed my brain with 4 movies and whatever sleep I could manage. All went smoothly until I reached Miami and discovered my flight to Atlanta was delayed 45 minutes. Yay.

I arrived in Atlanta close to 11pm, and my friend was there to pick me up and take me straight to the hospital. In spite of how all the pieces finally came together, I was exhausted and my emotional reserves were totally depleted. I was about to walk into a high-needs situation with absolutely nothing to give but my physical presence.

I found Levi and Debra sleeping soundly in a dark room at Scottish Rite. I blew up my little camping mattress, laid on the floor and went to sleep. I had made it home. 

God’s care and provision were unbelievable. In spite of a dozen twists and turns, HE got me home. I was beyond myself. I had nothing to give, but I was there. And as long as everything went smoothly from that point on, we would all be okay. Well... everything did NOT go smoothly. My prayer has been, "God, thank you. But this is really hard... But thank you... But this is hard..." 

I’ll leave it there for the moment.

Homosexuality is not a Verb

Can I clarify something? Because for all the discussion on this topic, my Christian friends have not yet adopted this distinction in their vocabulary and it’s sending some really bad messages. When evangelical Christians use the word “homosexuality”, they are almost always referring to sexual behavior between two people of the same gender. When EVERYBODY else in our culture uses the word, it refers to attraction and not behavior. Homosexuality refers to a person’s attraction to the same gender and NOT to the behavior associated with that attraction.

Hate to say it folks, but the church got this one wrong and the culture is right here. Whatever you believe about homosexual behavior, homosexuality is a word that refers to attraction and not behavior. It’s not something you do. It’s not something you can “commit”. It’s an adjective; not a verb. A homosexual is someone who is attracted to the same gender. And yes, a person can be gay without ever being sexually active. This isn’t rocket science, people.

Terminology matters! Why? Because when we talk about homosexuality as a sin people commit, we are telling everybody that has ever felt attracted to the same sex that the attraction they feel makes them uniquely sinful (more so than others) and the only hope for them is to change their orientation. This is a dangerous heresy. So let me say this plainly as a bible-believing Christian: Homosexuality is NOT a sin. In other words, your orientation does not set you apart from God. Your behavior does.

If you believe (as I do) that having sex with the same gender is a sin according to the bible, then hunky dory. Believe it. But don’t let “homosexuality” become a catch all for behavior and orientation. Because many gay men and women are being told that their sexual orientation which is inextricably wired into them (by nurture AND biology), and which most will never be able to significantly alter outside of a miracle makes them dirty, untouchable, and irredeemably separated from God. That’s wrong. That’s unbiblical.

Addis like a Vagabond

Outside the city of Injibara, a town in the crisp mountain air of northern Ethiopia, Mark and Debbie Maclachlan live in a little cultivated garden of Eden surround by thousand-foot granite pillars protruding the green countryside. In their agriculture project, dozens of species of plums, pears, apples, and plants I can’t pronounce are flourishing in the mountain climate. The plums and pears have gone to market and exploded in popularity, created an insatiable demand. It’s part of their vision to create livelihoods in their community while representing Jesus to their neighbors, most of whom are nominal Coptics.

I spent a couple days with them, refreshed after 2 days alone in a hotel room in bustling Addis Ababa and then a full day on the bus. My pastor flew out from the States to join us and as we walked together along the dirt road he helped me process some of the frustration and exhaustion I had been feeling. Truthfully he was a life-saver. That night, I shared a devotion with the Injibara team (2 couples plus the team from our church) about experiencing God’s presence and was pretty vulnerable about the things I was wrestling with what God had been teaching me. It was cathartic to share and encouraging to them.

I wish I could have stayed in Injibara, but I was expected to teach on Tuesday, so on Monday, I woke up at 4:30. Mark and Debbie took me to the big patch of dirt where local buses (all looking as though they’d been through the wars) were about to depart. They told me to play the “white card” and I would be fine. They said goodbye and drove off. A little stunned, I wandered into the compound looking lost. “Addis?” I inquired helplessly to the throng of Amharic speakers. “Addis Ababa?”

“No!” replied the an official looking man. “Addis for tomorrow okay. Today, no. Tickets no.” I’ve learned not to walk away immediately when someone says “no” in Ethiopia, so I shuffled my feet and looked helplessly at the man while he gathered the other passenger’s tickets. After a long time, he shouted some things to the driver and some people standing nearby, grabbed my bag, looked at me, and said “okay.” I paid the man and got on board, relieved. I had played the “white card”.

The bus creaked and veered slowly across mountain plains and through a winding gorge as deep as the Grand Canyon. The man on my left was drunk or hung-over. The one on the right held a small baby. The old woman behind me lay there moaning as though she were sick, one breast dangling haphazardly out of her shawl. I folded my long legs into the tiny seat and tried to entertain myself for the next ten hours. During lunch, two Israeli para-gliders approached me, eager to talk with another English-speaker. At long last we reached Addis, butt-sore but alive. I was dropped on a side street and immediately mobbed by taxi drivers.

A phone call to my Dawit confirmed my fear: lodging at NOT been arranged for that night. Homeless in Africa. Great. I had one more trick up my sleeve. I told the driver to take me to the SIM guesthouse (the mission Mark and Debbie served in). Pulling into the deserted compound, I was told the office was closed for Adwa (or “Expel the Italians Day”). But the guy on duty managed to find me a room just for the night. It was a simple, clean, quiet little room on the second floor. I collapsed onto the bed exhausted and relieved. I was running on fumes, burned out from all the travel and bustle and ambiguity and then a horrible thought struck me: I have to teach tomorrow. And I have no idea who, where, or how many.

I imagined myself standing behind a podium in front of dozens of sharp-faced Ethiopians and trying to conjure up something wise and insightful to say about discipleship. My mind went blank. I panicked. I have nothing to say! I don’t want to teach! I just want to go home and watch movies and drink a cold beer and eat comfort food. The whole weight of the trip hit me in that moment. I wondered, is this burnout? Or am I just tired? There was nothing to do, though I secretly hoped for a catastrophe to strike and cancel the seminar.

I walked into the guesthouse’s dining hall where a middle-aged American was listening eagerly to a Nigerian Muslim-background believer tell his story. Eventually I joined the conversation, intrigued, and listened as the Nigerian spoke passionately about his work discipling other “MBBs” in Nigeria. There was something genuine about him that I really liked and I wanted to know more. So I invited him to join me for dinner. I talked for a long time with my new friend. I learned about his family, his dissertation, and the training center he has for Jesus-followers coming from Islam. I learned that we know some of the same people. I also learned that some of the people he works with are Fulani, those beautiful wraith-like cattle nomads I work with in northern Ghana. We exchanged contact info and discipleship resources before he went home today. I think what attracted me most about him was that everything he’s doing so perfectly embodies the style of intensive, hands-on discipleship that Jesus modeled. I teach all about that model of discipleship throughout Africa, but I know of precious few who are actually DOING that model. It made me want to quit teaching this stuff and just spend the next few years DOING it.

Yesterday morning, I gave a little talk on Exodus 33 to a dozen Nigerians working at an international school. Then my host, Dawit informed me that my “seminar” that afternoon would consist of 7 people who had already done the conference before. I had expected to train the 7 in the context of leading a bigger seminar with them. NOW I had to come up with a new plan, a NEW seminar just for them.... in 2 hours.

Well, I did some fast typing and came up with a plan. So when we arrived at the tiny office where we were meeting, we spent time getting to know each other and having some pretty honest dialogue about what was happening in their lives. Over the next 2 days the teaching became a great round-table discussion. By the end of today the conversation reached a fevered pitch. Okay, I thought. We have buy-in. Tomorrow we’ll finish with some practical work which I hope they’ll be able to apply in their context.

One of the strongest contributors was a pastor named Million. Kid you not. When he was young, his mother didn’t let the other kids call him “Milli” because she wanted her son to get the “full Million.” He grew into a giant hulk of an Ethiopian gangster/street fighter before being introduced to Jesus by a frail old lady at a restaurant. Now he’s a hulk of a pastor (who I STILL wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley) with a growing passion for discipleship.

Another guy chimed in during our discussion on forgiveness. He was frustrated that the Muslims he works with view the forgiveness of Christians as a sign of weakness and God humiliating the Christians. He wondered if Christians should really forgive them or fight back to earn their respect. He concluded he would have to follow of the cross, even if he was misunderstood or ridiculed.

Tomorrow should be interesting. I’m having my two organizers, Dawit and Mekonnen do the teaching while I sit back and watch. This is my favorite part! We’ll have discussions on “what’s next” and then wrap it up for the week.

Stay tuned for what’s next! Babysitting missionary kids at a volcanic crater lake, preaching on Sunday, getting offered raw meat before my long flight home Monday. Hmmmmm.....

The Most Ridiculous Bus Ride Ever

 So on Thursday, I said to my friend, “I need to buy a bus ticket for tomorrow.”

“Okay,” my friend replies. I’ll pick you up at 9:45.

By 10:30, we were at a coffee shop sipping macchiatos... In Ethiopia, you find ANY excuse to sip macchiatos... 2 hours later, we’re still sitting there. His “friend”, he insists, is 5 minutes away and he will help us. An hour later, a big Ethiopian contractor guy pulls up in an old Mercedes. My friend opens the door and motions for me to get in the car. I hesitate. “This is my friend,” he says. “He is very generous. Go with him. I’ll see you later.”

“Okay...” I hesitate. “Will I meet you back here or go back to the hotel?” Vague affirmations that we’ll figure it out follow until I drive away with the big certain I have no idea what’s going on.

My new friend drives me all over town shouting, “Sky bus ticket office?!” to random strangers until we find ourselves (after several false starts) in a poorly-marked office on the 3^rd floor of a mall. And all the tickets for tomorrow are sold out.

As we are leaving defeated, a young man wanders up muttering something about Bahar Dar and ends up selling me his ticket, the last seat on the bus. “The miracle ticket,” my new contractor friend calls it.

On the way back the way back to my hotel, we have to stop for an hour to get lunch. Then he “drops by” the market to pick up some materials (which takes over an hour due to unknown people running around shouting unknown things in an unknown language and generally not telling me what’s going on. At last after 8 hours, I’m back at the hotel having accomplished my one thing for the day (well half of one thing.... I was told I would have to buy the return ticket in Bahar Dar, but don’t worry. They are 95% sure there will be plenty of space on the bus coming home.)

So this morning at 5AM, I sat down in the back row of the bus feeling like a very squished foreigner indeed. 2 hours into our 9-hour trip, we started careening down steep switchbacks into a 1km deep gorge with breathtaking and terrifying views. The two giggly muslim high school girls on my left took turns puking in a bag. Finally I fell asleep and when I woke up one of the girls was sleeping soundly on my shoulder, her arm draped casually across my knee. Only in Ethiopia I thought.

After two some great Ethiopian elevator music and two home-grown Ethiopian films, we arrived at our destination sweltering because the guy on my right insisted that the cool breeze was like evil spirits blowing across his body and would surely make him sick.

The payoff came though in the form of macchiatos overlooking lake Tana under a veranda next to a giant sycamore bowing its ancient limbs near the water. The coffee in that region (Zegie) is some of the best I’ve had and is shade-grown on the lakeshore by monks and family farmers but has yet to make its debut in America (to the best of my knowledge). I first had it 2 years ago on a small island in the lake where a family served us from their private crop grown under the shade of an 800-year-old monastery. “Sacred coffee” I called it. I was enchanted. Now I’m dreaming of introducing it to the American market. Holy Zegie macchiatos for all!

Oh... did I mention, that I went to the ticket office here and all the buses for Monday are FULL???? Wuh wuuuuuhh....... Squishy minibus anybody?

The Inside Scoop on the Last 6 Months (part 1)

There are a million things circulating through my brain; great blog topics, stories to make you cringe, developments from left field... but I feel I owe you (and myself) a not-too-profound explanation as to where I’ve been the last 6 months.

After I got back from Zambia, several things happened at once. Levi started waking up at 6:30, then 6, then 5:30. Today he was cheerful and ready to play at 4:30. My ADD mind has 1-2 hours in the morning in which I’m groggy enough to focus on one thing at a time. Once upon a time, it was reading scripture, journaling, prayer, and blogging. Now it’s diaper changes, coffee, fruity pebbles, “YOU'REGOINGTOMISSYOURBUS”, and “no buddy, mac ‘n cheese is for lunch not breakfast”.

Also, I started a coffee-roasting business. I bought a grill, built an aluminum drum, repurposed a cordless drill. Then I tried, and failed, and tried, and failed... and failed some more until at last... I got coffee nirvana roast after roast. I tweaked, I upgraded, I used all 5 senses. And now I’m pumping out fresh beans to my online social network all over the country. It’s art to me and I love it. But I’m doing everything and my growth has been limited by other commitments (like my “real” job). Still, I’ve had a couple churches interested (if you have a church, restaurant, or office that may be interested in becoming a wholesale customer, please hit me up at lovenomadscoffee@gmail.com and I’ll send you a free sampler pack with all the info). In an ironic and beautiful twist of fate, my uber-barista neighbor who serves coffee at a nearby vape shop challenged me to develop a good espresso blend, which I did in all manner of geekyness. He liked the final product so well, he plans to serve it exclusive at the vape shop starting next month! Honestly, I love that Love Nomads will have its public debut there. The other awesome thing is that the profits from the coffee are ALL going to projects in Africa. It’s designed to be an income engine for our various projects. So over Christmas, it helped buy a motorcycle for Jonah Manyan in Northern Ghana. Now we are funneling it toward my next round of seminars in Ethiopia.

I went to the UK in October after a UK/Ghana trip got canned due to Ebola concerns. So... I hopped over to Birmingham on a buddy pass and stayed for a week with my friend Harvey, a Malawian professor and recently published missiologist. That week, we were deep in conversation about the African church in Europe, cross-cultural ministry, and discipleship. We visited his old church in Nottingham (nice town, no sheriff) and saw a really beautiful example of a small pan-African church worshipping and seeking God for their place as mulit-cultural community in the heart of the UK. I hit it off with the pastor and felt let to pursue a relationship with them. So Harvey and I plan to return there in June to conduct a seminar (my idea: multicultural disciple-making). Then we’ll head back to Birmingham for Harvey’s think-tank conference on reverse mission that Saturday. After THAT, we’ll go together to Zambia for another 10 more days of discipleship training. More on that to come...

On Debra’s 31^st birthday, she pulled and all-nighter and launched an Etsy shop selling hand-painted shirts, onesies, tea towels and the like. She calls her shop “Plucky Mustard”. I know. Adorable. She has a keen eye for design and immediately got noticed by a bunch of heavy-hitters in that community, leading to a slew of sales over Christmas. Now she’s wading through over 100 orders for her Valentine’s shirts. Needless to say, she wasn’t expecting her rise to fame and we got nailed by the 2x4 of reality: we are really... REALLY busy! At this moment, I’m working from home and juggling kids, Juniper is waking up from her nap, and I need to get her some lunch. SO, Let’s call this part one of a 2-part series. Be back soon!